By Pastor Dave Farmer
This tribute was given by General of the Army Douglas MacArthur in Los Angeles, 26 January 1955, at the dedication ceremony of a monument erected in his honor. His eloquent description is a worthy tribute to those who sacrifice themselves on the altar of our country.
I have listened with deep emotion to these solemn proceedings and my heart is too full for my lips to express adequately my thanks and appreciation for the extraordinary honor you do me. Even so, I understand full well that this memorial is intended to commemorate an epoch rather than an individual; an armed force rather than its commander; a nation rather than its servant; an ideal rather than a personality. This but increases my pride, that my name has been the one chosen as the symbol of an epic struggle and victory by millions of unnamed others. It is their heroism, their sacrifice, their success, that you have honored today in so unforgettable a manner, and this statue, and this park are but the selected reminders of their grandeur. Most of them were citizen soldiers, sailors and airmen-men from the farm, from the city, from the schoolroom, from the college campus-men not dedicated to the profession of arms, men not primarily skilled in the arts of destruction-men amazingly like the men you see and meet and know each day of your lives-but men animated, inspired and ennobled by a sublime cause the defense of their country, of their native land, of their very hearthstones. The most divine of all human sentiments and impulses guided them-the spirit and willingness to sacrifice. He who dares to die-to lay his life on the altar of his nation's need is beyond doubt the noblest development of mankind. In this he comes closest to the image of his Creator who died on the cross that the human soul might live.
These men were my comrades-in-arms. With me they knew the far call of the bugles at reveille; the distant roll of the drums at nightfall; the endless tramp of marching feet; the incessant whine of sniper bullets; the ceaseless rattle of sputtering machine guns; the ominous roar of threatening cannon; the sinister wail of air sirens; the deafening blasts of crashing bombs; the stealthy stroke of hidden torpedoes; the-amphibious lurch over perilous waves; the dark majesty of fighting ships; the mad din of battle lines; and all the stench and ghastly horror and savage destruction of a stricken area of war. They suffered hunger and thirst; the broiling suns of relentless heat; the torrential rains of tropical storms; the loneliness and utter desolation of jungle trails; the bitterness of separation from those they loved and cherished. They went on, and on, and on, when everything within them seemed to stop and die. They grew old in youth. They burned out in searing minutes all that life owed them of tranquil years.
When I think of their patience under adversity, of their courage under fire, and of their modesty in victory, I am filled with an emotion of admiration I cannot express. Many of them trod the tragic path of unknown fame that led to a stark white cross above a lonely grave. And from their tortured, dying lips, with the dreadful gurgle of the death rattle in their throats, always came the same gasping prayer that we who were left would go on to victory. I do not know the dignity of their birth, but I do know the glory of their death, and I am sure a merciful God has taken them unto Himself.