Sergeant Jack

Sergeant Jack was of medium height, his gray hair cropped short, and his face deeply tanned. His facial features were accentuated by wrinkles around his dark blue eyes. At some point in the past, someone or some thing had broken his nose, which was a prominent feature. Sergeant Jack was my squad leader at Company E, 2nd Battalion, 8th Marines, my first line unit assignment, and he taught me some valuable lessons that remained with me throughout my career.

Sergeant Jack was the epitome of self-confidence without arrogance. One day he told me that I was "damn lucky to be in the third squad of the third herd." He was right. I not only learned important field skills, but he taught me how to work within the framework of a Marine rifle squad. By his example, I learned about standing up for what was right, about duty, and that there was such a thing as honor within the ranks. And he showed me how to recognize the so-called "mickey mouse" programs that were such a waste of time and talent. All of these things would come in handy later on in my career.

Sergeant Jack was a field Marine. A master of his profession, he knew about squad, platoon, and company tactics. Our platoon commander, a lieutenant, consulted with Sergeant Jack frequently when we were in the field because our platoon sergeant was not nearly as proficient. We wondered how a Staff Sergeant could be a platoon sergeant, and not know as much about the profession of arms as one of his squad leaders. In those days, promotions came slow in the ranks. Sergeant Jack had fourteen years in the Marine Corps, while the Staff Sergeant had over twenty.

Sergeant Jack was a quality leader. He always looked after his squad, making sure we were fed, properly clothed, clean, and proficient. He demanded from us a high state of readiness, and good behavior. If we were deficient, he visited with us, both individually and collectively, to show us the error of our ways. He was the kind of man who elicited from us a great sense of loyalty. He protected us from harassment by other squad leaders, or the platoon sergeant. He always took responsibility for the times when we messed up, but he always gave us the credit when we performed well.

Like many Marines in those days, Sergeant Jack had a drinking problem. He apparently had experienced more than a few traumatic events in his personal and professional life. And Sergeant Jack didn't like "candy-assed" Marines. After more than a few drinks at a local slop-shoot, any untoward remark made to Sergeant Jack about his Corps, his regiment, his battalion, his company, his platoon, or any of his Marines stood a good chance of resulting in a melee. He used to tell us, "There are only two kinds of Marines: Field Marines, and everyone else. Don't forget that." Thus, he had little patience with civilians, or Marines who worked in offices, supply, or the mess hall. He tolerated pilots, but had little use for mechanics, truck drivers, or the military police. Officers were unavoidable.

Back then, personnel inspections were conducted every Saturday morning, and when wearing the service uniforms, ribbons and badges were required. Sergeant Jack only displayed two ribbons: The Silver Star, and a Purple Heart. When asked why he wasn't wearing his other ribbons, reflecting service in the Korean War, Sergeant Jack told the lieutenant, "I don't waste my time with candy-assed ribbons, sir." In his mind, if the ribbon didn't represent a personal decoration, it wasn't important.

The Marines of the third squad admired Sergeant Jack, and we worked hard to learn the skills that were appropriate for our rank and position. We worked hard to earn his gruff "Well done, Marine." We wanted to be like him someday, but Sergeant Jack had different ideas. One day he ordered me to perform a certain task and I mumbled about how I thought this was a chicken sh** detail. Sergeant Jack grabbed me by the stacking swivel, pulled me close and said, "Listen up, private. You ain't me, and you ain't ever going to be me. When you're told to do something, your mission in life is to do it and do it well. And I'll let you know when I need your help in running this squad. Got it?"

A couple of months before leaving the company, Sergeant Jack was court-martialed for dumping a plate of spaghetti on the mess sergeant's head. The mess sergeant was a Master Sergeant, and as I recall, Sergeant Jack was disappointed with the quality of the chow. The act may not have been prudent, given that the assault was witnessed by our company commander. Yet, even after being reduced in rank, he retained command of the squad until he was transferred. The day he left the company, 'Corporal' Jack spoke to each squad member personally. What he told me then was, "Remember this: be faithful to our Corps, be faithful to your squad, and be faithful to yourself. That's what Semper Fidelis means. Do that and you'll do okay."

I last saw him at the processing center on Okinawa where he was awaiting transportation to his second tour in Vietnam. But he was "Gunny" Jack then. He remembered me from our days in the 8th Marines and we had a few beers together before he moved out with the replacement draft. Within four months, I learned that Gunny Jack had been killed in action. Having exposed himself to enemy fire to recover a wounded Marine, he returned to pick up a second casualty when he was hit in the chest with a burst of automatic weapons fire. He died instantly. He died a hero. Ultimately, he was awarded his second Silver Star Medal and his third Purple Heart. He was one hell of a Marine.

Copyright, 2005

The Sergeant Major

It was my privilege to serve as the Executive Officer, 7th Motor Transport Battalion from 1987 to 1989. 7th Motors isn’t with us any longer, having been redesignated as the 1st Transport Battalion, but its lineage goes back to World War II with service in Korea and Vietnam. As the Exec (or XO), I was second in command of the battalion and, in the absence of the commanding officer, became the “acting commander.”

During one period when the commanding officer was on leave, and I was the “acting” commander, I was visited one morning by the Battalion Sergeant Major. He was an exceptional Marine whose appearance would qualify him for a recruiting poster, and whose intellect was truly exceptional. He had a deep resonant voice, wore glasses that made him look like the scholar he was, and he didn’t have a single hair on his head. I admired the Sergeant Major a great deal, and because he knew that I liked him personally, he permitted me to call him Sergeant Major.

The Sergeant Major stuck his head through the doorway and said, “Got a minute, Major?”

“I always have a minute for you, Sergeant Major,” I said. “Have a seat?”

The Sergeant Major never sat down in the presence of an officer. I think there was some connection between the presence of an officer and an inelastic condition in the Sergeant Major’s spine.

“No thank you, sir,” he replied.

Standing up, I asked, “What can I do for you?”

“Rattlesnakes, sir” he said.

“Rattlesnakes?”

“And ground squirrels.”

“Ground squirrels?”

“They’re all over the place, sir. The rattlesnakes crawl under vehicles to get out of the sun.”

“And . . .” I asked.

“Well, Major (he called me that when he wanted my attention), it’s only a matter of time before one of our Marines gets snake bit.”

“All over the place, Sergeant Major?”

He just looked at me for a few moments, and then said “Yes, sir.”

“Then I suppose we need to kill them,” I said.

“No sir,” he said, “that won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re a protected species, sir.”

“Ground squirrels?”

“No sir, rattlesnakes.”

“You’re kidding, right?” I asked.

“No sir, I’m not kidding.”

“Okay, so the rattlesnakes are a protected species. What does that have to do with ground squirrels?”

The Sergeant Major made an audible sigh and said, “Rattlesnakes eat ground squirrels, Major.”

“Oh. Okay, I get it. If we get rid of the grounds squirrels, which are not protected species, then the snakes will go away. Right?”

“Exactly, sir.”

“So how do we get rid of ground squirrels,” I asked. “Mouse traps?”

“Major, have you seen how big these ground squirrels are? They’d take a mouse trap and shove it up our a**.”

“So then, your recommendation is . . .?”

“Decon, sir.”

“Decon, Sergeant Major?”

“Major, have you ever noticed that there is an echo in your office?”

“What about the Decon, Sergeant Major?”

“Well, we get a bunch of Decon, and spread it all over the battalion area. The squirrels eat the Decon and die, and then the snakes will go away – into some other area of Camp Pendleton,” he explained.

“Okay, that sounds like a plan, Sergeant Major. Where do we get the Decon?”

“We can’t order it through supply, so I’ll go to Home Depot and buy it, and you and I can split the cost.”

“Okay, Sergeant Major. Let’s do it.”

Within a few days, we spread Decon all over the Battalion area and sure enough, within a couple of weeks, the rattlesnakes had moved out of the Battalion area — but not before the Sergeant Major saved me from getting cited by the military police variant Parks and Wild Life Swat Team.

A few days after our conversation, the Battalion Logistics officer came into my office and said, “Major, there’s a freaking rattlesnake under my car.” Ever the gallant fool, I told her I would take care of it. I went outside of the building nearest the operations section, selected a shovel, and proceeded to the parking lot in front of the building. Looking under the lieutenant’s car, sure enough, there was a small rattlesnake. With the shovel, I pulled the little bugger out from under her car and began to pulverize it, sending it on its way to snake Nirvana, or its next life cycle — or, whatever.

It so happened that while I was in the process of killing this snake, the military variant of the Parks and Wild Life Swat Team was driving by and witnessed me in violation of some federal statute protecting rattlesnakes. The vehicle pulled up just as I administered the death knell blow, pumped my arms, and yelled “Yeah!” While the Lieutenant was impressed, the PWLST was not. A young Corporal walked over to me and said, “Sir, are you aware that rattlesnakes are a protected species at Camp Pendleton, California?”

Having observed the incident from the front of the building, and before I could answer the corporal’s question, the Sergeant Major walked up and said, “Corporal, may I speak to you privately for a moment?” The Sergeant Major led the corporal away a few feet, and began talking to him in a voice that was too low to hear. A few moments later the corporal said, “No sh**?”

The Sergeant Major continued murmuring for a few more minutes, and then the corporal said, “Well, okay Sergeant Major. I’ll let it go this time, but please impress upon the major about protected species.” And then he got back into his truck and drove off.

I went back into the building and asked the Sergeant Major, “What was that all about?”

“Well, Major . . . you recall that I did inform you that rattlesnakes were a protected species.”

“Yes, I remember Sergeant Major . . . but . . .”

“Did you ever see that movie with Chuck Norris called Missing in Action?” he asked.

“Yes, I did, Sergeant Major.”

“Well, I just told the corporal that he shouldn't issue you a ticket because the movie was based on your real-life experiences and you were going through an adjustment period.”

“Oh. Thanks, Sergeant Major.”

“Don’t mention it, Major.”

Copyright, 2005