"The Bombs Bursting in Air"

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Probably one of the most remarkable stories I heard at the Marine reunion in San Antonio (more on that later) was from Lt. Col. Tom Kalus, a 27-year Marine Corps veteran who not only fought on Iwo Jima, but was also one of the "Chosin Few" from the Battle of Chosin Reservoir. We just had the the 66th anniversary of this battle (Nov. 27 - Dec 13, 1950), so it seemed an appropriate time to share this story.

When I met Mr. Kalus, it was during the tour of the Nimitz Museum. I came up and introduced myself to him and we chatted for a few minutes. Then he gave me his card and on one side it stated his unit, 5th Division, 5th JASCO, etc... but on the flip side it also stated, 1st Marine Division... "One of the 'Chosin Few."' Now, there are three defining moments in the history of the Marine Corps: Belleau Wood (WWI), Iwo Jima (WWII), and the Chosin Reservoir (Korean War), and it is pretty rare to meet a Marine who took part in both the Battle of Iwo Jima and Chosin Reservoir. To date I have only met one other veteran like this, a 4th Marine Division guy with stories that are so unbelievable, it is truly a miracle he survived at all.

But getting back to the story... One of the last days of the reunion I was chatting with Mr. Kalus about his remarkable service in the Corps and naturally the subject turned to Iwo and Chosin. "Do you remember the lines in the National Anthem," he asked, "About the 'rockets red glare and bombs bursting in air? When I was on Iwo, about the 3rd or 4th night, the Japs gave us a real hard shelling. One of the wisecracks in my foxhole said, 'Hey look, it's like in the song with the bombs bursting in air.' I didn't pay much attention to him at the time, until one night at Chosin. The 7th Marines were bravely taking a hill and the Chinese were giving them everything they'd got. The sky was filled with explosions and fireworks. I remembered what the Marine said on Iwo, 'and the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air.' At that moment I realized that I was seeing what Francis Scott Key had seen when he wrote the Star Spangled Banner."

Oh goodness, if there was ever a story to put the chills on your arms. Mr. Kalus got teary-eyed as he finished by saying that he could never listen to the American Anthem again without thinking of those fearful nights at Iwo Jima and Chosin. 

O say can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming,
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming?
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there;
O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

Two years ago today...

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Two years ago today we had our first experience with Honor Flight. To say it was amazing is an understatement. It was life-changing. For one week we met and greeted the HF's coming in to the WWII Memorial in DC, handing out roses, hugs, handshakes. And that was only the beginning. In some ways it seems like so much longer than two years (in the very best way!), but then it's as clear as if it were yesterday. It was the start of many wonderful memories; meeting some of the dearest people on earth. The Honor Flight family is truly one of a kind. Below is what we wrote after the first day of Honor Flight:

““We arrived in Washington DC last night.This week we have the privilege of welcoming World War II veterans coming in on honor flights to visit “their” Memorial, the National World War II Memorial. There will be hundreds this week. “We will never see another gathering of veterans of this number again.”

We visited the memorial with a very special guide, John W. McCaskill, a National Park Service representative and World War II historian we met three years ago in Pearl Harbor. His passion for honor and history is simply infectious. He walked us around the beautifully lit memorial with zeal and enthusiasm, explaining every aspect: The eagles, the fountain, the emblems, the gold stars, the bas reliefs, and on and on. Today we will greet veterans at the airport and at the memorial.” (September 23, 2014)”

36th Infantry "T-Patch" Reunion: San Antonio

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Spiffy dinner dates, and a fabulous time at the 36th Infantry Division "T-Patchers" Reunion this weekend... On the bus yesterday at Ft. Sam, our friend Mr. Dietrick pointed out the places he grew up, hunted rabbits, and took training. Other vets shared stories of meeting famous Generals in Africa, the Italian campaign, POW status, and lots more. So happy to have been with these great men. Below are some of the highlights we shared on Instagram.

We're at Fort Sam Houston today with the 36th Infantry Division Reunion for commemoration of the Invasion of Salerno in 1944! Interesting note: The chapel the service was held in is the same chapel where Mr. Dietrick's brother's funeral service was held in 1940. His brother was accidentally killed when his gun misfired as he was coming off guard duty. That was 76 years ago.
Just found this one from the 36th Infantry Division Reunion last week... Meet the Scarborough brothers. We mistook them for twins (as everyone else did) but they're actually 6 years apart! John, the younger (left), doesn't like this so much but he's a good sport. Both served in the 36th, one in WWII, the other during the Korea War. Together they make a pretty cute set of brothers who kept us in stitches of laughter the whole time.
Exploring the museum at Fort Sam Houston. Mr. D. is explaining how the weapons worked.
A fabulous dinner banquet celebrating and remembering the men of the 36th Infantry Division.

Welcome Home Soldier

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Last year we witnessed something very special and unique at the WW2 Memorial in DC. While waiting for the next HF to arrive, the daughter of the veteran pictured came up to us and asked if we would give her father a rose. Of course we were delighted to. After talking with them a few minutes we learned he had come to the memorial with his entire extended family for a very special reason: 

Master Sergeant James William Holt was a son, husband, brother, and father, all in one when he went Missing in Action during the Vietnam war in 1968. Over the years his family never knew what happened to him. His children grew up and had children of their own and life went on. Then one day his remain were recovered. We spoke with his widow briefly, and she was a lovely lady. It was very moving to hear this story. After all those years, she finally had closure and peace. Sergeant James Holt's family had now come from all across the country for a special burial service at Arlington National Cemetery, 47 years after his death. Welcome home soldier.

Korean War Armistice Day

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63 years ago today, Armistice was declared and the Korean War came to an end. Our friend, Mr. Thomas, was sent over to Korea in 52' and spent a long six months on the front lines directing artillery fire. Triangle Hill, Old Baldy, and Pork Chop Hill are a few names he'll never forget.

We had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Thomas during our October Honor Flight. We spent many hours on that trip talking with him about Korea, the combat, the cold, and his favorite old-time radio programs. Mr. Thomas was the first Korean War vet we'd really had the chance to talk to at length. At one point he said, "You ask a lot of questions. And you've made me think about things I haven't thought of in 50 years... But that's all right." It was evident with Mr. Thomas that he loved his country, the men he served with, and was happy to fight if it would prevent communism in the world. At the Korean War Memorial in DC, he choked up looking at the life-size statues. "It's so real." He said. "They look so much like the guys I knew." It was a short war that many of us have forgotten. But for soldiers like Mr. Thomas, they'll always remember days like July 27, 1953 when peace was finally declared to war-torn Korean.

Dinner with Fred

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Yesterday, Jubilee and I were invited to attend a special dinner put on by the Nimitz Foundation with our dear friend and Iwo Jima veteran, Fred Harvey. Mr. Harvey's stories from Iwo are among the most descriptive and remarkable that I have ever heard, and when hearing them, there is no doubt as to his bravery. 


On February 20th "His three man patrol (which was sent out to establish contact with the adjoining company) was ambushed by heavy fire from an enemy machine gun and one of the men was seriously wounded." Mr. Harvey, "dragged the fallen Marine under heavy fire to the shelter of a nearby hole. Remaining with the wounded man while his companion went for aid, he held off the hostile forces with his rifle and hand grenades until the arrival of the rescue party." (The next morning) "Then, exposing himself to enemy fire and directing accurate heavy fire on the Japanese position, he successfully covered the evacuation of the casualty." He received the Silver Star for this remarkable and courageous event. 


About the 7th day of action, he took 3 grenades which gave him a purple heart and put him out of action for the rest of the war. His stories of the post-war are almost as wild as when he was in the Corps, and never ceases to leave all listeners on the edge of their seats and nearly choking with laughter.

I Meet Sir. C. Aubrey Smith; We Talk of Korea, the Cold, and the 5th Marines

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“You were at the Chosin?” I was directing this question to an 80-something year old gentleman with a moustache somewhere in between Nigel Bruce and Ron Swanson. His hat said, “Chosin Few,” his lapel pin said 1st Marine Division, and his tie was covered in Marine Corps symbols...  I was asking an obvious question; there was no doubt as to the identification of this character, but it was more a preambulary statement than a query. 

“Yes. I was.” He said a bit gruffly.

I pulled up a seat and sat down next to him. We were in the green room of the Iwo Jima Reunion in Arlington, Virginia, last February. It had been a busy afternoon, and now people were coming in and out of the room with drinks, chatting, and relaxing. 

“It was pretty cold there.” I said to the Chosin vet. 

“You’d better believe it.” He grunted. “Got frostbite on my feet. Couldn’t walk from it.” There was a definitive stress on certain letters in the words he used, sending him up north quite a bit... likely to some part of Massachusetts. 

“I can’t imagine it. I’m from Texas, and we start freezing over when it gets down into the 50s. What keeps you going when it is so cold?”

“Training.” He said simply. “We became robots. We were so reduced by the cold, the only thing that kept us going was our Marine Corps training. We didn’t know what we were doing. But that is where the training became important.” He stated these facts as they were, though with a bit of a shiver in recalling the memory. 

A few weeks previous, I'd been reading up on Chosin, and was delightfully surprised to run into one of the men who fought there, though at an Iwo Jima reunion of all places. 

"American Marines march down a canyon road dubbed "Nightmare Alley" during their retreat from Chosin Reservoir, Korea." Photo by David Douglas Duncan

The Chosin Reservoir Campaign (or Frozen Chosin) summarized: A terrible, complicated battle fought in North Korea between the allies of the United Nations: United Kingdom, South Korea, America, and the United States 1st Marine Division, against the North Koreans and Red Chinese during the winter of 1950 (November 27-December 13). 

One of the most iconic photos from the Chosin Reservoir Campaign. "A dazed, hooded Marine clutches a can of food during his outfit's retreat from the Chosin Reservoir during the Korean War, December 1950". Photo by David Douglas Duncan

Some have compared it to the Battle of the Bulge fought in WWII. But the Marines who were at Chosin say it was worse. Our soldiers were poorly fed and poorly equipped, and our high casualty rate was caused more from the extreme temperatures than anything else. The cold was more than unbearable, at times dropping down to -40F. The boots they'd been issued to help with the cold only made their feet sweat profusely during their marches and freeze instantly on stopping. This created many cases of frostbite and trench-foot. It was miserable in the extreme. 

At night the men were warned about falling into too heavy a sleep or zipping up their sleeping bags. They might not awake from the former (many froze to death in their sleep), and as for the latter... the cold could freeze the zippers shut, making them easy prey for the Red Chinese who had no qualms about slitting the throats of defenseless Marines trapped in their bags.

And then, there was the most nightmarish part of it all. The enemy was unceasing. Every single Korean combat vet I've spoken with has told me the same thing almost verbatim: "The enemy never stopped coming. Charging forward madly, with an endlessness to them. It didn't matter how many you took down with fire, they continued, and continued, until all were too exhausted to go further." Just like your worst nightmare when no matter how hard you strive, all your efforts are in vain, nothing you do seems to help anything, and the situation only gets more desperate. (To get a better understanding of the Chosin Reservoir Campaign I recommend reading here). 

The U.S. Retreat at Chosin Reservoir

As I talked with this Chosin vet, his gruffness began to wear off, and I saw underneath a charm similar to the dashing old actor from the Golden Age of Hollywood, Sir C. Aubrey Smith. True confession, when I was very young, this screen actor had made a lasting impression on me as the ultimate charming old gentleman. His portrayal of the gallant Colonel Zapt in Prisoner of Zenda, or the grumpy-but-with-a-heart-of-gold grandfather of Little Lord Fauntleroy, were just a few that quite stole my heart. Thus, sitting across from this fascinating and delightful curmudgeon from Massachusetts (who in every way seemed to characterize Sir Smith), it felt like I was being taken on a virtual trip to the battlefields of Korea, personally guided by Sir C. Aubrey Smith, only with a strong Massachusetts accent and Marine Corps written all over him.

"How long were you at Chosin?" I asked, interested in continuing the conversation. 

"Till the middle of December, when I was wounded." Said Sir Smith (as I shall call him). "My sergeant sent me to the back for medical attention. When I got there, I was told they had no place for me and to go back to the front. I made the hike to the front lines again and got bawled out for returning. The sergeant sent me back again. This time I told them how it was and what was what, so I stayed back till I got shipped home."

His 6-month war in Korea was over. 

"And you were in the 5th Marines?" I checked.

"Yes indeed. The best regiment in the Marine Corps!" 

"I don't doubt it," I said, amused. "Actually, I just finished reading a book about a brother regiment of yours - A Company, 7th Marines... Baker 1/7 I believe it's called.”

Hardly had the words "7th Marines" come out of my mouth when there was a virtual explosion from Sir Smith. 

“Bah. Those 7th Marines! They’re no good at all. Always behind the action at a safe distance, making us do all the dirty work. We take a hill, they get the glory. Those no good....” My charming friend was obviously not biased at all. 

A friend of his nearby turned and said, “Bob, isn’t that the Company with the Chinese guy in the pink vest?”

“Kurt Lee. Yes," said Sir Smith with a chuckle. "The fellow was crazy. Always running into battle with that ghastly pink vest so that his men would always know where he was at all times.”  

“So you saw his pink vest then?” I was thrilled. Lieutenant Kurt Chew-Een Lee was a truly remarkable soldier. The first Marine Corps officer of Chinese decent, he quite proved the mettle he was made of during the Korean War. Gallantly leading his men into action, he would holler out orders in Mandarin, successfully causing disarray and confusion in the ranks of the Red Chinese. Then he would wildly attack them with little care for his own protection. His men watched in awe as Lt. Lee stood tall and straight, marching about and giving orders during the hottest parts of the fighting, seemingly unaware of the hundreds of bullets whizzing around him. Eventually, he was wounded, but he did not allow this to interfere with his duty. Indeed, he and another Marine made a daring escape from the American hospital to return to the front, despite being covered in bandages and wrappings. No, nothing mental or physical would ever come in the way of this brave Marine's determination. 

And as far as the pink vest was concerned, if he thought it would inspire his men, than who cared if it made him the perfect target for the Red Chinese?

Lt. Kurt Chew-Een Lee in Korea

Sir Smith guffawed at my excitement over the vest, “Of course I did! Everyone did! He didn’t seem to realize the enemy would also see where he was at all times. What did he think anyways? He could have gotten us all killed. There is no place on the battlefield for foolish heroics.” 

I couldn’t help laughing. These “foolish heroics” Sir Smith spoke of (and highlighted above) had awarded Lt. Lee none other than the Navy Cross, the second-highest military decoration for valor given by the United States.

“Besides,” his eyes twinkled, “He was in the 7th Marines that...”

I had to laugh again. The 7th Marines may not have been up to Sir Smith's standards, but with men like Lt. Lee in their ranks, they were certainly a fighting force to be reckoned with.

With "Sir Smith" at the Iwo Jima Reunion in February (Photo Credit: Dean Laubach

With "Sir Smith" at the Iwo Jima Reunion in February (Photo Credit: Dean Laubach

But though we joked about the eccentricities of the officers, the events of the summer, fall, and winter of 1950 had left a deep and terrible impression on Sir Smith. He told me that the reality of what he had gone through was finally catching up on him. About 50 years after his service in the Marine Corps, he suddenly started having nightmares about the fighting in Korea. He dreamed about things he'd seen or done that hadn't crossed his mind in decades, and out of the blue thoughts attacked him that left him with little mental peace. 

"I have to go to a PTSD group now." He told me somewhat grimly. "I'm the oldest guy there. All the others are soldiers from Iraq and Afghanistan. It doesn't help much, but I keep going." 

We all know that the end-date of a war doesn't mean it's over in the minds of the fellas who fought there, but it's still hard every time I hear it from their own mouths; that each day they are re-fighting the battle of the Chosin Reservoir, or Iwo Jima, or Normandy. Thankfully, though, my new friend has a tenacious fighting spirit and probably wouldn't allow himself to be easily overcome by these nightmares.

We talked for some time more, till the dinner bell rang concluding the weekend. It was a lovely time I spent chatting with Sir Smith. Learning from such a charming curmudgeon about the rougher side of Chosin combat (as well as a few humorous anecdotes) was a remarkable experience. It is regretful that so few know anything of the Korean War, or even the Chosin Reservoir Campaign. The difficulties of Chosin were practically unparalleled in American history. That any could survive it is truly a miracle. But they did, and once again I was reminded of the endurance of the human spirit when it is put to the test - especially the United States Marine Corps at Chosin. 

Remembering the Forgotten War

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This is the 66th anniversary of the beginning of the Korean War conflict, a terrible and bitter event in American history... Though I've been nominally aware of the Korean War for some time now, it's only in the last 12 months or so that I've really begun to get a grip on the tragic events of 1950-1953. Last year, knowing that I had interest in this area, my grandmother sent me an excellent little book of first hand accounts, published for the 50th anniversary of the Korean War. You could say that after reading the book, the fire was lit and I was quite anxious to learn more. 

Since then, we've had the pleasure of pleasure of meeting some really charming and remarkable men from this sad war. In honor of the anniversary, we'll be sharing some of their stories the next few days so that their war will no longer be called, "The Forgotten War".

Korean War Veterans Memorial. Photo Credit: Shaun Moss Photography 

Reading WWII Weekend

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The last few months have hurried along faster than any of us expected, and it is quite hard to believe we are halfway through the month of June. Some of us are still scratching our heads and wondering where March and April went. All that to say, that hopefully in the next few weeks, we can catch up a bit on some of the doings of "Operation Meatball."

Two weekends ago, through a great blessing and provision, we found ourselves in Reading, Pennsylvania, after a rather interesting trek up North (the rains of Texas seemed to be following us the whole way).

Each year the Mid Atlantic Air Museum (MAAM) holds a grand Airshow over the D-Day anniversary. It's called the Reading WWII Weekend. We've been hearing about this great event for several years now, but the timing had just never worked out; however this year it did, and it was fabulous. For three days, the grounds surrounding the MAAM are transformed into the various theatres of operation during the war.

Walking around you can go from fighting forces on the European front to the Marines of the Pacific. Go a little further and you run into the Brits and Russians, while just a brief turn in the road takes you to home-front America with Singers and Entertainers (like Abbot and Costello) in a little cafe, a walk-in home from the 1940s, Red Cross workers, a movie theatre, Candy-shop and more. 

One of the main highlights of the event is the large assortment of guest speakers and veterans of WWII you can come to hear. A Marine Corps veteran talk of his experiences on Iwo Jima, or a 1st Division man about the Beaches of Omaha on D-Day. An Auschwitz survivor, even a former Hitler Youth member. Their stories are remarkable. 

Because it would take a great while to catalogue the whole lovely weekend, below are some of the highlights.

One of the high points of the Reading WWII Weekend was meeting Mr. Sal Castro and his delightful wife (not pictured). Mr. Castro was a combat veteran of the 32nd Infantry Division and recipient of the Congressional Gold Medal for his service in the Civil Air Patrol during the war.

Mr. Sebastian de something-italian-and-very-hard-to-pronounce, an adorable little Italian who didn't walk - he danced everywhere - declared to me, "I'm 93, I still have my hair, and I still have my teeth!" 

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One of the nicest veterans we met was Mr. K., a sailor from the USS John W. Weeks. During one of the musical programs at the event, we were just getting up to escape the rain when he motioned for us to come over. "I have a question," he said. "You look like you are dressed the way they were in the 1940s." "Yes sir!" We told him. "You see," Mr. K. said, "I am a WWII veteran, and I grew up in the 30s and 40s and that is how all the girls dressed then." He then went on to tell us about the clothes and the music of the time, tearing up at the latter. When we asked why the music made him cry, he told us that it was the memories attached to them. Some hard, many wonderful.

The song, "White Cliffs of Dover," was especially close to him and made him tear up because it reminded him of his late wife, a lovely Irish war-bride whose heart he had captured and brought home. "We weren't in love at first," he said about his wife. "We just clicked and got along real well. It was after we were married that the romance came." He told us that he saw her "27 times" during his time in the Navy, and decided to marry her when he was sailing around New Guinea. She agreed and they were happily married nearly 65 years. We eventually had to say goodbye to our lovely new friend, and as we were going he said, "I'm so glad you came over. Because I was sure you girls were dressed like they did (and like my wife did) in 1945, but I had to ask." To see the delight in his face at recalling these old memories really made our day complete, and added a fresh reminder of why we love what we do.

Faith chatting with our a dear friend John McCaskill. Mr. McCaskill is entirely to blame for getting us hooked on Honor Flight, and we couldn't thank him enough for it. 

The whole weekend in Reading was just as lovely as it could be. Though our first, there will be hopefully many more times to come.

June 6, 1944

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On this day every year our thoughts and hearts are full as we think of the brave lads who took part in the invasion of Normandy. We have many friends who landed on the beaches, scaled the cliffs, or were dropped in by C-47 all in the early hours of June 6, 1944 and are now here to tell the tales of bravery and sacrifice of their comrades. 

But we also have many friends who did not make it. Some of them went through months of hard training only to be killed moments after landing. They are now buried in the beautiful yet somber cemetery off of Omaha Beach. This may seem strange to say since we are separated by 72 years, a full lifetime. But reading of their stories, learning about their lives growing up on the farms out west or in the emigrant-crammed cities of the east we feel like we know them; that they are our friends. When we talk to the men that were right beside them as they took the bullet that would put a gold star in a mother's window, we feel like we have lost a childhood friend. 

Tears come to our eyes as we realize the only son of an emigrant family won't come back to carry on the family name in the land of opportunity that his parents dreamed about all their lives. Handsome Frank Draper, brothers Bedford and Raymond Hoback, and 17 other friends from the same small town in Virginia, all killed in the early hours of DDay. They never knew us, but we know them. They were our friends, and we will never forget them because their names are etched in our minds. 

D-DAY is a solemn day, but also a joyous day. Because of the sacrifices made that day, giving the allies a foothold in France, the hope and freedom of all of Europe was secured.

Memorial Day in Fredericksburg

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My personal favorite Admiral in WWII, Admiral Chester Nimitz.

This past Memorial Day we spent the day in Fredericksburg at the Pacific War Museum. I think there are few places I would rather spend this precious day of remembrance. After the museum's annual Memorial Day program, we spent most of the afternoon studying and reflecting the Wall of Honor Plaques in the museum's courtyard. This wall of Honor Plaques are remarkable and unique. Some paying tribute to the fallen, others in gratitude for a family member's service during WWII. It took some time, but we managed to look at just about every plaque on the wall (and there are quite a few!). 

While there, we found a couple of friend's names, and talked with a lovely Navy veteran, Mr. Glazener, who volunteers at the Nimitz regularly.  Mr. Glazener was in the pacific during the latter part of the war, and showed us where his ship's plaque was on the Wall of Honor. Though he never experienced action, he did tell us of one dramatic event: As the war came to a close (and the Japanese were fighting their hardest), one of the destroyers in his convoy was hit by a Kamikaze. The kamikaze hit the Bridge, taking it out completely out and killing all the officers in the ship. To save the ship, Mr. Glazener's Destroyer hooked up to the totaled ship and towed her to the closest island of safety. The poor crew were thus happily saved. 

His hand it resting above the plaque to the 6 Destroyers in his group.

He later got out of the Navy and served on the US border patrol for many years. He experienced all extremes from the frostbite cold of Vermont to the crazy border troubles of McAllen, Texas. Car chases up to 140 mph, shootings and knifings (getting shot and knifed himself), and numerous other exciting things. There was no doubt talking to him, that he is true-blue Texan for sure!

All in all, a quiet, but memorable day spent remembering our fallen soldiers. 

"Did you remember the sarge and the gunners mate?"

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Last year in my Memorial Day post I mentioned a Navy Corpsman name Bert Cooper, and how he never forgot the sacrifices of two particular men who died during the Okinawa Campaign. It is such a moving story, and so perfectly sums up the reasons for why we have a Memorial Day, that I thought I'd share the story again in his own words. 

----Excerpt from Bert Cooper:

I remember one thing vividly about my service. On Okinawa [there was] this big ugly Marine (I swear he was uglier than Ernest Borgnine, who was a good actor, but an ugly actor), he was tough and muscular, and built like a tank; and his men loved him. We had him as a patient and he called me over to his stretcher in the tent there, and he says, "Doc, I don't think I'm gonna make this one." I said, "Oh come on, we never give up." He said, "I know. I just feel it in my body. I'm not going to make it this time." (And he'd been shot up several times on other island campaigns). And he says, "I wonder if anyone will remember me." So I looked him straight in the eye and I said, "I'll remember you Gunny. I'll remember you the rest of my life, I promise you that." So he died that evening.

Across the tent was a young sailor in a stretcher also. And he called me, "Hey Doc." He could hardly talk, it was only a whisper. About the only thing pink you could see were his lips. He was in a gun tub with eight other guys, gunnery men. And it got hit by a kamikaze and killed all seven, he was the only survivor if you can call it a survivor. When we got him he was black as this mic here. And we knew he didn't have much time left. But we kept him going for about a day and a half, and everything we could do... And it was amazing, the doctor even said he didn't know why he didn't die instantly from all these burns. So he calls me and I kneel down to his stretcher. I say, "Yeah gunner". And he says, "Doc, I'm an orphan. Who is there that's gonna remember me?" I says, "I'm gonna remember you. I'll remember you every day of my life. I promise you that. I'll remember you."

To this day, every night I ask myself when I pull the covers up to my chin, I say, "did you remember the sarge and the gunners mate?" And 99 times out of a 100 I thought of them during the day, and once in a while if I didn't , I go to sleep saying, "I thought of you guys." And I've been doing it every day since. It's not a burden. It's a testimonial to what men will do or have to do to save the freedom for the rest of us.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

This is the true meaning of Memorial Day. Thanks to Bert Cooper, those two brave men will never be forgotten.

Connections to my Uncle Israel Goldberg

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The other day I made two happy discoveries related to my great-great uncle Israel Goldberg. As Memorial Day approaches, his death at Camp Cabanatuan in 1942 has been much on my mind. This afternoon at a monthly WW2 veteran's luncheon, I spoke with a veteran who was stationed at Clark Airfield in the Philippines right before Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. I told him that my uncle Israel was stationed at Clark at the same time. Though with a different group, my friend was quite familiar with my uncle's squadron group and could tell me about a bit of what they went through before the Philippines fell into the hands of the Japanese.


The same day, and shortly after, I spoke with another veteran who said that while he was stationed in the Philippines in 1945 he was called up for a very special duty. For an entire day he participated in the honor guard's final salute for every single man buried at the American War Cemetery in Manila. My uncle's remains would not be transferred to Manila until sometime in 1947, but I felt a bit like this final salute would have included him as well.


I have known both these veterans for a while, but had never yet made the connection to my family in this sense. Especially with the first one, it is probably one of the closest linkages I've been able to make to my uncle before the Bataan Death March. How appropriate to make this connection in honor of my uncle just in time for Memorial Day.

Happy Birthday National WWII Memorial

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Yesterday was the 12th birthday of the National WWII Memorial in DC., and though we're a day late, we had to just wish it a belated happy birthday. Some of our fondest memories have taken place at this memorial where worlds come together for one purpose: honor and remembrance. It is here that in a space of time so short, we have met some of the most wonderful friends you could ever ask for. It is here that the walls of the memorial hold the echos of songs we have sung with gray-haired heroes. The pavement boasts tears that have dropped from our eyes at the loved ones gone forever but always in our hearts. And the wind rushes through it all whispering tales of bravery and honor, the like that is hard to find. Happy birthday dear WWII Memorial. May you continue to show gratitude and honor to those who so nobly served our country. 

A Gold Star Meant for Me

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When you visit the National World War II Memorial in D.C., you will see a wall covered in gold stars. There are 4,048 stars on this wall; each representing 100 men who sacrificed their lives for us in WWII. Last year we met Mr. Lee (pictured) at this memorial. Mr. Lee doesn't like to talk about the war at all. He was part of the 11th Airborne and made four jumps in the Pacific, taking part in some of the fiercest battles. But he did tell us something that was beautiful, sad, and poignant. In a thoughtful voice he said, "There is a star on that wall that was supposed to be for me. But it is for my friend instead. He took my place." The memory of the moment when his buddy took a grenade for him is still as clear as when it happened 70 years ago.

Return to the Black Sands of Iwo Jima pt.2

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First sight of Iwo Jima

“What does returning to Iwo Jima after 70 years mean to you?” I asked a 90 year old, soft-spoken Marine.  

He started to tell me, then stopped. We were on the top of Mt. Suribachi overlooking the island of Iwo Jima. With his good arm, he had just pointed out to me the location of his landing beach and subsequent movements. At his side hung a limp prosthetic arm, a memento of the 12 days he had spent on the island. 

“Give me a minute.” He said, his voice choking a little. He looked back over the island, trying to get control of the emotion in his throat. After a few moments of silence, he started to speak again, but his voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you. It’s too...” His hand instinctively went to his prosthesis.

“It’s okay.” I told him. Without saying a word, he had expressed everything. 

- - - - - - - 

The morning we departed for the island of Iwo Jima, we left our hotel on Guam at the unrighteous hour of 3 or so o’clock in the morning. Most the folks on the trip (self included) had only enjoyed 2 or 3 hours of sleep, but excitement and anticipation proved to be a good enough antidote. In the airport, we were joined by the rest of the crowd, all in all totaling about 450 people (3 planes' worth).

During the flight, I turned around to introduce myself to the two veterans behind me: Sam Weldon, 4th Division, a real brass-knuckles Marine; and Frank Pontisso, 5th Division, much more soft-spoken than his companion. They both came from way up north, their accents betrayed. For both of them, Iwo was their first and last combat. Mr. Weldon came off the island relatively unscathed, with the exception of almost complete loss of hearing. He ended up as an MP on Guam. Mr. Pontisso was less fortunate. On his 12th day, a mortar blast exploded near him and two of his buddies. All three survived, but his right arm was badly damaged. With it packed on ice, he was shipped off the island. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, in a few moments we will be approaching the island of Iwo Jima...” It was almost amusing to hear the Captain say this over the loud speaker. The usually dull, “Welcome to your destination,” was changed entirely by those two little words Iwo Jima. 

The plane circled the island three times before landing, so that all who wanted could cram into a window seat and grab a shot of this historic island. The island was beautiful. Not in the way the Golden Gate Bridge is beautiful to a sailor who has been at sea for many months, or New York Harbor was to the immigrants in the early 1900s. But beautiful in the haunting sense of the stories it holds, the bravery and courage unequaled, and a history that must never be repeated. 

I looked over at Mr. Pontisso in the seat behind me and couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking. The last time he’d seen the island was the day he was hit by a mortar. Diving into a foxhole, a corpsman had given the wounded marine a shot of brandy before he passed out. The next thing he knew, he’d been taken off the island and hospitalized. Everything was going fine in his recovery, until gangrene set in. There was no choice but to amputate the arm. His war was over, and he was sent home with a Purple Heart.

Mr. Pontisso looks out the window as we circle Iwo Jima, moments before landing. 

Mr. Pontisso looks out the window as we circle Iwo Jima, moments before landing. 

Now, 70 year later, he was coming back. I snapped a quick picture. It is strange that a piece of  lava in the middle of the ocean can hold so much significance to us. 

- - - - - - - 

Immediately after debarking, we headed up to Mt. Suribachi. From the top of Suribachi, we could view the entire expanse of the island; an impressive view, but not exactly the same view the flag-raisers had 70 years ago. Then, the surface of Iwo had been bombed to pieces and hardly a lick of foliage was to be seen on the island. Today, it is completely covered in greenery and can almost be considered lush.

Iwo Jima today. Photo Credit: Mark W. Stevens (Iwo Jima Association of America)

This was a bit disconcerting to some of the vets who had been hoping to find familiar landmarks. Now covered up with shrubbery, it was like finding a needle in a haystack to get precise locations. One of them remarked to me, “We should just bomb it again. Then I’d be able to find my way around okay.” 

On top of the mountain, an exciting chaos was ensuing. Veterans and friends crowded around the Marine Monument for a photo, or raised their flag on the pole briefly, all the while dodging news cameras and photographers. I had to gulp and hope it wouldn’t go away too fast. 

Time did seem to halt a few times as I talked to a couple of the veterans coming back for the first time. They spoke slowly, carefully reflecting on their surroundings. One of them said that no matter how much you prepare to revisit the old sites, it still kind of hits you hard. 

With Sgt. Coltrane at the Marine Memorial on Mt. Suribachi

“I’ve been having nightmares for 70 years.” Sgt. J. Coltrane told me while we were sitting atop Suribachi. “I’m hoping that after this, I won’t have them any more.” 

Standing up there, I remembered the story Colonel Bill Henderson had told my dad the first time he went to Iwo Jima in 2005. In his outfit was a young Marine who had earned the name “Buttermilk” due to his youth and inability to order anything stronger at a bar. The Colonel didn’t know him too well, being new to the unit, but he recognized him still. After landing on the first wave,  Henderson (then a Lieutenant), was struggling to get his men together and up the beach.  At one point, he looked over and saw Buttermilk standing in the sand with a dazed face. “Buttermilk!” He shouted out. “Get up and go. Don’t just stand there. Move it!” Knowing they had to keep moving forward quickly, he was surprised that the young Marine just stared blankly at him. Realization hit a moment later. The lower half of Buttermilk’s body had been blown completely off. Colonel Henderson later reflected, “He very slowly toppled over. At moments like that, there was little choice but to move on or die, paralyzed with fear, confusion, and anger.”

- - - - - - - 

The ceremony on Iwo Jima was formal. The representatives from both America and Japan spoke, followed by a wreath laying. Each side paid tribute to the men who died; they spoke of forgiveness and healing, and the unity between our countries. It is always striking to me to see two countries that warred so viciously with each other, make peace, and then for the next dozens of years became strong allies. 

Lt. General Stackpole, Lt. General Snowden, and Lt. General Smith lay the wreaths.

Lt. General Stackpole, Lt. General Snowden, and Lt. General Smith lay the wreaths.

Speaking of forgiveness, we had, with our Military Historical Tours group, a special guest: Mr. Tsuruji Akikusa, a Japanese Naval Radioman. Mr. Akikusa had aspired to be a fighter pilot, but his father, not wanting him to die, had him sent into the Japanese Navy. This would be a safer place for his son. But it wasn’t. Before long, 18 year old Mr. Akikusa ended up on the island of Iwo Jima. Through a translator, he described to us what it was like to watch the first Americans land on the island. In a small bunker near the beach, he saw the landing crafts approach, the marines unload and begin climbing the beach. There was no opposing fire. Quite anxious, he asked the officer next to him, “Why are we not firing?!”  At that moment, the cannons erupted from the hidden bunkers and tore up the first Americans. Mr. Akikusa was relieved, but also horrified. 

A 16 year-old Tsuruji Akikusa

A 16 year-old Tsuruji Akikusa

Throughout the rest of the battle, he remained on the island, but never fired a shot. As the end drew near, many of the Japanese soldiers in his bunker committed suicide. Then it was evident they would soon be overcome. He heard shouts and cries and saw the Japanese officers shooting the soldiers who were crying in fear. Afraid that they would shoot him, he didn’t say anything. Soon, his bunker was hit, knocking him unconscious. A few days, later he woke up in an American hospital tent. He learned that one of the War Dogs had sniffed him out during a patrol. When the Marine accompanying the dog saw that he was still alive, he brought him back for medical attention. Mr. Akikusa was one of only 1,000 Japanese to be taken prisoner on the island of Iwo Jima. Over 22,000 Japanese soldiers had been killed or committed suicide. 

Mr. Akikusa spent the next year as a prisoner of war. Fearing his survival would cause shame for his family (who thought he was killed on the island), he never wrote home to tell them he was alive. It was one of the moral codes of their culture to die an honorable death in battle rather than suffer the disgrace of surviving, or worse -become a prisoner of war (This is one of the reasons the Japanese treated our POWs so poorly; they considered them to be disgraced men for surrendering). Eventually, after the war ended, he decided to go home. He arrived just in time to discover his school was having a funeral service for him and the other boys in his town who died during the war. He went quietly in, removed the picture of himself and sat down to attend the rest of the funeral. His funeral. 

- - - - - - - 

Mr. Akikusa attended the official ceremonies with us -the Americans. I’d seen him earlier in the hotel lobby. He was wearing a hat with GoArmy and USA pins on it. Knowing he was Japanese, but not having met him yet, I wondered how he came to be wearing a hat with American insignia. After hearing him relate his story, I knew. He concluded his comments by saying, “They say I was captured by the Americans. But I don’t like to say that. I wasn’t captured. I was rescued.” 

Tsuruji Akikusa, and General Lawrence Snowden. As Gen. Snowden said, "Once enemies, now friends." Photo Cred: Mark Stevens (IJAA)

Tsuruji Akikusa, and General Lawrence Snowden. As Gen. Snowden said, "Once enemies, now friends." Photo Cred: Mark Stevens (IJAA)

Mr. Akikusa is an example of a man who once was our enemy, but now he is a friend. Some of the veterans on the trip were unsure about meeting someone they would have considered a bitter enemy. But putting aside enmity and deciding to forgive, they were able to shake his hand and welcome him as a friend. In response, Mr. Akikusa appreciates and respects our country for “rescuing” him. 

The polaroid instant from our meeting. 

After the ceremony, I saw that he was sitting alone with his translator. Walking up to him, I took his hand and told him how grateful I was for the peace between our countries and thanked him for coming with us - his former enemies - back to Iwo Jima to remember our fallen soldiers. He smiled so kindly and replied similarly. Pulling out my Polaroid, I asked to take a picture with him. If you remember Polaroids, they print instantly, so a moment later, I gave him one of the prints. He smiled when he saw the photo, and his translator explained to him that it was a gift from me for him. With almost tears in his eyes and holding tight to the picture, he thanked me. 

It was brief, but the interchange meant a great deal to me. My great-great uncle died in a POW camp in the Philippines. His sister was very bitter against the Japanese for the rest of her life. I have known many people who experienced great hardships at the hands of the Japanese in WWII. But at the end of the day, forgiveness is one of the greatest acts a man can offer another.  “Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger... be put away from you...forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake has forgiven you.” Ephesians 4:31-32 

- - - - - - - 

Following the ceremony, several of us piled into the back of a jeep and headed down to the beach. Getting to the sand was entirely different from anything I had imagined. You read about the difficulty the Marines had climbing the sandy embankments: move forward three feet, sink backwards and in two. It was impossible to dig foxholes for protection because of the texture of the gravelly sand which caved in and cut up the skin. It was all this and more.

Jim Skinner USMC on the beach where he landed in 1945

My cowboy boots sank up to the top and sand poured in. Walking in them was like wearing moon shoes as I tried to walk. Because of time constraints, we didn’t go too far out onto the beach, but I heard later that some of the folks tried “storming the beaches” again, and found the task of scaling the inclines tremendous. (Side note: up to 10 months later, I was still finding sand from Iwo Jima in my boots, despite cleaning them and wearing them regularly)

I mentioned that the sand was rough enough to cut skin. Hard to believe, but true. Coming up from the beach, I tripped and cut my knee. The cut was small, but 13 months later, I still have the scars from it. With such a small incident leaving such a permanent reminder, I couldn’t help but think about the poor fellows who crashed into the sand for protection or fell wounded. I’ve been calling it sand, but really it is volcanic ash; the same hard, rough, gravelly volcanic ash that greeted the Marines on Iwo 71 years ago. 

I'm here with my friend, Mr. G. and his granddaughter just after we've come off the beach. 

With evening coming, we headed back to the airstrip to fly back to Guam. We boarded our plane all in tact, carrying several additional pounds of black Iwo Jima sand. This sand was so popular that for a few minutes there was question if some poor soul would have to dump their portion to lighten the load of the plane. There were no volunteers and in the end everything was fine. Our flight back was uneventful (though two of the other planes ended up being grounded for a couple of hours before returning... Another story), and we chatted with the veterans and folks on the plane. Our trip was coming to a close. 

Mr. C. Burney signs my LIFE magazine. The cover depicts a blockhouse being blown up on Iwo Jima.

The next day was the last day of the tour, finishing up with the closing banquet at the Pacific War Museum, a fabulous museum in Guam that boasts excellent artifacts and tremendous military equipment (jeeps, trucks, guns) scattered around the grounds. Nothing like enjoying your dinner at the base of a WWII anti-aircraft gun. 

This may seem like the longest article I’ve ever written. Probably is. Unfortunately, as long as it is (and if you have persevered through it thus far, bravo and thank you), only highlights were mentioned. So much happened in such a short space of time that it is hard to put it all down and get it out the door. But for now, here are a few lessons I learned from Iwo Jima. 

There is no underestimating the power of forgiveness:

On this trip, I met veterans who had carried great animosity and hatred toward the Japanese for the past 70 years. Understanding that what the Marines on Iwo Jima experienced is beyond our comprehension, it is still hard to see men in their 90s continue to carry bitterness against their enemy when their time left on earth is so short, because bitterness eats at the soul like nothing else. But, even the most angry man can overcome and forgive. I saw that happen. 

The Brotherhood of the Marines:

It is rare you find a bonded brotherhood like the Marines. What makes a 90+ year old man make an incredibly arduous trip across the world to a barren and desolate island? Especially one that holds only the most painful of memories? Because he feels it is his duty to go back and pay his last respects to the comrades and friends he lost. Mr. Pontisso said about his wounds, “I don’t deserve the Purple Heart, it’s the ones who never made it back that do.”

He may have lost his arm 71 years ago, but to him, he came out with his life when so many others didn’t. He went back because it was important to him that he remember them and that others remember. The strength of the brotherhood was so strong that he and others were willing to put aside the personal pain of the memories and make one last return. One last Reunion of Honor. 

We must never forget:

In an old war movie from the 1940s, White Cliffs of Dover,  there is a scene at the end which always brings tears to my eyes. The young man, John, has been mortally wounded fighting in France during WWII. Lying in a hospital in England, he tells his mother about a conversation he had with another soldier. The interchange between the mother and her dying son pretty much sums up why we must never forget.

"That chap, the American, he said he'd really start to fight the day war ended: for a good peace, a peace that would stick. He didn't know he was going to die, you see. He said that God would never forgive us, either England or America, if we break the faith with our dead again. Write his mother a nice letter. Tell her that…,oh well, you'll think of something....”

A few moments later a parade comes by, and his mother looks out the window.

“How well they march, John... There is a look of greatness about them. All the strong young boys. Beautiful and proud with dreams. Just like you, John. They'll help bring peace again. And as your friend said, "A peace that will stick." …. You know, John, we must never forget what that American boy said to you. God will never forgive us if we break faith with our dead again.” 

The memory of the boys who died on Iwo Jima, where “uncommon valor was a common virtue,” mustn’t be forgotten. Neither should the boys of Peleliu, Tarawa, Wake Island, Guadalcanal, Monte Cassino, El Alamein, Normandy, the Hurtgen forest, the Battle of the Bulge... None of them. If we forget, what was the point of their sacrifice? 

I will never forget this trip to Iwo Jima. And I will make sure no one around me ever forgets either. If we are a grateful people, we will not forget the sacrifices of the men who died for our country. In Ernie Pyle’s book, Brave Men, he wrote, “I don’t believe one of us was afraid of the physical part of dying. That isn’t the way it is. The emotion is rather one of almost desperate reluctance to give up the future.” 

So, thank you to all the young men who gave up their futures. The men who will be forever young in our memories. We may live to be 95, but they will always be 19 years old. God forbid that we ever break faith with them and, in our selfishness, forget the reasons we still live in a free country.

Return to the Black Sands of Iwo Jima pt. 1

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One year ago today, I stepped onto the runway on Iwo Jima Island for the first time. It was a surreal moment for me. 11 years before, I had first really learned about this terrible battle and it impacted me tremendously. A little later, when my brothers (then 10 & 12) returned from going to Iwo Jima with my Dad for the 60th, I told myself I would visit the island some day. Now, at 18 years old, it was actually happening. And the experience was unlike any I've ever had. 

Now, if you've read any of the previous things I've written about Iwo Jima, you'll know the story and it's characters mean an awful lot to me. This time, however, I'm going to tell you a little about when this dream of an 8-year old girl finally came true, and I made the journey to an island of bravery, courage, and sacrifice, called Iwo Jima. 

The whole experience of getting to Iwo Jima is a story in itself. Preparations, passport anxieties (doesn't that always happen?!), surprise blessings, surprise complications. But in the end, it all worked out, and on March 16, 2015 after a fabulous send-off, we flew out of LAX airport with nearly 30 Iwo Jima veterans and an enormous amount of family of veterans, friends, relatives, and the like; all going to pay respect and remember.  

Airport buddies! Both 3rd Marine Division guys.

Our flight was made up into two 7+ hour flights. Despite the great length of the travel time, it ended up becoming one of the highlights of the trip.  On the first flight from LAX to Honolulu, I had the great pleasure of sitting with a wonderful Vietnam vet who has been traveling to Iwo Jima for the last 15 years. For 7-hours straight, we talked and talked, covering almost as many miles as our plane.

The next flight from Honolulu to Guam, I spent standing in the back of the plane chatting with the veterans and others who congregated there, or walking up and down the aisles meeting the other members of our tour. Carrying an April edition of the 1945 LIFE Magazine featuring Iwo Jima was a great conversation opener for the vets. They thumbed through the pages, telling me various facts about the pictures and articles in it. The 7 hours flew by as everyone got to know each other in this wonderfully relaxed way; and some pretty remarkable stories were swapped before the "fasten seatbelt" sign came on for landing. 

Hafa Adai! The traditional Chamorro (Guam) welcome

We arrived in Guam sometime pretty late on the 17th. Of course our hours were all mixed up since we had passed the international dateline and were now 15 hours ahead of the rest of America. Tired as we were, the entire group was welcomed to the hotel with a delightful reception. 

The next few days were spent traveling to various historical spots on the Island of Guam. Among our group we had many veterans who took part in the fighting for Guam in 1944. Several had been back over the years, but for those coming back for the first time, it was a stirring experience.

One of those to be making a first return trip was the last Iwo Jima Medal of Honor recipient Hershel W. Williams. In previous years, he had refused to return to these battlefields as the memories were too painful, but as the 70th anniversary approached, he decided that it was time. Like the other veterans returning for the first time, there were many emotions and memories that came back to Mr. Williams.

Hershel W. Williams MOH with his great-grandson on Iwo Jima

One afternoon we had made the trip up to Nimitz Hill and the Admiral's home there. After some commentary and talks outside, everyone went in to the Admiral's house for refreshments, and I found myself with Mr. Williams, his friend, an entirely empty portico, and a spectacular view of nearly all of Guam.

After a few moments of silence, Mr. Williams began to talk about his first experience of combat on Guam. It was more stream of consciousness spoken aloud than an intentional conversation with either me or his friend. He told us of those first nights in combat when the slightest noise made your hair stand on end. The expectation of any moment hearing the blood curdling, "Banzai!" charge and the suicide attacks that immediately followed. When they finally did come, it was when least expected. Charging at you in the dark they screamed, "Die Marine! Die Marine!" Jumping into the foxholes they fought a fierce hand to hand combat. A comrade fell or an enemy was killed. I hardly breathed for fear of breaking his stream of thought. These were memories that had remained on a dusty shelf for 70 years, but now, looking over the very landing beaches and locations where he had fought and distinguished himself, they came flooding back. His reverie ended, but the memory of this moment will stick with me. 

Jim Skinner, USMC 

Another morning on Guam, one of the veterans, Jim Skinner, came up to me with a book of photos from his time in the Marine Corps. He had been telling me about it over the last few days, and I was quite eager to see it. For probably half an hour, we looked through the book, and he told me about each picture. They were all great. Pictures of his girlfriends, Marine Corps buddies, training, family, and all the general photos you would find in an old military photo book. But there were two that stuck out to me the most. Turning the page he said, "This is a picture taken right before I killed my first Jap... and this picture is right after. You can see there he is in the corner of the picture." He didn't take glory in these two pictures as if they were trophies of war, but saw them as they were, a photographic documentation of one of the most life-changing moments in the career of a combat soldier: the first time he kills. Mr. Skinner is another story in itself. A story of bitterness and redemption. He passed away two months after our trip to Iwo Jima. 

Lt. General Snowden with Naval radioman Tsuruji Akikusa 

I would be greatly remiss if I did not mention Lt. Gen. Snowden, the real driving force behind the return trips to Iwo Jima. General Snowden, an Iwo Jima veteran himself, through his gracious relationships with the Japanese government over the years, made it possible for American veterans, families, and friends to travel to Iwo Jima to pay respects and remember. A remarkable man with a very commanding presence, he talked to the entire group before we flew to Iwo, strictly admonishing them as to how our behavior and attitude should be on the island, as it was entirely a gift given to us by the Japanese to make this trip.

The day before we flew to Iwo, to better prepare everyone, Military Historical Tours (the groups which makes these trips to Iwo Jima every year) hosted a symposium on the battle of Iwo Jima. By then, more attendees and veterans had trickled in, and we had quite a crowd. The symposium was most excellent and couldn't have been more informative. During the afternoon, I listened in on some of the veterans' interviews that were taking place in the hotel. This was uniquely special because the the vets being interviewed were about to make their first trip back. On the edge with excitement and apprehension, they talked freely about their experiences during the war, their reasons for going back, and their fears and hopes of what the morrow would bring. Healing? Closure? 

Frank Buckles: America's Last Doughboy

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Near the end of January, 2011, I was sitting in one of my Dad's annual business and planning meetings. It had been an interesting but long day. To pass the last hour or so, I decided to read some of the headlines in the news. One of them stuck out particularly to me. I read that America's last WWI doughboy was about to turn 110. His name was Frank Buckles. Wow. How incredible. Just putting aside the shear remarkable health he was in at 110, he was also a veteran of the Great War. The so called "War to End All Wars." Right then and there I decided to meet him. I had to. 

The next few weeks I researched him, his life, his military career, etc. I also prepared a letter to send to him, asking for permission to visit. 

Dear Mr. Buckles,

My name is Liberty Phillips. I am 14 years old... I live in San Antonio, Texas with my seven brothers and sisters. Joshua, Justice, Jubilee, Faith, Honor, Providence, and Virginia Hope. All of my life, my father and mother have brought me and my siblings up on a great love for history and its impact on the modern culture around us. 

(I talked about the history documentaries my dad had made on WWII and how that had influenced me to learn more.) 

...My father has often impressed upon us how little time on earth we have, and that every year more veterans from past wars die. Understanding this, when I read that it was your 110th birthday, I was reminded that when my father and brothers were on Iwo Jima, they met a WWII vet named Marvin Perrett who was a Coastie during the war. They got to know each other pretty well, and when visiting the WWII Museum in New Orleans a year ago, we looked for Marvin Perrett only to find he had died shortly before. This was a reminder for me of how fleeting life is, and since we are going to Normandy in June, I thought this would be a prime time. Maybe if this worked out, I could film you giving a message from a WWI vet to the WWII vets that my dad could show in Normandy. 

I would forever be in your gratitude if you would allow my brother and me to do this. I have met many WWII veterans, and have been so blessed by it, and would be exceedingly blessed to meet you, the last WWI veteran, before time runs out.... Forever in your gratitude for what you did for our country, Liberty Phillips

Well, to my great sadness, time did run out before there was an opportunity to meet him. On February 27, 2011, right as I was about to send my letter, Corporal Frank Buckles passed away. 

My dad later wrote about it: 

Several months ago, I discovered that my dear daughter Liberty had been secretly working with her mother on a surprise for me. Knowing her father’s passion for history and desire to cultivate a culture of honor, Liberty’s hope was to meet Frank Buckles, World War I’s last living American doughboy, to interview him, and to share his story with others.

Liberty watched me make The League of Grateful Sons, and she has stood beside me for ten years as I worked with the Faith of Our Fathers Project. She understands that the mission of this effort is to demonstrate our commitment to the Fifth Commandment in the context of showing honor to the heroic fathers of the World War II generation. Liberty has taken this vision into her heart, and she hoped to reach back one generation further and meet World War I’s last remaining U.S. veteran.

So, with the encouragement of her mother, Liberty spent weeks researching the story of Mr. Buckles. She then came to me with her surprise project of honor and asked if she could complete the mission by visiting this unusual man who was such an important link to our nation’s providential past. How encouraged I was! I gave Liberty my blessing, and she prepared to make the trip with her mother to see Mr. Buckles. But just days later, he died. My dear daughter was never able to complete her mission of honor. That broke my heart. It saddened me that she was never able to meet this veteran and to speak to him about the Lord Jesus Christ. We missed our window of opportunity with Mr. Buckles. We waited too long. . .

A few months later, when our family was preparing for our first trip to Normandy for the 67th anniversary of the D-Day Invasion, I read another article in the news and sent it with this note to my dad:

Dear Dad,
It turns out I missed out on more than just meeting and interviewing Frank Buckles. Look what just came in: "Veteran Claude Choules's death breaks last link to World War I: ...The Australian Defence Force said Mr. Choules became the last surviving WWI serviceman following the death earlier this year of American Frank Buckles."

It means even more to me now, Dad, that we are taking advantage of this opportunity to honor the WWII vets in Normandy in a few weeks. Thank you for having this vision and giving us this opportunity.  On a side note, Claude Choule was 14 when he joined and of course, as you know, I'm 14 right now. It just makes me think about life a little differently.

February 27, 2016 was the 5 year anniversary of the passing of Corporal Frank Buckles, America's last doughboy, and the veteran I came so close to meeting. A lot has happened in the last five years, but my family's drive to honor the men who served our country so well has only become more serious as time goes on and the urgency increases. You could say that the passing of Frank Buckles was my first real awakening to the brevity of life we have with our dear veterans. Though I'd met many veterans before, I'd never experienced the impermanence so personally. 

Though I missed a rare opportunity, I think that the passing of Frank Buckles prepared me and taught me to better appreciate the events we experienced that summer as we traveled with several dear WWII veterans who willingly shared stories and tears as they traveled back to their battlegrounds for the first time in 67 years. And for everything else since then.


Iwo Jima 71 years later

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Iwo Jima. It's hard to put into words the meaning behind those 7 letters. I think for most people, it's an interesting assortment of vowels and consonants. One Iwo veteran told me, "A 50-something year-old once came up to me and said, 'What does "I Survived I-W-O" stand for?' Realizing it was pointless to explain, I just told her, 'It means, "I Survived the International Women's Organization"."

(l-r) Gene Bell -3rd Marine Division, Liberty, and Ken Jarvis, son of an Iwo Jima veteran. I am holding Mr. Jarvis' father's license plate which says, "Iwo J 1945."

The reality is they ARE letters that stand for something - They spell out the names of the nearly 7,000 boys who never left the island and 20,000 others who became casualties of war. The Battle for Iwo Jima was long, bloody, and hard. But when those Marines saw the first plane emergency-land on the secured airstrip, they knew that, as costly as it had been, it was completely worth it.

Last weekend, I (Liberty) had one of the greatest pleasures and honors of my life attending the reunion for the 71st anniversary of the Battle of Iwo Jima held in Arlington, Virginia. For the last 11 years, Iwo Jima has held a unique and special place in my thoughts. Something about this particular battle has wrapped it's way around the strings of my heart, and as time goes on, it only becomes tighter. When Admiral Nimitz said, "Among the men who fought on Iwo Jima, uncommon valor was a common virtue," he was only speaking the truth. The Marines in this battle fought with a persevering endurance so strong, against an enemy so fierce who seemed to stop at nothing to achieve the complete defeat and humiliation our brave boys and beautiful country of America. But despite the odds, our fellas overcame and the battle was declared our victory. 

The Iwo Jima veterans at the WWII Memorial

If you speak to an "Iwo Jima Survivor" today, they won't tell you much. There are just some things that even now, 71 years later, cannot be repeated. A veteran of the Korean War described it perfectly when he said, "People ask you about 'what war is like,' but the minute you start telling them, they don't want to know. They can't handle it. They don't know what it's like to see [hundreds] of dead men. . .all the time. They can hardly bear to see one dead person all cleaned up in a casket." 

But on occasion, they do open up, and when they do, it is an emotional experience. This past weekend, among the humorous and lighthearted anecdotes of "those good ole' days in the Corps," I spoke with several Marines who shared some very personal stories with me. Their words and accounts were told with almost an angst at speaking of things so sacred and tender. Tender because they have lain buried deep in their thoughts for 71 years. And few will ever understand. 

Hearing the stories as I did, so real and raw, it is hard for me even now to repeat them. Partly because of how close I feel to these stories and the ones telling them. I was not there to experience them, but it is almost as if I could experience it all through the eyes of the veteran; and in their voices hear the sounds of battle, the tension of the combat, the smell of gunfire, the loss of friend and comrade. Waiting for a night attack. A close call. Then another one. Until the point where they no longer took note. On and on and on. Then, a brief respite. Only to be repeated again and again. For the veteran of this living nightmare, tears dried up many years ago. . .or at least they don't come as easily now. He just looks back on it all with a contemplative solemnity. Maybe wondering at the high price spent for freedom. But for the listener, this "second-hand" experience of what war is like brings many new tears. Tears of sorrow, compassion, and gratitude. A fuller understanding. . . but also a recognition that the enormity of it will never be fully grasped.

Two of my 5th Marine Division friends. Mr. Harvey (left) was in the Paramarines prior to joining the 5th Division. Mr. Lauriello (rt) experience 37 brutal days on Iwo.

Another reason the retelling is so hard is the fear that repeating the stories will cheapen the sacrifice. It can happen that we become so accustomed to tales of bravery that we are desensitized to the depth of pain behind it. We forget that the boy who died on the beach moments after landing, took a bullet for his friend behind him, and that friend has carried the memory with him for 71 years. The memory of a life cut off in his prime: no family, no future, no life. Not even a minute more. When a day rarely passes without recalling this scene to mind, a 30-second mention by a TV news-anchor just does not seem to do the memory justice. 

Regardless, their stories must be repeated. They must be passed on so that the sacrifice of our courageous boys will not only continue in our memory, but also be remembered in our deeds and actions. Their lives purchased an extra 71+ years of freedom and prosperity for us here in America. May we never do anything to soil the purity of the blood that was shed for our country. Please, never forget Iwo Jima.