The Way I Heard It with Mike Rowe - 57: But Who's Counting

Episode Date: May 23, 2017

Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night could keep this 60 year-old mailman from finally receiving his due.

This is the way I heard it. Bill Carney was a mailman in New Bedford, Massachusetts. He had worn the uniform for 31 years and took his job seriously. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night could keep William Carney from the swift completion of his appointed rounds. One day in May, just before lunch, Bill walked out to his own mailbox and found something from the War Department. Bill stared at the envelope for a minute or so,

the way you do sometimes when you're enjoying a mystery or perhaps dreading a revelation. What in the world did the War Department want with a 60-year-old mailman? Was he being drafted? Probably not. He'd already done his time, 37 years ago. Actually, 36 years, 10 months, and two days. But who's counting? When Bill finally opened the envelope and peered inside, he found a certificate of some kind

which he slowly removed. His name was at the top in large block letters, with a number of official-looking signatures scribbled across the bottom. There was something else as well, a coin. It slipped out of the envelope and clattered on to his kitchen table. It wasn't a coin, though. It was a trinket of some kind. He didn't know what it was.

Bill turned his attention back to the certificate and read the two sentences that appeared directly under his name. When the color sergeant was shot down, this soldier grasped the flag, led the way to the parapet, and planted the colors thereon. When the troops fell back, he brought off the flag under a fierce fire, in which he was twice severely wounded. And just like that, Bill Carney was no longer sitting in his kitchen. He was back on that godforsaken beach, charging headlong into a meat grinder. He could still smell the salt in the air. He could still hear the screams of his friends as they collapsed into the blood-soaked sand.

But mostly, he could still see the color sergeant shot dead in his tracks, not two feet in front of him, and the flag, their precious flag, as it fell toward the earth. Bill blinked away a tear, as he thought of his lost companions and lingered for a moment, on the defining day of his life, summed up here in just two sentences. Funny how a few words on a piece of parchment can take you back 37 years. Actually, 36 years, 10 months, and two days. But who's counting? Bill re-read the sentences, and as he did, he watched himself throw his rifle aside and catch the flag before it hit the ground.

He watched his colonel, take three bullets in the chest, seconds after urging his men to follow him up the rampart. He flinched as he recalled the impact of that first bullet slamming into his side, the one he still carried to this day. He flinched again as the next one tore through his shoulder. But on he went, charging up that endless embankment, stepping over his dead colonel and his mangled friends, as the enemy continued to shred their ranks with volley after volley of withering fire, until there was no one left standing. No one but him. And then there he was, Sergeant William Carney, alone on the rampart, armed with nothing but the American flag, and staring into the stunned faces of a hundred enemy soldiers who were no doubt wondering how many times they needed to shoot this son of a bitch before he too fell down and died.

Well, the enemy never found out. Bill quickly considered the inherent risks of lingering 20 yards in front of an outrage. foe, waving a flag they despised. So Bill turned and ran back down the rampart, clutching the flag to his chest, leaping over the bodies of his fallen comrades, zinging and zagging through the surf, Bill ran for his life as the bullets buzzed all around him like a swarm of angry mosquitoes. One bit him in the leg, another in the back, and one in the head. But Bill wouldn't fall. neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night nor five bullets shot into his stubborn body could keep the future postman from the swift completion of his appointed rounds he made it all the way back to regimental headquarters and told the dumbstruck survivors before collapsing i only did my duty boys the old flag never touched the ground

It's important to recognize valor, especially when it's uncommon, and Bill appreciated the citation delivered to his home that afternoon in May. In fact, he wrote a thank you letter to the War Department and mailed it off later that same week. You can see it online if you're interested. Or if you prefer, you can see the film that paid tribute to the men of Bill's unit. Glory won six Oscars in 1989 and told the true story about the men of the 54th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry Regiment, one of the first black units in the U.S. Armed Forces.

Glory really was a hell of a movie. Matthew Broderick, Morgan Freeman, Andre Brower, and of course, Denzel Washington, whose character bravely picks up the flag when the color sergeant is shot. dead, not two feet in front of him, and carries it up the rampart of Fort Wagner on that godforsaken beach in South Carolina, just as William Carney did in real life. Just one minor problem. Tenzel Washington played a character called Private Trip, who winds up dying in the movie, and a careful examination of the movie's credits reveals that the character of Sergeant William Carney was portrayed by no one.

Would Bill have been surprised to learn that Hollywood had cut him out of an Oscar-winning film? Would he have been offended? Probably not. Truth is, Bill was used to being overlooked. And besides, back on July 11, 1863, he wasn't fighting for fame. He was fighting for freedom. That was the only recognition he craved. And that is why the 60-year-old mailman from New Bedford was somewhat bemused by the contents of that envelope that arrived back on May 9th of 1900,

an envelope containing a certificate and a shiny trinket that looked like a coin but wasn't. Today, that trinket would have been placed around Bill Carney's neck by the president of the United States and a solemn ceremony. at the White House. But back in May of 1900, the first black man to earn the Congressional Medal of Honor received his in the mail 89 years before Hollywood denied him glory and 37 years after he earned it. Actually, 36 years, 10 months, and two days, but really, who's counting? That's the way I heard it.