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Catching my breath...
Oct. 15th, 2006 12:25 amWhenever I hear of some book or other being made into a movie, if I find the subject intriguing, I rush out to read the book before the movie spoils it all for me. Such was the case for a modest tome titled Flags of Our Fathers soon to be released as a movie directed by Clint Eastwood.
I don't remember the last book I read that had me crying like a baby at times, and turning my guts into jelly at others. Flags of Our Fathers, did the job. Then again, I have certain "qualifications" for my reactions.
In several fundamental ways, I am a product of Marine boot camp. I can put my finger on the difference between my attitudes toward "life, the universe, and everything" before I joined the Green Machine, and the attitudes I came out with. Some might call me an "ex-Marine," though there are those who will insist there is no such animal: once a Marine, always a Marine. I'll not quibble. I do know that my life was changed forever after going through boot camp. I believe that change was positive.
The subject of the book concerns the six young men who were immortalized in a photograph taken while they raised a flag on a sulfurous island not far from the Japanese mainland near the end of the Second World War: Iwo Jima. My first acquaintance with that image occurred as a young stamp collector, and continued when I was in the Marines with the sculpture at Arlington Cemetary. Somewhere, I still have a partial sheet of Iwo Jima stamps, the first stamps issued by the U.S. Post Office to feature living persons (somewhere along the line, the USPS decided that only dead people rated an appearance on a stamp).
Among other things, the book talks about how that photo affected the lives of the survivors of that hell-ground photo, who were feted as "heros" when the image surfaced. It also gives us a glimpse of the roots that nurtured all six men who found themselves putting up an American flag on that stinking piece of rock. But most of all, it provides a nitty-gritty idea of what it was like for Marines to wade onto that island.
While reading the book, I was dogged by the nagging question: would I have had the guts to step out onto that island? I like to think I would have. But then the strange question arises: would I have had the guts to be a survivor of that hell-on-earth? Aye, there's the rub! But I digress...
Among the various and sundry other aspects of transforming a civilian into a someone willing to place his or her frail body between home and war's desolation, the Marines take particular care in nurturing its recruits in the traditions and the history of the Corps. I believe this is a good thing, for if I were to be assigned the task of holding some chunk of real estate, I'd want people with all the motivation in the world on my flanks.
I recall how, between sessions of policing our squadbay and squaring away our personal gear, the drill instructors took pains to make us aware that we were part of something bigger than any of us: the Corps. It's a culture - that esprit de corps - that endeavors to make each recruit feel invincible and responsible, to make supporting your 'buddies' as natural as drawing breath. And don't belittle that impulse: an awful lot of guys have bought the farm falling on grenades to save their friends.
And yet, as I read this book - particularly about the battle of Iwo Jima after the flag-raising - I would find my breath had stopped. I never realized that no other military force in history had ever continued to advance in the face of such high casualties. Nor that any other force had defended with the intensity of the Japanese army.
I imagine it is natural for young men to imagine what it would be like to have "won" a high-ranking medal for bravery: say, a Navy Cross or an Medal of Honor. I certainly did, back in my youth. Those of us who were essentially REMFs can only think of the plaudits after the fact (in the way that wannabe authors dream of book tours and segments on Good Morning America). However, after reading this book, I realize the price would have been just too high.
The book connected with me, on a primal, gut level. It changed me, and for that, I'm grateful.
Cheers...
I don't remember the last book I read that had me crying like a baby at times, and turning my guts into jelly at others. Flags of Our Fathers, did the job. Then again, I have certain "qualifications" for my reactions.
In several fundamental ways, I am a product of Marine boot camp. I can put my finger on the difference between my attitudes toward "life, the universe, and everything" before I joined the Green Machine, and the attitudes I came out with. Some might call me an "ex-Marine," though there are those who will insist there is no such animal: once a Marine, always a Marine. I'll not quibble. I do know that my life was changed forever after going through boot camp. I believe that change was positive.
The subject of the book concerns the six young men who were immortalized in a photograph taken while they raised a flag on a sulfurous island not far from the Japanese mainland near the end of the Second World War: Iwo Jima. My first acquaintance with that image occurred as a young stamp collector, and continued when I was in the Marines with the sculpture at Arlington Cemetary. Somewhere, I still have a partial sheet of Iwo Jima stamps, the first stamps issued by the U.S. Post Office to feature living persons (somewhere along the line, the USPS decided that only dead people rated an appearance on a stamp).
Among other things, the book talks about how that photo affected the lives of the survivors of that hell-ground photo, who were feted as "heros" when the image surfaced. It also gives us a glimpse of the roots that nurtured all six men who found themselves putting up an American flag on that stinking piece of rock. But most of all, it provides a nitty-gritty idea of what it was like for Marines to wade onto that island.
While reading the book, I was dogged by the nagging question: would I have had the guts to step out onto that island? I like to think I would have. But then the strange question arises: would I have had the guts to be a survivor of that hell-on-earth? Aye, there's the rub! But I digress...
Among the various and sundry other aspects of transforming a civilian into a someone willing to place his or her frail body between home and war's desolation, the Marines take particular care in nurturing its recruits in the traditions and the history of the Corps. I believe this is a good thing, for if I were to be assigned the task of holding some chunk of real estate, I'd want people with all the motivation in the world on my flanks.
I recall how, between sessions of policing our squadbay and squaring away our personal gear, the drill instructors took pains to make us aware that we were part of something bigger than any of us: the Corps. It's a culture - that esprit de corps - that endeavors to make each recruit feel invincible and responsible, to make supporting your 'buddies' as natural as drawing breath. And don't belittle that impulse: an awful lot of guys have bought the farm falling on grenades to save their friends.
And yet, as I read this book - particularly about the battle of Iwo Jima after the flag-raising - I would find my breath had stopped. I never realized that no other military force in history had ever continued to advance in the face of such high casualties. Nor that any other force had defended with the intensity of the Japanese army.
I imagine it is natural for young men to imagine what it would be like to have "won" a high-ranking medal for bravery: say, a Navy Cross or an Medal of Honor. I certainly did, back in my youth. Those of us who were essentially REMFs can only think of the plaudits after the fact (in the way that wannabe authors dream of book tours and segments on Good Morning America). However, after reading this book, I realize the price would have been just too high.
The book connected with me, on a primal, gut level. It changed me, and for that, I'm grateful.
Cheers...
