I went through my notebooks the other day, specifically the ones from my interviews with Steiny, and I found this small anecdote about the raising of the flag on Iwo Jima that didn’t make it into his book. “Not many people know that there were two flags raised on that beach; I was there for the real flag raising. Not the one for the picture.”
My grandfather would’ve turned 98 on November 4th, so it’s rather fitting that I found this. His legacy lives on through his stories, and more importantly his family who miss him dearly.
Love you Steiny <3
February 23, 1945
Iwo Jima
It has been hours since our day started, and hours still probably lay ahead. The work is unending and exhausting—I’ve been pulled in every direction, with barely enough time to turn off my torch before the next disaster struck. In fact after hours of holding it steady and never putting it down, my welding torch has blistered into my hand. It’s now an extension of my arm.
I walked the gangway between a destroyer and the Gear, with the legs of a 90-year old man. I had a few minutes reprieve—a mandated reprieve from the Captain— to grab some grub and take a breath. Just fifteen minutes, I thought as my feet landed back on the Gear's deck. I grabbed a sandwich from the Mess Crew, who had set up a make-shift kitchen on deck and handed out food and hot coffee. Most took the food and dropped to their knees right where they stood—everyone felt the strains of the day. I walked back to the guardrail of the Gear and sat up against it; looking at the island looming ahead, for the first time in hours.
To the puffs of smoke, ash and cinder that enveloped the beaches.
The work is hard and backbreaking, but I am relieved to be sitting here—on the Gear—and not on the death-trap beaches of Iwo Jima.
We arrived first to Iwo, towing a broken-down destroyer of marines. It would be hours before the fleet showed up, and we were already hard at work getting the hunk-of-shit we hauled moving. The Gear acted as their tugboat; it didn’t matter that their ship was barely afloat, the men aboard were needed. We were invading, everyone knew it. The marines surrounding me were set to storm the beaches at a moment’s command. As I moved among them, I saw the looks on their faces: the adrenaline building, the excitement of a major battle, the fear as they looked towards Iwo. I could see the gears turning in their brains; they knew death, victory or both lay ahead for each of them and they were powerless against it. That their lives were no longer their own but forfeit to a bigger cause. To freedom and all they left at home. Young boys, turned into machines of war, for the sake of love and country.
It made me angry.
I had to look away from them and concentrate on the metal and mechanical issues that were in front of me. Staring at those boys for too long only made the guilt worse. I may be the rat of the Naval fleet, but they were the pigs sent to slaughter. Before the day was done, I’d be picking up pieces of their bodies.
I blocked out the chaos and worked.
Hours later, the fleet arrived, and orders were given.
"Give 'em hell!” I heard a commander scream. “Fire every round you got. Kill every last one of those Jap scum! Make them remember this day! Make them regret ever fuckin' with America! This is what we've trained for. We are Marines!"
"HUZZAH" was the overwhelming response. Arms raised in salute, boots stomped and screams of excitement echoed. The energy was contagious, and the fear seemed to drift away. Then the chaos of movement started towards the landing crafts and over the side of the ship. I stood up from what I was doing and watched them go over the side and on to their destinies; whatever they may be. I said a silent prayer as I watched the last man leave.
The entire fleet was doing the same.
The invasion began, as I stood from afar watching the whole thing. The landing crafts docked and the marines jumped into the ocean and waded ashore. Bullets rained down on them from the waiting enemy. The tide turned red with blood, and the wind hissed with the sound of sailing bullets. Heads jerked and arms flailed as the bullets found homes. They dropped beneath the raising waters, never to stand again.
It was a massacre. The screams were almost unbearable.
The ones who survived the first onslaught raged on and fought their way to the beach. Most dropped to their bellies and crawled to the dunes and safety. A few stagnant breaths was all they could take before they were ordered to push forward and into enemy territory. Tommy-guns and heavy artillery were set up, and let lose on the enemy. Grenades, heavy rounds and fire bombs exploded on every inch of the beach, turning up the ashy landscape and covering the island in a huge haze of smoke. And once it started, there was no stopping. There was no distinguishing where the rounds were coming from and whose side was where. It was hell incarnate.
And I stood on a broken destroyer, powerless to it all. Looking out at the destruction and death around me, I doubted our victory. I doubted everything.
How can we win this? How?
Now, I sit on the Gear, waiting. For the surrender? For the victory? Hours have passed and the battle has slowed. But still we have no way of knowing which way it will go. Our radio was silenced during the invasion, so we are waiting for a sign. I choked down my sandwich—it scrapped against my throat like sandpaper and hit my stomach like a ton of bricks. I put my head between my knees and closed my eyes; I pretended I was somewhere else, anywhere away from all of this.
Then I heard a roar of voices.
And the blaring of ship horns.
My head snapped up and I jumped to my feet. Everyone darted to the other side of the Gear. I pushed my way to the front and saw it. I saw the flag. The American flag, with its red and white stripes and stars flapping in the wind, being raised on the beach of Iwo Jima. And the waiting fleet reacted with cheers and "HOORAH".
It is the sign I needed.
"We're going to win this war," I said aloud.
And it was the first time I knew it.