Supporting Our Heroes

11/01/2025

The salvage of the wreck of the USS Arizona (BB-39) at Pearl Harbor after the attack on December 7, 1941. ⚓🇺🇸

The top image shows a giant US Navy crane lifting the ship's structure, destroyed by a massive explosion in an ammunition hold. The bottom image shows divers and technicians laboring in dangerous conditions—oil-stained water, steel debris, and the risk of fuel explosion.

This image illustrates the incredible dedication and courage of the workers in the effort to restore honor to the ship and its fallen crew.

10/30/2025

Korea, 1950. Chosin Reservoir. Twenty degrees below zero.
Lieutenant General Lewis "Chesty" Puller stood in the mess line behind his Marines—18-year-old riflemen with frostbitten hands and thousand-yard stares. An aide approached nervously.
"Sir, your meal is ready in the command tent."
Chesty didn't move. "I'll eat when my Marines eat."
"But sir, you're the—"
"I said I'll eat when my Marines eat."
He waited. The young private in front of him got his rations first. Only then did Chesty take his tray.
This wasn't a publicity stunt. This was who he was.
Lewis "Chesty" Puller spent 37 years in the Marine Corps—27 of those years deployed overseas or at sea. Nicaragua's jungles. Haiti's mountains. The hell of Guadalcanal. The frozen nightmare of Korea. Five times, they pinned the Navy Cross on his chest—the nation's second-highest military honor. No Marine before or since has earned five.
But here's what made Chesty legendary: he didn't just lead Marines. He was one.
While other generals commanded from safe headquarters, Chesty slept in the mud with his men. He carried the same rifle. Ate the same rations—though always last. When supplies ran short, he went without before any enlisted man did. When enemy fire intensified, he moved toward it.
His Marines would follow him into hell because they knew he'd be right there beside them, not watching from behind.
One story captures everything. During the Korean War, when 120,000 Chinese troops surrounded his outnumbered regiment at Chosin, a reporter asked if he was retreating.
Chesty's response became Marine Corps legend: "Retreat, hell! We're not retreating, we're just advancing in a different direction."
They fought their way out. Against impossible odds, they broke through enemy lines. Chesty led from the front the entire way—wounded multiple times but refusing evacuation until his men were safe.
When he finally retired in 1955, something unexpected happened. His leadership philosophy didn't retire with him.
Today—right now, this very moment—Marine Corps officers in the field still follow Chesty's rule: Officers eat last. It's not written in any manual. It's not an order. It's culture. It's honor. It's how you show 18-year-olds freezing in a fighting hole that their lives matter more than your rank.
Leadership isn't about the privileges of command. It's about the responsibilities.
Chesty Puller died in 1971, but walk into any Marine Corps mess hall today and you'll see his legacy alive. The lieutenants stand at the back of the line. The colonels wait until the privates have plates. The generals go last.
Because a leader who won't sacrifice for their people isn't a leader at all. They're just someone with a title.
Chesty proved that true leadership means this: Your Marines eat first. You eat last. And if there's not enough for everyone, you go without.
The man earned five Navy Crosses for valor in combat. But his greatest legacy might be teaching generations of leaders that rank is earned through service, not served through rank.✍️

10/30/2025

With deep sorrow, we say farewell to Pearl Harbor survivor George W. Blake, a soldier who stood in the fire of history on that fateful morning of December 7, 1941. Under a sky filled with flames and chaos, he held his ground as America’s innocence burned away, and its resolve was born. For decades after, he carried the memory of those who never came home, not as a burden, but as a sacred duty. Today, his watch has ended, and he joins his 1,177 fallen brothers in eternal peace. We remember his courage, his humility, and the quiet strength of a man who never stopped honoring the day that changed the world.🕊️🇺🇸⚓

10/30/2025

The Navy's most decorated 12-year-old was fighting for his life in the Pacific—while his classmates were taking spelling tests back home.
Calvin Graham started shaving at age 11. Not because he needed to—his face was still baby-smooth—but because he had a plan. Every morning, he'd drag a razor across his cheeks, hoping the act itself would somehow make him look older. He practiced deepening his voice in front of the mirror. He stood up straighter. He walked with false confidence. Because Calvin Graham had a secret that couldn't be discovered.
In 1942, while America sent its men to war, 12-year-old Calvin forged his mother's signature on military enlistment papers. He memorized a fake birthdate. He lied through his teeth to recruiters who should have known better—but in the chaos of wartime mobilization, a tall kid with a practiced deep voice was just another body to fill a uniform.
And suddenly, Calvin Graham was in the United States Navy.
By the time most kids his age were worrying about homework and playground games, Calvin was aboard the USS South Dakota, a battleship headed straight into hell. The Pacific Theater wasn't a place for children. But nobody knew Calvin was a child—not yet.
On November 14-15, 1942, during the brutal Naval Battle of Guadalcanal, the USS South Dakota came under devastating fire. Japanese shells slammed into the ship, tearing through metal and flesh. Explosions rocked the deck. Men screamed. Fire consumed everything it touched.
Calvin Graham, all 12 years old and barely 5 feet tall, was struck by shrapnel. Hot metal tore into his body. Blood soaked his uniform. Most grown men would have collapsed, overwhelmed by shock and pain. But Calvin didn't think about his wounds. He thought about the sailors around him—men who'd treated him like a brother, who'd joked with him, who'd never suspected he was just a kid pretending to be brave.
So instead of seeking medical help, Calvin dragged wounded sailors to safety. One by one, ignoring his own injuries, he pulled grown men away from fires and twisted metal. He saved lives while bleeding himself. When the battle finally ended and the smoke cleared, Calvin Graham had earned something extraordinary: the respect of every man on that ship.
For his heroism, he was awarded the Purple Heart for his wounds, and reportedly other commendations. He was 12 years old.
But someone back home suspected the truth. Calvin's sister, worried sick about her baby brother, wrote to the Navy: He's only twelve.
The military investigated. The lie unraveled. And Calvin Graham's world collapsed.
The Navy didn't thank him for his courage. They discharged him—dishonorable discharge for fraudulent enlistment. They stripped away his medals. They denied him veteran benefits. They treated his service as if it never happened, as if those scars on his body were imaginary, as if the men he saved didn't exist.
Calvin returned home at 13, unable to talk about what he'd experienced because officially, he'd never experienced it. He couldn't get veteran healthcare for his wounds. He couldn't access education benefits. He was a decorated war hero with nothing to show for it except nightmares and shrapnel still lodged in his body.
For decades, Calvin fought a different kind of battle—a bureaucratic war against the same government he'd nearly died protecting. He worked menial jobs. He struggled. He told his story to anyone who would listen, but few believed that a child could have done what he claimed.
It wasn't until 1978—36 years later—that the Navy finally restored his Purple Heart. But even then, the recognition was incomplete. The full acknowledgment of his service remained tangled in red tape. Calvin Graham died in 1992 at age 62, still fighting for the country that had forgotten him.
Here's the truth they tried to erase: Calvin Graham lied about his age, yes. He broke the rules. But he didn't lie about his courage. He didn't fake the scars. He didn't pretend to pull those sailors from the flames.
He was a child who decided his country needed him more than he needed his childhood. And when his country betrayed him, he never stopped believing he'd done the right thing.
Calvin Graham shouldn't have been at war. Twelve-year-olds shouldn't know what shrapnel feels like, or what burning flesh smells like, or how heavy a dying man is when you're dragging him to safety.
But he was there. And he was a hero.
History almost forgot Calvin Graham. But we won't. Because if a 12-year-old could face battleships and enemy fire with that kind of courage, the least we can do is remember his name.

10/27/2025

She Wasn’t a Horse — She Was a Marine!

The story of Staff Sergeant Reckless isn’t just remarkable — it’s legendary. Once you learn about her, you’ll understand why the U.S. Marine Corps didn’t just love her — they promoted her, honored her, and immortalized her. And not just any Marines, either — her final promotion to Staff Sergeant came from Gen. Randolph McCall Pate, the Commandant of the entire Marine Corps. You can’t get higher than that.

From Racehorse to Warhorse

Reckless was born in June 1948 in South Korea, originally named Ah-Chim-Hai, or “Flame of the Morning,” by her owner Kim Huk Moon. She was bred to be a racehorse, but destiny had a different plan. When the Korean War erupted in 1950, her racing days were over before they began.

Two years later, on October 26, 1952, Lt. Eric Pedersen, commanding officer of the 75mm Recoilless Rifle Platoon, 5th Marines, went searching for a pack animal at the Seoul Racecourse. He found Ah-Chim-Hai and bought her for $250 of his own money — a sum that allowed her owner to buy an artificial leg for his sister, who had been injured by a landmine.

Kim’s loss became the Marines’ gain. The platoon renamed her “Reckless” — after the recoilless rifle whose ammunition she would carry. It didn’t take long before every Marine who met her fell in love.

A Marine with an Appetite (and Attitude)

Reckless didn’t just win hearts through her bravery — she did it through her personality. She was mischievous, clever, and famously determined. Ignore her, and you risked losing your lunch — literally. She was known to eat just about anything: scrambled eggs and pancakes, C-ration candy, Hershey bars, even poker chips, hats, and blankets if she felt overlooked.

Her favorite morning routine? A cup of coffee shared with her Marines. Her favorite evening ritual? A beer after a long day’s work. She was, in every way that mattered, one of the guys.

The Battle of Outpost Vegas

Reckless’ defining moment came in March 1953, during the brutal Battle of Outpost Vegas — one of the fiercest fights in Marine Corps history. The “Nevada Complex” was bombarded with twenty-eight tons of bombs and hundreds of massive artillery shells, transforming the battlefield into “a smoking, death-pocked rubble.”

In the chaos, Reckless made her stand.

Under relentless enemy fire, she traversed open rice paddies and steep 45-degree slopes, carrying desperately needed ammunition to the front lines. According to Sgt. Maj. James E. Bobbitt, “It’s difficult to describe the elation and the boost in morale that little white-faced mare gave Marines as she outfoxed the enemy bringing vitally needed ammunition up the mountain.”

In just one day, she made 51 solo trips, hauling 386 rounds — over 9,000 pounds (nearly five tons) of ammunition — while walking more than 35 miles through fire and smoke. When she wasn’t carrying shells up, she was carrying wounded Marines down. Twice wounded herself, she refused to stop.

That courage earned her a promotion to Sergeant, and a permanent place in Marine Corps history.

A Marine Among Marines

The Marines adored Reckless. They shared their rations, covered her with their flak jackets, and treated her as one of their own. Her bravery and devotion embodied the Marine Corps spirit — Courage, Commitment, and Honor — better than most humans ever could.

Reckless was promoted again to Staff Sergeant, with her final promotion presented by the Commandant himself, Gen. Randolph McCall Pate.

She officially retired on November 10, 1960 — the Marine Corps’ birthday — and lived out her days at Camp Pendleton. When she passed away on May 13, 1968, she was buried with full military honors.

Decorations and Honors

Staff Sergeant Reckless earned an impressive array of military decorations, including:

Two Purple Hearts

Good Conduct Medal

Presidential Unit Citation with Star

National Defense Service Medal

Korean Service Medal

United Nations Service Medal

Navy Unit Commendation

Republic of Korea Presidential Unit Citation

French Fourragere (5th Marines)

She wore them all proudly on her red and gold blanket — the colors of the Corps she served so valiantly.

In later years, her heroism continued to be recognized. In 2016, she received the PDSA Dickin Medal, known as the “Victoria Cross for Animals.” And in 2019, she became the first-ever recipient of the Animals in War and Peace Medal of Bravery, presented on Capitol Hill.

Legacy of a Legend

Today, six national monuments honor Staff Sergeant Reckless across the United States:

National Museum of the Marine Corps, Quantico, VA

Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton, CA

Kentucky Horse Park, Lexington, KY

Barrington Hills, IL

National Cowgirl Museum and Hall of Fame, Ft. Worth, TX

World Equestrian Center, Ocala, FL

Each stands as a reminder of a small mare with a warrior’s heart — a Marine who happened to be a horse.

Her story is currently being developed for a feature film, so future generations can know her name and her service.

Semper Fi, Staff Sergeant Reckless

There has never been — and never will be — another like her. Reckless wasn’t just a horse.
She was a Marine.

10/19/2025

10/16/2025