DEATH OF AN EAGLE |
Written in memory of eighteen-year-old Private George Phillips from Rich Hill, Missouri, a frightened replacement who had been in the lines for two days. But boot camp had embued him with Marine Corps esprit de corps and a devotion to his comrades. When a hand grenade landed near the mouth of a cave where he had taken cover with three men, the teen-ager smothered the blast, sacrificing his life for men he hardly knew. Bill Rose Iwo Jima Legacy of Valor The Death of an Eagle Anonymous It was one of those nights that you want to lock on to. It was Christmas night; we had just finished a fantastic dinner. My wife and I retired to the family room, to enjoy the beauty of the burning logs. As I sat down with a Manhattan in hand, Dot came over and sat on my lap. I knew after three score ten that it doesn't get any better than this. The grandchildren were deep into their new toys, as they frolicked on the deep tufted rug. Please dear God don't let them knock over the tree. 12 grandchildren, 10 of them under eight. Three more in the oven. I definitely need a bigger family room. My seven kids were still sitting at the table talking over their coffee. Two of the girls were lawyers, and from what I could hear, they were expounding on the joy of their clients inheriting fortunes. Jack, my youngest boy, yelled out to me. " Hey, Dad, did anybody ever die and leave you something?" "Yes son, about fifty years ago an eagle died, and left me a fortune. "What did you do with it Dad?" I smiled, " We still have it." The kids laughed and went back to their chatter. My thoughts drifted back to the long ago, the night of my inheritance. It was like five fourth of Julys. It was night, only it wasn't night. The busting of shells and flares kept the sky a bright orange. The light reflected back down off the cloud of smoke that capsuled the island of Iwo Jima. The ground was covered with what seemed like a dense fog only it wasn't fog. Thick vapor choked the lungs as the acrid fumes of sulfa seeped out of the pits. Hell was loose. It had escaped earths bondage. Grotesque bodies lay over the landscape, some partially covered by the black sand. The scene of carnage could only be compared to the last level of Dante's inferno. I hunkered down for the night, praying, constantly praying. The roar of shells never ending, there was no room for silence. I felt an unbelievable emptiness. They were all dead, or wounded. Frenchy, Nose, Kilpatrick, the whole damn squad. I was dead; nothing left but a bag of skin. Look out Joe, coming in. Move your gear. I just joined your squad." I quickly move my pack and cartridge belt as this young kid jumps into my hole. He was a kid couldn't have been more than 18 or 140 pounds. I said to myself-this kid thinks the coach sent him off the bench to join the game. He was actually happy to be here. Eighteen-year-olds dont die. There is no squad and where the hell did you come from? "I'm a replacement, off the Funston. We have been out there circling the island for 3 days. What a show. Now they got the ship packed with wounded. Fifty of us just joined Charlie Company. You must have taken some losses." "Yea, kid, we took our share. Charlie had 250 when we came ashore. There is only about 40 of us left. Just sit real still kid and welcome to hell. Geez kid, when did you get out of Boot?" "About three month ago" He suggests that we make the hole bigger. I explain two good reasons why we can't. "One you can't dig in this sand and the other is that you will get killed before you got your shovel off your pack." That night the kid kept talking came from a turkey farm outside of Cedar City, Utah. I really wasn't listening, I was thinking of the letter in my pack. The night before, checking the odds of getting off the island, I wrote a letter to my wife and the kids. It was a letter that I prayed my wife would never read. As the kid rambled, the idea struck me to give him the letter. The steel downpour was tearing the hell out of the bodies. There was a good chance that if I went down, the letter would be destroyed. I figured I could use the kid as my mailbox. It was some sort of insurance. If he went down first I would take the letter back. I got the letter out of my pack and explained to the kid how I would appreciate it if he would carry it for me. The kid was eighteen, it never occurred to him that he was old enough to die and that he might get hit before me. As the hours pass, I kind of open up. I tell him about Dot and the kids, Andy and Megan. I flash the pictures I keep in my helmet. For a moment I'm off the island as I babble about the children. The kids all right, but he is so damn young. I can't believe there is a very good chance that he will be dead tomorrow. The kid still doesn't realize where he is. Son of a bitch, a grenade is in the hole. One of our little brown brothers has lobbed a grenade right in on us. It landed smack between us. I freeze, the kid yells "I got it", and throws himself on it. He snuggles up to that grenade like its his teddy bear. He takes the full force of it, tearing him to pieces. I wake up as they carry me aboard the Hospital ship. Later on, shortly after I get home, I get a letter from his folks. Somehow they got the letter I wrote to my wife. So I go out to the turkey farm and have a sit down with the family. It was the least I could do, but it was the hardest thing I ever did. They show me the family album; he seems to be on every page. One picture shows the kid in a Boy Scout uniform. His chest is covered with merit badges. He didnt look any older in the hole. His Dad stares at the picture " My boy was an Eagle, the highest rank you can get in scouting. Come into the living room, we want to show you what the Government gave our boy. I kind of suspected what they were about to show me. I remembered our Col. wrote up the report about what happened that night. There it was the biggest merit badge of all, the Congressional Medal of Honor. They want me to stay the night; I just can't do it. I keep hearing the kid saying, "I got it." Did I ever inherit any thing? We are all under the Eagles wings. |
BACKGROUND AND ABOVE GRAPHIC COURTESY |
