By Randy Cox, Ph.D.
Monday, May 28, 2007
1981 A couple of weeks ago I was at home watching television while my two young children were laughing and playing beside my chair. I tuned to a channel where the series, "The World at War" was being telecast. This particular part of the series focused on the invasion of Iwo Jima, one of the most difficult and costly battles of World War II. (My children continued their play)
As the young men boarded the landing craft readying for the assault, the reality of the war was becoming clearer for them and for me. The battleships offshore began blasting the island. The firing was hard and heavy. The island was being torn apart as our young Marines, many of them not yet twenty years of age, sailed closer to shore. Then, the enemy returned fire. The bullets, the smoke and ashes, exploding rocks and the noise of an all-out battle filled the air. (My children, not aware of the TV, continued laughing and enjoying this Saturday afternoon) The American landing craft hit the beaches with the young Marines desperately trying to make it ashore. Many fell to the sand, never to move again. This ferocious battle raged on. More Marines attempted to come ashore, as the shrapnel fell and enemy rounds continued relentlessly. As the fury of this conflict continued, it seemed as though there would be no end. (I turned to my children, still playing and laughing in their own little make-believe world of sugar and spice) I glanced back at the battle.
The bodies of American Marines were strewn on the beaches and for many, their bold and courageous fighting had come to an end. In the aftermath of this horrific battle, the camera scanned the bombed-out island. The bodies of our Marines literally filled the beaches. The quiet was deafening to my ears. The only movement was created by the waves rocking the bodies of our Marines back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Everything stood motionless, bare, and fallen. (But, as I turned away from the screen, the presence of laughter filled my ears and the innocent play of two children, two and four years of age, came into view) On this Saturday afternoon in the Fall of 1981, the contrast between two entirely different, but real worlds was never more apparent than it was on this day.
The relationship between courage and freedom could not have been perceived more clearly. Even though my generation was not physically involved in that conflict, the pictures we've seen, the books we've read, the stories we've heard, have touched our hearts and souls. And, the realization that freedom throughout our history has not come easy, but has been won by men who have given up their futures, their families, and their lives so my children can enjoy a peaceful Saturday afternoon was evident to me this day. Amid the noise, the hurry, and the sometimes routine of daily life, we need to pause and reflect on our past and our fallen men in uniform. Forty years ago we were thrust into a perilous journey from which many travelers did not return. This essay is dedicated to their sacrifice and their triumph. And, their triumph manifests itself every day that I look into two pairs of little blues eyes. Blues eyes that remind me of "From Whence We Came".
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