Category Archives: Marines and those who serve

February 19, 2013 · 5:23 am

Scott speaks to Dad’s exemplification of Marine values

scottdad

My eldest brother, Scott, 15 years senior, kicked off the family remarks at my father’s memorial on Saturday. He spoke from notes rather than full text, so I’ve done the best I can to recreate them here:

My Dad was, quite simply, the finest man I’ve ever known. He was always a rock for everyone in the family, and his passing has left a void that will never be filled. The family was very fortunate that he was a major part of our lives for so long.

If I were to describe my Dad’s character, I would say that he exemplified the core values of the USMC:

Honor,which means to display the highest ethical and moral behavior; of abiding by an uncompromising code of integrity; and of respecting others. The quality of maturity, dedication, trust and dependability commit Marines to be responsible and be accountable for their actions; to fulfill their obligations; and to hold others accountable for their actions.

Courage, which entails the mental, moral and physical strength expected of all Marines. It carries them through the challenges of combat and helps them overcome fear. It is the inner strength that enables a Marine to do what is right; to adhere to a higher standard of personal conduct; and to make tough decisions under stress and pressure.

Commitment is the spirit of determination and dedication found in Marines, it leads to the highest order of discipline for individuals and units, and it inspires a driving determination to achieve a standard of excellence in every endeavor.

Dad displayed an abundance of all these qualities throughout his life.

But Dad’s most important achievement was of a more personal nature. Dad did not have a particularly happy relationship with his father, although he did not talk about it much until the latter years of his life. He made a deliberate decision to break that cycle and to be the best father he could be. Several pivotal events in his life may have influenced that decision: marrying our mother, Eileen; combat in WWII, the death of Midge, their first daughter; and his heart attack in 1962, which forced his retirement from the Marine Corps.

He was a romantic in the complete sense of the word, with a deep love for his wife and family. There were almost certainly times during WWII when he wondered if he would come home alive. If he had not, I’d be his only child, and I would not have the same brothers and sister.

After Ken Burns’ series about the Civil War aired Maj. Sullivan Ballou’s letter to his wife, I shared it with Dad. He told me that, had he been writing in the 19th century, he might have written a letter very much like this one:

July 14, 1861

My very dear Sarah:

The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days — perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write you again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more.

Our movement may be one of a few days duration and full of pleasure — and it may be one of some conflict and death to me. Not my will, but thine O God, be done.

If it is necessary that I should fall on the battlefield for my country, I am ready. I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in, the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter.

I know how strongly American Civilization now leans upon the triumph of the Government, and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing — perfectly willing — to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt.

But, my dear wife, when I know that with my own joys I lay down nearly all of yours, and replace them in this life with cares and sorrows — when, after having eaten for long years the bitter fruit of orphanage myself, I must offer it as their only sustenance to my dear little children — is it weak or dishonorable, while the banner of my forefathers floats calmly and proudly in the breeze, that my unbounded love for you, my darling wife and children, should struggle in fierce, though useless, contest with my love of country?

I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm summer night, when two thousand men are sleeping around me, many of them enjoying the last hours, perhaps, before that of death — and I, suspicious that Death is creeping behind me with his fatal dart, am communing with God, my country, and thee.

Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me to you with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly on with all these chains to the battlefield.

The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grow up to honorable manhood around us.

I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me — perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar — that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name.

Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have oftentimes been!

How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness, and struggle with all the misfortune of this world, to shield you and my children from harm. But I cannot. I must watch you from the spirit land and hover near you, while you buffet the storms with your precious little freight, and wait with sad patience till we meet to part no more.

But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night — amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours — always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.

Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again.

Sullivan

Major Ballou perished at the first battle of Bull Run.

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June 8, 2011 · 3:15 pm

What D-Day means to my Dad

Henry at the 23rd Marine’s base camp in Maui, 1945

Two weeks after my father’s recent (and, thankfully, small) stroke, we were in his internist’s office for a follow-up visit.  It was June 6, D-Day.  Dr. F. asked him, “So where were you on D-Day?”

I knew what was going through my Dad’s mind.  Which D-Day?  D-Day for my Dad was February 19, 1945, the invasion of Iwo Jima.  For most Americans, D-Day is Normandy, Saving Private Ryan, Band of Brothers.

Until Dad was in his early 80s, about the time my Mom died, he never talked about the war.  When he did begin to describe it, interrupted by long buried tears, he often began by describing the long, narrow beach at Iwo Jima where anti-aircraft guns rained fire from their unobstructed vantage points above.  I wrote notes as we sat on the couch in my parents’ home in Tacoma:

When we pulled in offshore, the light was growing.  You’re up on the deck and you see this ungodly, ghostly tower rising 600 to 700 feet in the air.  It was a volcanic spire — the goddamnedest thing I ever saw.  Scary.

On the night of D+2, he described sitting in a Japanese pillbox that had become the 23rd Marines first command post:

There was a tremendous concussion over my head. Sand came raining down.  I think a round bounced off (the pillbox).  The next night, the Japanese fired 240 mm mortars, as big as a trash can.  You’d see it go up, but you wouldn’t know where it would come down.  They dropped one about 30 yards outside the pillbox.  Afterwards there was just a crater where 15 or 16 people had been standing.  Just like that, they were gone.

The American victory at Iwo Jima was a crushing blow to the Empire of Japan.  Despite the superior numbers of the American forces — roughly 70,000 battle-hardened Marines to 22,000 Japanese — winning the island and its two strategically located airfields took more than seven weeks to win.  The topography of the island, and the preparation of the Japanese with thousands of bunkers, hidden artillery and a warren of underground tunnels, made it the Marine’s toughest challenge of the War of the Pacific.

What everyone remembers is the famous photo of the American colors being raised on Mt. Suribachi.  And Dr. F. asked about that, too.  Years ago, I asked Dad that same question:

What you saw in the picture was the second time they put up the flag.  One officer had a flag in his back pocket.  When they took the hill, they ran the flag up.  Later, they sent in a full-sized holiday flag.

As I listened to my Dad, I couldn’t imagine how he had the guts to face the enemy fire that they did on Iwo Jima.  At 28, he was just a few years older than my daughter is now.  I asked him how he did it.  Wasn’t he afraid to go ashore?  “You did it for the guy next to you,” he said.

Like many WWII vets, my Dad is always a little surprised when people thank him for his service or call him a hero.  He was twice decorated, the second time for his efforts as operations officer for the 23rd Regiment, 4th Marine Division, during the Iwo Jima campaign.  But when he thinks “heroes,” he thinks of moments like this:

The island was shaped like a pork chop – a volcanic mound with steep sides, honeycombed with caves. It overlooked the beaches we landed on — perfect visibility.  Down at the far end was another escarpment looking the other way.  We had one fine officer who took a posthumous award for scooping up men without leaders and taking the key point.  They got all shot up.

As for his own moments of fear, he tended to make light of them:

Some days later, maybe D+4, we were in reserve because we’d  lost about a third of our troops by then.  My job was to prepare to take over and I needed to know where everyone was, their weaponry, etc.  So I went down to Division HQ.  Enough of the island had been taken by then that you could move around.  I had to walk about one mile to the other end of the island.  The shooting had died off.  The map was surrounded by officers and I couldn’t see anything.  Then, the Japanese started firing high velocity rounds from their position on a cliff.  Division HQ staff bailed out and I took all of the information I needed and walked out.

But Monday, as we talked with my Dad’s physician, it saddened me to think that most people no longer see “the Colonel.”  They may see a 94 year old man with a number of chronic conditions and assume he is frail.  They may hear a gravelly voice and assume he’s crotchety.  They may take his hearing loss — “too many bombs,” he says — to mean that he is stupid when he cannot understand them. Or they may not see him at all, and just treat him as invisible.

When my father was being discharged from Sutter General two weeks ago, two staff members made the mistake of discussing Dad — three feet away — without involving him in the conversation.  He said:

I am not a defective person.  Why are you not addressing me?

He may not look like the Major that he was in 1945, much less the Colonel, but he still knows how to command.

For more first-hand reports from Marines who served at Iwo Jima, here’s a source I recently found when looking for news of Dad’s friend, Col. Shelton Scales.

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