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