Back in the Dark Ages, when I was in high school, I always felt like I had a good dosage of American History.  I could quote the Preamble to the Constitution, knew about the events leading up to 1776, and possibly memorized parts of the Gettysburg Address.  (I can't remember for sure.)  But, I came across a story, that I never heard before about the raising of the U.S. flag in Iwo Jima atop Mt. Suribachi on February 23, 1945.   I'm not so sure many people have ever heard this.  The story has been around for a while.  It was written in October of 2000 by Michael T. Powers.  I'm not sure why it took me so long to discover it.  But, I truly believe it's an important read.  The rest of this blog, until you get to the very end, is not my writing, but I hope you take the time for a very memorable read.

Each year I am hired to go to Washington, DC, with the eighth grade class from Clinton, Wisconsin, where I grew up, to videotape their trip.  I greatly enjoy visiting our nation’s capital, and each year I take some special memories back with me. This fall's trip was especially memorable. 

On the last night of our trip, we stopped at the Iwo Jima Memorial.  This memorial is the largest bronze statue in the world and depicts one of the most famous photographs in history -- that of the six brave soldiers raising the American Flag at the top of a rocky hill on the island of Iwo Jima, Japan, during WW II. 
 
Over one hundred students and chaperones piled off the buses and headed towards the memorial. I noticed a solitary figure at the base of the statue, and as I got closer, he asked, "Where are you guys from?"  I told him that we were from Wisconsin. "Hey, I'm a Cheesehead, too!  Come gather around, Cheeseheads, and I will tell you a story."
 
It was James Bradley who just happened to be in Washington, DC, to speak at the memorial the following day.  He was there that night to say good night to his dad, who had passed away.  He was just about to leave when he saw the buses pull up.  I videotaped him as he spoke to us, and received his permission to share what he said from my videotape. 
 
It is one thing to tour the incredible monuments filled with history in Washington, D.C., but it is quite another to get the kind of insight we received that night.)  When all had gathered around, he reverently began to speak.  (Here are his words in italics that night.)  My name is James Bradley and I'm from Antigo, Wisconsin.  My dad is on that statue, and I wrote a book called Flags of Our Fathers.  It is the story of the six boys you see behind me. 
 
Six boys raised the flag.  The first guy putting the pole in the ground is Harlon Block.  Harlon was an all-state football player. He enlisted in the Marine Corps with all the senior members of his football team.  They were off to play another type of game.  A game called 'War.'  But, it didn't turn out to be a game.   Harlon, at the age of 21, died with his intestines in his hands. 
 
I don't say that to gross you out, I say that because there are people who stand in front of this statue and talk about the glory of war.  You guys need to know that most of the boys in Iwo Jima were 17, 18, and 19 years old -- and it was so hard that the ones who did make it home never even would talk to their families about it.

(He pointed to the statue.)  You see this next guy? That's Rene Gagnon from New Hampshire.  If you took Rene's helmet off at the moment this photo was taken and looked in the webbing of that helmet, you would find a photograph ... a photograph of his girlfriend.  Rene put that in there for protection because he was scared.  He was 18 years old.  It was just boys who won the battle of Iwo Jima.  Boys.  Not old men. 

The next guy here, the third guy in this tableau, was Sergeant Mike Strank.  Mike is my hero.  He was the hero of all these guys. They called him the 'old man' because he was so old.  He was already 24.  When Mike would motivate his boys in training camp, he didn't say, 'Let's go kill some Japanese' or 'Let's die for our country.'  He knew he was talking to little boys. Instead, he would say, 'You do what I say, and I'll get you home to your mothers.'

The last guy on this side of the statue is Ira Hayes, a Pima Indian from Arizona.  Ira Hayes was one of them who lived to walk off Iwo Jima.  He went into the White House with my dad.  President Truman told him, 'You're a hero.'  He told reporters, 'How can I feel like a hero when 250 of my buddies hit the island with me and only 27 of us walked off alive?'  So you take your class at school, 250 of you spending a year together having fun, doing everything together.  Then all 250 of you hit the beach, but only 27 of your classmates walk off alive.  That was Ira Hayes.  He had images of horror in his mind. Ira Hayes carried the pain home with him and eventually died dead drunk, face down, drowned in a very shallow puddle, at the age of 32 (ten years after this picture was taken). 

The next guy, going around the statue, is Franklin Sousley from Hilltop, Kentucky.  A fun-lovin' hillbilly boy.  His best friend, who is now 70, told me, 'Yeah, you know, we took two cows up on the porch of the Hilltop General Store. Then we strung wire across the stairs so the cows couldn't get down. Then we fed them Epsom salts. Those cows crapped all night.  'Yes, he was a fun-lovin' hillbilly boy.'   Franklin died on Iwo Jima at the age of 19.  When the telegram came to tell his mother that he was dead, it went to the Hilltop General Store.  A barefoot boy ran that telegram up to his mother's farm. The neighbors could hear her scream all night and into the morning.  Those neighbors lived a quarter of a mile away.

The next guy, as we continue to go around the statue, is my dad, John Bradley, from Antigo, Wisconsin, where I was raised. My dad lived until 1994, but he would never give interviews.  When Walter Cronkite's producers or the New York Times would call, we were trained as little kids to say, 'No, I'm sorry, sir, my dad's not here.  He is in Canada fishing.  No, there is no phone there, sir.  No, we don't know when he is coming back.'  My dad never fished or even went to Canada.  Usually, he was sitting there right at the table eating his Campbell's soup.  But, we had to tell the press that he was out fishing.  He didn't want to talk to the press. 

You see, like Ira Hayes, my dad didn't see himself as a hero.  Everyone thinks these guys are heroes, 'cause they are in a photo and on a monument.  My dad knew better.  He was a medic.  John Bradley from Wisconsin was a combat caregiver. On Iwo Jima, he probably held over 200 boys as they died.  And boys died on Iwo Jima; they writhed and screamed, without any medication or help with the pain. 

When I was a little boy, my third grade teacher told me that my dad was a hero.  When I went home and told my dad that, he looked at me and said, 'I want you always to remember that the heroes of Iwo Jima are the guys who did not come back. Did NOT come back.'

So that's the story about six nice young boys. Three died on Iwo Jima, and three came back as national heroes.  Overall, 7,000 boys died on Iwo Jima in the worst battle in the history of the Marine Corps.  My voice is giving out, so I will end here. Thank you for your time.

Suddenly, the monument wasn't just a big old piece of metal with a flag sticking out of the top.  It came to life before our eyes with the heartfelt words of a son who did indeed have a father who was a hero.  Maybe not a hero for the reasons most people would believe, but a hero nonetheless. 

One thing I learned while on tour with my 8th grade students in DC that is not mentioned here is that if you look at the statue very closely and count the number of hands raising the flag, there are 13.  When the man who made the statue was asked why there were 13, he simply said, "The 13th hand was the hand of God."

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Alas!  If you do a little research, there is always more information.  That's how I discovered the videographer's name, Michael T. Powers.  The original combat photographer of the image, Raising the Flag over Iwo Jima, that inspired the U.S. Marine Corps War Memorial in Arlington, Virginia, was Joe Rosenthal of the Associated Press.

The image of the flag-raising that everyone can readily picture in their minds was actually the second flag-raising that day.  The first flag-raising happened two hours earlier.  But, it was decided that a second flag, a larger one, should be raised so the fighting Marines on the other side of the mountain could see it.  Six men are photographed raising the flag, but a 40-man patrol ascended Mt. Suribachi that day to make it possible.  Rene Gagnon, a runner in the fifth Marine Division, carried the larger flag up the mountain for the second flag-raising and helped to lower the original flag. 

After an official investigation by the Marine Corps, it was announced on June 23, 2016, that John Bradley was not accurately identified in the photograph.  It was actually, Corporal Harold Schultz from Detroit, Michigan.  Schultz survived the battle of Iwo Jima and lived to a ripe old 70 years of age.  But, Bradley was very much involved at Iwo Jima.  He received a Navy Cross for his efforts to rescue wounded Marines still in the line of fire.  He was part of the patrol that captured the mountaintop and he helped to secure the first flag that was raised.  Bradley wrote to his parents three days after the flag-raising.  He said he had a little to do with it and it was the happiest day of his life.

Further investigation show that Rene Gagnon was not correctly identified as well.  The good news for Rene is that he survived the war.  The bad news is that the image in the photograph has been identified as Corporal Harold Keller of Brooklyn, Iowa.  Keller, a survivor of both Guadalcanal and Iwo Jima, was part of the patrol that captured the top of Mt. Suribachi.  He helped to raise the first flag on the mountain top and was photographed while raising the second.

The artist who created the 100-ton bronze statue was Felix de Weldon, an American sculptor, originally from Vienna, Austria.  And, the artist had a thing or two to say about the thirteenth hand.  "Thirteen hands.  Who needed thirteen hands?  Twelve were enough."  

I personally have never seen the statue or walked around it counting hands.  But, according to research, the story of the thirteenth hand is a persistent myth -- and a really good one -- but it just isn't true.  If you stroll around the statue, you will be truly inspired, but you'll only count to twelve.  Unless, of course, you count the invisible hand of God.

If you've never read The Ugly American, by William Lederer and Eugene Burdick, you may think that the authors are talking about a really offensive kind of person who just happens to be from the United States.  Pretty much everyone knows the stereotype, either from the movies or -- so sadly -- from real-life experience.   The Ugly American is always loud, demanding, ignorant of anything cultural and sensitive, thoughtless, and just so very arrogant.  

I kind of think, at least it is my hope, that I'm not this kind of American.  Usually, when I travel, if someone tries to guess where I'm from, their first choice is not the United States because I don't fit into the stereotype box.  While once eating in an Irish restaurant, a very loud American woman came in through the entryway.  Everyone in the place knew she was there.  She made her presence impossible to ignore.  And, when she left, there were so many comments about "those Americans".  When I could take it no longer, I said, "We're not all that way."

Silence.

I happened to be in Mexico during one of the United States presidential elections.  When the results were made public, my Mexican host and another German guest fell into a heated conversation about "those Americans".  In no uncertain terms, they were not at all pleased with how 4.25% of the world's population voted.  I felt a little invisible.  I was in the same room as these two people ranted.  Finally, I said, "Yeah, those awful Americans!"

Silence, again.

My Mexican host turned to me and said, "I'm sorry.  I keep forgetting you're American.  You don't act like one!"  

I get that a lot.

And, one more little proof that hopefully settles any doubt happened in Brazil.  After three weeks of mural painting, my host kind of apologized to me.  (I'm not sure that is the right word.)  But, she told me that prior to my visit, she didn't really hold the highest esteem for Americans.  However, I didn't fit into the mold of what she expected.  I ate with Brazilians.  I laughed with and hugged Brazilians.  I painted with them.  And, most importantly, I showed them that I had a Brazilian heart.  I had become family in that short visit.  She never expected that.

Now, if you have read The Ugly American, you know that the "ugly" guy also didn't fit that stereotype.  Our hero was a rather plain-looking engineer named Homer Atkins.  His work required him to jump into projects with the local people.  And, in the process, his hands were calloused and grease-covered.  In Homer's opinion, ugly.  It sounds a little like someone who wanders the globe painting community murals.  However, I've not collected any callouses along the way.  But, most certainly, my hands, arms, clothing, face, and hair have been covered with a whole lot of paint.  I'm feeling slightly "ugly" right now.  And, I'm so glad to be a little like Homer.

Now, I have traveled with the other kind of Ugly American.  And, I want to give you some travel tips to avoid if you ever find yourself overseas.  I think they also work if you never set foot outside of the good old U.S. of A.   I'm going to call this person Annabeth Snodheimer.  (She's one of the villians in the book I wrote, Triple Gratitude with Assorted Monsters.  I'm fairly sure nobody else on the planet has ever had that name.)  Anyway, I once met Annabeth at a conference.  It's safe to say that my first impression of this person was just completely as wrong as it could possibly be.  We exchanged emails and when I mentioned a vacation that I planned on taking one Christmas, she asked if she could join me.  Again, I thought this was a sane person, and it saved me over $4,000. So, I said yes.

I won't mention where we went.  But, part of the trip included a dugout canoe ride into a massive river delta.  Now, I must confess, planning trips is not really a strong point of mine.  Some people like to know every detail in advance.  I am much more likely to go with the flow.  This delta region was remote.  It didn't look like anything had changed there since the beginning of time.  We passed through high reeds and saw lots of exotic birds.  The whole time, I wondered, "What kind of lodging could be built in something so far off the beaten path?"

The answer was none.

Nope, there was no hut.  No hovel.  And, certainly no hotel.  We finally pulled the canoe up onto a little island in the middle of absolutely nowhere to set up camp.  As long as I'm talking about things we lacked, I also hoped there were no crocodiles!  Now, I don't normally ever voluntarily go camping.  I'm much more of a hoteling kind of guy.  But, I have learned that you have to go with the flow, especially when you are stranded on an island in the middle of a delta with no other option at hand.  I also know that when you are in a remote travel situation, you lend a hand.  It's what is done.  Nobody had to ask me to help.  I couldn't sit idly by and watch my guide set up my camp all by himself.

Annabeth had no such convictions.

And, it only got worse!  As it turned out, our remote little island was a four-hour walk to the nearest point of civilization.  I learned this because Annabeth wanted a Coca-Cola.  She had our guide walk eight hours to get her a soft drink.  What kind of person would do that?  How can anyone possibly feel that entitled?  Who was I traveling with?

This was at the very beginning of our two week trip.  There would be more.

On the second leg of our journey, in a remote corner of another country, we found ourselves camping again.  I'd traveled in this country before.  In fact, I had the very same guide from a previous trip.  He was wonderful.  He was also so very professional.  Annabeth continued to do things that annoyed me.  At this point, her breathing my oxygen annoyed me.  And, I vented with my guide.  I know, it's not my best move.  I continually try to improve my ways, but I vented.  But, my guide remained so professional.  He never once joined in that conversation.  

Until the day he had to!

One morning, as we all rolled out of our separate tents, Annabeth had one of the cooking pots in her hands.  It served a dual purpose as her potty pot during the night.  She didn't want to wander out of her tent in the middle of the night to face mosquitoes or anything else lurking in the darkness.  Well, my guide was fit to be tied.  He'd never seen anything like this before.  Neither of us could believe our eyes.  So, he vented with me.

Does it surprise anyone that Annabeth and I were not talking to each other by the end of the trip?  On our last night, in yet another country, we stayed in a youth hostel.  In spite of our reservations, there was one bed available in a single room and one in a dorm room.  Immediately, Annabeth said, "I'll take the single room."  Those were the last words I ever heard from her.  We never said goodbye.  We never exchanged any more email correspondence.  We were done.  End of story.

Well, almost . . . 

I know there are two sides to every story.  If you ever spoke to Annabeth, she would most likely tell you what a truly ugly American I was to travel with.  I'm talking about the bad kind of citizen.  But, I have further proof for my side of the story.  A few months later, I returned to the very same guesthouse.  Now, they had hundreds, or thousands, of guests over the years.  You have to do something unique to be remembered.  But, one of the employees looked at me and said, "You look familiar.  Have you been here before?"

I replied, "Yes, of course.  I love to come here.  However, the last time I was here, I came with a very demanding older woman."

She and her coworker looked at each other and exclaimed, "Annabeth!"

There was no hesitation, no competition.  And, of course, Annabeth has no idea of the trail she leaves behind her wherever she goes.  As for me, I hope that I will be remembered, far and wide, in every corner of the globe, for the paint all over my hands and the goodwill I try to spread with every brushstroke.  That's my kind of ugly.

I've been to Haiti three times.  The first visit was the summer after I graduated from college.  My high school French was recent enough in my memory that I learned how to communicate in Haitian Creole by the end of the summer.  Don't get me wrong; I was far from fluent.  But, I could still communicate with my Haitian friends enough to impress the socks off of my American hosts.  

That summer was a long time ago.  I can no longer communicate in Haitian Creole.  But, I do remember one sentence.  I try it out every time I meet someone from Haiti.  They always understand me and, at the same time, it usually shocks them.  My one sentence is, "Si mwa garday ou, mop vomi."  Before I give you the translation, you may or may not know that generally, the first words someone learns in another language are the swear words.  I was surrounded by missionaries and church folk on this trip.  I wasn't going to learn anything too colorful.  Nope, I just learned how to insult someone.  So, my one little tidbit in Creole is, "If I look at you, I'll vomit."

Yes, I've used that sentence so many times over the years.

I made my second trip to Haiti about ten years after the first visit.  And, on that trip, I had an experience that seriously could have made me "vomi".  Other bodily secretions also could have leaked or squirted as well.  (I'm talking about tears.  What are you thinking?)  Anyway, it's a long story.  And, after all of these years, it's still one of my best (or worst) travel adventures.  

Once Upon a Time in Haiti     I thought I was a hardened tourist.  I'd done quite a bit of traveling and thought there were no more major surprises in my world travels. I never imagined what would be in store for me when I stepped off the airplane at Port-au-Prince that sunny morning.  My intentions were the best. I'd come to Haiti as part of a construction team from my church to build a home for a pastor in Haiti. There was no hurry to get through the line at Immigration. I was the last one in the line and could see some of my friends waiting for me as I handed my passport to the Immigration officer. She smiled and went through the ritual of checking my papers. It took a little longer than expected but I wasn't concerned.  I had traveled enough to know that delays were to be expected. The officer excused herself and went to get her superior. Now that concerned me.  As I was escorted back to the inner rooms of customs, I had this fear that maybe that list I saw my name on was something other than a list of incoming tourists.  But I had no clue what was happening to me.

The Waiting Game     Clocks really tick slowly when life is out of your control and all you can do is wait. I sat, trying to be very patient and polite, for an hour in a small back office of customs.   Not speaking their language made it difficult to find out what the problem was concerning me.  My imagination worked overtime. It was no comfort at all when the superior kept saying, "No problem.  No problem."  That's what they always say, but if there were "no problem," why was I in the middle of this problem?

Fortunately, the room I was put in had a glass door.   My group leader, Charles, eventually located me. He had lived in Haiti before, spoke the language, and knew how to operate in the country.  Charles was determined to see what the problem was and how I could be helped.  After talking with the superior, he informed me that my name was in fact on a list -- a list of wanted criminals in the country.  They thought it was a case of two people with the same name.  It was just a matter of paper work to clear up.  She said again, "No problem," and I thought, "What a problem!"

I just completed my eighteenth children's book.  Most of this work has taken place while some nasty little virus invaded the planet.  Who knew I'd be this productive?  Who knew I'd get eighteen of them completed?  (And, yes, I've already started number nineteen.)  Anyway, this latest tale is one of my most favorites.  Over the years, I've gathered and rewritten over two hundred fifty folktales from around the world.  But, it comes down to a tie when I try to tell you which one is my favorite.  I love The Stone at the Door, a love story from Morocco.  It reminds me so much of the wonderful friends and family I made when I lived in Casablanca.  However, this Moroccan tale is a relatively new discovery for me.  Book number eighteen tells a tale from Liberia that I have loved for decades.  I don't know why it took me so long to finally make this book.  The story is included as the first one in my Liberian collection, Once Upon West Africa.  But now, I've finally completed its stand-alone version with The Paramount Chief and One Wise Woman.  Some things are worth the wait.

I slipped a lot of personal things into this book.  It's dedicated to Daniel and Theresa.  Daniel was my best friend from Liberia.  Daniel and Theresa have a great love story of their own.  They fled Liberia during the civil war that ripped the country apart for fourteen years, just after my Peace Corps experience ended.  It wasn't safe in the Ivory Coast either.  Eventually, they had to flee a second time, back into Liberia, and they landed in the remote village where Daniel was born, Tugbaken.  It's my favorite place in the country.  I've previously blogged about finding Daniel when I returned to Liberia to paint murals with the U.S. Embassy in 2106.  It's a three-part blog.  If you want to read all of that story, and you should, it's as easy as 1, 2, 3!

Rural villages in Liberia usually have a chief.  A paramount chief is one step up from that and rules over several villages.  The paramount chief in my tale is wise -- and he knows it!  He likes to settle problems that are brought before him.  And, he doesn't want anybody else to interfere with this process.  However, his life is turned upside-down when he crossed paths with one wise woman.  Isn't that always the case?

In my book, you'll see the paramount chief wearing several traditional Liberian suits with matching cap, shirt, pants, and gown.  They are colorful and wonderful.  I had one made for me while I was a Peace Corps Volunteer.  Mine was a very traditional blue tie-dyed pattern.  I used this fabric pattern for the background of each page border.  It adds an authentic touch to the book.  And, you won't know this unless you read my blog, but the first picture of the one wise woman has her wearing a yellow head scarf and golden earrings.  That was inspired by a photo I took of Daniel's wife, Theresa, also one wise woman.

I slipped in other personal things into the book illustrations.  The one wise woman has a scene that takes place in her home village.  I modeled the buildings in my illustrations from scenes that I photographed when I visited Tugbaken.  While in the village, there is a scene inside a bedroom with a goat and four chickens.  Now, I never once saw a goat or chickens in anyone's bedroom.  I drew the goat, just because I thought he was adorable.  And, there were goats in the village.  But, I had a different reason to include the chickens.  If you are super welcomed in Liberia, you are formally given a chicken.  That never happened to me in the six years that I lived in Africa.  But, when I visited in Tugbaken, within twenty-four hours, I was officially welcomed at five ceremonies and given four chickens and a traditional African suit made from country cloth. 

This book even has a recipe included.  Now, when I lived in Liberia, my favorite dishes were cassava leaves and beans gravy.  However, a very special dish was included in this story.  And, if you were going to have something for an important occasion, it was usually jollof rice (which required three kinds of meat).  So, you can learn how to make that dish if you get to the end of the book.

I'm so very pleased with The Paramount Chief and One Wise Woman.  It contains a wealth of warm feelings from my experience in Liberia.  And, it has been well-received by the people who have seen it, so far.  Perhaps the biggest surprise came from my local publisher in Columbus, Biblio Publishing, who makes my paperback books. They contacted me to say that they have recently joined The Graphic Media Alliance.  As a part of this organization, they were asked to submit one of their published books for the Print Excellent Award competition. Out of all of the authors they print, and from all of my books that I've illustrated, they selected The Paramount Chief and One Wise Woman.  It's obvious to me that one wise woman works at this publishing company!  Thanks, Saint Frances!

I'm very hopeful that this competition will place this book before the eyes of a lot more readers.  When I received my chickens back in Tugbaken, the end of each welcoming ceremony was always the same.  They asked me what my mission was.  I told them I had three missions.  The first mission was to paint murals with Ebola survivors in a project sponsored by the U.S. Embassy.  My second mission was to locate my long-lost friend Daniel.  My first two missions were completed.  But, the third mission is ongoing.  My third mission is to tell the world about my experience in Tugbaken, because nobody can welcome you like the Grebo people.

The people in Tugbaken always liked that mission and now you can consider yourself informed.  
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