I still hear the roar of guns when I close my eyes—an endless thunder rolling over black volcanic sand. I’m Corporal Ira Hayes of the United States Marine Corps, a Pima Indian from Arizona, and what I’m about to tell you is etched in me sharper than any rifle scar.
We hit Iwo Jima on February 19, 1945. At first light, the beach looked like a nightmare—smoke choking the air, bodies half buried in ash, and cliffs bristling with enemy fire. I was scared, yes, but there was no room for fear when you’re cold, wet, and being shot at from every direction. My hands shook as I reloaded, but I kept moving forward, cradling a wounded buddy, dragging him toward cover. That was the way it went: kill or be killed, help or be left, pray or go under.
By day four, we’d clawed our way up to Mount Suribachi’s base. The Marines were exhausted—faces streaked with sweat, blood, and grit—but the order came down: seize that hill. I remember gripping my rifle barrel-first, using every ounce of strength to scramble up the slope. Every step was like climbing grief itself.
When we reached the rim, the top was empty—until Lt. Schrier’s men hoisted our first tiny flag. It fluttered against smoke-stained clouds, and for a moment, our battered souls lifted too. But a single, small flag wasn’t enough. Word crackled through the radios: “We need a larger one.”
Lieutenant Bradley picked up a heavier standard. I and five other Marines—my brothers in arms—volunteered without a word. I looked at Pfc. Sousley on my right, sweat trickling into his eye, and gave him a nod. Together we moved through the shellfire, stepping over the bodies of men who’d never see their families again.
That moment when we clipped the flag’s pole into the ground—every marine’s fingers stained with oil and blood—was nothing like the photos show. There was no triumphant trumpet. There was only the shriek of shells, the snap of billowing canvas, and the hush that fell over us as if the world paused to catch its breath. I
I remember touching the coarse fabric, feeling the weight of every man who fought, and thinking of the Pima reservation back home—my mother’s proud eyes, my siblings waving from the porch, the desert’s quiet stillness.
They snapped the picture, and suddenly we were immortal. But I didn’t feel immortal. I felt hollow, carrying the ghosts of the seventy thousand Japanese defenders who had died and the six thousand Marines we’d lost just for a barren hill.
After the war, I partied to forget—booze, noise, crowds. Yet sleep always brought me back to that hilltop. Sometimes I wake gasping, certain I’ll see that flag again, but instead I feel only the empty tug of absence.
I don’t know if I’ll ever truly find peace. But when I remember I was one of the six who raised Old Glory at Iwo Jima, I hold on to the belief that even in hell, hope can find us—that a handful of men can lift a nation’s spirit with a single, trembling act of faith. That, at least, is our legacy.
