The Flag Raising

“The raising of that flag on Suribachi means a Marine Corps for the next 500 years.” – Secretary of the Navy James Forrestal.

Sixty-six years ago today, February 23, 1945, six U.S. Marines and one Navy corpsman raised the American flag on Iwo Jima's Mt. Suribachi on the fifth day of a thirty-five day battle, one of the most intense in World War II. Of the six flag raisers, three would die in battle shortly thereafter. The Americans would suffer 26,038 casualties, of which 6,821 would die on an island 4.5 miles long and 2.5 miles wide. The number of U.S. casualties at Iwo Jima was greater than the total Allied casualties on D-Day.

With the battle still raging, the iconic, Pulitzer-Prize winning photograph taken by Joe Rosenthal has often been described as the most famous photograph ever taken. The image was the basis for the Marine Corps War Memorial in Washington, D.C. The three surviving flag raisers became national celebrities as they eventually traveled the country in endless bond drives, so far from the horrors they had experienced at Iwo Jima.

Marines have flag raising in their DNA. From Iwo to Hue City to Baghdad, there always seems to be a Marine with a flag when the situation arises. I have seen the actual flag raised on Iwo Jima, and the sight of it made my throat constrict. I cannot remember viewing any other museum artifact that affected me so instantly and so deeply as did the sight of that slightly faded, bullet-scarred flag.

No one could have known that such a seemingly simple flag-raising would result in something as symbolic and powerful and enduring as those Marines and that flag pictured atop Suribachi.

To the Marines of Iwo Jima, Semper Fi.

I’m Really Tired of Lindsay Lohan

I don’t know about you, but I’ve become sick of hearing about the disaster that is Lindsay Lohan, to a point where I feel like an hour of primal screaming would only partly assuage the frustration. Hers is often the lead story on national news programs—television and radio—and it always seems to fit into a pattern of ill-advised behavior ranging from drug/alcohol abuse, alleged theft of jewels or designer clothes, courtroom appearances, relentless partying, probation violations, ad infinitum, ad nauseam.

She commands more space on the national airwaves than an American hero recently awarded the Medal of Honor for an astonishing act of physical and moral bravery. We have U.S. medical researchers hot on the trail of a potentially dramatic vaccine that can fight against any flu virus—just one vaccine! Our country has a debt that is on schedule to make our nation a bankrupt, third-world debtor nation whose bonds and buildings and banks belong to the Chinese. We have Marines and soldiers in vicious combat in Afghanistan on a daily basis, some dying, many being wounded, in a fight against an enemy and an ideology that wants to destroy us, the Great Satan. We have individuals and groups in our midst who are feeding the hungry, clothing the poor, educating the unschooled, repairing the cleft lips and palates of children, and donating everything from time and treasure to life-saving organs and blood.

And the decision makers who run the news organizations decide we need to hear about Lindsay Lohan. In prime time. In real time. All the time.

I certainly don’t wish anything calamitous on young Ms. Lohan; I’m just tired of seeing her face and hearing the same old stories. Ditto with Charlie Sheen and the Kardashians and Paris and Spencer and the rest. It used to be that individuals in the news were actually people of accomplishment, whether famously or infamously. Now it’s people deemed newsworthy doing absolutely nothing of consequence. What’s so newsworthy about lewd or childish behavior?

Of course, Jane Fonda raves about the talent of Ms. Lohan the actress, about how she cares about her “craft.” Jane Fonda is certainly a credible source. Ask the Vietnam vets.

I know what you’re thinking: It’s all about ratings. And, sadly, you’re right.

But what about the messages that are sent? The examples being set? Shouldn’t that count?

I know what we’re all thinking: Nope, not anymore.

Miracles

I’m a believer in miracles.

By definition, a miracle is “an event that appears inexplicable by the laws of nature and so is held to be supernatural in origin or an act of God.” (American Heritage Dictionary)

Pope John Paul II has one miracle attributed to him, and is on his way toward sainthood. Has one, needs another.

The births of each of my children, and now grandchildren, were miracles, each and every one. There’s just no other way to explain it.

That my wonderful wife has put up with me for as long as she has is nothing short of miraculous. Really, it is.

My best friend ejected out of a stricken Marine F-4 Phantom jet at an altitude of less than one-hundred feet. He was so low that his chute couldn’t deploy, and he tumbled violently across a freshly plowed field sitting atop a rocket-assisted ejection seat. Had there not been a divine intervention, I would not have had a 20+ year friendship of such quality that one is lucky if one has 2-3 such friendships over an entire lifetime. He got lucky, and consequently, so did I.

I believe the recovery of Rep. Gabrielle Giffords will be seen as miraculous before all is said and done. Actually, it seems like a miracle that she has survived at all, given her injury.

There are miracles among my fellow church members, ranging from organ transplants to sudden awakenings from deep comas.

“Do you believe in miracles?” shouted announcer Al Michaels as the young USA Olympians beat the vaunted Russians in ice hockey in 1980 Lake Placid Winter Games.

The 33 Chilean miners trapped for more than two months, and then dramatically rescued. A miracle? I certainly thought so as I watched in utter amazement.

I’m a believer in miracles, and as I finish my next novel and prepare to take it to market, guess what I’ll be hoping for?

Yep, you guessed it.

From the Hangar to the Taxiway

I have written a suspense novel that deals with the rough-and-tumble of the business world. It involves a firm that suddenly loses its longtime leader, and then struggles to put the pieces back together again in the aftermath. Along the way, there are changes that are both unpleasant and potentially destructive. The firm finds itself woefully near to the cliff’s edge.

Will someone emerge and rescue this great company from taking on more water than it can stand, and still remain afloat? Is anyone strong enough or resourceful enough to find a way? Hmmm . . . stay tuned.

In the meantime, I am ready to begin the final editing process. One of my critical readers has recently finished with her excellent review. Today I heard from a longtime, trusted friend and former colleague who was also kind enough to read and comment on the manuscript. He is the CEO of a large, respected company and has held other CEO positions in his distinguished business career. His feedback was positive and highly encouraging, not to mention useful, and he even mentioned several marketing avenues for the book that I had not previously considered (that’s why he’s a CEO).

Now it’s time to move the book to the taxiway. Fire the engines, go over the checklist, adjust where needed, make sure everything is ready. No time for sloppiness or inattention to detail. Everything needs to be in place, in good working order, ready for the next step.

Then, and only then, can it move to the runway. Then, and only then, will it be considered airworthy.

I love the sound of those engines. I feel the need for speed. And I love the excitement over where this flight could take me.

Tray tables stowed, seatbelts buckled, seatbacks in the upright and locked position.

Cleared to taxi.

The Grandkids

We fill our house with grandchildren during the holidays, and inevitably some of the kids (perhaps even most) are at some point coughing and sneezing from allergies or colds or respiratory ailments. We buy tissues by the pallet; the parents—our kids and their spouses—dutifully administer the various medications to their afflicted little charges; breathing-treatment devices and hand-held inhalers are not uncommon sites. Hey, children change environments and climates and often fall ill, at which point they are more likely to share their bugs than their Christmas toys. Since I have a propensity to transform a common cold into full-blown bronchitis, I tend to tread carefully among the ubiquitous hacking and sneezing unless . . .

One of those precious grandkids reaches up to me with an expression of happiness or trust or needed comfort, and then I reach down for them. Instantly; cheerfully; sympathetically. Even amid the bucketloads of snot and drool and the mist of coughing and sneezing, I simply can’t resist. And who could? I’m D-Daddy. I have a role to provide, and I think about that role a lot, and I want to be there to provide it, unless . . .

I feel the sniffles and slight cough beginning to find its way from the submerged to the surface, an annoyance that will eventually morph into something more. It always works that way. Then I know there’s a near certainty that I’ll end up needing a Z-pack and several days of feeling like a bird in an oil spill. I know my own health tendencies, and I know I should keep my distance, unless . . .

One of those grandkids comes crawling into the recliner with me. Those quiet moments are priceless, and I am certain beyond all doubt that I get more from their presence than they do from mine. I always hope the cold will stay just that—a cold—but I know it’s unlikely. Maybe this time I’ll be lucky, unless . . .

The cough deepens. Then I know I’m toast. After the kids have departed, I’ll go to my doctor and get the requisite prescriptions to bring me back to health. And I’ll tell him that I wouldn’t trade the visit with my sick grandkids for the avoidance of his fee. And do you know what he always tells me? He always says, “Good for you.”

And it is good for me.

Chicago the . . . Band?

At some point, all of us become the butt of a joke.

Several years ago, I made a business trip to Singapore with a U.K. friend and colleague who insisted that we "do karaoke," to which I responded in rather colorful language that it would never happen. A few hours later, and after listening to our host's rendition of a favored Doobie Brothers song go from comical to painful, I took over the microphone and proceeded to "do karaoke."

The next day, compliments of my U.K. colleague, an e-mail went all over my company declaring, "Gillis does karaoke in Singapore." That episode has followed me for years.

Around the same time, I had promised my daughter that I would take her with me on one of my trips to Colorado when she graduated from college. I arranged the business trip to the Boulder area, along with some time for the mountains and a side trip to Colorado Springs. As a nice bonus, my best friend and his wife agreed to join us.

As an additional bonus, I purchased tickets to a concert in Colorado Springs by my favorite group of all time, Chicago. I spent the day of the concert boasting to my friends just how much they would enjoy seeing/hearing America's greatest rock band. Since my daughter had grown up in my home, she had long been a fan.


With great anticipation and expectation, we all went to the concert only to find that the tickets I had purchased were for Chicago the PLAY, not Chicago the BAND. My heart sank and my face tingled with warmth when I looked at the playbill and knew beyond any doubt that this moment was about to become the stuff of legend, and at my expense. My friends and daughter were hardly delicate in their laughter at and enjoyment of my complete and utter humiliation. And once we were seated, they felt no restraint in sharing my fiasco with those nearby. I could only issue a meek threat to stand and loudly sing "Saturday in the Park" once the play had begun. We came to hear Chicago, then by God we're going to hear some Chicago. But it was an idle threat.

On the drive back to Boulder the next day, I knew my daughter was bursting at the seams to call and tell her mom and brothers about our adventure of the previous evening. Finally, I handed over my cell phone to her and said only, "Go ahead." Believe me, from that point she knew what to do. With our family and friends, it soon became the equivalent of the aforementioned e-mail from Singapore.

But you know, the play wasn't half-bad.

Happy Birthday, Marines!

On November 10, 1775, the Continental Congress authorized the raising of two battalions of Marines. Philadelphia’s Tun Tavern—yes, a beer-serving establishment as its name suggests—was the very first recruiting location of the U.S. Marine Corps.

Thus, young men were recruited with the promise of a cold beer and an opportunity to serve in a Corps of Marines. I can only imagine the excitement those young men felt at being able to attach themselves to something with equal parts of mystery, glamour, and danger. I can only imagine the yarns that followed in Tun Tavern after they had stepped forward and signed on. I can only imagine the stories that were later told in Tun Tavern after those initial recruits had served during the Revolution and returned home to tell about it. Tavern tales have become as much a Marine tradition as the eagle, globe, and anchor symbol. Not so unexpectedly, Marines have always prided themselves on the fact that their branch of service was birthed in a tavern.

And why not?

The thread of history from Tun Tavern to Afghanistan shows that Marines have served America extraordinarily well, with dedication, professional competence, and unsurpassed valor. The Marine Corps has always stood at the cutting edge of military readiness—prepared at any moment to move into harm’s way. And, as is their habit once they find themselves committed to action, they have fought and won. An adversary on the verge of a fiery encounter with U.S. Marines would hardly be in a festive mood, and for good reason. No better friend, no worse enemy.

As is the custom on 10 November, Marines will gather far and wide to celebrate the birthday of their Corps. The larger Marine Corps bases will have well-planned, well-attended, formal birthday balls. The smaller outposts will improvise, a key Marine skill. Former Marines will take a moment to reflect back on their years of service, most likely with pride and nostalgia. The history of the Corps will be commemorated; old friendships will be renewed; the fallen will be remembered. Prayers will be lifted for those still in the fight, and for the families who anxiously await their return.

Here’s to the Corps on this 235th birthday!

And here’s to the Marines whose duty and blood and sacrifice have saturated the Corps in hard-won glory.

Here’s to an organization that is not only unique, not only elite, but without equal.

Here’s to the United States Marine Corps!

Semper Fidelis.