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
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