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The discovery of the only known copy of Chaplain Rabbi Roland B. Gittelsohn’s Iwo Jima eulogy to have survived WWII, titled “The Purest Democracy,” changes our understanding of the prejudicial events that took place on March 21, 1945, at the dedication of the 5th Marine Division cemetery. Revealing new history, it has become key evidence in uncovering the rabbi’s lost words and was quite an unexpected find 77 years after the bloodiest battle in Marine Corps history.

Many of us have a box at home that was handed down to us from a family member, filled with history and memories. Often, we hold such items dear to us, but sometimes we stare at the contents, wondering who they are or what they mean. In my case, both held true. Not only was there family history dating back to my grandfather’s arrival in America and military items left by my father, but there was something found that was not immediately recognized—a real treasure. Had it been the kind of treasure we often think of—gold, jewels, or a precious heirloom—it would have been immediately identifiable. However, in my box lay a gift of wonder, intrigue, and adventure that soon became so precious it completely overwhelmed me. It was three sheets of old paper that changed my life.

What first piqued my curiosity was that “Fifth Division, Iwo Jima, Roland B. Gittelsohn, Chaplain, U.S.M.C.” was written in the top right corner of the first sheet. “Iwo Jima” was recognizable, but “Roland B. Gittelsohn” had no meaning to me. That changed quicker than an unexpected gust of wind as I read the text on the sheet in utter amazement. The words brought tears to my eyes as I searched for the name on my cell phone. What appeared was a webpage owned by The National WWII Museum in New Orleans, and the first words I ever saw about Rabbi Roland B. Gittelsohn were “The Highest and Purest Democracy: Rabbi Roland Gittelsohn’s Iwo Jima Eulogy to His Fallen Comrades.” What in the world had I found?

It was the start of an amazing personal journey, fraught with twists and turns and extremes of emotion I had never experienced in my life. For the next 48 hours, there was no sleep as I tried to understand what had just been discovered in a box that had seldom been opened since my father’s passing nearly 30 years earlier. In searching for answers, there seemed to be little information on the topic of Gittelsohn’s eulogy. It was thought there would be vast troves of information about such powerful words, described as the Gettysburg Address of WWII. Suddenly, while conducting my research, an almost heart-stopping finding appeared: Gittelsohn’s original handwritten eulogy manuscript had been lost on Iwo Jima. For two days, my thoughts remained open to the possibility that what was before me could possibly be his lost manuscript, and I wasn’t the only one thinking it.

My hopes were dashed when I saw that his name was misspelled. Someone had written “Gittelson,” not “Gittelsohn.” If Gittelsohn had not written it, who did? My wife and I had completely discounted the possibility that it was my father’s handwriting because we only remembered his scrawl later in life, influenced by years of Parkinson’s disease. How could we ever possibly find out who penned this exceptional historical document? The answer revealed itself soon enough. In the container were wartime postcards from my father to his mother, and in comparing the handwriting, it appeared to be a match.

During World War II, my father, Jim Regopoulos, had penned a copy of Rabbi Gittelsohn’s famous Iwo Jima eulogy and placed it together with military photos, newspaper articles, pictures, and various books. He never mentioned it. Perhaps he intended to someday, but I’ll never know for sure—though I think not. Like so many who served, their war experiences were kept very private because others just wouldn’t be able to relate. They would not understand unless they, too, had shared a similar experience.

Armed with this knowledge and having discovered that upon Gittelsohn’s death, his family donated the rabbi’s works to The Jacob Rader Marcus Center of American Jewish Archives (AJA) in Cincinnati, Ohio, I contacted them, and they sent me important information about the eulogy and were exceptionally kind and helpful. Following some feverish research and with a clearer understanding of what I had in my possession, I contacted the AJA about a month later to propose donating my father’s historical document. However, despite the offer, it was declined. I explained that my father’s written words differed slightly from other published versions, and maybe that was their reasoning for declining the offer.

Had they accepted the offer, Jim’s copy of the eulogy would now be in their archives, and most likely, the past two-plus years would not have been spent tracking the eulogy’s differences and writing about my experience. Contact was also made with The National World War II Museum, The Marine Corps History Division, and The National Museum of Pacific War to inform them of what had been discovered and to discuss a potential donation. There was interest on both sides, but upon realizing that they would not extend a promise to showcase the eulogy so others could see what my father had copied, my heart couldn’t release what was now held so dear.

With hope tumbling to make the handwritten copy public, my focus turned to getting the document published before it might be lost or damaged. The eulogy was published on my personal webpage at IwoJimaEulogy.com for others to view and copy for free if they wished. Four months after first discovering the eulogy, it was posted on the internet, and my fears were diminished almost instantly. Jim’s document, which I would not have taken millions for, was completely devalued in my mind after being published. On the webpage and in public view, it had finally reached the light of day, never to be returned to darkness like the cover-up of prejudicial actions perpetrated against the first rabbi to serve in the Marine Corps.

From that time on, my focus turned to the words my father had copied and to wondering why they were different. Upon noticing that the first sentence of Jim’s copy was missing the word “perhaps,” which was included in the 1945 Congressional Record, the AJA and Marine Corps copies, and in many books, I dug further to see if there were other differences, and sure enough, there were—too many for my liking. I just couldn’t fathom how “Pops” could get it so wrong. Then I came across the 2007 Congressional Record copy, that while completely skipping the first sentence, confirmed dad’s writing of the sentence “Among these men there is no discrimination, no prejudice, no hatred.” … when others wrote … “Among these men there is no discrimination. No prejudice. No hatred.” It sounded like whomever was altering the rabbi’s words was attempting to stress they were doing no wrong, nothing to see here. That was the first confirmation that maybe Dad’s copy wasn’t wrong—maybe others were. When it became clear that the complete sentence “Here are Protestant, Catholics, and Jews—together” had been inserted into the rabbi’s eulogy when the exact opposite had occurred, it clearly irritated me. It reeked of the prejudice that had been covered up since 1945. In doing so, it caused great harm to a now-dead Jew I never knew.

Desperately needing to know more about the rabbi and his words, it felt like a race to the finish line as reference books were collected and researched. Time after time, there was only disappointment. It seemed there was so little new information from one source to another about his words. In finding the Marine Corps University Press book Pacifist to Padre and Gittelsohn’s autobiography Here I Am – Harnessed to Hope, the events surrounding the 5th Marine Division cemetery dedication were revealed, but the same repetitive eulogy words were printed. No one was bothering to look at the many different versions of the eulogy, only the prejudice surrounding the cemetery dedication. Thank goodness for a local military historian and son-in-law who taught history, encouraging me to continue my research; for without them, it would have seemed hopeless. There were still so many pieces of the puzzle yet to be put together, and my abilities were being stretched. My family became concerned about my obsession with a man and his words that I had fallen in love with. To me, his words about democracy, inclusion, and justice, written long ago, applied to us today—especially with antisemitism, white supremacy, Christian nationalism, and political McCarthyism on the rise. Had we not learned anything from the spilling of so much innocent blood? My father, at the age of 23, killed others and experienced the death of a crew member when their B-29 crashed. With the words from Gittelsohn, written by my father, in my hands, how could I do nothing when the rabbi’s eulogy must have meant so much to him? I couldn’t.

We all deserve a break in life, and mine came in the form of a documentary film starring Sammy Bernstein, titled In the Shadow of Suribachi: Sammy’s Story, which can be viewed for free on TheArchive.tv. Sammy was a Marine rifleman and later a cave hunter assigned to protect the rabbi when he worked in the cemetery, as there was no such thing as safe space or front lines on Iwo Jima. He and Gittelsohn spent two nights together in a foxhole leading up to the cemetery dedication. It was Sammy who drove the rabbi to the dedication that day and also the one who gathered the 25 Jews that heard the rabbi speak his eulogy after the planned interfaith service at the 5th Division cemetery was abruptly canceled. Ken Brown, assistant to Division Chaplain Warren Cuthriell, appears in the film and confirms Sammy’s story about these events. The entire film is worth watching, and the Gittelsohn section starts about 23 minutes into the 52-minute film. Viewing it is highly recommended to add context to the battle and the prejudicial events that occurred. Sadly, it too presents the altered version of the eulogy I have come to detest, because I now know Gittelsohn’s true words and the prejudicial history behind them.

The puzzle was coming together, and the parts were fitting perfectly regarding the dedication events, but the words remained the missing piece until the book Uncommon Valor: Marine Divisions in Action, published by the Washington Infantry Journal Press, arrived. It was like a 2023 New Year’s surprise. Direct from the Corps’ own Iwo Jima Journal were “Pop’s” words, almost a mirror image with just a few punctuation differences. I’d hit the jackpot. The Corps’ own words authenticated my father’s handwritten eulogy. As if that weren’t enough, the book From The Battlefield was also found. Written by a Jewish Marine wartime correspondent who actually attended the rabbi’s service on Iwo and obtained a mimeographed transcript of the eulogy before departing the island, that was the coup de grâce, and now there was a “trifecta” of supporting documents authenticating the handwritten copy.

From this spectacular journey, the greatest lesson I learned was to always be aware that God may put someone or something in your path that requires your personal attention and cannot simply be handed off to others. Too many have forgotten the blood of sons and husbands already spilled for our democracy, which is under attack today. Action and prayer go hand in hand; prayer alone may not be enough. Chaplain Rabbi Roland B. Gittelsohn was an unsung American hero deserving of our country’s respect and gratitude for a life well lived after Iwo Jima, and the man and his contributions can never be forgotten.

Going forward, it would be my wish that Gittelsohn’s eulogy and story be taught in the military and colleges, and that we hand down this story to our children and grandchildren, so that when dark, undemocratic forces rear their ugly faces, we are all armed with compassion and knowledge to defeat such evil. I hope Gittelsohn’s real words are finally entered into our Congressional Record. My final wish is that authors and editors consider using Gittelsohn’s eulogy as printed in Uncommon Valor and reject the now-recognized prejudicial tainted versions.

This bigotry and injustice cannot stand now that the evidence has revealed the truth. May justice and right prevail.