Hershel W. "Woody" Williams

‘We are together.’ “If America doesn’t come back together, we’re gonna lose it.” ~ Chief Warrant Officer 4 “Woody” Williams.

Hershel W. “Woody” Williams entered the world in 1923 on a dairy farm in Quiet Dell, a small community seven miles outside Fairmont, West Virginia. The town was built on dairy work, though a few men traveled to the coal mines for wages. His given name was Hershel Woodrow Williams, but from the beginning everyone simply called him “Woody.”

He was the youngest of eleven children, though only five survived. At birth he weighed just three pounds—so small his parents feared he wouldn’t live. They persuaded Dr. Hershel Gost to come out to the farm and examine him. Doctors didn’t make house calls then, nor did they have automobiles, but Dr. Gost came anyway. After checking the tiny newborn, he told Woody’s mother, “If you keep doing what you’re doing, he’ll be fine.” With no crib in the house, his parents kept him warm in one of his father’s shoeboxes.

Growing up on a dairy farm meant the cows had to be milked twice a day. The farm produced milk, butter, and cream, which his father sold in town. They loaded the back of his father’s Model T truck and drove from house to house, guided by handwritten notes customers left in empty glass bottles. Later, his father upgraded to a Model A truck, and the boys rode on the running board. As they approached each home, his father would call out, “This house wants a pint of cream,” and one of the boys would jump off to deliver it. There were no grocery stores or refrigerators then—everything depended on daily delivery.

Winters were harsh. The Monongahela River froze ten to twelve inches thick, and the family cut blocks of ice to store in the log icehouse. They chopped fifty‑ and hundred‑pound blocks to keep the iceboxes cold, storing extra ice in the basement for daily use.

With his older brothers in school, Woody received his first responsibility at age six: bringing the cows in for milking. The herd roamed across their forty‑acre farm, and Woody, with his collie Rowdy at his side, walked the hills to gather them. It gave him his first sense of duty—of doing something important.

Life on the farm meant making nearly everything they needed. Money was scarce. They planted oats, corn, and beans, and if a crop failed, the family suffered. Saturdays meant walking or catching a ride into town. For a dime, Woody could buy an ice cream cone, a hot dog, or a movie ticket. He especially loved the town’s ice cream socials with homemade ice cream and cakes.

He attended the same school for eight years with the same teacher. He and his friends walked together each morning, all from families with little money. A few relatives, like his uncles who worked at Owens Glass, had steady wages and were better off.

After one year of high school, Woody dropped out. The only way to get to school was by riding the milk truck into town, but the seven‑mile walk home was long, and rides were rare.

At sixteen, still working on the farm, Woody watched his brother leave to join the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC), created by President Roosevelt. The dairy industry was changing with pasteurization and homogenization, and small farms struggled to keep up. When Woody saw his brother come home in uniform with dollar bills in his pocket—money Woody had never held—he decided to join the CCC as well. He was first sent to Camp Pickens in Morgantown, then by train to a camp in Montana.

It was there, in the Civilian Conservation Corps Camp that he heard the news of Pearl Harbor. The camps were run by the Army, with a lieutenant, a sergeant, a cook, and truck drivers overseeing the men. They were told that those eighteen or older could enlist in the Army, while younger men needed parental permission. Woody knew his mother would never sign, so he returned home and waited.

When Woody turned eighteen, he tried to enlist in the Marine Corps, but the recruiter turned him away. At the time—November 1942—the minimum height requirement was 5 feet 8 inches, and Woody fell short of the mark. In their small West Virginia town, many of the local businesses were run by short Italian families, and the Marines rarely found men there who met the height standard.

But the war was changing. The heavy casualties at Guadalcanal and the looming Bougainville campaign forced the Marine Corps to lower its height requirement. By July 1943, the recruiter returned to the farm with the list of names he had kept, and this time Woody was accepted.

There were so many new recruits that the Marines created a waiting list, selecting two men from each county. Woody was originally slated to train at Parris Island, but the camp was overwhelmed—no drill instructors, no housing, not even enough trained truck drivers to move the men. Everything was overflowing.

People often asked Woody why he chose the Marine Corps. He always believed it was the uniform. He knew a few Marines who received a guaranteed thirty‑day furlough each year, and whenever they came home, they wore their dress blues. Woody admired the way they looked. This was early 1942, not long after Pearl Harbor, and the Marine uniform carried a certain pride and presence. By comparison, the Army uniforms seemed heavy, plain, and unattractive—especially when wet. And one thing was certain: the Marines in dress blues never had trouble attracting attention from the women.

Because the East Coast had a larger population and more recruits, Woody and the others were sent west for training. They boarded a train bound for Chicago, enduring five days on wooden seats with no cushions. After arriving, they were given a ten‑day furlough, but Woody didn’t have enough time to return home, so he boarded another train headed for San Diego. Men who trained there were known as “Hollywood Marines.”

When they arrived, the recruits were organized into platoons, each with three drill instructors. Most had no combat experience, but a few had fought at Guadalcanal. Woody considered himself fortunate—his platoon had two DIs who had seen combat and understood what it meant to dig foxholes, slog through mud, and face the realities of war.

After completing boot camp in September 1943, Woody was sent to Jacques Farm at Camp Pendleton. There he trained in tank operations, demolition, and infantry tactics. On December 30, 1943, he was assigned to the 32nd Replacement Battalion.

In August 1943, he shipped out for the South Pacific. The first stop was New Caledonia, a French‑owned island already secured by Allied forces. At the Replacement Center, Marines were assembled and reassigned where needed. Woody was placed in Company C, 1st Battalion, 21st Marine Regiment, 3rd Marine Division, and sent to Guadalcanal in January 1944.

The 21st Marine Regiment had been activated in July 1942 at New River, North Carolina, and had trained intensively in Hawaii for operations on Guadalcanal and Bougainville. Woody had not trained with them in Hawaii—he was still in New Caledonia awaiting transfer.

When he arrived on Guadalcanal, Woody and the others were introduced to the flamethrower. The improved M2 model had just been released in late 1943. None of the men had ever seen one. Their instructor was a Gunnery Sergeant known as an Old China Marine—one of the Marines who had served in Peking in the 1920s, protecting American citizens and property during the Chinese Revolution. He trained them in the use of the flamethrower.

Woody was assigned to a demolition platoon—“burn it up or blow it up”—and trained from January through June 1944. The flamethrowers arrived in the summer of 1944, still unfamiliar to the men, who unpacked them from large crates and assembled them for the first time.

After months of demolition and flamethrower training on Guadalcanal, Woody and his unit boarded a ship bound for Saipan. The 2nd Marine Division was already engaged there, so his division remained at sea, waiting in case reinforcements were needed. They never were. Once the fighting stabilized—and after the men had eaten through all the ship’s chow—the division sailed on to Guam.

In July 1944, they landed on the western beaches of Guam and took part in the amphibious assaults. They remained on the island until February 1945, never knowing what would come next or where they would be sent. The war moved in shadows, and orders came without explanation.

After several days at sea, the officers finally gathered the men and told them their destination: Iwo Jima. They sketched a map of the island in the sand and explained that the assault on the Japanese defenses was expected to last four to five days. Woody’s division was designated as the reserve force. They were told they would not land unless needed. No one mentioned that two other divisions—the 4th and 5th—would go ashore first.

The reserve status meant waiting. They could not see the island, only hear the distant thunder of 16‑inch naval guns pounding the shoreline. Each blast echoed across the water, a reminder that the battle had already begun.

But after the first day, casualties were so severe that the reserves were ordered in.

The men boarded Higgins boats and circled in wide loops, waiting for enough space on the crowded beaches to land. At one point they were sent back to the ship, only to learn that the Marines had broken through the Japanese lines and they would go ashore on the second day.

When Woody’s unit finally landed, they encountered only light resistance—mostly mortars and artillery. The Japanese infantry rifle fire had been pushed back the day before. But once they moved onto the airfield, everything changed. They came under heavy fire and began losing men as they advanced from one bomb crater to the next.

The airfield was ringed with pillboxes, each one a fortress of steel and concrete. Japanese machine gunners fired their 30‑caliber Nambu guns—based on the French Hotchkiss M1909 Benet‑Mercier—through narrow slits that were nearly impossible to hit. The casualties mounted quickly.

The Marines pulled back to reorganize. Woody, a corporal at the time, was assigned as acting sergeant. Across A, B, and C Companies of the 21st Marines, there were six flamethrowers available. By the morning of February 23rd, for reasons Woody never learned, the other flamethrower operators were gone. He was the only one left.

A meeting of the remaining NCOs was called—though there were few left to attend. Woody hadn’t planned to go, but his First Sergeant told him he would. At the meeting, the officers asked him directly what he could do about the pillboxes.

He was told to select four Marines to support him. He chose two from his old squad and two he didn’t know, then added two more. Their job was to fire into the pillbox slits to keep the Japanese gunners pinned down while Woody approached with the flamethrower.

He designated his friend from his old squad as the poleman and handed him an eight‑foot pole with eight blocks of C‑2 explosive wired to the end. The plan was simple: Woody would burn out the defenders, and the poleman would seal the pillbox with explosives.

As they approached the first pillbox, a shot rang out. A bullet struck his friend’s helmet. The webbing inside stopped the round, but the impact knocked him unconscious, sending him tumbling backward into a crater.

What followed became one of the most extraordinary acts of individual heroism in Marine Corps history—but Woody remembered only fragments of it.

He later learned that he had used six flamethrowers during the assault. He remembered only one. The others had been stored in the supply area, but he had no memory of retrieving them. He had crawled most of the time, unaware of distance, unaware of the passage of time. The trauma of battle had taken pieces of memory with it.

A VA psychiatrist later told him, “If you convince yourself that you don’t want to remember something, you will not remember it. The opposite is also true.”

Reports confirmed that two Marines had been killed during the attack, but Woody did not know their names. Years later, his friend Patrick O’Leary searched through documents and eyewitness accounts until he discovered them: Corporal Warren Bornholz and PFC Charles.

In March 2020, during the commissioning of the expeditionary sea base Hershel “Woody” Williams in San Diego, Woody planted a tree and placed a small monument in honor of the two Marines who, in his words, “paid the ultimate price protecting my life.”

Looking back, Woody would later reflect that he had enlisted in the United States Marine Corps and served during the Battle of Iwo Jima with the 21st Marine Regiment, 3rd Marine Division. His actions on February 23, 1945—actions he remembered only in fragments—were recorded in detail by those who witnessed them.

His Medal of Honor citation read: “During the battle, Williams displayed valiant devotion to duty and service above self as he enabled his company to reach its objective.” His courage, his commitment to his fellow Marines, and his refusal to abandon the mission were recognized at the highest level. On October 5, 1945, Woody Williams received the Medal of Honor from President Truman at the White House.

But the heart of Woody’s service began long before that ceremony—and long before he ever wore the uniform.

As World War II unfolded, Woody came face‑to‑face with the cost of war in his own community. Before he enlisted, he delivered Western Union telegrams to Gold Star families, carrying the devastating news that their sons had been killed in action. He always said those moments shaped him deeply. They taught him the difference between ordinary loss and the sacrifice of those who die serving their country. They taught him the weight of grief that families carry. And they taught him that such grief must never be ignored or forgotten.

He carried that understanding with him for the rest of his life.

One incident that reminded him of the loss of someone special was the death of one of his school friends, a nose gunner in a B‑24 bomber. During heavy firing, he was hit and killed, a moment that stayed with him for the rest of his life.

For 15 years, I carried a vision for a memorial in Washington, D.C., dedicated to all who had lost loved ones—especially the Gold Star Mothers whose grief had so often gone unrecognized. Yet I could not find a sponsor. I remember hearing from the War Department about a father who had lost his son in Afghanistan. When I went to visit him, it struck me deeply that no one had ever spoken about a Gold Star Dad, or a Gold Star Grandfather, or a brother, or a sister. Their grief was just as real, just as heavy, and yet it lived in the shadows.

So in 2013, we placed a monument in West Virginia to honor Gold Star Families—every parent, every child, every sibling, every loved one who carries the weight of sacrifice.

In March 2020, Woody traveled to San Diego for the commissioning of the expeditionary sea base Hershel “Woody” Williams. During the ceremony, he planted a tree and placed a small monument dedicated to the two Marines—Corporal Warren Bornholz and PFC Charles—who had “paid the ultimate price protecting my life.” It was a tribute he had longed to make, a final act of gratitude for men whose names he had not known during the battle but whose sacrifice he never forgot once he learned it.

Woody Williams’s devotion to service members, veterans, and their families became the defining mission of his life. He insisted that the grief of surviving families be met with recognition, compassion, and lasting honor. His work, his words, and his example carried that message across generations.

U.S. Marine Corps Chief Warrant Officer 4 Hershel W. “Woody” Williams, who earned the Medal of Honor for his heroic flamethrower actions during the Battle of Iwo Jima, died on June 29, 2022. His interment took place on August 29, 2022, with military honors at the Donel C. Kinnard Memorial State Veterans Cemetery in Dunbar, Kanawha County, West Virginia

LIVING LEGEND: The Story of Hershel “Woody” Williams

His heroism in World War II earned him the Medal of Honor, but that was just the beginning of his story. At home, he faced a brand-new battle. Here’s how he won both. 

BY MATT TUTHILL 

In the two decades after Woody Williams came home from the war, he was the man everyone expected him to be. He was productive and respected at work. He was loved by his wife and two children.

Day after day, he went about his business, betraying no hint of the emotional burdens and mental scarring he endured on the front lines of one of World War II’s bloodiest battles. Williams, now 94 years old and the last surviving Medal of Honor recipient from the Battle of Iwo Jima, and the last surviving Marine to have won the honor in World War II, is at ease speaking candidly about his experiences.

But for 17 years after the war ended, Williams didn’t share much about his time overseas. Nor could he forgive himself for the many lives he took, and the manner in which he took them—at close range with a flamethrower. “I had a tremendous amount of difficulty because I couldn’t forgive myself for having to take so many lives in such a horrible, horrible way,” Williams says today, speaking from his home in West Virginia, where he lives alone. (He lost Ruby, his wife of 63 years, to a heart attack in 2007.) “A person’s life.

“I can remember my dad telling me, ‘Boys don’t cry. Man up and don’t do that. Women do that,’” Williams says. “We may have cried, but we didn’t do it openly.” Williams was raised in the tiny community of Quiet Dell in Marion County, West Virginia. He was taught in a one-room school and his parents ran a local dairy. 

He was 17 years old when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor in December of 1941, working in the Civilian Conservation Corps, a New Deal work program which was dissolved soon after the U.S. entered the fray of World War II. He tried to join the Marine Corps right after the attack, but his mother refused to sign the papers to let him in underage.

When he was 18, he attempted to join on his own, but being only 5-foot-6, the recruiters rejected him; he was two inches shy of the minimum height requirement. By May of 1943, however, the strain on the military was significant enough to ease those standards, and Williams became a Marine.

He stayed stationed there after the victory until February of 1945, when he was sent to Iwo Jima. That infamous battle lasted more than a month, from February 19th to March 26th. It was a long slog for the Allies, owing mostly to firmly entrenched Japanese forces.

The battlefield was littered with reinforced concrete pillboxes, which were designed with tiny slits to allow the enemy to shoot in all directions. But these slits were so small they barely qualified as a weakness. The Japanese position was impassable for Allied tanks, never mind infantry on foot.

“We lost so many Marines attempting to approach those pillboxes,” Williams says. “Our commanding officer lost most of his officers. We had lost our platoon leaders. We had lost our squad leaders. We had people doing jobs that they were never trained to do because you lose so many people and somebody takes up the slack.” On the morning of February 23, Williams’ commanding officer called a meeting of surviving officers. “I wasn’t supposed to attend that meeting,” Williams says.

“I was a corporal and corporals do not attend meetings of that nature.” But for some reason, Williams’ Buck Sergeant told him to go and he complied. The Marines gathered in the center of a bomb crater—the high walls around them provided good cover—where the C.O. admitted he was out of ideas.

“What are we gonna do?” Williams recalls him saying. “‘Every time we advance they beat us back.’ That’s when he asked me if I could use a flamethrower to get rid of some of those pill boxes.” Williams agreed, and over the course of the next four hours, with a flamethrower tank strapped to his back, he crawled on his belly toward the pillboxes, with four Marines providing cover fire.

When Williams got close enough to the enemy position, he discharged his flamethrower to kill the soldiers inside. It was an effective strategy, but Williams became a big, slow target, one whose position was telegraphed every time he fired his weapon, which billowed telltale black smoke to the entire battlefield.

“When you fire a flamethrower, you give off an awful lot of black smoke because you’re burning diesel fuel and gasoline,” Williams says. “Other Marines trained me to do this, otherwise I wouldn’t have done it; when you fire, you move from that particular position because that’s where they’re going to start dropping the mortars.” 

Though Williams says he crawled on his belly most of that afternoon, he did have to stand up a few times. One of those is mentioned in his Medal of Honor citation; Williams saw a small amount of smoke emanating from the top of one of the pillboxes. Realizing it was a vent, he crawled in close to the box, stood up, and climbed on top.

“I figured there was an opening up there and a good way to kill the people inside was to shoot the flame down through that hole,” Williams says. “And that’s what I did.”

When Williams landed on Iwo Jima, there were six men under his command. “Flamethrower demolition guys,” he explains. “Privates and PFCs under my patrol. I was their man. And my job was not to take their place but to keep them in supplies and make sure that the flamethrowers are ready to go. 

Make sure that the explosives are ready to go. That they’ve got everything they need because they were my group.

By the 23rd, I didn’t have any left. They were all gone. Wounded or killed, I never did know. I never got a report.” With no other Marines trained to use a flamethrower, Williams’ mission continued as a solo effort under cover fire; each time his flamethrower ran out—the four-and-a-half gallon fuel tank was good for just 72 seconds of sustained burn—he retreated behind his own line to get a new one and to set demolition charges to clear a path for the tanks. 

At least that’s what his citation says. Williams says he can’t remember how he obtained the new flamethrowers, nor how long the process took. “I have talked to psychologists about why I can’t remember going back to get five more flamethrowers,” Williams says. “I used six flamethrowers that day, I’m told… And for four hours, they tell me. I could not have imagined how long because there’s no time frame, nothing to measure by.

Night and day run together. You don’t know what day it is and you don’t care what day it is.” He’s also hazy on how many enemy combatants he killed, because, he says, “you never knew how many Japanese were in a pillbox. Sometimes it would be a great number. Sometimes it would be a few.

One report that I saw, by the witness of another Marine, said there were 17 Japanese in one of them. I couldn’t confirm it. And I’m not particularly interested in knowing how many.” Frequently, Williams made his way to the rear of the pillbox to clear it out. On one occasion, an enemy infantryman charged at him with a bayonet and Williams killed him with his flamethrower. 

While Williams cleared the way for tanks that day, Marines elsewhere on the island raised the American flag atop Mount Suribachi, a moment immortalized in monuments and photos. He continued to fight through the end of the battle, and was wounded on March 6 and earned the Purple Heart. 

The war ended on September 2 of that year. In a White House ceremony on October 5, President Harry Truman pinned the Medal of Honor on Williams’ chest. By rights, it should have been a crowning achievement, but Williams’ inner battle was just beginning. Shortly after the war ended, he lost his older brother Gerald, who had seen extensive combat in the Battle of the Bulge, and was “shot up bad” according to Williams.

“They kept him in a mental hospital until March after the war was over, because they didn’t think he was capable of coming home and taking care of himself. He cracked up. Went all to pieces… He just gave up life. He wanted to die, and he did, not too many years later.”

In addition to his brother Gerald, Williams had another older brother, Lloyd, who served but thankfully didn’t see combat as part of a rear supply chain in Germany. Williams stopped suppressing his emotions with alcohol in 1962. That’s when he found God through his wife’s Methodist church. Until that point, he hadn’t been a churchgoing man, but the religious experience changed him forever. He quit smoking, drinking, and even swearing, committing himself to God and his family.

Later, he took on a new career, that of veteran counselor, a job he held down for 33 years. “It was one of the most rewarding jobs that anybody could possibly have,” Williams says. The Medal of Honor, he adds, gave him extra incentive to live the fullest life possible and be the best version of himself he could be.

“I no longer just represented me,” he says. “I now represented the Marines who protected me, Marines who sacrificed their lives doing that… If I had written that recommendation for the Medal of Honor—which I didn’t, my commanding officer did—I would have never used the word ‘alone.’ I sort of resent that word in my citation.

It says, ‘He went forward alone.’ That’s not correct. Four Marines were protecting me, and two of them were killed while they did it. So I have said from the very beginning that it does not belong to me. It belongs to them.” When asked if he could have better dealt with the trauma if men at that time weren’t tacitly forbidden from talking about their feelings, Williams replies succinctly, “Oh my, yes.”

Basic resources for veterans, he adds, were scarce. “When I think back to the World War I veterans who came home shell-shocked, they had nowhere to go,” Williams says.“

There was no VA (The U.S. Office of Veterans Affairs). The VA wasn’t created until 1930. After World War II, when we came home we had no psychiatrists. We had no social workers. I lived in Fairmont, West Virginia, and the only VA medical hospital in the state was 220 miles away. I couldn’t have traveled 220 miles for treatment.

“I’ve never seen a record, and I’m not sure there is one, of how many suicides we had after World War II. But those individuals had no place to go. No one to talk to and no hope.” Williams says that the seemingly endless military conflicts of today underscore the need to unify in support of the troops.

It has been established that 22 veterans commit suicide every day. For Williams, it is a galling statistic, but it’s also an opportunity to unite for a common cause at a time when the country desperately needs it. “We take it for granted that it’s just another job,” Williams says. “It is not another job. I don’t go out every day and risk my life in any way.

They do it without question, with everyone being a volunteer… We have to believe in what they’re doing. There are a great number of people in the country who are not quite sure that we should be involved in some of the combat situations that we’re in.

I guess that’s pretty typical. But as a result of that, we lose our perspective about the sacrifices that are being made. “In the Marine Corps in World War II, we had a word that we would greet each other with. If somebody would do something outstanding, we’d say, ‘Gung ho!’

Today I guess it’s ‘Oohrah!’ In my day it really meant ‘together,’ ‘We are together.’ “If America doesn’t come back together, we’re gonna lose it.”

GOLD STAR MEMORIAL 

In 2010, Williams founded The Hershel Woody Williams Congressional Medal of Honor Education Foundation, Inc. It is a charitable 501(c)(3), not-for-profit organization that pursues specific endeavors and goals through the vision of Medal of Honor Recipient Hershel “Woody” Williams. 

The Foundation encourages, with the assistance of the American public and community leaders, establishing permanent Gold Star Families Memorial Monuments in communities throughout the country and provides scholarships to eligible Gold Star Children. (A Gold Star Family is one who has lost a service member in combat.) Its purpose is to honor Gold Star Families, relatives, and Gold Star Children who have sacrificed a loved one in the service of their country. 

The Gold Star Families Memorial Monument preserves the memory of the fallen and serves as a stark reminder that Freedom is not free. The stunning black granite monument features two sides. One bears the words: Gold Star Families Memorial Monument, a tribute to Gold Star Mothers, Fathers, and Relatives who have sacrificed a Loved One for our Freedom.

The other side tells a story through the four granite panels: Homeland, Family, Patriot, and Sacrifice. The scenes on each panel are a reflection of each community’s Gold Star Families and their fallen heroes. At the center of this tribute is the most distinct feature of the monument, the cut out which represents the loved one who paid the ultimate sacrifice in the name of Freedom.

Williams accompanied Robert on his helicopter ride as he arrived at the grand opening of Robert Irvine’s Public House at the Tropicana in Las Vegas in July of 2017. Williams also gave a speech introducing Robert and thanking him for his dedication to the USO and for the charitable work of The Robert Irvine Foundation. 

The two had previously kindled their friendship at a benefit for the troops where Robert cooked and made a guest appearance. Williams was welcomed with a rousing speech by Tropicana GM Aaron Rosenthal, who detailed the actions that earned Williams the Medal of Honor. When Williams took the microphone, he said simply, “Today isn’t about me. It’s about Robert and the incredible things he’s done for veterans.”

After the dedication speeches at Public House were over and Williams could get Robert away from the crowd, he presented the chef with a gift—an autographed copy of the famous photo of the flag raising at Iwo Jima, this BOOK about the Medal of Honor, as well as a medal naming Robert an Honorary Board Member of Williams’ foundation. Robert was touched by the gifts, and humbled by William’s words. “I know the restaurant has my name on the front, so obviously people are going to get up and talk about you,” Robert says. “Of course you’re going to be flattered.

Of course people are going to present your best qualities and accomplishments. But when they come from a man like Williams—a true legend, a true hero, who did such incredibly brave things for this country… well, when he started listing my accomplishments as if they were of equal value, it was too much for me. I know that nothing can ever compare to what he did. But that’s how humble he is. That’s how gracious he is. They just don’t make them like him anymore.” To support the Robert Irvine Foundation, which disperses grants to veterans and veteran causes in need.

CITATION 

The official Medal of Honor citation for Woody Williams reads as follows: For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty as demolition sergeant serving with the 21st Marines, 3d Marine Division, in action against enemy Japanese forces on Iwo Jima, Volcano Islands, 23 February 1945. 

Quick to volunteer his services when our tanks were maneuvering vainly to open a lane for the infantry through the network of reinforced concrete pillboxes, buried mines, and black volcanic sands, Cpl. Williams daringly went forward alone to attempt the reduction of devastating machinegun fire from the unyielding positions.

 Covered only by 4 riflemen, he fought desperately for 4 hours under terrific enemy small-arms fire and repeatedly returned to his own lines to prepare demolition charges and obtain serviced flamethrowers, struggling back, frequently to the rear of hostile emplacements, to wipe out 1 position after another. 

On 1 occasion, he daringly mounted a pillbox to insert the nozzle of his flamethrower through the air vent, killing the occupants and silencing the gun; on another he grimly charged enemy riflemen who attempted to stop him with bayonets and destroyed them with a burst of flame from his weapon. 

His unyielding determination and extraordinary heroism in the face of ruthless enemy resistance were directly instrumental in neutralizing one of the most fanatically defended Japanese strong points encountered by his regiment and aided vitally in enabling his company to reach its objective. Cpl. Williams’ aggressive fighting spirit and valiant devotion to duty throughout this fiercely contested action sustain and enhance the highest traditions of the U.S. Naval Service.

ENDNOTE

In 1923 the United States was in the middle of the Roaring Twenties — a time of rising consumerism, Prohibition, and cultural change — while rural West Virginia communities like Quiet Dell remained largely agricultural, conservative, and shaped by hard physical work on family farms.

National backdrop: the Roaring Twenties

The decade after World War I brought rapid economic growth for many Americans, expanding consumer goods, radios, and automobiles, and a lively urban culture of jazz and new social freedoms. At the same time Prohibition (1920–1933) created a large illegal alcohol trade and changed social life across the country. These national trends were unevenly felt: cities modernized quickly while many rural areas changed slowly.

Rural West Virginia and Quiet Dell

Quiet Dell was a small, agricultural community in Harrison County where life centered on family farms, churches, and local trades. Daily life for a farm boy born in 1923 meant early mornings, manual labor, and limited access to the consumer comforts appearing in cities. Community institutions — the local school, church, and cooperative networks — were central to social life.

Technology, work, and household life

In the early 1920s electrification and household appliances were still spreading; many rural homes lacked electricity or indoor plumbing, so chores were labor‑intensive. The automobile was becoming common but was still less ubiquitous in remote areas; travel and communication remained slower and more local. These conditions produced practical skills, mechanical familiarity, and physical resilience in children raised on farms.

Social tensions and culture

The era also saw intensified cultural conflicts: nativism, the resurgence of the Ku Klux Klan in some regions, and debates over modern versus traditional values. West Virginia’s communities were not immune to these tensions, and economic insecurity—especially as the decade moved toward the Depression—heightened local anxieties. Churches and civic groups often reinforced conservative social norms.

How this shaped Woody

Growing up in a large farm family in 1920s West Virginia would have instilled work ethic, practical problem‑solving, and a sense of duty to family and community—traits that later surfaced in his military service. The contrast between national modernity and local rural life helps explain why many young men of his generation were comfortable with hard physical labor and close‑knit teamwork.

By age six Hershel “Woody” Williams already carried a strong sense of working and contributing—helping on his family’s dairy farm and learning responsibility early—which became a core part of his identity and later informed his courage and service. 

Family pressures and early loss

By age eleven his father had died and several siblings had died in the influenza years, which increased the family reliance on every able member. That kind of loss often forced children in rural households to assume adult responsibilities sooner than their peers elsewhere, reinforcing a practical, contribution‑oriented outlook rather than one centered on childhood leisure. Taking on work was both necessity and identity in Williams’s upbringing.

How early contribution shaped him

Early work produced a durable work ethic, self‑reliance, and a readiness to act under pressure. Williams later said that delivering telegrams and working in community roles gave him perspective on sacrifice and duty; these formative experiences translated into the calm, practical courage he displayed as a demolition sergeant on Iwo Jima. After the war he continued serving veterans and families, channeling that same impulse to contribute into public service and the Woody Williams Foundation.

Feeling responsible and useful from a very young age was not sentimental for Woody—it was practical training. The chores, losses, and community expectations of Quiet Dell made contribution a habit, not a choice, and that habit underpinned his actions in combat and his lifelong commitment to veterans.

The Journey

Williams trained as a Marine recruit, then as a tank crewman and finally as a specialist in demolition and the flamethrower; after unit training and island staging he sailed with 1st Battalion, 21st Marines and landed on Iwo Jima on 21 February 1945, immediately entering brutal close combat.

Training path and specialization

Williams completed recruit training at MCRD San Diego and then trained with tank units at Camp Elliott. While at Camp Pendleton and later at El Centro he received demolition and flamethrower instruction, the specialized, hazardous training that prepared him to serve as a demolition sergeant. These courses covered maintenance of temperamental flame equipment, use of satchel and demolition charges, and coordination with infantry and armor.

Unit assignment and promotion

After initial training Williams was assigned to Company C, 1st Battalion, 21st Marines, 3rd Marine Division, the unit that would assault Iwo Jima. He was promoted to corporal during the unit’s stateside preparations and island training cycles. The battalion’s training emphasized combined arms work—infantry, tanks, engineers, and demolition teams practicing bunker‑reduction techniques that would be essential on volcanic islands.

Staging and movement to Iwo Jima

In January 1945, Corporal Hershel W. “Woody” Williams of Company C, 1st Battalion, 21st Marine Regiment, 3rd Marine Division prepared for the Iwo Jima operation with final rehearsals and staging in forward Pacific areas. After unit consolidation, equipment inspections, and amphibious rehearsals, the battalion embarked aboard transports and went ashore on 21 February 1945. Flamethrower crews received particular attention during these preparations because their weapons required extra fuel, maintenance, and secure stowage aboard ship and landing craft. 

Service locations and role 

Woody served across the South Pacific before Iwo Jima and saw a sharp contrast between campaigns: earlier postings and the Guam invasion exposed him to jungle fighting, heat, and close, chaotic assaults, while Guadalcanal/New Caledonia duty involved long periods of staging, training, and small‑unit patrols that hardened him for frontline demolition work.

Guadalcanal and New Caledonia experience

Staging and patrol life — In places like New Caledonia and Guadalcanal Marines alternated between long, humid periods of camp life, training, and short, dangerous patrols. Those postings were physically demanding but also gave units time to practice coordination, weapons handling, and small‑unit tactics that flamethrower teams would later rely on. The environment was hot, wet, and mosquito‑ridden; supply lines were long, and disease and exhaustion were constant threats.

Psychological preparation — Serving in these forward areas exposed Woody to the rhythms of Pacific warfare: sudden violence, long waits, and the need to improvise under stress. That background helped him adapt to the far more intense, bunker‑dominated fighting he would face on Iwo Jima.

Guam invasion experience

Guam was a brutal, close‑in fight that foreshadowed Iwo Jima’s intensity but differed in terrain. During the liberation of Guam Marines found beaches and approaches that were less cratered than Iwo’s volcanic ash, allowing more immediate inland movement, but the jungle and fortified positions still produced fierce, often hand‑to‑hand encounters. Woody later described Guam as “horrific” and said it seemed worse until he reached Iwo.

Tactical and sensory realities — On Guam Woody and other flamethrower crews learned how to work with infantry and tanks to reduce bunkers and caves: coordinating suppressive fire, approaching under cover, and using flamethrowers and satchel charges to clear hardened positions. The heat, humidity, and jungle canopy made movement slow and exhausting; weapons and equipment required constant care.

How these experiences shaped his actions at Iwo Jima

The combination of staging duty, jungle combat, and a baptism by fire on Guam made Williams a practiced, calm operator under fire—able to improvise, maintain his flamethrower, and repeatedly assault pillboxes at Iwo Jima. His prior combat exposure explains both his technical skill and his willingness to volunteer for the most dangerous tasks.

Arrival on the beach and immediate combat

Williams landed with his battalion on 21 February and was in action within hours; by 23 February he was volunteering to reduce pillboxes that were pinning tanks and infantry. The landing itself exposed men to loose black volcanic sand, intense enemy fire, and the logistical difficulty of getting heavy, delicate flamethrower gear ashore and serviced under combat conditions.

Flamethrower operators often had to return to rear areas repeatedly to swap out fuel tanks or obtain serviced equipment before assaulting another emplacement.

Arriving on Mount Suribachi meant stepping into a compact, volcanic killing ground: loose black ash that swallowed boots and jammed weapons, choking sulfurous dust and heat that sapped strength, and a maze of camouflaged bunkers and tunnels that forced grinding, close‑in assaults under constant fire with exhausting struggle.

Overview of the landing environment

Mount Suribachi is a 169‑meter cinder cone whose slopes and the surrounding beaches were made of loose black volcanic ash and sand. That surface absorbed heat, kicked up choking dust when disturbed, and made movement slow and treacherous for men and vehicles.

Immediate sensory shock

The first things Marines noticed were the black volcanic sand, the sulfur smell, and the heat radiating from the ground. The island’s cinder‑cone geology produced fine, powdery ash that kicked up into choking clouds whenever men moved, stung eyes and throats, and coated clothing and equipment.

How the ash and slopes affected movement

The ash behaved like loose powder: men sank, vehicles bogged, and attempts to dig protective foxholes often failed because loose sand collapsed back in. Progress up Suribachi was measured in feet and hours rather than miles and days; veterans describe advancing “inch by inch” through shell holes and cratered ground while under fire.

How the ash physically damaged feet

Volcanic ash is a fine, gritty mix of tiny rock and glass fragments that behaves like sandpaper when trapped against skin. When men fell, slid, or simply marched through the powder, ash worked into socks and seams; repeated rubbing produced abrasions and blisters, and in some cases the grit’s sharp edges produced small cuts. The ash also retained heat from the black sand, increasing the risk of thermal irritation to already‑damaged skin.

Why boots made it worse

Boots trapped the abrasive material against the foot and held it there while men marched or crawled, so a single fall could turn into hours of grinding friction. Leather or canvas uppers and rough insoles did not stop fine ash from migrating into seams and under the foot; wet ash could cake into a gritty paste that intensified chafing and pressure points. Over time this led to open sores that were painful and slowed movement.

Medical consequences and infection risk

Small cuts and abrasions from ash were not benign: the island’s environment, delayed evacuation, and the difficulty of keeping wounds clean increased infection risk. Medical reports from the campaign emphasize the heavy burden of wounds and the hazards of evacuation on cratered slopes, which meant even minor foot injuries could complicate a Marine’s ability to fight or be moved to aid.

Sensory and secondary effects

Beyond cuts and blisters, ash in boots caused intense discomfort—stinging, burning, and a constant abrasive sensation that sapped morale and endurance. The black sand’s heat and the island’s sulfurous fumes made any exposed or abraded skin more painful and more prone to breakdown.

Practical measures taken in the field

Marines learned to empty boots frequently, change socks when possible, and improvise padding or greases to reduce friction; corpsmen treated blisters and cleaned wounds as soon as evacuation allowed. Those small, repeated practices mattered because they prevented minor abrasions from becoming disabling infections. Medical units worked under difficult conditions to treat thousands of casualties, and foot care was part of that routine.

Combat environment and defenses

Mount Suribachi was honeycombed with reinforced concrete pillboxes, caves, and interlinked tunnels that were often impervious to naval bombardment, so assaults required close‑in work with flamethrowers, satchel charges, and demolition teams. The mountain’s gullies and narrow approaches funneled attackers into kill zones where machine guns and mortars could concentrate fire.

Weapons, logistics, and maintenance under fire

Fine ash fouled rifles and machine guns, increasing jams and forcing constant cleaning under fire; flamethrower crews needed frequent resupply and delicate maintenance of fuel systems. That logistical burden meant flamethrower and demolition teams had to make repeated, dangerous trips to rear areas to swap tanks or get repaired gear before returning to assault another emplacement.

Psychological and human cost

The combination of noise (naval gunfire and mortars), the smell of sulfur and burning, the sight of casualties in black sand, and the claustrophobic nature of bunker‑clearing produced intense, sustained psychological strain. Evacuating wounded on steep, cratered slopes was slow and perilous, increasing the human toll of every advance.

Tactical implications and what it demanded of Marines

Success on Suribachi depended on small‑unit initiative, technical skill, and sheer endurance rather than large maneuvers: flamethrower operators, demolition sergeants, and coordinated tank‑infantry teams were decisive. Individual acts of courage—volunteering to approach vents, insert charges, or operate temperamental flame gear under direct fire—were what broke the defensive network.

Flamethrower crews on Iwo Jima carried heavy, fragile gear into a volcanic killing ground, worked as mobile bunker‑clearing teams, and endured extreme heat, constant enemy fire, frequent resupply runs, and a high casualty risk—what they did was tactically decisive but physically and psychologically brutal.

Equipment and physical burden

Flamethrowers were heavy, cumbersome, and short‑ranged. A typical operator carried a fuel unit weighing about 60–70 pounds on his back with a hose and flame gun.

Effective range and firing profile

The weapon’s effective range was short — measured in tens of yards — so crews had to approach dangerously close to pillboxes and cave mouths to be effective. Because a few bursts could exhaust a tank, crews often had to return to rear areas for fresh fuel between assaults, interrupting momentum and exposing them during movement.

Tactical employment and teamwork

Flamethrower operators never worked alone: they advanced with riflemen, demolition teams, and tanks that provided suppressive fire and protection. Their primary role was to neutralize concrete pillboxes, caves, and tunnel entrances that naval bombardment and small arms could not reliably destroy. This made them tactically decisive but also placed them at the center of the most dangerous assaults.

Dangers, vulnerability, and casualty rates

Flamethrower crews were high‑value targets and suffered very high casualty rates; contemporary accounts emphasize that operators were especially vulnerable and that many did not survive the island campaigns. The combination of heavy, visible equipment and the need to close with the enemy made survival odds poor.

Maintenance, logistics, and tempo

The weapon was temperamental and logistically demanding. Fine volcanic ash, heat, and combat damage could foul valves and hoses; crews needed frequent maintenance and fuel resupply, which meant making repeated, dangerous trips back to rear areas between assaults. The limited number of flamethrowers and fuel constrained how many bunkers could be attacked at once.

Sensory and psychological experience

Operating a flamethrower was terrifying, intimate, and disorienting. Veterans describe the roar of the flame, the smell of burning, and the sight of emplacements going up in smoke; at the same time, the operator felt exposed and acutely aware that a single hit could be catastrophic. Survivors later emphasized duty and necessity and performed these tasks later called their actions a blur of fear, focus, and duty rather than heroics.

Practical field techniques and survival tactics

Crews learned to approach under cover, use short controlled bursts, coordinate with tanks and riflemen, and swap tanks quickly to maintain pressure on a position. They also developed field fixes for fouled valves and improvised padding to reduce the physical toll of the pack.

Flamethrower duty was physically exhausting, technically finicky, tactically essential, and personally terrifying—one of the most dangerous specialties on Iwo Jima, relied upon to do the close, brutal work that won ground at enormous cost. 

Flamethrower crews on Iwo Jima got very little continuous sleep — often only short, fragmented naps between missions — because their work was physically exhausting, repeatedly interrupted by resupply and maintenance, and punctuated by intense, dangerous assaults that demanded immediate readiness.

Sleep and rest patterns for flamethrower crews

Flamethrower teams rarely enjoyed regular, uninterrupted sleep; rest was opportunistic and measured in short naps rather than full sleep cycles. Crews spent long daylight hours assaulting bunkers, then used any lull to clean equipment, swap fuel tanks, and treat wounds; those tasks, plus guard and resupply duties, left only brief windows for sleep.

Operational tempo forced repeated wakefulness. A single assault could expend a fuel tank in minutes, requiring the crew to return to rear areas for replacement and repairs; those trips, plus the need to be ready for the next call, meant crews were awakened repeatedly and could not plan restorative rest.

Why sleep was so limited

• Heavy, delicate equipment required constant attention. Flamethrowers were temperamental in combat conditions and needed frequent maintenance and refueling, so crews had to remain on duty or nearby rather than sleeping deeply.

• High casualty risk and priority missions. Commanders prioritized flamethrower teams for immediate employment against stubborn pillboxes; that priority translated into frequent tasking and little downtime.

Environmental and medical interruptions. The island’s heat, ash, and casualty evacuations produced additional interruptions: treating wounded, clearing sand from gear, and moving under fire all cut into rest opportunities.

Typical rest realities (what veterans describe)

Short naps between missions, dozing while equipment was tended, and sleeping in shifts near the lines were common. Veterans recall crawling into shallow cover for a 20–60 minute sleep when the immediate threat eased, then being roused to move or fight again. These fragmented rests prevented full recovery and compounded fatigue over days of fighting.

Consequences of chronic sleep loss

Cumulative exhaustion reduced reaction time, increased mistakes in maintenance (dangerous with fuel systems), and worsened morale and physical resilience. Commanders and crews improvised by rotating duties when possible, but the small number of flamethrowers and the urgency of their missions limited how much rotation could help.

Flamethrower operators on Iwo Jima slept very little in sustained stretches; their rest was fragmented, opportunistic, and repeatedly interrupted by the demands of maintenance, resupply, casualty care, and immediate combat employment. That chronic sleep deprivation was an unavoidable part of one of the most physically and psychologically demanding specialties on the island.

Practical details veterans emphasize

• Movement was measured in yards; advances took hours and days. Foxholes were unreliable because ash collapsed back in.
• Flamethrower and demolition crews were decisive but exposed and heavily burdened by fuel and maintenance needs.
• Wounds that might be minor elsewhere could become serious because of delayed evacuation and infection risk in the ash‑filled environment.

Human moments and morale

• Focus over heroics: veterans often described their actions as “what had to be done” rather than dramatic heroism—practical, grim, and repetitive.
• Comradeship: small teams relied on tight coordination and trust; saving a wounded buddy or covering a reload forged intense bonds that sustained men through exhaustion and fear.
• Aftermath: survivors carried vivid sensory memories—ash in boots, the smell of burning, the roar of flame—that lasted a lifetime.

Woody Williams on 23 February 1945

During his Medal of Honor action, Williams was surrounded multiple times because:

• He advanced alone toward pillboxes.
• His covering Marines were killed or pinned.
• Japanese troops emerged from tunnel exits behind him.
• He had to crawl back for more fuel, then advance again.

At one point, he was firing into a pillbox while enemy soldiers tried to circle around him through the tunnels.

Japanese defenders on Iwo Jima endured a deliberate, austere defensive life: they lived underground in fortified caves and tunnels, endured constant bombardment and shortages, and fought from prepared positions under orders to hold the island to the death rather than surrender. 

Command and defensive doctrine

General Tadamichi Kuribayashi prepared Iwo Jima for a protracted defense, rejecting beach defenses in favor of in‑depth positions, tunnels, and mutually supporting pillboxes. He trained and organized his garrison to survive naval and air bombardment by dispersing forces and using subterranean shelters.

Japanese doctrine on Iwo Jima emphasized:

“Destroy the flamethrower first.”

Living underground and the tunnel system

Much of the Japanese experience was subterranean: soldiers lived, moved, and fought from an extensive tunnel network that linked caves, bunkers, and artillery positions. These tunnels sheltered men from pre-invasion strikes, allowed concealed movement, and let defenders emerge to fire or counterattack at chosen moments, turning the island into a layered, hidden battlefield.

This meant the moment a flamethrower operator moved forward, he was automatically in a crossfire and often surrounded from three sides. Once he fired the flamethrower, every Japanese position within sight focused on him. 

If he advanced 20–30 yards, he was effectively cut off because the infantry behind him couldn’t move through the same fire-swept ground. 

This is exactly what happened repeatedly in the 21st Marines’ sector — including the ground where Hershel “Woody” Williams fought.

Supply, hardship, and daily life

Life for defenders was austere and increasingly desperate: food, water, and medical supplies were limited, and men endured constant bombardment, heat, and the same volcanic ash and sulfur that afflicted attackers. Kuribayashi deliberately accepted hardship to maximize defensive endurance; his orders discouraged wasteful banzai charges and emphasized conserving forces for decisive local actions.

Tactical posture and combat experience

Japanese tactics emphasized concealment, interlocking fields of fire, and fighting from prepared positions rather than open counterattacks; when they did sortie, it was often at night or in small, controlled actions. The tunnel system let defenders survive massive naval and air bombardment and then inflict heavy casualties on assaulting Marines as they cleared bunkers and cave mouths.

Morale, orders, and the decision to fight to the end

Kuribayashi’s leadership and the garrison’s indoctrination produced a determination to resist the last man; surrender was rare and many defenders chose death over capture. That resolve, combined with the island’s defenses, extended the battle far beyond U.S. expectations and produced extremely high Japanese casualties.

Aftermath for survivors and legacy

For the few Japanese who survived underground after the island was declared secure, conditions remained harsh: isolated groups continued to resist in tunnels for weeks, requiring specialized clearing operations. U.S. Army units later had to root out holdouts 

The enemy’s experience on Iwo Jima combined careful engineering, austere living, and a doctrinal commitment to deny the island at almost any cost—making the defenders tactically effective and the battle unusually costly for the attackers. In subterranean complexes, a grim echo of the defenders’ initial strategy.

A Defining Moment: The First Raising of the American Flag

The flag raisings on Mount Suribachi produced an immediate, intense mix of elation and renewed combat alert: troops and ships cheered and sounded horns, many men felt a surge of relief and pride, but the summit instantly became a target and fighting continued—so the emotional lift was powerful yet short‑lived.

Sequence of events on 23 February 1945

Two separate flag raisings occurred that day. A small flag was first raised after Marines secured the summit in the morning; later a larger flag was brought up and hoisted, and Joe Rosenthal photographed that second raising—the image that became the iconic symbol.

Immediate sensory and group reactions

• Spontaneous cheering and ship signals. Men on the slopes and ships offshore reacted with loud cheering; vessels sounded horns and whistles when the flag was seen, and troops below the mountain shouted and waved. Witnesses described an almost electric lift in morale at that instant.

A mix of disbelief and relief. For many Marines the flag was a visible sign that a key objective had been taken after days of grinding combat; some later called the moment one of the most thrilling of their service.

Immediate tactical consequences and danger

The flag’s visibility made the summit a target almost immediately. Small‑arms and sniper fire struck near the flag party; photographers and Marines who had climbed to the top had to take cover as enemy fire concentrated on the exposed position. The celebration was therefore tempered by the instant reminder that the battle was not over.

Why the moment mattered to those on the island

• Tactical marker and symbolic proof. On the ground the flag signified that a critical terrain feature—Suribachi’s summit—was in U.S. hands, which had immediate tactical meaning for observation and control. At the same time the flag became a powerful morale symbol for exhausted troops.

Short‑term morale boost, long‑term resonance. The cheering and relief were real and immediate, but veterans emphasize that the boost did not end the campaign; fighting across the rest of the island continued for weeks. The photograph’s rapid publication turned a local moment into a national symbol almost overnight.

Human detail and later memory

Eyewitness memories blend exhilaration and tension. Many who watched later recalled the roar of voices and ship horns, the sight of the flag against black volcanic rock, and the odd juxtaposition of celebration while still under fire—an image that stuck with survivors for decades. The photograph amplified those memories for the home front and shaped how the battle was remembered.

The Sounds When the Flag Was Raised on Iwo Jima

1. The wind — the first sound anyone remembers.

Suribachi’s summit was exposed, and the Pacific wind was strong.

When the flag unfurled, Marines described:

• the snap of the fabric.
• the whip of the wind catching it.
• the flapping echoing across the crater rim.

That sharp crack of the flag catching the wind was unmistakable.

     2. The sudden roar of Marines below.

When the flag reached the top, the Marines on the slopes and beaches erupted.

Eyewitnesses said it was:

• a shout that rolled like thunder.
• a wave of cheering that cut through gunfire.
• men yelling, crying, clapping, pounding helmets.

It was the first moment of emotional release after days of brutal fighting.

     3. Gunfire — but this time, celebratory.

Marines fired:

• rifles.
• pistols.
• machine guns.

Not at the enemy — but into the air in celebration.

It was one of the few times in the Pacific war where gunfire meant joy instead of danger.

4. Japanese fire responding from the caves.

The celebration drew enemy attention.

From the tunnel networks below, Japanese defenders fired:

• machine guns.
• mortars.
• sporadic rifle shots.

So the soundscape became a mix of cheering and incoming fire, a reminder that the battle was far from over.

     5. The metallic clatter of the pipe and the rocks.

The first flag was raised on a length of Japanese water pipe

Marines described:

• the scrape of metal on rock.
• the grinding as they pushed it into the volcanic ash.
• the clank as they secured it with stones.

It wasn’t ceremonial — it was improvised, physical, and raw.

6. The emotional sound that isn’t noise at all.

Many Marines later said the most unforgettable “sound” was:

The feeling of hope the sound of morale lifting the moment the island seemed winnable.

It was the sound of men realizing they might survive.

     7. A Signal of Hope.

For the men aboard the ships, the flag meant something profound:

• Suribachi had been reached.
• The Japanese stronghold was cracking.
• The Marines were still fighting.
• The battle might finally turn.

It was a moment of relief, pride, and renewed hope after days of relentless combat.

The Lived Conditions on Suribachi 

Typical ration and water realities on Iwo Jima.

• Rations: Marines relied on C‑rations (individual canned combat rations) and unit food brought ashore in assault craft; cooks sometimes mixed or concentrated rations when normal resupply failed.
• Water: Each man had a canteen, and water was also carried in landing vehicles and supply dumps ashore, but forward troops could be short because unloading and distribution were hazardous and slow. Commanders prioritized water, but temporary shortages and improvisation were common in the first days.

Practical consequences and limits

• Shortfalls were temporary but real. Units sometimes endured days of reduced rations or limited water until supply routes could be cleared; cooks and shore parties improvised to keep men fighting.
• Medical care saved many lives but was strained by volume, terrain, and enemy fire; corpsmen and surgeons improvised operating spaces and relied heavily on blood transfusion and rapid evacuation to ships.

Hershel “Woody” Williams served as a flamethrower operator in Company C, 1st Battalion, 21st Marine Regiment, 3rd Marine Division; his Medal of Honor action occurred on 23 February 1945 during the Battle of Iwo Jima.

Overview of the unit

Unit name: Company C, 1st Battalion (1/21), 21st Marine Regiment, 3rd Marine Division.

The 21st Marine Regiment was an infantry regiment activated in 1942, assigned to the 3rd Marine Division, and saw combat at Bougainville, Guam, and Iwo Jima before being deactivated in December 1945.

Organization and command

• Regimental structure: The 21st Marines comprised a Headquarters Company and three infantry battalions (1/21, 2/21, 3/21); Company C was a rifle company within 1st Battalion.
• Higher command: The regiment fell under the 3rd Marine Division during the Pacific campaigns.
• Notable regimental commanders during WWII included officers such as Robert Blake and Arthur H. Butler (regimental command rotated during campaigns)

Role and actions at Iwo Jima

• Landing and zone of action: The 21st Marines landed on Iwo Jima as part of the 3rd Marine Division assault; the regiment relieved other units on D+3 and operated in the area around Motoyama Airfields #1 and #2, assigned to the Yellow Beach sector.

Tactical role of Company C / 1/21: As a rifle company, Company C’s mission was close-in infantry assault, clearing Japanese defensive positions (caves, bunkers, pillboxes). Flamethrower teams like Williams’s were attached or organic to assault elements to neutralize fortified positions.

The 21st Marine Regiment fought at Bougainville, Guam, and Iwo Jima (earning a Navy Unit Commendation); on Iwo Jima the regiment operated around Motoyama Airfields after landing on Yellow Beach, and Hershel ‘Woody’ Williams—serving with Company C, 1st Battalion—earned the Medal of Honor for his actions on 23 February 1945 and later became the last living WWII MOH recipient.” 

Flamethrower crews faced brutal physical strain, extreme vulnerability, and very limited firing time; U.S. man‑portable models evolved from short‑range gasoline burners to thicker‑fuel systems (early napalm) pushed by compressed nitrogen.

Technical diagram (textual, labeled) — how an M2 pack is laid out

• Fuel tanks (two vertical cylinders): two 2‑US‑gal tanks side‑by‑side hold fuel (gasoline or 4.2% thickened fuel / napalm in later models).
• Propellant tank (small central cylinder): a single compressed‑gas cylinder (nitrogen) sits between/behind the fuel tanks and pressurizes the fuel when its valve is opened.
• Pressure regulator and valves: regulator reduces tank pressure to the operating pressure (manual sets in TM); opening the pressure‑tank valve pressurizes the fuel lines.
• Fuel hose and wand (gun group): hose connects tanks to a two‑handed wand with a fuel valve and an ignition head; M2 used a cartridge‑type igniter (five‑shot revolver magazine) for reliable ignition.

Ignition cartridges / procedure: load igniter cylinder, aim, open pressure valve, pull trigger; after firing discard spent ignition cylinder per TM safety steps.

Major challenges

• Extreme vulnerability: the fuel/propellant cylinders were conspicuous and made the operator a high‑value target; crews were often singled out by defenders.
• Limited fuel and short burn time: a full load delivered only seconds of continuous flame, so every burst had to be carefully timed and coordinated with supporting fire.
• Weight and mobility: the filled unit’s mass reduced speed and endurance, complicating movement over rough terrain and under fire.
• Ignition and reliability issues: early models had unreliable igniters and inconsistent pressure, sometimes failing when needed most.
• Fuel: early U.S. units used plain gasoline blends that burned too quickly; the Chemical Warfare Service developed thickened fuels (early napalm) by adding metallic soap compounds, which slowed burn rate and roughly doubled range. Japanese portable units often used mixes of gasoline, kerosene, and crude oil depending on supply.

Propellant gas: U.S. man‑portable flamethrowers used compressed nitrogen to force fuel from the tanks through the wand; nitrogen was chosen because it is inert and stable under pressure.

Training, tactics, and survivability

Training emphasized coordination with riflemen and suppressive fire, careful use of bursts, and rapid repositioning after firing. Flamethrower teams often worked with engineers or tank‑mounted flamethrowers to reduce individual exposure. Despite effectiveness against fortifications, operators were in high‑risk roles; some veterans reported very short life‑expectancies in intense combat sectors.

What the training meant in combat

His prior tank and demolition training translated directly into the tactics he used on Iwo Jima: approach under cover, coordinate suppressive fire, insert flame or charges into vents and embrasures, and repeat until a pillbox was neutralized. That combination of technical skill, calm under fire, and willingness to volunteer for the most dangerous tasks is what contemporaries and historians cite as the reason his actions were decisive and Medal of Honor–worthy.

How Woody’s personal network enabled the foundation

Following his service in World War II, Hershel “Woody” Williams dedicated his life to ensuring the sacrifices of military families were never forgotten. Today, this personal mission thrives as a family-led movement —the foundation has placed hundreds of Gold Star Families Memorial Monuments nationwide.

To scale this impact, the family brought on a dedicated professional team, including veteran leaders and experienced administrators in outreach, development, and monument programming. This enduring stewardship ensures that the legacy of the fallen and the resilience of their families remain permanently etched into the heart of future generations.

Hershel “Woody” Williams personal conviction to honor Gold Star families; beginning as a grassroots effort in 2010, the Woody Williams Foundation’s core mission became erecting Gold Star Families Memorial Monuments and supporting veterans and their families nationwide. 

Woody has given many speeches about the sacrifice Gold Star Mothers have made. At one event, a man stayed after the speech and Woody found him crying. Asking what was wrong, the man said, “Fathers grieve too.” Woody was deeply moved and decided to form a foundation dedicated to building Monuments to Gold Star Families.

Origins and motivating experiences

Woody’s commitment to veterans and bereaved families began long before the foundation. As a young man he delivered Western Union death notices in his community during World War II, an experience he later said gave him a deep appreciation for the needs of Gold Star families and the inadequacy of recognition they received. After heroic action on Iwo Jima (Feb 23, 1945) that earned him the Medal of Honor, Williams continued public service for decades—working for the Veterans Administration for 33 years and remaining active in veterans’ affairs—building the relationships and credibility that made a national foundation possible.

Formal founding and early steps

The Woody Williams Foundation was established in 2010 by Woody Williams and his grandson, Brent Casey, as a focused, mission‑driven nonprofit dedicated to honoring Gold Star families and preserving their loved ones’ memory through permanent public monuments. From the beginning, the work was intentionally grassroots. Woody, Brent, and a growing circle of volunteers partnered with local governments, veterans’ organizations, and civic groups to design, fund, and place Gold Star Families Memorial Monuments in communities across the United States.

The foundation emphasized a replicable, community‑driven monument model—one that allowed towns and counties to create a lasting tribute to families who had sacrificed so much in military service. Under the shared leadership, the organization built a national movement rooted in service, remembrance, and the belief that every community should honor its Gold Star families with dignity and permanence.

Core program: Gold Star Families Memorial Monuments

The foundation’s signature achievement is the nationwide Gold Star Families Memorial Monument program. As of recent public reporting the foundation has been responsible for establishing 157 monuments with additional projects underway in all 50 states and a U.S. territory; each monument is intended as a local, permanent place of remembrance and community recognition. The program combines fundraising, design standards, and coordination with municipal partners so smaller communities can participate.

Growth, partnerships, and legacy

Woody drew on a lifetime of service and trusted relationships within the veteran community to help the foundation build partnerships and expand its reach. His reputation—shaped by decades of VA leadership and his quiet, consistent advocacy—naturally opened doors for the mission. Yet the growth of the foundation was never his work alone.

His grandsons Brent Casey and Brad Casey, along with Chad Graham, the foundation’s dedicated staff, its national network of volunteers, longtime friends, and steadfast family members, all played essential roles in sustaining and advancing the mission. As the vision grew beyond its early grassroots beginnings, Woody and his family expanded the foundation’s capacity by engaging seasoned professionals to help steward its outreach, development, and monument programs.     

Their collective efforts were strengthened by partnerships with local and state governments, veterans service organizations, Gold Star family groups, civic clubs, community foundations, and countless supporters across the country who believed in honoring the families of the fallen. Together, they transformed Woody’s vision into a national movement rooted in remembrance, service, and community.

As the foundation’s work expanded, national recognition of Williams’s legacy grew alongside it. The naming of the USNS Hershel “Woody” Williams in 2016 and the renaming of the Huntington VA Medical Center in 2018 were tributes initiated by others—public acknowledgments of both the foundation’s impact and the enduring example of Williams’s life of service. Through every milestone, Woody remained the organization’s moral center, guiding its purpose with humility and conviction until his passing in June 2022.

A Living Legacy of Courage 

Hershel “Woody” Williams later honored these heroic men as the “Guardian Angels” who helped him survive that day. 

Marines—Corporal Warren H. (William) Bornholz and Private First Class Charles G. Fischer—were riflemen who gave their lives on 23 February 1945 while providing covering fire for Hershel “Woody” Williams during the assault on Mt. Suribachi, Iwo Jima; their sacrifice is documented in military records and memorials and remained a source of deep humility for Hershel “Woody” Williams. 

Corporal Warren H. Bornholz

• Unit and action: Bornholz served with Company C, 1st Battalion, 21st Marines, 3rd Marine Division. He was killed in action on 23 February 1945 while providing cover fire during the attack on Mount Suribachi.
• Personal details and burial: Bornholz was born in December 1920 and listed as a New York native; his remains were later interred at Long Island National Cemetery in East Farmingdale, New York. Contemporary memorial records and cemetery listings preserve his service details and final resting place.

CPL Warren Bornholz was killed in action on Iwo Jima on 23 Feb 1945 while providing cover fire for a fellow Marine. The Marine he was protecting was Demolition Sergeant Hershel “Woody” Williams, who was awarded the Medal of Honor for his bravery during the battle of Iwo Jima. Williams said, “…it does not belong to me. It belongs to them. I wear it in their honor. I keep it shined for them, because there is no greater sacrifice than when someone sacrifices their life for you and me.”

USMCR World War II

CPL Warren H. Bornholz KIA February 23, 1945

Unit Company C, 1st Battalion, 21st Marines 3rd Marine Division, FMF

Hometown: New York, New York

Parents, Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Bornholz

Serial # 3379918

Awards: World War II Victory Medal, Purple Heart

Details of career

The 21st Marine Regiment was activated on July 14, 1942, at Camp Elliot, San Diego, California, but was actually organized at New River, North Carolina. Many of the first members of the regiment came from the 6th Marine Regiment. They were assigned to the 3rd Marine Division, however from January to June 1943 they were an independent regiment. During the war, the regiment took part in the Battle of Bougainville, Battle of Guam and the Battle of Iwo Jima.

Iwo Jima

The 3d Marine Division’s 21st Marines would replace the 26th Marines as corps reserve, thus releasing the latter regiment to the 5th Division. Two front line units, one regiment of each division, were relieved on the morning of 22 February. The relief of the 23d Marines by the 21st Marines.

General Schmidt came ashore on 23 February to confer with his division commanders. Out of this conference came the order for an attack to be launched. Although the main effort was scheduled to be made in the zone of action of the 5th Division,the decisive fighting would occur in the zone of the 21st Marines.  

Tribute  

Corporal Bornholz was one of the riflemen who provided covering fire during the assault on Mount Suribachi on 23 February 1945. He gave his life that day while protecting a fellow Marine engaged in the deadly task of reducing fortified pillboxes. His sacrifice is remembered as part of the small band of men whose courage made possible the actions for which Hershel “Woody” Williams later received the Medal of Honor.

Private First Class Charles G. Fischer

• Unit and action: Charles Gilbert Fischer served as a rifleman with the 1st Battalion, 3rd Marine Division and was also killed on 23 February 1945 while providing covering fire for Williams during the assault on Japanese pillboxes.
• Personal details and burial: Fischer was born in December 1924 in Somers, Montana, and is buried in the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific (the Punchbowl) in Honolulu, Hawaii. His gravesite and memorial entries record his age (20) and unit information.

PFC Charles Fischer was killed in action on Iwo Jima on 23 Feb 1945 while providing cover fire for a fellow Marine. The Marine he was protecting was Hershel “Woody” Williams during the battle of Iwo Jima.   

         PFC Charles Gilbert Fischer 

         Birth 21 Dec 1924

         Somers, Flathead County, Montana, USA

         Death 23 Feb 1945 (aged 20)

         Iwo Jima, Ogasawara-shichō, Tokyo Metropolis, Japan

         Burial National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific

         Honolulu, Honolulu County, Hawaii, USA

         Plot E, 550

         Memorial ID 3774625

Tribute

Private First Class Charles Gilbert Fischer was one of the riflemen who covered the flamethrower runs on Mount Suribachi and was killed in action on 23 February 1945. Decades later, archival research by foundation historians identified Fischer’s gravesite; Hershel “Woody” Williams visited the Punchbowl in 2018, placed a Hawaiian lei on Fischer’s headstone, and publicly honored him.

Corporal Warren H. Bornholz and Private First Class Charles G. Fischer are remembered not only by name and place of burial but by the role they played in a single, harrowing day of combat. Chief Warrant Officer 4 Hershel “Woody” Williams repeatedly framed his Medal of Honor as belonging to the men who stood with him; he spent much of his later life honoring their memory, visiting gravesites, and ensuring that the story of their sacrifice was told alongside his own.

Legacy

Hershel W. “Woody” Williams lived a life shaped by courage, humility, and an unshakable faith. On 23 February 1945, amid the smoke and fury of Iwo Jima, Corporal Williams moved again and again through deadly fire to clear a path for his fellow Marines. For that extraordinary bravery he received the Medal of Honor, and in the years that followed he rose to serve as Chief Warrant Officer 4.

Yet the true measure of his life was never the medal or the rank—it was the quiet, steady devotion that followed. He was a man honored, trusted, and deeply respected, not only for what he did in war but for how he lived in peace.

Raised on the farm, Woody learned the discipline of honest labor: long mornings in the fields, tending animals, mending fences, coaxing life from stubborn soil. Those unglamorous rhythms taught him patience, practical wisdom, and a sense of duty that asked for no recognition.

That same calm persistence—showing up, fixing what was broken, sharing what he had—became the scaffolding of his courage on the battlefield and the foundation of a lifetime of service.

From the battle wounds carried deep within, he learned to heal and to help others. The scars of war did not harden him; they opened him. He transformed inward pain into outward care, listening to grief, comforting Gold Star Families, and tending the unseen wounds of those who had served. His suffering became a wellspring of compassion—a steady, practical kindness that met people where they were and stayed with them.

After the war, Woody made remembrance his continued duty, devoting the rest of his life to ensuring that the sacrifices of Gold Star Families would be honored and carried forward for generations.

The Hershel “Woody” Williams Foundation was created to name the fallen, comfort families, and ensure that sacrifice was met with lasting honor. He traveled tirelessly, spoke plainly, and listened with a soldier’s steadiness and a friend’s compassion—telling names, holding stories, and pressing a grateful nation to match words with deeds. In every room he entered he carried both the memory of those who did not return and the insistence that memory be honored by action.

Faith deepened through the steady love and quiet strength of his wife, Ruby Meredith, and that faith became the compass for every step he took. Rooted in Christ, Woody’s humility and compassion grew ever more visible—shaped in the stillness of private prayer, revealed in the sincerity of public witness. His life offered more than remembrance; it offered hope, the kind that points others toward grace.

At home he found his truest joy. Ruby remained his anchor and confidante; their life together was a testament to devotion lived simply and well. He cherished his two daughters, delighted in the five grandsons who carried his stories forward, and received the blessing of great‑grandchildren with a grateful heart.

Family was his refuge and his reward. Their laughter around the table, their stories shared across generations, their presence in ordinary moments—these were the treasures he held closest. In them he saw the quiet legacy God had entrusted to him, a legacy measured not in medals or monuments, but in love.

Woody lived outward into the community, spending more than 200 days each year visiting families, speaking in schools, and standing alongside veterans at gatherings large and small. He also showed up quietly—at front doors, in fellowship halls, at local events—where his presence mattered most. He learned names, sat with grieving parents, offered practical help, and, above all, he returned. The friendships he formed often grew into family.

Today, three of his grandsons continue that work, carrying his vision forward through the Foundation and local outreach, binding past and future together through service.

We dedicate this memorial to Hershel W. “Woody” Williams: to the valor he displayed on Iwo Jima; to the compassion and humility he carried into every room; to the faith he embraced and lived; to the steady lessons of farm life that shaped his character; to the families and communities he comforted; and to the family who shared his life.

May this place teach the cost of freedom, honor sacrifice with truth, and inspire generations to answer duty with humility, to remember with reverence, and to live with faith.

To so many—those he served, those he comforted, those who sought his counsel, and those who simply loved him—Chief Warrant Officer 4 Hershel “Woody” Williams was steadiness in a storm, a listening heart, and a life that transformed suffering into service. Friends found in him a man who remembered their stories, showed up when it mattered, and carried their burdens with quiet grace.

He met people in their darkest moments with gentleness, stayed long after the crowds had gone, and held their trust as something sacred.

To his family and friends, he was even more. He was a devoted husband, a loving father, a proud grandfather, great‑grandfather, and a faithful companion whose quiet strength shaped the rhythm of their days. His presence—unhurried, attentive, and full of kindness—was the anchor of their lives.

In the small, everyday acts of care, in the laughter shared around the table, in the steady way he showed up for those he loved, he revealed the truest measure of a life well lived.

In the small, everyday acts of care, in the laughter shared around the table, in the steady way he showed up for those he loved, he revealed the truest measure of a life well lived.

Above all, Woody’s life was marked by a humble, grateful spirit. He accepted honors with a bowed head and a thankful heart, always redirecting praise to those who served beside him and to the families who bore the cost of freedom.

His gratitude was not performative but lived—expressed in quiet thanks, in the steady return to those in need, and in the simple, everyday acts of care that defined his days. That humility made him approachable, his gratitude made him beloved, and together they ensured that his legacy would be not only remembered but emulated.

“Maybe I am making someone else’s life a little better. A little more meaningful.”

 ~ Herschel “Woody” Williams