Preparing for the Rain on Iwo Jima Isle follows the life and military service of Marion Frank Walker, who was born and raised in a peaceful small town in southern Indiana during the Depression years. Frank was just 16 years old when America received that now legendary "wake-up call" on December 7th, 1941, as planes from Japanese aircraft carriers bombed and torpedoed the U.S. naval fleet stationed at Pearl Harbor in Hawaii. In Frank's words "The world as we knew it changed overnight" Thus began the U.S. military involvement in World War II. Eager to serve his country, Frank managed to graduate from high school mid-term of his senior year, and at 17 years old became a proud member of the U.S. Marine Corps. The desire to serve and protect his beloved country would soon send him to the bloody battlefield of Iwo Jima. At 19 years old, he crawled through the volcanic ash that had turned purple from the blood of his fallen comrades, and saw gruesome sights that no person should ever have to witness. Frank is in the posed picture of the flag raising at Iwo Jima as photographed by Joe Rosenthal. He went on from there to become a part of the occupation force at Fukuoka, Japan. After reading of his experiences during this deeply troubling time in history, Frank and his surviving comrades only ask that the people of America remember the sacrifices that have been made for their freedom and that their fallen comrades be remembered.

PREPARING FOR THE RAIN ON IWO JIMA ISLE

The true story of the battle of Iwo Jima survivor, Marion Frank Walker, Corporal, United States Marine Corps By Marion Frank Walker Becky White

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2009 Marion Frank Walker and Becky White
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4490-2958-6

Contents

CHAPTER ONE My Beginning...............................................................1CHAPTER TWO Pauley's Camp And The Indian Mound.........................................15CHAPTER THREE America's Wake-Up Call December 7th, 1941................................21CHAPTER FOUR My Enlistment.............................................................29CHAPTER FIVE Boot Camp, San Diego Style................................................39CHAPTER SIX Camp Pendleton.............................................................46CHAPTER SEVEN Waimea and Camp Tarawa, Hawaii...........................................63CHAPTER EIGHT Iwo Jima.................................................................77CHAPTER NINE Back to Camp Tarawa and On To The Occupation of Japan.....................110CHAPTER TEN The Aftermath of War.......................................................128

Chapter One

MY BEGINNING

When I came into this world on July 9th, 1925, my little town of North Salem, Indiana, didn't order a big parade, but my mother and dad and four year old sister were just as proud. My only sibling was my sister, Ramona, who was named from the book "Ramona" about an Indian girl. Mom and Dad gave me the name of Marion Franklin, the same name as an itinerant preacher by whose demeanor they were smitten. My mother's name before marrying my dad was Grace Dexter Booker, coming from a little town in Jackson County, Indiana, called Medora. My dad was from a family named Walker who settled in North Salem in Hendricks County, Indiana. Our Walker ancestry dates back to Sir Frances Drake in age old England. My grandmother and grandfather settled in North Salem, Indiana, and that little town has become a pivotal point in my life. Back in those days, it had a population of 511, plus or minus a very few. According to the census taken in 2000, the population was 591. Apparently in the 75 years following my birth, there has been a population boom of 80 people! For me, that town has become the Alpha and Omega of my life, in that it was my beginning and will be my end. In remembering my past, I am reminded of an age-old poem:

Backward, turn backward, o time in thy flight, Turn back a century just for tonight. Turn back the cycles of months and years, That all may see glimpses of joys and tears, Of sorrows, of struggles, of pleasures and care, Let's look friends and neighbors at what's written there. Let's view this brave struggle, and God give us grace To preserve and to cherish what time would efface. Backward, turn backward, O time in thy flight, Turn back a century just for tonight, Their mark of events let us view with one mind, With prejudice, envy and malice behind. Let's glean from it lessons of friendship forsooth, The lessons of kindness, of unselfish truth, Let's think of ourselves in time's measureless span, As only a part in a God-given plan. -Grace Duckworth

The generations of today hear our stories about Americans living through the "Great Depression" during the 1930's, and seem to wonder in near disbelief how we survived those years. It seems many of our new "affluent society", who have been given everything both by government and family, can't quite understand the wealth of soul and character that is so often formed through hardships. We, who are now in our 80's, tell about taking our Saturday night baths in a large pan behind a pot-bellied stove. In hindsight, that bar of Life-buoy soap could do wonders! We describe the "outhouse" with the good ole Sears and Roebuck catalog. When we talk about our two room school (sometimes only one), they wonder where we sat the computer!! The thing this new generation does not seem to grasp is that those were in many ways the richest years of our lives, and laid a solid foundation in preparing us for the rain which was bound to come.

I grew up knowing that helping to care for the five acres that my family owned in the country out from Seymour, Indiana, was part of my responsibility. Every square foot that wasn't gardened was used to either raise hogs or chickens. These were the Depression years when we grew most of our food, and never was anything thrown away. As a young boy, I spent hours straightening crooked, rusty nails because they could be used later (and they were!)

During the springs and summers, my sister and I, along with Mom and Dad, would hoe, plant, seed and cultivate our garden until dark. In the late summer and early fall months, the four of us would work side-by-side harvesting, cleaning, and canning our produce on our old woodstove. Then about midnight we would fall into bed so my mother could go to work at the Reliance Shirt Factory in Seymour. She made 38 cents an hour. My dad, who worked as a carpenter and paper hanger, would paper an entire 15 square foot living room for $4.00. Even though people had very little money (even the bankers were broke), they could always find the $4.00 to help give their lives a glimmer of sunshine in their home. Incidentally, the charge of $4.00 back then would cost about $150 to have it done now.

I must tell you about Porky the pig. This pig deserves more than an honorable mention because of his personality.

I grew up understanding that God had made all living creatures. This particular being found himself at a great disadvantage early in life because his mother (the sow) had only so many faucets and poor Porky was left out. But he, being very clever, rolled his eyes up at my dad and said, "Mr. Walker, what can I do? Can you help me?" Of course Dad, who had a way of communicating with animals, somehow spoke in piggy language, "Yes, I'll help." That pig grew up never knowing he was a pig. In his mind, he was one of us! Porky followed us wherever we went - in the garden, on the porch, even in the kitchen, oinking up a blue streak! He received a bath every other day in a tub on the back porch and enjoyed every moment of it. My sister, Ramona, thought this was so disgusting, but we loved that guy. Dad fashioned a home for him out of an old washing machine tub. Every night Dad would go out and set this "house" on top of him. But as Porky began to grow, we would look out the kitchen window and see that house moving across the yard. Seems Porky had outgrown the door of his house. One of us would go out to rescue him and that guy pig always said "Thank you" with his oink-oinks. Can you not help but love this character? Finally, after about three years, we perhaps had overfed him and he passed away. But he would always remain in our memory.

And then there was Billy Whiskers, the goat. Probably most who are reading this have never raised a goat. If you have, you will surely agree that their minds are much like a human's, and I dare say maybe even better. They, by nature, are mischievous and always show it. Billy Whiskers was Dad's goat because Dad was the only one who could control him. Billy was strong!

Dad had built a red two-wheeled cart with a harness that Billy loved to pull behind him. Now Billy had one major flaw of character: he had a foul mouth. Where he picked up this language, we never knew; but he always used it to his advantage. His accentuated "Bleep, bleep -...