Black Sands of Hell (Part 3)

The Old Man concludes. For 4 days, the bloody fighting continued day and night. In an effort to discourage "sneak" attacks during nighttime combat, both sides kept the skies alight with flares, strobing the landscape with ghastly flashes of the reality of death.

The Fourth Division was tasked with the capture of the southern end of Iwo Jima including Mount Suribachi in order to neutralize the withering Japanese fire power. The Fifth Division's mission was to capture the two airfields to the North and West. As the Marines made their way toward their objectives, they began to get a better grasp of the Japanese style of combat. All other combatants in modern times have honored the red crosses worn by field medics in an attempt to bring some degree of civility to war. They are "off limits". The Japanese, however, saw things differently. Contrary to convention, medics were targeted first, the red crosses a bulls eye; after all, if a medic dies, many more other soldiers will die from lack of treatment.


The third veteran of the campaign that I have known is T. W. That's how he was known to friends. T.W. recounts how he was wounded in the battle for Guam, and back in action on Iwo. He recounts a story of how he and 3 other Marines were assisting a wounded comrade back to an aid station. They jumped in a shell crater to rest for a moment. While taking their "break", one of the men asked if T. W. would change sides with him. T. W. agreed since it would give both of their arms a rest from carrying the litter. When they came out of the crater, the one who had taken T. W. 's place took a bullet in the arm. When the war ended and T. W. came home, he felt a call into the Ministry and served as a pastor for most of the rest of his life. He was a gentle and humble soul who exhibited no indication of his witness to barbarity.

The taking of Mount Suribachi extracted a heavy toll in life and misery. American casualties totaled 5,372, of which 385 were killed.

On the morning of February 23, four Marines made it to the top of Suribachi. When they looked down into the extinct volcano's crater, they saw a battery of machine guns and stacks of ammunition, but not a living soul. They scrambled back down to their unit and told their commanding officer what they had seen. He immediately sent another 6 man patrol back up with a small American flag and instructions to "put this up".

At the top, these Marines found a 20 foot length of iron pipe and lashed the flag to it. Even though it was small, when word spread, cheers erupted all over the island. The ships anchored just off shore began to blow their foghorns and ring the ship's bells. The Japanese were not amused.

About two hours later, around 10:30 AM, 6 more Marines made their way to the top with a larger flag to replace the initial one. This flag-raising has served as the defining moment of pride and patriotism for 64 years and will, I believe, always provide an emotional boost to all generations.

Of these 6 flag raisers, three would be dead within a month. In the photo, Texas born Harlon Block is at the bottom of the pole inserting it into the ground. He was killed by a mortar shell on March 1st. Harlon was 21 years old. Two men behind and just barely visible are Mike Strank who also died on March 1st, and Rene Gagnon who was one of the three brought back to the States to participate in a bond drive. The second man up in the foreground is John "Doc" Bradley, a Corpsman who was another of the three who survived, and whose son, James Bradley, wrote the book "Flags of Our Fathers". After Bradley is Franklin Sousley, killed on March 21st. The last man is Ira Hayes, the third of the survivors who participated in the bond tour.

While the famous photograph would be perceived by many for years to come as a climactic event, the fight for control of Iwo Jima would continue on for many weeks. The last organized resistance ended on March 16th, nearly a full month after the invasion. The last Japanese gasp came on March 26th when 4 Japanese officers led 196 trapped men out of a cave and attempted to attack Airfield #2.

The toll in human life in the battle for Iwo Jima is astounding. 20,000 Japanese troops were killed and nearly 7000 Marines paid the supreme price for our freedom.

Admiral Chester Nimitz, in his official communication announcing the capture of Iwo Jima included a phrase that has become the point of clarity on the campaign. He said, "Uncommon valor was a common virtue".

On one of the "Lest They Be Forgotten" programs referred to in an earlier post, the ending again brought tears to my eyes. The camera moved from one of these men's face to the next, and as the camera focused on them, each gave a crisp salute. Even though they could not see me, I quietly stood from my chair and returned each with gratitude and pride. Thank you, my heroes, from the core of my being.

God Bless America

Black Sands of Hell (Part 2)

The Old Man continues. The next day, February 20, the carnage continued. Inch by inch, foot by foot, yard by yard the Marines began to gain ground getting off the beach and moving slowly toward Mount Suribachi.



The mindset of the Japanese defender was an unbroken thread reaching back hundreds of years. The code of Bushido dictated that surrender would bring great and lasting dishonor; both to the individual and his entire family for generations to come, and especially to the Emperor. Iwo Jima commander General Kuribayashi issued orders that each man was to fight to the death and must kill at least 10 invaders before he died. It's been said that Iwo Jima was Japan's Alamo.



Japanese Captain Masao Hayauchi commanded a heavy gun emplacement. When it was knocked out by fire from Sherman tanks, Captain Hayauchi clutched a demolition charge to his chest and threw himself against one of the tanks, blowing himself up but failing to stop the tank. While many have questioned this apparent 'fanaticism', it should be understood that the culture of the Samurai was diametrically opposed to our own. Americans went to war to preserve our way of life and then go home; the Japanese went to war to honor their Emperor and did not expect to go home.

The slow, methodical move to the taking of Suribachi became a job for the foot soldier. The rifle, the bayonet, and the hand grenade proved more effective than the tank or artillery. The Marines quickly developed a system for taking out pillboxes and bunkers. One man under covering fire from others would crawl up to the (hopefully) blind side of the target carrying a satchel charge or flamethrower. He would then squeeze the charge or let loose a blast of yellow flame into an air slit.

As the fighting progressed, the general mantle of misery worn by all was made even heavier by the addition of the smells. Mixing with the normal odors of cordite and TNT, of gasoline and napalm, was the stench of burning flesh and human decomposition as the 110 degree heat turned bodies into biological Jello. Bunker by bunker, pillbox by pillbox the Marines slowly made their way through this pestilence toward the mountains base. The assault on Suribachi had now begun.



As the Marines fought their way up the mountain, they could hear the Japanese talking below in the caves that were as much as six stories deep. Drums of gasoline were brought forward, emptied into the fissures, allowed to seep into the underground fortress, and ignited.
Combat engineers sealed many of the caves, blowing them up with dynamite and turning them into crypts for the hundreds of souls packed below. One of the engineers said that when he would return to the supply dump for more dynamite, he would take a moment to clean from his uniform and his face a mixture of dust, blast residue, and human flesh.

When day 3 of the battle ended, there were only about 300 Japanese left in Mount Suribachi. Most had been killed and the rest had committed suicide to avoid the "disgrace" of capture.

Suffering plays no favorites.

Part 3 will continue on Monday

Black Sands of Hell (Part 1)

The Old Man is taking a several day break from tales of the misdeeds of my childhood. I want to spend some time with you remembering and commemorating an event that occurred 64 years ago today, February 19, 1945. Even though I was only a very young child, it did occur during my lifetime. Those generations that follow me will study the event and I believe there is value in having a connection with someone who was alive at the time. Through these posts, I hope you will gain a deeper sense of our country's history, and the debt we owe to what Tom Brokaw has dubbed "The Greatest Generation". It happened on a small 8 1/2 square mile hunk of volcanic rock, roughly 1/3 the size of Manhattan just 600 miles off the coast of Japan. Shaped like a pork chop, Iwo Jima sits in an incredibly strategic position. It's capture was vital to prepare for the continued campaign against the Japanese. Not only would it neutralize the anti-aircraft fire that was costing scores of American lives, but Iwo Jima would provide a place for allied bombers to refuel so that they could continue on to bomb the Japanese mainland and bring World War II to a close.


I've know 3 people who have been to Iwo Jima; two who fought there and one who served there later after the war. Some of what you will read here has come from their first-hand accounts. Through these posts, you will have an opportunity to see, hear, and feel what these and others have experienced. I begin this project with humility and respect, and with the fervent hope that what I write will paint "word pictures" that will enable you to gain a deeper perspective on their sacrifices. So, gather now for your "briefing".


Iwo Jima means "Sulphur Island" in Japanese. Large deposits of sulphur just under the surface give rise to the name. At the south end of the island, stands Suribachi, a 556 foot "mountain", far and away the highest point on the island.

Although Iwo Jima is now a Japanese shrine and military outpost, for a number of years after the war, it was manned by American forces. My friend Stuart served there as part of the USAF in the late 1950's. He recalls how the island stunk of hot sulphur every minute of every day. Even though it was during peacetime, men kept calendars beside their bunks, crossing off with a big "X" each day as it passed. With a fairly constant air temperature of 110 degrees and no air conditioning, you wore misery like it was a second skin. When he first arrived, he went to the motor pool and requisitioned a Jeep to tour the island. The Sergeant in charge said, "See you in 10 minutes". Sure enough, he was back in 10 minutes. Stuart also recalls an incident that happened late one night. The Air Force had set up an outdoor movie to provide some degree of diversion to the men. After one of the showings, Stuart set the remains of a bag of popcorn beside his bunk. During the night, he heard rustling and when he looked down, the bag was slowly moving across the floor. He picked it up and discovered that it was being carried by a team of four cockroaches. On a darker note, because of the deplorable surroundings, the suicide rate among personnel was abnormally high. As well, many who went to Japan on liberty opted not to return; willing to risk arrest and prosecution rather than suffer further in a place even sea birds shun.


So, it was into this environment of stink, oppressive heat, and a complete absence of fresh water anywhere on the island that our Marines took a road trip; headlong and full speed into hell.


Watch any documentary about the battle of Iwo Jima and the survivors seem not to be men who faced what they faced. They are members of the crocheted afghan and heated lap robe platoon, now. They seem so frail and arthritic, some barely able to move. They're most all in their '80's hampered by the normal maladies of aging. They do, though, share many common traits; they become emotional when they remember, so they try not to, they almost universally feel some degree of survivors' guilt, and they love their country with a passion that's so sadly missing in many today. To a man, they agree that if called now by their country, they would gladly serve.



For 72 days, the Allied Forces relentlessly pounded Iwo Jima from the air and from ships setting just off the coast. The day in and day out shelling and bombing turned the already sparse island into a pockmarked lunar landscape. As a result, the 4th and 5th Marine Divisions anticipated a "cake walk" when they went ashore. As one veteran put it, "We expected a 5 day campaign....we got 50". Unbeknownst at the time, the Japanese had built a network of tunnels throughout Suribachi, so other than disturbing sleep, the 72 day bombardment had virtually no effect on the defenders. One observed, "The Marines were on Iwo Jima, the Japanese were inside of Iwo Jima". 21,ooo Japanese soldiers were ready.


Early on the morning of February 19th, after the traditional pre-invasion breakfast of steak and eggs, as the Marines huddled in the invasion LSTs and prepared for the ramp to go down, the order was given, "Buckle your chin straps and take your weapon off safety". Another of those veterans I knew and worked with for many years was Lou. Lou was in the Navy and drove one of the LSTs. I remember him telling me that he was under orders to man the 50 caliber machine gun mounted at the rear of his boat and train it on the Marines so none would refuse to go. He had direct orders to shoot should there be "slackers". As the men tumbled down the ramps and onto the beach, they became acquainted with another of Iwo Jima's features. The black volcanic sand was so loose they sank down into it, over their boots. Running was virtually impossible, so every step they slogged exposed them to greater danger. But, surprisingly, none came. For 3 hours there was calm as the concealed Japanese patiently waited for the beach to be filled with men and equipment, and then.....


The gates to hell itself opened and Death in all its arrogance strode the beach and reaped souls at will. The Japanese had spent the time leading up to the battle mapping out every square yard of the anticipated invasion area and had arranged their weapons so that no matter where you were, you were caught in a crossfire. You couldn't dig much of a foxhole because if you went down in the sand little more than a foot, you encountered hot sulphur. Protection and cover were non-existent. One Marine told of his buddy beside him raising up to see and was instantly cut in half by machine gun fire. We lost a man every 45 seconds. One vet reported, "We thought we were young and invincible, but then the shit hit the fan and we grew up quick." One recalled thinking, "Oh my God, they're real bullets!"


Men crawled over the bodies of the dead and sometimes sought cover behind them. They learned to cover their eyes, their logic being as one put it, "You could give up an arm or a leg, but not your eyes." There were very few whole bodies, just pieces. One medic was asked by a wounded Marine, "Am I gonna make it?" "No", said the medic (the soldier's leg was gone and he was bleeding out). "Then would you light me a cigarette?", replied the man. "OK". He was gone in 15 minutes. All this to a group of 18 and 19 year old "boys". At 24 you were considered an old man.


Of most poignancy to me was the account given by one of the veterans on "Lest They Be Forgotten", a PBS special. He told of how he and his twin brother were fighting side by side. After a shell exploded near them, he saw his brother's helmet. He crawled over to it and when he picked it up his head came with it. He gathered up as much of his twin as he could find and lovingly put the pieces in a poncho. Slinging the poncho over his shoulder like an obscene Santa Claus pack, he made his way back to an aid station.There a medic asked, "Whatcha got in the poncho?" "My brother" the Marine replied. "No, really?" said the medic. "Look", said the Marine as he gently unfolded the poncho. "Can I have some water so I can clean him up a little bit before I put him in the ground?" he said. Later, his commanding officer got a message to him that said, "Come on down here, you're going home. You've paid the price." "No sir", said the Marine, "He has."


As he related this horrible memory, he wept unashamedly. And as I watched in the sanctity of late night quiet in my den, so did I.




Part II will continue tomorrow

Smoke 'Em if You Got 'Em (LSMFT)

The Old Man does not smoke. That wasn't always the case. My smoking history goes back a long way. It was golf day today....my usual game emerged. I had my normal mix of goofy shots, but added a new one for me; A Rodney King (over clubbed). My good buddy, Jay, was back with us today after dodging a big bullet a couple of weeks ago. He had a heart attack. Some angioplasty and a stint and he was better than new, but its encouraging some lifestyle changes. One of these is to quit smoking. This along with some dietary tweaking and he should be good to go.

My long-time-ago-buddy-and-general-partner-in-crime and I loved Thursdays. He had an aunt who always went to the beauty shop on Thursday. At the appointed time, my bud would sneak into her room and relieve her of one pack of Luckies from the carton she always kept there. Then it was off to "the hut".

The hut was a mixed aggregation of materials we had scavenged from around our houses and the neighborhood. We were at that awkward in-between age where part of us wanted to be Daniel Boone, camping out in the wilderness, and the other part wanted to be involved with girls but we didn't quite understand how. So our "huts" were combinations of logs, pine branches, canvas tarps, leaves, and any other componentry we could manage. We talked about inviting some of the neighborhood girls into our "Casbah" but we were gutless plus they were smarter than that anyway. The hut was our refuge, our clubhouse, our hiding place....you name it. The Hut also became the "smoking lounge". Far from prying eyes, we could indulge our sinful ways. Of course, at that age, one "cig" was all we could take and we hadn't progressed to "inhale" yet. I remember later on how it felt the first time I did inhale. My ears still ring.

One particular day, we had "fired them up" and I heard my dad calling. He had stopped his car at the top of the bank from our hut, and needed me for some reason. I quickly handed off my "weed" and crawled out of the hut. I'm sure when I threw back the flap of canvas that was the door, it must have looked like Cheech & Chong rolling out of an east LA lowrider. I don't remember what Dad wanted, but it was fine. The rest of that evening, he just looked at me with the slightest vestiges of a smile. Do you think he knew?

During the years I've smoked Marlboro, Chesterfield, Pall Mall, Winston, Camels and Kools. I've smoked cigars and had a several year relationship with a pipe. I still sometimes miss the pipe.
I don't do any of that any more and haven't for 9 years. But every once in a while, I miss my all time favorites.....Lucky Strike. With a cup of coffee or after a good meal, few things can bring such contentment. Should they ever discover that they were wrong about all of the horrible health risks attributed to smoking, and that its really good for you, I'll be down at the 7-11, and back in a minute.

Oh, and the LSMFT? It was the slogan for Luckies..."Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco".

Please Tell Me It Hasn't Been Fifty Years

The Old Man has spent today hearing some songs in my head. 1959 was one of my very favorite years. I was 17, a Junior in High School, had a rock band and a steady girl friend. (For the sake of clarity, Miss Martha had not yet entered my life so I get a free pass on this one.) I could tool around Bedford in the most totally "uncool" car possible.....the family 1953 Dodge.
It was Happy Days personified. We didn't have Arnold's Drive-In, but we did have the Auto-Dine. The "Dine" was unique. It had posts like the drive-in movie with speakers and a menu. You pulled into a space and placed your order. A car-hop in a neat white jacket would bring your order out to the car. I guess you could figure the "Dine" was the Sonic of its day.

We were there.....every day, rain, shine, snow or exams. No date was complete without a trip to the "Dine". My mom said she never had to worry about where to find me; she said she would just call the Auto-Dine and if I wasn't there, I soon would be.

OK....so what's the 50 year deal? Fifty years ago today, in a frozen field in Iowa, we "children of the '50s" lost three of our idols. After a grueling tour, traveling in a school bus and nearly freezing, Buddy Holly had chartered a Beechcraft Bonanza for a trip to the next town. With Buddy were J. P. Richardson ( The Big Bopper), and Richie Valens. The Auto-Dine's jukebox played their hits repeatedly. Richie Valens sang of his lost love "Donna". Buddy Holly raved about "Peggy Sue", and The Big Bopper commiserated about "Chantilly Lace"....Oh baby you knowwww what I like"

When we heard about the crash, we met the news with stunned disbelief. There must be some mistake. Was this the "day the music died" as memorialized by Don McLean's "American Pie"? Not really. Some of the best of the early rock & roll was to follow. And that leads to an interesting connection.

One of the performers on that tour who was scheduled initially to take that plane ride was Dion Demucci. His early hits came when he recorded as Dion and the Belmonts, Bronx based guys who recorded such hits as, "I Wonder Why", "A Teenager In Love", and "Where or When". Dion decided he couldn't afford the $36.00 cost of the flight. Good call. Dion has had a long career and suffered many highs and lows, but he's still performing.
Here's my connection. In the early '60s I had the pleasure of meeting Dion when he was part of a traveling Dick Clark Caravan of Stars show that I was fortunate enough to serve (with others) as emcee. I remember him as being a gracious and humble fellow without any sign of pretension. Sadly, that's lacking in so many "stars". I continue to wish him well.

Another of the performers on that tour was the late country singer, Waylon Jennings. Waylon too, had been originally scheduled for one of the seats on the flight, but gave his seat up to either J.P Richardson or Richie Valens because they had a terrible cold. The connection? One of the members of my little band played for a bit with Waylon Jennings during the '70s.

Far from dying, the music played on. We had Roy Orbison, Elvis, Chuck Berry, and the genius of MoTown and Phil Spector's "wall of sound" with the Righteous Brothers, the Ronettes, and others. But every February 3rd, some songs play in my head and I feel a little chill.