Where Heroes Died

                 Dusty Sterling

I can remember only four times that I have knowingly stood where heroes died.  Gettysburg.  The Alamo.  The 9/11 Memorial. Wake Island.

Wake Island is a horseshoe of land in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Not more than 8 meters at it’s highest point.  The lagoon inside the horseshoe is a bright azure, neon turquoise in appearance.  Gazing down at it I wanted nothing more than to swim in it’s cool depths, to lay on the white sand that frames the edges and accept all the warmth of the sun above.  The lagoon is tangible peace and tranquility where nothing but sunshine, blue water, and the breeze filtering through the palm trees rule the air.  It was paradise and I could have stayed there forever. 

            But nothing is perfection.

            On the eastern side of the island, waves hit the rocks and coral with a steady fury, splashing several feet into the air to make their point – this tiny atoll doesn’t belong in their path.  The water here is darker, deeper, dangerous.  It dons a white cap as it nears the rocks and the waves beat the shore in cadence.  I thrilled to the roar of water as it met coral, worn and rounded from millions of such waves, yet remaining undaunted to resist them.

            I’ve never known a place like it.  The air smells like salt water tastes, the wind sweeps over the island in a never-ending rush, but it brings a slight reprieve from the heat’s oppression.  Yet despite the breeze the humidity is nearly overwhelming, bearing down until I felt as if I were breathing filtered water with every breath.

     It is silent in the midst of the ocean, forgotten by the busy world far away.  The wind is lonely, searching for a home, but finding only sun-bleached coral and swaying palm trees, it moves south, forever searching.

            The clamor of waves agains the east shore is louder than ever, yet it echoes the lonely search of the winds that drive them, complimenting the eerie silence with a menacing rhythm.

            I walked the paths of white rocks only to find they weren’t rocks – they were pieces of coral, crushed and bleached by the sun and showing the way to the old bunker.  A bunker made of concrete and rebar, still standing from it’s construction in the 1940's.  Dilapidated and promising to disintegrate, but still standing.  I went inside, careful to tread reverently in this place.  In the center lay a concrete block covered with sand and dirt and imprinted with boot marks.  I left mine in their midst.

            I stood on the beach and imagined 36 Japanese bombers overhead, raining fire and brimstone on the less than 500 defenders below.  I could see the American planes in flames and the airfield bombed into wreckage beyond repair.  The stutter of anti-aircraft guns could still be heard on the wind, their shells exploding harmlessly behind the retreating bombers whose job was now complete.  Wounded men screaming, dying men silent, the living knowing their own time was short.  But like the coral on the

shore, they refused to yield.  For 16 days they held strong.

            But the Japanese were too many in the end.

            I stood on the shore, my heart pounding and my eyes wet.  Wake Island is not entirely forgotten, for the memorial stands sentinel beneath the Pacific sun, remnants of aircraft and iron frames that once were anti-aircraft guns rest on the soil where so much blood was spilled long ago.  This is heroism.  This is bravery.