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Suribachi |
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The sunlight sparkled on the ocean like bright diamonds as I looked over the rocky beach.
A gentle breeze blew across the island and the sky was as blue as I could’ve remembered it being. A seabird swooped past my feet, oblivious to everything happening now, everything that had happened before, and everything that would probably happen later on. Breathing in the sight, I found it hard to believe that only hours before people had been shooting at each other, blowing each other up. People killing, people dying. There was a way out here. "Sergeant Strank!" A voice woke me up and reality hit. This place was no paradise. This was a war zone, and the wretched thought of bloodshed suddenly overcame me and I wanted to get out of there as soon as humanly possible. "Sergeant Strank!" One of the six men I had chosen to climb this mountain was jogging up to me, squinting against the daylight and holding his helmet down so it wouldn’t fly off. "It’s time. We have it ready." Nodding solemnly, I tramped over the volcanic ash towards the small group of Marines I had picked from the rest of my so-called “boys.” I loved them all just as I loved my family. I had led them safely this far. How much longer would I have to guide them? As I neared, the men fell deathly silent and saluted, each of them gazing at me with yearning. With respect. Together they held an immense flag attached to a long pole. I smiled with contentment. "All right, men, here’s the deal," I began, "They said that the first flag they put up was too small to be seen, so we have to raise another so that 'every Marine on this cruddy island can see it.' Okay men, let's put 'er up!" Together Ira Hayes, Frank Sousley, Rene Gagnon, John Bradley, Harlon Block, and I took up the flagpole. It really wasn't that heavy, but the winds were high so I didn't want to take any chances. Harlon deliberately set the pole into the hard soil and we pushed it upright, making sure it wouldn't fall over. The wind suddenly intensified and blew life into the limp flag. Watching it proudly billowing, I thought with satisfaction, "Yup, that's big enough." Something stuffed in Ira’s pack caught my eye. An Indian blanket was swaying in the breeze. Something that he'd brought from his home, a Pima Indian reservation. He wasn't exactly one of us, but he was here, fighting just the same. As an American. A thought dawned on me as I remember that I myself wasn't born an American. I had been born in Czechoslovakia, but I wasn't fighting for them. I was fighting for the honor of the United States of America. Here. Now. It didn't matter where we came from, who we were, or what we did. We were here, fighting for one cause. It didn't matter that Ira was Native American and I was Czech. It didn't matter who fought alongside whom. War is not the time for grumbling about these things. We win together, we die together. America. Thirteen stripes, fifty stars. It's amazing how thirteen little colonies could’ve developed into fifty states, united into one nation. One longing for peace. One vast ray of hope. Enlightened, I turned and was rather amused to find photographer Joe Rosenthal aiming his camera right at us. "Hey Joe," I laughed, "Taken any good pictures yet?" "I think so, Mike," he replied, fiddling with his camera. "I do believe I have a real dandy one of you guys puttin' up that flag o' yours. How 'bout a group picture?" "Why not?" I jogged over to a ledge and called to the rest of my boys just down below. "Men! Get up here on the double! We're taking a group picture!" Soon Marines were crowding around the flag, still waving as boldly as ever. They greeted Joe with patriotic cheers, and squeezed tighter together so that everyone could fit. A twenty-something group of ordinary men, unified by one cause, one flag, one nation. No matter where we were before, we were destined to meet here, Mount Suribachi on the island of Iwo Jima, to fight for the glory of our nation. Sacrificing our lives to safeguard the existence of others. Man, martyrdom doesn’t get any better than this. As we stood there, still cheering patriotically, with the American flag flying majestically overhead, a familiar song rang in my ears... Oh say can you see by the dawn’s early light   Michael Strank never made it back to America. He was killed on March 1, 1945, six days after the famous flag raising on Iwo
Jima. He was one of some 26,000 Marines who gave their lives on Iwo Jima. He is buried in Arlington National Cemetery. Michael Strank was 26 years old.Official Site of the Battle of Iwo Jima © by Anita Cheng |
