Don’t Give Up the Ship

“Every jackass thinks he knows what war is. Especially those who’ve never been in one. We like things nice and simple, good and evil, heroes and villains. There’s plenty of both. Most of the time. They are not who we think they are”. This is one of the opening lines from “Flags of Our Fathers”, spoken by the actor playing Joe Rosenthal. I can’t say that Rosenthal ever spoke these words, but it is hard to imagine that, given what he had seen, it is no worse a paraphrase of thoughts that at times most likely consumed him.

Flags of our Fathers is a fascinating story, even more so when set against the backdrop of yard sales, cook outs and a 3 day weekend. Trivialities that have come to define the America of today. The course of my reflections on this Memorial Day were charted a few weeks ago by a friend and for the first time in many years, I have sought a deeper appreciation. There has been too much that has been awakened with me over these past several days for me to seamlessly relay here, but I would rather fail trying, then to not do so at all. Simple things, like the flag given to me at Layne’s hardware for a purchase on Saturday , have prodded me even more so. Small towns are special.

As a country we honor our fallen. Spectacular burial grounds dot our country side and many are meticulously kept. Yet from California to the New York islands from the Redwood Forest, to the gulf stream waters, one cannot visit the peak of Suribachi, the beaches of Normandy or the streets of Hue.

Yorktown and Antietam are places from the past and at one time a part of a young man’s imagination. I have seen Bunker Hill and Little Round top and have imagined riding the waves with James Lawrence on the USS Constitution. Stephen Decatur was a childhood hero.

I prefer this Land is your Land to America the Beautiful and I have sung Anchors Aweigh too many times to count.  My form of patriotism cannot be found within Sousa. Instead it is found within the pages of Bruce Catton’s Illustrated History of the Civil War, the story of the Fighting Sullivan’s and the pictures and mementoes, prominent within Grannies house. The simple removal of a cap or a pat to the heart speak more to me than the grandest of parades.

I am one of those jackasses to which Rosenthal referred. There are heroes everywhere among us. We memorialize the fallen on this day but without the survivors, where would be the inspiration for reflection? John Stephens, as gentle and decent a soul I have ever met, was a pilot at Leyte Gulf. As I think of him now, I lovingly and humorously suppose this prepared him for living with Aunt Joyce. Of course, this is not my way of dismissing his service, but instead my attempt to absorb that which undoubtably defined the man I came to respect and admire. Imagine my thrill in learning of his being a fighter pilot in the largest naval battle in history. Imagine my disappointment in his gentlemanly refusal to discuss it at all. Even then, at a time in my twenties, I came to understand, though a “jackass” I remained.

Shaara’s “The Killer Angels” resides within in me alongside Herr’s “Dispatches”. The tactics of Giap are applauded alongside those of Sherman. To read Ike’s note, regarding a personalized and unique gift (I guess it is in my DNA), I can’t help but to wonder if the Bourbon somehow contributed to the total surprise which the German offensive caught the American command off guard, a mere three says after this letter was penned. Hangovers will do that for you.  We tend to recall battles as part of whole instead of as an accumulation of the individual experiences of so many.  Pearl Harbor is not about planes and ships. It really isn’t. It is about individuals, on both sides, that were affected and are still touched today, in countless different ways. If a lazy Sunday morning can be a culprit why not Bourbon? We are only human.

 

With the exception of Tim Collins, who most likely would not recall at all, there is no one that knows how close I came to joining the Navy after my divorce. In the end, my attitude (some things have always been) kept me away. Given my lifelong love affair with all things military and appreciation for all things Navy in particular, it was a natural direction on which to chart my life’s path. I wish I had. I am glad I didn’t. Though at one time I possessed a comprehensive knowledge of the War in the Pacific, Belushi’s, “Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor”, best summarizes my retention of such today. What I have not lost though and have just recently come to fully acknowledge once again, is my appreciation and gratitude for those that have served, those that do serve and those that will one day serve.

The closest this Cliff Latta will come to war is through the diary of the first of my line. Being the last, it is more satisfying for me to note the final passage in the diary: “Today the armistice begins. 11th day, 11^thmonth + 18^thyear. The guns sure were putting them over (?) until that time.” I have no idea why entries stop past this day. I know he came home. I know this because I am here. Perhaps, he quit writing because it is the fear of losing the thoughts of loved ones that drive us. His diary wasn’t meant as such as a reminder for if he lived but, as a memory for others if he didn’t. I don’t know for sure.

I am glad I grew up in the time I did. When there wasn’t snake and snails and puppy dog tails  for this little boy, there were sports and books. For the most parts the books were mostly slanted towards the lore found among the heroics of those who served. This was a time when the likes of a Custer became a hero to a child in desperate need of such. To this day, I can still fondly recall and hum Garryowen. My opinion though, of the Golden Haired one, has completely reversed over this same span. The passing of time and a deep understanding of things dictates as much.

I have a war game, Tri Tactics, that was given to Colonel George S Patton by one of his daughters. I doubt he ever played it on his march to becoming “Old Blood and Guts’ but it is fun to think that he did at least once, if for no other reason to humor his daughter. Broadsides, a board game based on the war of 1812, was given to me as a youth, in large part because of my love for naval history.  Though mostly played alone, I had a reason to do so. Patton played his game on a world stage. Beatrice, Patton’s wife, who gave this game along with some of his medals to my father, the second in our line, wrote a note to accompany the gift. The note perished in the fire that came about due to a nineteen point Arkansas lead in the SEC tournament of 1995. Though the Cats came back and won, I think Pitino faulted Rhodes at the time and probably still does. I know I still blame Pitino for the loss of the note.

I keep my Nazi memento not as celebration of anything related but as a reminder of the jaw dropping fact that 75 million people could perish due to the actions of so few. “War is Hell” is probably best associated with Sherman, and his remarkable letter to the Mayor and Council of Atlanta, is among the most striking in American military history. The contradiction in his resolve to perform his mission and the humanity with which he approaches it, resonates in a manner that can only be viewed properly when looking backwards through time.  If you haven’t read the full thing you should. When viewed in the context of America’s military history, it is nothing short of a masterpiece. Some excerpts are fitting here today:

“You cannot qualify war in harsher terms than I will. War is cruelty, and you cannot refine it; and those who brought war into our country deserve all the curses and maledictions a people can pour out. I know I had no hand in making this war, and I know I will make more sacrifices to-day than any of you to secure peace……….  

You might as well appeal against the thunder-storm as against these terrible hardships of war. They are inevitable, and the only way the people of Atlanta can hope once more to live in peace and quiet at home, is to stop the war, which can only be done by admitting that it began in error and is perpetuated in pride………

We don’t want your negroes, or your horses, or your houses, or your lands, or anything you have, but we do want and will have a just obedience to the laws of the United States. That we will have, and, if it involves the destruction of your improvements, we cannot help it……….

 I myself have seen in Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee, and Mississippi, hundreds and thousands of women and children fleeing from your armies and desperadoes, hungry and with bleeding feet……. But these comparisons are idle. I want peace and believe it can only be reached through union and war, and I will ever conduct war with a view to perfect an early success.

But, my dear sirs, when peace does come, you may call on me for anything. Then will I share with you the last cracker and watch with you to shield your homes and families against danger from every quarter………….

Now you must go, and take with you the old and feeble, feed and nurse them, and build for them, in more quiet places, proper habitations to shield them against the weather until the mad passions of men cool down, and allow the Union and peace once more to settle over your old homes at Atlanta.

Yours in haste,

T. SHERMAN, Major-General commanding.”

I cannot imagine in any shape from or fashion the silent thoughts of Uncle Bill on the eve as he wrote these words, yet in such a tortured time to so eloquently capture the harsh contradictions of war is amazing. War is hell, indeed.

For every burning od Atlanta there is a like story of a USS Indianapolis, sinking within minutes of multiple torpedo hits. The sheer number of people lost serving as marker in my discovery of the War in the Pacific, so many years ago. Yet it is only here today that I wonder of the “lucky” ones who survived the rapid sinking only to find themselves adrift in shark infested waters. Four long days of   unimaginable horrors, drifting in the vastness of the Pacific, clinging to the hopes of somehow returning to a loved one afar. The few that survived it all, carried the memories for their reminder; Memories no doubt they could suffer without. There is no picture to celebrate these lesser known heroics. Most don’t even know of the sinking of the USS Indianapolis on its return from delivery of parts that were the makings of Little Boy, the singular cargo of the Enola Gay that would soon produce the ball of heat, light and terrific horror that would bring the war in the Pacific to a quick and necessary end. There are so many stories that no one will ever know. In some small way I hope to keep alive but a few.

I have always maintained that history is written by the winners and as such is always evolving. Imagine being at the base of Suribachi and gazing on the first flag raising, the one not captured by Rosenthal. Though the fighting for the island was far from over, the fight for the freedoms we enjoy today not secured, the short lived moment had to echo through the hearts and inspire the hopes of so many of the heroes we honor on this day.

John Henry “Jack” “Doc” Bradley was the father of James Bradley, one of the authors of Flags of Our Fathers, a book that chronicled the lives of the six men who appeared in the iconic Rosenthal photograph of the 2^nd flag raising on Iwo Jima. In 2016, seventy plus years after the picture, twenty two years after his passing, Doc Bradley was identified as not being one of the six and instead credit is now given to Harold Schultz, who passed in 1995. Three of the original six, Strank, Block and Sousley (a Kentuckian) we honor today as among those who died while serving. History evolves though it remains exactly unchanged.

There are heroes among heroes, and many are among us today. The ones from the past we should acknowledge and treasure while looking at those who now serve and appreciate that there will be a day that is set aside to honor them. It is my hope that the list of those we honor on this day in particular, will one day cease to grow.

It isn’t by accident that I write this today and I am thankful today for a lot of things. I am thankful for the rain that put me before this keyboard. I am thankful for the one who reawakened the memories and the spirt within. I am thankful for the safety and comfort of an empty street in a small town and the opportunity to, without regard, whimsically journey to a McDonalds for a sausage McMuffins for the FUPS. Such is part of the America that has been provided to us today. Though I have probably tried too hard to express my thanks today, even a jackass understands the need to at least try. It is the least I can do.