The Battle of Guadalcanal remains in the American narrative about WWII, and dozens of monuments are scattered about the island today, testimony to American heroism. Guadalcanal is a place of tragedy for the Japanese, and their more modest monuments convey mourning. Monuments about Solomon Islanders are harder to find. Two such monuments exist, but both represent these individuals concerning American needs. Neither represents the Solomon experience of the war as deserving of attention in its own right.

World War II (WWII) was formative to Solomon Island's national identity. On the eve of the war, the Solomons were a protectorate rather than a colony; the British exploited its resources without creating unifying structures like an education system. Many cultures existed in the archipelago, but a common difference was between people who lived on the coasts, surviving on fishing and trade, and those who lived in the bush, surviving on farming and hunting. During the war, coastal people fled inland. In addition, men heard about the pay provided by Americans and migrated to Guadalcanal, acting as stevedores and scouts. As Solomon people from different islands mingled, they formed their first sense as a collective nation with its own identity. After the war, the village of Honiara on Guadalcanal became the country's capital because of the wartime infrastructure built by Americans. Foreign investments followed, and people from surrounding islands migrated to find work in Honiara.

World War II memorials intertwine with World War II tourism, especially in the Pacific. Countries like the Solomons had minimal tourism in the 1970s when veterans began returning to remember war experiences. As air travel improved and cruise ships began landing in the 1980s, organized WWII tours arrived, hospitality services expanded, and major anniversaries brought monuments. Vicky Reynolds-Middagh, the president of one of the oldest WWII tour companies, stated that the field emerged just as WWII veterans reached retirement age and had leisure time. Few WWII memorials existed then, particularly in the Pacific. The Philippine government approached her company about a partnership to promote veteran tours, and the company organized groups of 100 veterans or more to visit Bataan. Veterans complained that there were no monuments. Thus the company began working with the Philippine government, fund-raising to develop mile markers and other monuments along the route of the Death March. On visits to Guadalcanal, veterans on tours complained that Japan planted many memorials. Still, Americans had few, and the company began lobbying the American Battlefield Monuments Commission and fund-raising for the United States. As veterans passed away, WWII tours shifted to serving their children and history buffs.

World War II tours have become less central to Solomon tourism in current times. Bunyan Sivoro, the Director of Tourism for the Solomon government, explained by email that even if travelers come for another purpose, more than half participate in a battlefield tour. Scuba divers come for the coral reefs and explore the wrecks of sunken battleships. The tours mostly revolve around the capital of Honiara, but a few have arisen in outlying islands. WWII monuments in the Solomons may be transitioning as historic lands pass into private hands. An Australian bought the tiny islet that John Kennedy first swam ashore after the sinking of PT-109. Today Plum Pudding Island, also known as Kennedy Island, has a dock, a barbecue pit, and a small monument for motorboat tours. In addition, a Honiaran acquired the site of a minor WWII landmark with plans to build a tourist café there.

Historian and anthropologist Geoffrey M. White points out that in the Solomons, the WWII memorials tend to be binary, with the story of a conflict between Japan and the United States dominating and pushing aside dissonant memories of colonial conflict. As mentioned, only two memorials recognize Solomon Islanders. The first is of Jacob Vouza, a local constabulary who refused to talk as the Japanese tortured him for carrying an American flag. For Americans, Vouza symbolizes Solomon loyalty. Unveiled during the 50th anniversary of the Guadalcanal landing, a statue shows Vouza as a plantation laborer, wielding a machete and wearing a loincloth. In fact, Vouza was a policeman before the war, not a laborer, and constantly donned his uniform and medals when receiving foreign visitors. Some local leaders see the Vouza monument as a pointed reminder of their former status as a colony. The second monument also represents Solomon people concerning Allied needs. The Pride of our Nation Memorial arose in 2013 to "recognize the crucial role played by the people of the Solomon Islands during the most fateful days of WWII." The white European coast watcher stands upright, binoculars raised, scanning the horizon. Three local scouts in loincloths surround him to assist.

Building a Memorial
When I first traveled to the Guadalcanal in 2016, honoring my late father's service there as a WWII Marine, I had thought little about the Solomon experience. Still, when I traveled to Vella Lavella, a remote island where my father had landed, I found a war site distant from tourist memorials. I decided to return to Vella Lavella in 2018 to erect a monument that honored my father and the Marines who landed there in 1943 and the Vella Lavellans. The goal of an inclusive monument proved complicated. On Guadalcanal, all WWII monuments are either in English or Japanese, and I learned from a local historian that locals often vandalized them, their brass plaques plied off and sold. It was a colonization of Solomon history; outsiders imposed messages in their language on Solomon landscapes.

I worked with Mr. Tony Kubai-Kansipitu, the village chief, Vanunu, who had built a guest house and was eager for a monument that might draw tourists. Mr. Kubai-Kansipitu agreed to the monument design, and I obtained approval from the American Battlefields Monument Commission and the Solomon government to erect it. I wanted the monument to be in the local language and English, which became the first complication when I could not get the translation done before I left. The second complication was the monument's location and maintenance. It became a complicated negotiation between villages while trying to avoid jungle growth that would have covered the monument within a year. We finally agreed that the best location would be in Mr. Kubai-Kansipitu's village, near his guest house, where he could maintain it, and tourists could see it. The decision about location occurred in a language other than my own, shrouded in local politics and cultural considerations.

My context for the monument was written history, but Vella Lavellan's history is oral, with WWII memory handed down in song and story. A few times, we were able to join our two streams of history. A village chief pointed out the beach where the Allies, including my father, first landed but could not be sure of the exact spot. I remembered a news article saying that the Marines' landing craft got hung up on coral that day, and Seabees had come in with tractors to break up the coral and shape it into ramps for the landing craft. Walking the beach, I found a ramp still there, submerged and invisible, unless one knew what to look for.

I wanted to learn about the Vella Lavellan experience of the war, but I was the first American -- and for some, the first white man -- they had talked to. The workers who built the monument were hesitant to speak with me. To get local history, an outsider needed more than a few days to build trust and comfort. Moreover, WWII had little relevance to their present lives. Almost all locals who had experienced WWII firsthand, even as children, had passed. The Vella Lavellans were grateful that I had come so far to remember something that happened on their island but looked to me for historical information.

Under Mr. Kubai-Kansipitu's supervision, local men laid the concrete and finished the monument over several days. It held one brass plaque with an inscription in English and had a blank space for a second plaque in the local language, awaiting my return. We celebrated our accomplishments with a large party that included surrounding villages. On my final day, Mr. Kubai-Kansipitiu's mother translated the plaque inscription into M'bula. A second brass plaque now sits in my garage, my return trip on hold until the pandemic lifts. Mr. Kubai-Kansipitu says that people stop by to look at the monument, and they remember and talk about my visit.

As White suggests, war memory does not sit in places but resides in moments of encounter where personal, family, national, and transnational memory mix. For the sons and daughters of World War II veterans, travel is memory work, a co-experiencing of history that becomes real through "encounters with people, artifacts, and landscapes," usually in transcultural exchanges. The exchange that most connected my experience with Vella Lavellans' came when I handed out dozens of balsa wood gliders to the children in Vanunu. With their parents watching, the children discovered a new toy, slinging the airplanes into the air and watching them fly about in crazy loops. For twenty minutes, we all seemed together in the present and the past – me and the villagers, my father's memory, and the US history of the airfield. We were layering a new memory upon the past.

If historical authority is to be shared, it must align with the local community's interests. For Vella Lavellans, the monument was a curiosity, but its commercial potential to draw tourists was what engaged them. Since 2018 several developments have opened the possibility for a broader memorialization that could realistically attract tourists. First, the long-abandoned WWII airfield on Vella Lavella is undergoing repair, a project of the local minister to support the local area's economic development. My trip from California to Vella Lavella was an arduous four-day journey that included four flights and a motorboat. Flying directly from Honiara will make Vella Lavella much more accessible to tourists.

Secondly, the Scout and Coastwatchers Trust expanded its focus. It funded a local graduate student to write a Solomon history of the war. Its strategic plan aims to introduce local WWII history into school curricula and "to offer training for young people in enabling them to seek tourism employment opportunities as battlefield tour guides." Oral histories from the Western Solomons done by a Peace Corps volunteer in the 1980s are being translated and broadcast by radio. With the Trust's larger focus on education, the binary narrative of the war is opening to other memories.

Mr. Kubai-Kansipitu and I continue to work together on ideas, including exposing young Vella Lavellans to their history while building on the commercial interest of attracting tourists. Among the projects we are considering are recording memories of the elders on the island whose parents lived through the war, using these memories to train young adults as tour guides, and developing formal local tours. Such projects would help the Vella Lavella Monument to move from fixed history to an act of remembrance as described by White,"…embedded in social relations and activities, activities of people constructing meaning in the present, using the tools of history to fashion desired futures."

(edited by Brad Poss & Laura Bailey)

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The life of Gunnery Sergeant John Basilone has been a cultural touchstone for different American communities throughout World War II and after the advent of his fame. Even today, Marines and Italian-Americans alike view Basilone as someone who represents their own struggles and achievements. Through memorials, many of which are not generalized to apply to a broader swath of people but are very specific to Basilone himself, these communities, and American society as a whole engage with Basilone's story and those he has come to represent.

John Basilone's story is one that sits at the crux of the American ideals of patriotism, heroism, and duty. Together, the Basilone memorials symbolize a hero from the creator's perspective – an American warrior, a distinctly Catholic, Italian-American Marine who went above and beyond the call of duty and became in some ways representative of all Marines and Italian-Americans because of it.

Born to Italian immigrants in 1916, as one of ten children, John enlisted in the Army in 1936 and served until 1939. He then enlisted in the Marines and was made a machine gunner with the 1st Battalion, 5th Marines. Along with his buddies, he shipped off to Guadalcanal. It was there that Basilone pulled off the exploit that made him a celebrity overnight.

During a night attack by the Japanese 2nd Division in October of 1942, Basilone took charge of a small band of troops and held a portion of the Marine line with his machine gun in hand. He ran through the jungle for ammunition, repaired his men's jammed guns, and transported the hot, heavy machine guns in his squad to where they would be most effective. Though many accounts – some fanciful and embellished – exist of that night, they all agree on one thing: with uncommon bravery and calm, John Basilone and his men held off a steady assault of Japanese troops despite the darkness, dwindling supplies, ammunition, and men.

Though most memorials made in Basilone's honor are specific to his heroism that night on Guadalcanal, his story does not end there. In his book 'Hero of the Pacific: The Life of Marine Legend, John Basilone', war correspondent, and Marine James Brady describes how John was
"ordered to the States as an officially anointed hero" only to journey with other contemporary celebrities groomed to be "traveling salesmen assigned to show the flag, boost morale, and sell war bonds."

John was endearing to the American public. More so, he was a fighting man at heart – he wanted to be "back with his buddies," serving on the battlefield as was his purpose when he enlisted. This desire to be with his comrades – one understood by his new bride, fellow Marine Sgt. Lena Riggi – prompted John to leave his celebrity life behind and return to
battle. John Basilone lost his life on February 19, 1945. The first day of fighting at Iwo Jima. He was posthumously awarded the Navy Cross for his heroism in leading the charge against a Japanese fortification that had kept American troops pinned on the beach.

Basilone's valor and heroism during the war have since been the impetus for creating numerous memorials erected in his name that only serve to solidify the idea of the heroism he embodied. Among these memorials are bridges, school buildings, a statue in his hometown, a road in Italy, an
official stamp by the USPS, two battleships, and an obstacle course at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego.

Tributes continue to be made to honor him as recently as January 2020, when the keel was laid for the USS John Basilone. Additionally, each September, the John Basilone memorial day parade runs through his hometown of Raritan, New Jersey. Why is John Basilone, a Gunnery Sergeant in World War II, a figure whose experiences are still relevant and compelling to warrant continuous memorialization throughout the near century after his death? Why is the myth of John Basilone still held so dearly after all these years?

Marine Corps war correspondent Cyril O'Brien said of the hero, "'Basilone is someone you can hang your ribbon on because he was so outstanding, but you're really talking about the people beside him as well." Basilone himself made sure that everyone knew that "Only part of the medal belongs to me; pieces of it belong to the boys who fought by my side on Guadalcanal." Once the Medal of Honor hung upon his uniform, Basilone represented the heroism of every Marine – those who served before him, those who served with him, and those who served after him.

In this same way, Italian-American communities memorialize John Basilone to recall the struggles and triumphs of Italian immigrants and their descendants throughout American history. Again, Basilone
personifies the best of the best – a son of immigrants, undeniably a patriot and hero in a time when it was doubtful Italian-Americans, particularly those who were devout Catholics, could be either. As Michael Frontani writes in his essay "Becoming American," "The image Basilone presented, inseparable from the American values underpinning its construction, challenged prevalent perceptions about Italian-Americans as
dysfunctional, foreign, and often criminal."

The statue that stands in the middle of Raritan, New Jersey's Veterans Park, serves as a reminder of all John Basilone's image and figure came to epitomize during his life and in the years after his death. Unveiled on Raritan's Basilone Day in 1948, the statue is no minimalistic, generalized representation of a war hero. A rugged, virile Basilone stands tall with his machine gun cradled in his too-big hands, reminiscent of Michelangelo's David, indicative of the larger-than-life status Basilone took on after that night on Guadalcanal. His curly hair and defined features, modeled after photographs of Basilone, give him a decidedly Stallone-like quality.
A crucifix and dog tags rest on his bare chest. The significance of this
statue is twofold: first, it delivers the clear message that Americans – be they Marines, Italians, both, or neither – celebrate men of action, bravery, and strength. Second, it delivers the message that these same Americans, spread across diverse communities, come together to celebrate a
distinctly Catholic, Italian-American Marine.

The John Basilone memorials deftly combine official and vernacular memory: while upholding the idyllic American war hero, they also allow local communities, like those of the Marines and Italian-Americans,
to engage with their remembrances of lost comrades, individual struggles, and shared victories. And yet, in the case of Italian-Americans, the Basilone memorials also serve an additional purpose; while
encouraging respective communities to engage with their own
experiences, the Basilone memorials also encourage American society as a whole to accept and engage with a historically ostracized community and their culture.

Writing of the Life magazine spread of Basilone's homecoming in 1943, Fontani describes "the Basilone image, fully formed – an image intended not only to spur bond-buying and enlistment in the Marines and other services but also to place Italian-Americans squarely within
American culture and society." The memorials are representative of the traits and experiences that Marines and Italian-Americans hold dear and remain treasured within those communities. Still, they also represent those traits to American society as a whole. What is so significant about the Basilone memorials is that they represent the American ideals of heroism, bravery, patriotism, and sacrifice. They do so through the specific lens of the experiences of an Italian-American Marine.

In the story of John Basilone and the memorials that preserve it, Americans have a hero who embodies the triumphs of our best men and the joys of our most ordinary. He was, as James Brady describes him, "an authentic hero, the real goods. He was a warrior who fought with
an extraordinary courage and resolve... he would be rewarded by a nation with medals and gratitude." As John Basilone was rewarded in life, Americans still honor our debt to him for his story. Through the memorials dedicated to him, the story of John Basilone serves as a
valuable cornerstone for the preservation and sharing of American values. It allows American communities to celebrate and memorialize their own stories through the story of one hero.

(edited by Laura Bailey)

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