The Illinois Adventures Begins

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Greater Peoria Honor Flight - September 23, 2014

Greater Peoria Honor Flight - September 23, 2014

Our Illinois adventures have begun!!!

Three years ago when we first dipped our toes into the infectious waters of Honor Flight, the very first group we met at the WWII Memorial was Greater Peoria Honor Flight. It couldn't have been a better introduction to this wonderful world and dozens of HF's later, it still stands out as one of the most memorable.

We made some special friends that afternoon, and ever since we've been quite eager to get up to Illinois for a visit, but despite all our traveling we've never yet made it up to there. So you can imagine then how excited we are to finally be making the trip! 

The next week is lined up and packed to the brim with veteran visits, the Greater Peoria Honor Flight fundraiser, more veteran visits, and a couple of retirement homes. Depending on how busy things get, we'll try and get a couple of short posts up here. 

Upcoming Event in Peoria Illinois...

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We are so excited to announce that we will be in Illinois July 23rd for a grand old-fashioned, fun-filled afternoon at the Wheels O' Time Museum raising $$$ for our wonderful friends at Greater Peoria Honor Flight. If you are in the Peoria area, or don't mind a little drive, you should definitely come on out. It is going to be a FABULOUS afternoon! Veterans are Free.

Exciting Announcement...

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As many of you know, last year Liberty ran the Marine Corps Marathon to raise money to bring Iwo Jima veterans back to their battlefields. Well, we have some pretty super-duper, really exciting news for you. Last year was such a success raising money for the Iwo Jima Association of America, that we have decided to make it a triple threat this year and all three of us run the Marathon together! Yes. That means, Liberty, Jubilee, and Faith!!

It is going to be another amazing experience, so if you are interested in following our journey to the MCM, you can follow us on Instagram @RunningforIwoJima. Or if you would like to participate yourself by contributing to the Iwo Jima Association of America, click the link below. 
https://www.gofundme.com/runningforiwojima2017

Cheers!
Liberty, Jubilee, and Faith

The Boy Who Drew Sunken Spanish Galleons

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A few months ago we were driving through beautiful southern California, up and down winding roads, oohing and awing over the picturesque scene. Our GPS beeped and we slowed down, looking at the mailbox numbers for our destination (we've been known to knock on the wrong door before).Then we saw it - a hand-painted signpost of the 101st Screaming Eagle crowned by the word: Airborne. No mistaking... we were at the right spot. 

When Bill Galbraith was a young boy, he once got into trouble in art class for drawing a sunken Spanish Galleon surrounded by the vast ocean, instead of the modernist depiction of the ocean-life the teacher had expected. The teacher marked up his picture, and in return he called her a nasty name.

The years went on and this imaginative young boy grew up (as all children seem to), but he didn't lose any of his creative or resourceful characteristics - though there was certainly a good dash of mischievousness in the mix. All this would soon come to play an unexpected part in his life when he found himself lying in a hospital in England, his future in question, after being seriously wounded in the leg and shoulder during the fighting around Eindhoven, Netherlands. 

Paratrooper to the core, Bill had jumped with the 101st into Normandy during the wee hours of June 6, 1944. The fighting had been awful, but he made it out in one piece and was sent back to England with his unit for more training. When September 17th rolled around, he made his second combat jump into Holland for Operation Market-Garden. Unfortunately Market-Garden did not go as planned... but Bill wasn't around long enough to find out. On the 18th, during some street fighting near Eindhoven, he was hit in the leg by shrapnel from one of the infamous 88's. Crawling around the doorway of a house, he tried to see where the shooting was coming from, hoping to put a stop to it. At that moment he was hit again, this time in the shoulder. Falling back, helpless, he hit against the door of the house. The door suddenly opened, and a pair of strong Dutch hands dragged him in to safety. 

Bill's wounds were nearly fatal for him. If it wasn't for a recent medical discovery, he would have lost his leg and been an invalid for life. Even with this blessing, however, it still took three years of intensive operations and rehabilitation treatments to fully heal his wounds. The process was long and painful, and at times no doubt seemed hopeless. But this is where the tenacious spirit of the little boy who drew sunken Spanish Galleons for school played a part.

A few months ago when we were in California for the Iwo Jima Reunion, we realized we were only a few short hours away from our dear and lovely friend, Mr. Galbraith. After calling him up with short, short notice, we stopped by for a visit. His drive-in was unmistakable with the Screaming Eagle he had painted on a post by the mailbox. It made us smile. He had told us about the wonderful eagle that protected his home, but it was something else to see it in person. His last combat jump might have been in 1944, but he was still a Paratrooper!

During our visit, he talked with us about his life over the years, the bonny Scotch/Irish war-bride he brought home to America, his magnificent paintings and drawings (it was no surprise to see countless paintings of ships sailing in fierce gales, surrounded by brilliant Screaming Eagles!), and walked us down memory lane as we poured through a scrapbook of photos and stories from WWII to his paratrooper reunions in later years. I'll tell you this, there is nothing quite like going through an old scrapbook and listening to the stories about each person, place, or event in the photos. We laughed at the funny stories, awed over the sweet stories, and got misty eyed as he showed us the pictures of his best friends who were lost. A lifetime of stories collected so neatly into one book. 

Of all his fantastic stories, one that continues to stick out is what happened while he was in the hospital. Determined not to be overcome and unwilling to live in a constant foggy state from pain-relieving drugs, this imaginative boy turned United State Paratrooper decided to focus his mental energy on learning poetry. Line by line, day by day, month by month. Replacing pain with verse. Poetry of all sorts, but specifically the works of Robert Service, "Bard of the Yukon." And it worked! Between drawing wonderful pictures and memorizing glorious poems, these mental exercises did not leave much time to dwell on the pain. In mid-1947, he was released from the hospital, and the wounds became a thing of the past. However, 73 years later, he can still recite those verses he learned, whiling the hours away with his hospital chums. Recite *perfectly* I should add. As we sat in his living room, listening to him repeat from memory such classics as Dangerous Dan McGrew, The Cremation of Sam McGee, and The Sourdough Story, we couldn't but pick our jaws off the floor at his impeccable memory for verse. 


There are so many lessons to learn from our dear friend Mr. Galbraith. His devotion to his fellow paratroopers was unquestionable. Never once was it "me" or "I." It was always, "we" or "they." "They were the brave ones." "We were like brothers." The camaraderie and loyalty between these men is surely one-of-a-kind.  

His love for his wife is another lesson for us. An Irish girl, living in Scotland, he persuaded her to come to the unknowns of America and be his wife. Married 65 years with 10 beautiful children (he beat our family by 2!), it's a beautiful story for another time. 

But I think the lesson from this story - the story of Spanish Galleons and Poetry - is that the little boy whose imagination ran away with him in art class later had the impetus to stretch his mental strength and put his mind to work, rather than take an easy way out with pain-medications. The pain went away, but the treasures he has stored in his memory have lasted for close to 75 years. How important is this mental battle! And the rewards reaped afterward are ever so wonderful.

Appomattox and Bataan

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152 years ago today, after 4 years of valiant and desperate fighting, General Robert E. Lee surrendered arms, on behalf of the South, to General U.S. Grant. Included in this surrender was our great-great-great Grandfather, John A. Ramsay, Captain of the 10th North Carolina Artillery, his brother Robert Ramsay, and future brother-in-laws Robert, Thomas, and James Beall. Each one of the Ramsays and Bealls distinguished themselves during the war, rising in the ranks and bravely leading their men. Each of them were wounded several times, but recovered to fight another day. John Ramsay, years later would happily recount the stories of his conversations with General Lee, a man he admired greatly. 

But rather than just returning home to a quiet life, John Ramsay recognized the need to help rebuild the South from the tragedies of war, so he dedicated his life to the City of Salisbury (his home-town), following his surveying and engineering interests -including in the construction of one of the town's first sewers. Later he ran for and become Mayor of Salisbury. I think it says something that he was both respected by the old Southerners as well as the new Northerners.

77 years later to the day, on April 9, 1942, our great-great Uncle Private Israel Goldberg, son of Jewish Russian immigrants, surrendered to the Imperial Japanese Army and took part in one of the most tragic events in our history, the Bataan Death March. Barely surviving the death march, he died a few months later in Camp Cabanatuan. 

It is amazing to realize that both of our relatives, though on separate sides of the family, and from completely different backgrounds, each took part in such a historical and monumental event as the two greatest surrenders in American history: Appomattox and Bataan. They both had their ideals, they were both fighting for what they believed in. And we are quite proud to be their descendants. 

The Poetry of War: Remembering America's 100th Anniversary of the Great War

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There is a certain poetry that comes out of war. Both the horrible beauty of a scene, a scene mixed with the horror of carnage and the beauty of valor, but also a clearer view and deeper understanding of such things as patriotism and folly, victory and grief, courage and cowardice. So many extremes at the same time. Poetry in actions, poetry in words.

Some of the greatest writers have received inspiration from their own war experiences: Ernest Hemingway, an ambulance driver in Italy during World War One; Leo Tolstoy, a Russian soldier who watched absolute desolation at the siege of Sevastopol during the Crimean War; and one of my favorites, but probably not the most famous, H.C. McNeile (Bulldog Drummond) a Sapper/Engineer in World War One. There are numerous others.  

I got on this train of thought after realizing that today marks the 100th anniversary of America's entrance into World War One. The Great War. The War to End All Wars. It was a great and horrific war. But it was not the war to end all wars. I believe, however, that out of this war have come some of the most desperately beautiful works of poetry and art ever written, poetry that describes the anguishing soul of a nation. 

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

Excerpt from: For the Fallen by Laurence Binyon (1914)

This is a well known one. I'd heard it many times before, but the first time it rang most true for me was when I was standing in the Polish War Cemetery in Normandy a few years ago, with a dozen or so true Englishmen; some of them veterans of WWII, a few from more recent conflicts, and then some who were just patriots that loved their country. With a husky voice or a moist eye, they were not there to remember their own, but to remember their gallant Polish Allies of World War Two, who, without a country, had fought bravely, against odds uncounted.

A line out of this touching poem, The Soldier, by Rupert Brooke, can be found on the grave of at least one Englishman in nearly every English cemetery:

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England’s, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
   A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
     Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
   And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
     In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Rupert Brooke died shortly after writing this poem, on April 23, 1915, but he left behind a deeply stirring and patriotic work of art. Replace England with the name of your country or state, and it would be a beautiful tribute for any gravestone of a fallen serviceman.

As moving as the above poems are, knowing what we know now about World War One, some of them are down right depressing. Not so much because they are gloomy, but because of the false sense of patriotism they gave, proclaiming the cause to be a just and noble one when the truth was quite the opposite. 

Under the level winter sky
I saw a thousand Christs go by. 
They sang an idle song and free
As they went up to calvary.

Careless of eye and coarse of lip,
They marched in holiest fellowship.
Gives somewhere back the thoughts of England given;
That heaven might heal the world, they gave
Their earth-born dreams to deck the grave

With souls unpurged and and steadfast breath
They supped the sacrament of death
And for each one, far off, apart, 
Seven swords have rent a woman's heart

The Marching Men, by Marjorie Pickthall,

 

Millions killed worldwide, it was in truth one of the greatest disasters and wholesale slaughters of an entire generation of young men. Young men who died for old men's wars, says "Requiem for a Soldier." We know this now, but how hard must it have been for the soldiers who returned from France, missing limbs, suffering burns from poisonous gas, or asking the age-old question, "Why them and not me?" surmounted by the even greater question, "For what cause?"

When you see millions of the mouthless dead
Across your dreams in pale battalions go,
Say not soft things as other men have said,
That you’ll remember. For you need not so.
Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they know
It is not curses heaped on each gashed head?
Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow.
Nor honour. It is easy to be dead.
Say only this, ‘They are dead.’ Then add thereto,
‘Yet many a better one has died before.’
Then, scanning all the o’ercrowded mass, should you
Perceive one face that you loved heretofore,
It is a spook. None wears the face you knew.
Great death has made all his for evermore.

Charles Hamilton Sorley

Two German soldiers, a donkey, and their gas-masks. 1917

Two German soldiers, a donkey, and their gas-masks. 1917

I don't pretend to be anything near a scholar of poetry, especially World War One poetry. But even as a layperson, I cannot help but be moved by the works of art written in times of war. Everything about war is a superlative. The hardest questions that can be asked are laid before man. Questions of right and wrong. What is the difference between murder and protecting your homeland? To sacrifice a small group of soldiers in exchange for a great victory? Is this moral? What makes the enemy wrong? Is he not fighting for the same reasons you are? What are we fighting for? These are questions that each of the poets of World War One asked. Looking back at history, we think we know the answers to them all. But do we really?

But putting aside the controversy, the truth is that some of the most inspiring poetry of devotion and love for country was written in World War One. Penned in the trenches, hospitals, and staff-offices, the words of Owen, Binyon, Brooke, and Sassoon are with us today (whether we realize it or not), in our writings, speeches, and on the graves of countless English and American servicemen as a lasting epitaph for their sacrifice. 

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

In Flanders Field by John McCrae

Ben's Brigade: Colonel Ben Skardon and the Bataan Death March

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Sometimes the saying "a once in a lifetime" opportunity can be cliche. The phrase is often used to emphasize the specialness of a certain event or meeting. But other times it can exactly describe something that will truly only happen once and never again. And this is a great gift. Two weeks ago, I was given a gift and "a once in a lifetime" experience when I marched with Colonel Ben Skardon and "Ben's Brigade" during the Bataan Memorial Death March.

Probably my favorite photo from this week. I can't describe the honor it was to march with Colonel Ben Skardon on my great-great uncle's behalf during the Bataan Memorial Death March. Truly a once in a lifetime experience.

You probably don't remember me mentioning it in my last article, because, in fact, I purposefully left it out. It was such an important part of the Bataan Weekend that I could not relegate it to a paragraph or two. Who is Col. Ben Skardon? And what is "Ben's Brigade?"

Col. Ben ("Uncle Ben" or just "Ben") is a 99-year old Bataan Death March survivor, American POW, and member of the Clemson University Alumni, who for the last 10 years has made it his mission to march 8.5 miles of the Bataan Memorial Death March in honor of the friends and servicemen lost that fateful spring of 1942, when America suffered the greatest surrender to an outside enemy in our entire history. Col. Ben was a young captain in the 92nd Infantry PA (Philippine Army), when Bataan surrendered. He survived the brutal march, three years of horrendous Japanese Pow camps, the sinking of two unmarked Japanese POW ships, and countless sicknesses and diseases contracted while in the camps, only to be liberated by the Russians in Manchuria, late 1945, weighing a grand total of 90 pounds. His story is one of determination and perseverance. At 99 years old - nearly 100, these qualities are strong as ever, demonstrated again each year as he treks the difficult 8.5 miles through sand and heat. 

And that is where Ben's Brigade comes in. In their bright Clemson orange t-shirts, hoodies, and caps, the brigade is hard to miss - even in a crowd of over 7,000 runners/marchers. On race day, as Col. Ben stepped down from the van that carried him to the opening ceremonies, he conducted the members of the brigade who had burst out singing the Clemson fight song, cheering him, and taking pictures simultaneously. I've never been into sports too much... but the camaraderie and infectious enthusiasm of the Clemson crowd was too much not to join in.

The truth is that until about a month ago, I had never heard of Ben's Brigade. I had read of Col. Ben, but it had been a few years and in the context of other research I was doing. However thanks to the wonderful world of social media and a mutual acquaintance lending a helping hand, I was introduced to this remarkable, hilarious, and all around swell group of people.

From what I understand, Ben's Brigade initially started as only a handful of people who wanted to march alongside Col. Ben as he made this "pilgrimage," but as he continued to make a return to the Bataan March each year, so did his friends; and the handful of people (made up almost entirely of members of Clemson University - past, present, and future) kept growing and took on the fabulous name of "Ben's Brigade." I don't know for sure, but I think this year there must have been close to 50 members of Ben's Brigade making the march with him. 

As I mentioned, an acquaintance from social media who heard that I was going to march contacted me about Ben's Brigade. On learning that Col. Ben was going to be at the Bataan March and participate yet again, I realized that if nothing else happened that weekend, it would be the greatest honor to walk a couple of miles with him. Imagine, marching the Bataan Memorial Death March with a Bataan Death March Survivor! It's extraordinary. 

My friend put me in contact with one of the wonderful people organizing the group, who in turn welcomed me warmly and invited me to join in their pre race dinner, despite my being a complete outsider! Well, this was all too good to be true, and honestly, looking back on the weekend, I couldn't have planned it to be more perfect. 

The evening before the race, everyone gathered for a dinner of true Mexican food (something you don't often find!) and ultimate southern hospitality (even rarer). My host graciously took me around, introducing me to the members of Ben's Brigade, and within minutes everyone seemed like old friends. When I was introduced to Col. Ben, I naturally told him about my uncle, Israel, the driving purpose behind my trip out to New Mexico. Of all the Bataan veterans I met that week, he was the only one I talked with who was held at Camp Cabanatuan during the same period of time as my uncle. His face fell when he heard the name of the camp, and he asked what month Israel died. "August 1942," I told him. "August," he repeated. "July and August had the highest death rates at Cabanatuan... we lost 100 men per day." And his eyes were moist.

That was when I realized something about him. Even at 99 years of age, after decades of remembering and sharing stories of Bataan, he is still moved by the sacrifices of our men. It was touching and beautiful to me. Col. Ben would laugh and tell jokes, always the life of the party, but he is also deeply sincere. He doesn't make this march each year for the publicity. He does it because he feels a duty and responsibility. He feels he owes it to the men who never came back.

Throughout the evening, despite Col. Ben being enormously popular, I had several opportunities to sit and chat about life, the war, his family's Cajun cooking, or the time his father, a choir boy, sang at President Jefferson Davis' funeral. The stories continued.

Listening to this American Treasure, I felt that the stories I was hearing... about Bataan, Cabanatuan, or pre-war life came as close as possible to listening to the stories my uncle would have shared, had he survived. 

Photo Credit: Staff Sgt.Ken Scar (his awesome photos can be found in pretty much every article about Col. Ben)

Each person I spoke with that evening had a different story of how he had touched his/her life, been an inspiration to them, or given a good dose of humor just when it was needed. I learned that as a newly appointed captain when the Battle of Bataan started, in a very short time his bravery had been awarded with two Silver Stars (3rd highest US military decoration) and four Bronze Stars. I can only imagine how inspired his men must have felt to have had him as a leader. No wonder then that two of his best friends nearly died trying to save his life when he became deathly ill at Cabanatuan! If only that type of leadership and courage could be bottled up! 

After the opening ceremonies on Race Day, Col. Ben and Ben's Brigade gathered at the start line waiting for all of the runners/marchers to get on their way before starting their trek. It was wonderful to watch people stop by and greet the Colonel and his entourage, old friends and first timers. About an hour after the first runner crossed the start line, Ben's Brigade heave-hoed and headed out. It was pretty terrific to watch this great orange crowd, enthusiastically led by Colonel Ben, move forward.

Photo Credit: Staff Sgt.Ken Scar (his awesome photos can be found in pretty much every article about Col. Ben). Note: A lady told me that in the 16 years she had been making the March, she had only seen flowers along the way ONE other time! A refreshing sight they were for all runners/marchers.

"You must take a picture at each mile marker to prove you actually did it!" 

The pace could have been considered slow for some people... but considering Col. Ben is nearly 100 years old, it was nothing short of absolutely impressive (I know I'll be fortunate if I'm mobile when I'm 80)!  And it's well known that slow and steady wins the race. At Mile 1, everyone paused to take a picture at the sign post, and Col. Ben gave a little speech about the necessity of taking a photo with each mile marker to prove you actually did it! Then at his command we moved forward.

Because of time constraints and the reality that I still had to complete 24 more miles, I peeled off from the Brigade after two miles. But those two miles were unforgettable. Nothing dramatic or earth-shattering happened, but it was simply the fact that here I was, marching the Bataan Memorial March with one of the men who survived the original Bataan Death March. Between chatting with members of Ben's Brigade and snatching a word or two with Col. Ben, I had to just pause mentally and take it all in. It was terrific. 

At the beginning I said this was a once in a lifetime experience. I think that's right. Everything about it. The March, Col. Ben, the connections with my uncle, the 99+ years of history it involved... I've never heard of another WWII veteran making a trek quite like this. And if you'll excuse a word that is often overused, but so true here: It was amazing. 

Mile 2 was my last mile with the wonderful members of Ben's Brigade, and Col. Ben himself. Right before heading out, I had to get a quick photo with the mile-marker, and longtime friend of Col. Ben, Steve Griffith. Friends for over 60 years, the secret? "Keeping in touch. You have to stay in touch."

So that is the story of Col. Ben and his fabulous Brigade. It's really only a tiny portion of the story. The story of an outsider who became an insider for a couple of days. It was one of the greatest honors for me to be included in such a wonderful group of people, so dedicated and honoring. The short time I had getting to know Col. Ben was truly the highlight of the week. It seemed to bring full circle years of reading and studying about Bataan and my uncle. And he was a living reminder for me, every step of the way.

When we headed out for White Sands, New Mexico, all I wanted was to meet a Bataan survivor and finish the marathon. That desire was more than granted. Not only did I meet many survivors, but I marched with one... even for only two miles. On top of that, I did complete the race -which is always a bonus. After 10 years of marching, who knows if Col. Ben will be up for it next year - at nearly 101 years old. Whether he does or does not... the legacy he has left will continue to inspire. 

Colonel Skardon crosses the finish line at mile 8.5. Photo Credit: Staff Sgt.Ken Scar (his awesome photos can be found in pretty much every article about Col. Ben). 

Running for Israel Goldberg: The Bataan Memorial Death March Marathon

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Look closely at the photo... The soldier next to the one carrying the flag is one of our Wounded Warriors, making the march with combat boots and a prosthetic leg. Absolutely inspiring! 

Bataan…Bataan. Bataan Falls! Bataan. 
Like the tramp of feet on the road of doom,
Like the bomber’s roar…like the canon’s boom.
Like the drums of death the words command
Men and women of every land
To stop! To listen! To understand!
To pulse our hearts to the weary beat. . .
Advance. . .retreat. . .advance . . .
retreat.

The weekend is well over. The race completed 26.2 miles in blistering heat, and 22 of the 26 miles were in the most impossible sand surrounded by 7,200 incredible Americans who trudged the intense course, most of them in full military gear with a 35+ pound ruck pack, all to pay honor to the brave and heroic men of Bataan. Even now as I am collecting my thoughts on this past weekend, I am overwhelmed by the incredible honor it was to endure the brief and passing discomforts of a 26 mile march/run so that the sacrifices of the men of Bataan would be an everlasting memory. 

There are so many stories to tell that it’s hard to know where to start. There is little doubt that this was the hardest physical thing I've ever done in my life. It was a 26 mile up-hill battle against sand, dust, and wind, with the necessity to pause every mile or so to dump out loads of rocks and desert gravel from my shoes, muscles cramps, blisters, back aches, 90-degree temps (which even for a Texas girl can be difficult when it's reflecting directly off the sand), a vast desert emptiness with each mile marker more a reminder of how much more there was left rather than what had been accomplished, and the ever-endless line of marchers wrapping around the mountain as far as the eye could see. We truly looked like a ragamuffin bunch. 

As I was taking everything in, I realized the potential it had for being an incredibly depressing sight, with the feeling of hopelessness the men of Bataan must have felt on their dreadful march. Of course, theirs was truly desperate. 

But on the other hand, this memorial marathon could also be seen as a deeply inspiring sight. The fortitude of man and the ability we have to push ourselves beyond expectation never ceases to amaze me. And here were thousands of Americans willingly making an extremely arduous march, not for any machismo of themselves, but for the purpose of honoring the memory of Bataan and America’s KIA.

Who can complain or resist feeling inspired when you look around to find yourself surrounded by thousands of Americans and American soldiers, burdened by enormously heavy packs, some of them in unbelievable pain from leg cramps and the heat, marching forward nonetheless without complaint, one foot in front of the other, never quitting or even considering it! If that were not enough, just wait until you pass a group of our Wounded Warriors; watch them march through impossible sand with a prosthetic leg or two, or proudly carry the American Flag with a metal arm. Nine times out of ten, you’ll see pinned to the back of their jersey, camel-back, or ruck-pack a neat little photograph or bib bearing the name of one of our brave KIAs... from WWII to the present.

There is glory in such defeat.
For every man gave the best he had,
Bearded veteran. . .beardless lad
Gave of his strength, his hope, his life
For mother, brother, friend and wife.
Unknown heroes whose fame is sung
When “Bataan” is uttered by any tongue.

What happened at Bataan on April 9, 1942 was one of the greatest tragedies in American history. Next to the surrender of General Robert E. Lee at Appomattox, 77 years before to the day, America had never turned over so many men into the hands of the enemy. Had they known the horrors that would shortly happen at the hand of the Japanese, would they have fought to the death rather than surrender?

As the minutes turned into half-hours, the half-hours turned into hours, and the hours into more desert hills, I started to see in my companions glimpses of the 75,000 Filipinos and Americans back in 1942 on their march. Of course, Sunday’s marathon doesn’t begin to compare to the Bataan Death March, but it offered the tiniest taste of what happened. You find yourself imagining their mindset, the nuances and the ticks of what would keep an American POW - worn out by months of hard battle, little food, and much sickness - what would keep that man moving, enduring, even cracking an occasional joke? Is it that fierce American quality birthed by our Forefathers? An indefatigable spirit to persevere, even carrying a falling brother, a resilience and inner strength to defy being conquered by our enemies?

Whatever the case, speaking for myself, and probably the other 7,200 marchers/runners would agree... even the very small taste we got is one we won’t be forgetting quickly. 

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More than ever, I am grateful to my great-great Uncle Israel for his sacrifice, and the sacrifice of every single one who gave his life during WWII. We will never understand fully what we were spared by the price they paid. Unlike them, at the end of the day, I got to take my shoes off, shower, eat a huge meal, drink all the water I wanted, and have a good night's sleep; while they remain in their cold, cold graves, buried somewhere at the Manila American Cemetery. 

We can't thank them in person, but we can thank the ones who are left on their behalf and in their memory.  This March was a very small way of thanking them and showing them honor where honor is certainly due. I hope my uncle, his buddies, and the men and boys of Bataan would be pleased to be so remembered.

Take those banners from wounded hands
And carry the battle to stricken lands.
Work and sacrifice, hope and give.
That glorious word must forever live,
Symbol of courage.  That splendid name
Should be stamped with blood and seared
With flame
On the heart of every woman and man,
Dare to forget it . . .if you can!

By Don Blanding April 9, 1942

"No Mama, No Papa, No Uncle Sam" Pt. 2

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BATAAN

CANNONS ROAR, WE FIGHT FOR TIME,
WE LOOK FOR SHIPS, BUT SEE NO SIGN.
THE WOUNDED BLEED, LIFE SLIPS AWAY
THESE BRAVE YOUNG MEN, ARE HERE TO STAY

 THE FLAG IS DOWN, OUR EYES HAVE TEARS,
THE GENERAL SIGNS, SILENCE HE HEARS.
WE MOVE ACROSS, THE LAND THAT FELL,
AND START OUR MARCH, OUR MARCH THROUGH HELL.

 NOW DEATH AWAITS, ALONG THE WAY,
OUR ONLY HOPE, OUR GOD WE PRAY.
THE WEAK AND SICK, WILL SOON BE STILL,
THEY FEEL A CLUB AND A BLADE OF STEEL.

 WE MUST GO ON, THERE IS NO SLEEP,
THE DEAD NOW STILL, NO MORE THEY WEEP.
WE LIVE, WE PRAY FOR THOSE THAT FELL,
NO MORE THEY PAIN, THEY’VE SEEN THEIR HELL.

 ACCEPT THEM LORD, WITH ALL YOUR LVOE,
AND PRAY FOR US, FROM FAR ABOVE.
THESE SCARS WE BARE, WILL NEVER FADE.
WE’LL NOT FORGET THE PRICE THEY PAID.

By Frank Tiscareno

The Bataan Memorial Death March is upon us. Day after tomorrow, the girls and I head down to White Sands, New Mexico where we will listen to lectures on The First Battle of the Philippines, talk with family members of the soldiers who fought there, and meet the survivors of the horrible, horrible event. This is a dream come true. And the excitement must be high because I'm beginning to lose sleep over it. In a good way. 

One of the great discoveries of the last year, in relation to my uncle, was meeting Mr. Long, one of the veterans who attends the monthly luncheon in Fort Worth for WW2 vets. I mentioned it in a post here: Connections to my Uncle Israel Goldberg. Turns out Mr. Long was Aviation Mechanic with the 19th Bombardment Group, stationed at Clark Field, Philippines, the day Pearl Harbor was bombed. Just a little ways away serving in Headquarters section of the 24th Pursuit Squadron was my great-great uncle, Israel Goldberg.  Both Israel and Mr. Long no doubt experienced the same shock of hearing the news about Pearl Harbor, followed by the awful attack on Clark Field. Our forces gave a stout defense, but to no avail, and in the end, the Philippines fell into the hands of the Japanese. Mr. Long managed to escape with some of his unit in late December, but our uncle was taken prisoner (along with 75,000 other American and Filipino defenders) and survived the Bataan Death March only to die in the Japanese POW Camp Cabantuan a few months later.

In prepping for the race, I found the above photo... All I can say is it immediately brought the tears to my eyes knowing my great-great uncle would have been in this parade had he survived. 

As I've said several times before, a life-long dream has been to meet and talk with one of the survivors of Bataan. For a while, it seemed like our friend Mr. Long would be the closest we would get to knowing and understanding what our uncle went through. That and reading books. Actually, over the years I was in contact with a few survivors' wives, but unfortunately, the veterans passed away shortly before we could meet. But after all that, it looks like this dream might finally come true as a few of the last survivors of Bataan plan on attending this memorable event. You can be sure we will have lots of stories and photos after the race. If you want to keep updated until then, you can follow us here: https://www.facebook.com/OperationMeatball.

To Read: "No Mama, No Papa, No Uncle Sam" Pt. 1

Semper Fi: San Diego, Camp Pendleton, and the Iwo Jima Reunion

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“The doctor gave me a mask and said, ‘Put this on.’ ‘Why?’ I asked, ‘Is it so I don’t spread germs?’ ‘No,’ the doctor said, ‘So they don’t know how old you are.’ I was 19 years old.” 

19 and doing a man’s job. This is what Robert Bergen, Navy Corpsman on Iwo Jima, related to us last Friday as we chatted over a dinner honoring Iwo veterans. This is one of the many remarkable things we heard last weekend at the annual Iwo Jima Association Reunion in San Diego, California, commemorating and remembering the bloodiest battle in Marine Corps history.  Last year I was able to go to the reunion in Washington, DC, but as the girls could not make it, we were all anxious to make this one together. Especially as this year was to be a joint reunion of the East and West Coast veterans. So after saving up our pennies for several months, we finally arrived in Carlsbad, California, the headquarters for the Iwo Jima reunion. 

George Vouros, USS IZARD, and Jubilee at the Iwo Jima Reunion

And what a week it was! Unforgettable. Amazing. Excellent company and conversation. There is too much to relate in one blogpost, so here are some highlights.

George Vouros, gunner on the destroyer USS Izard (DD-589), told me that shortly after Pearl Harbor was bombed he went down to the Marine Corps recruitment office with his best friend to enlist. The recruitment officer took one look at him (height 5'3"), and then at his best friend (close to 6 feet), and said, “Sorry. You’re too short. You have to at least be 5' 4.” Disappointed, but nonetheless still determined to serve his country, Mr. Vouros joined the Navy. Fast forward a couple years and his ship was just off of Iwo Jima, parallel to Mt. Suribachi. There they put up a fierce defense for the Marines on the island, very narrowly missing a few shells fired from the Japanese on Iwo. 

Little did he know at the time that his best friend (the one he had tried to enlist in the Corps with), was fighting and would be eventually killed on the same piece of volcanic ash that the USS Izard was anchored off of. The tragic irony of life.

This picture couldn’t help but evoke the lines "A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the [Camp Pendleton] saloon; The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune," from Robert Service’s poem, “The Shooting of Dan McGrew.” No doubt the jag-time tune was something on the theme of "from the halls of Montezuma..."

Ivan Hammond, 5th JASCO, shares a behind the scenes story of the flagraising on Iwo Jima. 

Mr. Robert Bergen, Navy Corpsman on Iwo Jima.

One of the really poignant moments during the event was a veterans’ panel one of the evenings. 10-12 Iwo vets recalled memories from the island, some hilarious, some serious. Mr. Bergen (mentioned above) related an incident with a patient that required immediate and intensive care. The man, a somewhat important figure, had been wearing a fur coat when he got all shot up. The fur from the coat became imbedded in his wounds, and when they opened him up, all they could see was fur and blood. It was impossible to distinguish anything. With little field experience, Bergen asked the head doctor, “What do I do?” “Irrigate!” The doctor said. Bergen had no idea how exactly to irrigate, so he took gallons and gallons of water and flushed it over the man’s body to clean the wounds. Then he patched him up and moved on. Years later he saw in the papers a notice about the ship the man with the fur coat had been on. Wondering if the man had survived, he wrote the paper to find out. Shortly after, he received a letter from the very man saying it was him, and thanking the “doctor” for saving his life. Bergen never had the heart to tell him he wasn’t a doctor, just a simple 19 year-old given a bunch of bandages, morphine, and told to “irrigate!"

During the symposium on Saturday, the sad news was announced the General Lawrence Snowden, highest ranking officer still alive who had served on Iwo, had just passed away. I had the great pleasure and honor of meeting General Snowden 2 years ago during the 70th Anniversary Reunion of Honor trip to Iwo Jima, and he left an indelible impression on not just me, but everyone who came in contact with him. Gen. Snowden throughout his entire life devoted his work to the reconciliation of Japanese and American relations, and you could hardly find a more gracious and noble man, committed to truth and honesty, who loved his country passionately. It was moving to see the response of the men who had served with him the past 30 years during these Iwo Jima Reunions. Stoic men, who hardly ever showed emotion, brought to tears at the passing of this great and revered man. America lost a great patriot, but the legacy General Snowden left will continue on forever, never to be forgotten. You can read more about his magnificent life here: http://www.tallahassee.com/story/news/2017/02/18/lt-gen-lawrence-snowden-battle-iwo-jima-survivor-dies/98098072/

Not all of the weekend was so serious. There was quite a bit of hilarity that went around; and how can there not be when you have a gathering of nonagenarian Sailors and Marines from all walks of life and backgrounds -California surfer, Boston yankee, North Carolina southerner, Nebraska westerner, Greek, Indian, and all around American mutt, all who have had more life experience than pretty much anyone else. Throw in a few walkers, canes, portable oxygen tanks (“Anyone want a shot of oxygen?” - a comment we heard more than once), and it is a constant circus.

Faith and Iwo Jima Veteran Fred Harvey

We swapped old family recipes, discussed business, laughed at the disputes between Parris Island Marines vs the Camp Pendleton "Hollywood" Marines, and heard a few humorously odd stories from growing up in America during the great depression. 

It was a full weekend, both physically and emotionally, but ever so rewarding. Sometimes folks have asked why we don't do more film interviews. Honestly, because the relationships we are trying to cultivate with these dear men is more than just their oral history. No mistaking, we have done some film interviews, and we *always* write down their stories on paper. But in building a long-lasting friendship with them, we are laying in a store of memories for the future when there are no more WWII veterans.

It's hard to imagine a time when these reunions will no longer happen. When we can no longer sit in a room full of Iwo Jima Marines, or Salerno T-Patch soldiers, or hear about the cold of Bastogne from a former tank commander or paratrooper. Our children will probably never know what it was like to know one of the "Greatest Generation," just as we will never know what it was like to chat over coffee with a veteran of "The Great War." And though it seems like they will be here forever, they are gone before you know it. Life is truly but a vapour, here one day and gone the next. Take every opportunity, not just with WW2 veterans, but with your grandparents, elderly friends, and all those beautiful old people that are so often overlooked. 

For the Love of Phyllis: A Valentine's Day Story

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Here is a sweet Valentine's Day story. It is the story of Bill and Phyllis Madden. 
* * * * * * * * * * 

In truth, theirs is the ultimate storybook romance if there ever was one. It started with the "puppy love" (as he called it) of a young high school boy, but quickly grew into a mature love and desire to marry the girl of his dreams. To him, Phyllis was as kind as she was beautiful, talented as she was popular, with a genuine heart that only thought of others. And Bill knew she was the only one he could ever love. But there was a problem, Phyllis was dating a guy named "Slats."

Now Slats would have been nice enough, except for the fact that Slats liked Phyllis and Bill liked Phyllis too. "Slats was a nice guy." Mr. Madden told me. "I liked him a lot, but this was war over the woman we both wanted to marry. I would have done almost anything to get her to marry me instead of him. That's how love works, I guess." And how could a poor young Marine compare to the guy who "had a good job, good clothes, and a nice car." Things looked hopeless for Bill until Slats joined the Navy, and Bill found his opportunity to cut in. This didn't last long, however, as he too was soon shipped off to San Diego for training. Phyllis continued to stay in touch with both the Sailor and the Marine, but it couldn't continue this way.

On invitation of her boyfriend, Slats, Phyllis, and a friend named Fern went to stay with an aunt in Los Angeles. Slats was concerned that he was being pushed out of the picture, and hoped to gain some ground by making frequent visits. Phyllis now found herself in a conundrum. Even though she had been dating Slats, she was beginning to take a real liking to this shy, young Marine. Well, the climax of this little love triangle finally arrived. In Mr. Madden's words here is what happened:

"She told me to come there on a day that Slats did not have time off, but 'the best laid plans of mice and Marines gang aft agley.' Slats got someone to take his duty place on the day I was to take Phyllis out. I had hitch hiked to LA and was going to take a cab wherever the girls wanted to go, but we ended up, all four of us, in Slats' aunt's car and headed for the Hollywood Palladium where Harry James was playing and Helen Forrest was singing. I was not too happy with the arrangement, and neither was Slats, much less Phyllis. We got to the Palladium, had some drinks, and listened to that heavenly music of James and Forrest. I quickly asked Phyllis to dance before Slats had a chance to. I was still a teenager and didn't dance very well, but I would have done anything to get her alone for a while so we could talk. Well, we danced, talked, and when the song was over, we stayed till the next one and the next one before we got back to the table with Fern and Slats. He was not happy a bit. I got one more dance during the playing and singing of "Stardust," which became our song. She decided that night that she would choose me to marry over Slats."

Reunited again! This photo of Bill and Phyllis was taken at the hospital where Bill was recuperating from wounds he received on Iwo Jima. 

Bill and Phyllis were married for 69 years, and they truly lived happily ever after. 

Tribute to a Marine

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We recently lost a great Marine, Al Pagoaga. In many ways, he personified the Marine Corps. A rough exterior, a tough persona, completely indefatigable, and yet, lurking there in the shadows behind all that, was a true heart of gold. Al lost his leg on Iwo Jima to a Japanese mortar, but you would never know it. His posture was always perfect, and at 91 years of age, his military bearing was impeccable.

Just last November he lost his wartime buddy and our dear friend Bill Madden. Having known the two of them is simply unforgettable. Bill was a sweet and tender English professor; Al was still the tough Marine, able to hold more beer than most young guys today. Put them together and they were something to be reckoned with. It's hard losing both of them within just a few months, but it's not surprising. Al saved Bill's life on Iwo, and friends like that are never far apart. Semper Fi Marine.

Youthful Nonagenarians, the Navy, and Trouble Down in Texas

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There are a few veterans who defy all aging, and you just have to ask, "Are you sure you're a WW2 vet?" Such was the case with our friend here. In truth, this picture doesn't quite do justice to his youth. He just seemed... so young.

Our introductory conversation went something like this:

Me: (somewhat ambiguously) "Are you sure you were in WWII?" 

Mr. Wright: (confidently) "I was indeed!"

Me: (testing him) "When did you join the navy?"

Mr. Wright: (laughing) "1943"

Faith: (joining the conversation) "Why you must have been 5 years old then! Are you sure that wasn't your dad?"

Mr. Wright: (emphatically) "I'm 90! I was born March 2, 1926."

The only thing Faith and I could do in response was simply to laugh, shrug our shoulders, and agree we'd have to believe him. 

Mr. Wright was a Fireman First Class (F1/c) on the USS Crittenden 

Humor put aside, we asked him why he chose the Navy. He told us, "You know, it's funny how the flip of a coin can change your life. I had a good friend who was joining up. I asked him where he was choosing to go, and he said he'd pick the Army. So I decided to join the Navy because it had lots to do with mechanical and engineering. I went to the Pacific and 6 months later I learned he'd been killed in Germany. I always remember that. It could have been me that got killed, but it was him." 

In truth -this picture doesn't quite do justice to his youth. He just seemed... so young.

After a while, the conversation turned to Texas. Naturally. It's not egotism about our state; it just seems to pop up in the regular discussions, "drawing room" chats, and pretty much all the time.

He said he had been to Texas many years ago, so we asked him how the people treated him and had it been an enjoyable stay. It is a point of pride to most Texans that, besides having the best Mexican food in the country (and that is the tried and tested truth), we are also one of the friendliest states in the U.S. Therefore we are always anxious to hear personally from the visitors to our great state.

"Weeell," Mr. Wright said in his thick midwestern Nebraska accent, "I can't say I had the best time there, nor that the folks treated me so well."

This was shocking, so we begged him to explain. 

It turned out that in the mid to late 70s his company sent him down to Texas to quell a labor strike that was creating havoc near Beaumont. The strikers were causing endless trouble, so it looked like he'd have to take up residency for a while. He ended up spending close to a year in Texas over the course of several labor strikes. As is pretty commonly understood, everything related to unions and strikes can be very nasty, so at first he ignored the wild threats to his person and went about his job as usual. "But when they started shootin' at me and puttin' bullets through my bathroom windows (very nearly hitting me), I figured it was time to move a couple of miles out of town."

Things went a little better for him after this, though regrettably (and somewhat humorously), that was his last visit to the great and friendly state of Texas. 

So that is the end of the story. Youthful nonagenarians, the Navy, and a bit of a throwback to the wild west of old Texas days. Hopefully though, someday Mr. Wright can make it back down here to experience some real Texan hospitality. 

Reliving the WWII USO Canteen Days with Roll Call Fort Worth

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Last week we headed up to Fort Worth for our monthly WWII Veterans' Luncheon. As I'm sure we've probably mentioned many times before, this luncheon is the highlight of each month for us. About 2 years ago, a dear Iwo Jima veteran friend in the Dallas/Fort Worth area connected us with Kevin Boldt, a retired Army Medic and Care Home operator who would get together each month with about 60+ WWII veterans for a special luncheon to talk about their war experiences. 

Mr. Boldt told us that initially the luncheon was just a handful of folks who would meet at their local Golden Corral. However as more and more veterans heard about it, the luncheon grew until they had to happily move to a much larger facility. By the time we made our first visit, 60+ WWII veterans were on the roster, plus nearly 100 family members and friends.

Richard Stanley, US Army, escorted by the local Civil Air Patrol.

In the last two years, it has grown enormously and now includes numerous veterans of Korea, Vietnam, the Gulf War, Iraq, and Afghanistan. In fact it has grown so much that in the last few months, after lots of work on the part of Mr. Boldt and his incredible staff, the monthly WWII Veterans Luncheon became officially incorporated and titled, "Roll Call Fort Worth." Their new mission statement: "To share through education, publication, and fraternity, constructive remembrance of Honorable actions taken by American Military veterans and service members." 

Mr. Boldt interviews one of our new veterans, 99 year-old Homer Cox. (Photo credit: Joe Schneider)

At each luncheon, Mr. Boldt takes the mic around introducing new veterans, remarking on birthdays and anniversaries (we have several well into 70+ years of wedded happiness), and then concluding with a special veteran spotlight where he interviews one of the veterans about the service for all to hear.

This last month, the veteran highlighted was with the 7th Armored Division during the Battle of the Bulge. On anniversaries, such as Pearl Harbor Day or Victory in Europe Day, the veterans share their thoughts on where they were and what was going on. It is really a step back in time to listen to them.

Two WWII veterans go over a European Theatre map. (Photo credit: Joe Schneider)

So getting back to last weekend. Honestly, each luncheon tops the last. And last week was no exception. Once again it was standing room only for a house packed with men (and women!) who have bravely served our country over the last 75 years. B-17 pilots, Navy gunners, concentration camp liberators, paratroopers, Iwo Jima Marines, former German and Japanese POWs, and pretty much anything or position you can think of. The youngest WWII vet is about 88 and the oldest 101, with a whole bunch of 90's, 92's, 95's, 97's, and a couple of 99's in between. Pretty, pretty fabulous. I can't even begin to imagine how many years they are all added together.

Two of our adorable Navy veterans. (Photo credit: Joe Schneider)

There are so many- yet so few- words to describe how meaningful and beautiful these afternoons are. In a way it feels a little like the USO Canteen days of WWII. Greeting the veterans as they arrive (en masse), chatting with them about their families, where they grew up, their military service, and keeping them stocked up on coffee and tea. 

They are not the strapping 19-year old soldiers they were when they first visited the USO Canteens in 1944, now they have a few more wrinkles, maybe a walker or cane (and that is a maybe), and perhaps can't cut quite the rug on the dance floor as they did 70+ years ago; but they still have that same twinkle in their eyes, rib-tickling humor, and infectiously genuine delight in life. 

It is always an honor to be a part of such a wonderful family as our Fort Worth friends. 

More photos from last week:

A Weekend with the Marines: The Fifth Marine Division Reunion Recap

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Just a few months late... but here is a recap from last October when San Antonio was honored to play host to the Fifth Marine Division's annual reunion. In 2015, Jubilee and I had attended the reunion held in Virginia Beach, and it was just one of our favorite experiences ever. So when they announced that 2016's reunion location was to be San Antonio, we couldn't have been more pleased. 

IMG_20161009_222753.jpg

Through different Iwo Jima reunions, we happily knew almost everyone in attendance, and those we didn't know we quickly became good friends with. That is the reality of going to these events: whatever expectations you arrive with, you leave with a brand new extended family. So when October finally came around, we were quite ecstatic. Marines of the 5th Marine Division came from all around the country - including Hawaii - and descended upon San Antonio, and for a whole weekend, it was just one grand party.

The first evening was what we would call "catch up time" as we reconnected with old friends. Faith had been invited to sing, so for quite a while she serenaded the folks with a variety of songs from Glenn Miller's Sentimental Journey to Andy Williams' Moon River and the Righteous Brothers' Unchained Melody. Every so often, a harmonica or two would chime in, adding wonderfully to the atmosphere of the singing. (Note about the harmonicas. There was a great surplus of these fabulous instruments all week. It seemed as if there was always at least one going, and almost as often a duet. Of course the theme song for the week was the Marine Corps Hymn, but it was closely followed by Swanee River and Oh Susanna!)

At the other side of the room, a couple of Marines and one Navy man were have a rousing debate that boiled down to two things: Who caused the most trouble to their superiors, and who had the best looking photo from their time in the service? Boy, it was hilarious. The discussion concluded with some more harmonica music. Naturally. 

Day 2 of the reunion was spent at one of my favorite museums in America: the National Museum of the Pacific, in Fredericksburg. If you ever get to Texas, no matter where you are, it is worth the drive to visit. A couple of years ago, they renovated the entire museum, and now it is so packed full of information, artifacts, history, military equipment, and everything WWII in the Pacific Theatre related that it will literally take you all day to go through (and that is if you start at opening hours and go to closing). But that is only one part. They have a fabulous Pacific Combat zone where they do remarkable demonstrations and have lots more military equipment, PT boats, and Living History demonstrations, so that will take you another day. Last year, I managed to talk the family into going to the museum about 5 times in 6 months. So we kinda like it (now I'll get off the soapbox and get back to the reunion).

It is pretty much the best experience in the world to walk through a museum on WWII with the veterans who were there.

A special memorial program had been planned for the Iwo Jima veterans in the courtyard of the Museum. When the bus of veterans arrived, they were greeted by an Honor Guard and various dignitaries from the Pacific War Museum. Despite a light rain, the ceremony was beautiful as they remembered the brave Marines who fought for the 5th Division. Instead of a great long description of everything, I'll let the next few pictures tell a little of the story. 

There are few things more stirring to the heart than to watch an old soldier stand at attention for the flag he fought hard to defend. Make that the last remaining veterans of a division who made a name for their entire Corps when the American flag was proudly raised on Iwo Jima, and it nearly brings on the waterworks. God bless these dear men.

Faith was asked to sing the National Anthem, and the all around favorite: I'll Be Seeing You. If the waterworks weren't on yet, the last song certainly brought them on for several of the vets. 

Two of our very hearty and happy Marines. Mr. Hammond (left) and Mr. Bell (right) are two of the driving forces in the Iwo Jima reunions. They also have million dollar smiles. 

I'm here with my good friend in front of a plaque for the ship the USS DeHaven. This ship was named after one of his relatives (and Arctic explorer) Edwin Jesse De Haven. Unfortunately the ship was sunk off of Guadalcanal only 133 days after it was commissioned. The second USS DeHaven did a little better for herself serving all the way through Vietnam. 

One of the most remarkable characters from the reunion, this guy personifies the Marine Corps: Tough, indefatigable, a bit curmudgeonly, but with a heart of gold.

Now I have to introduce you to one of my favorite ladies from the reunion. Her name is Jimmie. At 83 she is one of the most adventurous women I know. For years and years she has traveled all over the globe, and just a few months ago she was in India visiting friends. Whenever I see her, we have the most delightful chats, made even more so by her charming Louisiana accent. 

In the beginning of 1945, Ms. Jimmie was a 12 year old girl who was very proud of her big brother, Harrydale "Harry" Hyde, a United States Marine. He had lied about his age in 1943 and joined at the age of 16. Now, all she knew was that he was off fighting in some corner of the Pacific. That corner happened to be Iwo Jima, where the bitterest fighting in Marine Corps history was happening. 

Ms. Jimmie and the handsome Iwo Jima veteran Sam Prestigiacomo

One day in late April, Ms. Jimmie was alone at the house when the doorbell rang. She ran to the door and found a young Western Union boy waiting. He was there to deliver a telegram. At first he wouldn't give it to her on account of her age, but as there was no other adults and he had a pile of telegrams to deliver, he finally handed it over. When her mother arrived home, she refused to open it, knowing all to well what she would find. Harry was dead. On February 28, he had been killed on the infamous Hill 362, fighting gallantly and earning the Silver Star, the third highest decoration awarded by the United States. It was a bitter blow to the young girl. But that is not the end. Six years later, nearly to the day, on the evening of February 27, 1951, Jimmie Hyde (now Watson) gave birth to a darling little girl. Before the girl was born, Jimmie had already decided what the name was to be, regardless of the gender. The little girl was named Harry.

Faith and Mr. Coltrane

One of the highlights of the weekend was the closing banquet. The line running around was, "you sure clean up well." And they certainly did. It's a mighty fine sight to see an old Marine dressed up in the brilliant blues of the Corps. 

One of the "smashingest" looking of the group was our friend Mr. Coltrane (pictured left). We call him our "Marine Corps Teddy Bear" because he really is just one lovable teddy bear with the sweetest North Carolina accent. A few months ago when we called him on his birthday he said, "I'm 94 today, so it must mean I'm finally an old man!" Then he laughed real hard.  

Mr. Coltrane returned to Iwo Jima last year for the first time since WWII. It was a trip which he had put off for many years, but finally decided when the opportunity came that it was time. He had suffered from terrible nightmares from the battle, and he hoped this trip would bring closure. It was a great blessing to talk with him at each step of the return journey, learning about his war experiences. 

 

Another fabulous sight to see that evening was the Marines of 70 years ago talking to the Marines of today. Comparing notes and stories. It is a tradition that goes back as long as there have been fighters. In the grand old story of Beowulf, you see the battle scarred old men recount the tales of their warrior days to the youths that gathered around. 

And it wasn't just the younger Marines that wanted to hear their stories, but a whole basketball team who also happened to be stopping by the hotel for the weekend. I couldn't help smiling a mile wide to see these big, tough players listening eagerly to the P51 pilot, Jerry Yellin, as he told them his remarkable story of how he went from great bitterness and hatred of all Japanese to love and brotherhood. It is one of my favorite forgiveness stories, and I could hear him retell it over and over again. The long story short, after the war he was very angry at the Japanese. He had lost a great number of friends and didn't think he could ever get over it. Then one day his son came home and announced that he was marrying a Japanese woman. Jerry realized then and there that he had no alternative but to move on with his life and let go of his bitterness. He did and now his life is dedicated to being a goodwill ambassador of forgiveness. This last March he returned to Iwo Jima with his granddaughter who is half American and half Japanese. No doubt it was very touching for all to see. 

Jerry Yellin, P51 pilot, telling stories to a few fellows from the basketball team that was staying at our hotel. 

I could go on and on about the weekend. There are few things like military reunions. It's a gathering of men who all fought together. Maybe not in the exact same platoon or company, but they all fought together on the same small patch of land, experiencing the same things and creating a bond that you can't really find anywhere else. 

With our lovely Reunion Hosts from last year, Leilani and Monroe. They have to be one of the loveliest couples we know. They've been married for over 65 years, but they still go hand-in-hand everywhere. 

"No Mama, No Papa, No Uncle Sam"

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Yesterday's date holds a special significance to me. Obviously the inauguration of our 45th president is significant to America, but January 20 is also the birth date of my great-great-uncle Israel Goldberg who died in a POW Camp after the Bataan Death March. This year marks the 75th anniversary of Bataan, and in honor of this, I am doing something that has been a dream of mine for several years. On March 19, I will run the Memorial Bataan Death March Marathon.

It's not nearly as long as the original March (only 26 miles instead of the full 65), nor anywhere nearly as difficult, but set in the desert of New Mexico, it certainly bodes to be one of the hardest things I've ever done in my life. 26.2 miles of sand, dirt, tough hills, direct sun, and more sand. Not as "fun" as the Marine Corps Marathon this past October, but that is not the point. No doubt I will be thinking of my uncle and his brave, brave soldiers-in-arms every step of the way. 

In preparation for this Marathon, besides the physical training, I'm also pressing forward full speed to find any information I can on my uncle's military service. Unfortunately, after they recovered the bodies from the mass grave he was buried in, Israel was unable to be identified. I've done periodic research over the last few years, and even though we do not know which grave he's buried in at Manila Cemetery, there are many things still to learn. And this race has added an extra incentive to push forward full speed.

As tough as this race will be, each sore bone, achy knee, stiff back, and blistered foot will be completely worth it if it can help to continue the memory of the men of Bataan. "No Mama, no papa, no Uncle Sam," was a song they sang because they thought they had been forgotten. But they are not forgotten. And I hope the memory of their sacrifice continues on for generations.

I look forward to sharing more about this later. Until then, you can catch up on two articles I wrote previously on my uncle:

Private Israel Goldberg

Connections to my uncle Israel Goldberg

"Kelley. With an 'E'"

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John Kelley (right)

One of our veteran friends who passed away last year was a fascinating Air Force Captain we met through Honor Flight in the fall of 2014. Actually, it was Mom who first became acquainted with him, and then in the following months, through exchanged letters, we got to know him a little better. We were at the WWII Memorial greeting the flights coming in, and as his guardian had wandered off, Mom went up to chat with him for a few minutes. He introduced himself as John Kelley. "Kelley with an 'E'. Not like the way women spell it." He was 95 and adamant. He wanted to make sure it was differentiated from the more feminine version of the name. 

"You look good in the photo. I look like Hell -warmed over!!"

When she mentioned she was from San Antonio, it opened a floodgate of stories. Captain Kelley had been at Brooks Field, and became well versed with all the local hot-spots during his off time. He described later in a letter, "As I mentioned to you, I took my advanced flight training at Brooks Field in San Antonio. And received Wings following graduation from Brooks Field (December '43). At the time I was dating a student at Incarnate Word College, and having a ball. On "Open Post" at the Gunther Hotel. Mostly dancing up a storm. I never had so much fun in my life. I was a New York kid and grew up listening to Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw, Tommy Dorsey, Benny Goodman, Sinatra; I never missed a beat in the process." 

His stories continued and each seemed to outdo the last one. The months following his Honor Flight we stayed in touch through letters. In fact despite health issues making it very difficult to write, he would send quite the tome relating his experiences in the Air Force. 

"Back in 1943, I was en route to the Aleutians flying the A-24 Dive Bomber. Following the receipt of my winter flying gear, my number one friend, Scotty Alexander, and I took the planes for a test hop. That is where it all started. In the air at about 10 o'clock, Scotty dumped me and we got into a Dog Fight. We chased each other trying to get on his tail for a simulated shot. Well, we "crashed" (mid air collision). Both pilots bailed out and made it okay. I was ready to hit the ground when the parachute opened. I still shake thinking about it. I thought I had it. Scotty was found rolling his chute out of the debris. The next day we received two new planes and an 'ass' charging for committing a 'Bad Act.' It really happened in a hurry. We both were spellbound, but reacted to a real issue. We were terribly embarrassed over the act, and let it be known we were sorry to our fellow pilots. 'Gross' to say the least. We did get to combat and completed our missions. We were lucky to make it. It was exciting times."

A theme we saw in Captain Kelley was a genuine pride in having worked himself up from the ground, starting as a "New York city kid" and rising to officer status in the Air Force. 

"We grew up in Queens, New York. I'm a grad of New York University at Farmingdale, New York. Graduated 1939, took agriculture, played football, and had a ball.... I consider myself a good military man. Took orders well and served (obeyed) well. When I was a cadet, I obeyed my last order first. I got to be a cadet, not too shabby for a New York City kid. I was just plain 'with it' as a new cadet."

A highpoint in his Air Force career occured on August 8, 1945: escorting the "A" Bomb to Nagasaki. "I have a photo of my flight (9 planes) when the B-29 dropped the 'A' Bomb. The picture is a jewel and depicts the way it was. Following I got the flight (4-P47s) in close and said, 'Fellows, this is it. The war is over.' And it was... I ended the war with the 'Atom Bomb' drop on Nagasaki. I actually saw the drop on Nagasaki and personally viewed the devastation (what a mess) - total ruin.

Captain Kelley had a long and varied career in the Air Force until his retirement in 1984. Regarding his service in WWII he said, "I [had] made captain in 1944. I completed two tours of combat -one in Aleutians flying Dive Bombers (A-24s) and at the end of the war P-47s in the Pacific... I consider myself as having a charmed life. Exposed to danger but lucky my life was lightened with Aeroplanes." 

Operation Meatball 2016 Year End Review

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As we have reflected on this last year's blessings, losses, and adventures with Operation Meatball - counting up the miles, the stories, and planning for the future - we feel that it is a wonderful thing to look back on the year’s endeavors with satisfaction, even as we anticipate all that next year might hold. So, as 2016 comes to a close and our thoughts turn to the New Year, we would like to share with all of you a review of what this past year looked like for us and our efforts with Operation Meatball. 

2016 has been highlighted by intimate gatherings, breakfasts, and get-togethers instead of the larger, more commercial events. This has given us some of the most precious and meaningful interactions ever, with stories that have changed our lives.

Jubilee and one of our "Redshirts"

We started the year with our monthly “Redshirt breakfasts,” a sweet time for us to gather for breakfast at local restaurants with Honor Flight veterans from the San Antonio area, listen to them share war stories, and just catch up on life. 

Also in January, our dear friend Flo from France, his mother Jocelyne, and their friend and filmmaker Hugo Le Gourrierec stayed with us for a while to interview local WWII veterans as part of Flo’s on-going project to honor American veterans back in France. It means so much to work along side friends like Flo who share our heart and vision and dream.

At the end of January, we headed to the Dallas/Fort worth area for the monthly veterans luncheon hosted by a friend. This is a highlight every single month as we spend hours and hours chatting, singing, and hearing stories from 65+ of the sweetest veterans.

Faith with Army veteran, Tom Cannon, at our monthly luncheon in Dallas/Fort Worth. 

We have gotten to know these wonderful gentlemen and a handful of adorable ladies over the past two years, and look forward to our regular reunion with each of them. Faith gets to sing some of their favorite hits from the WWII era, and occasionally we are treated to them singing along with her! 

In February, Operation Meatball hosted The Grand Old Fashioned President’s Day Party for our San Antonio area veterans, held at our favorite location: Dick’s Classic Garage and Car Museum in San Marcos. It was an absolute blast! We had nearly 30 WWII heroes come and join us. There was lots of singing, American history quizzes, more singing, a bit of poetry, more singing, good old fashioned hot dogs and hamburgers, and of course... (drum roll) more singing. 

Our 2016 Old Fashioned Presidents' Day Party

Later that month, Liberty was our ambassador to the Iwo Jima Reunion in Washington D.C. She got to rub shoulders with about 20 of the Marine Corp’s finest - the veterans who took part in one of the bloodiest battles in Marine Corps history, but one that helped to define the war. These fellas can tell you war stories that make your hair stand on end, and inspire pride and gratitude in the coldest heart.

In March, we took a sudden and sad trip to Ohio to say goodbye to our hero and dear friend Ira Morehart. Mr. Morehart was one of the brave paratroopers who jumped into Holland, survived the cold of Bastogne, had his run-ins with General Patton, and yet remained one of the humblest guys you’d ever meet. We can't make it to every funeral, but it is very important to us to go to those we can. 

With Joe Barger shortly after he finished his 10K

With Joe Barger shortly after he finished his 10K

On April 13, we were so happy to cheer on Iwo Jima and Navy veteran Joe Barger in one of his many competitions for the Texas Senior Games. It is utterly inspiring to us to watch these nonagenarians run races like this 10k and achieve what many younger men and women won’t even try. 

Liberty in Holland with two charming Dutch veterans

The beginning of May, Liberty was sponsored to travel to Holland to assist with a filmmaking project dedicated to telling the story of the American liberators in the Netherlands. We are so proud of Willem Braaam and Ralph Peeters, the Replacements Group, and the many others committed to the effort to remember.

Also in May, Liberty started training for the 41st annual Marine Corps Marathon to raise money for the Iwo Jima Association of America to send Iwo Jima vets back to the island. And on Memorial Day, a few of us made it to Fredericksburg and the Nimitz Museum for the Memorial Day program there, and of course ran into some of our country's finest who were also in attendance. 

The Mid Atlantic Air Museum's annual WWII Weekend in Reading, PA

Virginia helping to raise money for Iwo Jima veterans

Virginia helping to raise money for Iwo Jima veterans

On June 6th (and the 73rd anniversary of D-Day) we drove to Pennsylvania for the spectacular Reading Air Show. For four days, we were up to our ears in WWII veterans, old planes, parachute jumps, 1940s fashion, WWII era Music, War stories, and fellow old souls. We were so happy to see some of our east coast veterans who are just hard to get to!  June wrapped up with us back in Dallas/Fort Worth, as every month, visiting our wonderful fellas and ladies there. 

Liberty and our adorable 10 year old sister Virginia kicked off July by going door to door selling potted flowers to tell folks about the Marine Corp Marathon and raise money for the Iwo vets.

July 4, we were so happy to help promote Dick’s Classic Car Museum which has been so generous to us in our efforts to honor WWII veterans. On the 6th, Liberty and Jubilee were guests of a friend at the Nimitz Foundation’s annual dinner in Fredericksburg with our dear Iwo Jima veteran Fred Harvey. 

4th of July with Dick's Classic Garage and Car Museum

We took some time off for our family reunion at the beginning of August, and then drove to Ohio for D-Day Conneaut. The little town is transformed and gives the 30,000 people attending rare and special opportunities to know history a little bit with rides in real Higgins crafts and a dramatic re-creation of the D-Day invasion re-enacted on Lake Erie.

Playing songs for the vets at Conneaut is a must. 

It’s all great fun, but by far the best part for us was the 200 WWII veterans who came out. Conneaut is very special to us. This was the event that helped jump-start Operation Meatball in 2014, and some of our first and dearest veteran friendships came from this darling town. And so, this year, our third attending, was also bittersweet as we had said goodbye days before to a couple of very dear friends who had initiated us into the Conneaut spirit three years ago and who had become an important part of our lives. 

In September, we attended the 36th Infantry Division Reunion in our home town (we will always have a special place in our hearts for our T-Patch soldiers!), got to welcome back one of our wonderful Honor Flights as they returned from D.C., and made a quick trip up to Dallas/Fort Worth to visit a couple of veterans we hadn't seen in a bit. Liberty shared her birthday celebration with one of our special “Squadron 95” veterans who happened to turn 96 the day after her 20th birthday. 

Highlights from Liberty's Marine Corps Marathon.

Highlights from Liberty's Marine Corps Marathon.

October was a busy month with a visit to Toccoa, Georgia for the annual Toccoa Military Weekend, then back to San Antonio for the Fifth Marine Division Reunion, more Honor Flight breakfasts (of course!), over to Houston for another highlight - the Wings Over Houston Air Show, up to Dallas/Fort Worth for the monthly luncheon, and finishing up with Liberty flying to D.C. for the Marine Corps Marathon, the culmination of her fundraising for the Iwo Jima Association of America.

Honor Flights at the WWII Memorial.

Of course, a trip to D.C. meant a mandatory day trip to the WWII Memorial greeting Honor Flights. “Coincidentally,” Houston Honor Flight arrived the same day with a whole crowd of Texans. Naturally, it was all planned that way. 

En-route home from the marathon, Liberty attended the 508th Parachute Infantry Regiment reunion held the first weekend in November in Charleston, South Carolina. Last year the reunion was held in San Antonio, so it was great to catch up with old friends and make a few more. 

Veterans Day was November 11. Of course, this is a favorite day of the year, and we were thrilled to spend it in Dallas at the elegant luncheon put on by the Daughters of WWII.

Veterans Day at the Daughter's of WWII Luncheon in Dallas

A quick breather for Thanksgiving with the family was followed by the round of Christmas parties and beautiful year-end events which bring so many veterans together to celebrate another year of life and memories.

Jubilee and Pearl Harbor Survivor Robert Tanner

Of special note was the momentous Remember Pearl Harbor luncheon in Dallas/Fort Worth which honored those fallen and recognized the tragic event which initiated America’s entrance in the war. 

Some of the most precious and tender memories from 2016 were the personal visits to the homes of veteran friends when we have had time to visit for hours on end, look through photo books, and hear myriads of stories over a cup of tea or coffee, and just interact on a more intimate level. We treasure these moments more than we can express and will nurture these memories as long as we live. 

Faith and one of our Fifth Marine Division boys. 

Having been raised on Kipling's "fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds worth of distance run," we continue to feel the urgency to connect with and keep up with these dearest of souls as they slip away from us faster and faster. As we look over 2016, we are deeply grateful for the opportunities we have had to be a part of 30 veterans’ breakfasts, 8 Dallas/Fort Worth monthly luncheons, 1 annual Operation Meatball hosted event, 5 reunions, too many funerals, countless phone calls and letters and house visits, traveling 25,000 miles (18,000 by car and 7,000 by plane).  May God grant us everything we need in 2017 to make the most of every moment.

~Liberty, Jubilee, and Faith

l-r Faith, Liberty, and Jubilee

Friends We Lost in 2016

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We lost many, many friends this year. We honor them and remember them forever. 

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas