76 YEARS AGO: Iwo Jima

Today commemorates the raising of the American flag on Iwo Jima, February 23, 1945. This photo became one of the most iconic photographs of the 20th century.

Raising of the flag on Iwo Jima, February 23, 1945

Most folks think this flag was raised by six marines; not true. It was raised by five marines and a Navy corpsman, John Bradley. His son, James Bradley, wrote a book, “Flags of Our Fathers,” that highlighted the lives of all six of these men (including one from my state, Texas; he’s in the front planting the pole in the ground). The book was also made into a motion picture.

This flag raising symbolized the taking of Mount Suribachi on the island, not the conquest of Iwo Jima. There was much fighting to follow. In fact, only three of these six men survived this battle. The next battle, Okinawa, was the last battle of all of WWII.

May God bless all these men and the sacrifices they made on our behalf. 76 years from now, may we STILL remember them and what they stood for.

Difficult to Believe

It’s obvious I don’t post my thoughts that often, but this whole storming of the Capitol in Washington this past Wednesday (January 6th) really shook me.

As a Navy petty officer back in the very late 60’s, I had the honor of spending nine months in a combat zone working high-security intel with a group of marines that were way undermanned and exhausted. To the man, they were willing to give their lives, if necessary, for a democracy they believed in.

Regardless of political affiliation, to see that democracy defiled and defaced by our own people was a painful thing to watch.

Wouldn’t this be an excellent time especially to honor our men and women in uniform who continue to guard our democracy all over the world at this very moment? Shouldn’t we strive to fix it for them as much as anyone else? They certainly deserve that much.

(In the photo, that’s me on the left with my eyes mostly closed, along with proof that I once had hair. The guy in the middle, Tom Hester, became my brother-in-law. I don’t remember the name of the lieutenant.)

I Corps, Third Marine Amphibious Force, DaNang, Vietnam, 1969

Memorial Day Tribute: In Flanders Fields (Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae)

Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae was a battlefield surgeon during World War I; he served with Canadian forces in Belgium. When a close friend was killed in action, Colonel McCrae chose to conduct the burial service himself.

He noticed that wild poppies grew on the graves of fallen soldiers there in a place called Flanders, and later learned that wild poppies grow abundantly in that part of the world in soil that has been dug up and turned. He later sat down and wrote this poem. But, as the story goes, he was not happy with it, so he crumpled it up and threw it away. One of his medical staff saved it and later asked Colonel McCrae to submit it for publication. The rest, as they say, is history.

The John McCrae Memorial Museum now sits on the site where McCrae wrote this classic poem.

It’s a worthy tribute to the fallen from all wars. 

In Flanders Fields

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.

Don’t Forget the Simple Things

Although the “Shelter-in-Place” directive with its double hand-scrubbing and social distancing has created a lot of grief and frustration, it has also caused folks to come back to an appreciation for simple values and activities they couldn’t or wouldn’t make time for before, or that they somehow thought were always there, no matter what. In that respect, it’s been a wake-up call that can do some good for the soul.

Am I right? Here’s a quick story about just this sort of appreciation.

Eddie Rickenbacker, WWI combat flying ace, Medal of Honor recipient and long-time head of Eastern Airlines, was sent by Franklin Roosevelt on a mission to the Pacific during WWII. At that time, Rickenbacker was in his 50s.

When their plane went down, Rickenbacker and his crew were adrift on the ocean in rubber lifeboats for 24 days.

He was later asked what he had learned from that experience.

Rickenbacker replied, “The greatest lesson I learned was that, if you have all the fresh water you want to drink and all the food you want to eat, you ought never to complain about anything.”

The Flag that Found Me (Dr. James Sutton)

My proudest moment to be an American came when I wasn’t even in America at the time.

It was 1969; I had taken a small group of sailors to a camp in East DaNang, South Vietnam. This was in I Corps; the enemy was close … and active. We were there to assist the First Radio Battalion of the Third Marine Amphibious Force. They were way undermanned and had worked themselves to the point of exhaustion.

We knew these guys; as sailors and marines we trained together in Florida as part of the Naval Security Group. The men I worked with there (one of them became my brother-in-law), and what we accomplished, saved many lives, and are among my most meaningful experiences … ever.

When it was time for our group to cycle back to Japan and let a group of sailors from the Philippines relieve us for a bit, I discovered that the marines did not have tickets to get us OUT of Vietnam, only IN. We had to wait for whatever hop we could catch. We hung around the airport long enough and looked miserable enough (which wasn’t difficult) until we finally caught a flight out on a medivac, a hospital plane full of wounded marines.

We landed for transfer in Okinawa. I checked on flights to Japan for myself and my men, and was told there was an American aircraft headed that way, but it was ready to take off. They radioed the plane and asked them to wait for us, then they shoved us out the door into the general direction of where the planes were and simply said, “Hurry!”

In the dark all airplanes look pretty much alike. We were running down the tarmac, toting our sea-bags, trying to find one aircraft among what looked like hundreds. We were half-lost and exhausted.

It was then that Something told me to look up. A spotlight, or some kind of light, was shining squarely on Old Glory, an American flag painted high on the tail of the craft that was our ride out of Okinawa.

It’s still difficult to put into it words, but the sight of that flag brought an immediate sense of calmness; I KNEW everything was going to be okay. We loaded quickly through the plane’s tail ramp. I made sure my men were taken care of, then buckled myself into a seat … and slept like a baby.

To this day, I cannot explain that light, other than to say it was a gift of Providence in a moment I needed it most, but I NEVER see our flag flying but that it doesn’t remind me of that night so long ago and of a small flag that seemed to find me.

God Bless America and all of our men and women in uniform who wear that same flag, OUR flag, on their shoulder. For them, may it always be a beacon of comfort and reassurance.###

THE HOMETOWN BATTLEFIELD (Video & Song)

A Navy friend of mine sent me this song and video with the encouragement that it be passed on and shared. In just days it drew over a million hits.

Canadian J P Cormier has done an excellent tribute here to returning veterans that struggle with PTSD. There’s nothing else I can add to his message, other than ask you to please take a moment out of your busy day to experience it fully. –JDS

A Few Thoughts on Courage and Patriotism (Dr. James Sutton)

Since John McCain passed away last Saturday, I’ve been wanting to share my thoughts of my respect for him, but really couldn’t put them into words. I’m still struggling with it, I suppose.

Especially as a Vietnam vet, I was always moved by what he and the other POWs went through during their captivity in Hanoi for all those years. But it took on new meaning to me when Bobbie and I became friends with retired Navy Captain Jerry Coffee. We met as members of the National Speakers Association.

Jerry was a POW in the Hanoi Hilton for seven years and nine days. His book on that experience (“Beyond Survival,” published by Putnam), and what he learned from it, was a real eye-opener. Jerry has shared his story from the platform, but, more than that, his message always became personal to everyone in the audience. As he shared many, many times, “We all face adversity at some point; how we handle it matters.”

While in prison in North Vietnam, the POWs followed the chain of command. This was strongly against prison rules, so the senior officers had to be discrete while setting policy and issuing orders. Because of their seniority, these men were set aside for additional punishment.

One of them was Brigadier General Robbie Risner, the most senior POW at the Hanoi Hilton. He was a celebrated hero and top ace in Korea; he had been featured on the cover of Time magazine. That bought him a lot of pain and misery in prison, including ten months of solitary confinement in complete and total darkness. (He later said he held on to his sanity by exercising.)

The highest ranking naval officer was Vice Admiral James Stockdale. He and his wife, Sybil, wrote a book about their experiences at the time, “In Love and War.” It was made into a movie; James Woods played Stockdale.

Stockdale set a model for resistance. On one occasion, when told he would be interviewed by a film crew the next morning, he beat his face with a wooden stool until he was so disfigured he could not be used for that propaganda film. In defiance of the severe and sometimes fatal torture POWs were receiving, he inflicted a near-mortal wound on himself. He was revived by the enemy before he bled to death, but he had made his point. Things weren’t exactly easy for POWs after that, but the treatment of prisoners did improve. Stockdale ultimately was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor by President Gerald Ford. Fitting.

I realize that, in all his years of service, McCain’s five and a half years in captivity were but a small part of what he stood for and accomplished. But I do believe experiences like those five and a half years can serve to help us discern who we are and guide us to a purpose that can live long after we are gone.

On Thoughts of Veterans Day: Eleanor’s Prayer (Dr. James Sutton)

Here’s a beautiful story about a woman in uniform during World War II … the uniform of the American Red Cross. First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt served her country well, always mindful of the sacrifices being made.

…………………………

Eleanor Roosevelt wasn’t only the most active wartime First Lady, her efforts to improve quality of life, ease human suffering, and promote a more substantial role for women in America went on for many years after her husband, President Franklin Roosevelt, died while in office in 1945.

As First Lady during World War II, Eleanor performed tireless service for her country through the American Red Cross. All of her sons (John, FDR Jr., Elliott and James) served their country, also. (Two were in the Navy, one in the Army Air Corps, and one in the Marines.)

The Pacific TOUR

At one point in the war, the Red Cross wanted to send Eleanor on a tour of the Pacific Theater, so she could meet and encourage the troops, especially those that were wounded and were confined to hospitals and hospital ships.

You can imagine Fleet Admiral Chester Nimitz’ hesitation about such a gesture. In addition to the logistics of moving the president’s wife to locations in the Pacific, the war was still going on in many of those places. What if she were to be injured or killed, or what if she were to be captured by the enemy? The admiral’s concerns were painfully real.

But, of course, who can say, “No!” to the American Red Cross and the White House? Eleanor Roosevelt did complete the tour. She kept up a schedule that would have exhausted a younger person, and, in doing so, brought an uplifting message of support and hope from the folks back home.

Admiral Nimitz praised her efforts and shared with her and President Roosevelt the positive impact of her visits with the troops. In the end, he heartily agreed her tour of the Pacific was a huge success. All who worked at the mammoth task of getting her where she needed to go were impressed with her energy, grace, and cooperative spirit throughout the entire tour.

Eleanor’s Prayer

There a low granite wall at Pearl Harbor that carries the text of a prayer Eleanor Roosevelt wrote during the war. It was said that she carried this text in her wallet all through the war. It says much about the character of this great and gracious woman:

Dear Lord, lest I continue my complacent way, help me to remember somewhere out there a man died for me today. As long as there is war, I then must ask and answer: “AM I WORTH DYING FOR?”

Psychologist Dr. James Sutton is the founder and host of The Changing Behavior Network. He is a Navy veteran and served two assignments in support of the Third Marine Amphibious Force in Vietnam.

A 12-Year-Old’s Memory: “I’ve never wanted to be an American more than on that day!”

(It concerns me we don’t have the name the author to post with this article, but perhaps he preferred it that way. In any case, this piece touched me profoundly. –JDS)

This 1967 true story is of an experience by a young 12 -year-old lad in Kingston, Ontario, Canada. It is about the vivid memory of a privately rebuilt P-51 from WWII and its famous owner/pilot.

………………………………………….

In the morning sun, I could not believe my eyes. There, in our little airport, sat a majestic P-51. They said it had flown in during the night from some U.S. airport, on its way to an air show. The pilot had been tired, so he just happened to choose Kingston for his stop-over. It was to take to the air very soon.

I marveled at the size of the plane, dwarfing the Pipers and Canucks tied down by her. It was much larger than in the movies. She glistened in the sun like a bulwark of security from days gone by.

The pilot arrived by cab, paid the driver, and then stepped into the pilot’s lounge. He was an older man; his wavy hair was gray and tossed. It looked like it might have been combed, say, around the turn of the century. His flight jacket was checked, creased and worn; it smelled old and genuine. Old Glory was prominently sewn to its shoulders. He projected a quiet air of proficiency and pride devoid of arrogance. He filed a quick flight plan to Montreal (“Expo-67 Air Show”) then walked across the tarmac.

After taking several minutes to perform his walk-around check, the tall, lanky man returned to the flight lounge to ask if anyone would be available to stand by with fire extinguishers while he “flashed the old bird up, just to be safe.”

Though only 12 at the time I was allowed to stand by with an extinguisher after brief instruction on its use — “If you see a fire, point, then pull this lever!” he said. (I later became a firefighter, but that’s another story.)

The air around the exhaust manifolds shimmered like a mirror from fuel fumes as the huge prop started to rotate. One manifold, then another, and yet another barked — I stepped back with the others. In moments the Packard -built Merlin engine came to life with a thunderous roar. Blue flames knifed from her manifolds with an arrogant snarl. I looked at the others’ faces; there was no concern. I lowered the bell of my extinguisher. One of the guys signaled to walk back to the lounge. We did.

Several minutes later we could hear the pilot doing his preflight run-up. He’d taxied to the end of runway 19, out of sight. All went quiet for several seconds. We ran to the second story deck to see if we could catch a glimpse of the P-51 as she started down the runway. We could not.

There we stood, eyes fixed to a spot half way down 19. Then a roar ripped across the field, much louder than before. Like a furious hell spawn set loose — something mighty this way was coming. “Listen to that thing!” said the controller.

In seconds the Mustang burst into our line of sight. It’s tail was already off the runway and it was moving faster than anything I’d ever seen by that point on 19. Two-thirds the way down 19 the Mustang was airborne with her gear going up. The prop tips were supersonic.

We clasped our ears as the Mustang climbed hellishly fast into the circuit to be eaten up by the dog-day haze. We stood for a few moments, in stunned silence, trying to digest what we’d just seen.

The radio controller rushed by me to the radio. “Kingston tower calling Mustang?” He looked back to us as he waited for an acknowledgment.

The radio crackled: “Go ahead, Kingston.”

“Roger, Mustang. Kingston tower would like to advise the circuit is clear for a low-level pass.”

I stood in shock because the controller had just, more or less, asked the pilot to return for an impromptu air show! The controller looked at us.

“Well, What?” He asked. “I can’t let that guy go without asking. I couldn’t forgive myself!”

The radio crackled once again, “Kingston, do I have permission for a low-level pass, east to west, across the field?”

“Roger, Mustang, the circuit is clear for an east to west pass.”

“Roger, Kingston, I’m coming out of 3,000 feet, stand by.”

We rushed back onto the second-story deck, eyes fixed toward the eastern haze. The sound was subtle at first, a high-pitched whine, a muffled screech, a distant scream. Moments later the P-51 burst through the haze. Her airframe straining against positive G’s and gravity. Her wing tips spilling contrails of condensed air, prop-tips again supersonic. The burnished bird blasted across the eastern margin of the field shredding and tearing the air.

At about 500 mph and 150 yards from where we stood she passed with the old American pilot saluting.

Imagine. A salute! I felt like laughing; I felt like crying; she glistened; she screamed; the building shook; my heart pounded. Then the old pilot pulled her up and rolled, and rolled, and rolled out of sight into the broken clouds and indelible into my memory.

I’ve never wanted to be an American more than on that day! It was a time when many nations in the world looked to America as their big brother. A steady and even-handed beacon of security who navigated difficult political water with grace and style; not unlike the old American pilot who’d just flown into my memory. He was proud, not arrogant, humble, not a braggart, old and honest, projecting an aura of America at its best.

That America will return one day! I know it will! Until that time, I’ll just send off this story. Call it a loving reciprocal salute to a country, and especially to that old American pilot: the late-JIMMY STEWART (1908-1997), actor, real WWII hero (Commander of a US Army Air Force Bomber Wing stationed in England), and a USAF Reserves Brigadier General, who wove a wonderfully fantastic memory for a young Canadian boy that’s lasted a lifetime. ###

Five Beans and a Cup of Broth (Dr. James Sutton)

Five Beans and a Cup of Broth

As we commemorate Veterans Day, 2014, it’s important that we stress to our children that freedom is never free. However we choose to share that message with our sons and daughters, it should be noted that the liberty we often take for granted was bought and paid for with the courage and the blood of those who’ve gone on before.

Journalist Tom Brokaw said it best in his book, The Greatest Generation, when he heralded those Americans that brought us through World War II. Today, we are still recipients of all they accomplished seventy years ago. For the majority of the men and women who served in the Pacific and European Theaters in WWII, as well as many of those on the home front sending a steady stream of support and supplies, it’s too late to say, “Thank You,” to them one more time.

Hardly any of us are without relatives who served their country during a time when their contribution was so vital. My father-in-law was part of the invasion of Normandy, while a former next-door neighbor manned a minesweeper that helped clear the waters for that landing. Another next-door neighbor fought in the Pacific for the retaking of the Philippines. (I didn’t know until his funeral that he had been awarded two Bronze Stars.)

And my uncles played a part. One of them faithfully patched up bombers on Guam so they could go out again, while another uncle flew desperately needed supplies over the Burma Hump. (Dad had joined the Army Signal Corps, but was badly injured in a workplace accident before he could be activated.)

A Special Bond

Ask anyone who’s ever been in or near combat about their greatest fear. Their answer might surprise you. It’s NOT the fear of being killed; it’s the fear of letting down one’s comrades, of losing their trust and respect.

Stephen Ambrose’s book, Band of Brothers, gave us an accurate feel for this unique brand of bonding. During the Battle of the Bulge, the 101st Airborne was completely surrounded by the Germans near Bastogne, Belgium. They were told to hold their positions until help arrived … no matter what. (Which they did, with heavy casualties, becoming the ONLY full division to ever receive the Presidential Unit Citation.)

Five Beans …

According to Ambrose’s account, a former company commander, a Captain Richard Winters, had shown exceptional leadership under fire. He was promoted to a staff position with battalion.

Christmas Eve dinner of 1944 was relatively comfortable for the staff officers as they gathered at division headquarters. They had a Christmas tree, a tablecloth, real silverware and turkey with all the trimmings. But Captain Winters elected to dine alone, eating instead what his men in the foxholes were having that night: five white beans and a cup of cold broth.

11 Days Old

I was 11 days old that night, the eve of my first Christmas. I was clean, dry and well-fed; Mom saw to that. I didn’t know about the Men of Bastogne who braved the bitter cold and the shelling of the German big guns as they thought, I’m sure, of loved ones so far away on the night that mattered most.

I didn’t know about them then, but they were as real as if they had been guarding my crib that night, because, in essence, they were.

I didn’t know about them then, but I certainly know about them now.

God Bless ‘em.

Dr. James Sutton is a Vietnam veteran and nationally-recognized child and adolescent psychologist. He is the founder and host of The Changing Behavior Network and monthly publishes The Changing Behavior Digest [website].