Flags of Our Fathers Page #8

he tried a few things

but spent the rest of his life as a janitor.

But Ira...

Ira! You got a visitor.

Ira always made the news.

I could never find out why he did it,

but one day Ira just took off.

He walked and hitched over 1,300 miles

from Arizona to Texas.

He found Harlon Block's father

working his field.

His wife, Belle, had left him

soon after they discovered Harlon died.

She never forgave him

for letting her son go off to war.

And Ira told him the truth,

that it had been his son

who raised the flag with them,

his son in the photograph.

And then

he just turned and walked away.

Though the flag-raising

meant nothing to him,

he somehow knew

it would mean everything to them.

Thanks for calling.

Just as Belle knew all along.

The press soon found out

and called Hank's mom with the news

that it wasn't her son after all.

The last time they all saw each other

was at the unveiling

of the Marine Corps War Memorial.

And even though he planted

the first flag above lwo Jima,

Hank's mother and father

weren't invited.

Ira.

It's good to see you, Ira.

Hell of a statue.

It wasn't long after that

that they found Ira.

The papers said he died of exposure.

There was no autopsy.

It was about that same time

when my father got in his car

early one morning

telling my mom he had something to do.

He drove to a town on the other side

of Wisconsin where lggy's mom lived.

Ever since

she heard the news about her son

she'd been trying to find out

how he died, and no one would tell her.

I never found out what he told her,

but I can pretty much guarantee

it wasn't the truth.

My mother would ask him

what was troubling him.

He would never say.

And every year,

as it got close to Memorial Day,

the reporters would start calling

asking to interview my father.

No, I'm sorry. He's fishing in Canada.

We were always instructed

to say the same thing.

Okay. Thanks.

When Mr. McCandless retired,

my father bought the funeral home

where he'd worked since coming home.

He spent the rest of his life running

the business and raising his family.

He never spoke about the war

or about the flag-raising,

never told us anything.

The first time I heard any

of these stories was after he died.

Where is he? Oh, God.

He's not here, Dad.

He died.

Who? Who died?

Lggy.

Iggy.

Christ, poor lggy.

I hadn't thought of him for years.

How do you know about lggy?

You were calling for him,

when you collapsed.

I wasn't looking for lggy.

I was looking for you.

I wanted to...

I wanted to tell you

I'm sorry I wasn't a better father.

Talked to you more.

I just...

I'm sorry.

Sorry?

You were the best father

a man could have.

Did I ever tell you

they took us swimming?

No, Dad.

After we planted the flag,

we came down off the mountain

and they let us swim.

It was the funniest thing.

All this fighting

and we were jumping around

in the water like kids.

That's the way I remember lggy now.

I finally came to the conclusion

that maybe he was right.

Maybe there's no such thing as heroes.

Maybe there are just people

like my dad.

I finally came to understand

why they were so uncomfortable

being called heroes.

Heroes are something we create,

something we need.

It's a way for us to understand

what is almost incomprehensible,

how people could sacrifice

so much for us.

But for my dad and these men,

the risks they took,

the wounds they suffered,

they did that for their buddies.

They may have fought for their country,

but they died for their friends.

For the man in front,

for the man beside them.

And if we wish to truly honor these men,

we should remember them

the way they really were,

the way my dad remembered them.

Come on, Doc!

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