Mr. Paul O'Friel
Political Section
American Embassy, Manila

A fellow once told me, there are only two types of people. There's the type who divide the world into two sorts of people,  and there's the type who don't.

(Stage gesture: Pause, hopefully for laughter.)

Corregidor  has taught me that there are two sorts of people.  Heroes and survivors....

Fate makes the heroes, and perseverance makes the survivors.  Each year as we commemorate what happened here upon Corregidor, the number of survivors who might commemorate their heroes with us today are reduced. 

 But with their passage, the number of heroes are added to.

 Today, I ask you to look out upon this Parade Ground and try to imagine what it must have been like.   I do not want you to see a restful and green parade ground, but a place that would frighten the most brave among you.  Do not be lulled into a calm acceptance of this soothing scenery -  for once, not so many years ago, on this well trimmed grass, young men lay dying here.

Let us go first to what brought Corregidor into the history books. I want you to see in your mind's eye a May morning in 1942. At the foot of this old flagpole (Stage gesture: he indicates by pointing) a small group of men under the command of Colonel Paul Bunker, are gathering for a short ceremony.  With him are Col. Simmonds, Lt. Col. Edison, Capt. Cooper, and several enlisted men forming a guard of honor.  At noon, for it is noon now in your mind's eye, though the area is under continuous artillery bombardment, they are performing a quiet and somber procedure. Our flag is slowly being lowered while all stand at a salute. The flag is being taken off the rope and, without touching the ground,  it is placed directly into a small bonfire which has been started for only one purpose.  When the flag is completely burned, a white sheet is to be raised in its place. Not much is said between the men here assembled that May day, for a part of the Amercia they know and love, and will sacrifice their honorable manhood for, is dying.

Between 1942 and 1945, the United States of America,  united as never before, and greater than ever before, has become both of age, (pause) and of the ages.

I want you now to imagine this field in 1945.  It is dusty, because all the vegetation is dead. There are shell-holes across it, and jagged branches of dead trees ring it like spears. The Americans who returned here on 16 February 1945 would hardly have been recognized by the men of 1942.  They arrive in a fleet of aircraft that circle endlessly overhead for hours, dropping paratroopers in maneuvers that could not have been imagined possible a bare three years before.  They men who come from the skies no longer wear the old style WWI tin hat, they no longer carry the Springfields hanging from their broad shoulders. Their uniforms are of different color and cloth.  They wear fine paratroopers boots. They are fierce and well trained citizens in uniform, citizens of a new America,  men with the will to win.   

On 16 February 1945, at 2.30 in the afternoon, whilst this field around you is still being swept by rifle fire, whilst men are still bleeding and dying, two members of the 503d Parachute Regimental Combat Team, part of the ROCK FORCE,  under the command of Colonel George Jones, are raising our 48 star flag once again.  Their names, for those of you who might want to know such things, are Frank Arrigo and Clyde Bates.  Their flag will remain flying throughout the days of heavy fighting, and it will be taken down on 2 March, only so a larger one can be hoisted to the top of the old flagpole, and saluted by General Douglas MacArthur.   

Behind you, over on Malinta Hill, are men of the 3rd Battalion of the 34th Infantry.  They too, are of the ROCK FORCE. They too have carried our forty-eight stars to the top of Malinta Hill, from where nightly banzai charges will fail to shift them.

Now I ask you to imagine March 2, 1945.  It is a bright and breezy afternoon. There is still sporadic skirmishing going on down in the ravines � what General MacArthur might euphemistically call "mopping up."  The island is not secure enough for him to be driven here without an armed escort - without men of the ROCK FORCE standing on both sides of the road, every 25 or 30 yards. Yesterday, aircraft sprayed the island with clouds of DDT, and there are black drifts of dead flies blowing across the ground like foam blows across a beach after a heavy storm.   The flies are dead, a VIP must be arriving.  

The rooftops and balconies of the battered buildings all around this parade ground, are crowded with soldiers who have taken part in the combat and who are enjoying a short respite from the griefs of their combat.  Some will call it a heroic occasion, but in truth, every man here has lost his friends.  Very few stand here without an injury of some sort, and many will carry their hurts throughout their lives. New uniforms have been issued. It's almost like Christmas in March. General Douglas MacArthur now stands  near the base of this old flagpole.  At this point, he speaks not for himself, but for the Paul Bunkers, the Frank Arrigo's, the Clyde Bates', the George Jones' of history, for it is on the shoulders of their deeds that he stands as he declares,

"Colonel Jones, the capture of Corregidor is one of the most brilliant operations in military history. Outnumbered two to one, your command by its unfaltering courage, its invincible determination, and its professional skill overcame all obstacles and annihilated the enemy.

(Note: If the speech is too long, delete this sentence.)  I have cited to the order of the day all units involved, and I take great pride in awarding you as their commander the Distinguished Service Cross as a symbol of the fortitude, the devotion, and the bravery with which you have fought.

I see the old flagpole still stands. Have your troops hoist the colors to its peak, and let no enemy ever haul them down."  

 It was a quick ceremony.  Approximately six and a half minutes.  There was still a war to be won.

 After the Stars and Stripes roll out in their full glory from the peak of the staff,  the story of Corregidor, the true story of Corregidor begins to fade as the scenario writers will shortly make two dimensional heroes out of the real men who fought here.

 History has a way of reviving events in a wholly different mood from that in which they took place. I shall not attempt to elaborate upon the legend, but before closing it is worthwhile to point out one or two features which deserve emphasis.

 One of the most dramatic aspects of Corregidor is that it completed a full cycle in which the two belligerents reversed their roles of defense and assault. Each garrisoned the fortress against overwhelming odds, and each attacked it with overpowering forces. These events offer an interesting study in contrasts, from which the tremendous superiority of American tactics, methods, and characteristics is clearly demonstrated.

 In 1942 the American garrison made its epic defense of the island, outnumbered, outgunned, unsupported, and deprived of any hope of relief, our men held the post for four bitter weeks after Bataan's fall. Ultimately,  after being surrendered in a forlorn hope of humanitarian treatment, they were surrendered. In the three years that followed, many became heroes, and a few, a precious few, became survivors.

  In 1945, on the date we commemorate here,  when the Americans returned as an attacking force, the positions were amazingly reversed. The Island was taken in less than two weeks of  moving and killing, killing and moving, some 5,000 or more of the Japanese defenders were annihilated, at a loss to the ROCK FORCE of less than 200 killed.

If war is meant to try men's souls, there are few incidents in history which have applied such a searching test to the American character as is being commemorated here today. The complete depths of defeat were vindicated, at last, by an equally spectacular victory. In both extremes our citizens in uniform demonstrated their capacity to meet with triumph and disaster, and treat those two imposters both the same.  In 1942, under the darkening shadows of defeat, our men fought on here with unfaltering devotion. In 1942, long after they knew that victory had been denied them, they hung on out of pure loyalty to the ideals of their birth.

 In 1945, our soldiers fought to bring back with them something more glorious than triumph. Without the desire for conquest, they brought back the hope of an American peace, "Pax Americana."

Perhaps it is best that the realities of Corregidor should merge into a legend of supreme self-sacrifice and invincible accomplishment.  Today the sons of America, like their fathers and grandfathers,  face the reality of a new war, a war against extremist terrorism.  Once again, good men, our best and brightest,  may die in order that mankind may live in liberty. 

 For them, for all of us, let all of us pray that the legend of Corregidor will be remembered.

 KARL WELTEKE'S REPORT ON THE CEREMONY ►