Panama Bound

As the Marines of Company E boarded the USS Suffolk County (LST 1173), I noticed that most of the heavy equipment had already been loaded. Sitting in the center (well deck) of the ship was an array of landing vehicles and cargo trucks. Top-side, there were pallets of Marine Corps gear contained in mount-out boxes, covered with canvas tarpaulin, and more trucks. We filed aboard ship in columns of files by platoon, led to our birthing spaces by the Platoon Sergeant. Once assigned to a particular space, Sergeant Jack, our squad leader, assigned us to racks that were stacked 8 high. “Secure your gear to the foot of these racks,” we were told, “other-wise squids will steal everything you’ve got.” As soon as we stowed our sea bags and 782-gear, we surrendered our rifles to an armory that had been established on the next deck down. Then, we returned to our birthing spaces to hear an orientation lecture by a Chief Petty Officer, who gave us information about “do’s and don’ts” aboard ship. I should have listened more carefully.

Suffolk County was a flat-bottomed ship, so designed to enable it to move close to shore, where Marines and equipment could be off-loaded to the beach via metal causeways, connected by the ship’s company that extended from the bow of the ship to the beach. Emphasis on flat-bottomed ship, which suggests that it tended to roll a lot in the ocean surf. And, as large as the ship seemed to us at first, it was tightly packed with Marines, equipment, and the ship’s company. In addition to Echo Company, other Marine attachments were embarked on Suffolk County, including a platoon of tanks, trucking, Amphibious Tractors, and communicators. Looking back, I’m surprised that we didn’t trip over one another or that there were not serious clashes in the “chow line.”

We departed Morehead City, North Carolina in early February, the initial excitement of going aboard ship among the boots, myself included, dissipated somewhat before arriving in Coco Solo, Panama around the 24th. It was a fantastic trip, actually, but there isn’t a lot for Marines to do aboard ship. We played cards, read books, explored the ship, or spent time looking over the horizon from the ship’s bow or stern. It was a privilege to witness the most beautiful sunsets, sunrises, and star filled skies I have ever seen, either before, or since. Occasionally, we were allowed to shoot skeet from the fan-tail, but we mostly had to stay out of the way of the working sailors whose job it was to maintain the ship. There were regular “abandon ship” drills, “general quarters” exercises, and ship’s live fire exer-cises. As I’m sure that the reader can figure out the purpose of the “abandon ship” drills, there is nothing more to be said about that; but the general-quarters drills were really a vital part of combat readiness and one of those things I should have listened more carefully to during our orientation.

When the ship’s captain orders “general quarters,” it means that all hands are to report to their combat stations, man their posts, and that all compartments are sealed by the ship’s water-tight doors (in Navy parlance, hatches). With all compartments sealed, any damage to one part of the ship will not (theoretically) endanger the ship’s overall integrity. For Marines, general-quarters means reporting to assigned birthing spaces, and staying there until the word is passed, “Secure from general quarters.” This was the part of the Chief's orientation lecture I missed. During our first drill, I decided to make a trip to the head, which was two compartments aft of our birthing space. In the process of making that trip, I failed to reseal the watertight hatches. It was unfortunate for me that a Chief Boatswain’s Mate accosted me and not only read me the so-called “riot act,” but assigned me to a period of two weeks of “extra duty” cleaning up the officer’s head. It was a lesson well learned, however, as I never committed that sin again. And, I must confess that Chief Petty Officers of the U. S. Navy know how to chew on the uninitiated asses of young Marines.

Arriving at Coco Solo, Panama, the ship proceeded through Lemon Bay to dock next to a large warehouse. As the mission of our Battalion Landing Team was a “show of force” directed toward those Panamanians who were rioting and causing the death of some military personnel and the destruction of military property, we were not permitted “liberty.” Within a few days, however, the Marines were allowed to disembark so long as they confined themselves to an area immediately adjacent to the ship. Shortly, local vendors were bringing beer and popcorn machines to the edge of the pier. This is where I learned that when deployed, there is no such thing as “bad beer.”

One of my duties, having been shanghaied by the First Sergeant to work in the company office, was to make “guardmail” runs to battalion headquarters, which was located aboard the command ship in our convoy; the USS Okinawa was a helicopter carrier designated Landing Platform, Helicopter, or LPH. Compared to our LST, the Okinawa was a massive ship, with a lot more luxuries. The first thing I noticed after gaining permission to board the Okinawa was a Marine eating an icecream cone. Marines on the Suffolk County didn't have access to fresh ice cream, that's for certain.

Marines embarked upon the Okinawa had regular formations on the flight deck when there were no flight operations. A few days later, I noticed that “Fox” Company was having a mid-day formation and in the front rank was a Marine eating a vanilla ice cream cone. His platoon commander noticed his and ran over to where the Marine was standing and started screaming at him to get rid of his ice cream. I had never seen a lieutenant acting like a drill instructor before, so I stood back near the ship’s superstructure and watched the incident. Apparently, the Marine didn’t know what he was supposed to do with the ice cream cone, so he just held on to it. The lieutenant, meanwhile, kept screaming, “Get rid of it! Now! Now!” The next thing that happened was that the Marine stuck the ice cream cone on the lieutenant’s nose.

I have to confess it may have been one of the funniest things I have ever seen. Maybe you had to be there, but the picture of that lieutenant standing in front of the Marine, with his hands on his hips, and an ice cream cone hanging off his nose, was an absolute riot. The lieutenant, so adorned, looked exactly like a duck in a Marine Corps uniform.

I understood later that the Marine spent three days on bread and water in the ship’s brig. The lesson here may be that lieutenants should not tell Marines to “get rid of it” if you don’t want him, in fact, to get rid of it.

Copyright, 2005

Tangled webs

When Lieutenant Colonel Hickman failed in his attempt to have one of his women Marines court-martialed for getting a breast enhancement operation without his prior permission, he effectively lost the respect of that Marine and she requested an internal reassignment to another staff section. Her reassignment was approved, and she was assigned to work in the office of the Staff Judge Advocate. In a clerical capacity, the young lady earned a good reputation for dependability and clerical efficiency.

In time, the young lady developed a relationship with the Gunnery Sergeant who was her supervisor. While such a relationship is an example of fraternization, and even potentially “sexual harassment,” or “sexual impropriety,” people generally do not get upset about things that are hidden from view. Had the relationship remained invisible, I would not have anything to write about. As it happened, the young corporal eventually moved in to the Gunnery Sergeant’s apartment and they became a couple in common law. All was relative bliss until the gunnery sergeant went on temporary additional duty for several weeks and the corporal became lonely. Unbeknownst to the Gunny, a new beau took up residence within the Gunny’s apartment. Still, ignorance is bliss — and this lasted until the Gunny returned home to find out that his love-nest had grown in size.

Apparently, the couple worked out a mutually acceptable solution to their problems and the third person, also a corporal, permanently joined the family. The Gunny evidently believed the relationship was a cost-effective measure; the rent and other expenses were divided three ways and the household of three continued for several months. One day, the male corporal told a friend about his “hot” arrangement, but of course who would believe a story like that? The next day, the corporal brought his friend a Polaroid picture of the life and times of the Gunny and the corporals squared. Discounting the rumors that soon made their way around the command element; the male corporal should not have left the picture in his desk drawer.

Following an investigation within the office of the Staff Judge Advocate, charges were filed against the Gunny and the female corporal; the male corporal was offered immunity from prosecution in return for his testimony against the other two. Lieutenant Colonel Hickman was ecstatic with the revelation because in his heart, he knew the female corporal was living on borrowed time.

When the gunny was formerly charged with numerous violations of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, not the least of which included a charge of homosexuality given the nature of ménage-a-trios, his civilian attorney alleged selective prosecution and threatened to go to the press. What selective prosecution was he referring to? The Gunnery Sergeant insisted that if he was going to be prosecuted, then so too should the female captain assigned as the assistant intelligence officer, with whom he had had a similar relationship over several years. Eventually, the command dropped all charges against the Gunny and his female corporal. Lieutenant Colonel Hickman was convinced that there was no justice in the 4th Marine Division.

Copyright, 2005

Montgomery’s Spiral

Those with military experience know that the military rank structure, and indeed all tables of organization and equipment, provides a certain number of leaders for some quantity of personnel of lesser grade. At the Marine Detachment, sergeants served as “sergeants of the guard,” and they supervised a given number of corporals, lance corporals, privates first class, and privates of the guard. During honors ceremonies, the guard was organized into platoons, each of which was supervised by a Marine staff noncommissioned officer (staff sergeant or gunnery sergeant), with sergeants serving as platoon guide and squad leaders.

The series of unfortunate events that served as the catalyst for Sergeant Montgomery’s spiral included the fact that he was assigned as the first squad leader. His squad’s performance, or lack of it, was hard to miss during the rendering of honors to visiting dignitaries. It was also fateful that upon receiving the command to “fix bayonets,” Sergeant Montgomery’s bayonet was not fixed. And finally, it was disastrous that upon the command, “present, arms,” that Sergeant Montgomery’s bayonet, flying through the air happened to strike Private Mitchell on the side of the face. Private Mitchell, the reader may recall, had a flair for the dramatic and so when he was struck by the bayonet, he went down screaming “I’ve been shot.” Neither Montgomery’s errant bayonet, nor Mitchell’s flamboyance for theatrics, impressed the Vice President of the United States, the major commanding, or the platoon commander.

Among the non-rated Marines, the Commanding Officer was code-named “the hang man.” It did not matter what charges were preferred against Marines, a finding of guilty would result in a Marine being sent to the Camp Allen Brig for at least 30 days. Unfortunately, some of our Marines preferred the Brig to standing guard duty, and this explains why Mitchell held the all time record for accumulating “bad time.” Sergeant Montgomery, however, did not relish the idea of going to the Brig, nor of being reduced in grade to the rank of corporal; but that’s exactly what happened. I actually felt sorry for Sergeant Montgomery; he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, and he could be a prick when he wanted to be, but he did endeavor to treat everyone with a degree of respect. Private Mitchell, on the other hand, was ecstatic to see Montgomery going to jail and offered a number of suggestions to Montgomery about “life in the big house” that only made things worse.

At any rate, Corporal Montgomery went to jail for 30 days, and in addition to being reduced in grade, he received a fine—forfeiture of his pay and allowances “not to exceed 2/3 of his monthly entitlement” for one month. Before he was taken to the Brig, he asked me to notify his wife of what had happened, and with the first sergeant’s concurrence, I did that via telephone before the end of the day.

Several months later, during a routine audit of service records, there was some confusion about information contained in Corporal Montgomery’s SRB. For example, his dependency application form did not seem to agree with his record of emergency data; there was a difference in his wife’s names. The first sergeant called me in and asked, “Do you remember contacting Corporal Montgomery’s wife and informing her that he was on his way to the brig?”

“Yes, first sergeant.”

“Do you remember her name?”

“I think its Rebecca. I think he calls her Becky.”

“Not Allison?”

“No, first sergeant; Allison doesn’t ring a bell with me.”

So the First Sergeant called Corporal Montgomery in to his office and offered him a seat. “Corporal Montgomery, we seem to have a problem here and we need your help to resolve it.”

“What kind of problem, first sergeant?”

The First Sergeant handed Corporal Montgomery the two conflicting documents, and said, “Well, the name of your wife is recorded on your dependency application form as Rebecca, but the name of your wife on your record of emergency data is Allison. These are your signatures, are they not?”

“Yes, first sergeant.”

“I notice that you updated your record of emergency data about a month ago,” said the First Sergeant.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Well then, which of these ladies is your wife?”

“Allison is my wife, First Sergeant.”

“Then how do you explain Rebecca’s name on the dependency application form?”

“I got a divorce, First Sergeant.”

“I see. Well, did you bring in your divorce decree and your new marriage certificate?”

“I guess I forgot to do that, First Sergeant.”

“Well, let’s get these things taken care of, Corporal Montgomery.”

“Aye, aye First Sergeant,” said Montgomery.

A week later, Corporal Montgomery turned in his new marriage certificate to the administrative chief, but said that it would be a while before he could get the divorce decree, since the divorce occurred in another state. The administrative chief told him to hold on to his marriage certificate until he acquired the divorce settlement because he needed to see them both at the same time.

After a month passed with Corporal Montgomery still having not produced his divorce decree, the administrative chief suggested that he stop the corporal’s entitlement to dependent’s allowance and his entitlement to commuted rations. The first sergeant indicated that he’d give Montgomery another week to produce the documents, but as it happened, the next day the first sergeant received a telephone call from an individual who identified herself as “Rebecca Montgomery.”

“How may I help you, ma’am,” asked the First Sergeant.

“I just want to know where my monthly allotment check is,” said Rebecca.

“I’m not sure I understand, ma’am. We understand that you and Corporal Montgomery are divorced, but the allotment check is still being sent to your last address of record.”

“Divorced? We aren’t divorced!” she exclaimed.

“Are you sure, ma’am? Corporal Montgomery has indicated that you are divorced, and he’s been remarried.”

“What? What did you say?”

Corporal Montgomery later pleaded guilty to one charge of bigamy, one charge of making a false official statement with three specifications, and one charge of fraud against the government of the United States. As a result of his special court-martial, Montgomery was awarded six months of confinement at hard labor, total forfeiture of pay and allowances for six months, reduction to Private, and a bad conduct discharge from the Marine Corps.

Meanwhile, the rest of us spent some time over several beers trying to figure out what it was about Montgomery, a milk-toast person if there ever was one that attracted two women in one lifetime.

Copyright, 2005

The Colonel's Half-smoke

A duty assignment at Headquarters, U. S. Marine Corps may well have been career enhancing for officers, but it was hardly that for enlisted Marines. Living in the Washington metropolitan area was then, and I suspect still is, a very expensive proposition. Marines did not have cost-of-living adjustments to their monthly pay and allowances, forcing many to take on part-time employment to boost their income. For the most part, enlisted Marines lived in run down apartments or in mobile home parks in the surrounding communities because on-base housing was limited. Cheaper and nicer homes were available in outlying areas, but commuting distance and time was excessive. It was typical for Marines to arrive at work at 0630 every day, even though working hours didn’t begin for another hour, for no other reason than to avoid traffic congestion. Many Marines car-pooled or used mass transportation because, even at an early hour, parking space was limited; only senior officers had parking accommodations inside the compound at Henderson Hall or the Navy Annex.

And so the point of this is that few enlisted Marines stationed at Headquarters, U. S. Marine Corps were happy campers, and even less so when during the course of their military duties, received in-structions from a senior officer, “Go to the snack-bar and get me a half-smoke sausage sandwich with hot sauce.” If there is one thing that Marines are not very keen on, it is servitude; Marines have dignity, and they expect to be treated accordingly. Still, when the staff sergeant received his order from his superior officer, he carried it out.

Upon arrival back in the office with the colonel’s half-smoke sausage sandwich, the officer took a bite from it and immediately complained, “Did I not instruct you to put hot sauce on the half-smoke?” And the Marine replied that he had in fact put hot sauce on the colonel’s sandwich. Whereupon the officer instructed the Marine, “Well, take it back and put some more on it.”

The staff sergeant returned a few moments later, gave the officer his sandwich, and said, “I hope that will do it for the colonel, sir.” The colonel waved the Marine away as he was at that moment on the telephone. The Marine went about his business. A few moments later, out of the corner of the Marine’s eye, he saw the colonel take a huge bite of the sandwich, chew twice, and then spit the sandwich out all over his desk. Everyone in the office was now looking at the colonel, whose face was a red as a Red Rome Apple, his eyes were bulging, and he seemed short of breath. The colonel left the office and ran to the nearest water fountain, where he drank deeply and long.

When the colonel came back to the office, his voice nearly restored, he rasped, “My God! How much hot sauce did you put on that sandwich?” The staff sergeant looked at the colonel for a moment and answered, “Just enough to make sure that the colonel gets his own sandwiches from now on, sir.”

Copyright, 2005

The Safest Car Ever Made

Most Marine camps on Okinawa are somewhat removed from the larger towns and cities, and that makes transportation to urban areas difficult. So, like many Marines, I decided to purchase an automobile. I spoke with a few friends, and one in particular told me about a Master Gunnery Sergeant who, in spite of his duties with the Marine Corps, owned a “used car lot” outside of Camp Hansen. After some rudimentary looking around, I decided to travel north and check out the Master Gunny’s offerings. Bumming a ride with a friend on a Saturday morning, we drove up to Camp Hansen, which took about forty minutes, and located the dealership. The Master Gunny had a good location on the main thoroughfare that passed through Kin village and Camp Hansen’s main gate. There were about twenty Japanese cars on the lot, including selections manufactured by Toyota, Datsun (Nissan), Suzuki, Honda, Subaru, and Mitsubishi — and not a “cherry” among them.

We looked around for five or so minutes before the office door opened and a large Caucasian man emerged wearing khaki trousers and a Hawaiian shirt. In advanced stages of balding, he had a ruddy, freckled face, and had the arms of a weightlifter. “You Marines interested in buying a car?” he asked as he walked over to where we were standing.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Well, we’ve got a good selection,” he said. “They don’t look like much, but they’re good for a thirteen month tour of duty on the Rock.”

“I don’t have a lot of money to spend on a car,” I said.

“We’ve got a car for every budget,” he answered. “My name is Master Gunnery Sergeant Jenkins.” Everyone shook hands. “Is this your first time on Okinawa?”

“No, Master Gunny,” I said. “I was here a few years back. I bought a 1954 Ford for a dollar back then; it was one of those cars that Marines passed from one to the other.”

He smiled and said, “Yeah, I remember those days. It’s hard to drive an American automobile on some of Okinawa’s roads, though.”

“What about insurance and registration costs, Master Gunny?” I asked.

“The price of the car includes registration and insurance,” he answered. “Why don’t you tell me how much you have to spend, and I can show you the cars in that range.”

“Well, Master Gunny, it’s like this . . . I want as much as I can get, for as little as possible.”

Jenkins laughed, “Tell you what; I have a Suzuki sitting over here . . .“ he said as he walked toward the car, “it isn’t much to look at, but it is basic transportation.”

The car was about the smallest car I’d ever seen, and it may have had an original paint scheme at one time, but it was hard to tell. What was left of the paint-job was somewhere between gray and blue with splotches of primer over body filler. “The car has a two-stroke engine,” Jenkins continued, “which means that you add oil into the gas tank when you fill it up.”

“And it’s insured?”

“Right.”

Jenkins reached inside the car, turned on the ignition, and it fired up immediately. It sounded remarkably like the sound a motorcycle makes, and a huge plume of smoke bellowed out of its exhaust pipe.

“Tell you what,” Jenkins said, “take it with you today, drive it for a week, and if you think it will meet your needs, I’ll sell it to you for $150.00.”

“That sounds fair,” I said. Turning to my friend, I asked, “What do you think?”

“Well, it’s a lot less than I paid for my Toyota. Looks like it might get the job done.”

“Okay, Master Gunny . . . I’ll do that. Let me give you my identification information.”

I went into his office, which was a one-room hut with a table and two chairs. I wrote down my name, rank, unit, and office telephone number. “That’ll do it,” he said. “If you want to buy it, pay me in a week. If not, bring it back next Saturday.”

“Okay, Master Gunny,” I said. I picked up one of his business cards and put it in my wallet.

“Better let me see your driver’s license,” he said.

I showed him my permit, and he wrote down the license number. “Okay, we’re done,” he said.

To say that I followed my friend back to Camp Courtney would be an accurate statement; to suggest that I kept up with him would not. The Suzuki had no problem at all reaching 40 kilometers per hour (25 mph) driving downhill, but it was only able to do about 25 Kph on an up-hill grade. Over an hour later, I arrived at the main gate at Camp Courtney. The gate sentry stopped me at the gate, and I explained that I was testing out the car for a week, and I asked how I could get a temporary “on base” pass. The lance corporal looked at the vehicle and said, “You’re actually giving someone money for this piece or crap?”

“Thinking about it,” I said.

“Well, drive over to the camp guard shack and they’ll give you a temporary pass,” he directed.

I pulled through the gate, leaving a massive cloud of blue-gray smoke behind me, and noticed the sentry waving his hand in front of his face and coughing. “It’s a two stroke engine,” I said loudly out the window.

“One of ‘em ain’t working,” he shouted back.

Through the week, I drove the car around on base, and on Friday night, after work, I drove it into the nearby town of Ishikawa for no other reason than to “get off base.” As it turned out, however, it was a monumental decision on my part. A friend and I went to a local restaurant that had exceptionally delicious Japanese cuisine, and we drank a few Kirin beers with dinner. Around 7:00 p.m., we drove back to Camp Courtney. Driving up the hill towards the base with two passengers was a massive undertaking for the little Suzuki, and we left a trail of blue smoke all the way. I drove to the main gate, and displayed my temporary pass, but the sentry waved for me to stop. He approached the car and said, “Will you please pull the car over to the side of the road?”

“Sure,” I said. “What’s up.”

“Wait by the car, please,” the Marine said.

I pulled the car over to the side of the road, just inside the main gate, and my friend and I got out of the car and waited as the sentry requested. A few minutes later, the guard officer arrived in his official vehicle, accompanied by a gunnery sergeant.

The lieutenant approached us, and my friend and I came to the position of attention, even though we were wearing civilian clothing.

“Good evening, Marines,” said the lieutenant.

“Good evening, sir,” we replied.

“May I see some identification, please?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” we said, reaching for our wallets. We turned our ID cards over to the officer and he looked at them, and handed them back.

“Is this your car?” he asked me.

“Not exactly, sir,” I replied.

“Would you care to explain that?”

I told the lieutenant about the car dealer outside of Camp Hansen, and how Master Gunnery Sergeant Jenkins gave me a week to decide if I wanted the car, and I explained that I was to go back tomorrow and either turn it back to him, or pay him.

“Are there any witnesses to this agreement, staff sergeant?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” I replied. I told him the name of the Marine who was with me when I picked up the car.

“Okay,” he said. “What I want you to do is drive over to the guard shack, park the car, and wait for me inside.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” I said. “Would the lieutenant tell me what this is all about?”

“The car you’ve been driving was reported as stolen some time ago. We identified it from the license plates. So we’re going to impound the car, but I need you to make a statement about where you got it.”

Granted, the car looked like crap, was probably an environmental disaster, not to mention that it was a stolen vehicle, but since it would not go above 40 Kph on a downhill slope, it was probably the safest car ever made.

Copyright, 2005

Colonel, Departing

Colonel Louis Bonin, USMC was a mustang. Having served as an enlisted man in the Korean War, service on the drill field as a Marine Corps Drill Instructor, he was promoted to staff sergeant and then subsequently commissioned as a regular Second Lieutenant. He also completed two combat tours in the Republic of Vietnam. He knew about being a Marine, and he knew about leading Marines. But after months of being treated poorly by the Division Chief of Staff and Acting Division Commander, he was becoming very irritable, mostly the result of frustration. His assignment as the Assistant Chief of Staff, Human Affairs had to be one of the most dead-end jobs in the Corps.

One day, following the daily meeting with the Chief of Staff, he came into the office and literally slammed the door shut with such force I thought the window in the door was going to shatter. Muttering to himself he went into his office and sat down. A few seconds later, a file folder went flying across the room.

“Staff Sergeant!” he bellowed.

“Sir.”

“I’m not taking any calls.”

“Aye aye, sir,” I said.

The Major, who sat directly across from me, got up from his desk and came over to me and whispered, “This might be a good time for me to get a haircut.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Why don’t you call me from your room and I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”

“Good plan, staff sergeant,” said the major as he grabbed his cover.

The office was completely silent for a good hour. The phone never rang, and I didn’t initiate any calls. I just quietly filed some paperwork. Finally, the Colonel said, “Staff Sergeant, are you out there?”

“Yes sir,” I answered.

“Come in here for a minute.”

I grabbed a pad of paper and a pencil and reported to the Colonel.

“Sit down, son,” he said. When I was seated, he said, “In 38 years of Marine Corps service, I don’t think I have had a more frustrating tour of duty.” He related to me some of what was going on between himself and the general and his chief of staff. I don’t know why the colonel decided to confide in me, but I assumed that everyone — even crusty old colonels, need someone to confide in. One thing was really quite clear to me — and that was that the Colonel was really pissed off, so when he finished talking, I said, “Sir, 38 years of honorable Marine Corps service is a long time.”

“Yes it is,” he said.

“You know sir, it seems to me that you have enjoyed one of the best careers I’ve ever heard of.”

“Really?”

“Sir, you went in the Marines as a private. You’ve served three combat tours of duty. You’ve commanded everything except a division. You served as a Marine Corps drill instructor.”

“That’s true,” said the colonel. “What is your point?”

“My point, sir . . . and remember, I’m just an enlisted man — is that you’ve already done everything that’s worth doing in the Marine Corps. And if I were you sir, and of course I’m not, I’d tell General Graham to shove it up his ass and then I’d retire.”

Colonel Bonin laughed out loud for a few moments, and said, “Well, thanks for your advice, Staff Sergeant.”

Sensing my dismissal, I got up and went back to my desk. A few minutes later, Colonel Bonin left the office and said, “I’ll be gone for the rest of the day. You can call the major and tell him it’s safe to come back to the office now.”

“Yes sir,” I said.

The next morning, the Colonel went to the Chief of Staff’s meeting at the regular time, and the major and I busied our selves putting together the daily “incident reports” that were coming up from subordinate units. About an hour and a half later, Colonel Bonin returned to the office with a smile on his face. Entering the office, he said, “Man did that feel good.”

“Begging the colonel’s pardon, sir,” said Major Dunn, “what felt good?”

“Never mind major,” the colonel replied. “It should be sufficient to say that I followed the staff sergeant’s advice, and now I have a new job.”

“Sir?” said the major.

“I’m being reassigned as the MAF G-4.”

“When is that going to be effective sir,” the major asked.

“EEEEEEmediately.”

“Does the colonel have a replacement,” asked Major Dunn.

“Not that I know about,” replied the Colonel. “And to be honest, I don’t much care.”

“Yes, sir.”

Within an hour, Colonel Bonin was moving his personal effects to the top deck, where he assumed duties that were more appropriate to his rank and years of experience. I often think about Colonel Bonin, who I remember as an exceptional leader, a Marine officer who I would have followed anywhere he led, and a man who was probably going to do what he ultimately did do, with or without the advice of a mere enlisted man. Colonel Bonin was from the northern part of Louisiana, as I recall. A real southern gentleman — and if he is still alive, I continue to wish him well.

Within a few days, Colonel C.M.C. Jones took Colonel Bonin’s place, and I don’t think I ever met a more “laid back” full colonel in my 29 years of active service. Under Colonel Jones’ leadership, we continued to accomplish absolutely nothing.

Copyright, 2005

Racial Problems

The Office of the Assistant Chief of Staff (Human Affairs) was tasked with (1) supervising the Division Human Relations School, and (2) collecting and collating information with regard to the racial, and ethnic composition of the Division, (3) transmitting racial and ethnic data to higher headquarters, and (4) collecting and reporting on serious incidents involving conflicts between Marines of different racial or ethnic backgrounds. No one assigned to the office thought that what we were doing was important, or had any relationship to the combat readiness or effectiveness of the 3rd Marine Division.

During this period, the 3rd Marine Division (as well as other major service organizations on Okinawa) experienced an extraordinary number of “racial incidents.” These were usually the result of a gang of blacks locating one or two white Marines alone in town or on one of the camps, and beating the crap out of them. Some people required extensive hospitalization. Camp Commanders beefed up “military police” or “courtesy patrol” activities in off base locations, but these people were unarmed and could not be every where at once. Generally, there were about 25 or 30 such incidents every week, and our “message report” to Fleet Marine Force headquarters in Hawaii often took up to forty pages of message traffic.

One incident was particularly disturbing. An off duty Navy Corpsman was found on base with his left hand cut off, and he was immediately transferred to the U. S. Army Hospital at Camp Kue, Okinawa. His story was that he was ambushed by a group of black people who held him down and took off his hand with a hatchet. Colonel Bonin immediately got the G-2’s counter-intelligence people involved, and it wasn’t long before the truth of the incident came out. One of the surgeons at the Army hospital testified that there was no way that such a clean amputation could have occurred using a hatchet. With that as a lead, the Corpsman, homesick for his newly acquired wife, who had surgical training, admitted to have actually removed his own hand so that he could be returned to the United States.

At one point, a Major was attacked by a gang of blacks while doing some “pre-rotation” shopping for his family in a local town not far from Camp Hansen in a region known as “Four Corners.” The major, who was wearing his uniform at the time, was beaten so severely that he had to be hospitalized. The implication of this incident was that the Marines were facing a complete breakdown of its structure of authority. Working in connection with other counter-intelligence agencies on the Island, it was soon learned that the period of racial violence was in fact a communist inspired conspiracy, the purpose of which was to undermine the discipline, morale, and efficiency of all military commands on Okinawa.

Our boss, the Assistant Chief of Staff for Human Affairs, was Colonel Lou Bonin, USMC. Colonel Bonin had a fantastic career in the U. S. Marine Corps. He was a former enlisted man, who had served as a Marine Corps drill instructor, and as a staff sergeant (E-5) earned a regular commission. He served two full tours in Vietnam, and at one time commanded the 7th Motor Transport Battalion in-country. He had served as a platoon commander, company commander, battalion commander, and regimental commander. At the time I knew him, he was a very senior colonel, not at all happy with his assignment in the Human Affairs office. Nevertheless, Colonel Bonin did his level best to provide recommendations to his superiors toward resolving racial problems. One of those recommendations he got from me.

One day, he called me into his office while reviewing the multi-page message and asked, “Does it seem to you that the situation is only getting worse?”

“Yes, sir, it does,” I replied.

“What do you think should be done about this intolerable situation?”

“Well sir, two things. The first thing might be to cancel off-base liberty privileges. If these people aren’t going to act like Marines are supposed to act while off base, then their liberty should be cancelled.”

“Uh-huh. What else?”

“The other thing is to suspend authority for wearing civilian clothing and require all Marines to wear their uniforms while on liberty.”

“Why do you think that would work?”

“I think that the rank structure means something to most Marines, sir. I think it would be difficult for a group of PFCs to beat up a sergeant who’s wearing his uniform.”

Colonel Bonin took that suggestion to the Chief of Staff, who passed it along to the Acting Division Commander, Brigadier General Paul Graham. General Graham called in Colonel Bonin and told him that was about the dumbest idea he’d ever heard. After a while, Colonel Bonin stopped offering suggestions because Graham would go out of his way to belittle the colonel in front of his peers.

I wasn't the only one to hate this assignment.

Copyright, 2005

Colonel, Arriving

Major Dunn and I were sitting in the office trying to figure out what we could do besides read a book when, at about 0900, the door opened and a Marine colonel walked in to the office. The major and I came to the position of attention, and he told us to stand at ease. “My name’s Bonin. I’m going to be working here,” he said.

Major Dunn introduced himself and offered to shake the colonel’s hand, and then he introduced me as the “section chief.”

“Where’s my office, major?” asked the colonel.

“Right through here sir,” said Dunn, gesturing the other side of the partition.

“Well, let’s get with it. Come in and brief me on this operation,” the colonel ordered.

Major Dunn and Colonel Bonin disappeared behind the partition, and I took my seat at my desk, prudently deciding that the paperback book I was reading should occupy a lesser priority at this particular moment. The partition panels looked “executive,” but they didn’t do much to muffle any sounds on the other side, so I became privy to the discussion between the colonel and the major. The major did a good job outlining our mission, and a snapshot of everything that had occurred up until the colonel’s arrival. He then called for me to bring in the “drafts” we had prepared, and in presenting them to the colonel for his approval, walked him through his rational for one provision of the SOP or another. Then the major asked, “Does the Colonel have some background in human affairs?”

“Not that I’m willing to admit to,” said the colonel, “but let me speak frankly, Major. I have this position because I’m senior to the chief of staff, but the general wants to keep the incumbent. I’m senior to the Operations Officer, but the general wants to keep him in place too. So what we have here is a senior colonel in the U. S. Marine Corps who’s been assigned this job because the general doesn’t know what else to do with me.”

“Yes, sir,” said the major.

“Okay,” said the colonel, “I’ll look through these proposals and get back to you. How do I get up to Camp Hansen to visit with the Human Relations School?”

“Sir, let me check with your section chief on that. I’m not sure a staff car has been assigned to us yet,” the major replied. When the major came out of the colonel’s office, I was already on the tele-phone to the motor pool asking about a vehicle suitable for a full colonel. The motor pool indicated that they didn’t have a staff car available, but they could give us a commercial pick up truck, without a driver. I relayed this to the major, who then asked, “Do you have a military operator’s permit?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“That won’t be necessary,” the colonel interrupted from behind the partition. “I know how to drive.”

“When would the colonel like to have the vehicle, sir?” asked the major.

“Now.”

I grabbed my cover and headed for the motor pool, which was outside of the Camp Courtney com-pound, and about a half mile down the road. An hour later, I returned to the headquarters building and turned the keys over to the major, who gave them to the colonel, who asked, “Do they under-stand that I’ll be keeping the vehicle overnight?”

“Sir, I’ll check with the staff sergeant . . .”

“Why don’t we just eliminate the echo chamber in here, Major. Staff Sergeant, can you answer my question?”

“Sir, the motor pool issues a trip ticket for a 24 hour period. As long as we get the trip ticket updated within that period, they don’t care what the colonel does with the truck,” I said.

“Okay. Make sure that you get the trip ticket updated every day about this time, understand?”

“Yes, sir. Colonel, it might be a good idea for me to do that when you’re at the Chief of Staff’s morn-ing conference,” I added.

“Why?” he asked.

“If the Colonel needs to use the vehicle around mid-morning and we haven’t yet updated the trip ticket, it might cause us some problems with the motor transport officer,” I said.

“Okay, Staff Sergeant, see to it.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

At that moment, another colonel entered the office, and of course, the major and I assumed the position of attention. “Is Lou Bonin here?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. May I ask the colonel’s name?” said Major Dunn.

Colonel Bonin called out from behind the partition, “Is that you, Jones?”

Colonel Jones ignored the major and went into Colonel Bonin’s office, apparently being an old friend. Colonel C. M. C. Jones, whose brother’s name was rumored to be “States Rights Jones,” was the Division Inspector.

“What the hell are you doing as the Division Affairs Officer?” he asked.

“Get it right, colonel,” said Bonin. “That’s Human Affairs Officer. It may well be the most important position on the general staff.”

I remember thinking, right – just behind an assignment in the Twelfth Marines.



Copyright, 2005

Human Affairs

My first morning assigned to the 3rd Marine Division command post at Camp Courtney, Okinawa was depressing. Recently arrived on Okinawa from the Republic of Vietnam, I had spent a single day with the 12th Marines only to learn within hours that I was going to be reassigned to the Division Headquarters. I much preferred to remain with the 12th Marines, but that was not to be. At Division, I was given responsibility for establishing a new office on the Division staff called the Office of the Assistant Chief of Staff (Human Affairs). After a cursory “welcome” by the Division G-1, I was taken to an office down the hall, revealed to contain, other than wires hanging from the ceiling, absolutely nothing. My orders were to “get it started” with sufficient office accoutrements to satisfy the require-ments for a full colonel, a major, myself, and two enlisted clerks. All other personnel would be as-signed on a later date. A subordinate office, called the Human Relations School, was located at Camp Hansen, Okinawa. The mission of the Human Affairs office was to monitor, assess, and advise the division commander on all matters relating to morale and race relations; the collection and report-ing of all racial incidents involving division Marines was a corollary responsibility. The Human Rela-tions School was to provide diversity training to Marines of the division based on quotas assigned to subordinate units through the G-3 Training Section.

Within three days, I had arranged for repairs to electrical wires, and obtained suitable office furniture, including desks, chairs, a conference table, carpets, and partitions allowing the yet-to-be-assigned colonel some privacy in the conduct of his responsibility. It took two days longer to obtain typewriters, filing cabinets, and office supplies, and another three days to have telephones connected and placed on desks. By the end of the second week, the office was ready for occupancy but it was another two weeks before I had any company is what was turning out to be a boring assignment. One day, sitting in the office alone and reading a book for the want of anything productive to do, a major entered the office. He introduced himself as the Director of the Human Relations School. He asked me if I had “any word” about who the new colonel was going to be, and I told him I had no idea whatsoever. I asked if he could give me the background of the Human Relations School, and he was good enough to do that within about three minutes. I think I saw the major on two subsequent occasions all the time I was there, which was twelve months.

Mid-way through the third week of my assignment to this important position, at least more important than being with the 12th Marines, Major Dunn reported for duty. “You’re the section chief?” he asked.

“Yes, sir . . . for lack of a better description,” I said.

“I’m going to be the Deputy Assistant Chief of Staff,” he announced.

“Welcome aboard, sir,” I said. “The Major has his choice of accommodations. So far, for the past three weeks, it’s just been me in here.”

“Any idea when the colonel is going to report aboard?” he asked.

“No sir.”

“Well, let’s assume that he gets the large office behind the partitions, and I’ll just take this desk over here,” he said pointing to the opposite side of the room where there was only one desk.

“Aye, sir.”

“Why don’t you fill me in, Staff Sergeant.”

So for the next twenty or so seconds, I gave the major a complete run down on our operations.

“Have you been up to the Human Relations School?” he asked.

“Negative, sir. But the OIC came down here once to introduce himself. He was also curious about the new colonel, but I didn’t have any information then either,” I said.

“Well, I want to visit with him, but I think the first order of business is for me to start writing a standing operating procedure (SOP) for the operation of the Human Affairs Section.”

“Major, you write it and I’ll type it.”

“Good deal. All I know about this operation is what the G-1 told me. I think that whatever I write will be a draft for the new colonel’s approval.”

“Yes, sir.”

And that’s what we did for the next two weeks. Included in the Major’s SOP was an initiating directive that informed all subordinate units of our existence, our mission, and how to get in touch with us. Of course, nothing “went out” to subordinate units until the new colonel reported aboard, and that wouldn’t happen for another three weeks. By then, the Major and I were swapping paperback books. Yep. This was turning into one really important assignment.

Copyright, 2005

A Day in the 12th Marines

The Joint Chiefs of Staff decreed early in 1972 that all Marines, regardless of assignment, would be withdrawn from the Republic of Vietnam. The only exception, apparently, were Marines assigned to duty with the State Department. And so it was that in late April 1972, I was reassigned from the Defense Communications Agency, Southeast Asia Mainland to the 3rd Marine Division on Okinawa. Arriving on Okinawa over a weekend period, I was transported to the transit facility at Camp Hansen, on the northern side of the island, and placed in temporary quarters until the following Monday. This would be my second tour of duty on Okinawa, having previously served at Camp Hansen with the 9th Marine Amphibious Brigade. The weekend gave me time to wander around the camp to see if there had been any substantial changes, and I made a short off base excursion to reacquaint myself with the culture of Okinawa.

On Monday morning, I checked in at the personnel office and learned of my assignment to the 12th Marine Regiment. I could not have been more pleased with my new duty assignment. After a “joint duty” tour with the Defense Communications Agency, I was looking forward to getting back to placing my boots on the ground with artillery Marines. At that time, the 12th Marines was located at Camp Hauge, which was located on the southern end of the island. The trip took a little over an hour. Upon arrival, I checked in at the Regimental command post, and while waiting for my further assignment, a Marine Gunner came out from his office to meet me. He invited me into his office, offered me a cup of coffee, and indicated that I was going to be assigned as Regimental S-1 Chief.

The Gunner took me on a tour of the CP, introduced me to the Sergeant Major, the Executive Officer, and the Regimental Commander. Everyone was happy to meet me and indicated that they were looking forward to having me aboard. Later, the Gunner asked another staff NCO to get me “settled in,” so we carried my Sea Bag over to the Staff NCO quarters and I was assigned a room. Well, actually, it was a large accommodation and the best I had ever had in my entire Marine Corps service up to that time. I started to unpack my uniforms and put them away. An hour later, I went back to the CP prior to chow call. I walked in the building and the Gunner motioned me to come into his office. I reported properly, and he said, “Well, Staff Sergeant, we seem to have a problem.”

“Sir?”

“Do you know Lieutenant General Metzger?”

“Sir, I worked for Brigadier General Metzger when I was with Task Force 79.”

“He apparently found out that you’ve checked in to the 3rd Marine Division. He called Major General Fegan, the Division Commander, and insisted that you be assigned to an important position; the General concluded that an important job would be one at the Division command post. So, you’re being reassigned.”

“Gunner, is there any way that we could call the G-1 and tell them that I’d rather stay here?”

“You’d rather be with the 12th Marines?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. I do not want to work at the Division CP sir.”

“Okay. Tell you what, go to chow, and meet me back here around 1330. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

At 1330, I promptly returned to the Gunner’s office and received the bad news. Division would not reverse their decision to reassign me to the Division CP. The Gunner directed me to repack my gear and be ready to go over to Camp Courtney within the hour.

By 1600, I was checking in to Headquarters Battalion and the Battalion Adjutant approached me and said, “You’re the Staff Sergeant from the 12th Marines?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I heard you’re going to be opening up the new Human Affairs office.”

“Sir? What the hell is a human affairs office?”

“Beats me,” he said.

Double-damn.

Copyright, 2005

Demands of the Service

When Lieutenant Colonel Dave Drewlow, USMC was offered the command of Headquarters and Maintenance Squadron 11 rather than that of a fighter squadron, it was because the colonel was unable to pass his annual flight physical. This disappointing condition was perpetrated by an accident years before when, during a parachute jump, another Marine landed on his head, which caused a mild concussion. Over the years, however, the injury manifested itself through the loss of sight in one eye. What that means, for a pilot, is that he can no longer fly any military aircraft; for people who love to fly high-performance aircraft, and who happen to be good at it, removal from flight status is devastating.

Colonel Drewlow, however, learned that the Letterman Army Hospital at the Presidio in San Francisco, California was doing experimental eye surgery, a procedure that replaced a damaged pupil and restored optic nerves. Colonel Drewlow took annual leave to visit the ophthalmology clinic at the hospital, and after meeting with surgeons involved in the program, offered to be included as a test patient in the procedure. After an extensive examination, the surgeons promised to consider his case in light of future procedures, and that notify him accordingly.

Upon return to the Marine Corps Air Station, El Toro, California, Colonel Drewlow met with the Group Commander and explained to him the surgical procedure and how it may very well restore his sight; he asked the Group Commander, conditional upon sight restoration, for his support in regaining flight status. The Group Commander indicated that he would give Colonel Drewlow full consideration, depending of course, on the results of a post-operative flight physical. The Group Commander advised Colonel Drewlow to make an appointment with the Wing Commander to gain his support as well. At the conclusion of his meeting with the Wing Commander, Colonel Drewlow left the general’s office with a promise of his support.

Several months passed with no word at all from Letterman Army Hospital and Colonel Drewlow was expecting to be disappointed. And then suddenly, he got a call asking him to come immediately to San Francisco for replacement surgery. Colonel Drewlow again took annual leave and flew to the hospital. Over the next few weeks, the surgical procedure was determined to be successful, and then within 90 days, Colonel Drewlow officially regained flight status. Approaching the summer rotation of squadron commanders, he was optimistic about gaining command of one of the four “gun squadrons.”

In late April, Colonel Drewlow was summoned to the Group Commander’s office. He was informed that because of a major shake-up at the Marine Corps Development and Education Command (MCCDEC), he was being ordered to Quantico, Virginia. Colonel Drewlow protested, reminding the Group Commander about his commitment the previous fall, but the Group Commander said the matter was out of his hands. Colonel Drewlow next made an appointment with the Air Wing commander, who simply refused to “expend any silver bullets” on Drewlow’s behalf.

Disappointed and angry about the betrayal, Colonel Drewlow requested to retire from the Marine Corps rather than take an assignment “not involving flight operations” for up to three years. By the time his tour ended at Quantico, he reasoned, never having commanded a fighter squadron, he would be considered unqualified to command an air group, and thus he could never gain promotion to full colonel. There was no point in staying in the Marine Corps if there could be no advancement. The Marine Corps conditionally responded to Colonel Drewlow’s request for retirement. They said, in writing, “You may request retirement after serving at least one year at Quantico pursuant to the demands of the service.”

When Colonel Drewlow departed the air station enroute to Quantico, he was very bitter. While I clearly understand the concept of “the demands of the service,” those officers who had promised Colonel Drewlow their “full support” exhibited poor leadership. Colonel Drewlow clearly demonstrated his devotion to Naval Aviation, but the unwillingness of senior officers to stand by one of their officers under these unusual circumstances can only be considered an embarrassment to the Marine Corps.

Copyright, 2005

Standing Firm

The Marine Detachment had responsibility for providing security to the Intelligence Center. Accordingly, security guards were routinely assigned to ensure that no one, emphasis on “no one” gained access to the Intelligence Center without proper authority. Proper authority meant that the individual wishing to gain access had to have (1) a military identification, and (2) a corresponding identification badge located within the Intelligence Center. There were no exceptions to this policy, ever.

The main entrance to the Intelligence Center was controlled by a Marine whose guard post placed him behind bulletproof glass. Individuals who desired to gain access to the Center would step up to the glass, and surrender his or her identification card to a Marine by placing it in a movable tray. The Marine would check the name on the identification card with an alphabetical access roster. If the individual’s name appeared on the access roster, the Marine would press a door release mechanism, and the individual would enter the building. Just inside the building was another bulletproof enclosure with another Marine guard. This guard received the individual’s identification card from his cohort, located another picture identification badge, issue the badge, make a record of date and time of the individual’s entry, and pass the individual through another mechanized door release mechanism. The reverse process occurred when exiting the building.

It is fair to say that not everyone who enjoyed the security provided by the Marines understood or appreciated the manner in which the Marines carried out their duties—including the Commanding Officer of the Marine Detachment. The truth of this statement came on the day that Lance Corporal Edwards was the main entry guard for the Intelligence Center, and shortly after an Army lieutenant general presented himself, along with his entourage, for admission to the Center.

The Lieutenant General, whose last name was Green, surrendered his identification card to Lance Corporal Edwards, who accepted it through the mechanical tray. Edwards, however, was unable to locate the General’s name on the access roster, so the general was refused permission to enter the building. General Green, certain that a mistake had been made, allowing that he had been invited to the Center for a Navy Intelligence Estimate, asked Lance Corporal Edwards if he could at least step inside the building to use the telephone, but Edwards denied his request. General Green then insisted, but Edwards persisted in his refusal. Edwards returned the general’s military identification card and went back to his monitoring duties and General Green (along with his entourage) left the Intelligence Center is a foul mood.

Within ten minutes or so, when the General (and his entourage) located a telephone, he contacted the Commanding Officer of the Marine Detachment. It was a mere coincidence, of course, that at that time, General Wallace M. Greene served as the Commandant of the Marine Corps. When the Commanding Officer, a major, answered the telephone, he heard, “Major, this is General Green. I have just come from the Intelligence Center where one of your Marines refused to permit me to have access to the building. I am here to receive a briefing on the Navy Intelligence Estimate. I expect this matter to be taken care of immediately, do you understand me?”

With only a few short months before his tour of duty was over, the major realized that his career was probably over, and that his next tour of duty would be in the Aleutian Islands, or possibly as a detachment commander on the moon. He promised the general that he would immediately take care of the matter, and, “would the General care to meet me at the entry to the Intelligence Center?”

After the abbreviated phone call, the major tore out of his office like a cat with his tail on fire, “That stupid Edwards refused to allow the Commandant access to the Intelligence Center! Guard Chief, I want that asshole relieved of his duty. First Sergeant, prepare a set of confinement orders! XO, grab your cover and come with me!”

The major’s arrival at the Intelligence Center coincided with the return of Lieutenant General Green (and his entourage). The major was excessively relieved that General Green was not the Commandant of the Marine Corps, and with all of the self-assurance of a Marine officer, the major presented himself before the sentry window, rapped on it with his school ring, and ordered, “Corporal Edwards, let me in right now.”

“Negative, sir,” said Edwards.

“What? I said let me in.”

“I can’t do that, Major.”

“Why not?”

“The major is not on the access roster, sir.”

“Goddammit, Edwards . . . I am ordering you to let me in,” the CO raged.

“Sorry sir, I can’t do that.”

“Corporal Edwards, do you know who I am?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Edwards.

“Well, if you recognize me as your Commanding Officer, then you will obey my orders,” threatened the major.

“Negative, sir. I wouldn’t let my own mother in here, sir, if she wasn’t on the access roster.”

By now, the major’s face was a red as a beet. He stood looking daggers at Edwards for what seemed to Edwards like an eternity, and then he turned suddenly to the Executive Officer and said, “Stay here with the General, while I go back to the office and contact the Commanding Officer of the Intelligence Center.”

Within another ten minutes, the Commanding Officer of the Intelligence Center, a Navy Captain, appeared at the security booth from inside the building, gained access to the space, and verbally added General Green (and his entourage) to the temporary access list. Once this was accomplished, the General (and his entourage) was admitted to the building and he was escorted by the Captain to the briefing.

Meanwhile, one of the senior Marine intelligence officers received a telephone call from someone within the Marine Detachment (rumored to be from the first sergeant), alerting him to the fact that the Detachment commander was “after Edwards,” and asked if there was anything he could do, working through the Navy Captain, to protect the Marine from undue prosecution. The Marine officer promised that he would broach the subject with the Navy Captain.

By the time the CO returned to the Intelligence Center, the Army general had been admitted to the Center and calm revisited the main entry guard post. In the company of the major were the guard chief and a replacement for Lance Corporal Edwards. Edwards completed his log entries, surrendered his weapon to the replacement, underwent “exiting procedures,” and reported to the Major who was waiting for him outside the main door. “Your ass is going to jail, Edwards. Your ass is grass.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Lance Corporal Edwards was placed on restriction to his immediate birthing space pending an investigation into his conduct by the Executive Officer. Shortly after 1500 hours, the major received a telephone call from the Commanding Officer of the Intelligence Center congratulating him on the caliber of his Marines. The Navy Captain (equivalent in rank to a Marine Colonel) added that it was his intention to draft an award recommendation for Lance Corporal Edwards in recognition of his exceptional performance of duty, and he asked the Major if it would be possible for him to grant Edwards a 72-hour liberty pass in recognition of his stellar performance.

Copyright, 2005

Judgement of God

The soldier stood and faced God,
Which must always come to pass.
He hoped his shoes were shining,
Just as brightly as his brass.

"Step forward now, you soldier,
How shall I deal with you?
Have you always turned the other cheek?
To My Church have you been true?"

The soldier squared his shoulders and said,
"No, Lord, I guess I ain't.
Because those of us who carry rifles,
Can't always be a Saint.

I've had to work most Sundays,
And at times my talk was tough.
And sometimes I've been violent,
Because the world is awfully rough.

But, I never took a penny,
That wasn't mine to keep . . .
Though I worked a lot of overtime,
When the bills got just too steep.

And I never passed a cry for help,
Though at times I shook with fear.
And sometimes, God, forgive me,
I've wept unmanly tears.

I know I don't deserve a place,
Among the people here.
They never wanted me around,
Except to calm their fears.

If you've a place for me here, Lord,
It needn't be so grand.
I never expected or had too much,
But if you don't, I'll understand."

There was a silence all around the throne,
Where the saints had often trod.
As the soldier waited quietly,
For the judgment of his God.

"Step forward now, you soldier,
You've borne your burdens well.
Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets,
You've done your time in Hell."

~Author Unknown~

Dear Father

Today is Flag Day in the United States. Not every American appreciates the significance of this day. Some have taken Our Flag for granted, and some do not even know its history. Sadly, not everyone loves Our Flag, knows what it stands for, or appreciates the sacrifices made to keep it flying over so many generations.

But among us, Lord has been those who we’ve loved, who do know about these things. They know about service to country, about the fierce pride of being an American, and they know about loving others more than they loved themselves. They understood better than anyone the importance of such ideas as freedom, equality, and human dignity.

So today Lord, on this Flag Day 2005, I bow my head in thanks for your many blessings; a wonderful country, and for giving America such men and women as these – these most stalwart of my countrymen who do know about our Flag. My prayer today Heavenly Father, is that you will hold these fine Americans tightly to your breast; I know they stand beside you now, wrapped tightly in our beloved Old Glory.

Amen.

An Apprehension

One Thursday evening, while working the buffer in the passageway in preparation for the commanding officer’s Friday morning inspection, Private Mitchell (the head detail) approached me and asked, “Is it true that no matter what rank you are serving at on the day you retire, you get to retire in the highest grade held?”

“I think so,” I said. “But maybe not if you were busted in rank.”

“Oh,” Mitchell replied.

“Why do you want to know that, Mitchell?”

“I was hoping that I could retire as a PFC,” he said, as he went back to cleaning the sinks.

Private Mitchell had been at the Marine Detachment far too long. He hated guard duty, hated the command structure, and he hated being stationed around so many sailors. In fact, in spite of being one of the sharpest Marines in his overall appearance, Mitchell was permanently removed from duty at the main gate because he invariably stopped every sailor to demand positive identification, conduct a uniform inspection, and make inappropriate comment about ducks, squids, swabbies, deck apes, or faggots. Once, he even stopped an admiral in his official car and asked for his identification card. He might have achieved forgiveness for harassing sailors, but not for irritating an officer who, by virtue of his rank, could make life difficult for our commanding officer.

One evening, the corporal of the guard received a telephone call from a Navy lieutenant who re-quested assistance in locating one of his men, a petty officer third. Apparently, the petty officer’s roommate discovered a suicide note on the man’s dresser outlining how, in view of his failed love affair with another sailor, he could no longer live in such a cruel world. The corporal of the guard asked a number of follow-up questions, such as the petty officer’s last known location, whether he had an automobile, whether dressed in uniform or civilian attire, a general description, and so on. Having gained as much information as he could, the corporal of the guard alerted the main and side gates to be on the lookout for a sailor matching the description given to him by his officer in charge. He then notified the sergeant of the guard, who notified the guard chief, who notified the first sergeant, who promptly went back to watching television with his wife.

As instructed by the sergeant of the guard, the corporal of the guard assigned himself and the guard supernumerary, Private Mitchell, to make a roving patrol of the compound to see if they could locate the petty officer. They went to the enlisted club, the post-exchange, the athletic field, walked through the parking lot, checked the gates, and then repeated the above cycle. At one point, Private Mitchell offered, “We seem to spending a lot of time on a sailor, Corporal.”

“Yeah, well yours is not to reason why,” replied Corporal Chinc, so called because he came from Chincoteague, Virginia.

“And a faggot to boot . . .” added Mitchell.

“Can it, private,” ordered Corporal Chinc.

“Never thought I’d ever be out on a search and destroy mission for a faggot,” Mitchell continued.

“We’re searching for someone who may need help, Mitchell,” the corporal clarified.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m not kidding.”

“Well, if we help this guy commit suicide, won’t that be murder?” asked Mitchell.

“Christ!” said Cpl Chinc. “Are you really that stupid, Mitchell?”

“No, corporal, but I’m working on it. Hell, I’d like to be a corporal someday.”

The roving patrol continued for several hours when Corporal Chinc’s radio informed him that the main gate had detained the missing petty officer, and requested instructions. The sergeant of the guard immediately sent Corporal Chinc and Private Mitchell to the main gate to take the sailor into custody. Upon arrival at the gate, Corporal Chinc noted that the Marine had the sailor standing just outside the gatehouse, and that the petty officer was standing quietly waiting for the arrival of the corporal of the guard. Unbeknownst to Corporal Chinc, while he spoke with the sentry and took his oral statement about the detention, Private Mitchell grabbed the sailor, forced him to the ground, and ordered him to place his hands behind his head. To be on the safe side, Mitchell removed his weapon and threat-ened to use it if the sailor even thought about “making a run for it.” As this silly and uncalled for drama was unfolding, outbound traffic stacked-up because Private Mitchell and the sailor, who was now lying on the ground, were blocking traffic.

Meanwhile, the sergeant of the guard contacted the Navy lieutenant to inform him that he believed the petty officer was in custody at the main gate, and requested the lieutenant to come to the barracks to take the sailor into custody. The lieutenant instead proceeded immediately to the main gate.

As Corporal Chinc came out of the gatehouse, noting Mitchell had drawn his sidearm, ordered him to put it away. Private Mitchell was in the process of doing exactly that when the Navy lieutenant arrived in an official vehicle. By this time, there were perhaps as many as seven cars waiting in line to exit the compound. In exiting his vehicle, the lieutenant ran to the gate and immediately demanded an explanation for the necessity of placing the sailor on the ground, and for Mitchell’s conduct in having drawn his sidearm. Before Corporal Chinc could assert his authority over the situation, Private Mitchell demanded the lieutenant to produce some identification.

“I’m in uniform, Marine,” said the lieutenant.

“So what?” said Mitchell.

“So you don’t need to see my identification if I’m in uniform,” said the lieutenant.

“Don’t tell me my job, sir. I’m the one with the firearm,” said Mitchell.

“Are you threatening me?” the lieutenant demanded.

“Both of you shut the hell up!” ordered Corporal Chinc. “Mitchell, get the petty officer off the ground, take him over to the truck, and stand there until I tell you otherwise.” Then, turning to the officer, he said, “Lieutenant, who are you and why are you here?”

“I’m the petty officer’s OIC; I’m here to pick him up.”

“Stand by, sir,” said Corporal Chinc. He then got the sergeant of the guard on the radio, told him what was going on, and asked for instructions. The sergeant of the guard ordered him to transport the petty officer to the barracks, and to ask the lieutenant to proceed directly to the barracks in his own vehicle. Corporal Chinc complied with his orders.

“Petty officer,” said Corporal Chinc, “I’m going to ask you to get into the back of the pickup truck. Will you promise to sit there without making any trouble for me, or do I have to handcuff you?”

The petty officer promised to behave himself, and Corporal Chinc helped him into the truck.

“Can I ride in the back with the queer, Corporal?” asked Mitchell.

“No. Get in the vehicle.”

“What if he tries to escape?” pressed Mitchell.

“If that happens, after I unload your weapon, then you’ll have to run him down and take him back into custody.”

At the barracks, the petty officer was turned-over to the sergeant of the guard who made a positive identification and then released him into the custody of the lieutenant. Before departing, the lieutenant said to the sergeant of the guard, “I want to press charges against this private.”

“Bullshit,” said Mitchell.

“Private Mitchell, shut up,” said the sergeant of the guard, “and don’t use that word in front of an officer.” Then turning his attention back to the lieutenant, asked, “What are you charging him with, sir?”

“Insubordination,” said the lieutenant.

“That’s horseshit, sergeant,” said Mitchell.

“Private Mitchell, if you don’t shut your mouth, I’ll press charges against you myself,” said the sergeant in a menacing tone of voice.

“I used a different word, sergeant,” said Mitchell.

Ignoring Mitchell, the sergeant of the guard turned his attention back to the Navy lieutenant. “In what way was Private Mitchell insubordinate, sir?”

“He demanded my identification while I was in uniform,” said the lieutenant.

“Sir, that is a normal procedure,” said the sergeant.

“And he threatened me with deadly force, too,” offered the lieutenant.

“Excuse me, sir,” Mitchell interrupted. “Would the lieutenant like for me to run top-side and get a copy of the Uniform Code of Military Justice?”

“What?” asked the lieutenant.

“Well, if you’re going to shop around for a charge, it would help . . .,” said Mitchell.

“Corporal Chinc, escort Private Mitchell topside and wait with him there until I’m finished talking to the lieutenant,” ordered the sergeant of the guard.

After Private Mitchell and Corporal Chinc left, the sergeant of the guard explained that while Private Mitchell may not have used an appropriate degree of tact, informing the lieutenant that he was in fact in possession of a firearm was not a threat to use that weapon. Nevertheless, he offered the lieutenant the opportunity to make a formal statement, which he declined to do.


Copyrigh, 2005

Command Inspector

Anyone who has ever seen the Dukes of Hazard television program could immediately identify the character called “Boss Hogg” with the 4th Marine Division Inspector. For that reason, I will refer to the Inspector as Colonel Hogg. A full colonel in the United States Marine Corps Reserve serving on temporary active duty, his function was to report on the readiness and efficiency of subordinate commands through an assessment of thematic inspection regimens. To assist him, Colonel Hogg relied upon officers and staff noncommissioned from other general staff sections. For example, operational efficiency inspections would involve members from the office of the Assistant Chief of Staff, G-3. The Inspector conducted or supervised audits, coordinated the development of command policy respecting combat readiness, promoted administrative efficiency and effectiveness, prevented incidents involving fraud and abuse, and evaluated allegations made against members of the command, particularly among commissioned officers.

With all of this responsibility, his relative seniority (even if in the reserve), one might conclude that Colonel Hogg would isolate himself from the rampant pettiness of the division staff. Sadly, who ever made such a conclusion would be wrong. No — Colonel Hogg in fact involved himself in every petty squabble that arose, including personality clashes with those considerably junior to him. Worse, Colonel Hogg went out of his way in making sure that a select group of junior officers were given a hard time whenever he could arrange it. The Battalion Executive Officer and Operations Officer (both reserve officers) were among those on Colonel Hogg’s “hit list.” As an illustration of this unprofessional conduct, the two previously mentioned officers decided to get together with a few of their friends after work one Friday at the Officer’s Club. About sixty minutes into “happy hour,” Colonel Hogg, who also happened to be in the officer’s club, approached the two officers, informed them that they were making too much noise, and ordered them to “hold it down.” According to third-party witnesses, the major and captain were no louder than any one else at the club, and perhaps not as loud.

It is sad to say that childish behavior among reserve officers is like a flu virus at school; no sooner does one person comes down with it, and it begins spreading all over the place. In that context, the major and captain conspired to perpetrate a series of pranks on the Division Inspector — an indication that the major and captain were too immature to be Marine officers, and that Colonel Hogg failed to command, or earn the respect of junior officers.

In any case, one or both of these junior officers learned that Colonel Hogg was wearing a personal decoration to which he was not entitled. Subsequently, a series of flyers found their way throughout the division headquarters calling into question the Colonel’s entitlement to a Silver Star medal, and which drew attention to the fact that Colonel Hogg had never been outside the United States. Since the Silver Star Medal can only be earned in combat, it was obvious that the colonel was at least guilty of an integrity violation. Other anonymous pamphlets included “ransom note style” notices that accused Colonel Hogg of having carnal knowledge with a woman not his wife at a popular Irish bar in downtown New Orleans. For his part, Colonel Hogg almost weekly demanded the immediate court-martial of both the major and the captain, even in the absence of any evidence that they were behind the distribution of pamphlets, and it wasn’t until he was ordered to “cease and desist” his childish antics that relationships at the 4th Marine Division headquarters resumed a more professional tone.

Perhaps such events were merely time and place dependent, but one had to question the necessity of a program that brought such people on active duty for longer than two weeks.

Copyright, 2005

Close Combat

One Saturday afternoon, years ago in the small village of Kin, just outside the Marine Corps’ Camp Hansen, Okinawa, Marines from elements of the 26th Marine Regiment had gathered at one of several Japanese bars that catered to servicemen to dedicate themselves to the consumption of beer. In those days, Marines divided their 24-hour day into performing necessary functions. For example, part of the day is devoted to combat training, part of it for eating chow, part of it for maintaining uniforms and equipment, a portion for sleeping, some of it dedicated for interacting with the opposite sex, and of course, a portion is devoted to the consumption of beer. One anthropological theory holds that a Marine’s affinity for beer drinking is related to the fact that the Corps was started in a pub. Of course, more study is needed develop this hypothesis further, but it is a good beginning and may even qualify for a sizeable federal research grant. Naturally, the division of time allotted to the aforementioned interests could be placed on a sliding scale, where more time given to the consumption of alcoholic beverages necessarily reduced the time (or opportunity) for meeting the fairer sex. Some people never quite figured out that an over-indulgence in the one area canceled out the other.

In any case, a sizeable group of Marines commandeered their own space within a Japanese bar and was well into their self-allotted beer drinking time, when several of their brothers in arms from Australia arrived. In Australia, beer is preferred to water because no one is quite sure of what sea creatures actually do in water and well, it may not be safe to drink. The Australians gathered in their own area of the bar. Over time, the increase of noise became directly proportional to the consumption of beer and a good time was being had by all. That is, until one Australian undiplomatically decided point out to the Marines that their conversation was not only loud, but also obnoxious. He may have even quoted Lord Byron respecting the coarseness and rudeness of Americans generally. Whatever the statement, it could not be allowed to pass by the Marines and was in fact answered by a lance corporal who said, “Oh yeah? How’s this for obnoxious: [expletive] you.”

“No, mate,” came the Australian reply, “[expletive] you.”

The same lance corporal replied, “No, [expletive] you — ya damn foreigner.”

By now, the reader should be able to see where this conversation was leading. The trigger to close combat finally came when one of the Marines communicated a proposition relating to Queen Elizabeth. It was one hell of a fight, and the Australians acquitted themselves well considering the fact that they were initially out-numbered. Some Marines, not affiliated with the 26th Marines, believing in a sense of fair play, allied themselves with the Australians in order to even up the two sides. Eventually, the fight worked its way out into the street, and the military police were called.

After about thirty minutes or so, which is a long time in any melee, the last Marine was hauled off and the bar was closed for repairs — which took about seven days — but inasmuch as there were at least a hundred bars in the Village of Kin, one bar’s closure did not materially interfere with the amount of time the Marines allotted themselves to drinking beer.

Copyright, 2005

First Shirt

A first sergeant has a number of duties that are vital to the operation of a line company. He is the principal advisor to the commanding officer in matters affecting morale and discipline, and he occupies an important position in the overall command structure of the unit. In addition to his advisory role with the “skipper,” first sergeants also have a number of administrative duties, including the supervision of the Company Gunnery Sergeant, the supply sergeant, and the company office. In the early 1960s, administration occupied more of the first sergeant’s time than it does today. Back then, the company office administered personnel records, pay, correspondence, and maintaining a file system. There was a chief clerk, but the first sergeant was the one who first approved anything that went into the CO’s office for signature. The manner in which the first sergeant accomplished his duties was entirely personality dependent — as I’m sure it still is. Some first sergeants, sometimes referred to as the “first shirt,” spent a great deal of time out and among the troops, both in garrison and in the field. Others almost never went to the field, remaining in garrison to take care of business. Some first sergeants found a good balance between supervising administrative tasks, and spending time with the company’s Marines. Essentially, the first sergeant fulfills the role that the company commander wants him to.

In February 1964, the 2nd Battalion, 8th Marines embarked for Panama. There had been some trouble in the Canal Zone, which involved rioting and attacking American soldiers stationed there. A mob hanged three or four American soldiers from flagpoles and it was felt that a battalion landing team of Marines would demonstrate a strong American presence. Company E embarked aboard the USS. Suffolk County (LST 1173), while the remainder of the Battalion sailed with the USS. Guadalcanal, an LPH. Being at sea on a flat bottom ship was a real experience; with a shallow keel, the ship isn’t exactly the most stable platform in the Navy’s inventory. An LST has a shallow draft so that it can move close to shore and offload Marines and equipment from floating ramps connected to the bow of the ship. The designation LST stands for Landing Ship, Tank.

Enroute to Panama, we transferred a chaplain from Suffolk County to an accompanying ship. Watching the transfer, which involved extending cables between the two ships and then moving the padre from one ship to the other over these cables, was an amazing experience. The sway of the two ships caused the chaplain to bob up and down, and on a couple of occasions, he was dunked into the water. I remember thinking that the chaplain had either amazing faith in God, tremendous confidence in the Navy, or no sense worthy of mention.

Marines aboard ship, especially small, tightly packed ships like the Suffolk County, have very little to do with their time while at sea. They read, play cards, get in the way of the working sailors, barter equipment with the crew, or they go up on deck to enjoy the sea. Some Marines serve on mess duty, others work on their equipment, but most grunts are unemployed under such circumstances. I was one of those unemployed Marines until a runner from the company office located me and said that the First Sergeant wanted to see me.

I reported to First Sergeant Kelly, who was sitting in an unbelievably cramped office labeled CO of TROOPS. “Yes, First Sergeant?”

“What have you been up to, young man?” he asked.

“Nothing, First Sergeant,” I replied. I couldn’t imagine what I’d done.

“Good,” he said. “I noticed in your service record that you can type.”

I didn’t say anything.

“That was a question, Marine,” said Kelly.

“I can type some, First Sergeant.”

“Well, since you don’t seem to have anything to do, I’d like for you to help out in the company office. We can use your typing skills.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Do you have a problem with that?” he asked.

I didn’t want to get on the First Sergeant’s bad side, but I didn’t want to work as a clerk, either. I said, “This is just a temporary thing, right First Sergeant?”

“Right. Just while we’re at sea.”

“And I can go back to my platoon then,” I asked.

“Of course. Just while we’re at sea.”

“Okay, First Sergeant.”

“That’s the spirit. Go down the passageway and see Sergeant Rawlins, he’s the Chief Clerk.”

“Aye, aye, First Sergeant.”

So I reported to Sergeant Rawlins who gave me some typing assignments, and when I finished that, I did some filing. Besides Rawlins, there were two other Marines: one who worked with service records, and another who had the title of unit diary clerk. When I completing the filing, Sgt Rawlins put me to work “auditing” service record books, and I helped with that until we came to port at Coco Solo, Panama. On the first morning in port, I stayed with my platoon, expecting we would go ashore to protect Americans. Around mid-day, a runner located me again and said that was to report to the First Sergeant.

“Where’ve you been?” he asked.

“I’ve been with my platoon, First Sergeant.”

“We were looking for you in the company office,” he said.

“You said that working in the office was only a temporary assignment, First Sergeant.”

“Yes, I did.”

“We aren’t at sea any more, First Sergeant.”

“That’s true. But I’m the one around here who decides how temporary ‘temporary’ is,” he said.

“Sir?”

“You work for me until I tell you otherwise,” he clarified.

“First Sergeant, I’m a rifleman. Not a clerk,” I said defiantly.

“Well, let me explain how this works, Private. You get to do what the Marine Corps wants you to do. I’m the Marine Corps. I want you to work in the office.”

“Sir, I’d like to request mast with the commanding officer,” I said.

“That’s no problem,” he said. “And after you’ve talked to the captain, he’ll ask me what I think. And then I’ll say that I think you need to work in the office. Then what do you think the captain will decide?”

“I don’t know, First Sergeant.”

“Would you care to make a guess?”

“I’ll be working in the office?” I asked.

“You are a very astute young man, Private.”

So from then on, I worked in the office; except that when the company went to the field I continued serving with the 3rd Platoon as an M79 (grenade launcher) man, even after the First Sergeant changed my MOS to “administrative man.”

Damn.


Copyright, 2005

Crazy Mitchell

With the advent of a commitment of United States military forces to the Republic of Vietnam, in particular the Marines, the Commanding Officer, Marine Detachment concluded that he could contribute by placing a Marine rifle squad at the disposal of the Commandant. In consultations with the personnel department at Headquarters Marine Corps, the major was able to arrange for the transfer of thirteen Marines to Fleet Marine Forces, without replacement. The actions may well have been patriotic . . . even well intentioned, but the effect was to severely tax the ability of the small Marine detachment to perform its mission.

In order to ensure that the Marine security guards could satisfy the demanding requirements of the assigned mission, the genius who commanded us placed us on “running guard” for a period of eight months. Running guard is exactly what it sounds like . . . it is perpetual. The Marines were organized into guard sections that stand four hours of duty, followed by four hours of “standby,” another four hours of duty, followed by eight hours of rest, and then the cycle is repeated. We called it, "go on, stay on." The effect of running guard essentially meant that annual leave was restricted to emergency conditions, that married personnel would see a lot less of their families, and tedium would increase to almost dangerous levels. In time, Marines developed short tempers among themselves, and toward those who just happened to be stationed at the CINCLANT compound. There was also an increase in the use of alcoholic beverages while on liberty, and everyone was increasingly and perpetually tired. It may have even pushed a few Marines a bit over the edge.

Private Mitchell belonged to a small cadre of Marines who occupied most of the Commanding Officer’s time. Mitchell may have established the world’s record for nonjudicial punishment. He had been inside the CO’s office for punishment so many times that he almost knew the Uniform Code of Military Justice by heart. One time during “office hours,” the major asked Private Mitchell, probably earnestly, “What is the matter with you, son?” Private Mitchell replied, “Bad seed, sir!” Later, Mitchell proudly told everyone, “I’m the major’s son.”

One time, just after Private Mitchell returned to the detachment from the Camp Allen Brig, where he had been a resident for thirty days, he asked me, “You’ve never been to the Brig, have you?” I admitted that I had never been to the Brig. “You don’t know what you’re missing,” he went on. “All the reading you want to do, you can watch television, get lots of sleep, and best of all, no chicken-sh** guard duty.” It was thus revealed to me that Private Mitchell was permanently recorded within the commanding officer’s sh** list because he felt that going to jail was much preferred to standing guard or performing honor guard duties.

We had a guard officer back then, but he was also the detachment executive officer. In following the example of the major, he never once made rounds to check on his Marines. That task was left to either the sergeant or corporal of the guard. One day, Corporal Barnes discovered a condition at Private Mitchell’s post that led him to conclude Mitchell needed to be relieved of duty — and maybe his firearm. Corporal Barnes reported his findings to Sergeant Halliday, who went to inspect Mitchell himself. He then consulted with the guard chief, who consulted with the guard officer, who directed the First Sergeant to look into the matter.

When the First Sergeant and the guard chief showed up at Private Mitchell’s post, they found him “reading the riot act” to his company, which had been formed on the top of the desk assigned to the Marine Security Guard. There was a platoon of dead cockroaches, a platoon of dead flies, a platoon of dead mosquitoes, and a headquarters element of mixed bugs, all dead of course. The First Sergenat believed it was necessary to relieve Mitchell of his duties (and his firearm), and escort him to the dispensary for evaluation. After consultations with Mitchell and the detachment First Sergeant, it was the medical officer’s determination that Mitchell be transported to the naval hospital for psychiatric evaluation and treatment.

I was assigned the task of assisting Sergeant Halliday in the inventory of Private Mitchell’s personal effects. We did that, packed his sea bag, and carried it over to the dispensary. We dropped the sea bag off with the supervising corpsman, and then, observing that Private Mitchell was sitting along the wall waiting for transportation, I said, “Good luck, Mitchell.” He looked up, smiled, and winked.

Crazy my ass . . . Private Mitchell had found a way to get off running guard.

Copyright, 2005

A Message From Home

Located just outside of Birmingham, Alabama in the town of Anniston was the Navy-Marine Corps Reserve Training Center. The reserve center was the home of the 4th Battalion, 14th Marine Regiment, whose mission was to provide artillery support to the 4th Marine Division. As part of the Marine Corps Reserve, the battalion was staffed with active duty officers and enlisted men whose task it was to “inspect and instruct” assigned reservists, and to provide on-going administrative, operations, logistics, and first echelon maintenance support of the battalion’s training and readiness posture. The battalion was equipment-heavy, including 155mm self-propelled howitzers, motor transport equipment, small arms and crew-served weapons, and communications equipment. Since reservists drill but one weekend each month, a lion’s share of the work it takes to operate an efficient battalion fell upon the active duty Marines. In 1974, the active duty staff numbered 2 officers, and 18 noncommissioned officers. Leading the I-I Staff was a lieutenant colonel, assisted by a captain, both of whom were experienced artillery officers. NCOs assigned to the staff represented the various components of battalion level responsibility. These included a sergeant major, personnel chief, supply chief, artillery operations chief, communications chief, motor transport chief, and tracked vehicles maintenance chief.

One of the most important responsibilities of the I-I Staff was to organize the training plan for the reservist’s drill weekend. Live fire exercises required coordination with Fort McClellan, Alabama, and the 40-ton artillery vehicles had to be transported to Fort McClellan on heavy-duty lowboy trucks. During live fire exercises, the Assistant Inspector Instructor always acted as the range safety officer, which is a statement about the proficiency of the reserve officer contingent. It is correct to say that the pace of activity among the regular Marines was hectic. As the saying goes, there were not enough hours in a day.

For that reason, perhaps more than any other, Captain Mick Palmentari was constantly in a sour mood. Thorough to a fault, he often gave the impression that he did not trust the skill, or the knowledge of the noncommissioned officer staff; he was therefore a source of complaints among the enlisted men. He was, for the lack of a better term, a “micro-manager.” To be fair, however, none of the NCOs had anywhere near the responsibility that Captain Palmentari did, and for his part, he didn’t much care what the NCOs thought.

There were two kinds of Marines on the staff: the Marine who brought his lunch to work every day and ate it while working, or who just worked through the lunch hour without eating at all. Captain Palmentari brought his lunch, always in the proverbial “little brown bag.” It was during lunch one day when the captain summoned me to his office to discuss the up-coming drill weekend. While we talked, Captain Palmentari opened his lunch, carefully removing his sandwich from its well-wrapped wax paper container. As he bit into the sandwich, he got a curious look on his face, and without biting down on it any further, kept a portion of the sandwich in his mouth while uttering, in muffled tones, “What the hell?” It came out sounding like “Whof tha heil.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” I asked.

He took the sandwich from his mouth, placed it on the now unfolded wax paper, and began dismantling it. First, he lifted the top slice of bread, then the tomatoes, followed by the lettuce, and then each piece of lunchmeat individually. Between two slices of meat, he found a piece of paper covered with mustard and mayonnaise. Carefully lifting the paper from between the lunchmeat, he unfolded it and found a note from his wife. The handwritten note said, “Mick, I’m Leaving You.”

Sole Survivor

Navy Ensign George Gay was the sole surviving pilot of Torpedo Squadron 8 (VT-8) from the Battle of Midway (June 3—7, 1942). His oral history provides an in-depth look at the obstacles that faced American forces in their first confrontations with the Empire of Japan. The first challenge was that nearly all pilots were inexperienced, and all aircraft were outdated. Ensign Gay said:

“Well, Torpedo 8 had a difficult problem, we had old planes and we were new in the organization. We had a dual job of not only training a squadron of boot [inexperienced] Ensigns, of which I was one of course, we also had to fight the war at the same time, and when we finally got up to the Battle of Midway it was the first time I had ever carried a torpedo on an aircraft and was the first time I had ever had taken a torpedo off of a ship, had never even seen it done. None of the other Ensigns in the squadron had either.

“Quite a few of us were a little bit skeptical and leery but . . . it turned out the TBD [Douglas "Devastator" Torpedo Bomber] could pick up the weight, so it was easy We learned everything that we knew about Japanese tactics and our own tactics from Commander Waldron and Lt. Moore and Lieutenant Owens as they gave it to us on the blackboards and in talks and lectures. We had school everyday and although we didn't like it at the time, it turned out that was the only way in the world we could learn the things we had to know, and we exercised on the flight deck, did all kinds of things that we'd have to do artificially because we couldn't do our flying most of the time.

“As I said, we had had no previous combat flying. We'd never been against the enemy, our only scrap with them had been in taking Doolittle to as close to Tokyo as we went and in trying to get into the Coral Sea Battle, but when we finally got into the air on the morning of June the 4th, we had our tactics down cold and we knew organization and what we should do. We could almost look at the back of Comdr. [Commander] Waldron's head and know what he was thinking, because he had told us so many times over and over just what we should do under all conditions.

“I didn't get much sleep the night of June the 3rd, the stories of the battle were coming in, midnight torpedo attack by the PBY's [twin-engine patrol bomber seaplane, known as "Catalina] and all kinds of things, and we were a little bit nervous, kind of, like before a football game. We knew that the Japs were trying to come in and take something away from us and we also knew that we were at a disadvantage because we had old aircraft and could not climb the altitude with the dive bombers or fighters and we expected to be on our own. We didn't expect to run into the trouble that we found of course, but we knew that if we had any trouble we'd probably have to fight our way out of it ourselves.

“Before we left the ship, Lt. Comdr. Waldron told us . . . not to worry about our navigation but to follow him as he knew where he was going. And it turned out just exactly that way. He went just as straight to the Jap Fleet as if he'd had a string tied to them and we though that morning, at least I did when I first saw the Japanese carriers, one of them that was afire and another ship that had a fire aboard and I thought that there was a battle in progress and we were late.

“I was a little bit impatient that we didn't get right on in there then and when it finally turned out that we got close enough in that we could make a contact report and describe what we could see the Zeros [Japanese fighter-bomber planes] jumped on us and it was too late. They turned out against us in full strength and I figured that there was about 35 of them, I understand, that is I found out later that they operated Fighter Squadrons in numbers of about 32 and I guess it was one of those 32-plane squadrons that got us. Its been a very general opinion that the anti-aircraft fire shot our boys down and that's not true. I don't think that any of our planes were damaged, even touched by anti-aircraft fire, the fighters, the Zeros, shot down everyone of them, and by the time we got in to where the anti-aircraft fire began to get hot, the fighters all left us and I was the only one close enough to get any real hot anti-aircraft fire, and I don't think it even touched me and I went right through it, right over the ship.

“I think we made a couple of grave mistakes. In the first place, if we'd only had one fighter with us I think our troubles would have been very much less. We picked up on the way in a cruiser plane, a Japanese scout from one of their cruisers, and it fell in behind us and tracked us and I know gave away our position and course, and speed. We changed after he left but then I know that they knew we were coming. If we'd had one fighter to go back and knock that guy down, catch him before he could have gotten that report off, I believe the Japs might have been fooled some, quite sometime longer on the fact that our fleet was there. I think that might have been one of their first contacts warning them that we had a fleet in the vicinity and that got us into trouble, I'm sure.

“Also, we went in to a scouting line out there when we were still trying to find them and didn't and the skipper [commanding officer] put us in a long scouting line which I thought was a mistake at the time. I didn't ever question Comdr. Waldron, of course, he had his reason for it and I know that he expected to find them but he wanted to be sure that we did and that is the reason that we were well trained, and when he gave the join-up signal we joined up immediately. I was only afraid that in the scouting line in those old planes we would be caught by Zeros spread out and it would be much worse. As it turned out, it didn't make a whole lot of difference anyway, but we joined up quickly and we got organized to make our attack, the Zeros got after us.

“Personally, I was just lucky. I've never understood why I was the only one that came back, but it turned out that way, and I want to be sure that the men that didn't come back get the credit for the work that they did. They followed Comdr. Waldron without batting an eye and I don't feel like a lot of people have felt that we made mistakes and that Comdr. Waldron got us into trouble. I don't feel that way at all. I know that if I had it all to do over again, even knowing that the odds were going to be like they were, knowing him like I did know him, I'd follow him again through exactly the same thing because I trusted him very well. We did things that he wanted us to do not because he was our boss, but because we felt that if we did the things he wanted us to do then it was the right thing to do.

"The Zeros that day just caught us off balance. We were at a disadvantage all the way around.

Later promoted to the rank of lieutenant, Gay recovered from wounds incurred at the Battle of Midway while serving as a pilot in Navy Squadron VT-8. It was this squadron that found the main Japanese fleet and, without the support of fighter aircraft, launched an attack against the Japanese. Of the 30 pilots and crewmembers, all planes were shot down and then Ensign George H. Gay, United States Navy Reserve was the sole survivor. While in the water, he observed the dive bomber attack that destroyed three of the four Japanese aircraft carriers that participated in the battle.

Lieutenant Gay later participated in the Battle for Guadalcanal, after which he was assigned to duties as a flight instructor in the United States. After the war, he became a pilot with Trans-World Airlines. Following his death in 1994, Lieutenant Gay was cremated and his ashes committed to the deep in the same place his squadron launched their ill-fated attack.

Lest we forget . . .

Donny The Diamond

As with many others in the period leading to the end of World War II, Don Whiteside joined the Marines with the expectation that he would be called upon to participate in the defeat of the Japanese. And, like others, Don was underage when he enlisted. He was sixteen years of age, and fortunate that his lie went undiscovered. After boot training, Don shipped out as a replacement for the 1st Marines, who were then stationed in China. At some point, Don transitioned from the infantry into tracked vehicles. By the time the Korean War came around, he was in charge of a tank. He was severely wounded when a shell fragment went into his left side, and came out through his shoulder. He had some pretty remarkable stories to tell about his service as a Marine.

By the time I got to know Don Whiteside, he was a First Sergeant and had just reported for duty at the Marine Detachment in Norfolk, Virginia. He was a seasoned staff noncommissioned officer who could tell a “mickey mouse” outfit five out of five times, and he knew he was in one shortly after he reported for duty. Years later, he told me, “The clue was that neither the CO nor XO ever left their office, so I knew right away they were a bit light on the leadership side of the Marine Corps.” There were only two other staff noncommissioned officers in the detachment besides the First Sergeant: the guard chief and the supply chief. Whiteside said, “. . . two of the biggest ass kissers I’ve ever seen.” Whiteside’s opinion did a lot to confirm what the rest of us had always thought.

Whenever we spoke to him, or when he addressed us, it was always “Yes, First Sergeant,” or “No, First Sergeant.” But behind his back, he became known as “Donny the Diamond.” He was dedicated to the Corps, of course but he idolized his wife and daughters. He told me once that he wasn’t sure that his family had gotten the best end of the “Marine Corps.” It wasn’t until years later when I realized what he meant . . . our dependents suffered whenever husbands and fathers went off to be Marines, never knowing for sure that everything was okay, always dreading that visit by a Marine officer and a Chaplain.

It wasn’t long before First Sergeant Whiteside earned the respect of his Marines. We may not have ever seen the Guard Chief making rounds to check on his Marine guards, but the First Sergeant did. He treated us as though we were valuable to the Corps and to him personally. He dealt with us in a dignified way, which was something that we weren’t used to. Even when we needed discipline, he handled it privately. His form of “ass chewing” was to talk to us as if an older brother to a younger; he reasoned with us, and this wasn’t easy to do with some Marines who, by the time of Whiteside’s arrival, were very bitter about their Marine Corps experience. In the two years as our First Sergeant, he never once “preferred charges” against a Marine; he didn’t have to do that in order to get our attention. His favorite thing to say was, “Do you want to be a turd, or a Marine? You can’t be both.” He was an easy going leader, always had a kind word, asked about our families, and took the time to listen to what we had to say.

One day the major called him into his office and informed him that he would immediately refrain from calling “his Marines” turds. Whiteside said, “Aye, aye, sir.” And from then on, he called us “druts.” I asked him, “What the hell is a ‘drut,’ First Sergeant?” He laughed and said, “That’s turd spelled backwards.”

In 1966, the Marine Corps proved its wisdom by offering Whiteside a temporary commission. After his commissioning as a Second Lieutenant, he received orders to attend refresher training at the tracked vehicle maintenance officer’s course and became a maintenance officer for what we use to call landing vehicles, track (LVTs). Today, they’re called Amphibious Assault Vehicles. After completing maintenance school, 2ndLt Whiteside found himself in Vietnam and it would be the first of three separate tours.

I saw Whiteside on two occasions after our days together at the Marine Detachment, and spoke to him once on the telephone. Then, just before I retired I visited with him at his retirement home in Florida. By this time, he had lost his wife to cancer, and what I found was a completely changed “Donny the Diamond.” He was still a kind man, and typically expressed an interest in me and my family. We spoke of people we had known, and we relived earlier days over a couple of beers . . . but now he was living alone in a home that had become a shrine to his wife. He was a very lonely man, distressingly sad, and seemingly without any real purpose in his life. By this time, of course, his daughters were grown women with families of their own, and they all lived out of state.

As I said, Captain Donald Whiteside, United States Marine Corps (Retired) adored his wife. There could not have been a harsher test of this man’s faith. Semper Fidelis, Skipper.

Copyright, 2005

Say What?

The 9th Marine Amphibious Brigade, the Corps’ first ground combat element to land in Vietnam, had an Australian Army Officer attached to the Operations Section. Captain Kirkaldy was very Australian, which meant that most of us had a hard time with his accent. It took careful listening, and often, a request to repeat something he’d said to understand him. After a while, Captain Kirkaldy must have concluded that (a) Marines were hard of hearing, or (b) barbarians without the capacity to understand simple English. In any case, with the passage of time, the good Captain became a bit short tempered with having to repeat himself. One day, he appeared in the Staff Secretary’s office asking for an appointment to meet with the Commanding General. The Staff Secretary, Captain Lakin, was not present at the time, nor was the General’s aide-de-camp, so Captain Kirkaldy approached Lakin’s administrative assistant, an Arkansas Marine by the name of Sergeant Greer. As Kirkaldy approached Greer’s desk, Greer stood up and said, “May I help you sir?”

“Yes, Sahgent, cudjatellme where the aye dee cee is?”

“Sir?”

“Cudjatellme where the aye dee cee is?” Kirkaldy repeated.

“Begging the captain’s pardon, sir, but I didn’t understand what you just said,” said Greer.

“Blimey. I said could-you-tell-me-where-the-aye-dee-cee-is . . .”

“Sir, just what the hell is an aye dee cee?” asked Greer.

“The aye-dee-cee, man. The bloody aye-dee-cee.”

“Sir, I don’t think we have one of those here. I could check with the adjutant if you like,” offered Greer.

“Sahgent, are you completely daft?”

“Sir?”

“Are-you-daft?”

“No sir, I enlisted.”

“Sahgent, I’m-looking-for-the-general’s-assistant. Where-is-he?”

“Ohhhh,” said Greer. “You’re looking for the Aide-de-Camp?”

“God in heaven, yes!” said Kirkaldy.

“He’s not here right now, sir.”

“Yes, I know. When-can-I-expect-to-catch-him-in-his-office-Sahgent?”

“Sir, may I have the Aide call you upon his return?”

“Yes. Christ. Please do.”

“Yes, sir,” said Greer. “Is there anything else I can do for the Captain?”

“No, sahgent. I’ve not the strength.”

Snakes

In the early 1960’s, like everyone who graduated from Boot Camp at Parris Island, South Carolina, Private Harold E. White, USMC was granted thirty days leave with subsequent orders to report to the Infantry Training Regiment, then located at Camp Geiger, North Carolina. Private White was a damn good Marine, and few among us demonstrated as much mastery of the Browning Automatic Rifle (BAR) than he did. He also confirmed his ability to “suck it up” during the rigorous training we encountered at Camp Geiger. Whether crawling underneath concertina wire with automatic weapons fire streaming overhead, or learning how to crimp a blasting cap and set an explosive charge, White had the guts and determination the Marine Corps was looking for in the profession of arms. He was a good and decent human being, always willing to lend a hand to a fellow Marine, and he well liked by the members of our platoon.

There was only one thing that spooked Private White. He had a remarkable fear of snakes. He hated snakes, and he didn’t like anyone who did like snakes. But, it was only a matter of time, trooping around in the boonies of North Carolina until we stumbled across one, which is what happened one day when we were moving as a squad through a field approaching a stand of woods. Private White, a member of the first fire team, was the first to see the snake warming itself in the early morning sun. The first two Marines had just walked by the snake without seeing it at all, but Private White saw it, and he literally came unglued. Screaming in a high-pitched voice, he said, “Oh my God . . . a snake . . . a snake . . .” and he ran as fast as he could back in the direction just traveled. Everyone broke ranks and retreated back toward where White was now standing. Our platoon sergeant was not particularly pleased with us, and as he approached the snake, he called us “sissies,” and ordered us to form up. Everyone formed as directed, except for White who said he was “. . . damn sure not going near no damn snake.” The sergeant took out his entrenching tool, walked over to the snake, and decapitated it. It was a Copperhead. Meanwhile, White was standing off by himself and would not rejoin the squad until we all gave him encouragement. Private White took a lot of ribbing about that incident, but in this matter, he was inflexible. “Don’t like no snakes. I see a snake, I’m gone.”

About a week later, we had just finished a tactical exercise and the instructor led us to a field classroom — a cleared area with logs as seats in an Amphitheater arrangement. The platoon members grounded their 782-gear and found a place to sit down, and the instructor took his place to give us a lecture preceding our afternoon exercise. Before he could utter a word, Private White jumped up screaming, “Snake! Snake!” and of course everyone scattered, including the instructor. Again, our sergeant went to the area where White had been seated (Private White now a good twenty yards away), where he found a two foot length of rope partially buried in the soil. The sergeant was not at all pleased, nor was the instructor, or the platoon who had just had the dickens scared out of them. Private White got a pretty good chewing out by the sergeant, and eventually everyone settled down and we proceeded with the training plan. This incident was the genesis of Private White’s new nickname: “Snakes.”

There were occasions when our daily activities included no field skill training at all; instead, we were assigned to clean up details, roadwork, or tearing down old buildings to make room for new structures. One afternoon our squad was assigned to clean up the outside of our barracks, including the washing of windows, raking up trash, and picking up refuse in an adjacent parking area. White was cleaning windows, while Private Ryan and I picked up trash in the parking lot. Where we found a dead snake. Ryan suggested that we take it to Private White to ask his opinion about what kind of snake it was. We both knew it was a Copperhead, but it seemed like a good prank. So, I picked up the snake by its tail and left it hanging down along my leg as we walked to the corner of the building. “Hey, Snakes” we called out.

“Yo . . .” he answered.

“You got a minute?” Ryan asked.

As Private White walked around the corner of the building, I said, “We wanted to get your opinion on something.”

“Sure,” said White.

I raised the snake up and rested it on White’s left shoulder, and Ryan said, “What kind of snake is this?”

Private White lost every bit of color in his face, his eyes swelled up to the size of saucers, and he lost his ability to speak. He just looked at the snake for a few seconds, and then lost consciousness. It was funny to us up until the time when White collapsed. I tossed the snake away and both Ryan and bent down, leaning over White to see if he was okay. I remember saying, “Oh, Christ . . .I think we killed him” over and over. Ryan assured me he was still breathing, and I called the sergeant who ran over to take charge of the situation. It seemed longer, but White came to, although his color had not yet returned. We got White on his feet, and as we dusted him off, I apologized to him over and over. White never said a word to us, and eventually he went back to what he was doing. The sergeant grabbed Ryan and I by the shirt and dragged us over to the side of the building. “What the hell is the matter with you two?” he asked. “Don’t you realize that you could have killed that Marine?”

“No, sergeant,” we said.

“Horsing around can hurt Marines, you idiots. If you had killed that Marine, you’d go to jail as sure as Christ makes little green apples. Grow up, dip shits.”

Today, I retain two regrets about this long ago incident. The first is that I remain as sorry as I can be that I could have ever contributed to the death of a fellow Marine — and a damn good Marine; and the second is that I lost a very good friend – Snakes never again spoke to either Ryan or me.

Copyright, 2005

Porter v. Adamsville

The artillery operations chief for the Inspector-Instructor Staff, 4th Battalion, 14th Marines was Gunnery Sergeant Andrew Porter. Gunny Porter was one of those Marines one never forgets. He stood slightly less than average height, the top of his head was bald, and he had a Terry Thomas gap between his two front teeth. A dedicated bachelor, Porter lived alone in an apartment not far from the training center; with no one to answer to, he enjoyed the nightlife. Stocky and as strong as an ox, Gunny Porter was a completely reliable Marine — except when he’d been drinking, which occurred every day after 1600 hours. He knew more sea stories than any one I’ve ever met, and I never heard one repeated until I had completed two years on the staff. His stories were mostly funny as hell, which attests to his sense of humor. Unfortunately, Porter’s sense of humor betrayed him while under the influence of intoxicating substances.

Part of the problem with Gunny Porter’s drinking was that the Inspector-Instructor tolerated it; Lieutenant Colonel Conklin enjoyed the spirits as well. In fact, there were two “watering holes” for the Marines of the Inspector-Instructor staff, both no more than dives, and neither of which would take a lot of money to repair should a fight break out.

One night, Gunnery Sergeant Porter was the “last man standing” at water hole number two, located inside the city limits of Adamsville, Alabama. The bartender later told us Porter was standing at the end of the bar by himself when two ‘good old boys’ wandered in. As Porter was still in uniform, it wasn’t long before the two late comers began making remarks about “sea-going bell hops,” comments that Porter believed inappropriate. Porter opined that the two men justified abortion rights. There were a few more exchanges, and then Porter walked over to one man and knocked him out with a single punch. The second character pulled a knife, Porter grabbed a bar stool, and the bartender called the police. It was an apparently slow night for lawlessness that evening in Adamsville because four police units responded to the call. By the time the police, arrived, however, the second character was lying on the floor with a good-sized knot on his head, and Porter was again standing at the bar drinking his beer.

A quick question and answer period with the bartender led the police to conclude that Gunnery Sergeant Porter assaulted the two now recovering patrons. Porter insisted that while it was true that the two characters had conflicted with his fist, the altercation was in self-defense because the one guy pulled a knife, which the police had in fact recovered from the floor. The bartender attested to Porter’s story, but the police supervisor, one Sergeant Billy Ray Smith, also known to be a Private First Class, United States Marine Corps Reserve, decided to take Gunnery Sergeant Porter to jail. That was Smith’s first mistake because yet another altercation occurred, this time resulting in the serious injury of three police officers, including Smith. The second mistake was placing Gunnery Sergeant Porter inside one of the police vehicles, which it took five officers to accomplish, because Porter began dismantling the vehicle with his feet, head, shoulder, knee, or any other body part that he could use to that purpose.

Gunnery Sergeant Porter was lucky that the Adamsville Police Department did not have a good reputation, and fortunate that the Judge in the case was a friend of the Marine Corps. In addition to being placed on probation for thirty days, Gunnery Sergeant Porter was ordered to pay for damage to watering hole number two, which came to less than $30.00; damage caused to the police car (amounting to about $2,000.00) and attend five meetings at a local alcohol-anonymous chapter.

I have no doubt but that Gunnery Sergeant Porter is telling this sea story to someone right now.

Copyright, 2005

"Acting" Commandant

In the late 1960s, I was assigned to the Office of the Deputy Assistant Chief of Staff for Plans and Operations at Headquarters, U. S. Marine Corps. My office provided administrative support to the Operations Deputy and Commandant of the Marine Corps in the preparation of classified documents under discussion or review by the Joint Chiefs of Staff (JCS). There were only four Marines assigned to the Office of Joint Control: a lieutenant colonel, a major, a gunnery sergeant, and a staff sergeant. I was the staff sergeant.

In those days, before the development of joint war fighting doctrine the Commandant of the Marine Corps was only a voting member of the JCS when he expressed a direct concern (DC) on an issue before the JCS. At this time, CMC expressed DC on only about 60% of the issues that were laid before the OJCS.

One day, a "sayonara" luncheon was held for a high-ranking officer and I was assigned the "duty" of office telephone watch. Quite literally, as a staff sergeant, I was the "senior Marine" present because nearly everyone else attended the farewell luncheon.

The phone rang and I answered it in the prescribed manner by identifying both the title of the office along with my rank and name. The caller was the administrative officer (a civilian) to the JCS who called to ask for a Marine Corps position on a classified proposal for joint planning that had been circulated by the Air Force. I told the caller that there was no one available at the present time, and asked if I could call him back later in the afternoon. He said, "No. I need a Marine Corps position on this document right now."

I asked him to hold for a moment while I went to look at the document in question. For the life of me, I cannot remember the subject of the document. It may have had something to do with increasing the number of swimming pools aboard USAF installations. In any case, having looked at the document, I returned to the phone and said, "The Commandant of the Marine Corps expresses direct concern on this issue." All this meant was that no decision could be reached by the JCS without the input of the Commandant of the Marine Corps. So the phone call was terminated and I went back to working on a crossword puzzle.

Later in the day, the telephone rang again and I answered it.

"Gunny," said the caller, "this is General Chapman." General Leonard F. Chapman was the Commandant of the Marine Corps. Note: I was a staff sergeant, not a gunnery sergeant so I mentally calculated that either the Commandant was getting ready to promote me, or he didn't understand the rank structure in his own Marine Corps. As it turns out, neither was the case.

"Yes, sir," I said.

"I understand that you communicated to the JCS that I have a direct concern on a recent Air Force proposal. Is that correct?"

"Yes, sir," I replied.

"Is it possible, Gunny that you have been recently promoted to the post of Commandant without my knowledge?"

"No, sir."

"Then would you mind telling me why you usurped my authority as Commandant with regard to whether or not I had a direct interest on this issue?" he asked. Note: As a very perceptive Marine staff noncommissioned officer, I immediately decided that it would be a good idea for me to proceed carefully from this point on.

"Aye, aye sir,” I said. “The JCS indicated that they needed a Marine Corps position and could not wait until an officer returned to make that determination. As the senior Marine present, I simply made the decision that the Commandant would express direct concern on the issue. General, I believed it would be more prudent to assume direct concern than to assume there was no direct concern."

"I see," he said. "Well, you did the right thing, Gunny.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Gunny, don't ever do it again. Do you read me?"

"Yes, sir."

Click.

Perhaps the reason General Chapman was so kind to me is simply the result of his understanding that whenever a Marine finds himself "in charge," he is expected to "take charge." Nevertheless, in keeping with the Commandant's personal directive to me, I didn't "do it again," but to be honest, such an opportunity never again presented itself. General Chapman continued to call me "gunny" for the rest of my time at HQMC, but I was not promoted to that rank until five years later.

Copyright, 2005

Follow me . . .

2nd Lieutenant Dempsey commanded the third platoon, Company E, 2nd Battalion, 8th Marines, but Staff Sergeant Randall J. Wentworth led it. Staff Sergeant Wentworth was a veteran of the Korean War, during which he earned the Purple Heart Medal. He knew his job well enough, but he wasn’t the brightest bulb in the house. The lieutenant was smart enough to keep out of the way and allow Wentworth to do his job; in fact, we seldom saw the lieutenant, even when in the field. He was there . . . he just kept out of the way. The strength of our platoon was in the squad and fire team leaders. Wentworth directed the squad leaders, the squad leaders directed the fire team leaders, and the fire team leaders directed us. If Wentworth was anything, he was stubborn. When he said to do something, he meant it. If the platoon failed to accomplish a task to Wentworth’s satisfaction, we would do it over until it did meet his expectation.

During peacetime, Marine infantry companies train, train, and train. The axiom “we sweat in peace to avoid bloodshed in war,” was true within the 8th Marines. If we were not in the field practicing tactical movements, being physically conditioned, and developing teamwork, then we were on one of dozens of firing ranges practicing with weapons. Echo Company never rode anywhere, we marched . . ., and it didn’t matter how far. We also practiced the art of embarkation, whether “mounting out” on land, at sea, or in the air. We were tested on how quickly we could get ready for deployment, which as it happens, is the mission of the United States Marine Corps — First to Fight.

Landing exercises were the most difficult of our training cycle, and perhaps the most expensive. In order to have a successful landing, which involved massive amounts of support across a wide range of combat services it is first necessary to load ships with all the gear that is organic to a rifle company. I remember being amazed by the expertise of our embarkation personnel; it was a difficult task, and critical. Whatever requires off-loading first goes aboard ship last. High in the order of what needs to come off the ship first is ammunition, supporting arms, food, and medical supplies. So the point is that landing exercises are vital to maintaining a high state of readiness within the Marine Corps.

Generally, Marines hate going aboard ship. We’ve always believed that the Navy is only good for taking us to places where we don’t want to go, and putting us in places where people are shooting at us. And the Navy steals our stuff. In the past, the Navy has left us in very hostile environments to fend for ourselves while they went off somewhere for a nice holiday. Or so we suspected. To be fair, though, the Navy really doesn’t like Marines aboard their ships, either. We get in the way, clog up the place, and make chow lines longer. And we steal things. Neat things.

Still, landing exercises are very exciting, and what makes them stimulating is that they are inherently dangerous. Marines are killed and injured all the time during combat training. Some times, amphibious assault vehicles (formerly, landing vehicles, track) can swamp in a rough surf causing the loss of all hands. Marines fall from nets as they climb over the side of ships to get into landing craft, or sometimes waves cause the boats to crush Marines against the side of the ship. In spite of these dangers, it is inconceivable that anyone would think that we shouldn’t do these things; practice makes perfect – or nearly so.

We made two amphibious landings while I was in the 8th Marines. Understandably, the first assault was the most memorable. Echo Company was making its assault in LCUs, and it happens that Staff Sergeant Wentworth was riding in with our platoon. We circled around in the surf for what seemed a long time until the assault wave was formed. Some Marines got sick from the effects of the sea, as all landing craft were barely at steerage. As Marines vomited, other Marines got sick as well. Some people didn’t know enough not to puke into the wind; it was a form of sharing that I personally could have done without. Then at some signal, all boats headed for Onslow Beach, North Carolina. The cool wind and spray from the surf surrounded us . . . there seemed to be no escaping it. As the beach came closer, we were all ready to return to terra firma.

Finally, our craft collided with the beach, and some Marines lost their footing and fell to the deck. But unlike every Marine movie I have ever seen, the ramp didn’t drop. I looked over the side and all the other boats’ ramps had fallen, and the Marines were running on to the beach and making their assault. Not us; our ramp didn’t fall. And Staff Sergeant Wentworth was highly pissed off. He kept shouting at the coxswain, “Drop the g**damned ramp, squid!”

“It won’t go down, Sarge,” said the coxswain.

“Alright everybody, follow me . . .,” Wentworth shouted.

Where upon Wentworth leaped over the side of the LCU into the surf, where he promptly disappeared from view. And no sooner had he gone over the side of the boat, the ramp dropped.

Our squad leader said, “Let’s go Marines. Everybody out!” And we ran down the ramp, into light surf, and on to the shore. But then we saw Staff Sergeant Purdy wading out of the surf waving us back. We stopped our “assault,” and we heard Wentworth screaming at the top of his voice, “Get your dumb asses back on that boat.”

With some confusion, we all ran back on the landing craft, and with Staff Sergeant Wentworth standing before us, soaking wet, and as mad as I’ve ever seen anyone, he said, “G**dammit, I said to follow me, and follow me you f*****g will. Everyone—over the side NOW!”

And every one of us went over the side of that LCU, into the surf. And even though we were all as soaking wet as Staff Sergeant Wentworth, it didn’t improve his mood for the rest of the day. Nor mine.

What a great day that was.

Copyright, 2005

The Colonel’s Leave

I had the honor of serving as the Executive Officer of the 7th Motor Transport Battalion under one of the Corps’ finest officers, Colonel “Tad” Curtis, USMC. At the outset of this story, it is important to point out that I was only appointed to this post because the Commanding General really wanted me out of his headquarters, where I served as the G-1. My assignment to 7th Motors came a year before Colonel Curtis was designated as the Battalion Commander, which came as the result of his superlative performance in the Group Operations Section.

Let me take a moment to describe “the Colonel.” I have always believed that he was robbed at birth of a British accent, or at best the ability annunciate as well as actor Carey Grant, but what he did have in abundance was the stoic humor of famed actor, Sir David Niven. The Colonel’s response to the punch line of a joke was frequently, “Right.” Of course, he was laughing inside, but the casual observer would have never known it. His humor was always in his eyes.

One thing that really stands out about the Colonel was he really cared about the welfare of his Marines. Not long after the Colonel assumed command of the battalion, he passed the word that he did not want to see any 7th Motors Marines (ever) riding around without their seat belts fastened. “Marines,” he said, “are too valuable to waste in automobile accidents.” One day during the lunch/physical fitness hour, the Colonel and I were running along the road in front of the battalion command post when, using his X-ray vision, he saw a Marine who was driving without his seat belt fastened. The Colonel sternly admonished the Marine and after ascertaining that yes, the Marine did know about the requirement to wear his seat belt, directed him to report to his office at 1300.

The Marine reported to the Colonel as ordered, having already checked in with Sergeant Major Busby. After a short interview, the Marine acknowledged that he received the order, and understood the order, but had simply forgotten to fasten his seatbelts. The Colonel thereupon directed the Marine to stand at attention in his office for one hour while reading The Guidebook for Marines as a means of ensuring that the Marine would not again forget. To my knowledge, the never again forgot to wear his seatbelt, and may be alive today because of his visit with the Colonel.

Several months into the Colonel’s assignment, he decided to take 10 days annual leave. As the XO, his absence made me acting commander. While he was gone, two developments simply became “more interesting” with each passing day.

The first incident involved several Marines in our supply section who were caught stealing 782 (webbed) gear and selling it in town. The case was opened when the Marines were subjected to a spot check by military police at the gate, and as it so happens, the trunk of their car was filled to the brim with stolen material. Not long after that, the Naval Intelligence Office discovered that these same Marines had rented a storage facility and, in searching that facility with an appropriate warrant, discovered additional stolen objects, including an automobile stolen from the base a month earlier, which happened to be the property of an agent of the Naval Investigative Service. Even though the investigation continued, I charged these seven Marines with several felony violations each and had them placed into pre-trial confinement.

The second incident involved a call I received one morning from higher headquarters. They asked that we consider placing a number of our motor transport vehicles into what they were then calling the Combat Readiness Storage Program (CRSP). The idea was that vehicles placed into CRSP would be preserved in storage at no cost to the Battalion; it would extend the life of the vehicle, and save the Marine Corps a considerable amount of money in terms of maintenance and long term replacement costs.

At that time, we had 196 logistical vehicle systems (MK48), heavy duty cargo trucks, which augmented the standard cargo truck, which was called a 6X6. The MK48 was relatively new to the Marine Corps. It was a vehicle especially developed for the Marines by American General, and quite different from the Army’s “Hemitt” vehicle, which rested on a standard frame like the traditional 6X6.

The adoption of the MK48 evolved from a desire to increase our combat load capability, which it did. But, it also presented some problems for us. The first problem is that (with all new vehicles) there were maintenance challenges and increased costs associated with establishing and maintaining a new “parts bin.” Second, Marine drivers had to be properly trained with the vehicle because it was possible to turn them over on rough terrain. Third, in the development process, no one had bothered to check with the Navy to see if the MK48 could be embarked on amphibious shipping. After the acquisition of the MK48, we discovered that the vehicle could not be so embarked; they could not be employed outside of U. S. as part of a Marine Air/Ground Task Force (MAGTF). Based on the foregoing, after conferring with my operations, supply, and maintenance officer, I agreed to place 10% of our MK48s (20 vehicles) in the CRSP Program.

The day before the Colonel’s return from leave, the mother of one of the Marines whom I had placed into pre-trial confinement called to find out why her son was in prison. I dutifully explained the charges, and assured her that the purpose of pre-trial confinement was not punitive, but rather to ensure his presence at a trial by court martial. She wanted him released, and I refused. She said unkind things about me and slammed the phone down in my ear – which did not please me a bit.

The Colonel’s return from annual leave prompted me to “brief him” on any developments that had transpired in his absence. I think the Sergeant Major was taking odds on my life-expectancy subsequent to my briefing — which of course remains an unconfirmed rumor. I began the briefing, “Sir – I can account for every Marine, and every vehicle.” He held up his hand and stopped me, and after a few seconds said, “Why are you telling me that? I hate it when you give me the ‘good news/bad news’ scenario. What have you done? Just give me the bottom line.” So I told him that his supply section was in pre-trial confinement, and 10% of his combat vehicles were in CRSP and he couldn’t have them back for five (5) years. When I was finished, I could see the muscles in his jaw working overtime, and had he been Jackie Gleason in the Movie “Smokey and the Bandit II,” I would have heard his beeper going off as he attempted to control his blood pressure. He just looked at me for a long while and then asked, “Have I been relieved of my command, yet?”

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, the mother who acted rudely on the phone was a constituent of Senator Dan Quayle of Indiana; he was then in the process of running as George Bush’s Vice Presidential candidate. She contacted Senator Quayle to complain about how her son’s constitutional rights were being violated because he was placed in prison before he had even been to trial.

As sure as God made little green apples, I received a telephone call from Senator Quayle’s office and one of his assistants wanted to talk to me about the case at hand. I politely said that I could not discuss the matter with him because (1) an investigation was on-going, (2) the Marine was presumed to be innocent until proven otherwise, and (3) I could not prejudice the government’s case by engaging in any prediction of the outcome of the matter. “Besides,” I said, “final authority rests with the Commanding Officer once the court-martial has been adjourned — and that isn’t me.” The aide insisted that I discuss the details of the case because “Senator Quayle wants to know.” I suggested that if he would send the standard “Congressional Inquiry,” we would respond to it. He was not happy and hung up the phone somewhat noisily. I naturally concluded that he was an asshole.

The next day, another call was received from Senator Quale’s office; this time from a more senior aide who started off the conversation by reading me the “riot act.” So I hung up on him. Another day went by and another call came in, this time from Senator Quayle who asked to speak to me by name, but I refused to take his call.

The fourth call came in from the Senator’s office the third day following the Colonel’s return from leave and the caller, asking to speak with the Commanding Officer, was connected with the Colonel. He was on the phone for close to an hour. When the Colonel got off the phone, he opened his door, looked into my office, and wiggled his finger at me to “come hither.” I did. He said, “Have a seat, major. I notice you neglected to tell me about Senator Quayle in your briefing . . .”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why is that, do you think?”

“I didn’t think it was all that important, sir.”

“Really — a United States Senator isn’t all that important? The next Vice President of the United States called, and you wouldn’t take his call, but it’s not important?”

“Well, maybe important Colonel, but not THAT important. You have to think that a former sergeant in the Indiana National Guard would know enough about military justice to . . .”

Cutting me off he said, “Here’s what I think, major. You planned this whole thing . . . it was your intent all along to have me locked up in jail and then you’d take over command of the battalion. Now, since I’ll be lucky not to be placed into pre-trail confinement myself, would you be good enough to call the senator’s office back and tell him EVERYTHING you know about this matter?”

“Yes sir,” I replied.

“AND I HAD BETTER NOT GET ANY MORE CALLS FROM MEMBERS OF CONGRESS DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, is there anything else that happened while I was on leave that you should tell me?” he asked, looking at me with steely eyes.

“Do you want to know about the rattle snakes?”

“Get out of my office, Major,” he said.

So I did.

Copyright, 2005