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This is the photgraph, captured by AP photographer Joe Rosenthal, that became the image on the biggest-selling American postage stamp of all time. Ira Hayes, helping to raise that flag amidst untold carnage, is lamented here in Peter LaFarge's poignant ballad. Hayes is buried in Arlington Cemetery.

Gather round you people an' a story i will tell
About a brave indian you should remember well
From the tribe of Pima indians, a proud an' a peaceful band
They farmed the Phoenix valley in Arizona land.

Down their ditches for a thousand years the sparkling water rushed
Till the white men stole their water rights an' the runnin' water hushed
Now Ira's folks were hungry an' their farms were crops of weeds
But when war came he volunteered and forgot the white man's greed.

Call him drunken Ira Hayes he won't answer anymore
Not the whisky drinkin' indian nor the marine who went to war
Yes call him drunken Ira Hayes he won't answer anymore
Not the whisky drinkin' indian nor the marine who went to war.

They started Iwo Jima hill, two hundred an' fifty men
But only twenty-seven lived to walk back down the hill again
An' when the fight was over an' old glory raised
One of the men who held it high was the indian Ira Hayes.

Call him drunken Ira Hayes he won't answer anymore
Not the whisky drinkin' indian nor the marine who went to war
Yes call him drunken Ira Hayes he won't answer anymore
Not the whisky drinkin' indian nor the marine who went to war.

Now Ira returned a hero celebrated throughout the land
He was wined an' speeched an' honored, everybody shook his hand
But he was just a Pima indian, no money, no crops, no chance
An' at home nobody cared what Ira's done an' the wind did the indian's dance.

Call him drunken Ira Hayes he won't answer anymore
Not the whisky drinkin' indian nor the marine who went to war
Yes call him drunken Ira Hayes he won't answer anymore
Not the whisky drinkin' indian nor the marine who went to war.

And Ira started drinkin' again, jail was often his home
They let him raise the flag and lower it like you throw a dog a bone
He died drunk early one morning alone in a land he fought to save
Two inches of water in a lonely ditch was the grave for Ira Hayes.

Call him drunken Ira Hayes he won't answer anymore
Not the whisky drinkin' indian nor the marine who went to war
Yes call him drunken Ira Hayes he won't answer anymore
Not the whisky drinkin' indian nor the marine who went to war.

Yes call him drunken Ira Hayes but his land is still as dry
And his ghost is lying thirsty in the ditch where Ira died
Call him drunken Ira Hayes he won't answer anymore
Not the whisky drinkin' indian nor the marine who went to war.

In Silent Tribute - Courage, Loyalty, and the Supreme Sacrifice

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Iwo Jima - A look back

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