In September 1945, World War II ended with the surrender of Japan. This event was marked with jubilation everywhere. In London, New York and Washington DC the streets filled spontaneously with giant crowds happy that the war was over. To paraphrase a beloved wartime song, “the lights went on again all over the world.”
Those young Americans who had done so much for victory were going home and they were happy to be alive. Marines breathed a sigh of relief knowing they wouldn’t face another beach head. In tents and Quonset huts, ball fields and recreation centers, Marines came together to celebrate a new lease on life. For them, victory was a bittersweet thing. The ones who were alive were glad to be so. But they knew better than anyone the cost of winning the war.
VJ Day passed quietly in other places. In cemeteries all over the world, the flag flew above the graves of Marines and Corpsmen who could never take part in the victory celebrations. And in homes everywhere in America, their families, sweethearts and friends faced a tragic reality: for them, there would be no homecomings from World War II for their Marines.
Touched by fire
Across the world, the path of the Second World War was marked by white crosses and Stars of David. More than 25,000 Marines and their brother Corpsmen rested forever beneath mounds of shining coral, black sand, or lush grass. Some slept forever in their ships and planes, locked at the bottom of the deep ocean. And others were to spend eternity in forgotten caves and overgrown jungle clearings, classified as missing–presumed dead. More than a few had simply disappeared, never to be found.
No matter how skilled a Marine might be with his equipment and weapons, the next artillery round might have his number on it. His amphibian tractor could be the next to take a direct hit. The Japanese could have that patch of ground zeroed in and interlocked with machine guns. The possibilities were endless.
Those Marines knew something about death – too much. In their youth, they were already familiar with cemeteries. Each time they returned to their camps after an operation, empty bunks symbolized buddies who were just gone, and holes in the platoon to be filled with replacements. The phrase “kill or be killed” was more than empty words to them. It was life and death.
With the world in conflict, the Marines saw, smelled and tasted war on the most intensely personal level. They stood on the rails of darkened troopships and wondered how long they had to live. They looked at their buddies standing in formations and asked themselves, “I wonder who isn’t gonna make it?” They saw too many of their best friends die in the most horrible ways possible.
Those who had survived the harsh and unforgiving experience of combat struggled with coming to grips with what they had lived through. There were so many dead friends and brother Marines. On battlefields across the Pacific, cemeteries, with their countless graves neatly laid out in perfect rows, bore silent testament to the war’s pitiless nature. Units joined together to dedicate the sacred ground where so many of their buddies laid in final rest. Commanders and Navy chaplains gave heartfelt eulogies in tribute to the lives lost.
The price of victory in the Pacific War
When Major General Graves B. Erskine spoke at the dedication of the Third Marine Division Cemetery on Iwo Jima in 1945, he spoke words that, in a sense, represented all the Marines and attached Navy personnel who fell in the war:
Victory was never in doubt. Its cost was. The enemy could have displaced every cubic inch on this fortress with concrete pillboxes and blockhouses, which he nearly did, and still victory would not have been in doubt. What was in doubt, in all our minds, was whether there would be any of us left to dedicate this cemetery at the end, or whether the last Marine would die knocking out the last Japanese gun and gunner.
Let the world count our crosses! Let them count over and over. Then when they understand the significance of the fighting for Iwo Jima, let them wonder how few they are. We understand and we wonder–we who are separated from our dead by a few feet of earth; from death by inches and fractions of an inch. The cost to us in quality, one who did not fight side by side with those who fell, can never understand.
When the war was over, the Marines moved on with their lives. They raised families, went to work, and tried to find their piece of the American dream. The medals were put away in boxes, or maybe framed and hung on the wall. As best they could, the Marines tried to forget the time when life counted for nothing, when eternity was measured in seconds, when the only thing that mattered was the next beachhead.
Legacy
As we reflect today on the fallen, it is easy to trivialize their sacrifice. We say, “They died for freedom,” or, “They were the heroes.” Both are factual, but they mask other important truths.
First, most of the dead didn’t want to die. They wanted to live, but not many had a choice. Second, their brother Marines who survived were, for the rest of their lives, left with the haunting question, “Why Joe, or Pete, or Gizmo, and not me?”
In the final tally, the United States Marine Corps was victorious not because of its weapons, but because of its men. In every last battle of the Pacific war, Marines stood on the razor’s edge between life and death.
Struggling each day to survive, American men wearing the eagle, globe and anchor accomplished their mission. Many of them died in battle. More were wounded. Some succumbed to the horrors of combat. Others were injured or killed by accidents. All of them who served were affected in ways large and small by their experience of war.
Victory came at a high cost and the bill is still being paid. To most people, World War II feels like remote history. Yet for some Americans, the scars are still so painful, it feels like just last week. Sons and daughters grew up without their fathers. Wives, fiancees and girlfriends somehow found a way to go on but never forgot. Mothers and fathers carried the horrible memory of their children dying before them.
And a generation of Marines, themselves almost all dead now, carried the burden of their buddies and shipmates lost in World War II—a familiar weight, like the packs and rifles they shouldered when they were young.
Never forget,
Mark
Note: I am indebted to Marine Robert Tracy for allowing me to use the excellent Marine Corps Emblem image at the start of this article. He is a fine artist and you can see work here.
Well done sir. The picture is very clear.