So we don't forget

Courtesy of my friend Bill Champ, this column by Leo Grin at Andrew Breitbart presents Big Hollywood about John Ford, John Wayne, and the movie They Were Expendable:

John Ford was the only one of the Hollywood directors who fought who did not forget his men. Captain Mark Armistead, USN
It is usually seen as lamentable when a genius is pulled from the practice of his art for any extended period, but here we must make a special allowance. As filmmaker Lindsay Anderson (1923-1994) explains in his essential critical volume About John Ford (which, like the McBride book, should be sitting proudly and dog-eared on the bookshelf of every conservative film fan): “War service took Ford away from the making of films for some three years when his powers were at their height. One would regret this interruption more had it not led directly to the making of a masterpiece.” The masterpiece of which he speaks is a 1945 war film called They Were Expendable, and if you are a conservative who has never seen it, then you have denied yourself one of the most moving and achingly poetic expressions of your worldview ever put to celluloid.
They Were Expendable was made in the Fall of 1944, while most of the people portrayed in the story were still rotting in Japanese POW camps, if indeed they weren’t already dead. Just like our modern foes, the Japanese mocked the Geneva Conventions throughout World War II, and by the end some 40% of the POWs in their care had been executed, starved, or died of disease in their camps. This is compared to Europe, where only 1% of American POWs in German camps died. The events the film depicts took place in early 1942 when, in the wake of Pearl Harbor, tens of thousands of Americans found themselves trapped in the Philippines and facing a fearsome Japanese invasion. The enemy bombed them with impunity, destroying their bases and leaving them with only four planes and an assortment of tiny boats. Supplies and morale dwindled into oblivion as, rather than be evacuated, they were ordered to hold their positions as long as possible against — and eventually be killed or captured by — an overwhelming enemy who was infamous for torturing and murdering prisoners.
How these Americans (and Filipinos) comported themselves as they were gobbled up by the Japanese war machine, buying time with their lives so that General MacArthur could escape the clutches of the enemy and prepare a counter-assault, is the focus of the film. And yet it is like no other war film ever made. Its long running time (two hours, sixteen minutes) allows us to linger on scene after scene of doomed men and women slowly losing their grip on their homes, their jobs, their culture, and each other. Under Ford’s direction, the movie rises above mere plot — battles, strategies — to become something much greater: the cinematic ennobling of an entire people, their way of life, their code of honor, and their selfless sacrifice. Lindsay Anderson would later declare it his single favorite film from his single favorite director, noting the presence of “image after image of conscious dignity” depicting a “love of brotherhood, loyalty,” and “the spirit of endurance that can wring victory from defeat.”
What prompts someone to make a movie like this? To throw away all of the Hollywood clichés, to indeed ignore the enemy entirely (the Japanese are only seen from afar via their planes and ships) and instead reach for something more vital: the very bedrock of our connection with country and culture? It’s so personal a picture that any essay has to be as much about the life and times of its maker as about the film itself — the two are intertwined too deeply to ignore. We thus turn away from They Were Expendable for a spell, and drift backward in time to the life of the director many call the greatest in motion picture history.
For John Ford (1894–1973), serving with the Navy during World War II was much more than boilerplate Hollywood patriotism. He was no green recruit, hastily enlisting in the wake of Pearl Harbor to toss on a uniform for the very first time. Growing up on the coast of Maine where he met many sailors, from an early age he was entranced by the discipline, hard ways, and exaltation of duty inherent in military life. During High School he applied to the U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis, and was devastated when he failed the entrance exam. In 1918, as a twenty-three-year-old fledgling director in Hollywood, he again tried to serve, this time volunteering as an aerial combat photographer. Bad eyesight ensured he flunked the physical, and numerous attempts to circumvent that ruling came to naught.
Despite these failures, he never gave up, making many military films throughout the ’20s and ’30s and taking every opportunity to schmooze with the Navy brass brought on as technical advisers. Finally, as a forty-year-old in 1934, and despite bad eyes once again causing him to fail the physical, enough strings were pulled by his Navy buddies to get him into the U.S. Naval Reserve. Given the rank of Lieutenant Commander, he was charged with creating “a course in naval photography; its uses, tactical, historical, and propaganda,” studying “infra-red and other super-sensitive films and complimentary filters as to their efficacy on sea and in the air, particularly in tropical waters” and “working intensely in an effort to collect photographic and camouflage information likely to be of value to the Navy.”
He also began spying for the Navy on a semi-formal basis during frequent trips of drunken carousing down the western coast of Mexico on his yacht, the Araner. With friends like John Wayne, Henry Fonda, and Ward Bond in tow, Ford made observations of the coastline and filed detailed reports on Japanese ships and suspicious “sailors” in the area. These made their way to Navy intelligence, netting him several citations.
In 1940, with friends in the military telling him that America’s eventual entry into the war was all but assured, Ford attempted to establish an official Naval photographic unit that could not only use their skills to directly aid the front-line troops in the fight ahead (in the form of reconnaissance, mapping terrain, et cetera) but also help fight the nasty propaganda war that was already brewing between patriotic Americans and growing cells of anti-American Leftists who were becoming increasingly vocal in the media and Hollywood. The proposal he sent to his superiors reads today as if it was clipped from Big Hollywood’s own mission statement:
Radio, newspapers, motion pictures blast contrary ideas back and forth. . . A series of films which show factually the power of the American Navy is bound to give a psychological lift to the whole nation. Let them see the rigors of training; the skill of execution in maneuvers. . . our morale purpose is to show that a Democracy can and must create a greater fighting machine, in spirit and being, than a dictator power.
Unfortunately, Ford was pressing up against a lumbering, asleep-at-the-wheel Navy, the same one that would allow the Japanese to surprise its fleet at Pearl the very next year. With numerous agencies like the Signal Corps protecting their film-making/photographic turf against the interloper, Ford watched his proposals vanish into the gaping maws of military bureaucracy. The sense that namby-pamby Hollywood civilians would have little to contribute to an honest war effort might have played a part as well. As much as Ford liked being a Navy man, the endless red tape and politics were sources of constant aggravation, and he often lashed out at his superiors to a degree that would have landed anyone else in the brig. An oft-told story has it that, when asked by an officer what Hollywood landlubbers liked to do for amusement after making a movie, Ford cheerfully replied, “We all get on a bus and go down to San Diego and f*** Navy wives.”

Undeterred by being ignored, Ford decided to proceed unofficially, confident that someday soon the talent of Hollywood would be called upon, and that he would be ready. He began enlisting men from the rank-and-file of Hollywood film crews — cinematographers, grips, editors. He borrowed prop guns and uniforms from the Fox costume department, and set up impromptu military film classes on unused soundstages. There his Hollywood recruits learned from experts like the Oscar-winning cinematographer Gregg Toland (The Grapes of Wrath, Citizen Kane, et al.) about cameras they would use during a war, how to shoot in all lighting conditions, and how to develop film in the field if need be. They also were drilled in the basics of military life by Jack Pennick, a member of Ford’s regular acting troupe who happened to be an expert on military history and rules.
The rest of Tinseltown, and the skeptical Navy brass, began jokingly referring to this motley crew as “John Ford’s Navy.” And yet, by the time he was through, over a hundred of his Hollywood trainees had joined the active service or reserves, ready for a war they knew was coming.
After Pearl Harbor, with the Navy in shock and disarray, Ford finally found his long-sought benefactor. William “Wild Bill” Donovan was in the process of setting up the OSS — the Office of Strategic Services, the precursor to today’s CIA — and Ford’s moxie, skills, and penchant for skirting the bureaucracy was just what he was looking for. Soon the director had brought his Hollywood gang under the official auspices of the OSS as “The Field Photographic Branch,” and it wasn’t long before they were filming reconnaissance, troop movements, and full-on battles all over the world.
At forty-seven years of age, after three decades of trying, John Ford was finally a soldier.
Ford served without pay, traveling across the globe and dodging enemy bombers and U-Boats to fulfill his duties as head of Field Photo. Iceland… Panama… North Africa… West Africa… Cuba… Australia… Ceylon… China… India…. Burma…. Saudi Arabia… Brazil… France. Ford filmed potential base locations, assessed the security of existing sites, captured now-historic battles on film, often in color, and coordinated the movements and missions of his men, thirteen of whom were killed in action. For these efforts, he was promoted to Captain on April 3, 1944. In later years he would state that, although he was the recipient of many of the highest awards in the film industry, including several Oscars, he was most proud of having earned his Small Arms Expert’s medal in the Navy.
John Ford had a knack for showing up in interesting places. He was on the deck of the USS Hornet, deep in enemy waters, when the famous Doolittle raid lifted off for Japan, his camera recording the historic moment for posterity. He was at Normandy on June 6, 1944, capturing rare footage of D-Day as it unfolded. He first (and last!) parachute jump occurred behind enemy lines in Burma on a secret OSS mission, with Ford terrified and murmuring Hail Marys all the way down because, a mere few days before, he had filmed a cargo drop and watched as chute after chute failed to open and the boxes smashed into the unforgiving earth.
Someone else who was scared was Ford’s wife, Mary, who only saw her husband on several brief occasions during the years he was off to war. She was from a Navy family herself and understood the sacrifices involved, but that didn’t make it any easier. One extant letter has Ford gently chiding her, “Ma, you can’t call up long distance just when you’re blue and lonesome. It’s just too damned expensive. We’ve really got to adjust, not financially necessarily, but mentally.” Lonely and bored, she wrote back to her husband that she felt guilty for not doing anything herself for the war effort while he was away fighting. One stateside friend wrote to Ford that his wife was, “pretty miserable just sitting on a hilltop worrying about you and waiting for you to come home.”
Eventually, Mary found some solace in volunteering her time at the now-legendary Hollywood Canteen, the star-studded entertainment hangout for servicemen passing through Los Angeles, where GIs could be served dinner by movie stars and dance the night away with popular starlets to the tunes of world-famous big bands. Mary threw herself into kitchen work there, and quickly became Vice President of the Canteen’s board. Her letters during this time reveal that she helped stars like Bob Hope and Bette Davis fight off a coven of Hollywood Commies, who were trying to get the military MPs (charged with keeping order in the Canteen) booted out, so they could then begin using the venue for staging and promoting leftist propaganda unimpeded.
Ford’s relationship with his wife wasn’t perfect— he was a notorious alcoholic, and one who had flirted with his share of Hollywood actresses during the early years, most notably Katharine Hepburn. But his wife had closed her ears to the gossip and never wavered from his side, vowing to remain “Mrs. John Ford until I die.” They had been married almost twenty-five years, raised two kids, and had overcome problems that would have doomed a lesser marriage. “I pray to God it will soon be over,” he wrote to her in another letter, “so we can live our life together with our children and grandchildren... God bless and love you Mary darling — I’m tough to live with — heaven knows & Hollywood didn’t help — Irish & genius don’t mix well but you know you’re the only woman I’ve ever loved.”
By the end of John Ford’s life, he had been married for fifty-three years.

June 4, 1942. The Battle of Midway. John Ford was on his back, covered in debris, unconscious. All around him bombs were dropping, buildings were erupting into monstrous fireballs, and young marines were dodging deadly lines of machine-gun strafing sent down by Japanese fighter planes. Ford and his assistant, young Jack MacKenzie Jr. (whose father was an RKO cinematographer) had been perched on the roof of a power station on Eastern Island, brazenly filming the morning attack by the Japanese and reporting enemy plane positions to headquarters, when a bomb landed a scant twenty feet from their position. The shockwave was so great that MacKenzie later recalled he was “bounced flat on my face by the terrific explosion,” adding, “we almost lost Commander Ford.”
The blast had sent a large chunk of concrete slamming into the director, knocking him out cold. When he came to, he also found that metal shrapnel had ripped through his left forearm, leaving behind an ugly three-inch gash. Bleeding and badly shaken, Ford grabbed his camera and with MacKenzie hurried down from the power-station roof. Moments later, they watched the enemy bomb the building into oblivion.
“Film faces!” Ford told MacKenzie before dashing off. For the rest of the morning they staggered about the island, each capturing spectacular images of raging infernos, flying debris, swooping planes, and young soldiers — kids, really — shooting enemy Zeros out of the sky with anti-aircraft guns. Talking of that hard-won film footage later, Ford said, “The image jumps a lot because the grenades were exploding right next to me. Since then, they do that on purpose, shaking the camera when filming war scenes. For me it was authentic because the shells were exploding at my feet.”
At one point, with the Japanese dive-bombing so close to the ground that Ford could clearly see their smiling faces, he watched in astonishment as a group of bold Americans trotted out into the open and proceeded to fulfill their daily morning duty of running up the red, white and blue. Wounded and exhausted, Ford had the presence of mind to race into position, raise his camera on his good arm, and forever capture the stirring moment of our country’s colors rising in a blue sky billowing with black smoke; the events of The Star-Spangled Banner brought to majestic life. Upon viewing the footage later, Henry Fonda would reverently call that meager strip of celluloid, “one of the all-time great shots.” In its own way, it rivals the famous raising of the flag on Iwo Jima several years later; less iconic perhaps, but just as moving. By God, it was “time for the colors to go up,” Ford later marveled, “and despite the bombs and everything, these kids ran up and raised the flag.”
When it was over, twenty men were dead on the islands, but out in the ocean America had won an incredible victory, using guile, strategy, lots of guts, and a bit of luck to overcome a ruthless, numerically superior opponent. John Ford was left standing amidst the carnage, his pockets filled with exposed film cartridges, his body quivering with adrenaline and fear. “Oh, we’d go ahead and do a thing,” he recalled toward the end of his life, “but after it was over, your knees would start shaking.”
When Ford viewed the rushes that he had taken at Midway— the massive explosions, the debris slamming into the camera, the spectacular raising of the flag amongst black clouds of ruin— he knew he had something special. But in a way, the material was too good— sure to be heavily redacted by the Navy as too frightful and disturbing for public consumption. So in Washington soon after the battle, the wily director secretly passed the reels to one of his young Field Photo editors, the former child actor Robert Parrish, and asked him to cut it down to a decent twenty-minute documentary.
“Is it for the public or the OSS?” Parrish asked.
“It’s for the mothers of America,” Ford shot back. “It’s to let them know that we’re in a war, and that we’ve been getting the shit kicked out of us for five months, and now we’re starting to hit back.”
Ford devised an elaborate series of ruses that kept the film one step ahead of the higher-ups. “I don’t want you to work here,” he told Parrish. “As soon as it’s discovered in Honolulu that I’ve smuggled the film past the Navy censors they’ll come snooping around with enough brass to take it away from us. They’ll assign seven or eight high-ranking associate producers and public relations officers to the project. The four services will start bickering over it and the whole thing will get so bogged down in red tape that we’ll never see it again, let alone the mothers of America.” He thus ordered Parrish: “You get on a plane and take the film to Hollywood. Don’t report to anyone. Go to your mother’s house and hide it until you hear from me... I’ll tell them it’s not my fault if an enlisted man steals eight cans of top-secret film and runs home to his mother!”
In Hollywood a few weeks later, safe from the many prying eyes in Washington DC, they edited in secret, preparing an “official” war documentary like no other. Ford eschewed bland reportage, instead going unabashedly for the gut and the heart. To fulfill his vision, he began calling in favors all over town. The great Alfred Newman, musical head of Twentieth-Century Fox (and composer of the now-famous fanfare that, to this day, proceeds every Fox movie), was called in to orchestrate stirring versions of well-loved tunes like My Country ’Tis of Thee, Onward, Christian Soldiers, The Star-Spangled Banner, Anchors Aweigh, and the Marine and Air Force Hymns. A wistful piece of accordion music from Ford’s The Grapes of Wrath was spliced in at a key moment. Accessible, down-home, folksy movie stars like Henry Fonda and Jane Darwell (who played Tom and Ma Joad, respectively, in Ford’s The Grapes of Wrath), along with more erudite and stentorian men like actor Donald Crisp and the director Irving Pichel (who was later blacklisted), were asked to emote heartfelt lines of dialogue written by Ford and his longtime (and very liberal) screenwriting partner, Dudley Nichols:

Men and Women of America, here come your neighbor’s sons! ...men who fought to the last round of ammunition, and flew to the last drop of gas, and then crashed into the sea. Get these boys to the hospital, please do! Quickly! Get them to clean cots and cool sheets, give them doctors and medicine, a nurse’s soft hands...

Editor Parrish thought such lines sounded hopelessly corny, and told Ford as much. Ford stressed that this wasn’t going to be just another throwaway rah-rah newsreel to be dumped between features at the theater.
“You have a mother, don’t you?” he asked Parrish.
“Of course.”
“Well,” said Ford, “how do you think she’d feel if she saw you in that ambulance?”
Throughout the editing, Ford’s choices were unconventional, oftentimes startling. He dwelt on wistful shots of sailors relaxing in the setting sun during the evening before the battle, and built a humorous Wild Kingdom-like interlude featuring the birds on the island. He spent what some thought was an inordinate amount of time showing the haggard faces of downed pilots rescued after over a week at sea. He lingered on images of the impromptu funerals for men killed in the battle, their flag-draped bodies lined up on the ground. Heck, he even included a quick shot of himself:
This film was turning out to be much more than the usual show-only-the-positive-stuff propaganda piece. It was, in the words of biographer Joseph McBride, “an extraordinarily vivid and eloquent meditation on war, one of the rare pieces of propaganda that is also a timeless work of art.”
Remembering the political battles he suffered through during the early days of Field Photo, Ford made sure that all branches of the armed services were well-represented in The Battle of Midway, going so far as to measure the amount of coverage each received down to the foot. He also staged a screening for President and Mrs. Roosevelt, the Joint Chiefs, and an assemblage of White House aides, hoping their approval might fend off any censors looking to re-edit his film. As the story goes, the President talked distractedly throughout the movie, until suddenly stunned into silence by a heroic close-up. It was his own son, James Roosevelt, who had requested combat duty at the start of the war, and who was assigned with the Marine Raiders on Midway when the battle occurred. Ford had caught a quick shot of the young Major saluting, and before the screening had secretly spliced it into the film to surprise the President. The entire audience fell into a hush for the remaining minutes of the film, and when the lights came up Eleanor Roosevelt had tears in her eyes. “I want every mother in America to see this picture,” President Roosevelt intoned, and soon hundreds of prints were being distributed to theaters across the nation.
Robert Parrish, the editor who had been so worried that Ford’s cornpone dialogue would be laughed out of the theater, later attended the premiere of the documentary at Radio City Music Hall. He watched the audience fall under the film’s spell, quietly absorbing the rousing military anthems, the sensitive pre-battle montage, the electrifying shots of exploding buildings and billowing black clouds, the heroic raising of the flag. Then, as all of this gave way to the shots of the emaciated downed pilots, Jane Darwell’s loving, matronly voice cooed over the sound system:

Get these boys to the hospital. Please do! Quickly! Get them to clean cots and cool sheets, give them doctors and medicine, a nurse’s soft hands. Get them to the hospital. Hurry! Please!

Somewhere in the darkness of the theater, a woman choked back an anguished scream. Others began to groan softly as if in physical pain. A cacophony of weeping rose up like a wave and filled the theater. And like a dam bursting, Parrish watched that jaded, seen-it-all New York audience fall apart. It was a primal reaction he would never forget.
“On reflection,” Parrish mused decades later, there have been so many changes in combat film. It’s so much more realistic now, and it’s not particularly unusual to see people get shot, particularly after Vietnam. But The Battle of Midway was the first film of its kind. It was a stunning, amazing thing to see. At Radio City people screamed, women cried, and the ushers had to take them out. And it was all over the material that we had fought about, the stuff I thought was too maudlin, like when Jane Darwell says, “Get those boys to the hospital, please do! Quickly!” The people, they just went crazy.
It’s indescribably sad to realize that, in our time, many people now laugh at the exact same footage that made those women weep. They watch old movies like The Battle of Midway and they cackle at the narration, groan at the music, and dismiss it all as a hokey and corny reminder of an absurdly innocent and gullible age. They sit in self-satisfied judgment of the rubes of the past, safe and smug in their twenty-first century superiority, drunk on their impregnable sense of entitlement and sophistication.
We forget. Always, we forget. We forget how much mental strain Americans of that time were under. We forget that the first six months of World War Two saw America lose battle after battle in the Pacific. Thousands of husbands and sons were killed. A steady stream of 9/11-sized disasters shook the country’s psyche, one after the other, boom, boom, boom. Everyone knew people who died, or were trapped in murderous concentration camps, or were at that very moment risking their lives every day in faraway lands, possibly never to return.
And in the midst of all of that pain and worry and anguish, one man— a self-described coward— had used all of his artistry and courage and guile to create against all odds a twenty-minute paean to those lost husbands and fathers and sons, a message brimming with hope and awash in love and pure patriotism. It was more than a film, it was a gift.
John Ford had been right: those old-fashioned words and sentiments, presented without shame, were just what the mothers of America needed.