Message to Garcia

[Victory]

I had my Military Science class read this today. It had been a long time since I had read it last, and it struck me as relevant in what is left of our society today.


A Message to Garcia
Elbert Hubbard 1899

In all this Cuban business there is one man stands out on the horizon of my memory like Mars at perihelion.
When war broke out between Spain and the United States, it was very necessary to com- municate quickly with the leader of the Insurgents. Garcia was somewhere in the mountain fastnesses of Cuba - no one knew where. No mail or telegraph could reach him. The President must secure his co-operation, and quickly.
What to do!
Someone said to the President, “There’s a fellow by the name of Rowan will find Garcia for you, if anybody can.”
Rowan was sent for and given a letter to be delivered to Garcia. How “the fellow by name of Rowan” took the letter, sealed it up in an oil-skin pouch, strapped it over his heart, in four days landed by night off the coast of Cuba from an open boat, disappeared into the jungle, and in three weeks came out on the other side of the island, having traversed a hostile country on foot, and having delivered his letter to Garcia, are things I have no special desire now to tell in detail. The point I wish to make is this: McKinley gave Rowan a letter to be delivered to Garcia; Rowan took the letter and did not ask, “Where is he at?”
By the Eternal! There is a man whose form should be cast in deathless bronze and the statue placed in every college in the land. It is not book-learning young men need, nor instruction about this or that, but a stiffening of the vertebrae which will cause them to be loyal to a trust, to act promptly, concentrate their energies; do the thing - “carry a message to Garcia!”
General Garcia is dead now, but there are other Garcias. No man, who has endeavored to carry out an enterprise where many hands were needed, but has been well-nigh appalled at times by the imbecility of the average man - the inability or unwillingness to concentrate on a thing and do it.
Slipshod assistance, foolish inattention, dowdy indifference, and half-hearted work seem the rule; and no man succeeds, unless by hook or crook, or threat, he forces or bribes other men to assist him; or mayhap, God in His goodness performs a miracle, and sends him an Angel of Light for an assistant.
You, reader, put this matter to a test: You are sitting now in your office—six clerks are within your call. Summon any one and make this request: “Please look in the encyclopedia and make a brief memorandum for me concerning the life of Corregio.”
Will the clerk quietly say, “Yes, sir,” and go do the task?
On your life, he will not. He will look at you out of a fishy eye, and ask one or more of the following questions:
Who was he?
Which encyclopedia?
Where is the encyclopedia?
Was I hired for that?
Don’t you mean Bismarck?
What’s the matter with Charlie doing it?
Is he dead?
Is there any hurry?
Shan’t I bring you the book and let you look it up yourself? What do you want to know for?
And I will lay you ten to one that after you have answered the questions, and explained how to find the information, and why you want it, the clerk will go off and get one of the

other clerks to help him find Garcia - and then come back and tell you there is no such man. Of course I may lose my bet, but according to the Law of Average, I will not.
Now if you are wise you will not bother to explain to your “assistant” that Corregio is indexed under the C’s, not in the K’s, but you will smile sweetly and say, “Never mind,” and go look it up yourself. And this incapacity for independent action, this moral stupidity, this infirmity of the will, this unwillingness to cheerfully catch hold and lift, are the things that put pure socialism so far into the future. If men will not act for themselves, what will they do when the benefit of their effort is for all?
A first mate with knotted club seems necessary; and the dread of getting “the bounce” Saturday night holds many a worker in his place.
Advertise for a stenographer, and nine times out of ten who apply can neither spell nor punctuate - and do not think it necessary to.
Can such a one write a letter to Garcia?
“You see that bookkeeper,” said the foreman to me in a large factory.
“Yes, what about him?”
“Well, he’s a fine accountant, but if I’d send him to town on an errand, he might accom-
plish the errand all right, and, on the other hand, might stop at four saloons on the way, and when he got to Main Street, would forget what he had been sent for.”
Can such a man be entrusted to carry a message to Garcia?
We have recently been hearing much maudlin sympathy expressed for the “down-trodden denizen of the sweat shop” and the “homeless wanderer searching for honest employment,” and with it all often go many hard words for the men in power.
Nothing is said about the employer who grows old before his time in a vain attempt to get frowsy ne’er-do-wells to do intelligent work; and his long patient striving with “help” that does nothing but loaf when his back is turned. In every store and factory there is a constant weeding-out process going on. The employer is constantly sending away “help” that have shown their incapacity to further the interests of the business, and others are being taken on. No matter how good times are, this sorting continues, only if times are hard and work is scarce, this sorting is done finer - but out and forever out, the incompetent and unworthy go. It is the survival of the fittest. self-interest prompts every employer to keep the best-those who can carry a message to Garcia.
I know one man of really brilliant parts who has not the ability to manage a business of his own, and yet who is absolutely worthless to anyone else, because he carries with him constantly the insane suspicion that his employer is oppressing, or intending to oppress, him. He can not give orders, and he will not receive them. Should a message be given him to take to Garcia, his answer would probably be, “Take it yourself.”
Tonight this man walks the streets looking for work, the wind whistling through his threadbare coat. No one who knows him dare employ him, for he is a regular firebrand of discontent. He is impervious to reason, and the only thing that can impress him is the toe of a thick-soled No. 9 boot.
Of course I know that one so morally deformed is no less to be pitied than a physical cripple; but in your pitying, let us drop a tear, too, for the men who are striving to carry on a great enterprise, whose working hours are not limited by the whistle, and whose hair is fast turning white through the struggle to hold the line in dowdy indifference, slipshod imbecility, and the heartless ingratitude which, but for their enterprise, would be both hungry and homeless.
Have I put the matter too strongly? Possibly I have; but when all the world has gone a-slumming I wish to speak a word of sympathy for the man who succeeds - the man who, against great odds, has directed the efforts of others, and, having succeeded, finds there’s nothing in it: nothing but bare board and clothes. I have carried a dinner-pail and worked for a day’s wages, and I have also been an employer of labor, and I know there is something to be said on both sides. There is no excellence, per se, in poverty; rags are no recommendation; and all employers are not rapacious and high-handed, any more than all poor men are virtuous.
2

My heart goes out to the man who does his work when the “boss” is away, as well as when he is home. And the man who, when given a letter for Garcia, quietly takes the missive, without asking any idiotic questions, and with no lurking intention of chucking it into the nearest sewer, or of doing aught else but deliver it, never gets “laid off,” nor has to go on strike for higher wages. Civilization is one long anxious search for just such individuals. Anything such a man asks will be granted; his kind is so rare that no employer can afford to let him go. He is wanted in every city, town, and village - in every office, shop, store and factory. The world cries out for such; he is needed, and needed badly—the man who can
Carry a message to Garcia.

 

[Amanda4461]

True, but for those who go forth and find Garcia, many is the finder who, upon finding Garcia, suddenly finds a knife in his back. Loyalty and self-reliance went out of fashion before I was born. Society does not reward those who would find Garcia. Like most honest and good things in the USA, every thing that came after WWII was poisoned by too much of a good thing, with easy living in the USA being taken for granted. The way of life being taken for granted turned into the society where you can’t spell Garcia’s name, you don’t know how to figure out which way is East, much less West, “not my job” and I Dindu Nuffin are every sorry asshole’s excuse for standing around and licking their sorry ass. Garcia would have died and rotted before our current society could figure out what he looked like. We have surpassed the point where we have learned how to vote ourselves a raise. It is high time that the majority get to pay for the sins of the politicians and the people who vote them in, term after term. Poor Garcia never had a chance.

 

[lariat]

Thank you for posting this. I found it telling and refreshing. I have a man that is due for a raise and this will be part of that conversation as the reason he is getting it with gratitude.

 

[Victory]

The pain of a society without these people will be great. There are a many Rowens still around today, but I feel they are being lost in large numbers as their aging bodies fail them. I would even venture to say this forum contains one of the largest concentrations of them I’ve ever known. Sadly the numbers aren’t being replaced by the younger generation, and will continue to dwindle with the next.

Then the cycle will start over at collapse, and these men will rise again, just to slowly become extinct once more.

 

[Jscb1b]

Soft times breed soft men.

 

[lariat]

This kind of character will never be the majority, it simply costs too much.

I was talking to a man today who is 3 weeks into starting his own business and made the comment that 5pm doesn’t mean anything anymore. The look on his face was priceless. I could have told him 2 months ago and it would have had no impact. Now it weighs on him. Not a Garcia.

 

[lariat]

Soft times breed soft men.

And hard times that last for long spells crush most. Endurance and discipline are critical. It’s the one who can keep going that I swear even heaven acknowledges as special. I really can’t be convinced otherwise at this point.

 

[Jscb1b]

I can't give credit to who said it because I don't know who did but it goes something like soft times breeds soft men, soft men breed hard times, hard times breed hard men, hard men breed soft times. We are in a vicious cycle. We have been soft for 60 years. Times are going to get hard. I pray for the United States of America!

 

[sinister]

I assigned this for extra credit for my ROTC Cadets who were blade-running and needed just a few more points to kick up to the next higher grade.

For a few it made the difference, not just for the points but as the kick in the ass to put out just a little more.

Another great leadership assignment is Ten Leadership Lessons from a Janitor.

 

[sinister]

"The kindly old janitor neatly tucked the mop and brooms back into the closet, reached up briefly to brush a drop of sweat from his wrinkled brow, then closed the door to the tools of his trade for another evening. Slowly he walked across the highly polished floor towards the exit that would take him to the parking lot, where his old but reliable car would transport him to the modest house he had built in the foothills near the United States Air Force Academy. To the casual observer, the janitor was just another ordinary guy, putting in his time at the job that supplemented his retirement income and spending his free time working in the garden he loved.

A Janitor’s Ten Lessons in Leadership

By Col. James Moschgat, United States Air Force
12th Operations Group Commander

William “Bill” Crawford certainly was an unimpressive figure, one you could easily overlook during a hectic day at the U.S. Air Force Academy. Mr. Crawford, as most of us referred to him back in the late 1970s, was our squadron janitor.

While we cadets busied ourselves preparing for academic exams, athletic events, Saturday morning parades and room inspections, or never-ending leadership classes, Bill quietly moved about the squadron mopping and buffing floors, emptying trash cans, cleaning toilets, or just tidying up the mess 100 college-age kids can leave in a dormitory.

Sadly, and for many years, few of us gave him much notice, rendering little more than a passing nod or throwing a curt, “G’morning!” in his direction as we hurried off to our daily duties.

Why? Perhaps it was because of the way he did his job-he always kept the squadron area spotlessly clean, even the toilets and showers gleamed. Frankly, he did his job so well, none of us had to notice or get involved. After all, cleaning toilets was his job, not ours.

Maybe it was his physical appearance that made him disappear into the background. Bill didn’t move very quickly and, in fact, you could say he even shuffled a bit, as if he suffered from some sort of injury. His gray hair and wrinkled face made him appear ancient to a group of young cadets. And his crooked smile, well, it looked a little funny. Face it, Bill was an old man working in a young person’s world. What did he have to offer us on a personal level?

Finally, maybe it was Mr. Crawford’s personality that rendered him almost invisible to the young people around him. Bill was shy, almost painfully so. He seldom spoke to a cadet unless they addressed him first, and that didn’t happen very often. Our janitor always buried himself in his work, moving about with stooped shoulders, a quiet gait, and an averted gaze. If he noticed the hustle and bustle of cadet life around him, it was hard to tell.

So, for whatever reason, Bill blended into the woodwork and became just another fixture around the squadron. The Academy, one of our nation’s premier leadership laboratories, kept us busy from dawn till dusk. And Mr. Crawford...well, he was just a janitor.

That changed one fall Saturday afternoon in 1976. I was reading a book about World War II and the tough Allied ground campaign in Italy, when I stumbled across an incredible story. On Sept. 13, 1943, a Private William Crawford from Colorado, assigned to the 36th Infantry Division, had been involved in some bloody fighting on Hill 424 near Altavilla, Italy.

The words on the page leapt out at me: “in the face of intense and overwhelming hostile fire ... with no regard for personal safety ... on his own initiative, Private Crawford single-handedly attacked fortified enemy positions.” It continued, “for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at risk of life above and beyond the call of duty, the President of the United States ...”

“Holy cow,” I said to my roommate, “you’re not going to believe this, but I think our janitor is a Medal of Honor winner.” We all knew Mr. Crawford was a WWII Army vet, but that didn’t keep my friend from looking at me as if I was some sort of alien being. Nonetheless, we couldn’t wait to ask Bill about the story on Monday.

We met Mr. Crawford bright and early Monday and showed him the page in question from the book, anticipation and doubt on our faces. He stared at it for a few silent moments and then quietly uttered something like, “Yep, that’s me.” Mouths agape, my roommate and I looked at one another, then at the book, and quickly back at our janitor. Almost at once we both stuttered, “Why didn’t you ever tell us about it?” He slowly replied after some thought, “That was one day in my life and it happened a long time ago.” I guess we were all at a loss for words after that. We had to hurry off to class and Bill, well, he had chores to attend to.

However, after that brief exchange, things were never again the same around our squadron. Word spread like wildfire among the cadets that we had a hero in our midst-Mr. Crawford, our janitor, had won the Medal! Cadets who had once passed by Bill with hardly a glance, now greeted him with a smile and a respectful, “Good morning, Mr. Crawford.”

Those who had before left a mess for the “janitor” to clean up started taking it upon themselves to put things in order. Most cadets routinely stopped to talk to Bill throughout the day and we even began inviting him to our formal squadron functions. He’d show up dressed in a conservative dark suit and quietly talk to those who approached him, the only sign of his heroics being a simple blue, star-spangled lapel pin. Almost overnight, Bill went from being a simple fixture in our squadron to one of our teammates.

Mr. Crawford changed too, but you had to look closely to notice the difference. After that fall day in 1976, he seemed to move with more purpose, his shoulders didn’t seem to be as stooped, he met our greetings with a direct gaze and a stronger “good morning” in return, and he flashed his crooked smile more often.

The squadron gleamed as always, but everyone now seemed to notice it more. Bill even got to know most of us by our first names, something that didn’t happen often at the Academy. While no one ever formally acknowledged the change, I think we became Bill’s cadets and his squadron.

As often happens in life, events sweep us away from those in our past. The last time I saw Bill was on graduation day in June 1977. As I walked out of the squadron for the last time, he shook my hand and simply said, “Good luck, young man.”

With that, I embarked on a career that has been truly lucky and blessed. Mr. Crawford continued to work at the Academy and eventually retired in his native Colorado where he resides today, one of four Medal of Honor winners living in a small town.

A wise person once said, “It’s not life that’s important, but those you meet along the way that make the difference.” Bill was one who made a difference for me. While I haven’t seen Mr. Crawford in over twenty years, he’d probably be surprised to know I think of him often. Bill Crawford, our janitor, taught me many valuable, unforgettable leadership lessons. Here are ten I’d like to share with you.

Be Cautious of Labels. Labels you place on people may define your relationship to them and bound their potential. Sadly, and for a long time, we labeled Bill as just a janitor, but he was so much more. Therefore, be cautious of a leader who callously says, “Hey, he’s just an Airman.” Likewise, don’t tolerate the O-1, who says, “I can’t do that, I’m just a lieutenant.”

Everyone Deserves Respect. Because we hung the “janitor” label on Mr. Crawford, we often wrongly treated him with less respect than others around us. He deserved much more, and not just because he was a Medal of Honor winner. Bill deserved respect because he was a janitor, walked among us, and was a part of our team.

Courtesy Makes a Difference. Be courteous to all around you, regardless of rank or position. Military customs, as well as common courtesies, help bond a team. When our daily words to Mr. Crawford turned from perfunctory “hellos” to heartfelt greetings, his demeanor and personality outwardly changed. It made a difference for all of us.

Take Time to Know Your People. Life in the military is hectic, but that’s no excuse for not knowing the people you work for and with. For years a hero walked among us at the Academy and we never knew it. Who are the heroes that walk in your midst?

Anyone Can Be a Hero. Mr. Crawford certainly didn’t fit anyone’s standard definition of a hero. Moreover, he was just a private on the day he won his Medal. Don’t sell your people short, for any one of them may be the hero who rises to the occasion when duty calls. On the other hand, it’s easy to turn to your proven performers when the chips are down, but don’t ignore the rest of the team. Today’s rookie could and should be tomorrow’s superstar.

Leaders Should Be Humble. Most modern day heroes and some leaders are anything but humble, especially if you calibrate your “hero meter” on today’s athletic fields. End zone celebrations and self-aggrandizement are what we’ve come to expect from sports greats. Not Mr. Crawford-he was too busy working to celebrate his past heroics. Leaders would be well-served to do the same.

Life Won’t Always Hand You What You Think You Deserve. We in the military work hard and, dang it, we deserve recognition, right? However, sometimes you just have to persevere, even when accolades don’t come your way. Perhaps you weren’t nominated for junior officer or airman of the quarter as you thought you should-don’t let that stop you. Don’t pursue glory; pursue excellence. Private Bill Crawford didn’t pursue glory; he did his duty and then swept floors for a living.

No Job is Beneath a Leader. If Bill Crawford, a Medal of Honor winner, could clean latrines and smile, is there a job beneath your dignity? Think about it.

Pursue Excellence. No matter what task life hands you, do it well. Dr. Martin Luther King said, “If life makes you a street sweeper, be the best street sweeper you can be.” Mr. Crawford modeled that philosophy and helped make our dormitory area a home.

Life is a Leadership Laboratory. All too often we look to some school or PME class to teach us about leadership when, in fact, life is a leadership laboratory. Those you meet everyday will teach you enduring lessons if you just take time to stop, look and listen. I spent four years at the Air Force Academy, took dozens of classes, read hundreds of books, and met thousands of great people. I gleaned leadership skills from all of them, but one of the people I remember most is Mr. Bill Crawford and the lessons he unknowingly taught. Don’t miss your opportunity to learn.

Bill Crawford was a janitor. However, he was also a teacher, friend, role model and one great American hero. Thanks, Mr. Crawford, for some valuable leadership lessons.

===== ===== ===== ===== =====

Life hadn't been easy for young Bill Crawford, but he had learned to cope. Shortly after his birth on May 19, 1918, Bill's mother passed away. His father, George Crawford, found it difficult to both work and raise his family, which included Bill's older brother and two sisters. Caring relatives took them in and raised them through their teens. Bill saw his father only occasionally, the elder Crawford working long hours to provide support where he could, and struggling to live beyond the grief that had torn his life apart at losing his wife.

The children did remarkably well, learning to mix recreation and responsibility. Young Bill's first job was delivering groceries for a local neighborhood grocery store. He also delivered newspapers for "The Pueblo Star-Journal", now "The Pueblo Chieftain". For recreation, the slender but wiry youth began boxing. He did remarkably well, boxing Golden Gloves and becoming a champion. In school, he worked hard, graduating from Pueblo Central High School in 1936.

"Of course, I wasn't always a good kid," Bill would say with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "I used to love to wait for the trolley car to stop to pick up passengers, then disable it while they were boarding, and watch the conductor's frustration when he couldn't get it moving again." Bill would pause for a minute, then quickly add, "But you know...even when I pulled those teenage pranks, I never tried to hurt anyone...except in the boxing ring."

From time to time, one of the cadets would ask Mr. Crawford if he had ever boxed professionally. "Naw," he would say. "I probably could have, but the war (World War II) came along and interrupted my plans." And that would be about all Bill would say about his war service.

===== ===== ===== ===== =====

The grizzled, old blacksmith from Pueblo, Colorado shifted his feet uncomfortably. He felt out of place enough as it was, standing before a crowd of soldiers to face no less than a two-star general. The date was May 11, 1944 and Mr. Crawford had been summoned to Camp Carson, Colorado for a special occasion. It was not a happy occasion, but it was a ceremony the man who had already tasted grief far too often could not avoid.

"Your son was a hero," Major General Terry Allen said to the father that struggled to keep tears that formed in his eyes from falling across his cheeks. Then, slowly the general began to read the official citation that detailed the heroism of George Crawford's son, Bill.

On September 13th, just nine months earlier, Private Bill Crawford had been serving his Nation as a member of the 36th Infantry Division in Italy. He had landed with the unit at Salerno and moved inland as Allied Forces began the drive to liberate the European continent from the evil and deadly grip of the Nazi regime. "On that September day," Major General Allen read, "Private Bill Crawford demonstrated the highest degree of valor...and sacrifice."

As his platoon had moved up a hillside, an enemy machine-gun nest began to rain death around Crawford's fellow soldiers. It was a desperate situation, a crisis that demanded a man of character, and Private Bill Crawford was that man. Without orders, he jumped to his feet and charged forward, ignoring the bullets that flew around him. Moving up the hill, Private Crawford advanced to within a few yards of the enemy, threw a grenade into the pit from which they were firing at the American soldiers, and in so doing had saved his platoon. Again the American forces could advance.

The advance was short lived. This time it was not one, but two, separate machine gun nests firing at them from both the left and the right. And again, it was Private Crawford who stepped forward to save the platoon. First he attacked to the left, destroying the gun that threatened his comrades. Without pause, he shifted his attack to the right, knocking out the second enemy emplacement, then turning the captured machine-gun on the now routed and fleeing German soldiers. Again the platoon advanced, and fought throughout the day. Then, as darkness fell, the men of Crawford's 3d Platoon, Company I, 3d Battalion, 142d Infantry pulled into a defensive position for the night. Those who were alive, marveled at the fact that they had survived the vicious fighting of the day. All knew they were alive because of the heroism of Private Bill Crawford. None could find the fearless soldier to thank him...Private Crawford was no longer among them...his body lying somewhere in the darkness on the field of battle. Unable to otherwise express their thanks and admiration for the hero of the 3d platoon, the soldiers did the only action left to them, submitting their fallen hero for the Medal of Honor.

The posthumous award of the Medal of Honor to Private William John Crawford had been quickly approved, and Major General Allen presented the small star-shaped symbol of the highest degree of valor to a grieving father at the military post just 30 miles from young Bill's hometown of Pueblo, Colorado. Slowly the elder Crawford stretched his work-hardened hands forward to graciously accept the award that, though prestigious, would never replace the son he had lost. "Perhaps," George Crawford thought to himself, "I should have spent more time with Bill while I had the chance. Now, that opportunity is lost forever." As he turned away, no longer could the tears be restrained. So he slowly walked away alone, hiding them in his solitude.

Half a world away, Private Bill Crawford tossed about on his straw-filled, burlap mattress in a futile attempt to find some comfort. He was tired, he was sore, and he was embarrassed. How had he let himself be captured? How had he even survived that horrible battle at Altavilla, Italy nine months earlier? Did his family even know he was alive? Would he survive life in the German prisoner of war camp to ever return home?

Unable to find rest, he pulled from his pocket the small New Testament that his German guards had passed on to him from the Red Cross, and opened it. He looked down and read the first verse to meet his gaze, Romans 8:31, "If God be for us, who can be against us." Reading the Bible was a new practice for the young boxer from Pueblo, Colorado but that particular verse was his favorite and he had read it so many times, the worn little Testament seemed to open to that verse on its own accord. In the words of that verse he found strength to face each new day. He had fought his battles. Now, as a prisoner, he needed someone stronger than himself to insure his future. In a prisoner of war camp named Stalag 2b, Bill Crawford made his peace with God. It was a step that became the focal point that guided the rest of his life.

Life in the camp was difficult, but not unbearable. There were moments, like that day in the early spring of 1944 when a German guard had clubbed Private Crawford in the head with the butt of his rifle. The former Golden Gloves boxer refused to take such unwarranted punishment. In the middle of the compound, he ripped the rifle from the hands of his tormentor and rained a series of blows on him that rendered the German unconscious. Crawford thought he would be severely punished, but the camp's German doctor noted the bruising from the unwarranted attack of the guard and testified in the young American's defense. Amazingly, the German guard was punished and Crawford exonerated. Even as the young man had always garnered the respect of his comrades, as a prisoner he also garnered the respect of his captors.

Two months after Private Crawford's Medal of Honor was presented to his father as a posthumous award, the family received news that the young hero was alive. At about the same time, a telegram arrived at the prison camp informing Private Crawford of his unique and high award. His treatment improved even more, the Germans themselves respecting his Medal of Honor award and recognizing him for the man of character he was. But even this could not spare him the perils of the last months of the war.

In the winter of 1944, the Russian army was swiftly advancing into Germany on the eastern front, and the prisoners of Stalag 2b were assembled as the Germans attempted to move the camp. For 52 days the prisoners were marched through the frozen mountains, one step ahead of the advancing Russian army. In those 52 days, Bill and his fellow prisoners were marched 500 miles, subsisting on a meal of one potato a day. Resting firmly in his belief that "If God be for me, who can be against me", Private Crawford determined to survive and return home. In the spring of 1945 an advancing tank column finally brought him liberty. He took his first hot shower in nearly eighteen months on VE-Day, 11 days before his 27th birthday.

In a 1995 interview, Bill Crawford recalled the joy of his release and the long ocean voyage home. As the ship entered New York harbor, "I saw the Statue of Liberty there, and boy it looked good. It was the most beautiful sight I've ever seen." Private Crawford's joy in his release, far overshadowed any prestige he felt at the award of the Medal of Honor. Though it would never be forgotten, it would take nearly 40 years for Bill Crawford to finally receive the honor he so truly deserved.

Private William Crawford was happy to be home, happy to be away from war, and for a time he was happy to be a civilian. He returned to modest accolades in his hometown, where he preferred to be just another "ordinary" citizen. He met and married Eileen, and began a family that would eventually spread his love to two children of his own. Then, he returned to military service, much of it as an Army recruiter in his home town of Pueblo, Colorado.

In 1958, Bill Crawford was one of the Medal of Honor recipients selected to participate as the honor guard for the burial of the Unknown Soldiers of World War II and Korea. Everyone knew that Bill Crawford had the Medal of Honor, and the award itself had been transferred to him by his father upon his return. But when Bill Crawford retired from the United States Army in 1967, he was one of the few men in history to wear the award without having ever formally received it. It had been presented posthumously to his father.

It was upon his retirement that Bill Crawford built, with his own hands, a large but modest house in the small community of Palmer Lake, Colorado. From there it was a short commute to the Air Force Academy, where he performed his duties as a janitor. Everyone knew Bill and Eileen Crawford, and everyone who knew them came to love them. Few people ever knew however, the true measure of the man. Even in a community as small as Palmer Lake, most residents didn't know that the man who lived down the street was one of the great heroes of American history.

Such awards cannot go unnoticed, however, at a military institution like the U.S. Air Force Academy. Every spring, Bill Crawford would pull his Army Dress Blues out of the closet and drive the short distance to the Academy to present the "Outstanding Cadet" award to a member of the graduating class. Seventeen years after his retirement, the most beloved janitor in Colorado Springs prepared for this annual ritual, only this time there was a new twist.

On May 30, 1984 the presenter became the presentee. The commencement speaker that year was the President of the United States, President Ronald Reagan. Looking over the sea of young faces that represented the very best our Nation has to offer, he said: "America's men and women of today have made us a great Nation." And then the President turned his attention to the past, calling forward a 66-year old janitor crisply dressed in a uniform that still fit his trim frame. Forty years after his heroism at Altavilla, Italy and 17 years after his retirement from a military career, the President hung the Medal of Honor around the janitor's neck.

The cadets themselves had decided proper recognition of their janitor was long overdue, and had taken steps to see an "oversight" corrected.

Crawford died at age 81 on March 15, 2000, in his residence at Palmer Lake. Upon his death Governor Bill Owens authorized all Colorado flags to be lowered to half staff in his honor. He is buried at the United States Air Force Academy Cemetery in Colorado Springs.

He is the only US Army enlisted person buried there.

 

[ZiaHunter]

Garcia's of the world exist but go unnoticed in this world of celebrity. They go about there lives quietly doing what is difficult not for adulation but because it is the right thing to do and gives purpose to their lives. Honor, loyalty and trust is intertwined in their being and at the core of their existence. They can be found in all walks of life in plain sight but also invisible. It might the guy down the street who at 17 was a door gunner in a Huey who spends his days tinkering on a '68 Chevelle or that kid that did 4 tours in the sand box and working his ass off as a welder. Don't despair because if an when the SHTF they will no longer be invisible and do the work of hardened men.

 

[Sean the Nailer]

Altruism. That's what makes the world a better place. And each day, me, to 'be a better man'.

 

[pmclaine]

Required reading when I was in the USMC.....

 

[canman]

Bump

 

[Maggot]

I had my Military Science class read this today. It had been a long time since I had read it last, and it struck me as relevant in what is left of our society today.


A Message to Garcia
Elbert Hubbard 1899

In all this Cuban business there is one man stands out on the horizon of my memory like Mars at perihelion.
When war broke out between Spain and the United States, it was very necessary to com- municate quickly with the leader of the Insurgents. Garcia was somewhere in the mountain fastnesses of Cuba - no one knew where. No mail or telegraph could reach him. The President must secure his co-operation, and quickly.
What to do!
Someone said to the President, “There’s a fellow by the name of Rowan will find Garcia for you, if anybody can.”
Rowan was sent for and given a letter to be delivered to Garcia. How “the fellow by name of Rowan” took the letter, sealed it up in an oil-skin pouch, strapped it over his heart, in four days landed by night off the coast of Cuba from an open boat, disappeared into the jungle, and in three weeks came out on the other side of the island, having traversed a hostile country on foot, and having delivered his letter to Garcia, are things I have no special desire now to tell in detail. The point I wish to make is this: McKinley gave Rowan a letter to be delivered to Garcia; Rowan took the letter and did not ask, “Where is he at?”
By the Eternal! There is a man whose form should be cast in deathless bronze and the statue placed in every college in the land. It is not book-learning young men need, nor instruction about this or that, but a stiffening of the vertebrae which will cause them to be loyal to a trust, to act promptly, concentrate their energies; do the thing - “carry a message to Garcia!”
General Garcia is dead now, but there are other Garcias. No man, who has endeavored to carry out an enterprise where many hands were needed, but has been well-nigh appalled at times by the imbecility of the average man - the inability or unwillingness to concentrate on a thing and do it.
Slipshod assistance, foolish inattention, dowdy indifference, and half-hearted work seem the rule; and no man succeeds, unless by hook or crook, or threat, he forces or bribes other men to assist him; or mayhap, God in His goodness performs a miracle, and sends him an Angel of Light for an assistant.
You, reader, put this matter to a test: You are sitting now in your office—six clerks are within your call. Summon any one and make this request: “Please look in the encyclopedia and make a brief memorandum for me concerning the life of Corregio.”
Will the clerk quietly say, “Yes, sir,” and go do the task?
On your life, he will not. He will look at you out of a fishy eye, and ask one or more of the following questions:
Who was he?
Which encyclopedia?
Where is the encyclopedia?
Was I hired for that?
Don’t you mean Bismarck?
What’s the matter with Charlie doing it?
Is he dead?
Is there any hurry?
Shan’t I bring you the book and let you look it up yourself? What do you want to know for?
And I will lay you ten to one that after you have answered the questions, and explained how to find the information, and why you want it, the clerk will go off and get one of the

other clerks to help him find Garcia - and then come back and tell you there is no such man. Of course I may lose my bet, but according to the Law of Average, I will not.
Now if you are wise you will not bother to explain to your “assistant” that Corregio is indexed under the C’s, not in the K’s, but you will smile sweetly and say, “Never mind,” and go look it up yourself. And this incapacity for independent action, this moral stupidity, this infirmity of the will, this unwillingness to cheerfully catch hold and lift, are the things that put pure socialism so far into the future. If men will not act for themselves, what will they do when the benefit of their effort is for all?
A first mate with knotted club seems necessary; and the dread of getting “the bounce” Saturday night holds many a worker in his place.
Advertise for a stenographer, and nine times out of ten who apply can neither spell nor punctuate - and do not think it necessary to.
Can such a one write a letter to Garcia?
“You see that bookkeeper,” said the foreman to me in a large factory.
“Yes, what about him?”
“Well, he’s a fine accountant, but if I’d send him to town on an errand, he might accom-
plish the errand all right, and, on the other hand, might stop at four saloons on the way, and when he got to Main Street, would forget what he had been sent for.”
Can such a man be entrusted to carry a message to Garcia?
We have recently been hearing much maudlin sympathy expressed for the “down-trodden denizen of the sweat shop” and the “homeless wanderer searching for honest employment,” and with it all often go many hard words for the men in power.
Nothing is said about the employer who grows old before his time in a vain attempt to get frowsy ne’er-do-wells to do intelligent work; and his long patient striving with “help” that does nothing but loaf when his back is turned. In every store and factory there is a constant weeding-out process going on. The employer is constantly sending away “help” that have shown their incapacity to further the interests of the business, and others are being taken on. No matter how good times are, this sorting continues, only if times are hard and work is scarce, this sorting is done finer - but out and forever out, the incompetent and unworthy go. It is the survival of the fittest. self-interest prompts every employer to keep the best-those who can carry a message to Garcia.
I know one man of really brilliant parts who has not the ability to manage a business of his own, and yet who is absolutely worthless to anyone else, because he carries with him constantly the insane suspicion that his employer is oppressing, or intending to oppress, him. He can not give orders, and he will not receive them. Should a message be given him to take to Garcia, his answer would probably be, “Take it yourself.”
Tonight this man walks the streets looking for work, the wind whistling through his threadbare coat. No one who knows him dare employ him, for he is a regular firebrand of discontent. He is impervious to reason, and the only thing that can impress him is the toe of a thick-soled No. 9 boot.
Of course I know that one so morally deformed is no less to be pitied than a physical cripple; but in your pitying, let us drop a tear, too, for the men who are striving to carry on a great enterprise, whose working hours are not limited by the whistle, and whose hair is fast turning white through the struggle to hold the line in dowdy indifference, slipshod imbecility, and the heartless ingratitude which, but for their enterprise, would be both hungry and homeless.
Have I put the matter too strongly? Possibly I have; but when all the world has gone a-slumming I wish to speak a word of sympathy for the man who succeeds - the man who, against great odds, has directed the efforts of others, and, having succeeded, finds there’s nothing in it: nothing but bare board and clothes. I havei WAS LUCKY, i FOUND SUCJH carried a dinner-pail and worked for a day’s wages, and I have also been an employer of labor, and I know there is something to be said on both sides. There is no excellence, per se, in poverty; rags are no recommendation; and all employers are not rapacious and high-handed, any more than all poor men are virtuous.
2

My heart goes out to the man who does his work when the “boss” is away, as well as when he is home. And the man who, when given a letter for Garcia, quietly takes the missive, without asking any idiotic questions, and with no lurking intention of chucking it into the nearest sewer, or of doing aught else but deliver it, never gets “laid off,” nor has to go on strike for higher wages. Civilization is one long anxious search for just such individuals. Anything such a man asks will be granted; his kind is so rare that no employer can afford to let him go. He is wanted in every city, town, and village - in every office, shop, store and factory. The world cries out for such; he is needed, and needed badly—the man who can
Carry a message to Garcia.

I found such a man. Showed up on time the first day, second day I thought he didnt come, walked around to the job and there he was right where he left of the day .before. If he's going to be late he calls. Does good work and does it even when Im not there. Started his at $12 p/hr and at the end of the day paid hin $15 per hour BECAUSE HE EARNED IT.

Hes only 23 but I found out hes supporting his 15 year old nephew whose mom died.

Thanks Lord for sending him my way.

 

[Maggot]

"The kindly old janitor neatly tucked the mop and brooms back into the closet, reached up briefly to brush a drop of sweat from his wrinkled brow, then closed the door to the tools of his trade for another evening. Slowly he walked across the highly polished floor towards the exit that would take him to the parking lot, where his old but reliable car would transport him to the modest house he had built in the foothills near the United States Air Force Academy. To the casual observer, the janitor was just another ordinary guy, putting in his time at the job that supplemented his retirement income and spending his free time working in the garden he loved.

A Janitor’s Ten Lessons in Leadership

By Col. James Moschgat, United States Air Force
12th Operations Group Commander

William “Bill” Crawford certainly was an unimpressive figure, one you could easily overlook during a hectic day at the U.S. Air Force Academy. Mr. Crawford, as most of us referred to him back in the late 1970s, was our squadron janitor.

While we cadets busied ourselves preparing for academic exams, athletic events, Saturday morning parades and room inspections, or never-ending leadership classes, Bill quietly moved about the squadron mopping and buffing floors, emptying trash cans, cleaning toilets, or just tidying up the mess 100 college-age kids can leave in a dormitory.

Sadly, and for many years, few of us gave him much notice, rendering little more than a passing nod or throwing a curt, “G’morning!” in his direction as we hurried off to our daily duties.

Why? Perhaps it was because of the way he did his job-he always kept the squadron area spotlessly clean, even the toilets and showers gleamed. Frankly, he did his job so well, none of us had to notice or get involved. After all, cleaning toilets was his job, not ours.

Maybe it was his physical appearance that made him disappear into the background. Bill didn’t move very quickly and, in fact, you could say he even shuffled a bit, as if he suffered from some sort of injury. His gray hair and wrinkled face made him appear ancient to a group of young cadets. And his crooked smile, well, it looked a little funny. Face it, Bill was an old man working in a young person’s world. What did he have to offer us on a personal level?

Finally, maybe it was Mr. Crawford’s personality that rendered him almost invisible to the young people around him. Bill was shy, almost painfully so. He seldom spoke to a cadet unless they addressed him first, and that didn’t happen very often. Our janitor always buried himself in his work, moving about with stooped shoulders, a quiet gait, and an averted gaze. If he noticed the hustle and bustle of cadet life around him, it was hard to tell.

So, for whatever reason, Bill blended into the woodwork and became just another fixture around the squadron. The Academy, one of our nation’s premier leadership laboratories, kept us busy from dawn till dusk. And Mr. Crawford...well, he was just a janitor.

That changed one fall Saturday afternoon in 1976. I was reading a book about World War II and the tough Allied ground campaign in Italy, when I stumbled across an incredible story. On Sept. 13, 1943, a Private William Crawford from Colorado, assigned to the 36th Infantry Division, had been involved in some bloody fighting on Hill 424 near Altavilla, Italy.

The words on the page leapt out at me: “in the face of intense and overwhelming hostile fire ... with no regard for personal safety ... on his own initiative, Private Crawford single-handedly attacked fortified enemy positions.” It continued, “for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at risk of life above and beyond the call of duty, the President of the United States ...”

“Holy cow,” I said to my roommate, “you’re not going to believe this, but I think our janitor is a Medal of Honor winner.” We all knew Mr. Crawford was a WWII Army vet, but that didn’t keep my friend from looking at me as if I was some sort of alien being. Nonetheless, we couldn’t wait to ask Bill about the story on Monday.

We met Mr. Crawford bright and early Monday and showed him the page in question from the book, anticipation and doubt on our faces. He stared at it for a few silent moments and then quietly uttered something like, “Yep, that’s me.” Mouths agape, my roommate and I looked at one another, then at the book, and quickly back at our janitor. Almost at once we both stuttered, “Why didn’t you ever tell us about it?” He slowly replied after some thought, “That was one day in my life and it happened a long time ago.” I guess we were all at a loss for words after that. We had to hurry off to class and Bill, well, he had chores to attend to.

However, after that brief exchange, things were never again the same around our squadron. Word spread like wildfire among the cadets that we had a hero in our midst-Mr. Crawford, our janitor, had won the Medal! Cadets who had once passed by Bill with hardly a glance, now greeted him with a smile and a respectful, “Good morning, Mr. Crawford.”

Those who had before left a mess for the “janitor” to clean up started taking it upon themselves to put things in order. Most cadets routinely stopped to talk to Bill throughout the day and we even began inviting him to our formal squadron functions. He’d show up dressed in a conservative dark suit and quietly talk to those who approached him, the only sign of his heroics being a simple blue, star-spangled lapel pin. Almost overnight, Bill went from being a simple fixture in our squadron to one of our teammates.

Mr. Crawford changed too, but you had to look closely to notice the difference. After that fall day in 1976, he seemed to move with more purpose, his shoulders didn’t seem to be as stooped, he met our greetings with a direct gaze and a stronger “good morning” in return, and he flashed his crooked smile more often.

The squadron gleamed as always, but everyone now seemed to notice it more. Bill even got to know most of us by our first names, something that didn’t happen often at the Academy. While no one ever formally acknowledged the change, I think we became Bill’s cadets and his squadron.

As often happens in life, events sweep us away from those in our past. The last time I saw Bill was on graduation day in June 1977. As I walked out of the squadron for the last time, he shook my hand and simply said, “Good luck, young man.”

With that, I embarked on a career that has been truly lucky and blessed. Mr. Crawford continued to work at the Academy and eventually retired in his native Colorado where he resides today, one of four Medal of Honor winners living in a small town.

A wise person once said, “It’s not life that’s important, but those you meet along the way that make the difference.” Bill was one who made a difference for me. While I haven’t seen Mr. Crawford in over twenty years, he’d probably be surprised to know I think of him often. Bill Crawford, our janitor, taught me many valuable, unforgettable leadership lessons. Here are ten I’d like to share with you.

Be Cautious of Labels. Labels you place on people may define your relationship to them and bound their potential. Sadly, and for a long time, we labeled Bill as just a janitor, but he was so much more. Therefore, be cautious of a leader who callously says, “Hey, he’s just an Airman.” Likewise, don’t tolerate the O-1, who says, “I can’t do that, I’m just a lieutenant.”

Everyone Deserves Respect. Because we hung the “janitor” label on Mr. Crawford, we often wrongly treated him with less respect than others around us. He deserved much more, and not just because he was a Medal of Honor winner. Bill deserved respect because he was a janitor, walked among us, and was a part of our team.

Courtesy Makes a Difference. Be courteous to all around you, regardless of rank or position. Military customs, as well as common courtesies, help bond a team. When our daily words to Mr. Crawford turned from perfunctory “hellos” to heartfelt greetings, his demeanor and personality outwardly changed. It made a difference for all of us.

Take Time to Know Your People. Life in the military is hectic, but that’s no excuse for not knowing the people you work for and with. For years a hero walked among us at the Academy and we never knew it. Who are the heroes that walk in your midst?

Anyone Can Be a Hero. Mr. Crawford certainly didn’t fit anyone’s standard definition of a hero. Moreover, he was just a private on the day he won his Medal. Don’t sell your people short, for any one of them may be the hero who rises to the occasion when duty calls. On the other hand, it’s easy to turn to your proven performers when the chips are down, but don’t ignore the rest of the team. Today’s rookie could and should be tomorrow’s superstar.

Leaders Should Be Humble. Most modern day heroes and some leaders are anything but humble, especially if you calibrate your “hero meter” on today’s athletic fields. End zone celebrations and self-aggrandizement are what we’ve come to expect from sports greats. Not Mr. Crawford-he was too busy working to celebrate his past heroics. Leaders would be well-served to do the same.

Life Won’t Always Hand You What You Think You Deserve. We in the military work hard and, dang it, we deserve recognition, right? However, sometimes you just have to persevere, even when accolades don’t come your way. Perhaps you weren’t nominated for junior officer or airman of the quarter as you thought you should-don’t let that stop you. Don’t pursue glory; pursue excellence. Private Bill Crawford didn’t pursue glory; he did his duty and then swept floors for a living.

No Job is Beneath a Leader. If Bill Crawford, a Medal of Honor winner, could clean latrines and smile, is there a job beneath your dignity? Think about it.

Pursue Excellence. No matter what task life hands you, do it well. Dr. Martin Luther King said, “If life makes you a street sweeper, be the best street sweeper you can be.” Mr. Crawford modeled that philosophy and helped make our dormitory area a home.

Life is a Leadership Laboratory. All too often we look to some school or PME class to teach us about leadership when, in fact, life is a leadership laboratory. Those you meet everyday will teach you enduring lessons if you just take time to stop, look and listen. I spent four years at the Air Force Academy, took dozens of classes, read hundreds of books, and met thousands of great people. I gleaned leadership skills from all of them, but one of the people I remember most is Mr. Bill Crawford and the lessons he unknowingly taught. Don’t miss your opportunity to learn.

Bill Crawford was a janitor. However, he was also a teacher, friend, role model and one great American hero. Thanks, Mr. Crawford, for some valuable leadership lessons.

===== ===== ===== ===== =====

Life hadn't been easy for young Bill Crawford, but he had learned to cope. Shortly after his birth on May 19, 1918, Bill's mother passed away. His father, George Crawford, found it difficult to both work and raise his family, which included Bill's older brother and two sisters. Caring relatives took them in and raised them through their teens. Bill saw his father only occasionally, the elder Crawford working long hours to provide support where he could, and struggling to live beyond the grief that had torn his life apart at losing his wife.

The children did remarkably well, learning to mix recreation and responsibility. Young Bill's first job was delivering groceries for a local neighborhood grocery store. He also delivered newspapers for "The Pueblo Star-Journal", now "The Pueblo Chieftain". For recreation, the slender but wiry youth began boxing. He did remarkably well, boxing Golden Gloves and becoming a champion. In school, he worked hard, graduating from Pueblo Central High School in 1936.

"Of course, I wasn't always a good kid," Bill would say with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "I used to love to wait for the trolley car to stop to pick up passengers, then disable it while they were boarding, and watch the conductor's frustration when he couldn't get it moving again." Bill would pause for a minute, then quickly add, "But you know...even when I pulled those teenage pranks, I never tried to hurt anyone...except in the boxing ring."

From time to time, one of the cadets would ask Mr. Crawford if he had ever boxed professionally. "Naw," he would say. "I probably could have, but the war (World War II) came along and interrupted my plans." And that would be about all Bill would say about his war service.

===== ===== ===== ===== =====

The grizzled, old blacksmith from Pueblo, Colorado shifted his feet uncomfortably. He felt out of place enough as it was, standing before a crowd of soldiers to face no less than a two-star general. The date was May 11, 1944 and Mr. Crawford had been summoned to Camp Carson, Colorado for a special occasion. It was not a happy occasion, but it was a ceremony the man who had already tasted grief far too often could not avoid.

"Your son was a hero," Major General Terry Allen said to the father that struggled to keep tears that formed in his eyes from falling across his cheeks. Then, slowly the general began to read the official citation that detailed the heroism of George Crawford's son, Bill.

On September 13th, just nine months earlier, Private Bill Crawford had been serving his Nation as a member of the 36th Infantry Division in Italy. He had landed with the unit at Salerno and moved inland as Allied Forces began the drive to liberate the European continent from the evil and deadly grip of the Nazi regime. "On that September day," Major General Allen read, "Private Bill Crawford demonstrated the highest degree of valor...and sacrifice."

As his platoon had moved up a hillside, an enemy machine-gun nest began to rain death around Crawford's fellow soldiers. It was a desperate situation, a crisis that demanded a man of character, and Private Bill Crawford was that man. Without orders, he jumped to his feet and charged forward, ignoring the bullets that flew around him. Moving up the hill, Private Crawford advanced to within a few yards of the enemy, threw a grenade into the pit from which they were firing at the American soldiers, and in so doing had saved his platoon. Again the American forces could advance.

The advance was short lived. This time it was not one, but two, separate machine gun nests firing at them from both the left and the right. And again, it was Private Crawford who stepped forward to save the platoon. First he attacked to the left, destroying the gun that threatened his comrades. Without pause, he shifted his attack to the right, knocking out the second enemy emplacement, then turning the captured machine-gun on the now routed and fleeing German soldiers. Again the platoon advanced, and fought throughout the day. Then, as darkness fell, the men of Crawford's 3d Platoon, Company I, 3d Battalion, 142d Infantry pulled into a defensive position for the night. Those who were alive, marveled at the fact that they had survived the vicious fighting of the day. All knew they were alive because of the heroism of Private Bill Crawford. None could find the fearless soldier to thank him...Private Crawford was no longer among them...his body lying somewhere in the darkness on the field of battle. Unable to otherwise express their thanks and admiration for the hero of the 3d platoon, the soldiers did the only action left to them, submitting their fallen hero for the Medal of Honor.

The posthumous award of the Medal of Honor to Private William John Crawford had been quickly approved, and Major General Allen presented the small star-shaped symbol of the highest degree of valor to a grieving father at the military post just 30 miles from young Bill's hometown of Pueblo, Colorado. Slowly the elder Crawford stretched his work-hardened hands forward to graciously accept the award that, though prestigious, would never replace the son he had lost. "Perhaps," George Crawford thought to himself, "I should have spent more time with Bill while I had the chance. Now, that opportunity is lost forever." As he turned away, no longer could the tears be restrained. So he slowly walked away alone, hiding them in his solitude.

Half a world away, Private Bill Crawford tossed about on his straw-filled, burlap mattress in a futile attempt to find some comfort. He was tired, he was sore, and he was embarrassed. How had he let himself be captured? How had he even survived that horrible battle at Altavilla, Italy nine months earlier? Did his family even know he was alive? Would he survive life in the German prisoner of war camp to ever return home?

Unable to find rest, he pulled from his pocket the small New Testament that his German guards had passed on to him from the Red Cross, and opened it. He looked down and read the first verse to meet his gaze, Romans 8:31, "If God be for us, who can be against us." Reading the Bible was a new practice for the young boxer from Pueblo, Colorado but that particular verse was his favorite and he had read it so many times, the worn little Testament seemed to open to that verse on its own accord. In the words of that verse he found strength to face each new day. He had fought his battles. Now, as a prisoner, he needed someone stronger than himself to insure his future. In a prisoner of war camp named Stalag 2b, Bill Crawford made his peace with God. It was a step that became the focal point that guided the rest of his life.

Life in the camp was difficult, but not unbearable. There were moments, like that day in the early spring of 1944 when a German guard had clubbed Private Crawford in the head with the butt of his rifle. The former Golden Gloves boxer refused to take such unwarranted punishment. In the middle of the compound, he ripped the rifle from the hands of his tormentor and rained a series of blows on him that rendered the German unconscious. Crawford thought he would be severely punished, but the camp's German doctor noted the bruising from the unwarranted attack of the guard and testified in the young American's defense. Amazingly, the German guard was punished and Crawford exonerated. Even as the young man had always garnered the respect of his comrades, as a prisoner he also garnered the respect of his captors.

Two months after Private Crawford's Medal of Honor was presented to his father as a posthumous award, the family received news that the young hero was alive. At about the same time, a telegram arrived at the prison camp informing Private Crawford of his unique and high award. His treatment improved even more, the Germans themselves respecting his Medal of Honor award and recognizing him for the man of character he was. But even this could not spare him the perils of the last months of the war.

In the winter of 1944, the Russian army was swiftly advancing into Germany on the eastern front, and the prisoners of Stalag 2b were assembled as the Germans attempted to move the camp. For 52 days the prisoners were marched through the frozen mountains, one step ahead of the advancing Russian army. In those 52 days, Bill and his fellow prisoners were marched 500 miles, subsisting on a meal of one potato a day. Resting firmly in his belief that "If God be for me, who can be against me", Private Crawford determined to survive and return home. In the spring of 1945 an advancing tank column finally brought him liberty. He took his first hot shower in nearly eighteen months on VE-Day, 11 days before his 27th birthday.

In a 1995 interview, Bill Crawford recalled the joy of his release and the long ocean voyage home. As the ship entered New York harbor, "I saw the Statue of Liberty there, and boy it looked good. It was the most beautiful sight I've ever seen." Private Crawford's joy in his release, far overshadowed any prestige he felt at the award of the Medal of Honor. Though it would never be forgotten, it would take nearly 40 years for Bill Crawford to finally receive the honor he so truly deserved.

Private William Crawford was happy to be home, happy to be away from war, and for a time he was happy to be a civilian. He returned to modest accolades in his hometown, where he preferred to be just another "ordinary" citizen. He met and married Eileen, and began a family that would eventually spread his love to two children of his own. Then, he returned to military service, much of it as an Army recruiter in his home town of Pueblo, Colorado.

In 1958, Bill Crawford was one of the Medal of Honor recipients selected to participate as the honor guard for the burial of the Unknown Soldiers of World War II and Korea. Everyone knew that Bill Crawford had the Medal of Honor, and the award itself had been transferred to him by his father upon his return. But when Bill Crawford retired from the United States Army in 1967, he was one of the few men in history to wear the award without having ever formally received it. It had been presented posthumously to his father.

It was upon his retirement that Bill Crawford built, with his own hands, a large but modest house in the small community of Palmer Lake, Colorado. From there it was a short commute to the Air Force Academy, where he performed his duties as a janitor. Everyone knew Bill and Eileen Crawford, and everyone who knew them came to love them. Few people ever knew however, the true measure of the man. Even in a community as small as Palmer Lake, most residents didn't know that the man who lived down the street was one of the great heroes of American history.

Such awards cannot go unnoticed, however, at a military institution like the U.S. Air Force Academy. Every spring, Bill Crawford would pull his Army Dress Blues out of the closet and drive the short distance to the Academy to present the "Outstanding Cadet" award to a member of the graduating class. Seventeen years after his retirement, the most beloved janitor in Colorado Springs prepared for this annual ritual, only this time there was a new twist.

On May 30, 1984 the presenter became the presentee. The commencement speaker that year was the President of the United States, President Ronald Reagan. Looking over the sea of young faces that represented the very best our Nation has to offer, he said: "America's men and women of today have made us a great Nation." And then the President turned his attention to the past, calling forward a 66-year old janitor crisply dressed in a uniform that still fit his trim frame. Forty years after his heroism at Altavilla, Italy and 17 years after his retirement from a military career, the President hung the Medal of Honor around the janitor's neck.

The cadets themselves had decided proper recognition of their janitor was long overdue, and had taken steps to see an "oversight" corrected.

Crawford died at age 81 on March 15, 2000, in his residence at Palmer Lake. Upon his death Governor Bill Owens authorized all Colorado flags to be lowered to half staff in his honor. He is buried at the United States Air Force Academy Cemetery in Colorado Springs.

He is the only US Army enlisted person buried there.

Where'd that damn dust come from?