Around the world there are something like 82,000 American service members missing. They are slowly coming home thanks to the efforts of many such as History Flight, the DPAA, and others. I have been on Tarawa when the flag draped coffins are loaded on a plane, a dignified transfer they call it. Of course, there are no bodies in the coffins. Instead there are evidence bags containing bones, teeth, perhaps a ring or other personal items. These Marines have been buried in the sand for 80 years now.
I went to a funeral back in October, in Pearland, a graveside service. Nobody any of you know. In fact, I didn't even know him either. We never met. His parents were not there, nor were either of his two siblings. They have all passed away, some of them many decades ago. He was 21 when he died, and he died around 80 years ago. But he just returned home.
He was killed on the fourth and final day of the 76-hour fight that was the battle for Tarawa (Betio). Don't let the 76 hours fool you, nor the size of the island, it was only around 340 acres or so. About 2.5 miles from one end to the other and 800 yards wide at the widest point. But over 1,000 Marines and Navy personnel were killed, 2,100 more wounded, and around 5,000 Japanese and Koreans.
The only things that he and I share in common is that we are both Texas boys, from towns beginning with the letter L, he worked for Linde Air Products and so did my son, his dad and my dad both had initials of J. W., and he and my dad both fought on that tiny island. They were both at the same camp on New Zealand prior to sailing to Tarawa, Camp Paekakariki (there were three camps I think). I am sure they never met, different regiments. But they both went through the same training and preparations, ate the same meals, each got on boats to be taken ashore, and I suspect both wondered what they had gotten themselves into. Each received a Purple Heart, my dad for his wounds, but this young man was killed and buried there, in a trench with around 30 others, and was later deemed "unrecoverable" after we had gone back soon after the war to try to find those buried there. Not a great deal of success with that effort way back then.
It is very hard for me to wrap my head around these things. I did not serve, my lottery number was 12, so I was about to get drafted and had I been drafted perhaps Vietnam would have been my destination. Who knows. But they stopped the draft. It was such an unpopular war by that time, my dad was pissed that they were not trying to win it. It wasn't even our war, and so few of us back home had any skin in the game.
World War II was different in many ways. Much larger scale and people back home were impacted by that war.
I cannot imagine these young men leaving home, leaving behind parents, or a girlfriend or wife, and going so far away, and staying away for so long. It wasn't as if you could pick up a cell phone and call, or text. They wrote letters and I am sure looked forward to getting letters from home. It was hard enough on me when I was working derricks the first semester that my girlfriend (now wife) was at A&M, and I would go a couple of weeks without seeing the person that mattered most to me. And these boys waited much longer than that, and then for so many the waits didn't ever end, as they never came back home. And for the families, and the girlfriends or wives, getting word that he had been killed. "We regret to inform you…" With the fight for Tarawa being on November 20 to 23, many families got the notification on Christmas Eve, or Christmas Day, that their son, boyfriend, or husband had been killed. I am sure the holiday season was never as joyous as it once was, not for the rest of their lives.
You hear it said, and I concur, that a parent should never have to bury a child, that it should be the other way around. And yet so many parents never even got the chance to bury their son. He was gone, but he wasn't here to bury. He was 6,000 miles away. They waited and waited and waited and then they died with his remains still under the sand on 340 acres in the Pacific. For 80 years.
I was not sure how many people would be there what with so many of his family members no longer around and due to the passage of time. So, I wanted to be there. Always said I would go to a service for one of these Marines coming home, and this one wasn't far away either. The Marines were there in their dress blues, I don't think there is a more beautiful uniform in existence. The service was one with full military honors, 21-gun salute (more Marines), a young lady Marine played the most beautiful rendition of Taps that I have ever heard, the flag draped coffin, and the slow, precise folding of the American flag. If seeing all that doesn't tug at you a little, you and I are unalike.
There were representatives of various organizations there such as the VFW and groups with an interest in finding our guys who are still overseas. A non-profit, History Flight, has been searching for, and finding, and playing a huge role in identifying and bringing home these Marines. There is a saying, "No man left behind" and it makes me proud that there are those that truly believe in that creed. Even if it took 80 years to bring him home. I have met some of their team, fairly young and devoted guys and gals, that work in trying to recover our guys. They do so in tropical heat, Tarawa is right on the equator. They are very devoted with what they are doing, and when they find the bones, teeth, rings, or any remains, they treat what they find with the utmost dignity, honor, and respect. Good people.
.
I did a bit of reading about this Marine and while standing there today, I looked down right in front of me and saw the footstones, one was his dad, and one was his mom. What caught my eye was "Sadie" and then remembered who she was. I like that name.
He is home now, buried near his parents, not in an unmarked grave under the sand of the island where his life ended. As I said, I didn't know him. But I know about him, and that's good enough for me.
I went to a funeral back in October, in Pearland, a graveside service. Nobody any of you know. In fact, I didn't even know him either. We never met. His parents were not there, nor were either of his two siblings. They have all passed away, some of them many decades ago. He was 21 when he died, and he died around 80 years ago. But he just returned home.
He was killed on the fourth and final day of the 76-hour fight that was the battle for Tarawa (Betio). Don't let the 76 hours fool you, nor the size of the island, it was only around 340 acres or so. About 2.5 miles from one end to the other and 800 yards wide at the widest point. But over 1,000 Marines and Navy personnel were killed, 2,100 more wounded, and around 5,000 Japanese and Koreans.
The only things that he and I share in common is that we are both Texas boys, from towns beginning with the letter L, he worked for Linde Air Products and so did my son, his dad and my dad both had initials of J. W., and he and my dad both fought on that tiny island. They were both at the same camp on New Zealand prior to sailing to Tarawa, Camp Paekakariki (there were three camps I think). I am sure they never met, different regiments. But they both went through the same training and preparations, ate the same meals, each got on boats to be taken ashore, and I suspect both wondered what they had gotten themselves into. Each received a Purple Heart, my dad for his wounds, but this young man was killed and buried there, in a trench with around 30 others, and was later deemed "unrecoverable" after we had gone back soon after the war to try to find those buried there. Not a great deal of success with that effort way back then.
It is very hard for me to wrap my head around these things. I did not serve, my lottery number was 12, so I was about to get drafted and had I been drafted perhaps Vietnam would have been my destination. Who knows. But they stopped the draft. It was such an unpopular war by that time, my dad was pissed that they were not trying to win it. It wasn't even our war, and so few of us back home had any skin in the game.
World War II was different in many ways. Much larger scale and people back home were impacted by that war.
I cannot imagine these young men leaving home, leaving behind parents, or a girlfriend or wife, and going so far away, and staying away for so long. It wasn't as if you could pick up a cell phone and call, or text. They wrote letters and I am sure looked forward to getting letters from home. It was hard enough on me when I was working derricks the first semester that my girlfriend (now wife) was at A&M, and I would go a couple of weeks without seeing the person that mattered most to me. And these boys waited much longer than that, and then for so many the waits didn't ever end, as they never came back home. And for the families, and the girlfriends or wives, getting word that he had been killed. "We regret to inform you…" With the fight for Tarawa being on November 20 to 23, many families got the notification on Christmas Eve, or Christmas Day, that their son, boyfriend, or husband had been killed. I am sure the holiday season was never as joyous as it once was, not for the rest of their lives.
You hear it said, and I concur, that a parent should never have to bury a child, that it should be the other way around. And yet so many parents never even got the chance to bury their son. He was gone, but he wasn't here to bury. He was 6,000 miles away. They waited and waited and waited and then they died with his remains still under the sand on 340 acres in the Pacific. For 80 years.
I was not sure how many people would be there what with so many of his family members no longer around and due to the passage of time. So, I wanted to be there. Always said I would go to a service for one of these Marines coming home, and this one wasn't far away either. The Marines were there in their dress blues, I don't think there is a more beautiful uniform in existence. The service was one with full military honors, 21-gun salute (more Marines), a young lady Marine played the most beautiful rendition of Taps that I have ever heard, the flag draped coffin, and the slow, precise folding of the American flag. If seeing all that doesn't tug at you a little, you and I are unalike.
There were representatives of various organizations there such as the VFW and groups with an interest in finding our guys who are still overseas. A non-profit, History Flight, has been searching for, and finding, and playing a huge role in identifying and bringing home these Marines. There is a saying, "No man left behind" and it makes me proud that there are those that truly believe in that creed. Even if it took 80 years to bring him home. I have met some of their team, fairly young and devoted guys and gals, that work in trying to recover our guys. They do so in tropical heat, Tarawa is right on the equator. They are very devoted with what they are doing, and when they find the bones, teeth, rings, or any remains, they treat what they find with the utmost dignity, honor, and respect. Good people.
.
I did a bit of reading about this Marine and while standing there today, I looked down right in front of me and saw the footstones, one was his dad, and one was his mom. What caught my eye was "Sadie" and then remembered who she was. I like that name.
He is home now, buried near his parents, not in an unmarked grave under the sand of the island where his life ended. As I said, I didn't know him. But I know about him, and that's good enough for me.
