None But Heroes Remain
The genesis of the following poem “None But Heroes” was the text of the last letter home from my dad’s brother, Charles Roscoe Moore of Perryville, Missouri. He was killed assaulting the island of Saipan the following month, on June 15, 1944. He was 20 years old. Born January 14, 1924 in Fairfield, Illinois (near Albion). Entered service July 1, 1942. Served in Company H, 6th Regiment of 2nd Marine Division. Saw action in Gaudalcanal, Tarawa & Saipan. [My dad is James Roger Moore – nicknamed Rod]
May 5, 1944
Dear Folks,
As I write this I am pretty much in the dark but I do know that I am going to make another landing on enemy soil. What the news correspondents so glowingly call amphibious operations. I have done it twice before once on Guadalcanal once on Tarawa, but both times I had a nice comfortable beachhead set up ahead of me so that things were pretty easy. This time I’m in an assault wave. Every beachhead set up by Marines is paid for with blood. American blood. I’m not afraid now. I truthfully believe that I’m ready for whatever may come my way.
I’d give anything to get home to see you folks, the folks at Albion and just to look at Perryville again. I’d like to see the kids that I knew when I was at home although I realize that none of them are kids anymore. I have come to realize that I am no longer a kid. I’d like to go fishing with Dad, swimming at the old split-rock with Rod and the gang. I’d like to tease Ruthie some more, I’d give anything to just talk with Mom or help her with her washings. I’d like to find the right girl, get a job and settle down. These things are what I’m fighting for. These and many other things. These are the things that I’ll be giving up if I do fall at the hands of the cruelest, toughest, and meanest enemy that our country has ever had. I said a minute ago that I’m not afraid. I don’t mean that like it sounds for everything inside of me seems to be in my mouth when I think of it. What I mean is that I’m willing to give up all those things myself if it will help others to get what I’m missing now. I want Rod and Ruth and their kids when they are born to have those things.
Please don’t grieve for me because I know exactly what I’m doing. I think now that I knew all the time. My greatest prayer is that you’ll never read this letter. I’m almost laughing at myself for writing it, for right now I know I’m a better man than any Jap in the world. As we say, you don’t worry about that piece of lead or steel with your number on it, but the ones to look out for are the ones flying around with miscellaneous written on it.
Love as ever,
Charlie –
None But Heroes Remain Across a thousand and a thousand years over stony ground, or muddy fields where saw-grass, and fennel and broom-sedge were trampled beneath the boots of men marching to some cause; are names sanctified with blood, and honor. Carthage, Troy, Gettysburg, Saipan – the places of destruction and devotion, consecrated to the last full measure; ground made holy by the spirits left to watch over it long after the warriors have returned home. A faithful soldier, beside a rock-bottomed creek, after sickness and desertion thinned his ranks, narrowing too slim chances further still, writes in a letter home: "None but heroes remain." Barely louder than the sighing wind, we can almost hear the exalted general steady his repulsed and shattered troops, "…we only want brave and true men, now…" "…the Almighty has covered you with glory…" he intones; offering sacraments of his soul – as rations to fill their profound emptiness, and treat the hidden wounds. But, what did they see? All the true and brave men staring blankly at the sky above the altar where they fell? Honor and cause and glory, or their mothers hanging wash out on a line? Across a thousand and a thousand years, and fields beyond numbering, the broom-sedge and goldenrod, again reach for the light over the meadows, and stand as they did before soldiers tramped them down. The hallowed earth accepts the broken flowers, and the brave blood as one, to hold in silent trust, and needs no marble monument to proclaim – "None but heroes remain."