In the last sixty years, fewer people have visited the island of Iwo Jima than have climbed Mt. Everest. Resting at the base of the Bonin Island chain, Iwo is one of the most remote and isolated clumps of volcanic rock and sand in the Pacific. Except for vegetation and the small Japanese military installation that guards the lonely airport, there is little sign of life anywhere on this remote four-and-half mile long outpost.

Of all the remaining battlefield monuments to the Second World War, Iwo Jima is singular. It is an entire island largely untouched for sixty years and dedicated to the memory of one month in the Spring of 1945 when more than 100,000 men were locked in a battle unprecedented for its bloodshed and iconic in its significance to the American people.

Even beneath the surface, there are reminders. More than eleven miles of underground tunnels and fifteen hundred rooms once housing 21,000 Japanese defenders remain. One can still find bayonets, boots, and even skeletal remains in open view, undisturbed and exactly where they have rested for more than half a century — haunting reminders to a vicious conflict in which 70,000 American fighting men descended on this speck of an island for what would become the defining battle in Marine Corps history.

This is a destination where old men go to remember the fallen comrades of their youth. It is an island where sons go to honor their fathers.

And one day a year, the Japanese government opens Iwo Jima to the small handfuls of veterans and their families and friends who come to remember and pay homage to the fallen.

On March 12, 2005, the Vision Forum Faith of Our Fathers film team hit the beaches of Iwo Jima with more than eighty aged veterans who battled on those same black sands in 1945. Our day on Iwo was part of a journey of honor — a three-week tour of the Pacific in which we sought to record on film the wisdom of those surviving men whose lives were forever marked by thirty-six days of hellish warfare. It was a mission of multi-generational faithfulness dedicated to honoring our fathers and remembering the providence of God over the World War II generation.

Though we were astonished by the stamina and persevering spirit of these grandfather heroes, we knew they would never again return to the island. There will be no seventieth celebration with 95-year-old men walking the beaches, combing through the caves, or climbing the 546-foot Mt. Suribachi. This was it — the closing adieu to an event which has remained with these men every day of their life for sixty years. This was the last time to speak of ancient battles with ancient warriors. It was the last time to smell the air, to sift the sand, and to weep where beloved brothers exchanged with blood their own futures so that children yet born could have the hope of peace. It was the final farewell.

But among our group of pilgrims was a very special band of brothers, each united by a common loss, a common legacy, and a common heart of gratitude. Theirs was a story within the broader story; a record of devotion so compelling that we often labored late into the night to capture, record, and process each precious testimony.

We called them “The League of Grateful Sons” — and their story is the true tale of boys who spent their life loving and dreaming about the fathers who never came home from Iwo Jima.

The Father Who Never Died

“Johnny Boy” was five years old when he received this letter from his daddy — Lt. Col. John Augustus Butler, Sr. It was the latest of many communications his father had sent since departing for the Pacific. Each note was filled with encouragement, manly counsel, and fatherly love prepared from fields of battle by a man who would not allow a world war to interfere with his duties to instruct his son.

But this letter was different. It was the last communication Johnny Boy ever received from his “proud dad.”

Note the date — February 18, 1945, the eve of D-Day. On February 19, Lt. Col. John Butler would hit the black sands of Iwo Jima as commander of 1st Battalion, 27th Regiment, 5th Marine Division, leading over one thousand men into the fight for their lives against an entrenched Japanese enemy. Fourteen days later, the popular battalion commander and devoted father of three would lose his life in the performance of his duty, fighting on the frontlines.

It is now sixty years later, and Johnny Boy is a grandfather.

I first met John Butler, Jr. on the plane to Guam and was immediately taken by this sixty-five year old son’s irrepressible passion for his father. Within moments of making his acquaintance, he was unfolding documents and showing me precious letters of the man he loved.

He literally grabbed one member of my team, looked him in the eye, and asked, “Have you heard of my father? Do you know the things he did?” He pulled out an accordion file-folder, crammed full of dozens upon dozens of letters — letters exchanged between “Johnny Boy” and “Daddy”; love letters written between his father and mother; letters written to his mother by men who served under his father’s command.

And then there were pictures — scores of them — photos that catalogued his father’s life and testimony.

Great things happen when fathers love and disciple their sons. That is why, for sixty years, this son has loved the daddy who never came home. For sixty years, he has read and re-read his father’s instructions to him. For sixty years, he has remained devoted in his heart to the man whose wisdom and love, communicated through battlefield letters, has been a guiding light in his life.

He put it simply: “I feel like my father has always been here with me.”

At this point, the words of the Eternal Son came to our minds:

Then answered Jesus and said unto them, ‘Verily, verily, I say unto you, The Son can do nothing of himself, but what he seeth the Father do: for what things soever he doeth, these also doeth the Son likewise. For the Father loveth the Son, and sheweth him all things that himself doeth...’ (John 5:19-20)

The Heroism of the Fathers is the Legacy of the Sons

I will open my mouth in a parable: I will utter dark sayings of old: Which we have heard and known, and our fathers have told us. We will not hide them from their children, shewing to the generation to come the praises of the LORD, and his strength, and his wonderful works that he hath done. For he established a testimony in Jacob, and appointed a law in Israel, which he commanded our fathers, that they should make them known to their children: That the generation to come might know them, even the children which should be born; who should arise and declare them to their children: That they might set their hope in God, and not forget the works of God, but keep his commandments. (Psalm 78:2-7)

For the sixtieth anniversary of their father’s death, John Butler, Jr. and younger brother Clinton (only four months old when his father was killed) decided to return to the island where their father was ushered into eternity. It was to be a pilgrimage of sonship to remember and give thanks for the man who in death left a legacy of love and devotion.

It gives a son confidence to know his father was a man of character. John, Jr. describes his father this way:

My father’s story is one of love, the love between him and my mother, love for and faith in God, a love for humanity and the men he led, and great pride in the Marine Corps he served. Those whom he led and those who knew him, speak of his exceptional character, genuine friendliness, and the superb leadership of his battalion in training and in combat.

In the providence of God, several of the men traveling with us knew the devoted father of John, Jr. and Clinton. They had served along side of Lt. Col. John Butler during the war and were able to give first hand accounts to his sons.

Most notable among these men was Col. Gerald Russell, the senior ranking veteran of Iwo Jima on our trip. A member of the first U.S. Marine Corp Officer Candidate’s class in American history, and a battalion commander at the age of 26, Russell (now 88) was wounded on Iwo the day Lt. Col. Butler was killed. Russell, who following Butler’s death would later take command of his battalion, explained:

There were a lot of leaders whom men followed who they did not like. John Butler was not among them. He was a man’s man. Everybody loved him. He was the kind of man that would prepare his boys for battle by going man to man, putting his arms on them, and whispering personal words of encouragement to them.

Growing up, Johnny Boy knew this about his father. His mother told him. He heard report after report from men who had been friends with his dad. But he also knew it experientially. He knew it because John Butler, Sr. was a man who modeled true fatherhood by taking time to prioritize the mission of giving counsel to a son — even in the thick of battle.

John, Jr. explained how his father’s life of heroic leadership at home and in the battlefield became an enduring testimony of hope in his own life:

His image and deeds always loomed large and have been a major influence in my own life.... His smiling image was always on the mantelpiece over the fire place in the living room of our family home, and my mother, who never remarried, and never considered another man in her life, spoke often of their life together in stories told over and over again.

John Butler, Jr. spent many hours opening his heart with the Faith of Our Fathers film team. As he presented to us ancient letters, we knew we were peering into something sacred and wonderful. His father had written him directions on how to live life. These directions were a guidepost for him. His father had demonstrated tender love through his written words. These words were the vehicles whereby the boyish hurt over the loss of a father was transformed into a lifetime of honor, gratitude, and vision. In short, his father had given him an inheritance more valuable than gold; he had given himself.

In addition to his general call for his son to be a boy of faith and prayers, two themes emerged in the Butler letters: (1) Some things are worth fighting for; and (2) Take care of women and children.