E-GIANTS
Dave Klein was the Giants' beat writer for The Star-Ledger from 1961 to 1995.
He is the author of 26 books and he was one of only three sportswriters to have covered all the Super Bowls up until last year. Dave has allowed TEAM GIANTS to reprint some of his articles.

(You have seen this column for years on Memorial Day, and with any luck you'll continue to see it year after year. Those who fought and made the supreme consolation contributed so much, too much, and we owe them all boundless gratitude)

By Dave Klein
We have seen it countless times: The stirring photograph snapped 79 years ago of five U.S. Marines and one Navy Corpsman raising the American flag atop Mount Suribachi on the Japanese-held island of Iwo Jima. It is a picture of a moment captured on the fourth day of the month-long battle for Iwo Jima.
It symbolized the American struggle in World War II and it literally defined the modern Marine Corps.

As that flag went up, thousands of Marines and sailors across the island cheered, as did sailors witnessing the event off-shored. Ships' horns sounded in a cacophony of bedlam. Whistles shrieked. From the main deck of the USS Eldorado, a beaming Secretary of the Navy, James Forrestal, turned to Marine General Holland M. Smith and exclaimed: "Holland the raising of that flag on Suribachi means we'll have a Marine Corps for the next 500 years."

What most Americans forgot, however, was that the battle was far from over. Three of the six men who raised that flag on Feb. 23, 1945, would soon be killed in action. And from then until March 17, more than 7,000 Americans would perish as they wrested control of the island from the enemy. Most of those Americans were unsung or unknown in general American culture.

One of those Americans was First Lieutenant Andrew Jackson "Jack" Lummus, a Texas-born Marine officer and recipient of the Medal of Honor - then and today, the epitome of all that is wrapped up in what it means to be a Marine.

I remember someone once telling me that because most Marines are athletically inclined and by nature highly competitive in their tenacity during battle, they must have set many unrecorded track and field records during the Iwo Jima siege.
Lummus must have set a few on his own. In fact, he was setting them before he joined the Marines - when he was a defensive lineman with the New York Giants.
Lummus was an All-American at Baylor and played for the Giants in1941, but when Pearl Harbor stunned the world on Dec. 7, 1941, he enlisted in the Marines as soon as the season was over (it ended with an NFL Championship game).

Three years later, he was busy spotting enemy targets on Suribachi as his fellow Marines climbed up the hill with the famous flag. Within days, he would be assigned to E Company, 2nd Battalion, 27th Marines of the 5th Marine Division, where he was given command of the 3rd Platoon.
That's when all those unrecorded records began to be set.
For two days and nights of violent fighting against, according to his Medal of Honor citation, "fantastic opposition," Lummus led his Marines forward toward the northern edge of the island. On the morning of March 8 the former Giant found himself spear-heading E Company's assault against a series of interconnecting enemy foxholes, spider traps, bunkers and caves.

At one point, Lummus was sprinting forward with his men when a grenade blast knocked him to the ground. Stunned, but without serious injury, he quickly regained his feet and continued the attack. He then charged an enemy bunker and cleared it with his machine gun. A second grenade exploded near him, shattering his shoulder, yet according to the citation, "he staunchly continued his heroic one-man assault and charged the pillbox, annihilating all occupants."

Then he ordered a platoon assault on an enemy emplacement to end the battle. As the Marines charged, Lummus stepped on a land mine.
The Marines initially thought their lieutenant was standing in a hole, but then they realized that Lummus was upright, attempting to stand on two bloody stumps.
Several of the younger Marines, weeping like children, ran to his side. Some of the older men briefly considered how to best put him out of his pain. But Lummus kept urging them forward. "Dammit, keep moving," he yelled. "You can't stop now."

According to the official report, "their tears turned to rage and they swept an incredible 300 yards over impossible ground, and there was no question that the dirty, tired and wounded men, cursing, crying and still fighting, had done it for Jack Lummus."
Hours later, on a stretcher bound for the operating table, an ashen-faced Lummus managed a smile for the Navy surgeon and quipped: "Well doc, I guess the Giants have lost the services of a damned good end."
Jack Lummus died that afternoon at the age of 29 and was buried at the base of Mount Suribachi, not far from where he had landed in the first wave three weeks earlier. The Medal of Honor was awarded posthumously. But it should be remembered that without the sacrifices of "Giants" like Jack Lummus, there would be no flag to raise, no victories to memorialize.

There have been many such giants in our history, and we must honor all of them, always tell their stories and hope that we would be as courageous and unselfish. We must continue to tell the stories of those who fought in Korea, Afghanistan, Iraq, Ukraine and all the rest in the never-ending war on terror around the world.
It just doesn't seem to fit to say Happy Memorial Day. Just remember it, and for what it stands.

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