Iwo Jima
March 31, 2015
Seventy years had passed since the end of World War II when Jerry Yellin stepped foot on Iwo Jima once again. It no longer looked like the war-zone that had greeted him as a twenty-one-year-old pilot. The winds of peace blowing gently across the Pacific proved much sweeter than the smell of death and war that had greeted him during his first stay on Iwo Jima. The mounds of dead bodies he’d witnessed on that first arrival were long since gone, and thousands of neatly maintained graves stood in silent tribute to the Marines who’d died to secure the island for the Allied war effort. The island itself had been turned back over to Japan, a nation that, within a generation, had gone from America’s bitter enemy to trusted ally.
But the last living fighter pilot from that final mission over Japan had not come to celebrate all the changes that had occurred since 1945; he had returned at the invitation of the Japanese government to honor those with whom he had served. Here, on what had once been hell on earth, Japanese and American soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines now stood together on a windswept day, saluting the handful of elderly warriors on both sides who were still alive. Jerry and a small number of American Iwo Jima veterans in their nineties stood side-by-side with, hugged, and even saluted a few of the equally old Japanese veterans who’d once been their mortal enemies. Many tears were shed for the fallen.
As for the men of Jerry’s Seventy-Eighth Fighter Squadron, and the Seventh Fighter Command, most of them were gone now. Tapp, Vande Hey, and Crim had all became senior officers in the U.S. Air Force and lived to ripe old age before hearing the final call of Taps. Others, like White and Mathis, had given their golden years, a chance to raise a family and to die and rest in peace on the very soil of their homeland, to freedom’s cause.
Jerry stood for both of them now, and for the three classmates who’d arrived together with him in Hawaii in 1943. Bob Roseberry had died on March 17, 2015, just two weeks before Jerry’s return to Iwo Jima. Bob Ruby had eventually moved to Battle Creek, Michigan and died in November of 1999. Al Sherren, of course, had given his life to his country on July 8, 1945, over Tokyo.
Jerry stood, too, for Phil Schlamberg, whose death marked the end of the costliest war in human history. Phil’s memory would be carried on not only by his fellow pilot, but by his niece, Melanie Sloan, who researched his legacy long after his death, and by his great-nieces, Vanessa and Scarlett Johansson, both well-known actresses. Even with the tremendous talent in his family, however, Phil—shot down and killed at the age of 19 in service to his country—was the family hero.
For as long as Jerry could stand on Iwo Jima, Phil and the rest of his fallen comrades would not be forgotten.
The veteran’s face had worn over the passage of time. His body wasn’t as strong as it had once been, nor was his coordination quite as sharp. But still, even seventy years later, he fit proudly into his khaki uniform, with his silver captain’s bars pinned to his right collar. And his salute was as sharp as the day he had accepted his commission.
His own life had been a series of twists and turns, triumph and tears, hope and tragedy, patience and perseverance. He never married the girl named Doris for whom his plane had been named. But he had spent nearly a lifetime with the true love of his life, Helene, who he met on a blind date on Good Friday, 1949. Helene had passed away on June 23, 2015, after sixty-five wonderful years of marriage. Her loss, so late in life, would be the most painful of all for the old fighter pilot.
In perhaps the supreme irony of the veteran’s life, meanwhile, his son would marry a Japanese girl and move to Japan, and Jerry would learn to love, respect, and commune with the very people that he had once, with all his might, tried to kill, and who had taken the lives of the fellow airmen closest to him.
Over the course of the war, Jerry had flown with a total of sixteen pilots who did not come back. And yet, there was no bitterness as his feet rested on the soil that had cost him and others so dearly.
“The greatest honor of my life,” he declared before the ceremony started that wind-swept day on Iwo Jima, as he stood under the American flag brought to life by the powerful Pacific breeze, “was to serve my country.”
Later, his aging hand would flash a final salute—a visible tribute to the invisible heroes now resting in peace in the heart of the island and depths of the sea.
He was the last fighter pilot of their heroic cause, and he would stand with them forever.
THE AIRMAN’S CREED
I am an American Airman.
I am a Warrior.
I have answered my Nation’s call.
I am an American Airman.
My mission is to Fly, Fight, and Win.
I am faithful to a Proud Heritage,
A Tradition of Honor,
And a Legacy of Valor.
I am an American Airman.
Guardian of Freedom and Justice,
My Nation’s Sword and Shield,
Its Sentry and Avenger.
I defend my Country with my Life.
I am an American Airman.
Wingman, Leader, Warrior.
I will never leave an Airman behind,
I will never falter,
And I will not fail.
General T. Michael Moseley
Chief of Staff
United States Air Force
April 27, 2007
Washington, D.C.