Friday, April 18, 2014
By PAUL FARHI The Washington Post
The battle had raged for four days, and would continue for 31 more, a marathon of sand and heat and unrelenting death. But at that moment there was an order from the brass: Get a bigger flag up there. The small American flag fluttering atop Mount Suribachi, the volcanic peak on the island, was too small to be seen by the troops fighting below.
Norm Hatch, 91, poses for a portrait near the U.S. Marine Corps War Memorial, which is also referred to as the Iwo Jima Memorial, on Wednesday in Arlington, Va.
Photo by Matt McClain for The Washington Post
From his makeshift command post near a captured Japanese airstrip, a 24-year-old Marine combat photographer named Norm Hatch began to scramble.
The next few hours, and the days immediately following, would thrust Hatch into the story of one of the most famous photographs in history, taken 68 years ago this week on the speck of rock in the Pacific Ocean called Iwo Jima. The Alexandria, Va., resident, the last man living directly involved in its creation, helped ensure the image's place in perpetuity.
Hatch corralled two men, Staff Sgt. Bill Genaust and Pfc. Bob Campbell, and ordered them to join the Marine detachment trudging to the summit of Suribachi with a larger flag. On the uneventful trek, Genaust and Campbell encountered a diminutive, bespectacled photographer for the Associated Press named Joe Rosenthal. Campbell knew Rosenthal from their days working at the San Francisco Chronicle; Rosenthal decided to join the party clambering up the mountain.
"Rosenthal said he thought (the peak) looked like a good place to take a picture," says Hatch today, sitting in the basement den of the home he has lived in for 62 years with his wife, Lois, now 92. He is a hearty 91, razor-sharp of mind and slowed only by leg troubles that have forced him to rely on a cane. "He got there just in time."
The Marines reached the top unmolested by the Japanese defenders and a few took down the smaller flag while another group of five, joined by a Navy corpsman, began to hoist a larger one attached to a length of heavy pipe. Campbell snapped away in the foreground. Genaust cranked his 16mm movie camera.
Rosenthal, hurriedly assembling some rocks and sandbags to create a better vantage point, swung his Speed Graphic still camera and hit the shutter.
In 1/400th of a second, he captured something timeless.
Within 36 hours, his photo was on the front page of hundreds of newspapers. The image of teamwork, grit and conquest helped galvanize a war-weary nation. The photo won Rosenthal the Pulitzer Prize and was reproduced millions of times for a massive War Bond drive (an event chronicled in "Flags of Our Fathers," the book and Clint Eastwood-directed movie). The Marines eventually built their memorial in Arlington according to the photo's triangular geometry, a tableau as classic as any created by the Greeks or Romans.
"It was the perfect picture at just the right time," said Charles "Chip" Jones, the author of "War Shots," a biography of Hatch and his fellow combat cameramen.
The photo might not have assumed its place in American history without Hatch's involvement.
Soon after the photo's publication, a story began to percolate that Rosenthal had staged the famous scene, that he had posed the men just so. The story followed Rosenthal to his death in 2006. It is whispered in various forms to this day.
Hatch can set you straight on this, just as he has been setting people straight for nearly 70 years.
Hatch enlisted in the Marines in 1939 and worked his way into its photographic unit. In late 1943, some 15 months before Iwo Jima, Hatch had waded ashore with the American invaders at Tarawa, carrying a hand-cranked 16mm camera.
Hatch's footage of that battle became the core of the 1944 documentary "With the Marines at Tarawa,"which shocked audiences with its unprecedented scenes of Marines lying dead in the surf. It would win an Academy Award for best short documentary.
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