Time: Wed Nov 12 23:52:13 1997
	by primenet.com (8.8.5/8.8.5) with ESMTP id WAA14789;
	Wed, 12 Nov 1997 22:13:22 -0700 (MST)
Date: Thu, 13 Nov 1997 00:12:43 -0500
Originator: heritage-l@gate.net
From: Paul Andrew Mitchell [address in tool bar]
To: pmitch@primenet.com
Subject: SLF: "We Took That Mountain" [a true story]

Dear Bob et al.,

You are very welcome.

That essay never fails
to make me weep, even
though I wrote it, and
no matter how many times
I re-read it.

Be well.

/s/ Paul Mitchell
http://supremelaw.com



At 12:27 AM 11/12/97 -0500, you wrote:
>Paul, that was beautiful.  Made me think of my Dad in the Phillipines.
>        And those us in 'Nam!!
>Thnaks for a beautil poem.
>Bob Hoover
>
>Paul Andrew Mitchell wrote:
>
>> In honor of my father,
>> on Veteran's Day.
>>
>> Dad, there aren't many men,
>> like you, still left in this
>> world.
>>
>> /s/ Paul Mitchell
>> http://supremelaw.com
>>
>> [This text is formatted in Courier 11, non-proportional spacing.]
>>
>>                      "We Took That Mountain"
>>
>>                                by
>>
>>                          John E. Trumane
>>
>>
>>      I often  wonder what  it was like.  You have trained hard at
>> Parris Island,  slogged through  mud on  your belly,  50 calibers
>> whizzing two  feet overhead.  Some guys just lost it, went crazy,
>> sent home.  I often wonder.
>>      What would  be going  through  your  mind  as  you  see  Mt.
>> Surabachi approaching  in the  smokey distance,  a narrow slit on
>> the horizon  framed by  your helmet  and the  lip of  the landing
>> craft.
>>      Your eyes  turn left,  just as a shell takes a direct hit on
>> the next  craft over,  bodies and  body parts  go flying in every
>> which direction.   You  close your  eyes and  ask yourself:  they
>> were no different from us.
>>      The Navy  behind  you  is  pouring  in  12-inch  guns  at  a
>> ferocious pace;   they  scream through  the air near the speed of
>> sound, and  echo back  delayed  destruction.    You  trust  those
>> gunners;  their aim is awesome, always near the mark.
>>      The waves  are changing shape, the water is getting shallow.
>> More fifty  calibers are  whizzing by,  this time getting closer.
>> Some ping off the craft, a metal wash tub with twin diesels.
>>      You reach  the crest  of a wave, and then surf into hell, as
>> the ramp falls and it's the moment of truth.
>>      You don't  have time  to ask,  what am I doing here, because
>> you are  running for  dear life.  You recognize the sound of your
>> captain yelling,  hit the  sand and crawl in, men.  Dig in beyond
>> the water line.
>>      The Japs  are ferocious  too.   This is  their last air base
>> before the  mainland.   Two runways,  actually.  One at each end.
>> These fascists will stop at nothing to defend their Emperor.
>>      We huddle  in our makeshift sand castles, trying to keep our
>> powder dry.   My job:  get the machine gun close in, take out all
>> buildings, and secure the first runway.
>>      We sit  while the  Navy pours  it on,  big guns now, every 5
>> seconds.   The roar  is deafening.   Men  are  dying,  screaming,
>> bleeding.  What am I doing here?
>>      The captain over there loses it, goes crazy.  A GI yanks him
>> in a  trench and  knocks him cold, our new squad commander, ok by
>> me.   The Navy is relentless, big guns every second now.  How can
>> they reload  so fast?   American engineering:  we machinists know
>> all about it -- the best ever, bar none.
>>      The smoke  is choking  us alive, thick and black, sulfurous,
>> hot ashen coral raised to plasma temperatures.  Why would anybody
>> want to work here?
>>      The Navy  waits, to  let the smoke clear, assay the damages.
>> Eerie silence.  There is nothing in front of us except black sand
>> with huge  meteor craters,  freshly made.  Move out, we hear, and
>> our training kicks in.  No time to think, just keep moving.
>>      My buddy  comes near.  We take  inventory:  one water cooled
>> machine gun,  one thousand  rounds, more  for the asking, tripod,
>> carbine, back  pack, portable  shovel, pick,  what we're wearing.
>> That's it.  Move out.
>>      We come upon bodies, lots of them, still, mangled, lifeless.
>> Don't look down;  just look forward.  We drag heavy loads through
>> black sand and ash.  No color anywhere;  just black and white and
>> grey, lots of it.
>>      A shot  from behind,  a Marine down, killed in action, right
>> in the  back.  So, they lay there feigning injury, only to pop up
>> as we  pass by.   Ok,  that's it.   No  prisoners.   We pull  our
>> butcher knives  and go  for throats.   Grisly,  effective.  Every
>> Marine is  priceless, every  one expendable.   Like  Lawrence, of
>> Arabia.
>>      Time starts  to fade  into slow motion.  We inch along, take
>> this tree, that palm, this bunker.  Charlie gets a flame thrower,
>> we watch  in muted  shock.   Nothing is too terrible now;  we are
>> going to TAKE that runway.
>>      Night falls,  sleep impossible.  Charlie screams his insults
>> in strange  Jap accents.   Almost  funny, almost.   We  count our
>> losses:   Billy, Johnny,  Efraim, Christopher, Sassy Brooks, Zeb,
>> Mack and Danny.  All gone, all dead, going home now.
>>      The sun  rises in  front of  us, framing  another rising sun
>> flapping in  the breeze.   The  runway, not far ahead, beckons to
>> our instincts, the killer kind.
>>      We creep  in silently,  no resistance.   Japs are gone, only
>> snipers high  up in  the  palms,  sitting  ducks.    Stupid  too.
>> Kamikazes with no planes, brain washed.
>>      We take  turns, it's  a shooting  gallery.   This isn't even
>> funny.  We take their guns, worthless rounds, and break 'em.
>>      The eerie  silence is  broken now  by fading  gun shots.   A
>> moment of calm descends upon this seething smoking inferno.
>>      We hear  the faint drone of a Jap Zero, headed for home.  He
>> never got  word:   this runway  is history.  He glides in, bouncy
>> landing, taxies  to one  end.   Marines watch, reload quietly, no
>> orders this time.  We all know what we're going to do.
>>      Pilot cuts his engine, opens the canopy, we open up.  Shells
>> pour in  again, this  time from  M-1's and  machine guns, dozens,
>> hundreds, thousands  of rounds  shred  the  Zero  into  bits  and
>> pieces, glass,  rubber and aluminum flying every which direction.
>> That plane  is history  too.   We revel,  leave it  to block  the
>> runway.   Some take  souvenirs.   The rest  reload.  I pee in the
>> barrel jacket again.
>>      One down.  One to go.
>>      Time again  slows down.  How many days now?  Two?  Three?  I
>> can't remember.   We trudge along.  More ammo arrives.  Food too.
>> C-rations.   Yumm.   We urinate  into the  barrel to  save water.
>> This place  is hot,  very hot,  almost too  hot.    Too  hot  for
>> comfort, for sure.
>>      We set our sites for runway two, in that clearing, up ahead.
>> Mortar fire,  first  scattered,  then  regular,  now  a  frequent
>> problem.   My buddy and I move in, stake out a position, start to
>> dig, his  shovel worthless  against the  hard-packed coral.  They
>> rolled this runway, very hard, asphalt nowhere.
>>      My pick  is working,  thank God.   I dig, he removes debris.
>> It's still slow going.  We dig for our lives.
>>      More mortars. Oh, no.  They've zeroed our position.  You can
>> tell as blasts come closer, faster.  This one, right now, you can
>> hear, is coming right in.  Billy, take cover, I yell.
>>      He dives  in one  direction, I in another.  The blast almost
>> takes his hands off, the ring in my ears unbearable.  Through the
>> smoke, I see Billy's hit, hit bad, motionless, moaning.
>>      I crawl  to him,  he's still alive.  Japs figure our machine
>> gun's out, they re-target.  Billy goes over my left shoulder, and
>> two carbines  over my right.  Forget the machine gun;  too heavy;
>> takes two anyway.  We're now one and a half, Marines that is.
>>      Billy breathes,  but barely,  can't talk,  bleeding bad.   I
>> trudge through  deep sand,  echoes of  smoke  fill  the  air,  me
>> yelling Medic!   Medic!   Billy  needs help,  OVER HERE.   Nobody
>> hears, too much chaos.  I trudge, I trudge.
>>      Something is  hot, liquid,  near my jaw.  I been too busy to
>> check myself.   I  raise my right hand to feel my pulse, blood is
>> pouring down  by wrist.   I  am hit.  I don't even know it.  What
>> gives?  Is this some bad dream?
>>      I realize,  that's IT.   I'm  OUT OF  HERE.   Next stop, the
>> hospital ship.   Medics  near now.   I  collapse in  their  arms,
>> totally, completely,  utterly exhausted,  and pass out, and dream
>> of my  beautiful bride,  Anna Marie,  slender,  loving,  chestnut
>> hair, sea blue eyes.  This must be heaven, at long last.
>>      That was  my birthday, 1945.  Billy made it, docs worked two
>> miracles, one  on each  hand.   We ran  into each  other  on  the
>> hospital ship.   First  time, he  didn't recognize me, my face so
>> heavily bandaged, after several surgeries.  The shrapnel had just
>> missed my spine.  God's little miracles, for sure.
>>      Everything got  mixed up  -- time,  space, where, when, how?
>> It didn't matter.  We were alive, and we were on our way home.
>>      The commander  wanted me  back.   You can  wear your  Purple
>> Heart on  your lapel,  he said.   I  told him, I'd rather take it
>> home and show it to my son.  Thank you anyway.
>>      I later saw that photo, 4 "Gyrines" raising old Glory, right
>> atop Mt.  Surabachi.   I knew  those red  stripes were  soaked in
>> blood, the  whites were  stained as  well.  4 guys, just like me,
>> their names forever written on the wind.
>>      Next stop  for them,  the Japanese  mainland.  Next stop for
>> me, a farm in Oregon, cows, chickens, dogs and geese.  And a time
>> to recuperate  from shell shock, and a time to thank God for this
>> country.   We left  fascism behind  when we  came back from hell,
>> where it belongs, where it should stay.
>>
>>                              #  #  #
>>
>> ===========================================================================
>> Paul Andrew Mitchell, Sui Juris      : Counselor at Law, federal witness 01
>> B.A.: Political Science, UCLA;   M.S.: Public Administration, U.C.Irvine 02
>> tel:     (520) 320-1514: machine; fax: (520) 320-1256: 24-hour/day-night 03
>> email:   [address in tool bar]       : using Eudora Pro 3.0.3 on 586 CPU 04
>> website: http://supremelaw.com       : visit the Supreme Law Library now 05
>> ship to: c/o 2509 N. Campbell, #1776 : this is free speech,  at its best 06
>>              Tucson, Arizona state   : state zone,  not the federal zone 07
>>              Postal Zone 85719/tdc   : USPS delays first class  w/o this 08
>> _____________________________________: Law is authority in written words 09
>> As agents of the Most High, we came here to establish justice.  We shall 10
>> not leave, until our mission is accomplished and justice reigns eternal. 11
>> ======================================================================== 12
>> [This text formatted on-screen in Courier 11, non-proportional spacing.] 13
>
>
>
>
>

===========================================================================
Paul Andrew Mitchell, Sui Juris      : Counselor at Law, federal witness 01
B.A.: Political Science, UCLA;   M.S.: Public Administration, U.C.Irvine 02
tel:     (520) 320-1514: machine; fax: (520) 320-1256: 24-hour/day-night 03
email:   [address in tool bar]       : using Eudora Pro 3.0.3 on 586 CPU 04
website: http://supremelaw.com       : visit the Supreme Law Library now 05
ship to: c/o 2509 N. Campbell, #1776 : this is free speech,  at its best 06
             Tucson, Arizona state   : state zone,  not the federal zone 07
             Postal Zone 85719/tdc   : USPS delays first class  w/o this 08
_____________________________________: Law is authority in written words 09
As agents of the Most High, we came here to establish justice.  We shall 10
not leave, until our mission is accomplished and justice reigns eternal. 11
======================================================================== 12
[This text formatted on-screen in Courier 11, non-proportional spacing.] 13

      


Return to Table of Contents for

Supreme Law School:   E-mail