Flags of Our Fathers Page #9

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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