Demanding a discount

At the Marine Detachment, where promotion above the rank of private first class was hard to come by, most Marines did their best to stay out of trouble and avoid a reduction in grade for some violation of the Uniformed Code of Military Justice. In those days, under our commander, being busted in rank was a lot easier than picking up a new stripe. The “old man,” however, made staying out of trouble even more difficult when he placed the detachment on “running guard” for eight months. Running guard was colloquially referred to as “go on, stay on.” Dave Mitchell, Rifleman, U. S. Marine Corps, held the all-time record for the most promotions to private first class, and a concomitant number of reductions to private. Not long after his fifth promotion to Private First Class, Mitchell received an invitation to visit with the Commanding Officer and participate in “office hours,” for alleged violations of the UCMJ.

The term “office hours” refers to the imposition of nonjudicial punishment. The Navy term for this process is “Captain’s Mast.” The allegations filed against PFC Mitchell involved disrespect in language and deed directed toward a senior chief petty officer, and failure to obey a lawful order, to wit: “to hand over that damn telephone right this minute,” or words to that effect. Accompanying PFC Mitchell at office hours was the detachment first sergeant, the guard chief, and one character witness by the name of Lance Corporal Birdwell, who almost every one called “Soupy.”

PFC Mitchell reported to the Commanding Officer upon his order. “Sir, Private First Class Mitchell reporting to the commanding officer, as ordered, sir!” he said.

“Stand at ease, Mitchell,” the CO ordered.

“PFC Mitchell, you are charged with . . .” and the commanding officer read the charges and the specifications made against him. He then read him his rights under Article 31, a protection against self-incrimination. Private Mitchell remained at the position of “at ease,” but he kept his eyes straight ahead throughout the reading of charges.

Finally, the CO said, “Do you understand the nature of the charges made against you?”

“Yes, sir,” Mitchell replied.

“Do you understand your right to remain silent, to consult with that attorney prior to answering any questions, and/or to stop answering questions at any time to consult with an attorney?”

“Yes, sir,” said Mitchell.

“Do you wish to avail yourself of the protections of Article 31?” asked the CO.

“No, sir,” said Mitchell, “but 30 days leave would be good, sir.”

“What did you say?” asked the CO.

“I said that a 30 day leave would be good right about now, sir,” said Mitchell.

“PFC Mitchell, you keep your mouth shut except to answer yes or no to the major’s questions, you got that?” the First Sergeant ordered.

“Yes,” replied Mitchell.

“PFC Mitchell, do you desire to answer my questions, or do you wish to remain silent?” asked the CO.

“Yes. No.”

“What?”

“Yes. No.”

The major looked at the First Sergeant, and then at the guard chief, and then back at PFC Mitchell. ”I don’t understand your response, PFC Mitchell. What is yes, no?”

“May I answer, sir?” asked Mitchell.

“Of course.”

“The First Sergeant just gave me an order to answer yes or no. The answer to the major’s question was yes, and no.”

“Yes, you desire to answer my questions?” asked the Major.

“Yes.”

The First Sergeant interrupted again, “Add sir to yes or no, PFC Mitchell.”

“Sir, could you ask the First Sergeant to make up his mind. I’m getting confused.”

The major’s sigh was audible to everyone in the office. After a pause, he said, “You know how to answer appropriately, PFC Mitchell. Let’s stop playing games, shall we?”

“Yes sir.”

“As to the first charge,” the major continued, “that you were disrespectful to a chief petty officer in word and deed, how do you plead?”

“Sir, before I plead may I ask a question?” said Mitchell.

“Yes, you may.”

“Sir, when I am on post, am I acting in your authority at that post?” he asked.

“Yes, you are,” said the major.

“Well then, sir . . . how can I be charged with disrespect to a chief in the Navy if I am acting on your behalf, sir?”

“Let me enter a plea of not guilty for you, Mitchell. We can return to this in a few moments.”

“Aye, aye sir.”

“As to the second charge, that you failed to obey a lawful order, how do you plead?”

“Not guilty, sir,” said Mitchell.

The only witness to testify against PFC Mitchell was the senior chief petty officer who had preferred charges. In essence, the senior chief noted that as he attempted to pass the guard post manned by PFC Mitchell, he was stopped and asked to show Mitchell his security badge. Having done that, he attempted to proceed through the checkpoint. At that point, PFC Mitchell also demanded to see his military ID card, which the senior chief refused to do. PFC Mitchell then prohibited to senior chief to pass his checkpoint. The senior chief then chastised PFC Mitchell and told him that as a senior chief petty officer in the U. S. Navy, he demanded far more respect from PFC Mitchell than he was getting. At this point, said the senior chief, PFC Mitchell pointed his middle index finger at the senior chief, and said, “Here’s your respect, squid,” or words to that effect.

“Is that what happened, Mitchell?” asked the major.

“Yes sir. That’s pretty accurate . . . good job, sailor,” said Mitchell.

“Thank you,” said the chief.

The senior chief then went on to describe how he ordered PFC Mitchell to contact his officer in charge, a Navy captain, and explain how PFC Mitchell refused to allow the senior chief to pass his post and therefore proceed to his appointed place of duty. Further, PFC Mitchell refused to allow the senior chief to use his telephone.

“Is this also true, PFC Mitchell?” asked the major. Mitchell allowed that it was true.

The major thanked the senior chief for his testimony and dismissed him. Sitting back in his chair, the major said, “PFC Mitchell, I will allow that you may have had the right to ask to see the senior chief’s military identification card, in addition to his security badge, were it not for the fact that there is no requirement for anyone to show both. When you flipped the senior chief off, however, is clearly disrespectful. Can you explain to me why, in spite of the fact that you were disrespectful, I should find you not guilty?”

PFC Mitchell replied, “Sir, if I represent the authority of the major, I don’t see how I can be disrespectful to a squid since the major outranks a senior chief.”

“Even though you represent my authority, PFC Mitchell, you are still subject to the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Since an E-8 in the Navy outranks an E-2 in the Marine Corps, your conduct was disrespectful. I find that you did commit this offense, and you are therefore guilty.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mitchell.

The major continued, “In failing to obey the order of the senior chief to use the telephone for the purpose of acting in an official capacity, you were guilty of disobeying a lawful order. Is there any reason why I should not find you guilty of this offense?”

“Yes, sir,” said Mitchell. “Those telephones are for the use of Marine security guard personnel only, sir. I do not feel that I was bound to obey an order from the chief when all Marines have been told not to allow people to use the phones and tie them up.”

“Inasmuch as you had already prohibited the senior chief from entering the security area, and it was a reasonable request for him to use the telephone to call his officer in charge, I believe that it was a lawful order, and that you had an obligation to obey that order. I find you are guilty of this offense.”

“Yes sir.”

“First Sergeant, do you have anything to say about, or on behalf of PFC Mitchell?”

“Yes sir,” the first sergeant replied. “I think you ought to hang this maggot.”

“Thank you, first sergeant. Gunnery Sergeant Andrews, do you have anything to say about, or on behalf of PFC Mitchell?”

“No, sir,” Andrews replied.

“PFC Mitchell, do you have any character witnesses to speak on your behalf? The major asked.

“Yes sir, Lance Corporal Birdwell will speak on my behalf.”

Turning to Birdwell, the major said, “If you would like to speak on PFC Mitchell’s behalf, Lance Corporal Birdwell, you may do so at this time.”

Lance Corporal Birdwell said, “Thank you sir. Sir, PFC Mitchell is a good guy, and to be honest sir, I think he’s getting screwed.”

“Very eloquent, Birdwell,” said the major. “Is that all?”

“Yes sir.”

“You are dismissed, Lance Corporal Birdwell,” said the major.

Birdwell came to attention, did an about face, and marched out of the office.

“PFC Mitchell, do you have anything further to say to me now, either orally, or in writing, before I determine an appropriate sentence?” asked the major.

“Could we discuss that 30 day leave, sir?”

“No. Is that all?”

“Yes sir.”

“You are to be reduced to the grade of Private (E-1), forfeit one-third of your pay for two months, and you are to be confined at the Camp Allen Brig for 30 days of correctional custody. You are dismissed,” said the major.

“Sir, that isn’t very original,” said Mitchell.

“Get out, Mitchell!” ordered the First Sergeant.

When Private Mitchell rejoined the detachment after being in correctional custody for thirty days, the first thing he had to take care of was the removal of his PFC chevrons from his uniforms. He took them over to the base laundry and tailor shop. He was informed of the charges for this service, but Mitchell objected. In fact, he was most passionate in his objection. He was so passionate that the sergeant of the guard was summoned to the laundry and tailor shop. After making the initial inquiry about what was going on, Private Mitchell explained. “Sergeant Cross, these people are ripping me off. Every time I bring my uniforms over here to put on chevrons, or remove them, they charge me twenty-five cents for each chevron.”

“That’s the going rate, Mitchell,” said Cross.

“Well, I think this is bullshit. As many times as they’ve put on my rank, and taken it off again, I’m entitled to a flipping discount. Not only am I entitled to a discount I demand one. These people are getting rich off me!”

“Tell you what, Mitchell,” said Sgt Cross in a reasonable tone of voice. “If you ever make PFC again, which I seriously doubt, I’ll pay for the cost of putting your chevrons back on.”

Mitchell felt that was an agreeable arrangement.

Copyright, 2005

Wendell Fertig, American Hero

"To her we drink, for her we pray,
Our voices silent? Never!

For her we'll fight — let come what may,
The Stars and Stripes forever."

Beginning in late 1941, Japanese Imperial forces began their invasion of the Philippine Islands. For American forces, cut off from supplies and reinforcements by overwhelming Japanese forces employed throughout the South Pacific, it was only a matter of time before the Japanese would achieve a victory. President Roosevelt believed that General Douglas MacArthur, in overall command of military forces in the Philippines, was too valuable to the overall war effort and ordered MacArthur out of the Philippine Islands. In time, all military forces remaining behind, out of ammunition, starving, and denied proper health care, surrendered.

Well, almost all military forces. There was one officer, newly promoted Lieutenant Colonel Wendell Fertig, Engineering Corps, United States Army Reserve, who decided that he was not about to surrender to the Japanese. Sent from Bataan to Mindanao to assist General Sharp, the military commander there, Fertig moved into the hills of Mindanao once General Sharp surrendered to the Japanese.

Lieutenant Colonel Fertig decided that if he was able to resist capture, then it made sense that other American military personnel did as well; they would need leadership. He also considered that hundreds of Philippine scouts could be used as guerilla assets against the Japanese if they could be located and persuaded to follow him. But Fertig was also a realist; what chance would he have of commanding any force of men as a newly promoted lieutenant colonel, and a civil engineer?

So Wendell Fertig promoted himself to the rank of Brigadier General, United States Army and formed one of the most fantastic guerilla operations in America’s entire history. For the next two years, “General” Fertig created and led the United States Forces, Philippines. He amassed over 30,000 armed men, the equivalent of an Army Corps, which included American forces who had managed to escape as prisoners of war, and fighting men of the Philippine Islands. With no formal military training and limited supplies, General Fertig conducted commando type raids against the Japanese to obtain weapons and ammunition, food, medical supplies, and communications equipment. Eventually, in spite of General MacArthur’s initial refusal to believe that any credible forces remained in the Philippines, Fertig began receiving supplies from the Commander, South West Pacific Operating Area (SWPOA) and in time, General Fertig’s forces became the best equipped and most effective irregular fighting force of World War II.

After the war, MacArthur begrudgingly promoted Fertig to Colonel and awarded him the Distinguished Service Cross, and then Fertig quietly returned to his civil engineering profession. Later, however, Colonel Fertig helped to establish the U. S. Army’s Special Warfare Center and he is today regarded as the father of the U. S. Army’s “Special Forces” organization.

Wendell Fertig died in 1975 at the age of 74. For many people in the Philippine Islands, and indeed among many regular Army personnel, he will always be regarded as General Fertig, a true American hero. He deserves to be remembered on Memorial Day.

In Memoriam ~ Vietnam

The President of the United States in the name of The Congress takes pleasure in presenting the MEDAL OF HONOR to

GUNNERY SERGEANT JIMMIE E. HOWARD

UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS

for service as set forth in the following

CITATION: For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty as a Platoon Leader, Company "C", First Reconnaissance Battalion, First Marine Division (Reinforced), Fleet Marine Force, Pacific, in action against communist insurgent forces in Quang Tin Province, Republic of Vietnam, on 16 June 1966. During the night Gunnery Sergeant (then Staff Sergeant) Howard's platoon of eighteen men was assaulted by a numerically superior force consisting of a well-trained North Vietnamese Battalion employing heavy small arms fire, automatic weapons and accurate mortar fire. Without hesitation he immediately organized his platoon to personally supervise the precarious defense of Hill 488. Utterly oblivious to the unrelenting fury of hostile enemy weapons fire and hand grenades he repeatedly exposed himself to enemy fire while directing the operation of his small force. As the enemy attack progressed and the enemy fire increased in volume and accuracy and despite his mounting casualties, Gunnery Sergeant Howard continued to set an example of calmness and courage. Moving from position to position, he inspired his men with dynamic leadership and courageous fighting spirit until he was struck and painfully wounded by fragments from an enemy hand grenade. Unable to move his legs and realizing that the position was becoming untenable, he distributed his ammunition to the remaining members of his platoon and skillfully directed friendly aircraft and artillery strikes with uncanny accuracy upon the enemy. Dawn found the beleaguered force diminished by five killed and all but one wounded. When rescue helicopters proceeded to Gunnery Sergeant Howard's position, he directed them away from his badly mauled force and called additional air strikes and directed devastating small arms fire on the enemy thus making the landing zone secure as possible. His valiant leadership and courageous fighting spirit served to inspire the men of his platoon to heroic endeavor in the face of overwhelming odds, and reflected the highest credit upon Gunnery Sergeant Howard, the Marine Corps and the United States Naval Service.

/S/ LYNDON B. JOHNSON

In Memoriam ~ Korea

The President of the United States takes pride in presenting the MEDAL OF HONOR to

LIEUTENANT COLONEL RAYMOND G. DAVIS

UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS

for service as set forth in the following

CITATION: For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty as Commanding Officer of the First Battalion, Seventh Marines, First Marine Division (Reinforced), in action against enemy aggressor forces in Korea from 1 through 4 December 1950. Although keenly aware that the operation involved breaking through a surrounding enemy and advancing eight miles along primitive icy trails in the bitter cold with every passage disputed by a savage and determined foe, Lieutenant Colonel Davis boldly led his battalion into the attack in a daring attempt to relieve a beleaguered rifle company and to seize, hold and defend a vital mountain pass controlling the only route available for two Marine regiments in danger being cut off by numerically superior hostile forces during their redeployment to the port of Hungnam. When the battalion immediately encountered strong opposition from entrenched enemy forces commanding high ground in the path of the advance, he promptly spearheaded his unit in a fierce attack up the steep, ice-covered slopes in the face of withering fire and, personally leading the assault group in a hand-to-hand encounter, drove the hostile troops from their positions, rested his men and reconnoitered the area under enemy fire to determine the best route for continuing the mission. Always in the thick of the fighting, Lieutenant Colonel Davis led his battalion over three successive ridges in the deep snow in continuous attacks against the enemy and, constantly inspiring and encouraging his men throughout the night, brought his unit to a point within 1500 yards of the surrounded rifle company by daybreak. Although knocked to the ground when a shell fragment struck his helmet and two bullets pierced his clothing, he arose and fought his way forward at the head of his men until he reached the isolated Marines. On the following morning, he bravely led his battalion in securing the vital mountain pass from a strongly entrenched and numerically superior hostile force, carrying all his wounded with him, including 22 litter cases and numerous ambulatory patients. Despite repeated savage and heavy assaults by the enemy, he stubbornly held the vital terrain until the two regiments of the division had deployed through the pass and, on the morning of 4 December, led his battalion into Hagaru- ri intact. By his superb leadership, outstanding courage and brilliant tactical ability, Lieutenant Colonel Davis was directly instrumental in saving the beleaguered rifle company from complete annihilation and enabled the two Marine regiments to escape possible destruction. His valiant devotion to duty and unyielding fighting spirit in the face of almost insurmountable odds enhance and sustain the highest traditions of the United States Naval Service.

/S/ HARRY S. TRUMAN

Note:
Commissioned a 2ndLt in 1938, Raymond G. Davis was initially assigned to Sea Duty aboard the USS Portland. During World War II, he participated in the Guadalcanal Tulagi landings, the capture and defense of Guadalcanal, the Eastern New Guinea and Cape Gloucester campaigns, and the landing at Peleliu where he was wounded and by his gallantry, was awarded the Navy Cross Medal. In Vietnam, General Davis served as the Deputy Commander, Provisional Corps and later as the Commanding General, 3rd Marine Division.

General Davis retired in 1972 after serving as the Assistant Commandant of the Marine Corps. In addition to the Medal of Honor and Navy Cross, General Davis was twice awarded the Distinguished Service Medal, Silver Star Medal, Bronze Star Medal, and the Purple Heart.

In Memoriam ~ World War II

The President of the United States takes pleasure in presenting the CONGRESSIONAL MEDAL OF HONOR to

SERGEANT JOHN BASILONE

UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS

for service as set forth in the following

CITATION: For extraordinary heroism and conspicuous gallantry in action against enemy Japanese forces, above and beyond the call of duty, while serving with the First Battalion, Seventh Marines, First Marine Division, in the Lunga Area, Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands, on October 24 and 25, 1942. While the enemy was hammering at the Marines' defensive positions, Sergeant Basilone, in charge of two sections of heavy machine guns, fought valiantly to check the savage and determined assault. In a fierce frontal attack with the Japanese blasting his guns with grenades and mortar fire, one of Sergeant Basilone's sections, with its gun crews, was put out of action, leaving only two men able to carry on. Moving an extra gun into position, he placed it in action, then, under continual fire, repaired another and personally manned it, gallantly holding his line until replacements arrived. A little later, with ammunition critically low and the supply lines cut off, Sergeant Basilone, at great risk of his life and in the face of continued enemy attack, battled his way through hostile lines with urgently needed shells for his gunners, thereby contributing in a large measure to the virtual annihilation of a Japanese regiment. His great personal valor and courageous initiative were in keeping with the highest traditions of the United States Naval Service.

/S/FRANKLIN D. ROOSEVELT

Note: Gunnery Sergeant "Manila John" Basilone was the only Marine in WWII to receive both the Medal of Honor and the Navy Cross, the latter of which was awarded posthumously. He was killed during the assault on Iwo Jima.

Chief Warrant Officer Conner

Informally, during the period of time the Marine Corps’ Gunner program was suspended, it was more or less customary to call a warrant officer or chief warrant officer by that title. “Good morning, Gunner . . .” Thus, when I first met Chief Warrant Officer-4 Terry Conner, USMC in 1975, I called him that out of deference to his seniority and longevity in the Corps. Terry was a World War II Marine; when I met him, he was 54 years old, and he had 37 years of active duty service. He had joined the Marine Corps in 1938 and was then the second most senior Chief Warrant Officer in the Corps.

Gunner Conner was assigned as the Avionics Officer at Marine Aircraft Group 11 (MAG-11) at the Marine Corps Air Station, El Toro, California. My assignment with MAG-11 was as a warrant officer (W-1), and I was assigned as the Administrative Officer, Headquarters and Maintenance Squadron 11. Over time, Gunner Conner became a good friend and mentor to me, as I had just embarked on a new direction in my career.

I suppose the best way to describe Gunner Conner is to say that he was clearly the saltiest Marine I ever met, but he was also the easiest going officer I ever knew. He was completely unflappable, which is understandable considering the fact that he had gone through all of World War II, Korea, and Vietnam. I can’t imagine that there would be much else in life to raise the blood pressure after that kind of experience. He and his wife Dot were married after World War II, and he told me that the best thing that ever happened to him in his life was in finding a woman who could make him happy and keep him out of trouble at the same time. Dot was really a sweat lady, and on the couple of occasions when I visited with them in their home, she was very kind to both my wife and I. Dot was really a class act, while Terry was a diamond in the rough. They complimented one another perfectly.

One day Gunner Conner came to my office and found me fuming about a captain (pilot) who had earlier in the day referred to me as a “lipstick lieutenant.” Terry sat down on the corner of my desk and asked me why I was so ticked off, so I told him and he laughed. “Relax,” he said, “there are a hell of a lot worse things that people can call you.” And that was very typical of the Gunner’s outlook. He said, “As you travel through the officer ranks, plan on having to contend with an extraordinary number of assholes. Just remember that they probably can’t help it, and you don’t have to live with them. What you do, instead of making yourself upset, is feel sorry for whoever they’re married to.”

One of the reasons Gunner Conner was so “salty” is that he had literally done it all in the Marines. He was a rifleman in his younger years, and didn’t transition into Marine aviation until around 1942. My gosh, he had some wonderful sea stories; I never heard one of them repeated. But I suppose he was also “salty” because he knew every Marine Corps general officer in the aviation community, and had known them when they were second lieutenants. They called him “Terry,” and the Gunner called them by their first names. This arrangement didn’t cause any confusion about the rank structure—everyone knew who was senior, but I heard one major general say one time that Terry Conner had taught him all the important things about being a Marine Officer. I can’t think of a higher compliment than that.

The Gunner told me that when he had transitioned into Marine Corps aviation, the Corps sent him back to the states to learn about radar. He said that in those days, radar was a relatively recent technology and his school only lasted about two weeks. Then he had orders back to the Pacific, and he flew in a PBY-5 from San Francisco to Hawaii. As the aircraft neared Honolulu, the pilot radioed back to try the airborne radar and see how it was working. Connor and another Marine turned on the radar equipment, but couldn’t get it to work; it was probably a calibration problem, he said. The pilot kept asking, “What are you seeing?” Conner and the other Marine looked out of the bubble on the side of the aircraft, and observing various kinds of ships heading into or away from Honolulu, began to describe in detail what the ships looked like, generally where they were headed. The pilot commented, “That radar must be really something if you can even tell what color the ships are . . .”

The Gunner could tell a funny story better than any one I ever met, and his specialty was telling stories about “drunks.” He did it better than the comedian, Foster Brooks. One day, I asked him how he had managed to perfect the slur in speech when he told one of his stories. He said, “Well hell, I was a drunk for years . . . until Dot squared my ass away.” According to Dot, the Commandant of the Marine Corps visited the air station several years before and a reception was held in his honor. All officers went to the Officer’s Club wearing their dress blues, and went through a reception line to meet the Commandant and to introduce their wives. By the time Gunner Conner got to the reception line, he was already in the bag. After being introduced to the Commandant by the aide-de-camp, Terry said to the Commandant, “Sir, it’s my distinct pleasure to introduce you to my . . . mother.” The Commandant smiled politely, Dot gritted her teeth, and Gunner Conner was on the sofa for two weeks. Soon after that, he stopped drinking altogether.

One of the really bad things about the Marine Corps, and I suspect all of the services, is that once in a while you run across a real jewel of a friend, but in time, with transfers and retirements, you tend to lose track of where they are, or how they’re doing. When Gunner Conner retired from the Marine Corps in 1977, just shy of 40 years of active duty, he and Dot bought a travel trailer and divided their time between Santa Ana, California and the Yosemite National Forest. I wish I had made a greater effort to stay in touch. I miss Gunner Conner; he was truly one of a kind, and I treasure his memory.

Copyright, 2005

Four Days at Midway

One of America’s most important battles of World War II took place in early June 1942. The Japanese Imperial forces were still on the offensive following their surprise attack at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, capturing territory throughout the Pacific Rim with every intention of preserving their gains on the Far East mainland region. The contest in early June 1942 occurred at a small but vital atoll located approximately mid-way between America and Asia, simply named Midway Island. The Japanese wanted Midway Island as an advanced naval base, vital to support their naval forces, and as a springboard from which to invade the Hawaiian Islands. Japan’s intent during the Battle of Midway was to destroy what remained of the United States Navy following it’s successes at Pearl Harbor.

The United States Naval Historical Center is offering an overview of the Battle, including a number of interesting and worthwhile resources for those who are interested in how this confrontation with Imperial Japan unfolded, what was at stake, how the battle was fought, and its significance.

The battle represented a wide array of American successes in code breaking, subterfuge, naval strategy, and gut-busting determination to hold the line against overwhelming Japanese forces. It also involved a lot of good luck for the Americans. The outcome of the battle was Japan’s first defeat in World War II. Today, there are a little over 500 remaining veterans of this great battle in 1942. It is fitting that we remember the sacrifices of these American warriors 63 years ago, men who served in the U. S. Navy, the Marine Corps, and the Army Air Corps. I would encourage every reader to take a moment to visit the above links, a tribute to our nation’s servicemen during America’s darkest hours.

Semper Fidelis . . .

Stale Vegetables

Lieutenant Colonel Stanley J. Wawrzniak, USMC was the Commanding Officer of Headquarters Battalion, 3rd Marine Division (1972—1973). He was one hell of a Marine, having fought in the Korean War as a corporal with then Colonel Louis B. (Chesty) Puller's 1st Marine Regiment. His gallantry in the Korean War earned him two awards of the Navy Cross medal. He also distinguished himself in the Republic of Vietnam. As a battalion commander, he was top notch; most of the NCOs and Staff NCOs admired him because he demanded excellence and appreciated the hard work of his Marines. Hard charging, tough, and efficient, he always led by example—the hallmark of a Marine leader.

Some might have suggested that Colonel Wawrzniak was profane. They could be right, because I never heard him utter a sentence that did not contain at least one expletive. I have also heard that his lack of the “finer” skills explains why he did not achieve promotion to full colonel. What a shame; there should always be room in the Corps for colorful leaders because, as in the case of Wawrzniak, they are inspirational to the Marines they lead.

In any case, the Headquarters Commandant of the 3rd Marine Division had several responsibilities. As the Headquarters Battalion Commander, he was responsible for the administration, training, and logistical support of a large number of Marines assigned to the Division command element, and for the readiness and efficiency of the Headquarters Company, Communications Company, and Service Company. As camp commander, he was responsible for all real property, camp security, and disaster preparedness. He was also responsible for the proper administration and efficiency of the General’s Mess. At that time, the senior officer of the General’s Mess was a lieutenant general; membership included one major general, a brigadier, and senior officers assigned to the III Marine Amphibious Force and 3rd Marine Division.

The senior flag officer was a veteran of World War II, Korea, and Vietnam. He was tall, distinguished looking, deep voiced, and he had an encyclopedic mind; he could speed read at a phenomenal rate and retain more than 90% of everything he ever read. Gruff and occasionally short-tempered, people sometimes referred to the general as “Loveable Lou.” Most officers used to quake in their shoes whenever Loveable Lou took an interest in what they were doing, and if they ever had the occasion to brief him, they’d better know what they were talking about.

The term “most officers” did not include Lieutenant Colonel Stan Wawrzniak. Colonel Wawrzniak was efficient to a fault, but he had little tolerance for the politics and fluff that often permeates the senior echelons of command. One evening at dinner in the General’s Mess, Loveable Lou began to grumble about stale vegetables served at dinner. Finally, he looked down toward the end of the table where Wawrzniak was sitting and said, “God-damn-it Stan, why can’t we get fresh vegetables in here? I’m sick to death of eating stale vegetables.”

Given the tone of his deep voice and the gruffness of the General’s question, the Mess became abruptly quiet. Lieutenant Colonel Wawrzniak looked up from his plate and said, “General, if you don’t like the [expletive] vegetables, then don’t eat the [expletive] vegetables.” One could have heard a pin drop on the carpet of the General’s Mess. After about ten seconds the General said, “Okay, Stan. I just thought I’d ask.”

Copyright, 2005

Aide-de-Camp

While serving as the G-1 at 1st Force Service Support Group at Camp Pendleton, California, I was privileged to travel with the Commanding General’s party to the Fleet Marine Force, Pacific headquarters in Hawaii. Included in the general’s party was his aide-de-camp, his operations officer, and me.

Our arrival time in Hawaii was about 11:15 a.m., and the General decided that our first task should be to check in at the hotel and make a courtesy call to the FMFPac headquarters immediately after lunch. We checked in to our rooms, changed into uniform, met for lunch in the hotel dining room, and then proceeded by rental car to Camp Smith. Upon arrival, the officers we wanted to meet were either in conference or on the golf course so it wasn’t long before we returned to the hotel pending our scheduled meetings for the next day. On the way back to the hotel, the general suggested that while he had a few things to take care of, the rest of us, including his aide, should relax for the rest of the afternoon and he would meet us for dinner at the hotel.

About an hour later, I was standing at the bar on the poolside lanai talking to the Operations Officer, exercising my elbow. It wasn’t long before the General’s aide-de-camp came down dressed in bathing trunks, committing himself to either sunburn or a deep tan. We invited him to join us for a drink, but he wanted to get as much sun as he could while we were in Hawaii. The lieutenant strolled over to the pool, selected a chaise lounge, placed it under a coconut tree, and in spite of the racket being made by children, dozed off in the rays of a luxuriantly warm sun. Fifteen minutes later, time approximate, a large coconut dropped from the tree and landed squarely on the aide’s groin.

The lieutenant screamed loud enough and with such obvious pain, that he scared the dickens out of everyone around the pool, especially the children. Grabbing his crotch, he rolled off the chaise lounge, doubled up into the fetal position along the side of the pool, and moaned loudly. After the Operations Officer and I sprayed the bar with the beverage we had just taken into our mouths, we both went over to see if we could help the lad up. He asked for a few minutes, but we eventually did get him to his feet. He didn’t want to see a doctor, so I escorted him to his room on the sixth floor where I presume he remained for the rest of the night. He was unable to join us for dinner that night, however, either because he was still in some pain, or was too embarrassed. Of course, the Operations Officer and I made sure that the General was informed of the incident. The General shook his head and said, “Lieutenants . . .”

At the airport two days later getting ready for our return flight to San Diego, the aide carried his coconut aboard the flight as his souvenir of his first trip to Hawaii. Smiling, he said, “My first award, sir. I will treasure it forever.”

Copyright, 2005

Inspector General's Inspection

Gunnery Sergeant Ed Grady was our communications chief at the Inspector-Instructor Staff, 4th Battalion, 14th Marines in Anniston, Alabama. He had a passion for the English Bull Dog, which also happened to be the official mascot of the U. S. Marine Corps. With the Inspector-Instructor’s permission, the animal, whose name was Teufelhunde, became a constant presence at the training center and our own mascot. At some point, we decided to “enlist” the animal into the Marine Corps and make him part of the I-I Staff. Accordingly, a service record book was created, complete with enlistment contract and all of the subsequent records, and it was filed along with the service records of the rest of the staff’s Marines.

Admittedly, Teufelhunde, which is German for devil dog, was hard to appreciate as one of man’s best friends. For one thing, one could not pet the dog without coming away with a handful of slobber. Second, the dog was constantly crapping all over the training center. Over time, we began to suspect that Gunnery Sergeant Grady was being somewhat negligent in the proper care and discipline of the dog. In particular, the gunny had already gone home on too many occasions before Teufedlhunde’s landmines were discovered at various locations in the training center, which meant that the rest of us had to pick them up.

After a few complaints were registered with the Sergeant Major, Gunnery Sergeant Grady was informed that if he did not begin picking up after his own dog, he would not be able to bring it over to the training center. Over time, with greater attention, the problem became occasional rather than daily and the Marines decided that they could live with that. However, on one such occasion, Teufelhunde deposited one of his landmines on the quarterdeck, on the Marine Corps Emblem, precisely over Argentina, and this could not be tolerated. Accordingly, the Sergeant Major filed charges and the dog was taken in to the Inspector-Instructor for nonjudicial punishment. The dog was fined $5.00 (paid for by Grady), and placed on restriction outside the training center for a period of 30 days. Naturally, a record of the proceeding was duly recorded in his service record book.

A few months later, the Inspector-General of the Marine Corps arrived to conduct an annual inspection of all facets of our operations. When the administrative officer audited Teufelhunde’s service record, he became somewhat agitated. He demanded that Lieutenant Colonel Conklin, the Inspector-Instructor, explain why Conklin would tolerate the presence of a Marine on independent duty who defecated on the Marine Corps Emblem, and then admonished the colonel for imposing illegal punishments. Lieutenant Colonel Conklin suggested that the inspecting officer meet with the Marine and form his own conclusions, which the inspector agreed to do. Unlike the rest of us, the inspector was not amused when Gunnery Sergeant Grady ordered Teufelhunde to report to the Inspector General, and in doing so, the dog left a gob of slop all over the toe of his highly spit-shined shoe.

Copyright, 2005

My connection to Chesty

The way it works in the Marine Corps is that one generation of Marines passes on to the next the lessons they learned, along with their traditions and values. It is fair to say that what I learned from the people who preceded me, I passed along to those who eventually replaced me. Today, Lewis Burwell Puller is a Marine Corps legend. They called him “Chesty” Puller because he was, and I suspect still is, the Marine Corps’ most decorated officer. He is the only Marine to be awarded five (5) Navy Cross medals, which ranks just under the Medal of Honor. It was my privilege to meet General Puller briefly in 1970 while assigned to Headquarters, U. S. Marine Corps; he was visiting with the Commandant and I was conducting business in the outer office when General Puller entered the room. As an enlisted man, I came to attention as he entered the office, and he walked over to shake my hand, and said, “My name’s Puller.” It was an electrifying experience.

Corporal Stan Wawrzniak, USMC earned two Navy Cross medals for service during the Korean War. He was assigned to the 1st Marines on the occasion of each action, a regiment that was, at the time, commanded by none other than Colonel Louis B. Puller. In 1972 — 1973, it was my privilege to be assigned to Lieutenant Colonel Wawrzniak’s battalion while assigned to the 3rd Marine Division. In addition to my duties at the division headquarters, I was also assigned as a platoon commander within Headquarters Company. Colonel Wawrzniak was every bit the same kind of Marine as was Lieutenant General Chesty Puller.

On one occasion, Colonel Wawrzniak related this story to me from his experience in the Korean War. While the 5th and 7th Marines moved forward to the Chosin Reservoir in November 1950, Puller’s 1st Marines were assigned to occupy and hold Hagaru and the Koto perimeter. Once China launched their November offensive, Puller’s task became critical to the survival of the 5th Marines and 7th Marines as they regressed from the Chosin Reservoir. Faced with the prospect of defending a large area of the Koto perimeter with only two companies of Marine infantry, Puller used additional resources as they became available to him. These included elements of the Army’s 185th Engineer Battalion, Company E, 1st Medical Battalion, Company B of the Army’s 31st Infantry, and the 41st Royal Marine Commando. Operational control of the Division’s Reconnaissance Company was also placed under Puller. It was during this assault that Puller commented, “We’ve been looking for the enemy for several days now. We’ve finally found them. We’re surrounded. That simplifies our problem of finding these people and killing them.”

Wawrzniak explained that the ground was frozen solid; such conditions made it impossible to dig fighting holes for proper defensive positions. Early one morning, with literally thousands of Chinese regulars attempting to push the Marines from their positions, the Marines began taking sustained and increasing volumes of fire from the Chinese. The Marines were laying prone in shallow depressions prepared by raking away small layers of frozen topsoil with their entrenching tools, doing all they could to protect themselves from enemy fire. Enemy bullets were snapping no more than an inch or two over the Marine’s heads and they hunkered down, and no one with any sense looked up to see what was going on. In doing so, said Wawrzniak, “A Marine was just asking for it.”

Wawrzniak, laying prone and as close to the ground as he could get, moved his head to the right where he noticed a pair of combat boots standing no more than a foot from his position. Without looking up, then Corporal Wawrzniak said, “Hey you dumb bastard, you’d better get down or you’re going to get shot.”

A gravely voice replied, “Bullshit. There hasn’t been a communist bullet made that can kill me.”

Looking up from his hunkered down position, Corporal Wawrzniak saw Chesty Puller standing next to him calmly surveying enemy activity and their positions. The bullets kept flying across the main line of resistance, but Puller was never hit. “The old man was right after all,” Wawrzniak told me in 1973. “My God, what a fantastic Marine he was.”

Whether Chesty Puller’s cool demeanor under stressful circumstances had an inspirational effect on Stan Wawrzniak, we cannot know. It is a question best answered by Colonel Wawrzniak himself, but more than likely, Wawrzniak earned two Navy Cross medals by simply doing what Marines do when they are under fire, and without any thought of rewards. In any case, Colonel Stan Wawrzniak was also a fantastic Marine.

Copyright, 2005

Armed Forces Day, 2005

Lest we forget . . .

Lieutenant Commander Rambo

The battalion commander ordered a series of basic infantry, defensive tactical skills within the 7th Motor Transport Battalion. In order to accomplish this, it was necessary to execute a motor-transport stand down. It is fair to say that everyone was enthusiastic about the exercises, except for the 700 or so enlisted Marines who were required to participate. The training package was not altogether doctrinally sound, however, as the planners and unit leaders were not sure how to go about training their Marines in basic infantry skills. Nevertheless, a good effort was made and the two day training, if nothing else, convinced drivers and mechanics that they had made a wise choice in selecting the motor transport field, rather than one of the combat arms.

Of course, there was one small minor problem: the battalion Chaplain. The lieutenant commander was well-respected by the battalion’s Marines, and appreciated for the work he did assisting those with spiritual or other issues, including challenges that many military families face on a daily basis. With good intention, the chaplain enthusiastically participated in the basic skills training package, including the employment of a helicopter borrowed from one of the squadrons assigned to Camp Pendleton, California.

Good intentions or not, it is not the role of Navy chaplains to involve themselves in actual armed conflict. To do so is not only a violation of the Geneva Convention, but it violates the doctrinal status of chaplains as non-combatants because international law, at least on paper, protects Chaplains and Navy Corpsmen. In any case, the helicopter came in for a landing in an area near the tactically deployed Marines, stirring up grass, dust, and other residue to the point where no one could see exactly what was going on. This was a safety concern to the battalion commander since the event was not part of the training plan and no one but the chaplain was even aware of the event.

Thus, when the chaplain brought in the helicopter to inspire the Marines of 7th Motors, and in particular, when he leaped from the platform dressed almost exactly like Rambo, complete with a red bandana tied around his head, the battalion commander nearly had a stroke. The troops thought it was cool, but the entire purpose of presenting a basic skills package in the first place was to reacquaint Marines with the way things are supposed to be done, as opposed to the manner presented in Hollywood films. It is perhaps sufficient to say that the battalion commander had a nice long chat with the chaplain, and that the chaplain never again participated in tactical training dressed up like an idiot from a B-movie.

Copyright, 2005

Marine Gunner

Because Chief Warrant Officers in the United States Marine Corps are selected from among the most competent noncommissioned officers, the rank has become legendary — and not just in the minds of Chief Warrant Officers. It is a credit to the Navy and Marine Corps that their leaders have long recognized the value and contributions of senior enlisted personnel by making such a program available to them.

Warrant officers have been part of the Marine Corps rank structure since 1916. Initially, warrant officer appointments went to men who had skills in logistics and the combat arms. Under the 1917 appropriations act, 43 infantry specialists received an appointment as a Marine “Gunner,” and 41 quartermasters appointed as warrant officers.

Today, a Marine Gunner is an infantry specialist. He is the only officer in the Marine Corps who is entitled to wear a bursting bomb insignia on his left collar, worn in addition to the insignia of his rank on the right collar. The Marine Gunner is the expert of all infantry weapons systems, and a Marine who receives the designation of Marine Gunner is commissioned as a Chief Warrant Officer (W-2), bypassing service as a Warrant Officer (W-1). What makes this Marine stand out from among his peers is that the eligibility criteria limits applications to those serving as infantry unit leaders in grade of Gunnery Sergeant or above with at least sixteen years of Marine Corps service. And, even though the Marine Corps has employed warrant and chief warrant officers since 1917, the appointment of men to the status of Gunner has been an on again, off again proposition.

The status of warrant officers generally is that they are the most junior officers in the Marine Corps, but enjoy the privileges and responsibilities as any other commissioned officer, and while subordinate to second lieutenants, they are accorded a great deal of respect and admiration from senior officers. The Secretary of the Navy appoints warrant officers; chief warrant officers receive commissions.

The Navy and Marine Corps have a long record of relying upon the contributions of senior enlisted men to flesh out the ranks of company grade officers in times of national emergency. At various times since the period leading up to World War II, the Marine Corps has implemented temporary commissioning programs, including to warrant officer, which permitted service through the rank of captain. Temporary officers served until six months following the end of hostilities in World War II, Korea, and Vietnam.

Warrant and Chief Warrant Officers normally perform highly technical duties, such as those related to administration, intelligence, logistics, communications, military police, and the supporting arms. Conversely, the Marine Gunner of today serves only as an infantry weapons specialist within infantry battalions and regiments, Light Armored Reconnaissance (LAV) battalions, and schools of infantry.

In 1992, the warrant officer structure added a new designation: Chief Warrant Officer (W-5). An initiative undertaken by the U. S. Army to address problems within its aviation community, the Navy and Marine Corps supported the concept after the Army agreed to certain changes in the law. One can only imagine the respect accorded to the Marine Gunner, Chief Warrant Officer (W-5) when he saunters into a room full of sailors or Marines. With only 5% of the entire warrant officer structure serving as a W-5, there is no doubt in my mind that the most senior Gunner captures everyone’s rapt attention. He will politely acknowledge the familiar greeting from all other Marines, “Good morning, Gunner.”

Copyright, 2005

Snuffy Up

The Marine Corps is not unlike any other large, well-structured organization. Whether officer or enlisted, everyone starts-off at the bottom rung of the ladder, and one’s success depends on a number of personal and circumstantial factors. Second lieutenants are as much harassed as the privates, as it is common to find young “butter bars” running around air stations trying to track down some missing “flight line” for their new officer-in-charge.

In the early 1960s, the new private checking in to his first regular duty station was often referred to as “boot,” “boot-camp,” or “snuffy.” Whenever something had to be done that required the least amount of brains, the most amount of labor, or the least desirable of tasks, it was common to hear other, more senior Marines calling out, “Snuffy Up.” Usually, Snuffy knew who he was and there was no confusion about whose presence was requested.

After completing two years in the Marine Corps, I realized that the term “snuffy” was really quite subjective. To Noncommissioned officers, for example, everyone below corporal was a snuffy, but to lance corporals, a snuffy was everyone junior to rank and date of rank to them. Of course, I’ve never heard of a second lieutenant referred to as “snuffy,” perhaps because the rank is self-evident.

In a line unit in the early 1960s, the company commander would pass the word about such things as “liberty call.” He would determine whether it was authorized, or not. If authorized, he may specify for whom; he also might leave it up to platoon commanders to make a determination. He or his junior officers may also prescribe liberty limits, such as being granted “overnight,” or “until midnight.” Liberty call that expired at midnight was called “Cinderella Liberty.” Liberty could be permitted to areas located off base, or restricted to “base liberty.” Liberty call might be extended only to NCOs and “brown-baggers,” a term used for married personnel.

Everyone below he rank of sergeant was required to have a “liberty card” in their possession at any time a Marine left the immediate area of his battalion, and a liberty card could only be obtained by getting it from the company duty NCO, most likely a sergeant or corporal. The Duty NCO checked to ensure that every Marine had an identification card, that the Marine was not “restricted” from liberty, and that he was dressed in proper attire (e.g., prescribed liberty uniform or appropriate civilian attire). Anyone not wearing the prescribed attire was not allowed to go on liberty. Marines were not authorized to wear blue jeans in those days.

More often than not, snuffies were not granted liberty during the week. In those days, grunt units were in the field during the week, so any question of going on liberty was moot. When the company returned from the field on late Thursday or early Friday morning, Marines were expected to “square-away” their equipment for an inspection on Saturday morning. Depending upon how well the inspection went on Saturday, a Marine — regardless of marital status, could be granted liberty for the balance of the weekend — but again, at the unit commander’s discretion. Any Marine unfortunate enough to have incurred the wrath of his platoon commander or a senior NCO would probably not be granted liberty.

And so it was in the days of my youth as a snuffy. In truth, I didn’t really care that much about liberty because, as a buck-private, earning $75.00 a month before taxes, there were not an awful lot of places I could go. No one below the rank of corporal owned a car because no one below the rank of corporal could afford one. Single NCOs would often buy a car jointly — but most snuffies used mass transportation to find their way into town for tawdry music, cheap beer, and knuckle sandwiches. More than likely, snuffies would wander over to one of the “area slop shoots,” (enlisted clubs) where a pitcher of beer could be purchased for twenty-five cents. Two of those, for a seventeen or eighteen year old Marine, was enough to (a) make him drunk and/or (b) transform him into superman, in which case he would either get his ass kicked, or he would be “apprehended and transported” by base military police.

Fights broke-out all the time at the Slop Shoot, which explains why they were mostly decorated with picnic tables with permanently affixed benches. Someone no doubt figured out that picnic tables (with attached benches) were harder to throw at a member of the 6th Marines, but it was also perhaps a more suitable environment for snuffies who were occasionally known to puke after two or more pitchers of beer. You can’t take some people to nice restaurants.

Snuffies were almost never married, primarily because commanding officers would not approve of marriages for personnel serving below the rank of corporal, but also because everyone operated under the assumption that if the Marine Corps wanted you to have a wife, you would have been issued one. Of course, some snuffies were married, but it was more than likely that when married, they were serving as NCOs. Sometimes, Marines get confused about their priorities: (1) stay in bed with a nice warm body, or (2) fall out at zero-dark-thirty with a bunch of smelly Marines. Looking back nearly forty-five years, falling out early was a much simpler way of life — and back then, you couldn’t be sued for demeaning someone by calling out “Snuffy Up.”


Copyright, 2005

New Role for Marines

Bradley Graham’s excellent article in the Washington Post (Larger Special Operations Role Being Urged on Marines) is a revelation — not only for what Graham reports, but also for what he hasn’t said. According to Graham —

“In recent years, to relieve some of the strain on SOCOM [Special Operations Command—ed.], the Marines have taken on several missions outside the traditional scope of the sea-based service. For instance, they have led a task force in the Horn of Africa, set up in late 2001 to hunt down al Qaeda cells and other terrorists and now focused on providing security assistance and other training to countries in that volatile area. For the invasion of Iraq, the Marines lent SOCOM a Special Operations group known as Detachment 1, a year-long experiment that has become a prototype for the more permanent integration now under discussion.”

Realigning traditional forces to meet the exigencies of contemporary challenges is not a new phenomenon in the United States. After every major conflict in the 19th and 20th Century, government officials have considered the adequacy of American military forces to meet the requirements of a “common defense.” Reevaluating our military capability hasn’t always been a smooth road because it is difficult to let go of traditional concepts. As an example, General Billy Mitchell was court-martialed for obstinately fighting both Army and Navy attitudes about the role of aviation in warfare—and history proves that General Mitchell was right, traditionalists were wrong. In 1943, General Marshal argued for the unification of all American military forces, a concept defeated by the wise counter-arguments of Navy strategists. The National Security Act of 1947 separated the Army Air Corps from the United States Army and created the United States Air Force, and post-World War II cutbacks not only reduced the services to becoming marginally effective, but also created a long-term argument about whether the United States needs a Marine Corps. Some believed that the Marine Corps should be absorbed into the Army, and its aviation assets taken over by the Air Force.

These arguments fell by the wayside in the summer of 1950 when, following North Korea’s invasion of the southern peninsula, it became clear that the United States needed its Marine Corps; and the Marine Corps demonstrated its exceptional air-ground team concept while supporting Army forces in the Puson perimeter and beyond. Nevertheless, the proposal to do away with the Marine Corps has been raised by senior Army and Air Force officers on several occasions since the early 1950s, and each time the wisdom of maintaining a Corps of Marines to project naval power ashore has been reinforced.

Now, according to Graham, the Army is urging the Marines to assume a greater Special Operations role in the training of foreign military forces, and it is a role the Marine Corps has agreed to take on. But according to Graham, there are some sticking points.

“The hard part comes in another move under consideration that would have Marines play an even greater role in special operations beyond "low-end" overseas training missions. This would involve using more Marines in "high-end" anti-terrorist actions and other combat operations requiring exceptional skills.

“The sticking point is whether to compel the Marines to cede their specialized units to the Special Operations Command (SOCOM), something the fiercely self-reliant Corps -- unlike the Army, the Navy and the Air Force -- has long refused to do.”

Why is this even necessary? The United States has over-committed its military forces; there is simply too much going on in the world involving America’s military, and there are insufficient forces to accomplish every mission. Marines, ever the “can do” force, are wiling to step up to the plate as they always have, in order to get the job done. While the Army requested, and Congress approved an additional 30,000 troops, getting those troops recruited, trained, and deployed is not an easy task. An increase in Marine manpower to accomplish the Army’s traditional role has not been requested. If there is one thing that the American people can rely on, it is that the Marines have always accomplished their mission with less personnel and equipment, and at a fraction of the cost of the other services. Two examples of this are noteworthy. When Marines were employed during the first Gulf War, they arrived with every bit of needed equipment to perform their mission, while the Army’s inability to marshal logistical capability delayed the start of offensive operations. More recently, during the invasion of Iraq, Army forces were curtailed by a long logistics train, while the Marines (performing a traditional Army role), carried their supplies with them in a lightening attack into Baghdad.

So as before, the capabilities of the Armed Forces are being reevaluated, and it appears as though the Marines will be taking on roles and missions previously assigned to the Army. There can be no doubt that the Marines will get the job done, but let us hope that the long-term mission of the Marine Corps does not shift to an Army “Special Forces,” or British commando role within the Department of Defense. The traditional role of the Marines — projecting naval power ashore, continues to be the correct one.

Copyright, 2005

Lieutenant Le Fleur

First Lieutenant Edward Le Fleur, USMC was the detachment executive officer, guard officer, and honors section commander. He loved his job so much that he sat in his office for hours upon hours polishing his shoes and studying for the examination for promotion to captain.

That he remained behind his desk all day was perfectly acceptable to the Marines of the detachment, for every minute he dedicated to shining his shoes was one less minute that he could find fault with the Marines on guard duty. Unfortunately, he did come out of his office from time to time, which is the only reason that we knew that he had a personality best characterized as rude and unnecessarily abusive to the troops. One of our sergeants observed, “The Corps must have had a bad recruiting year when they accepted this bird . . .”

Bordering on the intellectually opaque, we believed Lieutenant Le Fleur had crossed that perimeter during an honors ceremony for the President of Italy, held at the Supreme Allied Command, Atlantic in Norfolk, Virginia. In addition to the normal honors company, which was to be commanded by our Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Le Fleur would command the presentation of a 21-gun artillery salute. Accordingly, three 75mm Pack Howitzers were borrowed from the Fleet Marine Forces to render these honors, and Marines not otherwise participating in the honor guard company would be detailed to the howitzers. I was one of these Marines.

A corporal from the admin section was assigned as the lanyard snapper (gun captain) of the first howitzer, and I was his loader. Each weapon required three Marines. One to pull the lanyard, which fired the weapon, one to open the breach to expel the spent round, and to close it again when reloaded, and one to load a new round into the breech. There were therefore nine Marines assigned to this detail. While the Marines of the honor guard practiced drill movements, we went off with Lieutenant Le Fleur to rehearse and practice firing the howitzers. There was much to learn, especially for the loader – such as, not losing any your fingers when the breech assembly was closed. For those assigned as lanyard snappers, it was important to learn how to “snap the lanyard” smartly and upon the command of Lieutenant Le Fleur. The presentation of a 21-gun salute is a timed event, so each howitzer must fire at the prescribed moment. Once fired, the weapons had to be quickly reloaded as a stand-by in case of a misfire. We practiced every day for a week, and then one additional day wearing our dress blues, which restricted our movements somewhat.

On the day of the honors ceremony, the howitzers were set up across the street and in front of the headquarters building of the Supreme Allied Commander, Atlantic (SACLant). The howitzers were spaced about five yards apart, with the lieutenant stationed to the right front of gun number one. The Lieutenant gathered us together before allowing us to take our posts, went over the routine one additional time, and then asked if there were any questions.

“I have a question, sir,” said Corporal Capelli.

“What is your question, Corporal?”

“Sir, I was wondering . . . should the howitzers be aimed at the building across the street?”

“Yes they should. Why do you ask?”

“Sir, the building is shaped in the form of an ‘H’,” said Capelli.

“Very observant, Corporal,” Le Fleur replied. “So what?”

“Well, it seems to me sir, with the guns firing toward the center of that building there will be a lot of concussion where all those bigwigs will be standing.”

“I see,” said Le Fleur. “So you’ve been to artillery school, Corporal?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, I have. That’s what I do in the Marine Corps. I’m an artillery officer.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So I don’t think I need the advice of a corporal with a clerical MOS to tell me how to arrange the battery, do you?”

“No sir. But lieutenant did ask if we had any questions.”

“Yes, I did. I just didn’t think there would be any stupid questions.”

“Sorry, sir.”

I don’t know that the rest of us had any questions, but if we did, we kept them to ourselves. After all, none of us actually attended Artillery Officer’s School.

“Okay, everyone take your posts,” Le Fleur ordered.

We took our posts.

“Load,” commanded Le Fleur.

We loaded the howitzers and stood by.

At the proper time, Le Fleur ordered, “Stand by . . . .”

To be honest, I loved firing those guns. And, as it turns out — the Lieutenant was right. None of the windows in the Headquarters Building broke as the result of the sound of the howitzers — until the third volley.

Copyright, 2005

JJ’s Mexican Adventure

Directed to conduct a manpower study at the Marine Corps Reserve Unit in Brownsville, Texas, my good friend Addison arranged for single-seat round-trip fare from New Orleans, Louisiana. With bags packed and a clear idea about what to look at during the on-site visit, Addison learned only an hour or so in advance of his flight that his boss, Colonel J. J. Klosecki, U. S. Marine Corps Reserve, had decided to accompany him. What amazed Addison was not so much that “JJ” had never accompanied him on a site-visit before, but more to the point—the two had an on-going mutual disregard. Addison was not being paranoid when he thought, what’s this all about?

“JJ” was a career reservist on temporary active duty within the 4th Marine Division. Looking at him either in civilian attire or in uniform, one would not suspect that he was a member of America’s finest fighting organization. Short in stature, he presented a roly-poly appearance not unlike what one might imagine one of Santa’s elves would look like — only taller. Worse than his appearance, he was a mean-headed little prick who consistently went out of his way to make his subordinates unhappy.

Addison was schedule to have a two-day visit with the Inspector—Instructor Staff. “JJ” accompanied Addison to the Reserve Center on the first day, but after about an hour, the colonel became bored and began to wander around the training center. Another hour after that, “JJ” went in to the administrative offices and started looking over the shoulder of the Marines assigned there. Addison could see that the clerks were getting more and more nervous with all of the attention they were getting from “JJ.” So when “JJ” (who fancied himself a computer expert) finally told the Marines to take a break, they left the training center and didn't return for the rest of the day. “JJ” amused himself for the remainder of the day playing with the S-1 Section’s computer.

When Addison and “JJ” left the Reserve Center later on that afternoon, “JJ” asked about dinner plans for later in the evening. Addison told him that he planned to pick up a hamburger and go back to the hotel because he had a lot of work to finish before he returned to the Reserve Center the following day.

“JJ” had other plans, and as the senior officer, his plans took precedence over those of Addison.

“JJ” wanted to drive into the city of Brownsville where he could do some shopping, and then later, he wanted to cross into Matamoras, Mexico for dinner. Since Addison was the one with the rental car, and “JJ” was the senior officer, Addison recognized that he was trapped into chauffeuring him around for the evening.

Addison changed into civilian clothing at the hotel, loaded “JJ” into the car, and headed toward downtown Brownsville. Compared with many cities, Brownsville is not very large—but with “JJ” giving Addison driving directions, the journey took nearly an hour because the two officers covered several streets more than a few times. Finally, just as Addison pressed down on the accelerator to make it through an intersection, “JJ” startled him by squealing, "There, there — park over there." As there was no place to park, however, Addison proceeded around the block until he could find a parking place.

As soon as Addison stopped the car, “JJ” jumped out and made a beeline for a store that advertised "Western Boots" in bold letter on the front window. The great shopping spree had begun.

“JJ” Klosecki didn’t accomplish anything quickly—not even the physical readiness test, so it wasn’t surprising to Addison that “JJ” examined every pair of boots that was on display. After nearly an hour of inspecting the merchandise, “JJ” finally pointed to a pair of plain, black boots, and asked the clerk, who had been hovering around for most of the hour that they'd been in the store, "Do you have these in 81/2 extra wide?"

The boots that caught “JJ’s” attention were not a brand-name manufacture, such as Justin, Cavendar, Steadman, or even Red Wings. In fact, they didn't have a manufacturer's tag inside them at all. They were just a pair of plain — as in very plain, no stitching on the toe or side — black western walking boots.

Nevertheless, the clerk’s eyes lit up and he was off like a flash. He shortly returned with a box and eagerly pulled out a pair of boots just like the ones on display. He held them up and “JJ” inspected them closely. Then, “JJ” tried them on. A casual observer might have thought he was witnessing the opening of presents on Christmas morning, as “JJ’s” little round face lit up like a light bulb, and he grinned from ear to ear. He walked back and forth, stopping several time to admire the boots in a floor mirror.

"I'll take them," he gushed. "How much?"

Addison had all the while been sitting quietly throughout this whole drama, but when the clerk told him, "One twenty-four, ninety-nine," he had to speak up. "Isn't that kind of expensive?"

Colonel Klosecki was the type of individual who answered his subordinate’s questions with words like “nonsense,” or with phrases such as “Don’t be stupid.” So “JJ” responded to Addison’s question with “Nonsense.” Accordingly, Addison decided that “JJ” probably knew best after all.

“JJ” wore his new boots out of the store, and Addison later swore that he seemed about two inches taller—and that would have made him top out at about five foot, four inches.

Once they were back in the car, Addison asked, "Where to now?"

"Across the border," the colonel replied. Addison imagined General Pershing uttering that same ill-fated phrase.

“Sorry, Colonel,” said Addison, “I can't take the car across the border."

Looking at Addison with an expression of incredulity, "JJ" demanded, "Why the hell not?"

"Because the car is rented on a U.S. Government credit card and it doesn't have Mexican insurance," said Addison.

"It'll be okay this one time, just go," he ordered.

Addison looked at Colonel Klosecki for a moment and asked, “Just so that I understand this perfectly, sir, is the Colonel ordering me to enter Mexico in a what now amounts to a U.S. Government vehicle?"

“JJ” glared at Addison for a few long moments, and as his boyish pink face reddened, he no doubt considered his options as the senior officer present. Finally, he said, "Ah, well, ah, I guess not. Just drive to the border and we'll walk from there 'til we find some place to eat."

"Why don't we just take a cab to the restaurant?” Addison asked. "Cab drivers know all the best restaurants."

"Well for one thing, we can't see anything from a cab. Besides, I speak Spanish. If we need directions, I'll ask."

The two officers finally located a restaurant in the same way they found the boot store — by trial and error. After about an hour and a half of aimlessly wandering around Matamoras, “JJ” finally decided he had to sit down, so he and Addison ducked into the only restaurant they had seen. It may have been the dirtiest eating establishment in all of Mexico. The floors had not been cleaned since before one of Mexico’s earliest revolutions. The vinyl seats of the booth they were seated were sticky with something not altogether unlike industrial-strength sludge. On the brighter side, the tabletop did appear to have been cleaned sometime earlier that week.

The waiter, who appeared to be even more bored than Addison, handed them menus that were illegible, not only because they were written in Spanish but because a large part of the page was covered in what appeared to be salsa residue.

Addison recognized one word on the menu, "Polo," which he knew meant chicken. Addison surmised, given the cleanliness of the restaurant, that it might have also meant any bird removed from the front grill of the cook's car.

Addison pointed to the word "Polo" on the menu, and the waiter nodded, "Si, Si."
While the waiter hovered over the table, “JJ” inspected every item on the menu the way he had inspected every pair of boots in the store. He and the bored waiter had several conversations in Spanish about various items on the menu, and after what seemed like an eternity, he finally ordered.

"I think you’ll like this," JJ advised. “Although I think you could have gotten some more ethnic than chicken. You can get chicken at home, you know. When you're in a foreign country, you need to try their food."

Having chastised Addison for his lack of gastronomic adventure, “JJ” promptly forgot about Addison, took out his day planner, and began thumbing through it.

Within a remarkably short time, the waiter appeared with their food. In front of Addison, he placed a plate with a baked chicken leg and thigh, rice, beans, some kind of green salad, and two tortillas. It actually looked edible. In front of “JJ,” he placed a plate with a very over-cooked baked chicken leg and thigh, rice, beans, some kind of green salad, and two tortillas.

“JJ” stared down at his chicken, which was so well done it actually appeared mummified. "But, but ... this isn't ... " he started in English as the waiter turned his back and hurriedly vanished into the kitchen.

By this time, Addison was eating with relish. “JJ” finally relented when it became clear that the waiter wasn't coming back and began to eat his chicken. The only words exchanged between Addison and “JJ” during the meal was when Addison remarked, "This isn't bad." For his part of the conversation, “JJ” grunted a response as he tried to saw through the chicken leg.

Addison consumed everything on his plate except the salad; he wasn’t born and raised in Texas for nothing, and he'd heard stories about what could happen if you ate anything uncooked in Mexico. “JJ” on the other hand was clearly more of the adventurous sort, or maybe he just hadn't heard any of the stories about Montezuma’s revenge, so he ate the salad.

They finally finished their dinner and, having determined that their business was concluded, they got up to pay the bill. “JJ” could not understand why his dinner cost a dollar more than Addison’s meal.

The walk back to the border crossing and the car was long, but thankfully quiet. It was late and neither officer felt much like talking, particularly to one another.

About two blocks from the border crossing, they passed a shoe store and stopped to view the merchandise through the window. Among the display of men's and ladies shoes and boots was a pair of boots identical to those “JJ” was wearing, and next to the boots sat a card announcing the price, $46.00. Addison snorted to keep from laughing, and Colonel Klosecki distinctly groaned.

During the remaining two blocks to the border, “JJ” developed a noticeable limp, and by the time they got to the car, he was almost hobbling. He gingerly got into the car, and with Addison driving without help from “JJ,” they made it back to the hotel in what may have been world record time.

As they exited the vehicle, Addison asked, "Are you okay?"

"I think I've got a blister," answered “JJ” between clinched teeth as he shuffled up the sidewalk and into front door.

The next morning, “JJ” didn't appear for breakfast, and Addison concluded that the heavy meal from the night before had tided him over. As planned, Addison knocked on his door promptly at 08:00.

"Colonel, we've got to go . . . we're supposed to meet with the Inspector-Instructor in half an hour."

There was no response at the door for quite some time Then the door opened and there was “JJ,” unshaven and wearing only his under-wear. "I'm not going with you this morning,” he said. I had a rough night and don't feel so good.” His voice was hardly more than a hoarse whisper.

"Aye Aye," Addison said, perhaps a bit too cheerful. "I'll see you this evening then, Colonel” Addison could not help but adding, “I'll pick you up tonight and we'll go have dinner."

“JJ” gave a huge heave and his cheeks puffed out as if he was ready to explode. He slammed the door in Addison’s face, who assumed he then ran for the bathroom. Today, Addison not so regretfully acknowledges, “Maybe I should have told him about the salad.”

Copyright, 2005

The Great Escape

While serving at the Naval Station, Yokosuka, Japan, Petty Officer Second Class (Yeoman) Markle found himself placed on a legal hold pending a trial, at which he was needed as a witness. How or why he ever ended up at the Marine Corps Air Station, Iwakuni, Japan — which is several hundred miles south of Yokosuka, I’ll never know. In any case, he was assigned temporarily duty under my supervision, which lasted for about six months. Markle was of average height, reasonably fit, and had a pleasant personality. He was always helpful, maintained a keen sense of humor, and he was efficient in completing any assigned task. Most of the Marines in the section liked Markle, and for his part, Markle seemed to like working with the Marines. Off duty, Markle tended to hang out with the Navy corpsmen assigned to the Air Station dispensary, which made sense.

After about two months of temporary duty, Petty Officer Markle came to me one day, asked if he could take leave, and hitch a ride with the Marine Logistics (MarLog) flight to the Philippine Islands. I approved his request and a few days later, he went off for ten days of rest and relaxation. The problem was that Markle didn’t return from the Philippines when he was supposed to. A telephone call was made to the Marine Corps liaison section at Subic Bay, and the liaison officer indicated that he was aware that Markle should have returned to duty but stated that the sailor never reported to catch the flight back to Japan. He promised to look into the matter further and get back to me.

Two days later, the Marine liaison office called and said they’d located Markle, who was presently incarcerated in a local jail. Charged with “breach of promise,” Markle would not be released until trial unless (1) bail was posted in the amount of $500, and (2) the military promise to ensure his presence at trial.

“What in the hell is breach of promise?” I asked.

“Apparently, Markle promised a local woman that he’d marry her. He gave her an engagement ring and everything. When he sobered up and decided there was no way he was going to marry her, she filed charges and he was arrested,” explained the liaison officer.

“Define the term ‘and everything’,” I said.

“He met the family at formal introductions, which down here is a clincher that defines commitment,” came the reply.

“How long has he been locked up?” I asked.

“He’s been in there for about seven days.”

“Have you seen him?”

“Not yet. I’m going to take a ride over there later on today. I want to make sure that he’s not being smacked around too much,” said the liaison officer.

“Okay. First, I appreciate you efforts on this. While you’re checking out the squid, I’ll see what I can do about raising bail money from this end. If you can give me a call in the morning with an update, I’d appreciate it.”

“No, problem.”

After the phone call, I met with the Executive Officer and briefed him on the status of Petty Officer Markle and he asked me to keep him informed. I then met with the Marines in the section, explained the situation, and asked if they wanted to “chip in” to raise Markle’s bail money. Everyone chipped in some amount, but it was not a problem raising the money needed to spring Markle from a Philippine jail cell.

The next morning, the liaison officer reported that Markle is okay, and he was so happy to see another American he almost broke in to tears when the Marine captain showed up to visit with him in his cell. The liaison officer also said that along with Markle’s paid bail and release from jail, he would be placed on an international legal hold pursuant to the Status of Forces Agreement; there would be no way to get Markle off the island.

The Exec was updated with the most recent information, adding that I’d been able to raise the $500 bail. He said he’d been thinking about the problem and thought he might have a solution and promised he’d let me know about his plan once he’d put it together.

Another couple of days went by and the Exec said that there was a flight leaving for “PI” the next morning and he was going to pilot it. I gave him the money we’d collected for Markle, and an additional twenty bucks to reimburse the liaison officer for health and comfort items he’d purchased out of his own pocket and taken to Markle. Here’s what happened —

The Exec piloted the MarLog flight to the Philippines, handed over the bail money to the Marine Liaison Officer, who arranged for Markle’s release the next day. Upon release, the liaison officer returned him to Subic Bay, handed him over to the Exec, who placed him inside a large canvas bag stenciled United States Male, and loaded him aboard the aircraft. After passing through Philippine customs, the aircraft returned to Iwakuni. Markle spend a few days “under observation” in the Navy dispensary and, upon release came back to work for me until eventually, he was returned to Yokosuka as a trial witness.

Markle was very grateful to the Exec and his master plan for sneaking him out of the Philippines; he also repaid everyone who had chipped in with bail money. As I said, he was a decent young man. He also understood that he could never return to the Philippine Islands under any circumstances, and he promised me faithfully that he’d learned his lesson. Still, I could not help but to ask him to clarify a few things.

“Petty Officer Markle, what in hell ever prompted you to propose marriage to that woman in the first place?”

“Well, sir,” he said, “You know how it is sometimes.”

“No, I don’t. Why don’t you explain it to me.”

“Sir, you know . . .”

“Know what?” I persisted.

“Uh . . . I’d been drinking, and at some point, I really wanted to get laid, sir.”

“Markle, if there is any place on earth where you do not have to get married to accomplish that, it has to be the Philippine Islands.”

“Really, sir? Are you serious?”

Copyright, 2005

My Failure as a Movie Critic

Being assigned to Headquarters Marine Corps in Washington was a horrible experience. From my second month “on station,” I began counting the days before I would be eligible for a transfer to a “real” Marine Corps base or station. Within six months, I was counting my days in star-dates. So, on star date 244.15, my officer in charge mentioned that his aged mother was visiting him for two weeks, and this require him to leave work “a bit” early in the afternoon — you know, before the traffic backed up, which started around 2:00 p.m. Since he was an officer and I wasn’t, I said, “Yes, sir.”

My officer-in-charge was a lieutenant Colonel Naval Aviator, and one of his more interesting stories was that he had actually flown one of the aircraft used in the making of the film, Tora, Tora, Tora. Nevertheless, there were two universal truths about the OIC: The first was that we always accomplished the work whether he was present or not. Second, given the choice between having him present in the office or some other place, we would always opt for “some other place, as we accomplished more when he wasn’t micro managing our tasks.”

On day 251.22, he came into the office a foul mood. I knew this immediately because my desk was nearest the door, and when he slammed it shut, a stack of papers were blown from the top of my desk and the glass shattered all over the floor. He apologized for the mess as I picked up the telephone to call the maintenance department.

“Damn it,” he said.

“Is the colonel having a bad morning, sir?”

“Don’t ever get married, sergeant,” he advised.

“Too late sir,” I said.

“Do you ever win any arguments with your wife, sergeant?”

“Not that I recall, sir,” I said.

“Well, it was her idea. . .”

“Sir?”

“My wife suggested that we invite my mother for a visit, and now she’s complaining because my mother wants to see everything in Washington.”

“Oh. Well, never having had a mother, that’s not a problem in my house,” I said.

“My wife and I have taken her about every place we can think of,” he continued, almost to himself, “and we are running out of ideas to keep her entertained. It’s getting to be sort of expensive taking her out to dinner every night, too.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” I replied.

“Do you have any ideas, sergeant?” he asked.

“No sir, I’m only a sergeant.”

“Well,” he continued, “If you had to take your mother out, where would you take her?”

“My base pay limits what I do for entertainment, sir.”

“Pretend that money wasn’t a problem,” he said.

“Has the colonel considered taking her to a movie?”

“A Movie? Gosh, I hadn’t thought of taking her to a movie,” he said. “Have you seen any good movies?”

“Yes sir, I saw one last weekend.”

“What was it?” he asked.

“M.A.S.H.,” I replied.

“What’s it about?”

“It’s a story about an Army medical service unit in the Korean War, sir.”

“Oh. I don’t think she’d like to see that kind of movie.”

“My wife and I enjoyed it,” I said. “It was a funny flick, but you’re probably right, sir.”

The following Monday (that would be star-date 254.10), the colonel came into the office and the first thing out of his mouth was, “Sergeant, remind me never to take your advice again.”

“I beg your pardon, Sir?”

“On your recommendation, I took my mother to see that movie,” he said.

“What movie, sir?”

“The M.A.S.H. movie,” he said.

“Oh. To be honest, sir, I don’t recall giving the colonel any advice. All I said was that I’d been to see it and it was a funny flick.”

“Humph,” he muttered looking at me somewhat angrily.

“So, Mom didn’t like it?” I asked.

“How could my mother enjoy a movie like that?” he asked, warming up to his tirade. “My God, how could any mother enjoy a movie like that? Didn’t I tell you my mother is in her eighties?”

“No, sir,” I said.

“Well, she couldn’t relate to the foul language and the nudity!” he emphasized.

“Sir, there was only one really bad word in the entire movie,” I said defensively.

“Right, and how surprising it was for her, me, and my wife that the word was f - - k,” he said.

“I believe the Colonel has correctly identified the word, sir,” I said.

“Well, let me just say that you make a lousy film-critic,” he said sitting down at his desk.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” I said, thinking to myself You could always keep your personal problems to yourself, you know.

Copyright, 2005

Relieved of Duty

Upon reporting to the 3rd Marine Division for duty, Lieutenant Colonel Martin learned that his duty assignment would be Deputy Camp Commander at Camp Schwab, located on the northern end of Okinawa. Martin, like every other infantry officer had hoped to be assigned as a battalion commander, so his job was disappointing. Nevertheless, good officers accept their fate and he reported to his new commanding officer with Val-pack and footlocker in tow. The drive to Camp Schwab was a long one, so it was late in the afternoon when Martin finally reported for duty.

In those days, officers commanding regiments also commanded the various camps on Okinawa. In this case, the Camp Commander also commanded the 9th Marines. He had two distinct staffs: one staff supported the infantry regiment, and the other supported all of the tasks associated with running an efficient camp. When Martin reported in for duty, he met with the Regimental Executive Officer (XO) who gave him a handshake and a short “welcome aboard” pitch, arranged to have Martin quartered for the night, and told Martin to report to the Regimental Commander the next morning.

In compliance with the Regimental XO’s guidance, Martin returned to the headquarters building the next morning. The XO asked him to take a seat in his office until the Commanding Officer had a moment to meet with him. Three hours later, he was finally ushered in to meet with his new commanding officer. Not known for his personality, the Regimental Commander permitted Martin to stand at attention while he gave him a few words of advice, which went something like this: “My primary task is to command the regiment. I do not have time, nor interest, in running this camp. That will be your responsibility — so don’t screw it up. If you need anything, see the Regimental XO. The less I see of you, and the less I hear of problems associated with the camp, the better I’ll like it. Do you understand my meaning?”

With that, Martin was dismissed from the august presence of the colonel of the regiment, and he returned to the Regimental XO’s office. “I suppose I should get started,” said Martin. “Can you show me to my office?”

“Well,” said the XO, “you don’t really have an office. Your predecessor used to work out of the maintenance department. I’ll ask the sergeant major to show you were that is.”

At this point, Martin was getting a little fed up with his treatment, so he reached around the XO’s desk and retrieved a copy of the Officer’s Blue Book, which recorded the seniority of all officers serving on active duty in the Marine Corps. He located his name, and then the Regimental XO’s name, and determined that he was the senior lieutenant colonel. Having established seniority in his own mind, he informed the Regimental XO that he would be creating an office space in the headquarters building and advised the XO to start thinking about where that office space might be located. Martin then proceeded to the maintenance building where he introduced himself to the Marines and Japanese supervisors who were primarily responsible for the operation of Camp Schwab.

Martin’s reception among the Japanese maintenance supervisors and Marine staff was much more gracious than it was with the regimental staff. A master sergeant led him to a single-pedestal desk located next to one of the secure storage bins, and explained that this would be Martin’s office. Colonel Martin was then provided with a thorough overview of matters relating to the camp. Since the briefing took most of the morning, a walk-through orientation was scheduled for the afternoon. Before leaving for noon-chow, however, a telephone call directed Martin to report to the Regimental Commander promptly at 1300 hours.

The afternoon meeting with the Regimental Commander was short and to the point. The colonel of the regiment informed Martin that he would not have an office at the regimental command post. Martin, like his predecessor, would perform his supervisory duties from the maintenance department. “Are there any questions?” the colonel asked.

“No, sir,” Martin replied.

The colonel of the regiment said, “You are already off on a bad footing with me, Colonel Martin. You should proceed carefully from this point on. You are dismissed.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” said Martin.

Martin left the headquarters building and returned to the maintenance department. A short while later, Colonel Martin was conducted on a tour of the Camp Schwab facilities; he was introduced to the people who had primary logistical responsibility for the camp, shown the location of various storage lots and warehouses, and briefed further about areas of concern. During the tour, Martin noticed a small concrete building located just inside the main-gate and sitting on the side of a hill, and he was told it was a storage building for telephones, wiring, and articles of that nature.

The next morning, Colonel Martin stopped by to see the Regimental XO and asked if there were any instructions for him, and he was told that there were none, and further, it was not necessary for him to “check in” with anyone so long as everything in camp was running smoothly. A few minutes later, Martin and his senior staff visited the small storage building located just inside the main gate, and after assurances that the electronic material could be relocated to a different storage site, Martin decided that he would make the building, which consisted of four rooms, his “command post.” The senior Japanese civilian supervisor agreed that it would be a suitable office for the Deputy Camp Commander and enthusiastically made plans to transform the building into a “showcase” of efficiency. Martin promised to stay out of the way while the civilians did their work.

A week later, Colonel Martin was taken to his new office by the Japanese supervisor. The building was painted, both inside and out, new carpet was laid, brand new furniture decorated the office spaces, and telephones installed. In particular, the Japanese civilian proudly introduced Martin to his new office, which had a general officer’s double-pedestal wood desk, matching credenza, an executive chair, a leather chair with matching divan, end tables, a coffee table, and several upscale bookcases. Martin was overwhelmed, of course. The next morning, the Deputy Camp Commander moved in to his new office space, along with a clerical assistant, the senior Marine, and the Japanese Civilian Supervisor.

Three weeks later, Colonel Martin received yet another summons to report to the colonel of the regiment. “I haven’t seen much of you lately, Martin,” said the colonel, “but I haven’t gotten any complaints either.”

“Yes, sir,” said Martin.

“I’d like to have a tour of the camp in the next day or so,” said the colonel of the regiment.

“Aye, aye, sir,” Martin replied.

“Set it up with my XO. You are dismissed.”

Over the next two days, Colonel Martin set up a dog-and-pony briefing for the regimental/camp commander in the maintenance building, and arranged a tour of the camp that was not unlike the one he had received himself. All principals were brought in, rehearsals of the event were conducted, and Martin was favorably impressed with everyone’s efforts and performance. The “tour” was scheduled for the next day.

After the briefing and tour of the camp, the Regimental/Camp Commander was returned to the maintenance building for a formal conclusion of the event. Lieutenant Colonel Martin saluted his superior and asked, “Does the Colonel have any questions or concerns?”

“Well, no . . .” said the Regimental/Camp Commander, “but I would like to see your new office. Why don’t you get your truck, and I’ll follow you to your office in my jeep.” Since Martin had never mentioned the existence of “his new office,” he concluded that the camp commander had his spies.

“Aye, aye, sir,” said Martin.

A few minutes later, the Regimental/Camp Commander was conducted inside the small concrete building just inside the main-gate on the side of a hill. The camp commander was instantly furious, but even more so when he noted that Colonel Martin’s desk was of general officer quality and far superior to his own. Barely able to keep a level voice pattern, the Regimental/Camp Commander said, “This is outrageous. I want this desk, and all this furniture taken to my headquarters immediately; this building is to be closed down, and you Colonel Martin will report to me at 1500 this afternoon.”

At three o’clock, Lieutenant Colonel Martin reported to the Regimental/Camp Commander as ordered. There, he found his recently appropriated office furniture and a very menacing looking full colonel sitting behind the desk previously used by himself. The Regimental/Camp Commander said, in a low but harsh voice, “I attempted to make it clear to you that you’re office spaces were to be in the maintenance building. You disobeyed a lawful order. Worse, you have insulted me, and undermined my position here at Camp Schwab. I haven’t decided whether I will file charges against you, but I’m thinking about it. I may even relieve you of your duties for cause, and this of course would result in an unsatisfactory fitness report. These possible actions, I think, will depend on how you perform you duties in the next few weeks. You are dismissed.”

Lieutenant Colonel Martin left the building an angry man. He had been treated poorly since his arrival at Camp Schwab, and it was eating at him. He took a walk around the camp for about an hour, stopping briefly at the beautiful recreational beach that overlooked the bay, and then decided on a course of action. With a short stop at the maintenance office, Martin proceeded to the Regimental XO’s office.

“You are aware of my meeting with the Regimental Commander, aren’t you?” he asked the XO.

“Yes, I am.”

“The problem colonel,” said Martin “is that I’m tired of being treated like a second-class officer. I didn’t ask for this assignment. I happen to be the senior lieutenant colonel at this location, and I intend to be treated accordingly.”

“Well, that’s between you and the regimental commander,” said the XO.

“So for starters,” Martin continued, “I will have an office space suitable to my rank and position. I think it would be appropriate to have an office in this building, and if there is not sufficient room elsewhere, then I‘ll share this office with you.”

“That is out of the question,” said the XO. “There are matters discussed here that are of no consequence to the running of the camp. Besides, this office isn’t large enough to accommodate two officers.”

“That won’t be a problem,” said Martin. “I can have it enlarged.” Martin briefly stepped into the passageway and returned with a sledgehammer. “We can start by taking out this wall.” He hefted the sledgehammer and, putting all of his weight into it, rendered a massive blow on the wall that separated the XO’s office from that of the Regimental Commander. The noise was deafening. Before the Regimental Commander could exit his office to find out what was going on, Martin let loose with two additional blows, which, consequently, created a shambles within the Regimental Commander’s office. Pictures were knocked off the walls, glass lay broken on the floor, and a vase had been knocked off a table sitting next to the wall.

Two days later, Lieutenant Colonel Martin assumed the duties as Executive Officer, Headquarters Battalion, 3rd Marine Division.

Copyright, 2005

The Biscuit

First to Fight isn’t just a Marine Corps slogan. In 1963, fighting was what enlisted Marines did, almost constantly. Officers do not fight because there are rules about striking “fellow officers.” They used to duel, but those days are long gone. No such prohibitions applied to enlisted Marines, though. Preferably, Marines would fight with a designated enemy of the United States, but if we were in a state of peace, then we would fight with soldiers (doggies), and if there weren’t any soldiers around, there was always the Navy. The problem with fighting with the Navy is that they are all trained in boxing as part of their boot-camp training regimen, which meant that sometimes, Marines had to forget about the Marquis of Queensberry rules. Marines never fought with Navy corpsmen, however. As far as we were concerned, corpsmen were entitled to our protection and we quite literally followed a strict “hands off” policy. When there were no doggies, no squids, or no “coasties” available, then Marines would fight among themselves.

I’ve seen Marines fight over girls, cars, and food. The worst fight I ever saw, however, in 29 years of military service, was the one that started between tankers and grunts over a biscuit. Our battalion had been in the field for ten days. We were dirty, we were tired, and we were generally pissed off. At the end of this particular day, we were very hungry. When we pulled back off our positions to bivouac for the night, we learned that hot chow had been trucked out to us, so there was keen interest in stowing our gear to fall in “for chow.” There were two chow lines, each of them moving inboard and meeting at the center. The Marines of Company G, Company H, and Alpha Tanks were moving in one line, and the Marines of H&S Company, Company E, and Company F, were moving through the other. By the time the last two companies made it through the chow lines, our company had already been fed. We were sitting on our packs, smoking cigarettes, with a front row seat when the fight broke out.

The fight started when the Marines from Alpha Tanks and Fox Company simultaneously learned that the mess line was out of biscuits. The biscuit tray was the last item of food in the line, and so it happened that when the mess sergeant said, “Sorry boys, no more biscuits,” the tankers and the grunts from “F” Company made a grab for the last biscuit. From where we were sitting, it looked like the tankers actually took possession of the biscuit before the Marines from Fox could get a hold of it. No sooner had one Marine grabbed the biscuit, two Marines piled on top of him in an attempt to get it away. Then the tankers, believing that an incident involving grand-theft biscuit had just occurred, made a mad dash for the pile of struggling Marines. Believe me, this was a terrific fight. It was, in true Marine Corps fashion, a fight to the death. Or rather, it would have been if the officer’s had stayed out of it.

The mass of tumbling, punching, kicking, biting, scratching, and yelling Marines moved as a gigantic tortoise from the chow line out into the dusty vehicle track in front of the mess tents. Some Marines disentangled themselves and limped or crawled away, but as soon as one Marine decided he had enough, another would run in to the mass of arms, legs, necks, and heads. Some Marines were even using foul language during the fray, if you can imagine that. Within a few moments of that initial assault, there is little doubt that the biscuit disintegrated into dust; either that, or one Marine shoved it in his mouth in order to establish firm ownership.

Within a few minutes, however, officers had weighed in to break up the fight. No doubt, some Marines might have decided this was a good opportunity to “mistakenly” punch a lieutenant, but as most of our officers were huge men, whoever did it was foolish. Officers started cracking heads together, shouting orders, and using language designed to calm everyone down, such as “Knock that shit off, Corporal Brighten, or I’ll lock your ass up.”

We heard later that the battalion commander had a piece of the mess sergeant’s ass for running out of biscuits, and that the mess sergeant promised to make up for it by bringing pudding out to us the next day. Which he did. But it was full of maggots, and Sergeant Jack was the only one who would eat any of it.



Copyright, 2005

Captain Kidd

The young lance corporal was tired of the Marine Corps. With only one year remaining until his separation from active duty, he decided military service just wasn’t his cup of tea. In the first place, he no longer wanted to be one of Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children. He no longer relished the life of adventure, travel to far off places, or the prospect of landing on foreign shore where he could display the manly art of close combat. What the lance corporal really wanted to do was open up a tattoo shop in Oceanside, California, drink beer for most of the day, and sleep in late with his girlfriend, Peggy Sue.

But the Marine Corps doesn’t care about the opinions of mere lance corporals because it is assumed that when you sign the old “John Hancock” on the enlistment contract, you’ll do basically what the Marine Corps wants you to do until the contract has been fulfilled. Thus, at the beginning of this story we arrive at an impasse: The irresistible force meeting the immovable object. The reader can decide which of these two forces was immoveable.

When Captain Kidd, who commanded one of the line companies in the 5th Marines, decided that the company would be going to the field for an entire week, the lance corporal (we’ll call him Binotts) decided that he wasn’t going. An "up-front" kind of guy, Lance Corporal Binotts informed his platoon sergeant that he wasn’t going to the field, and if anyone cared to look for him, he’d be at his Oceanside apartment until the company returned from it's training exercise.

Binott's revelation, however, caused Captain Kidd (not his real name) to meet with Lance Corporal Binotts, along with his platoon commander, to discuss the options — which were indeed few. Either Binotts could go with the company to the field the next morning, or Binotts could go into to pre-trial confinement at the Camp Pendleton Brig. Given those choices, Binotts agreed that it might be prudent to accompany his unit to the field.

The next morning, all hands fell out for formation attired in appropriate field uniforms and equipment, including Lance Corporal Binotts. However, on the way out to the boonies, Binotts gave the matter some additional thought and decided he would really rather be back in civilization than stepping on slithery critters in the field. When the unit halted for that evening’s bivouac, Binotts informed his platoon commander that he was heading back to main-side. Again, a short meeting was held with the company commander — but this time, Binotts was adamant. There was no way he intended to stay in the field another minute.

Accordingly, Captain Kidd called in the Company Gunnery Sergeant and ordered that Binotts be placed into pre-trial confinement. Lacking an appropriate stockade in the field, the Gunny tied Binotts to a tree for the night — pending a more satisfactory arrangment the next morning. Unfortunately, Binotts was a pretty good escape artist and he fled his bonds, quietly disappearing into the night. As a consequence, Binotts was listed as "UA" (on unauthorized absence) beginning at midnight, which was about the last time anyone saw Binotts.

After 30 days of unauthorized absence, Binotts was declared a deserter from the Marine Corps. In accordance with normal procedure, documents were published and distributed to local law enforcement authorities calling for his apprehension and return to military control. Within a few days, Binotts was arrested by the Oceanside Police Department and returned to his unit. After an evaluation of alleged violations of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, charges were filed against Lance Corporal Binotts for unauthorized absence from duty exceeding 30 days, and he was referred to a special court martial.

The court-martial proceeding revealed that not only had Captain Kidd illegally restrained Lance Corporal Binotts, but that Captain Kidd, having himself graduated from law school and become a member of the Bar, acted improperly as an officer of the court. Consequently, all charges against Lance Corporal Binotts were dismissed, and Captain Kidd was censured for his use of illegal restraint.

I'm sure there is a moral to this story; I just can’t think of what it is. Leave a comment if you can think of one.


Copyright, 2005

Le Fleur’s Investigation

A few days in advance of the official holiday period, the command element of the 4th Marine Division traditionally hosted a Christmas party on behalf of the officers and selected civilian employees of the command. To suggest that it was a party in the sense that everyone enjoyed themselves would be a misstatement, however. The problem was that there were two distinct groups of officers: active duty regular officers, and active duty reserve officers. Most regular Marines held little regard for their reservist counterparts, and it would be fair to say that there was no love lost among the reservists for the regular Marines. Consequently, there were three “party groups.” The Commanding General and his support staff formed one group, to which a sprinkling of officers could be expected to visit during the course of the party, and then of course the regular and reserve groups. As soon as it was practicable to do so, most regular Marines left the party because, honestly, they weren’t enjoying themselves.

Another tradition, forced on attendees, was the anonymous exchange of gifts. There was a rule that the gifts should not exceed ten or so dollars, and it was the responsibility of the donor to wrap and address presents deposited under a fake Christmas bush, which only stood about a foot tall. As the officers and their ladies arrived at the site selected for the party, each would approach the tree, deposit the gift, and then migrate to their particular social group.

Sadly, the gift intended for the general’s personal secretary was extremely inappropriate and embarrassing, for her, for those standing next to her when she opened it, and for the commanding general. To suggest that the division commander was angry about such childishness would be an understatement.

The next morning, as a consequence to the childish prank, the general directed Colonel Le Fleur to conduct an informal investigation to determine the identification of the individual who donated the inappropriate gift, and since the donation was clearly “conduct unbecoming an officer,” to make recommendations with respect to appropriate disciplinary action. Since the task was assigned directly to Colonel Le Fleur by the general personally, he embarked on his mission with great zeal — otherwise he would have found someone else to do it.

It may be safe to conclude that the last time Colonel Le Fleur conducted an informal investigation was when Moby Dick was a minnow. He had no clue how to proceed past the moment when the general gave him the tasking, so as usual he summoned Major Jim Milligan, his staff secretary to his office.

“Major Milligan, I have been assigned as the investigating officer on last night’s incident,” he said.

“And what incident would that be, sir?”

Rollin his eyes, Le Fleur said, “Were you at the party last night, Major?”

“No, sir. Thank you for noticing.”

“Oh. Well, some asshole gave the general’s secretary a tube of lipstick that resembled a penis,” Le Fleur said.

“No shit?” said Milligan laughing.

“This isn’t funny, Major,” Le Fleur admonished.

“The hell it isn’t, sir,” said Milligan.

“In any case, the General has directed me to conduct an investigation to find out the name of the miserable little prick who gave it to her.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Well, I’m not sure how to do an investigation,” said Le Fleur.

“Yes sir?”

“Do you have any suggestions?”

“Resign in disgrace, sir?”

“What?”

“The colonel might want to consult with the Staff Judge Advocate, sir.”

“Good idea, Milligan. Ask him to come down to see me please,” Le Fleur ordered.

Fifteen minutes later, the Staff Judge Advocate (SJA), a lieutenant colonel with 24 years of active service, reported to the Chief of Staff. Colonel Le Fleur told the SJA that the Commanding General assigned him to conduct an investigation into the alleged misconduct of a member of the command, specifically, the incident involving the inappropriate Christmas gift given to the Commanding General’s secretary. He told the SJA that he did not remember how to conduct an investigation and asked for guidance.

For the next hour, the SJA went over the procedures for conducting an investigation, including reference materials to guide him through the process. He outlined the three main parts of the investigation (findings of fact, opinions, and recommendations) and he also spent a great deal of time explaining how Le Fleur should approach “parties to the investigation.” In particular, the SJA helped him to make a distinction between interviewing witnesses and questioning suspects, the importance of providing Miranda Warnings, taking statements, and so on. At the conclusion of the SJA’s overview, he asked Colonel Le Fleur if he had any questions.

“No, Colonel . . . I think I have a good understanding of what I’m supposed to do. If I get stuck along the way, can I rely on you for assistance?” Le Fleur said.

“Of course, but only as long as you do not try to include me as part of the investigation because it will be my duty to review the investigation at a later time and make suggestions to the Commanding General as to a proper course of action,” said the SJA.

“Fine,” said Le Fleur. “Thank you for your time. You may go.”

After Le Fleur received a list of party attendees from Major Milligan, as taken from the memory of the Commanding General’s Aide-de-Camp, Colonel Le Fleur began calling each attendee in alphabetical sequence. It just so happens that the SJA was the first name on the list.

“Staff Judge Advocate’s office, Corporal Fischer speaking sir.”

“This is Colonel Le Fleur. Put Colonel Arrington on the phone.”

“This is Colonel Arrington, how may I help you sir?” the SJA answered

“Colonel Arrington, this is Colonel Le Fleur.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I have been assigned to conduct an investigation into the possible misconduct of a member of the command,” said Le Fleur.

“Yes, I know.”

“It is possible that you may be suspected of misconduct.”

“Really?”

“What?”

“Really? You suspect me of misconduct?” asked the SJA.

“Well, we’ll see,” said Le Fleur.

“Okay,” said the SJA laughing.

“Colonel, this is not a laughing matter. It is necessary that I now advise you of your rights pursuant to Article 31, Uniform Code of Military Justice.”

“Okay,” said the SJA, pushing on his “speaker” button and motioning to his deputy to listen in.

“You have the right to remain silent, and . . . uh . . . you have the right not to answer my questions, and . . . you have the right to . . . uh . . . consult with an attorney before answering any of my questions. You also have the right to answer my questions now, and to stop answering questions at any time to consult with an attorney. If you demand an attorney, one will be provided to you at no expense, or . . . uh . . . you can hire an attorney to represent you at your own expense. Did I get that right, Colonel?”

“Not bad, sir,” said Arrington.

“Good. So. Well, do you wish to consult with an attorney, or do you wish to answer my questions.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“God damn it, that’s No SIR!” growled Le Fleur.

“No, sir,” Arrington repeated.

“Uh . . . now, did you mean ‘no’ about consulting with an attorney, or ‘no’ about answering my questions?”

“I meant ‘no’ to both questions, sir,” said Arrington.

“Oh. Why not?” asked Le Fleur.

“Why not what, sir?”

“Why don’t you want to answer my questions?” Le Fleur clarified.

“You aren’t allowed to ask me that,” said Arrington.

“I’m not?”

“No, sir.”

“Oh. So then you don’t want to answer my questions?” Le Fleur repeated.

“Correct, sir.”

“Well, what do I do now?” asked Le Fleur.

“Hang up, Colonel,” said Arrington.

“Okay. Goodbye.”

The Le Fleur investigation lasted for more than three weeks. In that time, he attempted to question every officer assigned to the 4th Marine Division headquarters, whether or not they had attended the Christmas Party. Not a single officer agreed to answer any of Le Fleur’s questions. The identity of the person who gave the inappropriate gift to the Commanding General’s private secretary is still a mystery to this very day . . . well, except to one individual, anyway.

In Memoriam

Although I’ve never met you sir, I highly respect you for your accomplishments. Rest in peace, Colonel David Hackworth, United States Army. You were Semper Fidelis.

.

Mustang out . . .

Flight to Hawaii

It was my privilege to serve under Brigadier General James E. Sniffen, U. S. Marine Corps as his Assistant Chief of Staff, G-1, at the 1st Force Service Support Group located at Camp Pendleton, California, (1985—1987). One day, the General called me on the phone and instructed me to arrange temporary duty orders and travel arrangements for himself, his aide-de-camp, the Group Operations Officer, and myself to make a command visit to Fleet Marine Force, Pacific (FMFPac) headquarters in Hawaii. He said that I needed to plan on a trip of about three days, and directed that I set it up for the next week depending upon the schedules of those with whom we were to meet.

The flight arrangements placed the General and his party on a commercial aircraft departing from San Diego. Since commercial transportation restrictions precluded general officers from traveling in first class accommodations, the General was seated in the back of the aircraft along with everyone else. To afford the General with as much privacy and convenience as possible, he was offered, and accepted, an isle seat next to his aide, in the center section. I ended up, along with the Operations Officer, in the seating that offered a window, with me sitting on the aisle in the row behind the General.

It wasn’t long into the flight when I noticed that there was a lady traveling with three children, ages somewhere between 7 and 12. The lady, assumed to be the mother of these children, sat in the row in front of her children, and her children were sitting in the row immediately in front of General Sniffen and his aide. As the flight attendant offered beverages, I noticed that the lady made several purchases of two bottles each, and that she consumed her cocktail with great relish, although “swill” might be a better description. In any case, it wasn’t long before the children, being completely unsupervised, started throwing a toy back and forth among them selves; and it wasn’t long after that before the toy was being shared with all the other passengers in the immediate area, including General Sniffen.

I got up from my seat, approached the General, and asked if he would prefer to take my seat, thereby removing himself from the line of fire of the errant children. He gladly accepted my offer and we switched seating. The first time the toy landed on my head, I grabbed it and refused to give it back until the older of the kids promised to “settle down.” Nevertheless, the brats continued making a commotion during the course of the entire flight.

When we arrived in Hawaii, and the aircraft had taxied to the specified arrival gate, as is the custom in America, everyone got up from their seats to wait their turn in exiting the aircraft. While we were standing there, the mother of these kids, who by this time was barely able to stand unassisted, turned around to gather the breed around her. I said, “Excuse me ma’am, but I just want to say that I think you must be a remarkable person.”

“I beg your pardon?” she replied.

“What you are doing is a wonderful act of compassion,” I said.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” she slurred.

“Well, not too many people would voluntarily escort a bunch of retarded kids to Hawaii. You are to be congratulated.”

“My children aren’t retarded,” she said through clenched teeth.

Before the conversation could proceed further, the exit line opened up and she pushed her brood down the aisle, looking back at me once. As they say, if looks could kill . . .

During the exchange, I didn’t realize that General Sniffen was standing directly behind me. As the lady huffed off down the aisle, the General leaned forward and said, “Way to go, Howie . . . you just set Marine Corps public relations back a hundred years.”

Copyright, 2005

Drill Instructor

I would like to tell the story of my Marine Corps drill instructors. I would like to be able to say that they were the stoutest, bravest, most competent, and the most endearing of all my acquaintances in nearly 29 years of active military service. I can’t do that. What I can say, however, is that my Boot Camp experience, as with that of any other Marine, has not faded from my memory after more than 42 years. There may not be a greater testament to the significance of Marine Corps recruit training than that.

I arrived at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot with a busload of other recruits in the early morning hours of April 25, 1963. The chatter among these recruits was lively, and everyone optimistic about the transition from young civilian to Marine. Since my stepfather was a Marine, I knew exactly what to expect. For example, I knew that this would be one of my life’s toughest challenges, but mentally and physically, I was prepared to meet my drill instructors and for the training that I would incur. As the bus stopped just outside the receiving barracks somewhere between midnight and 1 o’clock a.m., the bus had become so quiet that you could have heard a pin drop on the rubber-coated floor. A drill in-structor (DI) got on the bus, looked down the aisle to find thirty or forty faces staring back at him. The DI began shouting orders at us . . . and all our optimism, along with my self-confidence evaporated like the snap of a brittle twig. He was clearly the ugliest, foulest talking individual I have ever seen, even to this very day. The infamous “Freddy Kruger” had nothing on this man.

The DI herded us into the receiving barracks, and we formed a line in front of a waste can. Now, sur-rounded by what seemed to be hundreds of drill instructors, all of whom were barking at us like rabid dogs, the DI’s relieved us of all contraband. I had taken nothing with me to boot camp, other than my military dependent’s identification card, but it was confiscated. Some recruits carried weapons with them, such as knives of various lengths; one recruit carried a sap — all such things seized. Recruit’s wallets were also examined; anyone in possession of a condom was required to unravel it while being berated by the DIs for being in possession of such a disgusting article, and “What did you think you were going to do with a rubber at MCRD Parris Island? Are you one of those queers?” One or two drill instructors took the condoms and pulled them down over a few recruit’s heads. And had these goings-on not petrified us, it might have been funny. It is funny now, but it certainly wasn’t then.

Some aspects of initial processing at Parris Island are but a blur today. For example, while I remember a couple of hours of sleep after our initial chastisement, I do not remember eating breakfast the next morning. I am sure we had breakfast — I just don’t remember it. I do remember the haircuts, showers, and the line to receive our initial clothing. I recall the psychological testing where recruits were told to draw the picture of a woman, and I remember wondering if such a task was some sort of trick to find out if anyone was queer. Just to be on the safe side, I drew a stick woman with big tits.

Initially, Platoon 223, 2nd Recruit Training Battalion, Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island, South Carolina had three drill instructors. They were Sergeant Schweingruber, Sergeant Winston, and Corporal Barker. Schweingruber always seemed a little strange; he had a look in his eye, communicating something wasn’t right. Sergeant Winston was a black Marine who carried himself with military bearing and an air of dignity; he had the ability to look right through a recruit. Corporal Barker was a mean little prick who liked to knee recruits in the groin; someone even suggested that he probably kicked his wife in the balls, too. We hated him, which is not to say that we ever gave him any trouble. We may have been recruits, but we weren’t stupid.

It might be humorous to claim that the recruits of Platoon 223 came up with clever names for our drill instructors, such as Hughie, Dewey, and Louie, or Manny, Moe, and Jack, but the truth is that we were not at all inclined to be cavalier. We didn’t have the time for humor, and quite honestly, there were few, if any, funny moments at Boot Camp. It was a serious business, and as recruits, we had few opportunities for intellectual reflection. We achieved every task at “double time,” and a barking, threatening drill instructor was our constant companion. We were convinced that our DIs had eyes in the back of their heads, or maybe extra-sensory perception. They noticed every mistake, and this gave us opportunities to learn new ways to contort the human body as a form of punishment.

At the rifle range, many weeks later, we picked up another DI – Sergeant Nicolopolis. He was the only one of the four I ever saw after graduating from Boot Camp, years later. He was then a sergeant major assigned to one of the gun squadrons at Marine Aircraft Group 11. Nicolopolis knew my stepfather, so unfortunately he took an interest in me. He was on my ass almost from his first day with our platoon, and on one occasion, he and I had a private meeting at which I learned the importance of following orders, without deviation.

It is hard to imagine that Boot Camp for Platoon 223 lasted fourteen weeks. Our graduation parade, however, was one of my life’s proudest moments. It wasn’t that I had survived a major ordeal; rather, it was that I had earned the title of United States Marine. It was a rite of passage, from that of worth-less civilian to becoming a member of our country’s toughest military organization. I was proud that my stepfather was present in the reviewing stands; Sergeant Nicolopolis was the only DI to shake my hand after the graduation ceremony, as the other three disappeared into the crowd once we were “dismissed” from the ranks.

Of course, one might ask why I would ever want to go through such an ordeal. The answer is really quite simple: Graduating from Boot Camp is the only way one can become a Marine, and being a Marine is all I ever wanted to be.

Copyright, 2005

Private Ford

The 2nd Battalion, 8th Marines is an infantry battalion. It's mission in combat is to locate, close with, and destroy the enemy by fire and maneuver. It makes sense, then, that the majority of Marines assigned to the battalion would be “grunts,” and that unit training would consist mainly of combat training. Combat training takes place in the field, and so in 1963 the Marines of 2/8 spent the clear majority of their time in the field on training exercises that ranged from squad, platoon, company tactics to firing weapons on the ranges located aboard Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. Grunts love being in the field because there is less “mickey mouse” than, say, being back in garrison. In garrison, the likelihood of a grunt getting into trouble increases significantly.

Private Ford had been a Marine for eight years. He was a rifleman, designation 0311, attached to the 1st squad, 3rd Platoon, Echo Company, 2/8. Private Ford looked like a soup sandwich with legs, hardly ever in compliance with uniform regulations, which was the reason why the NCOs conspired to keep him hidden from the officers. His utility shirt seldom tucked inside his trousers, his military alignment was askew, and he wore his hat on the side of his head ala train engineer. Nevertheless, Ford could be depended on to do his duty (but not one more thing) and people more or less left him alone.

In addition to his other weaknesses, Private Ford had very little patience with officers. He once remarked, "Well if that's what you get after four years of college, forget it." He tolerated his NCOs and usually followed his orders, even if not as fast as others wanted him to. One day, Private Ford was working on company embarkation gear when a new supply sergeant decided that Private Ford (a) didn’t know what he was doing, and (b) wasn’t doing it fast enough to suit him. Initially, the sergeant was pleasant as he tried to explain to Private Ford what he was doing wrong, but Private Ford wasn’t having any of that.

Private Ford said, “Look, you a**hole, I’ve been doing it this way for eight long years, so I don’t think that I need too much supervision from you.” The fastest way to get on the bad side of an NCO is to call him bad names, so now the sergeant had his dander up and he ordered Ford to assume the position of attention. To Private Ford, the position of attention was something between standing vertically straight, and a ten-degree list to port, but worse, Private Ford didn’t think the sergeant had the right to make him stand at attention, allowing that the sergeant wasn’t an officer.

Eventually, the First Sergeant heard the racket and went to see what had transpired. Private Ford was charged with disrespect to an NCO, and failure to obey a lawful order. At nonjudicial punishment, Private Ford’s sentence was two weeks of correctional custody and forfeiture of $20.00 a month for two months. He once told me, “You know, the beauty of being a private is that the bastards can’t bust you in rank.”

Marines serving in correctional custody often work on the “road detail,” which involves picking up trash, cutting the grass, and trimming bushes. It happens that Private Ford was working just outside the Battalion headquarters, guarded by two MPs, trimming bushes, when a brand new second lieutenant walked past him on the sidewalk. Noticing that the Marine was wearing his hat on the side of his head, the lieutenant approached Private Ford, who came to his rendition of the position of attention and rendered the most casual of all possible salutes. “Why are you wearing your cover (hat) on the side of your head, Private?”

“Well lieutenant, when the sun is over here,” he said, pointing, “I wear my hat on this side. But when the sun is over there, I wear my hat on the other side.” The now piqued lieutenant said sternly, “That’s a pretty salty answer, Marine. What is your name?”

“Ford.”

“Ford?” asked the lieutenant. “Well, is that General Ford, or Admiral Ford?”

Rolling his eyes in a manner that could only be described as “silent contempt,” Private Ford said, “You officers are getting dumber by the bushel. You ever see a general or an admiral on a prison detail?”

In those days, court-martial proceedings were conducted by two officers who were not lawyers, one for the prosecution and one for the defense, under the supervision of a judge advocate who was a certified lawyer. Private Ford's attorney (a first lieutenant) did his best to defend his client, and might have actually succeeded in doing so had he not put Private Ford on the witness stand in his own defense. In explaining his "salty" remark to the second lieutenant, Private Ford said, "Honestly sir, I thought that if the lieutenant was so stupid to ask me a question like that, he deserved an equally stupid answer."

Private Ford’s court-martial directed a bad conduct discharge after serving two months of confinement at hard labor.

Copyright, 2005

Why Filibuster?

A tactic used to block legislation, the filibuster (from a Dutch word for “pirate”) occurs when a member of the Senate stands at the podium in the well of the Senate and speaks without stopping until he or she can be assured that passage of a bill has been defeated. Originally used by both houses of Congress, in time the membership of the House of Representatives reached a level where it was necessary to limit debate. In the Senate, however, the right to debate remained unchecked until in 1917 when “Rule 22,” (Cloture) allowed for the end of filibuster by a 2/3 majority vote of the Senate.

Both political parties have used the filibuster tactic with varying degrees of success, and some of America’s most interesting political personalities hold “records” for the longest use of this tactic. For example, Huey P. Long filibustered to block bills that favored the rich over the poor. In the past, Senate democrats have used the filibuster to block civil rights legislation. In fact, the record goes to Strom Thurmond who stood in the well for 24 hours and 18 minutes for that very purpose in 1957.

The question remains, however—why filibuster? Aren’t senators elected to do the business of the people who elected them? Why is it necessary for any elected representative to Congress to block legislative activity? Some argue that filibusters prevent “tyranny of the majority” domination in the Senate; others insist that the entire concept of American democracy demands compromise—that is, to find workable solutions in a politically divided house.

Currently, Senator Majority Leader Bill Frist (R, Tennessee) is arguing for an “up or down” vote on presidential nominees for judicial appointments. Supporting Senator Frist, the American Center for Law and Justice claims that the Frist proposal is both sensible and constitutional. Democrats, on the other hand are screaming “foul.” They insist that it is every senator’s right to filibuster to prevent matters from reaching the floor of the senate; they claim that Republicans are being hypocrites because they blocked judicial nominees during the Clinton years.

Okay . . . back to the original question. Shouldn’t Senator’s be doing the work for which elected? How is obstructionism, or gridlock doing the will of the people? Enough is enough—there is nothing wrong with asking senators to cast votes either for or against a judicial nominee. The argument that the filibuster protects a minority party's voice in the senate may be true, but it seems to me that the electoral process is working as intended. The people have decided who their representatives are, and as usual, one party becomes dominant over the other. It is up to the Senate to work out solutions on behalf of the American people. Democrats should stop whining (although they do not have a monopoly on cry-baby tactics) and move forward doing the work they are being paid to do.

The Frist proposal seems to be a reasonable solution. Please, let’s get on with it.

Copyright, 2005

Immigration Reform

For an excellent discussion of the costs to taxpayers from illegal immigration, please take a moment or two to visit the Federation for American Immigration Reform. A study conducted by Rice University's Dr. Donald Huddle, reveals costs exceeding $20 billion annually. What can the average reader do about this? Simple: flood members of Congress with demands for immigration reform and hold them accountable during the next election.

Failure to learn, or failure to teach?

Today, in the “can it possibly get any dumber than this” category, we are going to explore the relationship between an instructor pilot and a student pilot. Why? Because we now know that it is possible for a licensed pilot to sue his instructor and/or the flight school he or she attended whenever the dumb-ass flips the aircraft on a set of high-tension wires.

Huh?

Bobby Ray received his private-pilot’s license (single-engine) after completing ground school and flight hours as required by the federal government. As a rated pilot, Bobby Ray then decided he wanted to pursue a multi-engine rating, so he re-enrolled in flight school. During the solo flight of a multi-engine aircraft, which means that Bobby Ray was the sole occupant of an aircraft with more than one engine, he ran into weather conditions that resulted in severe down drafts. Because Bobby Ray’s father was also his uncle, his altitude was such that the down draft caused his plane to snag a power line, resulting in a very bad accident. It is sufficient to hypothesize that if Bobby Ray is still flying today, he’s doing it with the angels.

Bobby Ray’s wife, who also happened to be his sister, sued the flight school. She claimed that it was the school's responsibility to tell Bobby Ray about the kinds of weather conditions that might cause him to lose altitude. The flight school made several good arguments. First, Bobby Ray was a qualified pilot, which meant that Bobby Ray had attended ground school and should have known that (a) flying below the minimum ceiling is inherently dangerous, and (b) certain weather conditions may cause an aircraft to lose altitude without warning. Second, since Bobby Ray was flying solo, the flight school could not exercise any cockpit supervision.

And the courts decided . . . ? If you said “against the flight school,” you would be correct. Believe it or not, the court actually found that even thought there was no supervisory pilot in the aircraft with Bobby Ray, (which is the definition of solo flight, by the way) the flight school was still responsible for ensuring that Bobby Ray understood about weather conditions, minimum flight ceilings, and the existence of high tension wires.

Now pretend for a moment that Bobby Ray actually had an offspring who attended Phil’s Driving School and subsequently obtained his driver’s license from the state of Oklahoma. Following the logic of the court, if Junior (age 18) drove his car into the side of a speeding locomotive, the driving school would be liable for that accident. But, what if Bobby Ray Junior failed to pass the state’s high school graduation test, could he sue the school district or any of his teachers? Um . . . no.

Why the double standard? Could it be that if everyone who failed to learn sued their former school district, all school systems in the United States would go bankrupt? Americans are always looking for someone else to pay for their own stupid mistakes, and many are getting rich doing it, too. Sadly, the courts reinforce this mentality through their idiotic decisions.

Copyright, 2005

USMC Basic Laws of Combat

1. You are not superman.

2. Suppressive fires -- won't.

3. If it's stupid but works, it isn't stupid.

4. Don't look conspicuous -- it draws fire.

5. When in doubt, empty the magazine.

6. Never share a fighting hole with anyone braver than you are.

7. Never forget your weapon was made by the lowest bidder.

8. If your attack is going really well, it's an ambush.

9. No plan survives the first contact.

10. All five second grenade fuses will burn down in three seconds.

11. Try to look unimportant -- the enemy might have excess ammo.

12. If you are forward of your position, the artillery will fall short.

13. The enemy diversion you are ignoring is the main attack.

14. The important things are always simple.

15. The simple things are always hard.

16. The easy way is always mined.

17. Don't forget your mission just because you're up to your ass in enemy combatants.

18. When you have secured an area, don't forget to tell the enemy.

19. Incoming fire has the right-of-way.

20. Never shoot to wound -- it just pisses the enemy off.

21. Anything worth shooting once is worth shooting twice.

22. If the enemy is in range, so are you.

23. Friendly fire - isn't.

24. Things that must be together to work usually can't be shipped together.

25. Radios will fail as soon as you call for suppressive fires.

26. Anything you do can get you shot -- including doing nothing.

27. If you make it too tough for the enemy to get in you can't get out

28. Tracers work BOTH ways.

29. When you call for air support, make sure it's Marine Air -- otherwise, take cover.

30. When you're low on ammunition, fix bayonets.

31. Amateur fighters are the most unpredictable.

32. Never follow a 2nd Lieutenant who is not accompanied by an NCO.

33. Any significant military action will occur at the junction of two or more map sheets.

34. The faster the fight is over, the less shot you will get.

35. The best plans never work; have a back-up plan.

Alarming Data

If parents are not presently alarmed by school violence, they should be. According to statistical information provided by Baltimore Public Schools, reported in the Baltimore Sun, the number of serious incidents in schools increased by 160% from the school year beginning 2002—2003, and ending with the school year in 2003—2004. Of the 28 schools, thirteen were middle schools, and 15 were high school level schools, including academies, alternative schools, and vo-tech campuses. The alarming breakdown looks like this:

Percentage increase in serious incidents: Middle Schools 145%; High Schools 180%

Overall, two schools actually experienced a decrease in serious incidents, defined as assaults, robbery, arson, possession of weapons, destruction of property, disorderly or disruptive behavior, and vandalism. Yet, by any standard, 120 serious incidents involving middle school students (grades 6, 7, and 8 in most jurisdictions) is a significant problem. Does it occur to anyone else that “criminal conduct” is occurring among younger children every year?

Among high school students, 137 serious incidents is also alarming. I am not able to determine overall school population, or whether school administrations addressed these “serious” incidents in an appropriate way. But I think it is fair to say without fear of contradiction that public schools have become much more than centers of learning and enlightenment. How long will taxpayers continue to put up with bad children, who pose a real and present danger to other students? How long will loving parents continue to place their own children in harms way in America’s public school campuses?

Most officials believe that expulsion is not a viable solution to disciplinary hard-cases among student populations because kicking them out of school just gives them opportunities to break the law in a less-controlled environment. What this means is that as a matter of public policy, it is better to endanger well-behaved students than to tie up police officers with expelled students.

What ever happened to “reform” schools? Hello, America—is anyone listening? Isn’t it time that parents and taxpayers stopped deluding themselves and started insisting on meaningful changes to what is going on within the public school system? According to the Baltimore Sun, serious incidents at the Francis M. Wood Alternative High School increased 250%; perhaps “alternative” schools aren’t working very well after all. For starters, we should stop lying about the facilities developed at the taxpayer’s expense. Do not call in-school suspension “behavior adjustment centers” if poor behavior isn’t adjusted.

Since we are talking about criminal behavior, it would be appropriate to apply the “three strikes and you’re out” policy to misbehaving students. What should happen to students who strike out?

My recommendation would be to do away with “alternative schools” altogether, and reinstitute REFORM schools. The term reform school suggests that the purpose of the institution is to modify unsavory behavior. At the same time, lessons should continue in this “less-than-friendly” environment. Reform school students should not be allowed to go home at night, and social contact with other bad eggs should be limited as much as possible. A reform school should be as close to boot camp, or correctional custody, as possible. There are plenty of former military drill instructors available to correct that over-abundance of self-esteem kids seem to have these days, and if local magistrates are needed in order to impose such strictures, then so be it.

Copyright, 2005

Russia is Russia

According to the (London) Times, Russia’s security service has demanded the implementation of tighter controls over the use of the Internet, needed in order to stop to flow of extremist ideas. The security service spokesman said there is a danger that extremists could use the Internet to “mobilize political forces against the authorities of the state.”

According to the article, “many Russian officials regard upheavals in Ukraine and Georgia as Western backed coups designed to erode Moscow’s sphere of influence.” But even the director of “Human Rights Watch” (Moscow) doesn’t seem to get it. In response to the move to restrict the internet, Sasha Petrov said, “This is one of the few remaining outlets for open discussion about society, the direction of the country, the Government. If these measures are imposed, they will have a very chilling effect. Such proposals might be a good idea in the West, where civil society is strong, but they could be a catastrophe here.”

How could censorship policies be beneficial to any society? Ever xenophobic, it is entirely possible that the greatest danger to Russia’s sphere of influence, and its internal security, is none other than the Russian state. What does President Putin stand to gain by censoring the news media — and more to the point, what does he stand to lose? Russia is Russia, yes?

Is Washington Devoid of Moral Responsibility?

Tim Weiner of the New York Times (14 April 2005) reported in “A New Call to Arms: Military Health Care” there is a battle taking shape within the Pentagon involving those who advocate more money for equipment, those who argue more money for the troops, and those who seek to protect military retirees from losing their health care entitlements. Mr. Weiner does a good job of covering the various aspects of the dilemma, but the lightly informed — anyone who graduated from an American public school — are only getting a portion of the story.

No matter what the costs for military health care, the United States government made a commitment to provide life time health benefits to those who answered the call for a standing military following World War II. Now, as America’s older warriors get to that point in their lives when they become infirm, the Government Accounting Office wants to cut costs by reducing pledged benefits. In order to accomplish this, pentagon staffers such as William Winkenwerder and Dr. David Chu, who is no friend of the American Veteran, would sacrifice retiree health care for bullets and bombs, even when there is no direct link between the two.

According to David Walker, head of the Government Accounting Office (GAO), Tri-Care for Life is on the list of assurances offered to elderly veterans, but it is costing more than one-trillion dollars a month. He said that last year “was arguably the worst year in our fiscal history.”

Does Mr. Walker suggest that health care for veterans is the cause of Washington’s fiscal problems? If he is suggesting that, he probably shouldn’t be the head of the GAO. Mr. Weiner said that in order to avoid making painful choices, Washington has opted for deficit spending. The reader will note that whenever Washington makes “painful choices,” it is usually painful for people living outside of the beltway. Whatever the choices, they must not be painful to America’s retired warriors.

But Mr. Weiner misspoke when he reported, “The money [for retiree health care] comes directly out of the Pentagon's budget for active-duty soldiers.” This simply isn't true. The Department of Defense provides a line-item budget where active duty expenditures are separate from anticipated spending in support of military retiree health care. In addition, planned expenditures are broken down into very specific categories, so any argument that active duty forces are denied needed materials because of retiree expenditures is patently false.

By its passage of “Tri-Care for Life,” Congress is forcing the Department of Defense to request more money for veterans. Since veterans are of no further use to the Department – which is a ridiculous assumption of its own choosing, the Department of Defense considers veterans to be a drain on its operating budget. It is pure poppycock and speaks volumes about the morality of some of the Pentagon’s high officials.

According to David Chu, Defense Secretary Rumsfeld is “very concerned with the growth” of new benefits and entitlements “that accrue principally to those who’ve left service, especially the retired community. The nation adopted them for good reasons, but they are causing a significant cost issue for future defense budgets.”

Dr. Chu regularly misleads taxpayers and lawmakers. What are the costs of today’s average soldier when compared with the costs of today’s average veteran? If Dr. Chu is going to make such an argument, shouldn’t we see the percentage of growth in the cost of a single veteran compared with that of the percentage of growth in the cost of a single active duty soldier?

This country made a commitment to its veterans; blaming them for Washington's fiscal mess is ridiculous. My advice for Mr. Rumsfeld and his hit man David Chu would be to stop telling Americans that active duty forces cannot obtain bullets and bombs because of military retiree health care costs. It just isn’t so.

Copyright, 2005