My name is Mike Rowe
and this is my office.
Thanks, Martha.
Or one of them anyway.
For the last 20 years,
I've spent a lot of time in
greasy spoons like this one,
drinking bottomless
cups of coffee,
soaking up the local color,
and writing short stories
about the people I've met,
while filming a TV show
called "Dirty Jobs."
If you saw "Dirty Jobs,"
you know that it took
me to all 50 states,
and allowed me to work
alongside hundreds
of hard working Americans.
Men and women who
do the kinds of jobs
that make civilized life
possible for the rest of us.
Well, this movie is not
about those Americans,
at least not entirely.
This movie is about
some other Americans
I've been writing about lately.
Americans I've never
met but always admired,
Americans who risked everything
to build the country
we call home.
- Shouldn't you be at work, Tony?
- Technically.
Forget about that
$20 you owe me.
- Oh, thanks.
- You're real generous.
I'm a giver.
- Barb, how are you?
- How was everything?
Oh, as always,
I'd give it two, maybe
two and a half stars.
Oh, on a scale of three.
Oh, I'm glad you're happy.
- I'm always happy.
- Just come back.
I always come back.
- Keep the change.
- Oh, thank you.
- Dave.
- Behave yourself, brother.
Full disclosure.
I'm not an expert
or a historian.
I'm just the son of a
social studies teacher
with an appreciation for the
people who built our country.
So I thought it might be fun
to share a few of the stories
I've written over the years
about some of the most
impressive Americans
I've ever read about.
And along the way, I
thought I'd take a trip
to our nation's capital,
not too far from
where I grew up,
to reacquaint myself with the
memorials and the monuments
that have been built to honor
the people in the stories
you're about to hear.
In other words,
it's a field trip,
and I'm glad you're
along for the ride.
Assuming the old truck makes it.
[ Engine sputters ]
[ Engine stops ]
It's going to be fine.
[ Engine starts ]
Just a quick word about these
stories before we dive in...
They're actually short mysteries
written in the style
of an old radio program
I used to love called
"The Rest of the Story"
by Paul Harvey.
With Paul Harvey's mysteries,
you got to hear a story
that you had never heard
before about somebody famous
that you already know.
Your job as a
listener was to try
and figure out who
he was talking about
before he got to the
end of the mystery.
These stories are a
lot like that, too.
Each one starts with me on
the stage in an empty theater
and quickly turns into
something altogether different.
Probably easiest just to show
you what I'm talking about,
but do me a favor.
If you figure out who
it is I'm talking about
before we get to the end,
don't yell out the answer.
Studies show that people
sitting around you hate that.
Anyway, this is
"Something to Stand For."
A US merchant ship was missing,
21 crewmen were
being held hostage,
and now the Libyan
consulate had been attacked
by Islamic t*rrorists.
The president was a patient man,
but his patience
was running out.
There was a sharp
knock on the door.
The president looked
up from his desk
as two men entered
the Oval Office.
"Mr. President,"
said the Secretary,
"You need to see
this right away."
The Secretary of State placed
the intelligence report
on the president's desk.
The commander-in-chief read
the first sentence and said,
"Is this confirmed?
Are we sure?"
"It is," said the
Secretary of State,
"We found them. They're
dug in, but vulnerable.
We'll need O'Bannon
and his team,
and we'll need to move fast."
The Attorney General
objected, "Mr. President,
what the Secretary is proposing
is completely unconstitutional."
The president looked at his AG
with a mix of curiosity
and exasperation.
"What would you have me
do? Keep negotiating?
Ask them nicely to
'Please stop kidnapping
and k*lling our people?'"
"But, sir," said the AG,
"The t*rrorists are
now on foreign soil.
You have no
congressional approval.
This would be an act of w*r."
Now it was the Secretary
of State who objected.
"We're already at
w*r with an enemy
who doesn't have the
decency to declare it."
And then to the
president, he added,
"Mr. President, you are
absolutely within your rights.
The t*rrorists have
made their bed.
It's time they were
made to lie in it."
"No," said the Attorney General,
"He's a president,
not a dictator.
It's the Congress
who must decide.
Have you not read
the Constitution?"
The Secretary of State bristled,
"Yeah, I've read the
Constitution several times."
In fact,
as his Attorney General
and his Secretary of State
continued to bicker,
the President considered
the portraits of
George Washington
hanging on the wall
across the room.
Congress had
offered him a crown,
once upon a time.
The chance to be a king
after his final
term as President.
And Washington had refused.
How, then, would the
father of our country
fight state-sponsored
terrorism today?
How would he engage with Islamic
extremists who had no code,
who followed no rules,
and attacked our
people overseas?
"Gentlemen. Enough.
James, are you absolutely
certain of their location?"
"Yes, sir. They're
dug in on the coast.
It's a fortress, like I said.
Well-defended but vulnerable.
O'Bannon's been briefed.
His team is ready.
Just sign the order
and we'll put the t*rrorists
down once and for all."
"But, sir," said the AG,
"What about the Congress?"
"Levi.
You're a good man and a
fine attorney general.
But you're dismissed."
"But, sir..." "You
can let yourself out."
The AG huffed and
left the Oval Office,
slamming the door so hard
it caused the portrait
of Washington to
shudder on the wall.
The President glanced again
at the face of Washington
and saw what he always
saw, staring back at him.
Resolve.
Turning back to his
Secretary of State,
he asked one more question.
"James. How confident
is O'Bannon?"
"Supremely confident, sir."
"And how large is his team?"
"Eight men, sir."
"So few," said the President.
"All handpicked,"
said the Secretary,
"All trained for land
and sea operations.
They are the best of the best."
The President considered
the situation one more time.
A US merchant ship was missing,
21 crewmen were
being held hostage,
and the Libyan consulate
had been brazenly attacked.
Enough was enough.
"Do it, James. Send in O'Bannon.
Do it fast. Do it right
and keep it quiet."
And with that,
the president of
the United States
launched one of the most
famous top secret operations
in naval history.
It was a controversial decision,
but when the dust settled,
the President's actions
were deemed constitutional,
just as his Secretary
of State predicted,
and his Secretary
of State would know.
He had not only read the
Constitution several times,
he had written it not too
long after the president...
had written the Declaration
of Independence.
Few people today
remember Levi Lincoln,
the Attorney General who
opposed the covert mission.
But you might recall
President Thomas Jefferson
and his Secretary of
State, James Madison.
The two elected officials
who finally decided to stop
negotiating with t*rrorists
and start fighting back.
Which is precisely
what they did.
With a little help from
an intrepid lieutenant
named Presley O'Bannon
and the small team
of elite fighters
under his command.
Eight handpicked warriors
who prevailed in their first
engagement on foreign soil,
leading an as*ault force across
a sprawling African desert
to the shores of Tripoli,
where they breached the
walls of a mighty fortress
and k*lled a g*ng of
Islamic t*rrorists
called the Barbary pirates.
So began America's
w*r on terror,
with a covert action made
possible by a small group
of highly-trained men
who took an oath to fight
for right and freedom,
and to keep their honor clean.
The same group that's
still at it today.
The few. The proud.
The Marines.
Like 99% of my fellow Americans,
I've never served in
the U.S. military.
The only uniform I've
ever worn was the one
the Boy Scouts
insist that I put on.
And that was a long time ago.
But when it comes to
protecting this country,
I know that the Marines
have always been
the tip of the spear.
And I'm grateful for all
they've done on my behalf
over the last two
and a half centuries
in some of the most dangerous
places on the face of the earth.
Places like Iwo Jima,
where so much bravery
was on display
at the end of the
Second World w*r.
It simply boggles the mind.
That bravery combined with
a fierce determination
to win the day,
inspired a sculpture
like no other.
Every day, the
American flag is raised
on the Marine Corps Memorial,
in honor and in
memory of the Marines
who have given their lives
to their country since 1775.
The honor of raising the flag
goes to Captain
Jonathan Kuniholm.
I was injured on
January 1, 2005,
in a blast that also k*lled
Lance Corporal Brian Parrello.
And my own Marines...
Strong, Weaver,
Bolling, and Lynn
were k*lled on January 26, 2005,
just three weeks later.
This is the Iwo Jima memorial,
but all the other
conflicts are listed
around the the base
of the monument.
This monument is for
every marine that's given
his or her life for
the Marine Corps.
I mean, it's kind of beautiful.
It's moving.
Without question.
On Iwo Jima, there was so
much courage under fire,
it might seem
strange to tell you
the true story of a marine
who deserted his post before
the battle even began.
A marine who was also
a liar and a forger.
Happily, the commander
didn't know that.
On the downside, this marine was
also a deserter and a stowaway,
both of which the commander
understood all too well.
"Now, let me get
this straight, son.
You left your unit in
Hawaii a month ago.
Just walked off base
without a word to anybody."
"Yes, sir." "What's
your full name?"
"Private First
Class Jack Lucas."
"Wrong," the commander snapped.
"You're not a PFC anymore.
You're commanding officer
busted you back to private
right before he put a
bounty on your head.
You're a deserter, son.
A demoted deserter,
and you are in a
world of trouble."
The young man looked
straight ahead
as the commander took a
final drag off his cigarette
and stubbed it out.
"And now you're telling me
you've stowed away on my ship
because you want to
fight on Iwo Jima?"
"Yes, sir."
"And why in the hell would
you want to do that?"
"I didn't join the Marines to
push paper in a supply depot.
Sir, I've been riding
a desk for three years.
You can punish me if
that's what you got to do.
But let me fight first."
The commander could have
sent this demoted deserter
straight to the brig, and then
back to the States for a trial,
a dishonorable discharge and
some mandatory prison time.
But he knew that Charlie
Company would need all the help
they could get on Iwo Jima,
and whatever else he was,
the marine standing before
him didn't seem like a coward.
"We landed five days",
the commander said.
"You want a fight? I'll
take you to a fight.
Dismissed."
Five days later, the
expeditionary force was
on the island, making
their way inland,
where the enemy was hunkered
down in a vast warren of tunnels
and reinforced bunkers.
Jack and three other riflemen
were picking their way
down a steep ravine
when 11 Japanese
soldiers popped up
from a nearby trench
and opened fire,
sending the Marines diving
for cover, 11 against four.
Their odds were horrible,
but the Marines fought
with everything they had,
and soon, it was
ten against four.
And then nine against four,
and then eight against four.
But then two hand grenades
arced through the air
and landed in the soft volcanic
ash just a few yards from Jack
and right in the midst
of his fellow Marines.
Jack didn't hesitate.
He dove over the men and
onto the first grenade,
smothering it under his body.
The second grenade he
grabbed with his free hand
and held it tightly
to his chest,
shielding the riflemen
as best he could.
A moment later,
the first expl*si*n lifted
Jack off the ground,
sending bits of flesh and
uniform flying into the air.
The second expl*si*n
never happened.
Then the Japanese
soldiers charged
and the remaining three
Marines k*lled them all,
in a furious hail
of machine g*nf*re.
Jack was left for dead, which by
all appearances he clearly was.
But of course, appearances
can be deceiving.
In fact, it was
Jack's appearance
that got him in the
Corps in the first place.
You see, when Jack enlisted
three and a half years earlier,
he appeared to be
the perfect recruit.
180 pounds of solid muscle
with a burning desire to avenge
the outrage of Pearl Harbor.
He was only 17 at the time,
a year below the minimum age,
but he had his
mother's signature
on the mandatory
enlistment waiver,
so the Marines took him.
Only problem was,
Jack had forged his
mother's signature,
and when the truth came out,
he was given the choice
of either going back home
or riding a desk for
the next four years.
Maybe, as he lay there in
a pool of his own blood,
7,000 miles from home. Jack
might have reconsidered
the cost of his various
insubordinations.
Maybe. But I doubt it.
Because there was something
else about Jack's resolve
worth noting.
You see, Jack's mom had refused
to sign that enlistment waiver
because she knew the
truth about her son.
She knew that Jack was
not 17 when he enlisted.
Nor was he 16, nor was he 15
when the Japanese
bombed Pearl Harbor.
Jack Lucas was a
13-year-old boy,
a boy who decided right then and
there to fight for his country.
That's why he forged
his mother's name.
That's why he lied
to his superiors,
deserted his post, and stowed
away on a transport ship.
That's why, at 14 years of age,
he became the youngest marine
to ever wear the uniform.
That's why, when he
finally turned 17,
Jack Lucas became
the youngest marine
since the Civil w*r to
receive the Medal of Honor.
And that's also why,
on his 80th birthday,
Jack Lucas looked back
on his illustrious career
in a way that few
survivors can...
as the only member of the
United States Armed Forces
to ever be recognized for
bravery and valor above
and beyond the call of duty
while fighting as
a demoted deserter.
Jack Lucas was 17 years old
when he distinguished
himself in battle.
When I was 17 years old, I was
working in a movie theater,
tearing tickets and
selling popcorn.
I wanted to write about Jack
because it's just
hard to believe
that a teenager
could do what he did.
Then again, it's hard to believe
an adult could do what he did.
It's impossible to
know how you'd react
in a battle like
the one on Iwo Jima.
But when you visit the
World w*r II memorial,
you can't help but wonder,
especially when you stand
before the wall of stars
and consider the valor and
sacrifice of 405,000 Americans
who didn't make it home.
Today, people come here from
all over to pay their respects.
People like Andy Michael, whose
daughter brought him here today.
When were you in the service?
Where were you?
Uh, '51 to '55.
I was in Korea from March
of '52 to January of '53.
Well, my dad was there
that same exact time.
- He was here in '53 and '54.
- Small world.
You weren't in the reservoir.
You weren't in Chosin, were you?
- Oh, hell no.
- I didn't want to go there.
Cold, man.
No, guys, they were the heroes.
What does it mean to be here?
To be with your daughter
and a day like this
and just looking around,
and, I mean, what's
it feel like?
- It's something...
- It's something
I'm going to take to
the grave with me.
It's... You can't describe it.
If you haven't been through
it, you can't describe it.
But it's something
super special.
Damn shame it took me
91 years to get here,
but it was well worth the wait.
What an honor to meet you, Andy.
James sat at his kitchen table,
reading the newspaper
and trembling with rage
as the duly appointed
state auditor of Illinois.
He was accustomed
to being criticized
by disgruntled
Republicans, but this?
This was something
else altogether.
This was a letter to the editor,
written by a sharp-tongued woman
who identified herself
only as Rebecca.
Not only did this
Rebecca accuse him
of bankrupting her
state with his, quote,
"disastrous
Democratic policies,"
she did so in a way
that mocked his vanity.
In the most offensive passage,
she imagined him
addressing a group
of distraught women
unable to pay their bills
because of his recent decision
to eliminate paper money
in favor of gold and silver.
"Dear girls," the passage began,
"I can see you are in distress,
but please understand
I cannot marry you all.
Too well I know how
much you suffer.
But do... do remember,
it is not my fault that I
am so handsome and so very,
very interesting."
The gall, the temerity.
What did this Rebecca know
about the complexities
of modern banking?
And what sort of editor
would allow such baseless
aspersions to be cast
from a critic with no last name?
Livid and humiliated,
James paid a visit to the
editor of the Sangamo Journal,
who tried to explain
the nature of satire
to the apoplectic
Democrat, to no avail.
He insisted on knowing
the identity of Rebecca,
so the editor told him.
Rebecca, he said, was actually
a man, a concerned citizen,
whose real name the state
auditor recognized immediately.
James wasted no time
demanding an apology,
which he sent via courier.
It read, "Sir, I have become
the object of slander,
vituperation, and
personal abuse.
Only a full retraction
may prevent consequences
which no one will regret
more than myself."
The concerned citizen,
called Rebecca,
delighted to learn that his
words had struck a chord,
responded thusly.
"I might consider a public
retraction if you could
but reframe your request in
a more gentlemanly fashion."
Once again, James
trembled with rage.
"A more gentlemanly
fashion." Was he serious?
This cowardly gutter snipe
impugns his good name
in the most
unforgivable fashion.
And now, given the
opportunity to apologize,
he instead chooses to lecture
the state auditor on manners.
This was outrageous.
So James did the only thing
an honorable man in
his position could do.
He challenged the
concerned citizen
called Rebecca to a duel.
"Pistols at dawn," he demanded.
"My honor requires it."
In those days, dueling
was ill*gal in Illinois,
but over on Bloody Island,
just a quick boat ride
across the Mississippi,
the great state of Missouri
had no law forbidding grown men
from sh**ting each other
over a question of honor.
Unfortunately, in his
rush for satisfaction,
James had overlooked
an important bit
of dueling protocol.
You see, the challenger does
not determine the weapons
or the venue that falls to
the one being challenged.
Thus, his invitation was
accepted, but not his terms.
"Never mind the p*stol,"
said the concerned
citizen called Rebecca.
"Let us settle the
matter like men.
Let us proceed at dawn with
broad swords in a pit."
"Broad swords? In a pit?"
Good lord, thought James.
Who was this guy?
"What sort of savage
fights with broad swords
when pistols were so
readily available?"
But the concerned
citizen called Rebecca
had further conditions.
He demanded they place a plank
on the ground between them,
a divider placed at
the bottom of the pit
which neither combatant
could step across.
Crossing the plank, he insisted,
would be considered
a mortal foul,
punishable by an immediate
b*llet to the head.
In that moment, James
began to see the magnitude
of his miscalculation.
He was an excellent shot,
but had little
experience with a sword.
Worse, he was only 5'8".
His rival was much taller,
with arms that dangled
nearly to his knees,
and hands the size of ham
hocks in those enormous mitts.
A broadsword would be a
fearsome weapon indeed,
and with an extra foot of reach,
James realized he'd never get
close enough to land a blow.
But there was no
backing out now.
His honor would not permit it.
And so on the morning
of September 22nd, 1842,
a large crowd sailed
over to Bloody Island
to watch two honorable men
hack each other to pieces.
Inside the pit, on
his side of the plank,
James felt sick to his stomach.
The giant across from him
seemed utterly relaxed
as he swung the massive
cavalry sword over his head,
grinning as the blade
swooshed through the air.
It was a horrifying sound,
and it made James
wonder about the crunch
it would make when it collided
with his flesh and bone.
His rival walked to the
far side of the enclosure,
where a thick branch from an
oak tree drooped into the pit.
Still grinning, he swung
his sword with one hand,
severing the branch
in a single blow
and earning a collective gasp
from those who assembled.
Oh, this would be
over very quickly.
James felt his
sphincter tightening
as his adversary walked up to
the plank that divided them,
waiting to engage.
His options now were simple...
refuse to step forward and live
the rest of his life in shame,
or square off against a man
who was certain to k*ll him.
Ultimately, James chose
death before dishonor
and slowly approached
his towering rival,
who surprised him with
an unanticipated offer.
"Are you quite certain, sir,
that you would not prefer
to discuss the root causes
of our dispute before
we come to blows?"
James quickly accepted
as the crowd above them
breathed a sigh of relief.
Though many in attendance
would have liked
to see the state auditor
run out of office,
nobody wanted to see him
hacked to death in a pit,
including the concerned citizen
whose words had both instigated
and defused the
entire situation.
As for his choice of
venue and weaponry,
he later explained,
"I couldn't very well refuse
his demand for satisfaction,
but I didn't want the
damned fella to k*ll me,
which he would have surely
done had I agreed to pistols.
On the other hand, I didn't
want to k*ll him either,
but felt sure I could
disarm him with the blade
if it actually came to blows."
The life spared that day
belonged to James Shields,
the only man ever
elected senator
to three different states,
a vain but honorable man
who went on to distinguish
himself in battle
as an officer in the Union Army.
As for his adversary,
the modern-day gladiator
who could have k*lled
him but didn't,
he went on to become
James Shields' boss,
the same boss who promoted him
to the rank of major general
20 years after
their aborted duel,
proving once again it's
better to bury the hatchet
than swing the sword.
Such was the deeply-held
belief of a concerned citizen
who always preferred
a diplomatic solution,
but was willing, when necessary,
to settle things with
broad swords in a pit,
which is pretty
much what happened
when the Army of
Northern Virginia
refused to back down,
choosing instead to face off
against the Army of the Potomac.
Happily, America survived
that terrible duel,
and though we emerged from
that metaphorical pit,
bloodied and forever changed,
we were still united,
thanks to a country lawyer
who called himself Rebecca
long before the
rest of the country
called him president...
a president named Lincoln.
Here at the Lincoln Memorial,
you'll find our 16th president,
larger than life, just as he was
when he walked the
earth 170 years ago.
Well, maybe not that large,
but large nevertheless.
On the walls, you'll
find the words
for which he is most remembered,
carved into the limestone for
future generations to ponder.
But you won't find the
true story of the day
he entered a pit
with a broadsword,
determined to win a duel by
disarming his enemy in a way
that was literally disarming.
For me, that's the story
that epitomizes everything
I admire about the
man... a sense of honor,
a sense of duty, and
a sense of humor...
a man who would do all he could
to keep the peace.
For so many reasons,
Abraham Lincoln deserves
a monument like no other.
And pretty soon, he'll have one.
So the Lincoln Memorial
is under construction,
and if there's a better
metaphor for our country,
I don't know what it would be.
- Hi, Lindy.
- Hi, Mike.
- How are you?
- Good.
What in the world
is happening here?
It's this big undercroft
project that we're working on.
It's a $69 million project,
so it's a pretty
big undertaking.
- Why?
- Why is it called the undercroft?
So that's the foundation
of the building.
It's actually really amazing.
What the visitors
will get to see
and this 15,000 square feet
will be a new entrance in here,
a screening area, exhibit
space, and a catwalk.
So people will get to see into
the foundation of the memorial.
What are you going to do
today in the way of work?
I always have some
in-painting to do,
which is the inscriptions on all
of our monuments and memorials
so they can be
read more legibly.
- Mhm.
- I always do graffiti removal.
What do you think's
going on with graffiti?
What's going on in the country?
Why are people
defacing monuments?
That's a question I
don't know how to answer.
I don't know why. Boredom.
They have something to say.
But, I mean, our message
here at the National Mall
is that when there's graffiti,
we try to remove
it within 24 hours.
There was spilled paint a
couple of months ago here...
just gallons of red paint
that happened at the
Washington Monument.
It's just something
that's very common,
and we see it all the time.
Does it get you down,
or is it job security?
A little bit of both.
We're just trying to make
this an even better experience
for Americans,
and I'm trying to preserve
it for future Americans.
This is worth improving, and
our country is worth preserving.
Ah, see what I did?
We
Shall overcome
We
Shall overcome
The lieutenant had
always dreamed of singing
for a packed house,
and today, she was
finally getting her wish.
It was an impressive turnout,
made all the more memorable
by the guest of honor,
the doctor who first
diagnosed her condition,
the doctor who had
prescribed the remedy
that literally saved her career.
As she sang for
the guest of honor,
the lieutenant couldn't help
but recall the fundraiser
where they'd met,
or the remarkable conversation
that led to this performance.
"Your work on the ship has
been simply extraordinary,"
the doctor said.
"I'd say you're due
for a promotion."
"Why, thank you," the
lieutenant replied,
"but I'm afraid my
tour of duty is over.
I'm leaving the ship and
hanging up the uniform."
The lieutenant recalled
the look of surprise
that flashed across
the doctor's face...
surprise followed
by disappointment.
"But why?
Look at all you've
accomplished in that uniform.
Why would you walk away now?"
The lieutenant blushed and
looked over her shoulder,
aware that others were
watching and listening.
"Well, to be honest," she said,
"I've always dreamed
of singing on Broadway.
I'm headed to New York City
to make that dream a reality."
Had it really been just
a year since they'd met?
It seemed like she'd
known him forever.
Now, as she sang for the man
who changed the
course of her career,
the lieutenant recalled his
exact words on the day they met.
She remembered the way
he lowered his voice before
diagnosing her condition
with a measure of candor
she had not anticipated.
"With respect, Lieutenant,
your dream is a selfish one.
Who do you suppose will wear
the uniform if you hang it up?
What do you think that
person will look like?
And what do you suppose that
will mean for the rest of us?"
The doctor's words
had cut like a knife.
The truth was, she
had not considered
the impact of her departure
on anyone but herself...
not on her shipmates, not on
her captain, not on her country.
But the doctor had.
And what he said next
would change everything.
"I want you to know
something, Lieutenant.
I want you to know that
I'm your biggest fan.
I also want to thank you for
being a hero to my children.
You've shown them
what's possible.
So please reconsider
this dream of yours.
There'll be time
for singing later."
As usual, the doctor
had been right.
And now, barely a year
after their chance meeting
at that fundraiser
in Beverly Hills,
here he was, the guest of
honor in a packed house,
and here she was,
singing for the man
whose prophetic words had
convinced her to remain
in that uniform.
We'll walk hand in hand
Some day
That's why, when she
finally hung up her regalia
once and for all, it was
no longer the red dress
of a young lieutenant.
It was the uniform of
a seasoned commander.
That's also why she
was selected by NASA
to become a space ambassador,
a role that allowed her to
assist actual astronauts
aboard an actual spaceship
as they analyze the
atmospheres of Mars and Saturn
during a high-altitude
public relations mission
that helped pave the way for
women and minorities in space.
That was perhaps her most
important performance,
and one the doctor would
have surely applauded.
But alas, he never learned
about her work with NASA,
nor did he ever hear
the lieutenant sing,
even though he was right
there in front of her.
On that fateful day in
April, way back in 1968,
the day a make-believe
lieutenant sang
for a packed house on that,
the occasion of his funeral.
No, it was not the crowd she
had dreamed of entertaining,
or the stage she had
dreamed of occupying.
We shall overcome
But by all accounts,
those assembled were
most appreciative
of the performer
who sang for them that day...
the actress who boldly went
where no Black woman
had gone before,
on to a prime time
network show in a role
that would challenge
racial stereotypes
and destroy the assumption
that a black woman in a uniform
on television had to be a maid.
Such was the larger role
of Lieutenant Uhura,
a groundbreaking
character brought to life
by an aspiring singer
who deferred her dream
so that the next generation
might see what was possible.
A selfless choice made by an
actress named Nichelle Nichols,
who chose to remain at her post
aboard the Starship Enterprise,
with the little encouragement
from her biggest fan,
a doctor who had a
dream of his own...
a Trekkie named
Martin Luther King Jr.
Some day will be today
And we, we will
all be free
And we shall overcome
And we shall overcome
Someday
[ Vocalizing ]
It's impossible to stand today
where Doctor King stood in 1963,
and not wonder what it
would have been like
to be there on that
unforgettable day.
Had I been old enough back then,
I wonder if I would have
driven down from Baltimore
to march alongside those
who were so clearly on
the right side of history?
Would I have stood with those
who shared Dr. King's dream
of a truly colorblind society,
a society that judged people
not by the color of their skin,
but by the content
of their character?
I like to think I would.
But of course, it's easy
for me to look back in time,
knowing what I know
today, and simply assume
that I'd always be on the
right side of history,
that I'd always be standing
with the good guys.
Guys like John, a farmer I
know in Hopewell, New Jersey.
Like many working farmers today,
John feeds lots of Americans
who have absolutely no idea
where their food comes from.
But unlike many of his peers,
John is not struggling
to make a living.
He's prospering.
In fact, John is downright rich.
So too is Frank.
Frank made his money
doing whatever it is
international businessmen do...
something to do with
the Mercantile Exchange.
He was born in Wales
and educated in the
very best schools.
After becoming a legal
citizen of this country,
he made an absolute fortune.
Now, he employs more people
than he can keep track of.
And then there's Richard.
Richard is one of the
wealthiest lawyers in America.
He studied law at Princeton,
which his ancestors
helped build.
Now he sits on the bench of
the New Jersey Supreme Court,
where his reputation as a
jurist earns him the respect
of politicians on both
sides of the aisle.
Not long ago, John,
Frank, and Richard
all sat down with dozens
of other one-percenters
at a private men's club to
discuss, among other things,
the future of our country
and the current tax code.
Not only do these men believe
their taxes are far too high,
they feel their money is being
squandered by America's leaders.
They're also offended,
deeply offended, by
the continual assertion
that they are not
paying their fair share.
John, Frank, and Richard
listen attentively as a
number of powerful men
address their group.
They talk with great passion
about the need to elect
the leader who will stop
dividing the country.
So the men draft a manifesto
outlining their frustrations
and announce their refusal to
pay taxes to an administration
they believe to be corrupt.
John, Frank and Richard
each sign this manifesto,
along with everybody
else in the room.
Then they send it off to
the largest media outlets
in the country and head home to
wait and see what happens next.
Well, they don't have to wait
long in the halls of power.
America's leaders are livid.
How can these wealthy
men, who have enjoyed
so much good fortune,
complain about paying
a little extra for the
good of their country?
Do these elitists seriously
think they could have prospered
without the government's help?
Maybe it's time to teach
these guys a lesson.
And so they do.
When Frank arrives at
his mansion in New York,
it's been thoroughly looted.
Armed troops occupy his estate
and confiscate everything of
value, including his wife.
She's locked up for three
months with little food or water
and not even provided
a change of clothes.
She dies not long
after her release.
Frank is crushed with despair.
John doesn't fare much better.
Troops have occupied
his farm in Hopewell.
John learns the occupiers
have orders to execute him.
Recently widowed
with 13 children,
John goes on the run,
moving from place to place
under cover of darkness,
and living on the lam for
the better part of a year.
Eventually, the
stress kills him.
Richard's wealth and status
make him an even bigger target.
Armed men barge into his home
and drag him from bed in
the middle of the night.
He's locked up,
starved, and tortured.
Richards survives
his incarceration,
but he never recovers.
His vast fortune is stolen,
and he spends his final
days utterly dependent
on the kindness of friends.
John Hart, Francis Lewis,
Richard Stockton...
if their names are unfamiliar,
it's probably because they've
been overshadowed by other men
who signed the same manifesto
that day in Philadelphia...
men like Benjamin Franklin,
Thomas Jefferson,
and John Adams.
In total, 56 men, some
more famous than others,
whose names are now
preserved for posterity,
on the bottom of that
troublesome document
that so enraged the
occupiers in the red coats.
Unlike most revolutions,
ours didn't start with
an angry mob armed
with pitchforks and guillotines
and nothing to lose.
That was France.
Our revolution started
because 56 very wealthy men,
with everything to lose,
put everything on the
line for a country
that didn't even exist yet.
The Internet is full
of exaggerated accounts
of what happened to
the original signers,
and that's a shame,
because the truth
of what really happened back
in that exclusive men's club,
also known as the Second
Continental Congress,
is remarkable enough
with no embellishment.
Those 56 men, those
one-percenters of 1776,
they could have easily
paid whatever new tax
was being demanded
by their king.
They could have easily
lived out their lives
in comfortable peace.
But they didn't. They
chose liberty over safety.
When they signed that
troublesome manifesto,
they weren't just declaring
their independence.
They were signing their
own death warrant.
And when they
pledged their lives,
their fortunes, and
their sacred honor.
They weren't just
making a promise
to the King of England,
or to each other,
or to the rest of
their fellow colonists.
They were making a
promise to you and me,
and they kept it.
This 4th of July,
as the hot dogs
plump up on the grill
and the fireworks
explode overhead,
their promise and their courage
are still worth celebrating.
And remember...
Ultimately, it
wasn't their actions
that got the one-percenters
of 1776 into so much trouble.
It was their words.
Words like "we the people"
and "inalienable rights"
and "all men are created
equal," that was a biggie.
Our founding fathers knew that
those words back in the day
were dangerous, but they also
knew they were inspirational.
In fact, the words in our
Declaration of Independence
inspired millions of
Americans to pick up arms
and defend the very ideas that
those very words represented.
How cool is that?
Like Dr. King,
the one-percenters of 1776
knew their words were powerful,
whether they were written
down or recited from memory
or even pulled out of thin air.
The tension hung in the
air, a palpable thing.
With two down and
runners on the corners,
the batter crowded the plate and
the pitcher waited for his sign.
He got it and
unleashed a fastball,
very high and very inside.
The batter ducked, both
benches leapt to their feet,
and the umpire issued a warning.
Now, with the count
at three and two
and the prospect of
a brawl very real,
the man behind the microphone
knew exactly how to play it.
"It all comes down to
this, ladies and gentlemen,
the moment of truth,
this epic confrontation
where two men meet on
the field of battle,
but only one can prevail."
In kitchens and living
rooms across the country,
fans leaned into their radios
and held their collective breath
as the pitcher went
into his stretch.
The runner on first
bolted for second.
The pitcher ignored him and
served up a wicked slider.
The batter swung and
sent the ball deep,
deep into left field,
but just fouled.
The crowd groaned but
stayed on their feet.
The catcher walked to the
mound for a quick conference.
The batter stepped
back into the box
and waited for the
sign he wanted.
He got it this
time... a change-up,
and another foul ball
high into the cheap seats.
The announcer
described the chaos
as two men in the stands
fought for the souvenir,
painting a picture
that came alive
in the minds of all
those who listened.
But the drama was
just getting started.
The next three pitches
were all foul ba*ls,
each sent to a different
part of the stadium.
So were the next three
pitches after that.
So were the next
three after that.
It was an extraordinary
opportunity
for the tall Irish kid
with the radio voice
and the Hollywood smile, and he
made the most of every second.
The batter stepping out of
the box at the last moment
to disrupt the pitcher's timing,
the pitcher prowling the
mound like a caged tiger,
determined to get into
the batter's head.
Each pitch had
become a chess match,
a steely test of
wills brought to life
by the announcer's
urgent baritone,
a voice that dripped with
anticipation and possibility.
Another foul ball and
another after that.
And another after that.
Finally, after 14 foul ba*ls,
half a dozen trips to the mound,
and nearly 12 minutes
of unrelenting tension,
the man behind the microphone
set the scene for
the final time.
"Here we are, ladies
and gentlemen.
Another moment of truth
in this battle royale,
another payoff pitch
in this eternal showdown, this
operatic contest of wills.
Both men are exhausted
and both understand
exactly what they must do.
Here's the windup.
And here's the pitch.
It's a strike!
Fast and hard, right
down the middle.
And the side is retired."
And so ended one of the
most unusual at-bats
in the history of baseball...
a called third strike on a
batter of no great consequence
from a pitcher of no
particular acclaim
in a game of no
great importance,
chronicled for posterity
by an announcer
who made the whole thing up.
It's true.
The batter did strike out,
but all those foul ba*ls
and everything in between?
That was a figment of the
sportscasters imagination.
You see, in those days,
baseball games were called by
announcers in radio stations
far from the actual ballpark.
They sat in small gray rooms
behind large gray microphones,
waiting for a telegraph operator
to send them the play by play,
which they would then bring
to life as best they could.
But, when this particular
telegraph signal was interrupted
in the middle of
this particular game,
this particular sportscaster,
he didn't panic.
The man behind the
microphone closed his eyes
and called the game exactly
the way he imagined it.
And the fans loved him for it.
And so, decades later, it
came as no great surprise,
when America sat down to watch
the biggest game of the year
and listened with rapt attention
to the play by play delivered by
the now-legendary broadcaster,
a man who understood
the importance
of choosing just the right
words at just the right time,
once again, the tension
hung in the air,
a palpable thing,
and the prospect of a
brawl seemed very real.
And once again, when the moment
came for the payoff pitch,
the words he chose did not
appear on his teleprompter
or on the approved transcript
on the podium before him.
No, the words he chose
on that particular day
were his and his alone.
"Mr. Gorbachev, tear
down this wall."
This was no game,
but those words were
a strike nevertheless,
thrown fast and hard and
right down the middle,
delivered extemporaneously by
the man behind the microphone,
a man who knew exactly
how to play it...
the 40th president of
these United States
and the most influential
sportscaster of all time,
Ronald Reagan.
It's worth noting
that seven years
before the Berlin
Wall came down,
thanks to a few unscripted words
from the Great Communicator,
another wall was going up,
thanks to the insistent
words of 275,000 Americans
who demanded a memorial
for the Americans
who died in Vietnam,
even if they had to
pay for it themselves,
which they did without a
dime of federal assistance.
Today, the volunteers at the
Vietnam Veterans Memorial
are still a big part of
what makes it so special.
And on this particular day, I
met a guy named Scott Tucker,
who came here with a
few of his employees
to clean the wall and to reflect
on what it means to
honor the men and women
who paid the ultimate
price on our behalf.
Why was it important to
do it? What inspired you?
I'd been down to the wall
once before, many years ago,
and in my mind, I
think I just kind of...
I just kind of walked by.
I didn't really take any
time to really reflect.
And when we came,
the walls were lined with
different memorabilia,
and whether it was flags
or coins or letters,
I took the time to
read some of them.
I didn't say anything to
anyone, but there was definitely
a few moments where I, you know,
definitely started to kind of
well up just thinking about some
of the sacrifices that were made
and thinking about a lot of my
family and even grandparents
that, you know, gave their
lives in World w*r II,
and just thinking
about what that means.
I have a young... I have
two young sons, you know,
three-year-old and six-year-old,
so we've started
bringing them out.
I want them to understand
service and sacrifice
and realize what has
been done in sacrifice
before us to even be here.
And I think it's important
for us to reflect
and think back on those things.
Many of the soldiers who
made it home from Vietnam
were judged harshly by their
fellow Americans very harshly,
as it turns out,
and very unfairly.
It was a tumultuous
time in our country,
and many of those who oppose
the w*r simply couldn't
seem to see the difference
between the soldiers
who fought it and
the elected officials
who allowed it to unfold.
Others, however, I'm happy to
say were not inclined to judge.
Harry's daughter
was 20 years old
when Bill came to visit
her at the family ranch.
Bill was not the first bachelor
who hoped to win her
father's approval,
but he was perhaps
the most eligible.
Handsome and brilliant, Bill
was very much his own man.
Bill believed that
Harry's daughter
would make an excellent wife,
and planned on proposing after
he graduated from Stanford.
All he had to do now
was convince Harry
that he was a good match
for his little girl,
a challenge that would require
him to swallow a mouthful
of bull testicles.
To be clear, the
testicles in question
were no longer attached
to their rightful owner.
Harry had removed
them moments earlier
with something called
an emasculator...
a terrifying tool perfectly
named for the task at hand.
"Good Lord," said Bill.
"Isn't that painful?"
"I suspect it is," said Harry,
"but it's over right quick,
and it's for the best."
Harry tossed the severed
testicles toward his daughter,
who caught them in mid-air
and dropped them into
an orange bucket.
Bill was not inclined to judge,
but the emasculator
was a lot to digest,
as was the sight
of Harry's daughter
happily assisting her father.
"For the best?" He said.
"With respect, sir, how
can this be for the best?"
"Well, for starters," said
Harry, "it cures aggression.
Bulls, stallions, boars, and
rams are a lot easier to control
when you turn them into steers,
geldings, hogs, and barrels."
Harry continued to talk
while his daughter led another
bull into the restraining gate.
"It's also a question
of trust," said Harry.
"You can't turn
your back on a bull.
Know what I'm saying, Bill?"
Bill thought he knew exactly
what Harry was saying
and tried to act casual
when another pair of
perfectly good testicles
were cut from their home
and tossed into the
orange bucket again.
Bill was not inclined to judge,
but his visit to
the family ranch
was starting to feel like
cruel and unusual punishment.
Earlier that morning,
he'd observed the branding
and de-horning process which
had left him badly shaken.
But neither of those procedures
had prepared him for the sight
of his future wife
tugging on bull's scrotum
so daddy could swoop
in with the emasculator
and turn them into steers.
I mean, really, how much
weirder could this day get?
As if to answer
that very question,
Harry pulled an ice
pick from his tool belt
and harpooned several testicles
from the orange bucket.
"Come on over here, Bill.
I got a treat for you."
Bill considered running
back to California,
but against his better judgment,
followed Harry over to
the branding station,
where the impaled testicles
were slowly turning
over an open flame.
Chestnuts, if you will,
roasting on an open fire.
"Some people call them
Rocky Mountain oysters,"
said Harry. "They
like them deep fried,
covered with batter, seasoning.
Me? I like them
just like this...
Hot off the fire. I
call him shish ke-ba*ls.
Care to join me?"
With that, Harry slid a testicle
off the ice pick with his teeth
and offered the rest to Bill,
who considered the
moment carefully.
He was not a man
inclined to judge,
but Harry clearly was,
and now a verdict would be
determined by Bill's reaction.
Harry's daughter watched
with a hopeful smile.
This was the part where other
boyfriends had blanched.
Some had vomited.
One, to her father's everlasting
delight, had fainted.
She hoped Bill was
made of sterner stuff,
and happily, he was stepping
forward with resolve.
Bill took the ice
pick from Harry
and slurped off the
remaining testicles.
All of them.
Alas, in his zeal to
prove himself worthy,
Bill's reach may have
exceeded his grasp,
for the shish ke-ba*ls did
not go down without a fight.
Oh, they were hot and
rubbery like calamari,
and resisted his best efforts
to chew them into
something he could swallow.
He eventually got them down,
but not before spitting a
portion back into his hand
and giving them a second pass
as Harry's daughter
applauded enthusiastically.
"Well done, Bill. Well done."
Harry nodded his
approval and extended
a gnarled and sunburned hand.
"Welcome to the Lazy Bee, Bill.
You come on back anytime."
Bill was appalled, but
not inclined to judge,
and pleased to have passed
the strangest test
he'd ever taken.
He looked forward to starting
a life with Harry's daughter
and proposed later that summer,
at which point the
young couple began
their remarkable journey.
A long journey,
as it turned out,
that would see them
grow old together,
make history together, and live
happily ever after together...
which was actually
quite an accomplishment
considering the fact
that Harry's daughter
married another man.
Unfortunately, Bill waited
too long to pop the question,
and while he waited, another
classmate from Stanford,
equally smitten with the
pretty young cowgirl,
paid a visit to the Lazy Bee.
His name was John, and he
too had a ball with Harry
before sweeping his
daughter off her feet.
Bill was heartbroken,
but not inclined to judge or,
for that matter, hold a grudge.
In fact, over the
next few decades,
the two stayed in touch
even after they each
started families of their own.
Maybe that's why,
30 years after his epicurean
adventure at the Lazy Bee,
another cowboy pulled Bill aside
and asked a rather
personal question.
"Tell me something, Bill. That
old girlfriend of yours...
you think she'd be intimidated
working in a room full of men?"
Bill tried not to laugh
as he recalled the way
Harry's daughter had tugged on
the scrotum of all those bulls,
prepping them for
the emasculator.
He recalled the orange
bucket she carried around,
filled with all those
severed testicles,
and the way she had applauded
when he swallowed a mouthful
of her father's shish ke-ba*ls.
"Sir," said Bill,
"This woman is perfectly
qualified for the task at hand.
She's fair, she's
decisive, and trust me,
she is in no way intimidated
by the presence
of testosterone."
And so in 1981, a cowboy
named Ronald Reagan
did something no other
president had done before...
he nominated a candidate
without testicles,
a genuine cowgirl who
shattered the glass ceiling
of the ultimate boys club
when she took her rightful
place among eight old bulls,
one of whom just
happened to be Bill,
the old boyfriend who
came to her daddy's ranch
to be weighed and measured
all those years ago,
the same old boyfriend who
was not inclined to judge,
even though he became
famous for doing so.
Chief Justice William Rehnquist,
who once proposed to
Harry Day's only daughter,
Supreme Court Justice
Sandra Day O'Connor,
two sweethearts who didn't
make it as husband and wife,
but who grew old
together nevertheless,
working side by side on
America's highest court,
where they were always
careful to never...
bite off more than
they could chew.
I don't know about you guys,
but when I'm in
Washington, D.C.,
being careful not to bite
off more than I can chew,
I like to enjoy a spicy
meatball by the reflecting pool
and ponder the significance
of all these memorials.
Why, for instance, did we
build them in the first place?
And why do they matter today?
Why do park rangers and
volunteers care for them
with such diligence and respect?
And why do others deface them
and cover them with graffiti
and call for their removal?
I don't have an answer
to that question
because this isn't
the answer pool.
This is the reflecting pool.
But I do know a guy who
might have something
to say to all those
who insist on judging
our founding fathers
by today's standards...
an old soldier who
lives just down the road
and spends a lot of time today
reminding anyone who will listen
about the true cost of
building the country
we all call home.
According to the president
of the United States,
America would never see another
warrior like the old soldier.
Certainly no officer
or enlisted man
had ever seen as much
action as he had...
two world wars and
a stint in Korea.
But if you asked him directly,
the old soldier
couldn't tell you
how many battles he'd
fought in over the years,
or how many friends he'd
lost... too many to count.
Now, retired at long last,
he relaxes in the
place he calls home,
looking down on a field of green
and across the wide
river that flows below.
As homes go, this
is a good one...
a fine place to
welcome his family
who come to visit
him almost every day.
In fact, there
they are right now,
strolling up the driveway
to spend some time,
share a story, and
keep him up to speed
on the latest news from home.
The old soldier was
always available
during visiting hours...
always, and for obvious reasons.
Just last week, his beloved
daughter Susan had stopped by
to tell him his grandson had
been accepted to Harvard.
How about that?
And just yesterday,
Cousin Billy brought word
the old general store
where he had met his wife,
God rest her soul,
was now a Starbucks.
Oh, well. Time marches on.
These visits from loved
ones were lifelines,
just like the letters
he received in France
all those years ago.
June 5th, 1918, one day after
the Battle of Belleau Wood.
He was only a
private back then...
a teenager from Baton Rouge,
among the first wave of Marines
to charge into that unspeakable
meat grinder on the Marne River.
He was still in shock
from what he had seen
on that terrible day... the
withering machine g*n fire,
the constant shelling, and the
brutal hand-to-hand combat.
But then a letter from
Bakersfield arrived
with his mother's
writing on the front...
a letter from home,
which he read in a muddy trench,
surrounded by dead friends.
What? His kid brother had
made the basketball team?
When did he grow so tall?
Sally, the little tomboy
from down the block,
was Biloxi's Buttermilk
Festival Queen?
Unbelievable. And Freckles,
the c*ck spaniel, just
had a litter of ten puppies,
all of which were being
named in his honor
and given away to good
homes around Boise.
With every sentence,
the young marine had
felt a little more human,
a little more determined
to make it back home
to the people he loved.
[ g*nf*re and explosions ]
Obviously, that
determination paid off.
Not only did he make it
back from Belleau Wood,
he made it back
from the Ardennes,
from the Battle of
Ypres, and Saint-Mihiel,
each one bloodier than the next.
For his heroism,
he was awarded
the Medal of Honor
as well as the Victoria
Cross... unprecedented.
But the old soldier
was still a young man,
and he was just getting started
when the Japanese
bombed Pearl Harbor.
Guess who was sleeping
peacefully in his bunk
aboard the USS Arizona?
He was a lieutenant by then,
one of 1,500 sailors assigned
to the mighty battleship
when a torpedo b*mb
fell from the sky
and sent them all toward
the bottom of the Pacific.
Somehow, he had made
it back to the surface,
only to find the ocean burning
with thousands of gallons
of gasoline and
littered with hundreds
of his shipmates burning to
death in the salty brine.
It's a miracle that anyone
survived that terrible morning.
And yet just six months later,
there he was again
in the Coral Sea,
and then again at the battles
of Midway, Corregidor,
Mindanao, and Luzon.
After that, it was
back to Europe,
where he stormed the
beaches of Normandy...
[ Soldiers shouting ]
[ g*nf*re and explosions ]
fought the Battle of the Bulge,
and distinguished
himself at Anzio.
- Ah!
- Get him out of here!
Through it all, no matter
where the w*r raged,
those letters from
home always found him,
little lifelines
that reminded him
of why he was over there
in the first place.
His family could never know
how much that meant to him,
or how much their visit
today would lift his spirit.
The old soldier's final battle
had taken place in Korea,
14 November, 1950...
the Chosin Reservoir.
A cold front from Siberia,
sent the temperature plunging
to 36 degrees below zero.
He was a captain by then,
commanding a few good men,
who were slowly freezing
to death around him.
It was the bloodiest
battle he'd ever seen,
even though the blood
of his wounded men froze
before it had a chance to flow.
Again, he never expected to find
himself among the survivors.
"The frozen chosen,"
as they were called.
But, neither did
he expect a visit
from the President
of the United States,
who had come to see him
during visiting hours
and proudly declared...
that there would never be
another soldier like him.
As his loved ones draw
near, the guards step aside
so that they can give him the
latest updates from Biloxi.
Or Boise.
Or Baton Rouge.
Or was it Bakersfield?
Honestly, it's hard to
keep it all straight.
He's old, after all...
an old soldier whose
extended family
includes every dead American
who never made it home
and all of the loved
ones they left behind.
The president was right.
There will never be
another soldier like him
because today, every
soldier's DNA is kept on file,
so his or her remains,
no matter how small,
can be positively identified.
Thus the old soldier really
is the last of his kind...
a legendary warrior who
everybody has heard of,
but nobody knows,
a faceless hero who looks
down on a field of green
and the Potomac River
that flows below.
There, in a place
called Arlington,
you can find him still
waiting to greet the visitors
who stand in line to see him,
even as he relaxes for
eternity in the tomb
he calls home...
the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
To visit Arlington
is to be overwhelmed.
600 acres of impeccably
manicured landscape,
and home to 400,000 US
veterans and their dependents.
When you come here,
you might see this...
a soldier honoring the fallen
with a flag beside
the headstone.
This happens a lot, and it's
a powerful thing to witness.
You might also see
groups of veterans
on honor flights, who
come from all over
the country to pay
their respects.
Korean and Vietnam veterans
who pause to say hello.
And if you're lucky, you might
also run into Greg Hughes,
the urban forester responsible
for making this
cemetery feel so alive.
You know, our trees are alive,
and we think of them as
living memorials to the fallen
that we have here.
I lingered at Arlington
a bit longer to say hello to
one other permanent resident,
William Rowe, who fought
bravely in the First World w*r.
My grandfather's story
came to an end in 1967,
just as ours is
coming to an end now.
Our final story unfolds
just a few miles up the road
from here, in a
place that, for me,
hits awfully close to home.
As he rushed to prepare the
fort for the looming attack,
Private Williams calculated
the odds of his survival.
Not good.
The 21-year-old recruit,
along with hundreds of
other American soldiers,
would soon be bombarded
by the British navy.
But unlike his brothers in arms,
Private Williams had no idea
what his survival
would actually mean,
because Private Williams
was a runaway sl*ve
who had escaped his
master four months earlier
and been on the lam ever since.
Like every other
sl*ve in America,
Private Williams knew the
British Navy would guarantee
his freedom in exchange
for his service.
But Private Williams
wouldn't stand for that.
He didn't want a king any
more than he wanted a master.
He just wanted to be free.
But since freedom
was not an option,
Private Williams joined
the Maryland militia
under an assumed name
and prepared to defend
the only home he knew.
Meanwhile, eight miles away,
two teenagers with
r*fles hid in the forest
and marveled at the
sight before them.
Daniel Wells and Henry McComas
didn't understand why anyone,
especially a British general
who didn't want to be shot,
would dress himself
in a bright red coat
and sit on a white horse
100 yards in front of them.
All they knew was the Red coats
had burned Washington, D.C.
a few days earlier, and now,
they had come to burn Baltimore.
Well, Daniel and Henry
would not stand for that,
so the boys took
careful aim and fired.
To this day, we don't know
if it was Daniel or Henry
whose shot found its mark.
All we know is that
the General's red coat
was ruined, along with
several of his vital organs.
As his men scooped
him off the ground
and rushed him back
to his warship,
the badly-wounded British
general thought about
the American doctor still
sequestered on board.
He knew the doctor wouldn't
stand by and watch him die,
even though they were enemies,
because that same American
doctor had already saved
the lives of many other British
soldiers wounded in battle.
I know this is a
very confusing story.
Lots of important things
happening all at the same time,
in that same moment.
For instance,
as the British general
slowly bled to death,
and as the runaway sl*ve
called Private Williams
prepared for the looming
bombardment of the fort
eight miles away,
the American doctor was
commiserating with a lawyer
about the circumstances
that led to his sequester aboard
the British general's warship.
Stay with me. This
part is important.
A week earlier,
that American doctor
had confronted a handful
of British soldiers harassing
women in the local village.
The American doctor, a man who
would not stand for bad manners,
had conducted a citizen's
arrest and imprisoned
the British soldiers.
The British general, however,
he took exception to the
American doctor's actions
and therefore had him arrested
and confined to this very ship.
The American doctor's
lawyer was there
to persuade the British general
to pardon the American doctor.
But the British general
that the American doctor's
lawyer wished to persuade
was now mortally wounded by
an American sharpsh**ter,
and now his worsening
condition cast much uncertainty
upon the immediate
future of all concerned.
See what I mean?
Confusing, but important
because while the
American doctor
and his lawyer were
pondering their fate
on the British
general's warship,
British command was
postponing the bombardment
upon the American fort.
This delay,
brought about by the sh**ting
of the British general,
allowed Private Williams
and the other defenders
to better prepare the fort
for the looming siege.
Meanwhile... and this
is all so important...
back in the forest, eight
miles from the fort,
18-year-old Daniel Wells and
19-year-old Henry McComas
were dying in a withering
volley of musket fire,
even as the body of
the general they k*lled
was being preserved for a
proper burial below the deck
of his warship, a process that
required the general's men
to remove his clothes
and push his naked corpse into
a giant barrel of Jamaican rum.
See what I mean?
Confusing, but important,
because when the British
bombardment finally got
underway, 24 hours
behind schedule,
the American fort
was fully prepared.
Thus, the American
doctor and his lawyer
found themselves
with a front row seat
to an historic
battle right there
on the deceased British
general's warship,
now anchored just
outside Baltimore.
For the American
doctor's lawyer,
the bombardment
was hard to watch.
Baltimore was his home, and
all through the rainy night,
he peered anxiously
into the gloom,
looking for proof that
the fort guarding his city
had not fallen. For
the American doctor,
the torment was even worse
because there was nothing
he could do to help the
wounded on the receiving end
of that bombardment.
He could only pray
and imagine what fresh hell was
unfolding beyond those ramparts.
Private Williams,
on the other hand,
well, he didn't have
to imagine anything
because he was right there
to experience the reality
of a 25-hour shelling
up close and personal.
And when a cannonball took
his leg off above the knee,
leaving him flat on his back,
the runaway sl*ve looked up
from a pool of his own blood
and saw the broad stripes and
the bright stars of a flag
that was still there, flying
defiantly over his head.
No one knows what
he was thinking
as he stared up at that
flag, but two miles away,
the American doctor's
lawyer was staring in wonder
at that very same flag,
and his thoughts are now
a matter of public record.
Must have been a
hell of a sight...
a lawyer scribbling,
a doctor praying,
bombs bursting in air,
while a British general
marinated in a barrel of rum
and a runaway sl*ve
died a free man
underneath the star-spangled
banner waving proudly
over a fort called McHenry.
Anyone who stayed awake through
eighth grade social studies
knows that our national anthem
was written by a stubborn lawyer
who would not stand
for injustice,
but Francis Scott Key
would have never been
on General Ross's warship
if not for William
Beanes, a stubborn doctor
who wouldn't stand
for bad manners.
Of course, the battle itself
would have likely gone in
a very different direction
if not for two stubborn
teenagers from Baltimore
who simply would not stand for
redcoats burning their city.
And then there's the most
unlikely patriot of them all,
Private William Williams,
the runaway sl*ve
who would not stand
for living in bondage,
even if it meant
defending the country
that did not yet stand
for his independence.
w*r is often confusing,
and so too is history,
but our national anthem isn't.
It's a simple tribute
to those who refused to
stand for kings or masters.
That's why we stand
when we hear it today.
Not because our
country is perfect...
we stand simply to honor
all those Americans who died
trying to make our
country better.
We stand for Daniel
Wells and Henry McComas.
We stand for Private
William Williams.
In the land of the free
and the home of the brave,
we stand for the
Star Spangled Banner,
because standing is the
very least we can do.
[ Choir singing ]
And the home of the brave.
Fort McHenry was the destination
of my very first field trip,
way back in 1973.
I was in the fifth grade,
standing right about here,
listening to a park ranger
telling me the story
of a British warship
called the Tonnant,
anchored about four
miles out there.
That's the ship where
Francis Scott Key wrote
our national anthem, not
too far from the very spot
where they built a
bridge in his honor.
160 years later, as you might
have heard, the Key Bridge,
or a big part of it,
is now at the bottom
of the Patapsco River.
Heck of a thing for
a kid from Baltimore
to come back and see a metaphor,
maybe, for a divided country.
But that bridge is going to
be built back someday soon.
It's going to be bigger and
better than it was before.
So maybe this is
just another reminder
that these United States
are a work in progress,
always under construction.
That's what we do,
right? We move forward.
We fall down. We get
up. We come back.
Better than ever.
Okay. Now we're done.
This is the very first shot
of the very first thing.
[ g*nf*re, explosions,
soldiers shouting ]
On "Dirty Jobs," we did one take
and then got on with our lives.
On this project...
How many takes is
this now for this?
Three.
Three takes for a
three-second scene.
Yeah.
But now, we're going to do four.
This is the big screen,
though, not the small screen,
so we get more takes.
It's not the size of
the screen, Jonathan,
- it's how you use it.
- That's not what she said.
[ Laughter ]
Hey, what's up? Okay,
so we're on set today.
We're sh**ting a
bunch of Redcoats.
Like, literally, we are
sh**ting the Redcoats.
This actually starts the
entire story of Fort McHenry.
If it wasn't for these
two teenage boys,
we would not have the
Star Spangled Banner,
and we may not have
won the w*r of 1812.
Our director, Jonathan Coussens.
He was interested in
having the point of view
of a soldier in w*r,
so we had to rig up this
helmet in order for us
to sh**t our stunt performer
wearing our helmet.
So this is our guy, Gabe.
He's about to put
this bad boy on.
You're waving at them,
"Come on, let's go!"
- Action!
- Hey! Let's go! We gotta go.
[ g*nf*re ]
- [ Indistinct conversation ]
- Alright, now playback.
We're gonna have play back.
- Like a pinball machine.
- [ Laughter ]
It's 100 degrees, but I'm
freezing, doing the best I can.
- Quietly.
- Let's see.
Like, if you can see the
camera, then we can see you.
Do you want to stand
like right there?
So the general's pants
are reading whiter
and cleaner than the
rest of the people,
so we're dirtying them up
because they're
in combat, right?
[ All shouting ]
That was wonderful.
[ Laughter ]
That was good.
That's a cut.
- Yeah. Playback.
- Playback is coming up.
So we're just aging stuff for
our World w*r One trenches.
We're going for something
a little bit more dirty
and old and not so
brand new, shiny.
- Look up, Gabe.
- Three, two, one.
[ Explosions and g*nf*re ]
Good. Cut. Cut, cut, cut.
And action!
We today probably have
roughly 80 people on set
to make this one thing happen,
and it's going really awesome.
And action.
- Yeah, like.
- It's all great.
- But yeah, that...
- The sparks are, like...
- Yeah, like, cutting between.
- Reset please.
- We'll go again.
- Reset. Going again.
Action!
3, 2, 1.
What I'd like to do is one
guy come and get cannonballs,
and on his way back, another
guy comes and gets cannonballs.
So we're kind of playing a
little bit of a relay game.
- We've got three over here.
- [ g*nf*re ]
Uh, we're doing basically
a medal of honor recipient.
He jumped on two grenades.
So what we're doing is
we've got it rigged to
where our stuntman is going
to be between the explosions.
We're going to bring
them up, split it,
bring them up, and land.
And then I come in
and grab the actor,
carry him on my shoulder,
and get him to safety
because he actually survived,
which is wild after
landing on two grenades.
- Wow.
- Stunts ready?
- Ready.
- And 3, 2, 1.
[ Explosions ]
- Friendly smile.
- That's really dope.
[ Laughter ] That is dope.
- Hi.
- Hello.
Do you have any shish ke-ba*ls?
I don't have shish ke-ba*ls,
but I do have meatballs.
- I'll take two meatballs.
- All right.
Dirty jobs, they're everywhere.
Ah, well, that's it.
Yeah. Two days of fun.
We saw all the monuments.
Every single one of them.
- You happy?
- I think so.
We'll see how it
turns out in the edit.
- What do you mean, edit?
- I thought this was live.
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Something to Stand for with Mike Rowe (2024)
Moderators: Maskath3, sidolanters, GabrielAlejo2341
Biographies Movie Collection