The Marine Corps birthday brings me back to the days that I was in. Was about 100 years ago (give or take a decade) but I still have many good (and not so good) memories. Today I was thinking about Chesty Puller and then all of a sudden Ira Hayes popped into my head. Ira was a Pima Native American and one of the six men to raise the flag on Iwo Jima.
Short excerpt from Wikipedia...
Ira Hamilton Hayes (January 12, 1923 – January 24, 1955) was a Pima Native American and a United States Marine corporal who was one of the six flag raisers immortalized in the iconic photograph of the flag raising
I think I was in Camp Lejune when the song was out.
The Ballad of Ira Hayes.
Ira Hayes...
Ira Hayes...
Call him drunken Ira Hayes,
He won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey drinking Indian,
Or the marine that went to war.
Gather 'round me people,
There's a story I would tell,
'Bout a brave young Indian,
You should remember well.
From the land of the Pima Indian,
A proud and noble band,
Who farmed the Phoenix Valley,
In Arizona land.
Down the ditches a thousand years,
The waters grew Ira's peoples' crops,
'Til the white man stole their water rights,
And the sparkling water stopped.
Now, Ira's folks were hungry,
And their land grew crops of weeds,
When war came, Ira volunteered,
And forgot the white man's greed.
Call him drunken Ira Hayes,
He won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey drinking Indian,
Or the marine that went to war.
There they battled up Iwo Jima hill,
Two hundred and fifty men,
But only twenty-seven lived,
To walk back down again.
And when the fight was over,
And Old Glory raised,
Among the men who held it high,
Was the Indian, Ira Hayes.
Call him drunken Ira Hayes,
He won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey drinking Indian,
Or the marine that went to war.
Ira Hayes returned a hero,
Celebrated through the land,
He was wined and speeched and honored,
Everybody shook his hand,
But he was just a Pima Indian,
No water, no home, no chance,
At home nobody cared what Ira'd done,
And when did the Indians dance.
Call him drunken Ira Hayes,
He won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey drinking Indian,
Or the marine that went to war.
Then Ira started drinking hard,
Jail was often his home,
They let him raise the flag and lower it
Like you'd throw a dog a bone.
He died drunk early one morning,
Alone in the land he fought to save,
Two inches of water and a lonely ditch,
Was a grave for Ira Hayes.
Call him drunken Ira Hayes,
He won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey drinking Indian,
Or the marine that went to war.
Yeah, call him drunken Ira Hayes,
But his land is just as dry,
And his ghost is lying thirsty,
In the ditch where Ira died.
Gone but not forgotten...Hand salute.
Short excerpt from Wikipedia...
Ira Hamilton Hayes (January 12, 1923 – January 24, 1955) was a Pima Native American and a United States Marine corporal who was one of the six flag raisers immortalized in the iconic photograph of the flag raising
I think I was in Camp Lejune when the song was out.
The Ballad of Ira Hayes.
Ira Hayes...
Ira Hayes...
Call him drunken Ira Hayes,
He won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey drinking Indian,
Or the marine that went to war.
Gather 'round me people,
There's a story I would tell,
'Bout a brave young Indian,
You should remember well.
From the land of the Pima Indian,
A proud and noble band,
Who farmed the Phoenix Valley,
In Arizona land.
Down the ditches a thousand years,
The waters grew Ira's peoples' crops,
'Til the white man stole their water rights,
And the sparkling water stopped.
Now, Ira's folks were hungry,
And their land grew crops of weeds,
When war came, Ira volunteered,
And forgot the white man's greed.
Call him drunken Ira Hayes,
He won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey drinking Indian,
Or the marine that went to war.
There they battled up Iwo Jima hill,
Two hundred and fifty men,
But only twenty-seven lived,
To walk back down again.
And when the fight was over,
And Old Glory raised,
Among the men who held it high,
Was the Indian, Ira Hayes.
Call him drunken Ira Hayes,
He won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey drinking Indian,
Or the marine that went to war.
Ira Hayes returned a hero,
Celebrated through the land,
He was wined and speeched and honored,
Everybody shook his hand,
But he was just a Pima Indian,
No water, no home, no chance,
At home nobody cared what Ira'd done,
And when did the Indians dance.
Call him drunken Ira Hayes,
He won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey drinking Indian,
Or the marine that went to war.
Then Ira started drinking hard,
Jail was often his home,
They let him raise the flag and lower it
Like you'd throw a dog a bone.
He died drunk early one morning,
Alone in the land he fought to save,
Two inches of water and a lonely ditch,
Was a grave for Ira Hayes.
Call him drunken Ira Hayes,
He won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey drinking Indian,
Or the marine that went to war.
Yeah, call him drunken Ira Hayes,
But his land is just as dry,
And his ghost is lying thirsty,
In the ditch where Ira died.
Gone but not forgotten...Hand salute.
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