The Sullivan Brothers: A Legacy of Sacrifice and Symbolism
In the late evening and early morning hours of November 12-13, 1942, the waters north of Guadalcanal became a maelstrom of fire and destruction as American and Japanese naval forces clashed in one of the most brutal sea battles of World War II. Amidst the chaos, the USS Juneau, an Atlanta-class light cruiser, was struck by a Japanese torpedo from the destroyer Amatsukaze. The weapon tore through the ship’s port side, obliterating its forward engine room, killing 19 sailors instantly, and leaving the vessel critically wounded.
Within minutes, the Juneau began listing heavily to port. Its keel buckled, its steering was destroyed, and its propellers jammed. As the battle raged around them, the crew fought to keep the ship afloat, but the conditions were harrowing. Below deck, the air was thick with the noxious stench of fuel, making it nearly impossible to breathe. Sailors, overwhelmed by fear and nausea, vomited, wept, and desperately clawed at the steel walls, seeking refuge. On deck, others braced themselves against the blistering sun and incoming enemy fire.
When the Juneau withdrew from battle the next morning, it joined five other surviving ships from the battered task force. Together, they crawled toward the relative safety of Espíritu Santo in the New Hebrides. But at 11:01 a.m., disaster struck again. A Japanese submarine, I-26, fired another torpedo at the Juneau. The impact triggered a catastrophic explosion, ripping the ship apart. The forward half vanished immediately, followed by the stern. The blast was so powerful that fragments of the cruiser struck nearby ships, and body parts rained down into the sea. The water churned with burning oil, floating debris, and human remains. Out of a crew of 697, only about 100 initially survived the sinking. Among the dead were five brothers from Waterloo, Iowa: George, 27; Francis “Frank,” 26; Joseph “Red,” 24; Madison “Matt,” 23; and Albert “Al,” 20. Their deaths marked the single greatest wartime sacrifice made by an American family.
The Sullivan Brothers Rough-and-Tumble Childhood in Waterloo
The Sullivan brothers were not born into the mythologised heroism that later surrounded their names. Raised in a working-class Irish Catholic family in Waterloo, Iowa, their upbringing was marked by hardship and instability. Their father, Tom Sullivan, worked as a freight conductor on the Illinois Central Railroad. Known for his violent temper and alcoholism, Tom’s drinking bouts left him absent or abusive. Their mother, Alleta, often withdrew into depressive episodes, leaving her children to fend for themselves.
The brothers grew up with little supervision and quickly gained a reputation in Waterloo as troublemakers. They dropped out of school in their early teens, took on sporadic jobs, and spent much of their time drinking, fighting, and engaging in petty crime. During the 1930s, the brothers became involved in a local motorcycle club, wearing uniforms inspired by Italian Fascist designs and gathering at biker bars. Their antics ranged from stealing gasoline to refurbishing stolen bikes. In Waterloo, they were seen as “mischief-makers”—a polite term for what many locals viewed as delinquency.
Despite these behaviours, the brothers were fiercely loyal to each other and protective of their family. When the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, the Sullivans found a new sense of purpose. Driven by a desire to avenge the deaths of friends killed in Hawaii, they decided to enlist together in the U.S. Navy. Even the youngest brother, Al, who was married and had a toddler named Jimmy, joined without hesitation. In a letter to the Navy Department, George wrote, “We had 5 buddies killed in Hawaii. Help us. We’d like to stick together.”
The Navy rarely allowed family members to serve on the same vessel, but an exception was made for the Sullivans. It was a decision that would later be questioned with great regret.
Life Aboard the Juneau
The USS Juneau was commissioned on February 14, 1942, and the Sullivan brothers were among its crew. The ship was a marvel of speed and firepower, equipped with an array of antiaircraft guns designed to defend naval forces against air attacks. However, its light armour made it vulnerable to torpedoes and surface engagements. The brothers, who had trained together at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center, quickly settled into their roles. George became a gunner’s mate second class, Frank a coxswain, and the younger brothers served as seamen second class.
For several months, the Juneau operated in relative safety, conducting patrols in the Caribbean and Atlantic. But in August 1942, the ship was deployed to the Pacific theatre, joining the bloody struggle for control of the Solomon Islands. The campaign was marked by fierce naval and aerial battles, and the Juneau played a critical role in protecting larger ships from Japanese aircraft. However, as the events of November 1942 proved, its vulnerabilities made it a dangerous assignment for its crew.
The Aftermath of the Sinking
When the Juneau sank, the surviving ships in the flotilla pressed onward, unwilling to risk further attacks from Japanese submarines. “It is certain that all on board perished,” one officer noted in his log. However, this was not entirely true. Survivors later reported that between 100 and 200 men had initially escaped the sinking vessel, clinging to debris and life rafts. Among them were at least one or two of the Sullivan brothers.
Over the next several days, the survivors faced unimaginable horrors. Many succumbed to their injuries or drowned. Shark attacks were rampant, and dehydration claimed others. George Sullivan’s death was particularly haunting. Hallucinating from exposure and lack of water, he announced that he was going to take a bath, removed his uniform, and slipped into the sea. Moments later, he was taken by a shark.
When rescue efforts finally arrived on November 19, a week after the sinking, only 10 men remained alive. None of the Sullivan brothers were among them.
The Nation Learns of the Sullivans’ Sacrifice
Almost two months after the sinking, in January 1943, gossip circulating through Waterloo compelled Alleta to send a letter to the Department of the Navy: “I am writing you in regard to a rumor going around that my five sons have been killed in action in November. A friend from here came and told me she got a letter from her son and he heard my five sons were killed.” She added, “I am to christen the U.S.S. TAWASA Feb. 12th at Portland, Oregon. If anything has happened to my five sons, I will still christen the ship as it was their wish that I do so. I hated to bother you, but it has worried me so that I wanted to know if it was true. So please tell me.”
On Monday morning, January 11, she got her answer. “I’m afraid I’m bringing you very bad news,” Lieutenant Commander Truman Jones told Tom and Alleta and Al’s wife, Keena, as they gathered in the family’s living room. Jones read from a prepared script: “The Navy Department deeply regrets to inform you that your sons Albert, Francis, George, Joseph, and Madison Sullivan are missing in action in the South Pacific.” The formal announcement made no mention of the foul-ups that punctuated the final act of this drama. As attention across the United States focused on the family at home, the service reframed the colossal loss as an explicable national misfortune and came forward to sympathise and show solidarity.
President Franklin D. Roosevelt wrote Alleta a personal letter of condolence, and the Navy invited the couple to tour the United States, promoting war bonds and industrial productivity. For months, Tom and Alleta appeared at factories and shipyards, urging Americans to support the war effort. Despite her grief, Alleta often told audiences, “My boys did not die in vain. I’d want them to do it again.”
The Navy also commissioned a new destroyer, USS The Sullivans, in honour of the brothers, Alleta christened the ship in April 1943,
Hollywood and the Making of a Myth
In 1944, 20th Century Fox released The Fighting Sullivans, a dramatized account of the brothers’ lives. The film portrayed them as clean-cut, hardworking boys from a loving, devout family. The darker aspects of their upbringing and their reputation in Waterloo were omitted, creating a narrative that resonated with wartime audiences but alienated many locals who knew the real Sullivans.
When the film premiered in Waterloo, the reception was lukewarm. Attendance was far below expectations, reflecting the tension between the national myth and the town’s lived reality. To their neighbours, the Sullivans were not the symbols of perfect American boyhood but real, flawed individuals who had faced enormous challenges even before the war.
Legacy and Reflection
The story of the Sullivan brothers has endured for decades as a symbol of sacrifice and unity. The Sole Survivor Policy, introduced during the war, was designed to prevent similar tragedies by ensuring that surviving family members could not be sent into combat zones. Tributes to the brothers continue to this day, from ships bearing their name to cultural references in films like Saving Private Ryan.
Yet their story is also a reminder of the human cost of war and the complex ways in which individual tragedies are woven into national narratives. The Sullivans’ sacrifice remains a powerful testament to the bonds of family and the enduring impact of loss.