RRN Online Volume 285

November 17 '01

Volume 285

True Heroes American Remembrance

In the aftermath of the On Iwo Jima September 11^th deaths by the hands of terrorists, I've heard numerous references to those who died as being heroes. While I agree that the firefighters, police officers, and the unknown civilians who died trying to rescue persons from the World Trade Center buildings as well as those few rescuers who managed to live through the event are indeed heroes, I would dispute the claim that everyone that died there is an American hero.

The American Heritage Dictionary has more than one definition of a hero, but the one that is most applicable in the WTC situation is, "A person noted for feats of courage or nobility of purpose, especially one who has risked or sacrificed his or her life."

In light of the definition and my understanding of the hero concept, I can't accept the notion that all of the thousands who died, in what can rightfully be called a massacre, were heroes. However, I can mourn their deaths and commit to our nation's purpose of punishing those who killed them.

Not all declared heroes fit the mold we might imagine for them. Wayne Ferguson, brother of Opal Austin, died earlier this year. I remember my dad telling me that Wayne fought in hand to hand combat during World War II in the Philippine Theater, but I'm not certain I was told he fought on Iwo Jima. Like thousands of others who risked their lives during WWII, he didn't look like a hero. He didn't stand out in a crowd. He had no bigger than life aura about him. I never heard him mention his role in the war, but because of what he had done in serving our country I viewed him as a war hero.

I've since learned that most soldiers who fought in that war were reluctant to speak of the atrocities and horrors they witnessed. Some returned to America to melt back into society, growing with it, and thriving. They would become what many say is America's Greatest Generation. That may or may not be a title rightfully theirs, but I'd agree they are the greatest of the generations alive, today. Others suffered fates less tragic than that of Ira Hays, a Pima Indian, who died drunk a mere ten years after helping raise the flag on Iwo Jima, but many of these were never to banish the demons of war within their souls.

Shortly before Veterans Day, Larry Young passed along the following story that I feel exemplifies the true American hero genre.

The Boys of Iwo Jima

By Michael T. Powers

Each year my video production company is hired to go to Washington, D.C. with the eighth grade class from Clinton, Wisconsin where I grew up, to videotape their trip. I greatly enjoy visiting our nation's Capitol, and each year I take some special memories back with me. This fall's trip was especially memorable.

On the last night of our trip, we stopped at the Iwo Jima memorial. This memorial is the largest bronze statue in the world and depicts one of the most famous photographs in history-that of the six brave men raising the American flag at the top of Mount Surabachi on the Island of Iwo Jima, Japan during WW II. Over one hundred students and chaperones piled off the buses and headed towards the memorial.

I noticed a solitary figure at the base of the statue, and as I got closer he asked, "Where are you guys from?"

I told him that we were from Wisconsin.

"Hey, I'm a Cheesehead, too! Come gather around Cheeseheads, and I will tell you a story."

James Bradley just happened to be in Washington, D.C. to speak at the memorial the following day. He was there that night to say goodnight to his dad, who has since passed away. He was just about to leave when he saw the buses pull up. I videotaped him as he spoke to us, and received his permission to share what he said from my videotape. It is one thing to tour the incredible monuments filled with history in Washington, D.C. but it is quite another to get the kind of insight we received that night.

When all had gathered around he reverently began to speak. Here are his words from that night: "My name is James Bradley and I'm from Antigo, Wisconsin. My dad is on that statue, and I just wrote a book called Flags of Our Fathers which is #5 on the New York Times Best Seller list right now. It is the story of the six boys you see behind me. Six boys raised the flag. The first guy putting the pole in the ground is Harlon Block. Harlon was an all-state football player. He enlisted in the Marine Corps with all the senior members of his football team. They were off to play another type of game, a game called "War." But it didn't turn out to be a game. Harlon, at the age of twenty-one, died with his intestines in his hands. I don't say that to gross you out; I say that because there are generals who stand in front of this statue and talk about the glory of war. You guys need to know that most of the boys in Iwo Jima were seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen years old.

(He pointed to the statue) You see this next guy? That's Rene Gagnon from New Hampshire. If you took Rene's helmet off at the moment this photo was taken, and looked in the webbing of that helmet, you would find a photograph, a photograph of his girlfriend. Rene put that in there for protection, because he was scared. He was eighteen years old. Boys won the battle of Iwo Jima. Boys, not old men.

The next guy here, the third guy in this tableau, was Sergeant Mike Strank. Mike is my hero. He was the hero of all these guys. They called him the "old man" because he was so old. He was already twenty-four. When Mike would motivate his boys in training camp, he didn't say, "Let's go kill the enemy" or "Let's die for our country." He knew he was talking to little boys. Instead he would say, "You do what I say, and I'll get you home to your mothers."

The last guy on this side of the statue is Ira Hayes, a Pima Indian from Arizona. Ira Hayes walked off Iwo Jima. He went into the White House with my dad. President Truman told him, "You're a hero."

He told reporters, "How can I feel like a hero when 250 of my buddies hit the island with me and only twenty-seven of us walked off alive?"

So you take your class at school. 250 of you spending a year together having fun, doing everything together. Then all 250 of you hit the beach, but only twenty-seven of your classmates walk off alive. That was Ira Hayes. He had images of horror in his mind. Ira Hayes died dead drunk, face down at the age of thirty-two, ten years after this picture was taken.

The next guy, going around the statue, is Franklin Sousley from Hilltop, Kentucky, a fun-lovin' hillbilly boy. His best friend, who is now 70, told me, "Yeah, you know, we took two cows up on the porch of the Hilltop General Store. Then we strung wire across the stairs so the cows couldn't get down. Then we fed them Epson salts. Those cows crapped all night."

Yes, he was a fun-lovin' hillbilly boy. Franklin died on Iwo Jima at the age of nineteen. When the telegram came to tell his mother that he was dead, it went to the Hilltop General Store. A barefoot boy ran that telegram up to his mother's farm. The neighbors could hear her scream all night and into the morning. The neighbors lived a quarter of a mile away.

The next guy, as we continue to go around the statue, is my dad, John Bradley from Antigo, Wisconsin, where I was raised. My dad lived until 1994, but he would never give interviews. When Walter Kronkite's producers or the New York Times would call, we were trained as little kids to say, "No, I'm sorry sir, my dad's not here. He is in Canada fishing. No, there is no phone there, sir. No, we don't know when he is coming back." My dad never fished or even went to Canada. Usually he was sitting right there at the table eating his Campbell's soup, but we had to tell the press that he was out fishing. He didn't want to talk to the press. You see, my dad didn't see himself as a hero. Everyone thinks these guys are heroes, 'cause they are in a photo and a monument. My dad knew better. He was a medic. John Bradley from Wisconsin was a caregiver. In Iwo Jima he probably held over 200 boys as they died, and when boys died in Iwo Jima, they writhed and screamed in pain.

When I was a little boy, my third grade teacher told me that my dad was a hero. When I went home and told my dad that, he looked at me and said, "I want you always to remember that the heroes of Iwo Jima are the guys who did not come back, DID NOT come back." So that's the story about six nice young boys.

Three died on Iwo Jima, and three came back as national heroes. Overall, 7,000 boys died on Iwo Jima in the worst battle in the history of the Marine Corps. My voice is giving out, so I will end here. Thank you for your time."

Suddenly the monument wasn't just a big old piece of metal with a flag sticking out of the top. It came to life before our eyes with the heartfelt words of a son who did indeed have a father who was a hero. Maybe not a hero in his own eyes, but a hero nonetheless.

End Note: A few days before placing the flag, John Bradley had braved enemy mortar and machine-gun fire to administer first aid to a wounded Marine and then drag him to safety. For this act of heroism he would receive the Navy Cross, an award second only to the Medal of Honor. Bradley never mentioned his feat to his family. Only after his death did Bradley's son, James, begin to piece together the facts of his father's heroism.

Halloween Isn't What It Use To Be

Halloween surely isn't what it used to be. Why, back when I was a mere lad, the mischievous sorts might take a bar of soap and scrawl squiggly lines along the lower portions of plate glass windows of downtown merchants. The more than mischievous sorts might even create a life-sized dummy, toss it in the middle of the road, then lie hidden to gauge the reactions of passing motorists. Certainly, there was mischief, but it was not of the malicious vein so prevalent today.

Life was simpler then. Halloween costumes were far less elaborate and the choices of masks available for purchase at the 10-cent store were limited. The folks that had toilet paper found better use for it than "decorating" the trees and/or yard of someone. Halloween was for kids to enjoy, by canvassing the neighborhood timidly knocking on doors to ask "Trick or Treat," dressed in whatever disguise was affordable.

In those days, treats were not always plentiful, but whatever was given out at a neighbor's front door was safe to eat. Folks did not imbed razor blades in apples or other fruits. Homemade candied apples were rare, but always appreciated. Popcorn balls and peanut brittle were consumed with little thought given to the house from which they came.

If adults had costume parties at Halloween, I didn't know about it. The Haloween role I remember adults providing was conducting PTA fund raising events at the school, where for a few cents one could see such wonders as a hairless dog (frankfurter), or while blindfolded poke a finger in a monster's brain (bowl of gelatin), or palm a ghoulish eyeball (boiled egg).

There were haunted houses, or so I heard. They were not of the staged type one might find today, rather the haunted houses of my youth were old, abandoned houses. The only ghosts found were those imagined.

Halloween surely isn't what it used to be. About six weeks ago, an email showed up on my office computer from someone in our company's Atlanta office. It was an invitation to participate in a Halloween costume contest. It really did not apply to me, because I don't work in Atlanta, and therefore could not participate. However, the fact that employees of my company were observing a pagan event, "on company time," and being rewarded for their efforts did not set well with me. I replied to the email and briefly described my opposition to the activity, asking that the receiver share my complaint with any persons other than herself who might be sponsoring the event.

As far as I'm concerned, Halloween is still for small children to enjoy. If grown persons choose to get in on the "fun" by donning costumes, they certainly have the right to do so. I find it a little ridiculous for them to do so, and I'm certain those who know of my disagreement consider me an old fuddy-duddy. Nonetheless, I maintain the workplace is no place for adults to use Halloween as the occasion to make fools of themselves. After all there are 364 other days of the year for them to do that.

Halloween surely isn't what it used to be. It used to be that we could make fun of any race, creed, or national origin, but that was before our nation developed a full case of "political correctness." Slowly, but steadily it has become unforgivable to poke fun at someone or to suggest that in some way they're different. Never mind the fact that they often choose to be different, just mind the fact they don't wish to have that difference noted. You and I are labeled racist if we do.

What our country really needs is a second Archie Bunker. They broke the mold when his TV character was created for All In The Family, and there has not been one program since with the fortitude needed to take on the established and idiotic sitcoms of present day TV. If anyone has heard any TV character poking fun at Jews, Blacks, or Polocks in recent years, clue me in, 'cause I've missed it.

There was a time when Halloween costumes were scary and meant to shock folks. Nowadays, if some someone gets shocked a lawsuit may develop. Even college boys ran into trouble this year when according to school officials and the news media, they exceeded the bounds of good taste by donning blackface. It seems that an old vaudevillian staple has met an untimely demise. Other costumes considered as "out" this year included Ku Klux Klan outfits. Though, apparently, "Osama garb" is okay. My, my, where will it end?

According to news reports, fraternity students on the campuses of Auburn University and Ole Miss face expulsion for portraying themselves in roles of Klansmen, policemen, and blacks. An editorial in the Daily Journal upheld the zero tolerance policies of both universities.

Personally, I'm wondering whatever happened to the protest movements of the sixties. I keep watching our freedom of expression slipping away, hearing hardly a whimper as our younger generation says nothing, does nothing, and apparently feels nothing. Is there a generation yet to be born that will recognize the erosion of America's basic freedoms and raise its voice in protest? I don't know, but I know Halloween surely isn't what it used to be.

Bodock Beau Bad News For Beer Drinkers

The editor's cousin Ken Gaillard passed along both of the following selections. Though, we don't drink beer at our house, we can still appreciate the humorous aspect of the anecdotes.

Five Flies

A woman walked into the kitchen to find her husband stalking around with a flyswatter.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Hunting flies," he responded.
"Oh! Killing any?" she asked.
"Yep, 3 males, 2 females," he replied

Intrigued, she asked. "How can you tell?"
"3 were on a beer can, 2 were on the phone," he responded.

Suspect Science

Sad news about Beer ... have to hope that this study is flawed, but the evidence seems irrefutable. Yesterday scientists for Health Canada suggested that, considering the results of a recent analysis that revealed the presence of female hormones in beer, men should take a concerned look at their beer consumption.

The theory is that drinking beer makes men turn into women. To test the theory, 100 men were fed 6 pints of beer each within a one-hour period.

It was then observed that 100% of the men: gained weight, talked excessively without making sense, became overly emotional, couldn't drive, failed to think rationally, argued over nothing, had to sit down while urinating, and refused to apologize when obviously wrong.

No further testing is planned.