"Doc"

The relationship between Marines and Navy Corpsmen began during World War I, when corpsmen were first assigned to Marine Corps units. The admiration and respect accorded to corpsmen came from their raw courage under fire, and their selflessness in administering aid to the wounded and dying. For years, Navy corpsmen identified more with their Marines than they did with their own service. For example, corpsmen assigned to Marine units wore the Marine Corps dress uniform, complete with the Marine Corps Emblem, displaying their Navy rank insignia on the left sleeve. In the field, the corpsman, or “doc,” wore the Marine Corps utilities, carried the same combat gear, less rifle, ate the same chow, and suffered the same field conditions. When Marines developed blisters, it was “doc” taking care of them before looking after his own blisters.

Between the Boxer Rebellion in China, and the end of the Vietnam War, the Medal of Honor was awarded to a Navy corpsman serving with the Marines on 21 occasions. Through the bombing of the Marine Barracks in Beirut, Lebanon, 1,544 corpsmen have been killed while serving alongside Marines. During the Korean War, the percentage of casualties among Navy corpsmen was greater than it was among the Marines. As the saying goes, you can mess with the Marines all you want to, but do not mess around with the Marine’s corpsmen. Now you know why.

No one is perfect, of course, but the field hospital corpsmen I knew and admired were simply all-around good people; I never knew a corpsman who wasn’t trusted by his Marines or believed to be among the best in his field. They were reliable, and often, the voice of reason. It was always possible to find a Navy corpsman shaking his head in the realization that, on occasion, Marines could be so stupid.

One of these stellar performers was a New Yorker I will call “Doc Perry.” As a Petty Officer Second Class, “Doc” billeted with the sergeants, and it was my privilege having him as a neighbor for eleven months. The Doc’s dream was to become a doctor one day; he planned to get out of the Navy and go back to school. Whether he ever did that or not, I’ll never know. What I do know, however, is that the Navy seldom recognizes outstanding enlisted talent, and they made no exception to this policy in the case of Doc Perry. In my view, the Navy should have held on to this particular corpsman; he would have made a superior medical officer.

When an H-19 helicopter crashed just outside the naval dispensary at Camp Hansen, Okinawa, Doc was one of the first medical corpsmen on the scene. Without regard for his own safety, and in spite of the possibility that the helicopter might erupt in flames as the result of the aviation gas that spilled at the crash-site, Doc went into the wrecked aircraft several times to aid in the removal of the pilot, co-pilot, and crew chief. How did the Navy recognize such bravery? He was awarded a Navy Achievement Medal, the lowest personal decorations that can be bestowed. The Navy-Marine Corps Medal would have been more suitable.

Semper Fidelis, Doc.

Copyright, 2005

Smedley's Suicide

Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island, South Carolina is a spit-n-polish duty station. Thousands of visitors pass through the main-gate at PISC, and we might even assume that the eyes of the world watch what goes on there. For this reason, Marine authorities do not allow slouching, hand-warming, spitting, chewing gum, or hand holding with ladies while in uniform. The island is well guarded, and all permanent personnel are constantly on the lookout for some crybaby who thinks that recruit training is too tough and attempts to swim off the island in shark and barracuda infested waters. Consequently, in addition to the military police, each battalion has a duty officer, usually in the grade of First Lieutenant, a duty staff noncommissioned officer, and a duty clerk. The Recruit Training Regiment employs a Regimental Duty Officer, usually in the grade of Captain, and a staff NCO and a clerk assistant.

The truth is, however, that the likelihood of terrorists or die-hard Japanese soldiers attacking MCRD is a remote possibility. Nevertheless, the Regimental Duty Officer has his “special orders,” which cause him to leave his post and make periodic tours through the regimental area. While he is gone, the staff NCO takes charge and listens for the phone to ring. He may actually answer it, as well. On this one particular night, the Regimental Duty Officer, who was a very fine young Captain, executed his first order of business upon assuming his duties. He directed the duty clerk to take the regimental mascot, a bulldog named Smedley Butler, outside in the rear of the headquarters building. There, the clerk fastened Smedley to a chain that was in turn fastened to a handily crafted and freshly painted doghouse. The doghouse even had Smedley’s name on it. It may have even had a house number and a mailbox. Smedley was taken outside at the same time every day to keep him from laying landmines all over the regimental headquarters. The regimental commander liked his dog, but he didn’t like having to clean up after him.

The Regimental Duty Officer’s (RDO) instructions required that while Smedley was outside, he was to be fed, watered, and then brought back inside the headquarters building at or about 2200 hours. Why this was necessary when the dog had his own house is a mystery. However, at about 2130, the RDO received a telephone call from one of the battalions, and he shortly left the regimental headquarters building to attend to the problem, whatever it was. Before he left, he instructed the staff NCO to make sure that Smedley was brought in from outside at 2200 hours.

The problem turned out to be a serious one, and the RDO and his assistants were busy for several hours. No one had thought about the dog until somewhere between midnight and 0100 hours. Sitting at his desk, the Captain said, “Damn, we forgot to bring the dog in!” He sent the clerk out to get the dog and after a few minutes, the corporal came back inside the building and said that he couldn’t find Smedley. Breaking out a flashlight, the Captain his staff NCO went outside to look for the dog. Eventually, they found Smedley — dead.

The animal had a history of chasing after things. Apparently, what happened is that the dog jumped up on top of his dog house, and while seated there, spotted a car traveling on an adjacent road. Smedley leaped from his doghouse, over the nearby fence, and promptly ran out of chain. Cause of death, strangulation.

The next morning, all was not well, as the Regimental Duty Officer turned in his report to the Regimental Executive Officer. The Exec was livid, the Regimental Commander was livid, and the Captain wondered if he would ever see another promotion. In fact, the situation would get worse. The Regimental Commander directed the Executive Officer to press charges against the Captain for negligence in the performance of his duty. Charges having been placed against the Captain, he had but two choices: accept NJP, or demand a court-martial. The Captain demanded a court-martial.

An officer pending court-martial has the right to an attorney, and a military judge advocate was assigned to represent the Captain. After evaluating all of the facts in the case, the attorney made an appointment with the Regimental Commander to see if he could persuade the Colonel to drop the charges. The Colonel could not be persuaded, however, and a court-martial was scheduled. By this time, the Captain was nervous, so in consultation with his military attorney, decided to hire a civilian attorney from Savannah, Georgia in his defense. A few days later, the Regimental Commander agreed to meet with the civilian attorney, who was reputed to be a fine southern gentleman.

“Colonel,” said the civilian attorney, “my purpose in requesting this meeting is to ask that you reconsider this case, and in fact, to request that you drop all charges.”

“Dropping the charges is off the table in this discussion, sir,” said the Colonel.

“Well, now Colonel,” continued the attorney, ”before you make a hasty decision, let me acquaint you with the facts of this case, as I intend to present them to the court and to the press.”

“The press?” asked the Colonel.

“Indeed, suh. This is a very stringent action you’ve taken against a fine Marine Corps officer, and we intend to defend him as best we can, including, as I said, with public opinion.”

“Well, you’re entitled to do as you see fit,” said the Colonel, “but press involvement is not going to persuade me in this matter.”

“That is as I suspected, Colonel,” said the attorney. “But let me just take a moment of your time, as I said, to acquaint you with the facts of this case. We believe, and I shall argue strenuously, that the dog . . . his name was Smedley?”

“Yes, that’s right,” the Colonel answered.

“That’s an odd name for a dog, don’t you think? Well, in any case, we believe that Smedley, being unhappy here at the regiment, and unable to communicate that with any degree of certainty to you, as his owner, began a certain pattern of behavior. He began chasing cars, and things of that sort. Finally, we believe that Smedley committed suicide by throwing himself over the fence, thereby hanging himself to death.”

“What?” said the Colonel. “That is preposterous!”

“Well, preposterous as it may sound, that is what we intend to argue before the court. I have witnesses that will attest to the dog’s strange behavior. And as I said, suh, the press is going to love this story. I daresay people will be talking about it all up and down the East Coast. I believe your Marine headquarters is located on the east coast, isn’t it suh?”

Charges against the Captain were dropped.



Copyright, 2005

The Conference Call

As with many of Colonel Le Fleur’s ideas, he one day decided out of the blue that he wanted to have a conference call with members of his 4th Marine Division staff. Shouting out to his Staff Secretary, Major Jim Milligan, he said, “Milligan, get in here.”

Jim Milligan was never quite sure what Le Fleur would do from one moment to the next, so after many months of working for what he termed as a “complete idiot,” Milligan looked at the clock noting the time as 1100, grabbed a pad of paper and a pen and reported to Colonel Le Fleur as ordered.

“Yes, sir?”

“I need to have a conference call with members of the staff, Major,” Le Fleur announced.

“This would be on a matter that could not wait until tomorrow morning’s staff meeting, sir?” asked Milligan.

“Major, if I thought this could wait until tomorrow morning, I would not have told you that I need to have a conference call,” said Le Fleur. “And let me advise you, Major, that you’d better stop questioning my orders.”

“Aye, Aye, sir,” said Milligan.

Le Fleur shifted his gaze from Milligan to a stack of papers on his desk. A few moments went by, while Milligan remained standing about a foot and a half from the edge of Le Fleur’s desk. Suddenly, Colonel Le Fleur looked up and said, “Why are you still here?”

Speaking of himself in the third-person, Milligan responded, “Would the Colonel think it appropriate to notify the Staff Secretary what time the conference call is desired, sir — or would the Colonel prefer that the Staff Secretary just pull it out of his ass?”

“Oh. Set it up for 1330,” said Le Fleur.

“Aye, aye, sir.” Milligan returned to his office and tossed the pad of paper on his desk. Sitting down at his desk, he picked up the telephone and dialed the military operator. “This is Major Milligan with the 4th Marine Division. I’d like to inquire about how to make a conference call from the Chief of Staff’s telephone extension.”

The operator explained that conference calls were not possible under the current 4th Marine Division service configuration. After making sure that the operator was telling him the truth, he reported to Colonel Le Fleur. “Sir, according to the base operator, we are not capable of initiating conference calls.”

“What the hell do you mean, we aren’t capable?” Le Fleur demanded. “We’re as capable as anyone else, god-damn-it. Doesn’t she realize we’re Marines?”

“Sir, she meant to infer that the system is not capable of supporting conference calls.”

“Bullshit,” said Le Fleur.

“Well, that’s what she said, sir.”

“Major Milligan . . . I am the Chief of Staff, and you are the staff secretary. Is that right?”

“Unfortunately, sir,” said Milligan.

“Well by-god I want a conference call, and I’m giving you an order to make it happen. And the next god damned time I see your face, it had better be to tell me that the conference call is ready to go. Now, is there anything that I’ve said that you don’t understand?”

“No, sir.”

“Good,” said Le Fleur, “now get out of my office.”

Milligan went back to his desk and thought about the problem. Resourceful officer that he was, he informed his clerk that he would be out of the office for a few moments, and left the Chief of Staff’s suite of offices to arrange the conference call.

At 1315, all principal staff officers filed into the conference room, which was about 25 feet from Colonel Le Fleur’s office, and took their normal places around the table. The principal staff officers included the G-1, G-2, G-3, G-4, Inspector, Adjutant, Staff Judge Advocate, and Headquarters Commandant. When everyone had been seated, Major Milligan explained to them what was going to happen, and while he did that, his clerk placed two telephones on the conference table and plugged them in to wall sockets.

At 1325, Major Milligan went back to his desk, and dialed the number of the telephone he had placed on the conference room table; his clerk answered the phone, “Conference Room, Sergeant La Pointe speaking sir.”

“Okay, La Pointe,” said Milligan, “now pick up the other extension and when you’ve done that, place the first phone on speaker, and then place the second phone on speaker, and tell me when that’s been done.”

Sergeant La Point complied with Milligan’s instructions, and then Milligan verified that his voice was coming through both speakers loud and clear. “I can hear you five by five, sir,” Sergeant La Point assured him.

“Okay,” said Milligan, “please stand by gentlemen,” he said to the group of seated officers next door.

Milligan placed his extension on “hold,” and notified Colonel Le Fleur that his conference call was ready.

Noticing that three of the four telephone lines were lighted, Le Fleur Asked, What line, Major Milligan?”

“Line three, sir.”

Colonel Le Fleur picked up his phone and said in his typically gruff and obnoxious tone, “This is Colonel Le Fleur. Major Milligan, are you on the line?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take the roll, Major Milligan.”

Major Milligan went through the list of principal staff, and each officer, now sitting at the conference table not far from Le Fleur’s office, answered into the speakerphone, “Here sir.”

The conference call only lasted for about five minutes because the topic of conversation was a point of clarification of a matter discussed earlier that morning during the daily morning briefing. After Colonel Le Fleur replaced the handset on his desk telephone, he called out to Major Milligan, “See, I told you we could do a conference call. Don’t you ever doubt me again!”

Milligan muttered, "$@%%!*#. ”

Copyright, 2005

John Bolton

Knight-Ridder’s William Douglas writes of nominee John Bolton: “. . . [his] nomination to be the U. S. Ambassador to the United Nations will center on his writings and statements about the United Nations, international treaties and multilateralism.”

Here are a few of Bolton’s statements:

"There is no such thing as the United Nations ... There is an international community that occasionally can be led by the only real power left in the world and that is the United States when it suits our interests and we can get others to go along. And I think it would be a real mistake to count on the U.N. as if it is some disembodied entity out there that can function on its own." -Global Structures Convocation, Feb. 3 1994.

The European arguments against the Iran--Libya Sanctions Act demonstrate that "some Europeans have never lost faith in appeasement as a way of life. It is clear that Iran is cynically manipulating gullible ... Europeans to advance the development of weapons of mass destruction.” -New York Times, July 28, 1996

"The (United Nations) secretariat building in New York has 38 stories. If you lost ten stories today it wouldn't make a bit of difference.” -Global Structures Convocation, 1994.

"Life is a hellish nightmare.” -Bolton's 2003 assessment of North Korea under Kim Jong Il prior to six-nation talks to persuade Pyongyang to abandon its nuclear program.

"To make `Our Global Neighborhood' hospitable, an important predicate is to restrain the use of force, not in the old-fashioned, balance-of-power way among nation states, but by constraining and limiting nation-states themselves. Since decisions to use military force are the most important that any nation-state faces, limiting their decisions or transferring them to another source of authority is ultimately central to the diminution of sovereignty and the advance of global governance. Here is where the Americanist-Globalist divide is the deepest.” -Chicago Journal of International Law, Fall 2000

"As you know, I have over the years written critically about the U.N. Indeed, one highlight of my professional career was the 1991 successful effort to repeal the General Assembly's 1975 resolution equating Zionism with racism, thus removing the greatest stain on the U.N.'s reputation. I have consistently stressed in my writings that American leadership is critical to the success of the U.N., an effective U.N., one that is true to the original intent of its charter's framers." -Remarks after his nomination to become the United States' ambassador to the United Nations, March 7, 2005.

Given the above, it would appear to me that John Bolton is the right guy for the job.

A hardheaded kid . . .

It was a pleasant Thursday afternoon with not much activity at 7th Motors. The headquarters staff worked at their various tasks not needing any supervision whatsoever, so I went in to see the Sergeant Major. He was always good for a couple of sea stories, and I loved hearing them. While listening to one of his tales, his phone rang. Excusing himself, he answered the phone “Sergeant Major.” He listened carefully for a few moments, and then said, “He was run over where?”

Lance Corporal Johnson was one of those Marines who had never mastered the art of making good decisions. He married a woman who was older than he was, and she was certainly more experienced in the ways of the world . . . her world. Mrs. Johnson was self-centered, troublesome, and very demanding. Overall, the marriage was not working out. But Lance Corporal Johnson loved her very much – or at least believed that he did, and he did everything he could to make her happy. He did not understand that making some people happy is an impossible task. When Johnson was late for morning muster, it was usually because his wife didn’t want him to go to work and demanded that he stay home with her. One day she hid his car keys, which caused him to be four hours late for work.

A military organization must maintain discipline. Rules and orders must be obeyed, and there can be no selective obedience, or application to these orders. Thus, when Johnson went to office hours (nonjudicial punishment) for being absent over liberty, he was assessed a fine and a suspended reduction in rank. Mrs. Johnson was enraged and made a complete ass of herself with Johnson’s company commander.

At some point in their relationship, Mrs. Johnson had decided to take on a lover. When Lance Corporal Johnson found out about it, perhaps because Mrs. Johnson told him, he was determined to make his marriage work. He visited with his company first sergeant to discuss the matter, who later reported that while Johnson was understandably upset, what bothered him most was the fact that his wife’s lover was an Arab.

One afternoon, Johnson requested permission to leave work early, stating that he had a few things to take care of. Permission granted Johnson left work about 1 o’clock in the afternoon. Arriving at his home in Riverside, California about an hour later, he found his wife with her boyfriend, and a confrontation ensued. During the incident, the boyfriend got into his car to leave but Johnson determined that the boyfriend should not leave until he had received an ass whipping. As the boyfriend attempted to drive away, Johnson leaped on the hood of the car. The boyfriend drove erratically around the mobile home park trying to dislodge Johnson. Johnson continued to hold on while making demands that the boyfriend stop the car so that the issue could be resolved mano y mano.

Finally, the boyfriend successfully dislodged Johnson from the hood of his vehicle. Unfortunately, when Johnson was thrown from the vehicle, he landed in such a way that the boyfriend’s rear tire ran over his head. The boyfriend fled the scene, the wife called for an ambulance, and the attending physician was now in consultation with the Sergeant Major. Said the Sergeant Major, “I find it hard to understand why his head wasn’t cracked open, doctor . . . but I suppose if anyone could survive having a car run over his head, it would be Lance Corporal Johnson.”

Copyright, 2005

Speaking Plainly . . .

Human nature being what it is, teachers instruct their students only on those topics that are likely to be tested, and this explains a lack of coordinated effort among content area teachers to reinforce and improve basic skills. Very few, if any, mathematics teachers can afford to devote time to writing skills when students arriving at the 9th grade only have 5th grade mathematics skills. The concept is that if a student can write a mathematics problem, which is a demonstration of an understanding of the operation, then he or she can probably read well enough to answer it.

No, most teachers are teaching “to the test,” because in doing so, it will signal their own personal success in the classroom, gain advantages for the campus overall, and assure principals of the renewal of their employment contracts.

If the No Child Left Behind Act (NCLB) precludes social promotion, then we should conclude the Act is taking us in the right direction. On the other hand, if end-of-course examinations are so simple that even a moron could pass them, and that seems to be the case, then we are not making progress.

Understand that “national standards” in education do not exist. State boards of education who think that they know what is best for their students develop their own set of educational standards, as well as their own criteria in defining content mastery. This explains why examinations in Wisconsin differ considerably from state-examinations in Texas, or California.

If there is going to be a successful NCLB program, shouldn’t it be based on a common set of expectations within the core subject areas? Shouldn’t students in Texas be able to pass the same examinations given to students in New York?

Consider for a moment that in Texas, social studies mastery occurs when students answer 52% of the questions correctly — questions such as “Which of the following persons was President of the United States during the Civil War?” I submit that there is something seriously wrong with an education system when, in order to graduate from high school, a student only needs to answer correctly 43% of the 60 mathematics questions on the test.

I am not surprised that employers and college professors are disgusted with America’s public school system. I am not surprised that concerned parents are taking their children to charter schools. But, considering that dumbed-down state-examinations cost taxpayers as much as $20 million annually for each state, I am surprised that the National Education Association and the various national content councils have become mute on this issue.

Copyright, 2005

Officials concerned about high school senior-itis

According to a pair of articles in USA Today by Sharon Jayson, that phenomena where high school seniors ‘quit working’ in the second half of the year leading toward graduation has become a concern among governors and educational leaders in several states. According to Jayson, there is a feeling that the second half of the senior year is a waste of students’ time, and the taxpayers’ money.

That just about describes the entire educational system, and as a former teacher, I can say with certainty that senior-itis begins as early as the beginning of the junior year. In any case, the brain trust of education (a scary thought, actually) thinks that alternative programs should be offered to high school seniors. Among those touted include ‘dual credit’ classes that enable seniors to gain college credit at the same time as they earn graduation credits. And once again proving that he has no clue, Texas Governor Rick Perry said, “I think we will see more and more students finishing their primary education and moving to higher education more quickly after 11 or 11½ years, rather than waiting for the historic 12-year graduation cycle. Where we're heading is K-11 or 'K through F' - finish, whatever that is.”

The idea gurus of education aren’t getting it. Students who are motivated to go on to college are not those who develop “senioritis.” Either motivated students graduate early, or they continue to weigh-in all the way to graduation. Unmotivated students are not going to make a serious effort in college anyway. So then, rather than evaluating why the education system is not meeting the needs of 70% of high school students, lets find ways to get them out of what the Chancellor of California calls the “greatest wasteland in America,” the 12th grade. Rather than finding out why most high school graduates cannot read, and by the way — do not read, let’s just push them on — and the sooner the better.

Michael Kirst, a Stanford University education professor has it right: even motivated students are unprepared for college. Again, according to Jayson, “The most recent data from the National Center for Education Statistics show that in fall 2000, 20% of entering freshmen at four-year public institutions took a remedial course, while 42% at community colleges did.” Also cited in Jayson’s article is that, according to the Educational Trust, only 37% of entering freshmen earned their bachelor’s degrees in four years, and 26% needed five or six years of post-secondary education.

American education is tragically—negligently out of touch with reality. The system does not meet the needs of most students because they’ve never been consulted about their future. All available evidence suggests that middle schools are not doing their jobs. After four years of high school, students still cannot read or write. Graduating students walk off the stage with a minimum understanding of mathematics, science, and social studies.

If Americans wanted to fix the problem, they could. No student should be allowed to attend high school who is unable to read and write at grade level. There should only be two tracks in secondary education. First, a technical and vocational training program that prepares students for success in the real world; second, pre-college and university curricula so demanding that no more than 50% of students will “make it” to graduation, but with a concurrent certainty that the other 50% deserve to be in college by the time they arrive there.

Copyright, 2005

The Demise of Sergeant Krueger

Sergeant Dwayne Krueger worked in the administrative section of the Inspector-Instructor Staff, 4th Battalion, 14th Marines in Anniston, Alabama. He hated the fact that his assigned responsibilities were mundane; he wanted to live a life of adventure, which is probably why he took a position with the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department as a reserve deputy. Sergeant Krueger was, If nothing else, enthusiastic. Interestingly enough, his career as a reserve deputy sheriff ended about the same time Sergeant Krueger arrested the mayor of Birmingham for speeding, drunk driving, and resisting arrest.

Still, Sergeant Krueger’s heart always seemed to be in the right place, which is why he was permitted to “help out” around the training center in other occupational fields. For example, he was always volunteering to help the motor transport chief perform scheduled maintenance tasks, and he loved working on the 155mm Self-propelled Howitzers. Whether punching the tubes, changing track, or looking for problems in electrical wiring, Sergeant Krueger was eager to lend a helping hand. He often assisted the armorer, communications, and supply sections, too.

Sergeant Krueger may have invented what has come to be known as “road rage.” On one occasion, while moving the reservists to the airport to commence their annual summer training duty, Sergeant Krueger was detailed to drive one of the M-800 six-by-six trucks. On the way back to the training center, Sergeant Krueger became upset when a car attempted to pass him on the freeway, so Krueger nearly ran the vehicle off the road to prevent it from doing so. For a long time afterwards, Sergeant Krueger was prohibited from operating any military vehicle larger than a dolly.

About a year after the freeway incident, Staff Sergeant Taele, in the tracked vehicles section, had moved one of the Howitzers over to one of the motor transport bays to effect a change of oil; he was gleefully assisted by Krueger. Meanwhile, the wife of the Inspector-Instructor dropped by to visit with her husband, Lieutenant Colonel Conklin. Mrs. Conklin, only recently married to the Colonel, was not too familiar with the military establishment, and never gave too much thought about where she parked the family car. As a result, it was frequently necessary for one of the sections to call up to the Sergeant Major to ask that Mrs. Conklin move the car so that they could in turn move one of the vehicles. On this particular day, no one in the motor transport section noticed the arrival of Mrs. Conklin.

The oil having finally been changed, Staff Sergeant Taele prepared to remove the Howitzer from the motor transport area to where the vehicles were normally stored. Sergeant Krueger, emulating the antics of “Odie the Dog,” begged Taele for his permission to move the Howitzer. Staff Sergeant Taele finally relented, ordering Krueger to “crank it up, but let it run until I get back.” Sergeant Krueger swore up and down that all he heard Taele say was “crank it up.” In any case, that’s how Lieutenant Colonel Conklin’s brand new Chrysler station wagon was flattened by a self-propelled Howitzer.

Copyright, 2005

Davis and Myers

In 1963, Corporals William J. Davis and Robert M. Myers performed the duties of fire team leaders within the 3rd Squad, 3rd Platoon, Echo Company, 2nd Battalion, 8th Marines. With both noncommissioned officers approaching the end of their four-year enlistment, we considered them “old timers.” As skilled grunts, both Marines consistently demonstrated superior leadership and knowledge during on-going field training exercises. While good friends, a casual observer might assume that either Corporal Davis and Corporal Myers hated each other, or were brothers. They constantly argued, punched each another, and played pranks.

Back then, “field day” routine occurred on Thursday nights. A field day is a massive clean-up schedule in preparation for Friday morning inspection. Non-rated Marines participate in such details as cleaning sinks, commodes, showers, mopping, waxing, buffing, dusting, shining brass, and so on. Noncommissioned officers (NCOs) have responsibility for supervising these tasks. Field day isn’t over until the company gunnery sergeant (or his designee) inspects the area and pronounces it ready for inspection. After field day, Marines may be granted liberty — permission to leave the company area, but most remained in the barracks because by the time field day was over, it was usually about 10 p.m., and “rack time.”

Excused from participating in field day on one occasion, Corporal Myers changed into civilian clothing, making sure that Corporal Davis understood that he (Myers) was going on liberty while Davis remained behind to supervise the monkeys. Davis was not pleased. They argued, exchanging unkind remarks about one another’s parentage, usefulness to the human race, and things of that nature. Suddenly, Davis picked up a dirty, wet mop and slammed Myers with it, dead center of his chest. Observing the incident, the platoon sergeant ordered the two corporals to “knock it off.” Davis went back to field day, and Myers changed his shirt and went on liberty.

After field day, Davis went to the club where he drank beer for a couple hours, and then deciding he had enough, returned to the barracks, and went to sleep. Some time before 3 o’clock a.m., Corporal Myers, driving at a fast rate of speed struck, and killed a deer. Damage to the automobile, jointly owned by Davis and Myers, wasn’t significant. Myers, still sore about the wet mop, loaded the deer into the car, and transported it back to the barracks. He quietly carried the deer from the parking lot to the building, and without discovery smuggled the animal into the NCO quarters where he placed it in Davis’ rack. He then left the building and placed an anonymous call to the officer of the day reporting the presence of a “female” in the NCO quarters at Company E.

At 3 o’clock a.m., the lights came on, waking most of us. Marines made a few interesting comments about the untimely reveille – some formed as questions, but all containing expletives. Several members of the battalion guard and the officer of the day made a cursory inspection of the squad bay. From within the NCO quarters, sectioned off from the rest of the squad bay by the arrangement of wall-lockers, came a voice that said, “In here, lieutenant.” The lieutenant disappeared into the NCO quarters; he immediately noticed the presence of the deer, which was at that moment in the embrace of Corporal Davis, who was still asleep.

As members of the battalion guard took Corporal Davis into custody, he was well aware that Myers had evened up the score.



Copyright, 2005

An Elderly Gent

Years ago, while on leave enroute to the Republic of Vietnam, I spent a few weeks in Central Florida, and it was there that I happened to meet an elderly gentleman, then in his mid-to-late 80s, who told me about his experiences in World War I. Mr. Becker was no more than 5’2” tall, thin of stature, and he had weathered, wrinkled face. He wore a train engineer’s cap over his short-cropped gray hair, and it was always situated on the left side of his head. He was quick to smile, threw a wink when he was kidding, and he spoke with a deep, but quiet voice. His handshake was firm, and he always looked me in the eye, which people hardly ever do any more.

When I met Mr. Becker, he was living in a small (2-person) Air Stream travel trailer at a small park outside of Winter Haven, Florida. The trailer had a small awning off the side, over the main entry, and he had two lawn chairs sitting next to an old table, which held his ashtray and a package of White Owl cigars. After Mr. Becker retired from the railroad, he and his wife would travel to Florida during the winter months and then go back home to Pennsylvania in late spring. After his wife passed away, he decided to stay in Florida all year round. “I was married to my wife for nearly fifty years; I didn’t want to live in that house anymore after she died.”

When Mr. Becker mentioned that he had fought in the “Great War,” it occurred to me that I had never spoken with anyone who experienced World War I. My grandfather fought in the war, but he died when I was only 9 years old. So, over the next several days I made a nuisance of myself as I pried away a few of his stories. Actually, I had the impression that he liked the company, or the attention; living alone as he did, few people take an interest in older people. He told me that his only child had already passed on, and his grandchildren “don’t have much time for an old man.”

One day, I said, “Mr. Becker, I’ll buy the beer if you’ll tell me your stories,” and he replied, “That’s a deal if I ever heard one.”

Mr. Becker told me that he immigrated to America from Germany with his family in the 1890s and they settled in Pennsylvania. His father, a farmer, eventually opened a small dry goods store “in town,” but I can no longer remember what town, if he even mentioned it. In any case, Mr. Becker was about 20 years old when the United States became involved in World War I. “Well all knew it was coming,” he said. “If there was anyone who needed a butt kicking, it was the Kaiser.”

Much to his father’s displeasure, Mr. Becker joined the Army. “Poppa wasn’t very pleased, but I told him they’d probably draft me anyway. Besides," he added, “I needed to find out there were other places in the world.”

After Mr. Becker joined the Army, he was sent to Fort Monmouth, New Jersey for training. Preparations for war meant doing some calisthenics every morning, close order drill twice a day, and cleaning his rifle. “We sat for hours and hours, day after day, month after month on top of buckets cleaning our rifles. We knew no matter how much we cleaned ‘em, it would never be good enough for the sergeant, but it was pretty good pay for not doing much.” When he told me about cleaning his rifle, sitting on buckets, I recalled the exact same routine at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot at Parris Island, South Carolina. “Then, one day,” he said, “the Ser geant told us they were looking for volunteers to learn about trucks. No body raised their hands, and so the Sergeant said, ‘no volunteers, huh?’ and we knew that some body was about to get volunteered. So I raised up and asked, ‘What’s a truck?’”

“It’s one of Ford’s automobiles for carrying cargo,” the Sergeant said. So Private Becker, Regular Army of the United States agreed to volunteer to learn about trucks. He told me, “Hell, it only took two weeks, and when I returned to camp, they said I was a mechanic.” He laughed, and said, “Mechanic my ass.”

A month or so later, Mr. Becker and his unit left Fort Monmouth, New Jersey for duty in France. He said, “They had us packed like sardines on that ship, and it wasn’t long before I knew I made a good decision by not joining the Navy.” He said it took “twenty or so days” to get over to France because of all the “zig zagging” they had to do avoiding German submarines. Finally, they arrived in France. “I never saw so much confusion in my life as I did when we got to France. Hell, no body knew nothing,” he said.

Eventually, he was processed and told to report to a transport company. It took him a couple of days to find out where his new company was, but he finally located it and reported to the company first sergeant. “The Top kick took me in to the captain. I saluted and told him I was reporting for duty. The captain looked at my records for a few minutes, and then he looked up at me like I was some kind of nut case, and he asked me, ‘What’s this it says here about you being a mechanic?’”

“Yes, sir,” Private Becker proudly replied. “They sent me to school to learn all about trucks.”

“Trucks, huh?” said the captain. “Well, we don’t have any trucks. First Sergeant, take this soldier over to the stables.”

Mr. Becker said, “So I shoveled horse sh** for the rest of the war . . . never once fired my rifle at a German.”

I laughed and told Mr. Becker that the military still classifies people that way today. He smiled and said, “Well, some things never do change, I guess.”

I asked Mr. Becker, since he and his family had emigrated from Germany, if he ever worried about the prospect of having to shoot German troops. He never hesitated when he said, “I was an American son, and had no thoughts about it whatsoever.” He paused for a few moments, and then said, “You know, if living in Germany was all that great, there wouldn’t have been so many Germans coming to America.”

God Bless you, Mr. Becker — wherever you are. And thank you for telling me your stories, sir.


Copyright, 2005

Le Fleur’s Boots

When the new Commanding General assumed command of the division, one of the first things he noted was that the Marines assigned to the headquarters element were out of shape — including the officers, the majority of which were reservists on temporary active duty.

During one of his early staff meetings, the General remarked that he would like to see more people working out over their lunch hour; he expressed his desire that everyone get back to a condition of good physical readiness. Typically, most reserve officers ignored the General. It is a fact that generals refuse to be ignored.

A few weeks later, the general again mentioned to the staff that he had not observed too many people working out and, he added, if he suspected that people were not taking him seriously, he would devise a physical conditioning program for them. He asked if everyone understood what he was saying, and of course, everyone answered in the affirmative.

Another few weeks passed without any noticeable improvement in the physical conditioning regimen of the staff, so the General ordered the Headquarters Commandant to devise a series of marches for all hands within the headquarters element. The training plan called for a series of conditioning marches; beginning with a six-mile distance march, the conditioning exercises would gradually increase to a distance of 50 miles. It would be safe to say that nearly 100% of the officers assigned to the division headquarters complained about having to participate in the conditioning marches. A few senior officers accosted the Headquarters Commandant about the training plan, to such an extent, that it was necessary for the General to inform them that this was his idea, and it was essentially their fault because, he said, “You weren’t listening carefully enough.”

As might be expected, all Marines were out of shape, which was the essential idea of conditioning them back into a state of physical readiness. In the hot, humid weather of Southeastern Louisiana, Marines experienced over-heating, so they had to re-learn hydration. Typically, Marines developed blisters on their feet, and aches in their legs and lower backs, so they had to be reminded that the pain was only a sign of weakness leaving their bodies. While the enlisted Marines took it without much complaint, the senior officers (lieutenant colonel, and colonel) bellyached like a bunch of babies. The more they bitched, the better the General liked it.

After the ten-mile march, the Colonel Le Fleur (the Chief of Staff) called his staff secretary, Major Milligan into his office. “These blisters are killing me, Major.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, sir,” said Milligan.

“I want you to go down to see the battalion commander. Tell him that I want some anti-blister stuff. Tell him to purchase it on the local market if he has to.”

“Anti-blister stuff? What’s that, sir?”

“Are you stupid, Milligan? Anti-blister stuff is stuff that prevents blisters.”

“Thank you for the clarification, sir,” said Milligan. “I’ll get right on it.”

Major Milligan went to see the headquarters commandant about getting “anti-blister stuff.” The battalion commander knew that there were several products on the market that were supposed to relieve the pain associated with foot blisters, and he told Major Milligan that he’d look into it.

After checking with the Navy dispensary (sick bay), it was learned that there are several techniques that help to reduce blistering, including the use of foot power, wearing two pairs of cotton or wool socks, changing socks frequently, and the placement of a product called “Blistex” on a forming blister. As Navy corpsmen accompanied the Marines on the march to administer to aches and pains, the battalion commander made sure that the corpsman had sufficient supplies.

A few days later, Major Milligan went down to check with the battalion on the purchase of “anti-blister stuff.” He was told that the Corpsman had been well supplied with the materials, and that the Corpsman would distribute that material as needed. Milligan went back and informed Colonel Le Fleur “all was well.”

“What do you mean, ‘all is well’?” asked Le Fleur.

“Battalion has ensured that the Corpsman has the necessary supplies, sir.”

“What does the corpsman have to do with this?”

“Well sir, for a long time now, the Navy department has been providing field medical technicians, called corpsmen, to . . .”

“Can it, Major,” Le Fleur cut in. “I know what corpsmen are for. My question is what does getting me some anti-blister stuff have to do with the corpsman?”

“I think the battalion commander intends for the corpsman to provide whatever is needed in that area, sir,” Milligan replied.

“Get the battalion commander on the phone,” Le Fleur ordered.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

A few moments later, the battalion commander answered his telephone; Major Milligan asked him to hold for the Chief of Staff.

“This is Colonel Le Fleur.”

“How can I help you, sir?” asked the battalion commander.

“I want anti-blister stuff delivered to me first thing in the morning,” said Le Fleur.

“Could the colonel be more specific sir?”

“No.”

“Yes, sir,” said the battalion commander.

The next morning, the battalion commander took a box of supplies to Major Milligan. “As ordered, Major Milligan.” The box contained three rolls of adhesive tape, of various width, three boxes of Blistex, three boxes of Dr. Scholl’s corn-pads, two bottles of mercurochrome, and two boxes of swabs. Major Milligan simply shook his head as he set the box of supplies on the Chief of Staff’s desk.

Ten days later, on a Friday morning, the headquarters element went on its next march. Colonel Le Fleur arrived with a smile on his face ready for the challenge of a twelve mile “walk in the park,” What we did not know at the time was that Colonel Le Fleur had literally covered his feet in adhesive tape and adhesive backed Blistex, or corn-pads. He also wore nylon dress socks under a pair of regular cotton field socks. He was well prepared for the march.

Major Milligan’s confidential report is worth the time it took to write this story.

At the conclusion of the march, Colonel Le Fleur went home and tried to remove his combat boots, but they would not come off. He unlaced them completely, but they still would not come off. His wife pulled and pulled on them, but they remained firmly attached. The Colonel went into the shower with his boots, thinking that the water would help to loosen them, but they were stuck fast.

Apparently, Colonel Le Fleur put so much adhesive materials on his feet that when combined with the heat generated from normal movement, the additional heat produced by wearing nylon socks under cotton socks, and the heat and humidity of southeastern Louisiana, he had effectively glued his boots to his feet.

The next morning, with a great deal of consternation, Colonel Le Fleur called Major Milligan at his home and explained the situation with his boots. “Do you have any suggestions, Major?”

After a long pause, Milligan said, “One suggestion, sir is that you haven’t learned an awful lot in thirty years of Marine Corps service . . .”

“Damn it, I mean about getting these boots off my feet,” growled Le Fleur.

“I have to be honest, Colonel. In my twenty years, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of such a problem.”

“I’m asking for your help, Major Milligan,” said Le Fleur.

“Sir, my cousin, who lives over in St. John’s Parish, has a blow torch . . .”

Click.

Our supposition is that somewhere in Algiers, Louisiana, there is a hospital emergency room whose records reflect that at some time between Saturday morning and Sunday evening, a man appeared wearing boots that were glued to his feet, which required surgical removal.

Copyright, 2005

Anthony Gale

This is the story about Anthony Gale, the 4th Commandant of the United States Marine Corps. That’s right—the one that no one knows about.

Gale served as commandant for exactly one year, seven months, and thirteen days. His title was Commandant of the Marine Corps, and he signed his letters and official documents as Lieutenant Colonel Commandant. It does have a nice ring to it, doesn't it?

Compared to the first two commandants, each of whom served six years, one might wonder why Colonel Gale served in office for such a short period. The answer is that Colonel Gale was . . . how should I say it? Ahem. He was intemperate in the use of intoxicating liquors.

While it is true that the U. S. Marine Corps was more or less created in a pub (Tun’s Tavern, in the city of Philadelphia), there have always be proscriptions about such things as excessive drinking, being drunk on duty, and things of this nature.

When Colonel Gale got into some trouble with the Secretary of the Navy, his drinking only made matters worse. Mr. Smith Thompson, who served as Secretary of the Navy from 1819--1823 (a) never liked Gale, (b) thought that Gale’s drinking was a disgrace to the Navy Department, (c) jealously guarded the Secretary of the Navy’s authority over the Marine Corps, and (d) did not much appreciate reading a published letter questioning his own competence. The letter was written by Gale and published, either as an open letter or perhaps in the National intelligencer. To suggest that Mr. Thompson had an angry reaction to Colonel Gale’s letter would be an understatement.

But Colonel Gale’s problems with the naval establishment go back even further. Apparently, when Anthony Gale was a lieutenant stationed aboard a man of war, a navy officer of equal rank wronged him in some way; we are not clear what transpired. We do know that Lieutenant Gale demanded an apology and did not get one. Gale, pursuant to Navy Regulations, then petitioned the ship’s captain for a redress of his grievance. The captain denied Gale request and suggested that if Gale believed the issue was a matter of honor, he should address it as such when the ship was again in port.

Navy regulations prohibited duels aboard ship, and so when the ship was next in port, Lieutenant Gale called the Navy officer out and challenged him to a duel. The officer accepted. When the officers met on the field of honor, Gale being a Marine (and a better shot) killed the Navy officer. Gale was thus satisfied. The Navy Department was not.

The next time Gale ruffled the feathers of officialdom, the 3rd Commandant, Franklin Wharton, had died in office and the Secretary of the Navy intended to appoint Major Archibald Henderson to the post. Major Gale, who was senior to Henderson, made such a public fuss over the matter that Mr. Thompson reluctantly relented and appointed him to the post of Commandant.

Gale apparently pushed his luck a bit too far in publishing his criticism of Mr. Thompson, and then made matters worse by going on a three week drinking binge. Thompson ordered that Gale be court-martialed, which he was. In pleading temporary insanity, the court dismissed Gale from the service (without pay). In subsequent years, he petitioned the Navy Department for his pension. Gale was granted $15.00 a month for the rest of his life, which ended in 1843.

Such is the story of Anthony Gale, 4th Commandant of the Marine Corps. And, it more or less explains why he is the only commandant whose portrait, or a likeness, no longer exists. But he was an expert shot with a pistol.

Copyright, 2005

Maneuver Warfare

The history of maneuver warfare is the history of military science. In various degrees, it has been with us almost that long. Even cavemen “maneuvered” around animals for an advantage leading to the final kill.

Generally, there are three classifications of warfare: Attrition warfare is a conflict in which each side attempts to whittle down the other side; at the end, who ever has the most, wins. Low-Intensity warfare employs limited means to accomplish a political objective. An example of this might be an insertion of special operations forces into a region with limited goals and objectives. Maneuver warfare is a process of gaining an advantageous position on the field of battle.

If one could go back in time and view warfare among the ancient peoples of the world, it would perhaps look similar to what we all imagine chaos looks like from the air: People running around all over the place, clashing together at some point, sticking one another with pointy objects, and screaming bloody murder—literally.

Seventeen hundred years before the Common Era (BCE) Egypt didn’t have a formal military structure. At that time, the Egyptian army was a part-time, poorly organized, crudely equipped body of conscripts, led by nobles. Then, Hyksos invaded Egypt, did some serious butt whipping, and thereby convinced the Pharaoh to rethink his standing-army policy. This may well have been the genesis of the expression, “necessity is the mother of invention.”

Egypt thereafter created two distinct military organizations: Infantry Divisions, and Chariot Divisions. Each division consisted of about 5,000 troops, and a high-ranking noble commanded them. The introduction of chariots as an instrument of maneuver warfare led to some tactical progress because — well, infantry troops really hate it when run over by their own chariots.

While Alexander (the Great) was the master of maneuver warfare in the ancient world, the Greeks really enjoyed hand-to-hand battles. They held in low esteem those who wielded distance weapons, such as archers. Why? Because the archers were the only troops left after a large battle, and they alone could go to the NCO Club and buy a pitcher of beer for only a drachma.

The Romans liked close in fighting too, but they employed sophisticated organizations called legions, which consisted of well-trained, heavily armored infantry. Clearly, the downside of serving in the Legions was wearing skirts. The Romans also employed well-coordinated artillery weapons, naval forces, cavalry, and often resorted to siege operations that could last for months. A modern example of siege warfare would be Guantanamo Bay, Cuba where American Marines have had the Cubans surrounded since Castro took over.

While it is certainly true that the advance of technology provided substantial changes in the nature of weaponry over time, most tactical movements followed the Roman model for literally hundreds of years. This all stopped, however, with the advent of the First World War.

World War I introduced an explosion (no pun intended) of weapons technology, and the effect of this was that it forever changed the gentlemanly art of mass murder. Automatic weapons, chemical agents, improved artillery, and the introduction of aircraft and tanks discouraged the massing of troops in the traditional sense. World War I gave us “trench” warfare, battlefield stagnation, and casualty figures that were hard to believe. These new weapons of mass destruction would demand improvements in the art of maneuver warfare.

Thank goodness, it was the war to end all wars.

Oh Sergeant Montgomery, what have you done?

The Marine Detachment had two functions: the first was providing security for the Commander in Chief, United States Atlantic Fleet and Supreme Allied Commander, Atlantic. The second was to participate in the presentation of honors to visiting dignitaries and other daily tasks, such as the raising and lowering of NATO member flags. In accomplishing the first task, the organization called for a headquarters section and two guard sections, but everyone not on guard duty participated in its second function.

The Marines assigned to the detachment were among the most unique I have ever known. In those days, there were limited promotion opportunities and advancement in rank was slow. Among privates first class and lance corporal with as much as 36 months time in grade, with nearly four years of service, it is understandable that one would find unusual attitudes about the Marine Corps generally, and about their duties in particular.

Added to that, the detachment commander was a major who believed in only three kinds of punishments for minor offenses: reduction in grade, thirty days of correctional custody, or both. Thus, any Marine who was “busted” in rank could plan on discharge from the Marine Corps at the end of his enlistment in that grade.

The Marines were not “misfits” by any definition of the term, but they did think that they were assigned to a chicken sh** outfit. Most of the noncommissioned officers came to the detachment as NCOs, so in their mind a successful tour of duty would be to hold on to their rank until transferred.

One autumn day an honor guard was formed to welcome the arrival of the Vice President of the United States to the Norfolk, Virginia area. The Marines “snapped to,” and prepared for the ceremony. Two platoons of Marines, armed with M-1 Garand Rifles, chrome plated 18” bayonets, modified dress blue uniforms (white trousers), and a flag detail. Transportation to the airport utilized Navy gray buses, and upon arrival, the Marines formed for inspection by the guard chief and detachment executive officer. A Navy band was present to render musical honors.

Present to welcome the Vice President was the Commander-in-Chief, U. S. Atlantic Fleet and an entourage of minor officials. The Commanding Officer would escort the Vice President in trooping the line, if Mr. Humphrey so desired to do so. As the plane taxied to the debarkation point, the major assumed his position in front of the honor guard. He commanded us to come to the position of attention, and then ordered “Fix Bayonets.” In doing so, every Marine listens carefully for a distinctive “click,” which signifies that the bayonet has been properly locked into place. Apparently, we were one click short of a full honor guard.

As the Vice President arrived near to the front of our platoon, the platoon sergeant commanded “Present Arms.” In the highest military tradition, all Marines smartly brought their rifles to port arms enroute to the final resting position of present arms. There was only one synchronized popping sound as the Marine’s brought their weapons to the port position. But then, the bayonet resting on the end of Sergeant Montgomery’s rifle went sailing through the air, striking point first against the right cheek of Private Mitchell. Private Mitchell, recently reduced from PFC for a minor infraction, and who had seen The Sands of Iwo Jima no less than 20 times, screamed at the top of his voice “I’ve been shot,” and collapsed on the ground in front of the Vice President, the admiral, and the major. While the Vice President, the Admiral, and the Major rushed to attend to the “wounded” private, the rest of us maintained our position in ranks, standing at “present arms.” I remember thinking, “It can’t get worse than this . . .”

A Navy corpsman rushed to Private Mitchell’s aid, and after the admiral and major apologized to the Vice President and assured him that the Marine would receive every attention, Mr. Humphrey left us to continue his itinerary, and Corporal Montgomery received an all-expense vacation to the Camp Allen Brig.

Copyright, 2005

Six Actual

The new battalion commander of the 7th Motor Transport Battalion was an infantry officer. His assignment to the battalion caused a lot of people, officers, and enlisted men, to wonder why an infantry officer would ever be assigned to command a motor transport battalion. The answer to that question was because the new skipper had previously served in the battalion as a company commander. He knew about motor transport operations. More importantly, he knew about being a combat Marine.

For many years, transport Marines had the reputation of being “just a bunch of m’ambaks.” They wore sloppy uniforms, filthy covers (hats), unshined boots, and they would stand in the back of really large trucks and say, “M’ambak, m’ambak.” They did not look like Marines, so they did not act like Marines.

The new skipper intended to put an end to that. He wanted his Marines to think of themselves as combat Marines, not truckers, or grease monkeys. Within a week of assuming command of the bat-talion, he directed a formal inspection of all hands, a display of all motorized equipment, and the array of all organic weapons assigned to the battalion. When all hands were formed, the colonel conducted his personnel inspection and when that was done, he stood everyone at parade rest and delivered a thirty-minute class on the combat history of the battalion. Directing everyone’s attention to the display of weapons, he told the Marines that not even infantry battalions had as much suppressive fire power, as did 7th Motors. He said, “You are all going to become as familiar with these weapons as you are with your vehicles. A transport Marine who cannot defend his convoy is one who cannot complete his combat mission.”

Subsequently, 7th Motor Transport Battalion became a field organization. Not only were the Marines required to practice the art of all-terrain driving, but they also practiced tactical movements, including night movements. They practiced quick response drills, defensive measures, camouflage and con-cealment, anti-air defense, and field maintenance operations. They re-learned patrolling, and they became proficient with individual and automatic weapons.

In garrison, 7th Motors personnel were required to look like, and act like, the highest caliber of Ma-rines—squared away. The colonel led morning calisthenics. Personnel inspections were conducted weekly and the skipper frequently conducted tours of the battalion’s area. He complimented Marines, corrected deficiencies, questioned his Marines about what they were doing, and why. He made sug-gestions. Within a short period, the skipper wasn’t an infantry officer in a motor transport battalion; he became their colonel as much as they were his Marines.

Lieutenant Colonel William C. Curtis made a substantial contribution to the readiness and proficiency of the 7th Motor Transport Battalion, but perhaps the most important of his many accomplishments was that he restored to these young people the pride of being a Marine. There were no longer any m’ambaks in 7th Motors; these men and women were United States Marines.

The colonel’s eventual reassignment from the battalion was a significant loss to the officers, staff noncommissioned officers, and enlisted men and women of the battalion. As I look back on my ex-perience working under Colonel Curtis, I have to say, quite honestly, it was the best time I ever had in the Marine Corps. Colonel Curtis was, and continues to be, an exceptional Marine.

Copyright, 2005

Fractured History: The art and science of camouflage and concealment

In military terms, the purpose of the use of camouflage and concealment is to (1) deny enemy ground or air observation of individuals, units, equipment and positions, and (2) to deny enemy intelligence the knowledge of the presence or positions of units and equipment. The idea is to blend in to one’s surroundings using either natural vegetation or local environment, including terrain, or artificially developed techniques such as digging foxholes, bunkers, trenches, or the use of netting.

Looking at pictures of American warriors in the field, one might notice that field uniforms often reflect the color scheme of various geographical regions: a green, brown, and black pattern for woodland areas, and brown, tan, white patterns for desert regions. We also note the use of face painting techniques, used to prevent the reflection of light from faces, hands, and arms in order to blend in to one’s surroundings.

Has it always been thus? People who have absolutely nothing better to do often wonder when the art and science of camouflage and concealment began. The answer is, since about fifteen minutes after forever – or about a couple of million years ago. Have you ever noticed that predatory animals naturally make use of camouflage and concealment? Large cats, for example, are striped, spotted, or otherwise colored in such a way as to give them an advantage in sneaking up on sources of food. Reptiles blend in with their surroundings, too. We have all seen instances on the National Geographic Channel where alligators and crocodiles use the old floating log ploy to sneak up on unsuspecting animals drinking water from a river or bayou. Notably, Bambi’s mother.

Many scientists believe that dinosaurs became extinct when a large meteor collided with the earth, causing a tremendous change in the planet’s environment. I disagree. I think dinosaurs disappeared because they did not have the ability to be sneaky. They just clumped around in the woods making a terrible racket and food sources ran away because – well, they weren’t entirely stupid.

When did human beings begin to use camouflage and concealment? At first, humans didn't have much choice about the use of camouflage because, to be honest, they were extremely dirty and wore the skins of animals and this allowed them to blend in to their surroundings. Yet, even with this advantage, food sources often ran away from humans because . . . humans smelled bad. People didn’t notice this, of course, because everyone smelled bad. This lasted until Proctor and Gamble invented soap and developed a really neat marketing strategy, which reminded people that “cleanliness is next to godliness.”

Ancient warriors covered their faces with dirt to present a more "warlike" appearance. The idea was to scare the dickens out of your opponent, and this lasted until the painting of faces was developed by barbarian tribes. Some of these barbarians employed a blue colored paint, which in terms of camouflage and concealment, is puzzling to me. But hey, they were barbarians.

Among civilized peoples, the painting faces was not a standard practice. We know this because Hollywood movies clearly depict early Greek and Roman warriors as clean-shaven and natty in their overall appearance. Does this explain the success of early Greek and Roman armies? Did these soldiers use Gillette razors and Old Spice aftershave? Clearly, this needs more study but it would explain why the barbarians were attracted to Roman Legions with such frequency.

As we fast-forward into the late middle ages, we find that the European armies continued the Greek and Roman tradition of war fighting. It was, of course, an illustration of pure simplicity. Everyone lined up in ranks and marched into a wall of stiff resistance. If that isn’t simple, I don’t know what is. “Okay, lads,” said the sergeant, “follow me.” And the troops said, “Uh . . . okay.” And off they went, into the valley of death. From the use of arrows and spears to lead balls shot from muskets, military tactics remained essentially unchanged until the First World War.

For many years, the French and British competed with one another for which of their armies presented a better target . . . the red coats with white trousers, or the blue coats with white trousers. To be honest, the British were extraordinarily fair in their competition with the French because they added drums, fifes, flutes, and bagpipes – I suppose for no other reason than to draw attention to themselves. I do not doubt that the lowly infantry private had a few thoughts on this, but he probably kept his opinions to himself. On the other hand, the French, being genetically sneaky, dispensed with all that piffle and hired the Indians to do their dirty work in the deep American forests.

As we all know from General Braddock's defeat outside of Fort Pitt, the French and Indians thought that shooting at targets attired in bright red coats was a great way to spend an afternoon, while they themselves remained cleverly hidden (camouflaged and concealed) in the brush. Yet, giving credit when due, the British Infantry looked very natty in their red coats and white trousers, and according to Hollywood movies, they too were clean-shaven, even unto death.

During the so-called Great War (a phrase, I assume, developed by someone who wasn’t there), military technology progressed in such a way as to force a departure from military tradition. Machine guns made lining up and marching into a wall of resistance impractical. It also had a negative impact on troop morale. Quite suddenly, military commanders began using camouflage and concealment in earnest. They issued new uniforms, began to dig trenches, and constructed concertina wire barriers, and as a result, Hollywood movies tell us, morale among the troops was much improved.

In time, as the study of tactical advantage progressed, military forces returned to "face painting" as a means of blending in to their surroundings. While many claim that this was all part of concepts articulated by Klaus Von Clauswitz, I suspect that it may have been initially conceived by Helena Rubenstein because women have been doing this for centuries. I suggest that this in fact may be the genesis of the belief, among most women, that men have never in all of human history, had an original idea.

Copyright, 2005

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

Seeing Red

According to Ben Feller, an Associated Press education writer, the parents of elementary students in Trumbull, Connecticut are angry about teachers’ use of red ink while grading school papers. Claiming that red ink produces stressful children, parents insist that schoolteachers switch to a color that does not communicate so much negativity. Later in the article, Mr. Feller offers the point of view of a school principal in Pittsburg, who requires his teachers to use an ink color that produces a “pleasant feeling tone,” and who said “the color [used by teachers] is everything.”

Now let me emphasize this to my readers: The color is everything. Not that students failed to complete their homework reading assignment, nor that they wrote a one-sentence paragraph that contained spelling and grammatical errors, and certainly not that they failed to concentrate on the principles associated with simple mathematical operations. The most important thing is that in recognizing that their schoolwork is overflowing with mistakes, students come away with a pleasant feeling tone.

If anything, this article supports everything I’ve said about the ills of the American education system, and campus administrators who are a large part of the problems we face today in education. But, in the remote possibility that the principal, Mr. Foriska, is correct, let’s see how this might play out in the real world.

We are now standing just inside a courtroom, where Bobby, age 31, answers to charges that he barreled through a regulated intersection, thereby causing a massive accident and the serious injury to more than sixty motorists and pedestrians. The state prosecutor is examining Bobby, and she asks, “Bobby, did you see the red light as you approached the intersection?”

“Yes, I saw the red light.”

“And did you attempt to stop your vehicle from entering the intersection?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I was angry and, you know, stressed out.”

“Why were you angry, Bobby?”

“It was the light.”

“The light made you angry?”

“Yes. I was very angry.”

“Why do you think the light made you angry, Bobby?”

“It produced stress deep within my subconscious being, and I felt a resurgence of unpleasantness that I have not experienced since the fifth grade.”

“I see,” said the prosecutor. Then turning to the judge, “Your honor, at this time the state would like to drop its charges against the defendant. It is obvious that Bobby is suffering from PRISS and that he could not help but drive his car into the intersection.”

“PRISS?” asked the judge. “What’s that?”

“Post Red Ink Stress Syndrome, your honor. Bobby is suffering from the negativity he learned from his teachers in elementary school who graded his papers in red ink.”

The judge looked over his glasses as the defendant and said, “I have a few questions for the defendant. Now Mr. Bobby . . .”

“Bobby, your honor; Just call me Bobby.”

“Bobby isn’t your last name?” asked the judge.

“No, your honor,” said Bobby.

“What is your last name?”

“Carrington-Smythe, your honor,” Bobby replied.

“I don’t understand why your last name doesn’t appear on the complaint . . .”

“We didn’t know how to spell it, your honor,” said the prosecutor.

The proof may be in the pudding, as they say. According to Feller’s article, a veteran reading and writing specialist in Charles County, Maryland said, “I don’t think changing to purple or green will make a huge difference if the teaching doesn’t go along with it. The students may not be as frightened [of the grading color] but they won’t be better writers.”

Bingo!

Perhaps there is still some sanity left in the American education system, but I have every confidence that people with common sense, like Miss Jones in Maryland, will be shouted down, retired early, or ultimately forced to find employment at a private academy.