Fifty Years Later, Iwo Jima Photographer Fights His Own
By MITCHELL LANDSBERG,
AP National Writer
SAN FRANCISCO (AP) — Fifty years ago this month, a young
Associated Press photographer named Joe Rosenthal shot the
most memorable photograph of World War II, a simple, stirring
image of five Marines and one Navy corpsman raising the flag
at Iwo Jima.
It took but a sliver of time: 1-400th of a second.
It has consumed the past half-century of Joe Rosenthal's life.
He has been called a genius, a fraud, a hero, a phony. He
has been labeled and relabeled, adored and abused, forced
to live and relive, explain and defend that day atop Mount
Suribachi on each and every day that has followed, more than
18,000 and counting. "I don't think it is in me to do much
more of this sort of thing," he said during an interview —
his umpteen-thousandth — about Iwo Jima. "I don't know
how to get across to anybody what 50 years of constant repetition
Rosenthal is 83 now, nearly blind, a pudgy man with a dapper
white mustache and a horseshoe of white hair curving around
the back of a largely bald head. He lives alone in San Francisco,
near Golden Gate Park, in a little apartment largely given
over to stacks of correspondence and documentation related
to Iwo Jima.
In 1945, he was 33, too nearsighted for military service,
short and athletic, with a brushy brown mustache and a head
full of tight brown curls.
As an AP photographer assigned to the Pacific theater of the
war, he had already distinguished himself — and shown
a streak of bravado — in battles at New Guinea, Hollandia,
Guam, Peleliu and Angaur.
No one remembers Rosenthal for those pictures now.
There is only Iwo. Bloody Iwo. It is the battle that Joe Rosenthal
will fight until he dies.
We remember Iwo Jima for two good reasons.
One is that it was the costliest battle in Marine Corps history.
Its toll of 6,821 Americans dead, 5,931 of them Marines, accounted
for nearly one-third of all Marine Corps losses in all of
World War II.
The other is Joe Rosenthal's picture.
It has been called the greatest photograph of all time. It
may well be the most widely reproduced. It served as the symbol
for the Seventh War Loan Drive, for which it was plastered
on 3.5 million posters. It was used on a postage stamp and
on the cover of countless magazines and newspapers. It served
as the model for the Marine Corps War Memorial in Arlington,
Va., a symbol forever of the valor and sacrifices of the U.S.
As a photograph, it derives its power from a simple, dynamic
composition, a sense of momentum and the kinetic energy of
six men straining toward a common goal, which for one man
has slipped just out of grasp. "It has every element. ...
It has everything," marveled Eddie Adams, a former AP photographer
who took another picture that helped sum up a war —
one of a South Vietnamese police chief executing a suspect.
Of Rosenthal's picture, he added: "It's perfect: The position,
the body language. ... You couldn't set anything up like this
— it's just so perfect."
And therein lies the problem. Some people think Rosenthal's
picture is too perfect.
For 50 years now, Rosenthal has battled a perception that
he somehow staged the flag-raising picture, or covered up
the fact that it was actually not the first flag-raising at
All the available evidence backs up Rosenthal. The man responsible
for spreading the story that the picture was staged, the late
Time-Life correspondent Robert Sherrod, long ago admitted
he was wrong. But still the rumor persists.
In 1991, a New York Times book reviewer, misquoting a murky
treatise on the flag-raising called "Iwo Jima: Monuments,
Memories and the American Hero," went so far as to suggest
that the Pulitzer Prize committee consider revoking Rosenthal's
1945 award for photography.
And just a year ago, columnist Jack Anderson promised readers
"the real story" of the Iwo Jima photo: that Rosenthal had
"accompanied a handpicked group of men for a staged flag raising
hours after the original event."
Anderson later retracted his story. But the damage, once again,
had been done.
Rosenthal's story, told again and again with virtually no
variation over the years, is this:
On Feb. 23, 1945, four days after D-Day at Iwo Jima, he was
making his daily trek to the island on a Marine landing craft
when he heard that a flag was being raised atop Mount Suribachi,
a volcano at the southern tip of the island.
Marines had been battling for the high ground of Suribachi
since their initial landing on Iwo Jima, and now, after suffering
terrible losses on the beaches below it, they appeared to
be taking it.
Upon landing, Rosenthal hurried toward Suribachi, lugging
along his bulky Speed Graphic camera, the standard for press
photographers at the time. Along the way, he came across two
Marine photographers, Pfc. Bob Campbell, shooting still pictures,
and Staff Sgt. Bill Genaust, shooting movies. The three men
proceeded up the mountain together.
About halfway up, they met four Marines coming down. Among
them was Sgt. Lou Lowery, a photographer for Leatherneck magazine,
who said the flag had already been raised on the summit. He
added that it was worth the climb anyway for the view. Rosenthal
and the others decided to continue.
The first flag, he would later learn, was raised at 10:37
a.m. Shortly thereafter, Marine commanders decided, for reasons
still clouded in controversy, to replace it with a larger
At the top, Rosenthal tried to find the Marines who had raised
the first flag, figuring he could get a group picture of them
beside it. When no one seemed willing or able to tell him
where they were, he turned his attention to a group of Marines
preparing the second flag to be raised.
Here, with the rest of the story, is Rosenthal writing in
Collier's magazine in 1955:
"I thought of trying to get a shot of the two flags, one coming
down and the other going up, but although this turned out
to be a picture Bob Campbell got, I couldn't line it up. Then
I decided to get just the one flag going up, and I backed
off about 35 feet.
"Here the ground sloped down toward the center of the volcanic
crater, and I found that the ground line was in my way. I
put my Speed Graphic down and quickly piled up some stones
and a Jap sandbag to raise me about two feet (I am only 5
feet 5 inches tall) and I picked up the camera and climbed
up on the pile. I decided on a lens setting between f-8 and
f-11, and set the speed at 1-400th of a second.
"At this point, 1st Lt. Harold G. Shrier ... stepped between
me and the men getting ready to raise the flag. When he moved
away, Genaust came across in front of me with his movie camera
and then took a position about three feet to my right. 'I'm
not in your way, Joe?' he called.
"'No,' I shouted, 'and there it goes.'
"Out of the corner of my eye, as I had turned toward Genaust,
I had seen the men start the flag up. I swung my camera, and
shot the scene."
Rosenthal didn't know what he had taken. He certainly had
no inkling he had just taken the best photograph of his career.
To make sure he had something worth printing, he gathered
all the Marines on the summit together for a jubilant shot
under the flag that became known as his "gung-ho" picture.
And then he went down the mountain. At the bottom, he looked
at his watch. It was 1:05 p.m.
Rosenthal hurried back to the command ship, where he wrote
captions for all the pictures he had sent that day, and shipped
the film off to the military press center in Guam. There it
was processed, edited and sent by radio transmission to the
On the caption, Rosenthal had written: "Atop 550-foot Suribachi
Yama, the volcano at the southwest tip of Iwo Jima, Marines
of the Second Battalion, 28th Regiment, Fifth Division, hoist
the Stars and Stripes, signaling the capture of this key position."
At the same time, he told an AP correspondent, Hamilton Feron,
that he had shot the second of two flag raisings that day.
Feron wrote a story mentioning the two flags.
The flag-raising picture was an immediate sensation back in
the States. It arrived in time to be on the front pages of
Sunday newspapers across the country on Feb. 25. Rosenthal
was quickly wired a congratulatory note from AP headquarters
in New York. But he had no idea which picture they were congratulating
A few days later, back in Guam, someone asked him if he posed
thepicture. Assuming this was a reference to the "gung-ho
shot," he said,"Sure."
Not long after, Sherrod, the Time-Life correspondent, sent
a cable to his editors in New York reporting that Rosenthal
had staged the flag-raising photo. Time magazine's radio show,
"Time Views the News," broadcast a report charging that "Rosenthal
climbed Suribachi after the flag had already been planted.
... Like most photographers (he) could not resist reposing
his characters in historic fashion."
Time was to retract the story within days and issue an apology
to Rosenthal. He accepted it, but was never able to entirely
shake the taint Time had cast on his story.
A new book, "Shadow of Suribachi: Raising the Flags on Iwo
Jima," offers the fullest defense yet of Rosenthal and his
In it, Sherrod is quoted as saying he'd been told the erroneous
story of the restaging by Lowery, the Marine photographer
who captured the first flag raising.
"It was Lowery who led me into the error on the Rosenthal
photo," Sherrod told the authors, Parker Albee Jr. and Keller
Freeman. "I should have been more careful."
Rosenthal, who was to become close friends with Lowery in
the years after Iwo Jima, rejects this explanation. "I think
that is a twist that has been put on by Sherrod," Rosenthal
said. He believes the source of the misunderstanding was his
response to the question about his picture being posed.
It is probably moot. Rosenthal is the only party to the dispute
who is still alive. His attitude now is mostly one of forgiveness
and acceptance. So many years, after all, have passed.
There is still, of course, the issue of whether the second
flag-raising was noteworthy enough to have been enshrined
as a historical icon. Here, the facts are of little use; all
that matters is interpretation.
To be sure, it didn't help that the Marine Corps and most
of the wartime press conveniently glossed over the fact of
the first flag-raising. This helped foster a public notion
But whether or not there was a cover-up (Albee and Freeman
are persuasive in arguing that the Marine brass decided to
put a lid on the first flag-raising), was the second flag-raising
worthy of Rosenthal's picture?
Some vehemently argue no.
"They call that the Iwo Jima flag-raising, which it ain't,"
declared Charles Lindberg, a retired electrician in Richfield,
Minn., who is the last surviving member of either flag-raising
- in his case, the first.
"It's a good picture," Lindberg conceded. "I even told Joe
Rosenthal that it was a good picture. But me and him get into
a few arguments."
That is because Lindberg, like others in the first-flag raising,
believed that all the glory was showered on the second flag-raisers,
who were less deserving.
Rosenthal doesn't argue that one group was more deserving
than another. "In my own opinion, any one of those troops
who had their feet on Iwo Jima is a hero."
The fact is that neither set of flag-raisers encountered serious
resistance from the Japanese as they scaled Mount Suribachi
that day. And in retrospect, the scaling of Mount Suribachi
was not the great turning point in the battle that it may
have seemed: The fighting at Iwo Jima continued for 31 more
The other, undeniable fact is that both groups took part in
some of the fiercest combat of the war. Five of the 11 men
in the two flag-raisings never left Iwo Jima alive.
Perhaps the best argument for Rosenthal's photo is simply
that it is powerful on a symbolic, not a literal, level. Americans
responded to it because it was a stirring image of the victory
they so badly craved. On that level, it is unassailable.
Marianne Fulton, chief curator of the International Center
of Photography at George Eastman House in Rochester, N.Y.,
said the photo must be seen in the context of a perilous time.
"You're worried about your life, your family, the future of
the nation, and this really incredible picture of strength
and determination comes out. A picture like that is a real
For Joe Rosenthal, Iwo Jima brought fame but not fortune,
acclaim but not overwhelming success. He spent the rest of
his career as a workaday photographer at the San Francisco
Chronicle, shooting politicians and drug dealers, fires and
He scoffs at the notion of being included among the "great"
photographers. But they include him in their company. Carl
Mydans, the renowned Life magazine photographer, offers this
explanation for Rosenthal's immortality: "If you can get the
right moment, the instant, it stays around forever."
And so it will be with Rosenthal.
He doesn't have a copy of the Iwo Jima picture hanging in
his apartment; only an etching of it and two cartoons lampooning
it. He is modest to the point of self-deprecation.
Still, when he was once asked if he would rather that some
other photographer had taken the flag-raising shot, he shot
back: "Hell, no! Because it of course makes me feel as though
I've done something worthwhile. My kids think so — that's
On one wall of Rosenthal's cluttered living room is a framed
photograph of seven bleary war correspondents at Guadalcanal.
They have just stumbled out into the bright light of morning
after a night of drinking and card-playing. If they felt the
way they look, it had been a long, long night.
In the center of the picture is Rosenthal, scratching the
stubble on his chin, looking a little bemused and a little
cockeyed, while a Newsweek correspondent next to him drapes
a hand over his shoulder for support. The whole picture has
a washed-out, overexposed look, perfectly matching the mood
of its squinting subjects.
Standing now in his living room, Rosenthal looks at it fondly.
"That," he declares with a proud chortle, "is the greatest
photograph of World War II."