My name is Corporal Frank S. Wright, United States Marine Corps, retired. I’m a hundred years old now — one of the last living Marine Raiders of World War II.

In January 1942, just weeks after the attack on Pearl Harbor, I quit high school in Arkansas and walked into the enlistment office.

I was sixteen — too young, too skinny, and too light to qualify. The sergeant told me to come back when I was heavier.

So I went home, ate all the bananas I could find, and stuffed five pounds’ worth into my pockets before stepping on that scale again.

I passed. I lied about my age. And I became a Marine.

After boot camp, I volunteered to join the 4th Marine Raiders, America’s first special operations unit.

They asked me why I wanted to join. I said, “Because I want to fight.”

Our commanding officer was James Roosevelt, the President’s son — a good man, the kind who never gave an order he wouldn’t do himself.

We were trained to land first, fight behind enemy lines, and take the beaches nobody else could reach.

From Guadalcanal to New Georgia, from the jungles of the Solomons to the black sand of Iwo Jima, we fought to free the Pacific.

On Guam, I was stabbed in the stomach during hand-to-hand combat.

On Iwo Jima, I was hit by machine-gun fire and knocked unconscious. Both times, my men thought I was gone. Somehow, I wasn’t.

When I came to, I saw the flag rising on Mount Suribachi. Every ship in the harbor sounded its horn. I had tears in my eyes then, and I still do when I think about it.

That flag meant freedom still lived.

There were dark days too...

On Guadalcanal, I caught malaria and ended up in a field hospital — but when my unit was preparing to move out, I couldn’t stand being left behind.

I slipped out and rejoined them. I’ll now admit, I was always a little rebellious.

When the war ended, I became a drill instructor, helping shape the next generation of Marines. I was in my twenties, carrying wounds inside and out.

For more than a decade, I didn’t share my stories. I kept them locked away, like many of my brothers did. 

Over the years, I began to open up and share my story with friends, family, and others who wanted to know about the realities of the battlefield at the Pacific Front.

Now, more than ever, the American Veterans Center has given me the opportunity to share them — on the stage at the Annual Conference, and by capturing them on film for future generations.

Not just my story, but those of the men who never came home, and those who are no longer here to tell theirs.

That’s why I believe so deeply in the American Veterans Center...

They’ve given old Marines like me a place to share what we lived through, to look young cadets and future service members in the eye and say, “This is what it means to serve.”

They’ve brought veterans from every generation together — to remember, to teach, and to inspire.

And every year, the American Veterans Center Annual Conference gives us something rare — a gathering where history stands shoulder to shoulder with the future.

It’s where I’ve met cadets who listen with the same wide eyes I once had at sixteen.

It’s where old comrades find each other again, and where we all remember that the values we fought for — courage, duty, honor — are still being carried forward.

It’s a living bridge between those who fought for freedom and those who will defend it next.

Your support makes that possible. It keeps alive:

At my age, I don’t take many things for granted. But I still believe in this country — in what it stands for, and in the people who keep its history alive.

If you believe that too, I ask you to help the American Veterans Center continue its work.

So that long after the last of us is gone, our voices will still be heard — reminders of what America can be when its people stand together.

Thank you for remembering. Thank you for caring. And thank you for keeping faith with those who served.

Semper Fidelis,

P.S. When I was sixteen, I had to lie about my age to fight for my country. Now, at one hundred, I can tell you the truth as plain as I know it: freedom isn’t free, and the stories of those who fought for it are fading fast. Your gift — whatever you can give — helps make sure they’re never forgotten.