A DEADLY DAY FOR CHARLIE COMPANY

A Deadly Day For Charlie Company
By Rich Connell and Robert J. Lopez, Times Staff Writers
(2003-08-26) The convoy rumbled north, through the heart of the Iraqi city of Nasiriyah. It was the fourth day of the war, and the men of Charlie Company had orders to capture the Saddam Canal Bridge on the city's northern edge.

The Marines were taking heavy fire. Then there was an ear-splitting blast. A rocket-propelled grenade ripped open one of the amphibious assault vehicles, lifting it off the ground.

A thick, dark cloud filled the vehicle's interior. Some of the Marines donned gas masks, fearing a chemical attack. Screams pierced the smoke:

We got a man down! We got a man down!

The Marines' light armor had been pierced, and with it any illusion that this would be easy. They would take the bridge, but at a cost. Eighteen men from a single company were killed that day and 15 wounded, making it the deadliest battle of the war for U.S. forces.

Public attention, briefly riveted on the fighting in Nasiriyah, has since moved elsewhere. The struggle to rebuild Iraq and contain mounting guerrilla violence now occupies center stage. But the Marines of Charlie Company, now back home, are not ready to put that Sunday in March behind them.

They want to know why commanders sent them into an urban firefight without tanks, without protective plating for their vehicles and with only half the troops planned for the mission.

They want to know why an Air Force fighter strafed their positions as they struggled to hold the bridge, killing at least one Marine and possibly as many as six.

Five months later, the U.S. Central Command is still investigating the "friendly fire" episode. The Marine Corps has conducted its own review of the battle but said it will not release its findings until the other investigation is finished.

The Times reconstructed the battle from interviews with 11 Marines who fought that day. Their accounts paint a gory and chaotic picture of ground combat that contrasts with the many images of U.S. forces using precision bombs and long-distance weaponry against an enemy that quickly abandoned the fight.

In Nasiriyah, Iraqis stood their ground and threw all they could muster at the leading edge of the American forces. By day's end, the price of controlling the road to Baghdad had become gruesomely clear to both sides.

Charlie Company had reached Nasiriyah after pushing up 85 miles from Kuwait. Another Marine unit had seized a bridge leading into the city over the Euphrates River.

Charlie Company's mission on March 23 was to take a second bridge three miles north. Controlling both spans was crucial to moving a massive Marine Expeditionary Force to Baghdad.

Had things gone as planned, the 200 Marines in their lightly armored vehicles would have avoided the densely populated heart of Nasiriyah, a city of 500,000. They were supposed to take a roundabout route to the north bridge, swinging east of the city behind a dozen M1-A1 Abrams tanks and a second Marine unit, Bravo Company.

But Bravo Company's vehicles sank several feet deep in mud flats east of Nasiriyah. Its 200 men could not help take the bridge.

The tanks were also out of the fight, diverted on a rescue mission. The Army's 507th Maintenance Company had taken a wrong turn that morning and been ambushed near the city. Eleven soldiers were killed and seven captured, including Pfc. Jessica Lynch.

The Marines' tanks rushed to retrieve survivors, burning their fuel in the process. When they returned, they were sent to the rear to refuel just as Charlie Company was preparing to push north.

"Where the hell are the tanks going?" Cpl. Randy Glass recalled thinking. "Why the hell aren't the tanks in front of us?"

Despite the lack of armor and the stranding of Bravo's men, Charlie Company was ordered to take the north bridge and to get there by the most direct route -- a three-mile stretch of highway lined by buildings and alleyways. Some intelligence reports called it "Ambush Alley."

Lt. Col. Rick Grabowski, the battalion commander, said that going ahead made sense at the time. Though concerned about Ambush Alley, commanders did not anticipate a tough fight for the bridge, he said: "None of us really knew what was on the northern side of the city."

And time was of the essence. If they waited for the tanks to return or for troop reinforcements, the Marines risked fighting for the bridge in darkness, Grabowski said.

There was another factor driving the Marines forward that day. It reflected a state of mind as much as the state of the battlefield. "Keep moving" was the motto of Charlie Company's battle regiment.

"Once we were in the city and we made contact," Grabowski said, "there wasn't going to be any backing down."

When he got the order to move into the city, Sgt. William Schaefer thought he'd heard wrong.

"Say again," he called into his radio.

Schaefer was a commander at the head of Charlie Company's 11 amphibious assault vehicles.

The men inside were from the beach towns of Southern California, the hamlets of upstate New York and many places in between. One planned to enroll at Rutgers University in New Jersey when he got home. Another wanted to be a Reno cop. Some were immigrants. Others were from proud military families.

They were part of the 1st Battalion, 2nd Marine Regiment and had shipped out in January from their base at Camp Lejeune, N.C.

Their tub-shaped assault vehicles, called "tracks," are a 30-year-old design made for taking and holding beachheads. They are 26 feet long, carry up to 20 Marines each, and are armed with .50-caliber machine guns and grenade launchers.

Their reinforced-aluminum skin is vulnerable to artillery and rocket-propelled grenades, or RPGs -- unlike the heavy armor on tanks. Thick steel plating can be attached to the tracks, but none was available to outfit Charlie Company's vehicles when they reached the war zone, the Marines said.

"Eight Ball, Oscar Mike," Schaefer barked into the radio, and with that signal the company was on the move.

The tracks crossed the Euphrates on the bridge captured earlier and moved single file up Ambush Alley. It was a little before noon. On both sides, a dense warren of mud-colored buildings pressed up against the road.

At first, the Iraqis seemed to welcome the Marines. A few waved white flags. Then, in a breath, the convoy was under attack from all directions. Iraqis were firing from rooftops, from around corners, from machine-gun nests hidden in side streets.

"We saw women shoot at us with RPGs.... We saw children shoot at us," recalled the company commander, Capt. Daniel J. Wittnam. "We never saw one person in uniform."

Returning the fire, Schaefer alternated between his machine gun and grenade launcher, working a foot pedal that spun his turret right, then left.

Schaefer, 25, of Columbia, S.C., said the Marines tried to distinguish between Iraqi fighters and noncombatants. "But at that point, it was hard."

The enemy, the Marines learned later, was a combination of Iraqi army soldiers, Fedayeen Saddam militiamen and Baath Party loyalists.

One man knelt and aimed an RPG at Schaefer's track. A burst of .50-caliber fire cut off the top half of the Iraqi's body.

"Pieces of people were all over the street," said Lance Cpl. Edward Castleberry, 21, who was at the wheel of Schaefer's vehicle.

Near the rear of the convoy, Sgt. Michael E. Bitz, 31, of Ventura was driving a track crowded with more than 20 Marines. Bitz and his crew had picked up extra men when the company's 12th track broke down outside town. Men were crammed on bench seats amid boxes of ammunition. Several were riding atop the vehicle.

In the middle of the column, Marines on another track shouted for more firepower to answer the torrent of incoming rounds. Lance Cpl. Eric Killeen, 22, a weightlifter from Florida's Gulf Coast, popped out of the hatch with his 15-pound squad automatic weapon, a machine gun that can spray 1,000 rounds per minute.

Killeen poured fire down side streets, into doorways, at second-story windows.

"My adrenaline was pumping so high," Killeen said. "Every emotion you can imagine was running through your body."

Castleberry, a Seattle snowboarder who'd joined the Marines the day after the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks, steered the lead vehicle with one hand and fired his M-16 rifle with the other.

"I figured one more gun couldn't hurt," he said.

The convoy pushed north, the tracks pausing and pivoting at times to allow gunners a better view. They were almost through the gantlet of Ambush Alley. Their objective, the Saddam Canal Bridge, was a few hundred yards away.

Inside Bitz's overcrowded track, it was dark and noisy. The air reeked of diesel fumes. Marines were on top of one another. Some stood on the shoulders of their comrades, firing M-16s from a hatch near the rear.

Glass, a 20-year-old from Pennsylvania who had joined the Marines hoping to see combat, was sharing a menthol cigarette with Sgt. Jose Torres when an explosion lifted the 28-ton vehicle into the air. "Immediately, I went deaf," Glass recalled.

An RPG had punctured the track's aluminum body -- and with it the Marines' faith in their technological edge. Their tubs were not meant for this kind of fight -- especially without the bolt-on armor plating.

"My eyes! My eyes!" shouted Torres, temporarily blinded.

"Glass is dead!" someone screamed in the chaos.

Glass wasn't dead, but his left leg was a bleeding mass.

Up top, the explosion had torched rucksacks tied to the track, turning them into balls of fire.

Bitz drove the burning vehicle forward. This was no place to stop.

"Keep it tight! Keep it tight!" Schaefer shouted into the radio, not wanting any stragglers left behind.

The tracks finally crossed the Saddam Canal Bridge, a nondescript concrete span over an irrigation channel. Though it seemed an eternity, the trip had taken only a few minutes. On each side were swampy irrigation ditches and brush. Beyond was open flatland. The road was raised, and Charlie Company was an easy target.

The tracks fanned out over a quarter-mile-wide area. Marines in charcoal-lined chemical suits and Kevlar flak vests poured out of the vehicles and sought cover on both sides of the road.

They had taken the bridge. Holding it was another matter. Small-arms fire exploded from the fields to the east and west and from the city to the rear.

Marines scrambled out of Bitz's burning track. A release on the rear loading ramp didn't work, so the men piled out through a small hatch, climbing over the wounded.

Schaefer helped carry out Glass, whose left leg had been tied with a tourniquet.

Bitz was carrying injured Marines to cover when a shell exploded, spraying him with shrapnel. Blood streamed from his face and back as he continued hauling the wounded to safety.

"He was acting like nothing was wrong," Schaefer said.

A plume of black smoke rose from Bitz's track. Mortar shells landed on each side. The Iraqis quickly adjusted their aim and slammed the vehicle.

Burning ammunition began punching out the track's sides.

Cpl. William Bachmann, 22, a New Jersey skateboarder, was wedging his lanky frame into a nearby depression when he saw a flash of light from the vehicle. A large-caliber round flew past him. "If I was standing up," he said, "I would have been hit."

Cpl. Randal Rosacker of San Diego set up his machine gun, providing cover for other Marines. His is a military family; his father is chief of boat on a Navy submarine. Rosacker, 21, was cut down by an Iraqi artillery round or mortar shell, said Wittnam, the company commander. He was one of the first Marines to die that day.

The company's 15-man mortar squad set up a row of launchers on the east side of the road.

The squad had no time to dig foxholes. The Marines worked three launchers furiously, knocking out Iraqi mortar positions across the canal. They fired so many rounds so quickly that their mortar tubes were glowing, almost translucent. "They were pretty much melting their tubes," said Castleberry.

Outnumbered by the Iraqis' mortar positions, the squad was a prime target. Incoming shells were landing closer and closer. Finally, the Iraqi mortars found their mark. Nine members of the squad would die before the battle was over.

Second Lt. Frederick Pokorney Jr., a 6-foot-7-inch former basketball player, tried to call in artillery strikes on the Iraqis. A 31-year-old father from Nevada, he was the company's forward artillery observer. He had trouble getting through on his field radio and moved to higher ground for better reception.

An RPG hit him in the chest, fatally wounding him.

As the casualties mounted, Wittnam wanted helicopters to evacuate the wounded. But there was "no way in hell" they could land, he said. "It was too hot."

Navy Corpsman Luis Fonseca, 22, was giving morphine to Glass and another wounded Marine in one of the tracks. With a black marker, he scrawled "1327" on Glass' head, indicating the time the painkiller was administered.

The medic ran up and down the road looking for wounded when he saw Wittnam. "We're starting to win this battle," Fonseca recalled the captain saying.

Fonseca wasn't convinced. "I know there's a bullet with my name on it," he recalled thinking. "I'm gonna do my job until I get hit."

Machine gunners needed more ammunition. Sgt. Brendon C. Reiss, 23, a squad leader, and Cpl. Kemaphoom Chanawongse, 22, a Thai immigrant from Connecticut, ran to get more ammo boxes from one of the vehicles.

An artillery round exploded, killing Chanawongse and fatally wounding Reiss.

Around 1:30 p.m., Schaefer decided to evacuate the wounded, even though it meant going back through Ambush Alley. All 11 tracks had made it across the bridge. Schaefer lined up six of them in a column to head south.

"I was willing to take a chance because we had guys bleeding to death," he said. "I was tired of seeing people getting killed."

Bachmann and Lance Cpl. Donald Cline, 21, a former surfer raised in La Crescenta, were firing from behind a mound of earth. Word came that volunteers were needed to load the wounded onto the vehicles.

"I'm going to help," Cline said, running toward the tracks spread out north of the bridge. It was the last time Bachmann saw his friend alive.

The Marines heard the plane before they saw it. The Air Force A-10 Thunderbolt, known as the Warthog, flies ground-support missions, using its heavy gun.

Cpl. Jared Martin, 29, a former high school wrestler from Phoenix, was outside Schaefer's track when he heard the growl of the jet fighter's twin engines. Its 30-millimeter cannon, which can shoot 3,900 rounds per minute, whipped up dense clouds of sand.

"He was low," Martin said. "He was coming right toward us. The next thing I know I'm feeling a lot of heat in my back."

Blood streamed from his right knee and left hand. A piece of shrapnel lodged below his eye. "My fingers, they were pretty much dangling," Martin said.

Lance Cpl. David Fribley, 26, of Florida, was just steps from the cover of Schaefer's vehicle when rounds from the A-10 tore into his chest. "I wore what was inside of his body on my gear for a couple of days," Martin said.

To ward off the friendly fire, the Marines shot flares, which streaked the sky with green smoke.

The Marines said the A-10 made several strafing runs before it broke away.

Schaefer hoisted a U.S. flag on his turret. He hoped the Warthog pilot would see it and hold his fire. He also wanted the tracks behind to be able to keep him in sight. "Watch for the flag," he radioed to the convoy of six vehicles heading south with the wounded.

As the column started back toward Ambush Alley, one of the tracks exploded. Inside another track, Marines heard bullets bouncing off the aluminum skin. Glass, who had already been in one track that broke down, turned to Cpl. Mike Meade, whose leg was also injured.

"This track stalls and we're getting out," Glass said. "It's a death trap." A minute later, the vehicle stopped. Glass and Meade struggled out.

Fonseca, the medic, heard the whistle of incoming shells and shoved a sergeant on top of Glass and another injured Marine. Then he piled on top to give added protection. Three RPGs flew by and exploded about 100 feet away.

"I need to save these boys," he recalled thinking. "I need to take them back home."

Glass saw an A-10 fire on one of the tracks. It's unclear whether it was the same jet that had flown over earlier. Two of the aircraft appeared to be operating in the area, Marines said.

"The A-10 came down hard and lit the track up," Glass said. "There's no mistake about it."

Torres was lying nearby when he saw the jet bearing down on him. "It was slow motion," he said. "I turned at the last moment to avoid a direct hit."

Still, the Warthog's rounds tore through his left side. "When he pulls the trigger," Martin said of the pilot, "it's just a wall of blood."

Grabowski, the battalion commander, said that as many as six Marines may have been killed by A-10 fire. Wittnam believes it was one.

Schaefer's convoy, now down to five vehicles, was crossing the bridge. In front, a track that normally carried the mortar squad had several Marines inside. As the track came off the bridge, an Iraqi shell dropped down the left-side cargo hatch, ripping the vehicle in half.

"A hand and arm bounced across the front of my vehicle," said Schaefer. The remaining vehicles raced around the burning track.

The rear of one track was crushed by an Iraqi shell, killing the wounded Bitz. The driver kept going.

The four surviving tracks made it to Ambush Alley. They were met by gunfire from all sides.

Bullets ripped through Schaefer's transmission fluid tank, and Castleberry felt the steering wheel freeze. "Hold on!" he shouted over the intercom as the track careened toward a light pole.

Castleberry gunned the 525-horsepower diesel engine, hoping to knock down the pole. But the track slammed to a halt, swinging to the left toward a two-story concrete house.

An RPG blew away the track's front hatch, six inches above Castleberry's head. Stunned, his face and hair singed, he jumped into the street. Schaefer radioed to the three surviving tracks: "Don't stop. Keep going."

Inside the disabled track, a dozen Marines grabbed ammunition containers and the wounded and headed for the house.

Schaefer and two other Marines, one injured, were pinned down outside the track. "Then all hell broke out," Schaeffer said. "They just started coming out of nowhere, hundreds of them."

Iraqis were charging the Marines. Schaefer aimed his M-16 and quickly used up two 29-round clips as he killed some of the attackers and forced others to take cover.

"When you're scared," he said, "you pull your finger pretty fast."

Two of the other Marines, meanwhile, scaled an 8-foot wall and went into the house. An Iraqi man and woman ran out the back door.

The Marines hoisted the wounded over the wall and put them inside. The windows of the house were hidden by piles of sandbags and sacks of flour. In one room were pictures of Saddam Hussein and a man who looked like Jesus.

Out on the street, Schaefer and the two other Marines were holding off the advancing Iraqis.

Then the driver and a crewman from the track that had been ripped in half at the bridge appeared in the street. One was blinded. The other was limping.

"We're laying cover fire for them," Schaefer said, "and they hobbled inside."

Schaefer was on his last magazine clip. This is it, he recalled thinking: They're going to overrun me.

Then he heard the roar of a track driven by Cpl. Michael Brown. He had disregarded Schaefer's instructions to continue and had turned around. Scooping up the three Marines, Brown took off in a rain of enemy fire.

"He saved my life," Schaefer said.

About seven Marines took up positions on the roof of the house. Martin, his wounds patched up, spotted two men peeking around a corner with an RPG. He fired and they fell.

Martin looked at his watch. It was about 3 p.m. "We have about two hours before the sun goes down," he thought. "Then we're gonna be real screwed."

The man who lived in the house burst through the back door yelling. He entered the room where the wounded were being guarded, Castleberry said, and was shot dead.

A lance corporal with the only operable radio called other units at the south end of the city for help. But the battery was low, and he couldn't tell whether the message was getting through.

With Iraqis now 20 yards from the building, the Marines on the roof were going through hundreds of rounds. Castleberry had fired so many grenades from his M-16 that the plastic hand grip on his launcher was melting.

Two Iraqis sped by on a motorcycle, the passenger firing an AK-47. On a second pass, one Marine hit the driver, spilling the bike. As the gunman tried to escape on the motorcycle, Castleberry unleashed another grenade. He saw a flash and the man's body blew apart.

The ammunition was running low. Castleberry and another Marine dashed to the disabled track, grabbing antitank missiles and crates of bullets as they dodged enemy rounds.

On the roof, Martin and other Marines were trying to use shards of broken glass to reflect sunlight and get the attention of U.S. Cobra helicopter gunships overhead.

Below, Iraqi fighters were trying to reach the abandoned track, with its load of weapons and ammunition. "We're hitting them," Martin recalled, "watching them drop."

He remembers a strange sensation. "Your body and brain ain't working like a normal person's would. Some people will snap. Some people will go off the edge. Everyone reacts differently," Martin said. "I was having fun."

Marines at the south bridge had picked up the radioed pleas for help and organized a rescue party.

The first vehicle to arrive was a Humvee carrying a grizzled gunnery sergeant from another company. He was firing a pump-action shotgun out the passenger window as Marines on the roof sprayed cover fire.

"What do you need?" he shouted.

Water and radio batteries, the Marines answered.

"I'll be back," the sergeant said.

An M1-A1 tank arrived soon after and took away the wounded. The gunnery sergeant returned with Humvees to rescue the remaining Marines.

As the vehicles unleashed heavy fire in several directions, forcing the Iraqi fighters to take cover, the sergeant stepped onto the street and lit a cigarette.

"God, I hate this ... place," he said. "Let's get the hell out of here."

Part of Charlie Company was still pinned down at the north bridge.

Lance Cpl. Killeen, the Florida weightlifter, and his platoon were in the swamp near the span. He could hear enemy soldiers nearby.

"I thought they were going to sandwich us," Killeen said. "I figured my life was all over."

It was nearing 4 p.m. and the sun was getting low.

The ground rumbled and Killeen climbed toward the bridge. If Iraqi tanks were coming, then the company was almost certainly lost, he recalled thinking.

As the tanks neared the canal, he saw they were American. These were the tanks that had spent their fuel retrieving members of the Army maintenance company that had been ambushed. Refueling had taken longer than expected because the pumps malfunctioned; it had to done by hand.

When they learned that Charlie Company was taking a pounding, the tank crews cut short the refueling and rushed back to Nasiriyah.

Now they were firing their 120-millimeter guns at Iraqi positions.

"It was the best feeling in the world," Killeen recalled.

As the Marines prepare for a memorial service today at Camp Lejeune, many are trying to recover from wounds both mental and physical.

Glass, recuperating in his hometown of Bethlehem, Pa., has had 11 surgeries to remove shrapnel, dead muscle and metal pins from his leg, wounded by an Iraqi RPG. His fibula has been removed and he's had several skin grafts. He'll be on crutches at least two more months.

Martin had eight chunks of shrapnel from the A-10 removed from his hands and legs on the battlefield. Two additional pieces were removed from his arm in June on a Navy ship returning him to North Carolina. He's awaiting plastic surgery to remove another piece below his right eye.

Torres, who was also hit by the A-10, walks with the help of crutches as he recovers from shrapnel wounds to his right leg and left side. He was recently released from the Bethesda naval hospital in Maryland and is working to regain movement in his left foot.

"I'm still here," he said. "That's all I thank God for."

Some of the Charlie Company Marines prefer not to talk about what happened that day. Others break down as they recall how the men around them fell. Castleberry still pictures the faces of the youngest Iraqi fighters. Some looked to be 12 years old.

"It was kind of sad," he said. "You see these kids who don't know anything getting shot to pieces because they're trying to shoot at you."

Others talk about waking up in the night, the battle for the bridge playing over and over in their heads.

"We all have nightmares every night. We're in some combat scenario and it's always the same guys getting killed," Schaefer said. "Your memory's just like a damn camera. Especially when you're alone."

THE MEN WHO DIED

On March 23, the fourth day of the Iraq war, 18 Marines died fighting to take a bridge in Nasiriyah. Nine served in a mortar squad that came under intense Iraqi bombardment.

Sgt. Michael E. Bitz, 31, of Ventura drove an amphibious assault vehicle, or track. He was wounded helping injured Marines and was killed by an Iraqi shell.

Lance Cpl. Thomas A. Blair, 24, of Broken Arrow, Okla., was part of an air-defense team. He disappeared in the fighting and was later confirmed as killed in action.

Lance Cpl. Brian R. Buesing, 20, of Cedar Key, Fla., was in the mortar squad. His grandfather served in the same squad in the Korean War and won a Silver Star.

Pfc. Tamario D. Burkett, 21, of Buffalo, N.Y., was a poet, an artist and the oldest of seven children. He was with the mortar squad.

Cpl. Kemaphoom A. Chanawongse, 22, of Waterford, Conn., a Thai immigrant, was a crew commander. He was hit by artillery fire while trying to retrieve ammunition.

Lance Cpl. Donald J. Cline Jr., 21, of Sparks, Nev., was a rifleman. He said he was going to help wounded Marines and was not seen again. He was later confirmed dead.

Lance Cpl. David K. Fribley, 26, of Fort Myers, Fla., joined the service after the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks. He was killed by friendly fire from an Air Force A-10 fighter.

Cpl. Jose A. Garibay, 21, of Costa Mesa, a Mexican immigrant, was part of the mortar squad. A shell destroyed a vehicle evacuating him and other wounded Marines.

Pvt. Jonathan L. Gifford, 30, of Decatur, Ill., an outdoorsman, was a member of the mortar squad.

Cpl. Jorge A. Gonzalez, 20, of El Monte wanted to become a police officer. He was with the mortar squad.

Pvt. Nolen R. Hutchings, 19, of Boiling Springs, S.C., enlisted in the Marines after high school. He was with the mortar squad.

Staff Sgt. Phillip A. Jordan, 42, of Enfield, Conn., had served 15 years in the Marines. He was with the mortar squad.

2nd Lt. Frederick E. Pokorney Jr., 31, of Tonopah, Nev., was a forward artillery observer. He died trying to call in artillery strikes on Iraqi positions.

Lance Cpl. Patrick R. Nixon, 21, of Gallatin, Tenn., came from a family whose members had served in every major conflict since World War I. He was with the mortar squad.

Sgt. Brendon C. Reiss, 23, of Casper, Wyo., was a squad leader who had recently reenlisted. He was running to get more ammunition when he was hit.

Cpl. Randal K. Rosacker, 21, of San Diego was a machine gunner who was providing cover fire after the Marines crossed the bridge. He was one of the first Americans killed.

Lance Cpl. Thomas J. Slocum, 22, of Thornton, Colo., was in the hatch of a vehicle taking wounded Marines to the rear when he was hit.

Lance Cpl. Michael J. Williams, 31, of Phoenix gave up a flooring business to join the Marines. He was with the mortar squad.

Copyright (c) 2003 Los Angeles Times

Distributed by Los Angeles Times Syndicate

© Copyright 2003, Los Angeles Times
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

WHERE ARE MY LEADERS?

Via: Milinet
"Reprinted from Proceedings with Permission -
Copyright © 2003 U.S. Naval Institute."

August 2003

--------------------------
Commentary

Where Are My Leaders?

Sgt. Dugald M. Tonn, USMC

This is a situation report from the most important part of the Marine
Corps-the "trenches," where the glamorous plans created at higher
headquarters are executed. Here, at the bottom, is reality.

Down here there is no time for politics. There is no brain-warping
terminology for every different mission undertaken, and every confrontation
is "high intensity," whether termed a low-intensity conflict or a military
operation other than war.

I know I need to be trained hard, realistically, and thoroughly to survive
and accomplish my mission. I must be led from the front by example-not by
intimidation or edict. My fellow noncommissioned officers (NCOs) and I have
to be trained and tempered to develop the leadership qualities needed on
lethal battlefields. Regrettably, this is not what we see down here.

Although it looked at first glance as if the Corps was shucking its
peacetime shackles and readjusting to the deadly business of war fighting in the
aftermath of the 11 September 2001 attacks, there was insufficient combat
training. It was peacetime business as usual: for example, energetically
issued orders from higher headquarters that reflective belts be worn while
running during periods of reduced visibility, and mandated classes on drunk
driving and the effects of sexually transmitted disease. Before the dust
from the collapsed World Trade Center towers had settled, my unit-which has
no women assigned to it-had to complete Defense Advisory Committee on Women
in the Service questionnaires on equal opportunity. True resurgence of
preparation for combat never happened. Down here, we were stunned.

It seems the priorities and focus of most officers and staff NCOs have
changed. Could it be that leaders are so worried about how they look on
paper they have been overcome by risk aversion? Is a leader's tour of duty
successful if it is uneventful? From where I stand, risk aversion has become
the defacto benchmark for today's careerists. Training too often is watered
down to ensure nothing goes awry-not for troop safety, but for protecting
careers. Tough training for war often is overcome by administrative events.

Rather than empowering NCOs, the micromanagement of attrition warfare
remains the norm. The three-block war, where small-unit leaders are expected to make
judgment calls and decisions that would give pause to seasoned company-grade
officers, is not being practiced. Leaders fear NCOs will make mistakes that
cause the leaders to look bad. But NCOs cannot learn to make decisions by
reading books and listening to lectures. They need to soak up lessons
learned through trial and error, so that one day, in the heat of future
combat, they can make decisions that bring their Marines home victoriously
and safely.

Bureaucratic demands have produced mind-numbing rules and regulations that
make perfect paperwork more important than effective training. Formatted
briefs and planning guidelines are tools to use in building good habits and
ensuring nothing is omitted. They are not the main goal. Today's leaders,
however, train to craft perfect plans on paper and make the prettiest
presentations with all the computer support imaginable. Substance has been
superceded by form.

Careerism hazards the bond of trust between the leader and the led. A good
Marine will follow orders. Whether he follows willingly, however, depends on
that bond. If the leader shows he cares more about himself and his career
than his troops, there will be no bond-and, in my view, that bond is not
down here. Other than formal room inspections, I never have seen a staff NCO
or officer in any unit to which I have been assigned visit the barracks
after hours or on weekends to see how his Marines live, what they are doing, and what they are
thinking. Were such visits part of the "old Corps" that has gone by the wayside?

The fact we are warriors appears to have been forgotten. Regardless of
politically correct polishing of mission statements and warfighting
publications, the harsh nature and stark reality of war remains. My leaders
seem almost embarrassed by this, as if training to attack and kill the enemy
is somehow wrong. Sessions on consideration of others, equal opportunity,
and sexual harassment may be personnel management priorities in peace time,
but they must not become the Marine Corps' point of main effort. Management
should not supplant leadership.

Fancy technology, transformational equipment, and modernized weapons are
important. Leadership by example is vital-and down here, we will return 110%
on that investment.

Sergeant Tonn, a reconnaissance team leader in the 2d Reconnaissance
Battalion at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, recently returned from deployment
with the 24th Marine Expeditionary Unit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN BY MARINES....

Gone, but not forgotten by Marines: Family of Medal of Honor recipient visits Pless Hall
Submitted by: MCB Hawaii
Story Identification Number: 2003822171857
Story by Sgt. Joe Lindsay

MARINE CORPS BASE HAWAII, KANEOHE BAY, Hawaii(Aug. 22, 2003) -- The annals of Marine Corps history are filled with many heroes, and though it would perhaps be unwise to compare their valor and sacrifice, it would be safe to say that Maj. Stephen W. Pless, the first and only Marine aviator to receive the Medal of Honor in Vietnam, was as brave as they come.

Pless, a Newnan, Ga., native, who survived 780 combat helicopter missions in Vietnam, was tragically killed in a motorcycle accident in Pensacola, Fla., on July 20, 1969, just six months after being presented with the Medal of Honor by President Lyndon Baines Johnson at a White House ceremony.



Pless was survived by his pregnant wife, Jo Ann, (who had their fourth child two months after his death); mother, Nancy; and older brother Travis. Also surviving Pless was his first cousin, Ken Ray, who was more like a brother than a cousin to Pless, as the two were often raised together in the same house.

Recently, Ray, a native of Decatur, Ga., and his wife, Dina, a native of Lake Jackson, Texas, visited MCB Hawaii, Kaneohe Bay, to see the installation where Pless was once stationed. They especially were interested in visiting Pless Hall, the building named for Ray's cousin, which now serves as home to the Base Thrift Shop.

"It means an awful lot for me to visit here," said Ray, who now, along with his wife, calls Jackson, Miss., home. "Stephen and I grew up together, and it has always been a dream of mine to visit Kaneohe Bay and see the hall named after him. His memory is very special to our entire family."

That memory is especially strong to Ray's aunt Nancy (Pless's mother). She requested that her nephew come back home with photos of the hall.

"Ever since Stephen's death, the Marine Corps has stayed in touch with Nancy," said Ray. "It just shows that when the Marine Corps says things like 'Once a Marine, Always a Marine,' and 'Semper Fi,' that these are not just catch phrases, but that there is real meaning and merit behind the words.

"The Marine Corps is like a family, and they don't forget their own. That has meant so much to our family over the years."
The Rays recently had twin sons, the oldest (albeit by two minutes) they named Aidan Stephen.

"I never knew Steve, but I've heard so much about him," said Dina, her voice drifting off into tears. "Now that we have a child named after him, his legacy means so much personally to me now.

"I want my sons to know all about him, and what he did for his country," she said.

One place where little Aidan Stephen could learn more about his famous cousin when he gets older would simply be from asking any Marine he might run into, as Pless remains one of Corps' greatest legends.

"In boot camp, we learn about all the heroes of the Marine Corps," said Cpl. Steven Jenkins, a Headquarters Bn., MCB Hawaii, administrative clerk. "Of course, Chesty Puller, Dan Daly and Smedley Butler always jump to a Marine's mind, but Major Stephen Pless is one Marine that always stands out for me.

"For one, he basically went on a suicide mission to save those men in Vietnam," Jenkins explained. "He had to know there was probably no way he was going to survive, but he refused to leave American fighting men behind.

"Somehow he survived and got them all to safety. That's why Marines fight so hard, because they know there are men like Major Pless who've got their backs. That's why Marines are called a brotherhood.

"Major Pless is the poster of what you would want a Marine to be."

Indeed, Pless had a storied military career, Medal of Honor notwithstanding. When he was promoted to the rank of major, Pless became the youngest Marine officer of that rank in the Marine Corps.

Among his medals and ribbons - which are far too numerous to mention in their entirety - are the Silver Star, Distinguished Flying Cross, Bronze Star, Navy Commendation Medal with Combat V and the Purple Heart.

"Stephen started out as an enlisted man, and had great aspirations," said Ray. "He had it in his mind that he was going to be commandant some day. There were no selfish motives behind his dream; he was just a goal setter. He was an inspiration.

"God uses ordinary people to do extraordinary things, and I think Stephen was an example of that," added Ray. "He was my hero long before he became a hero in the war. He always will be."
-30-

Photos included with story:


CITATION:
UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS
for service as set forth in the following

MAJOR STEPHEN W. PLESS
For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty while serving as a helicopter gunship pilot attached to Marine Observation Squadron Six in action against enemy forces near Quang Ngai, Republic of Vietnam, on 19 August 1967.

During an escort mission Major (then Captain) Pless monitored an emergency call that four American soldiers stranded on a nearby beach, were being overwhelmed by a large Viet Cong force. Major Pless flew to the scene and found 30 to 50 enemy soldiers in the open. Some of the enemy were bayoneting and beating the downed Americans. Major Pless displayed exceptional airmanship as he launched a devastating attack against the enemy force, killing or wounding many of the enemy and driving the remainder back into a treeline. His rocket and machine gun attacks were made at such low levels that the aircraft flew through debris created by explosions from its rockets.

Seeing one of the wounded soldiers gesture for assistance, he maneuvered his helicopter into a position between the wounded men and the enemy, providing a shield which permitted his crew to retrieve the wounded. During the rescue the enemy directed intense fire at the helicopter and rushed the aircraft again and again, closing to within a few feet before being beaten back. When the wounded men were aboard, Major Pless maneuvered the helicopter out to sea. Before it became safely airborne, the overloaded aircraft settled four times into the water.

Displaying superb airmanship, he finally got the helicopter aloft. Major Pless' extraordinary heroism coupled with his outstanding flying skill prevented the annihilation of the tiny force. His courageous actions reflect great credit upon himself and uphold the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and the United States Naval Service.

/S/ LYNDON B. JOHNSON

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WHY AMERICA LOST THE "CIVIL WAR"

Why America Lost the "Civil War"

contributed by Nat G. Rudulph
Selma, Alabama

"Civil War" is at best a misleading name for that conflict. Many Southerners avoid using it because of the implication that there were factions in every locality. "Civil" means "relating to the people within a community." The term describes only one aspect of the event, and subtly discredits Southerners defending home and country, rather than fomenting a political coup. The typical Southern community was not divided at all. Dixie was that community, and the consensus in Dixie was to defy strangers and meddlers from the North who insisted on ruling and intended to invade. The typical Southerner fought for independence. There were (and still are) more differences between Yankees and Southerners than between Yankees and English-speaking Canadians.

It was a civil war, but not on the battlefield. It was a civil war in New York City when a draft protest turned into a rampaging mob of 70,000. That civil war lasted four days because all the available troops were at Gettysburg, fighting soldiers from another land. It was a civil war when they returned and fired into this New York crowd, killing nearly 2,000 of their own divided "community."

It was a civil war when Illinois' Governor Yates reported an "insurrection in Edgar County. Union men on one side, Copperheads on the other. They have had two battles." It was a civil war for the Union Army when the 109th Illinois had to be disbanded because its men were Southern sympathisers. It was a civil war in Indiana when thousands of draft resisters hid in enclaves. From the governor: "Matters assume grave import. Two hundred mounted armed men in Rush county have today resisted arrest of deserters . . . southern Indiana is ripe for revolution."

The governors of Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and New York reported that they could not enforce the draft without 10-20,000 troops in each state. Violent opposition struck in Wisconsin and Michigan. Four thousand Pennsylvanians refused to march south. Sherman wrote: "Mutiny was common to the whole army, and it was not subdued till several regiments, or parts of regiments had been ordered to Fort Jefferson, Florida, as punishment."

It was not a civil war in those parts of the South removed from the border regions. Had it been a civil war, Lincoln's government could have leveraged local support to subdue those states brutally, as it did in Maryland, Kentucky, Missouri, and West Virginia. Union policy was to treat border state combatants as renegades under martial law instead of as legitimate armed forces.

Marylanders were similar to Virginians strongly Southern, but cautious. However, when Lincoln called for troops to coerce the states, Virginia seceded. Immediately, Lincoln moved to secure Maryland. Habeus corpus was suspended and Southern sympathisers arrested in Baltimore. General Banks dissolved the Baltimore police board. Secretary of War Cameron wrote him: "The passage of any act of secession by the legislature of Maryland must be prevented. If necessary all or any part of the members must be arrested." Arrests were sufficient to prevent a vote. The mayor of Baltimore, most of the city government, and newspaper editors were jailed. One of those editors was the grandson of the author of The Star Spangled Banner. Francis Key Howard wrote of his imprisonment:

When I looked out in the morning, I could not help being struck by an odd and not pleasant coincidence. On that same day forty-seven years before, my grandfather, Mr Francis Scott Key, then prisoner on a British ship, had witnessed the bombardment of Fort McHenry. When on the following morning the hostile fleet drew off, defeated, he wrote the song so long popular. . . . As I stood upon the very scene of that conflict, I could not but contrast my position with his, forty-seven years before. The flag which he had then so proudly hailed, I saw waving at the same place over the victims of as vulgar and brutal despotism as modern times have witnessed.

Documents of the period show more than 38,000 political prisoners in northern jails. In The Life of William H. Seward, Bancroft wrote: The person "suspected" of disloyalty was often seized at night, borne off to the nearest fort. . . . Month after month many of them were crowded together in gloomy and damp casemates, where even dangerous pirates captured on privateers ought not to have remained long. Many had committed no overt act. There were among them editors and political leaders of character and honour, but whose freedom would be prejudicial to the prosecution of the war.

Lincoln suspended habeas corpus everywhere, arrested candidates, and banished Ohio congressman Vallandigham from the country. More than 300 newspapers were closed. Secretary of War Stanton told a visitor, "If I tap that little bell, I can send you to a place where you will never again hear the dogs bark." Neither habeas corpus nor freedom of the press were ever suspended in the South, even in the most desperate of times. The Raleigh News and Observer wrote after the war "It is to the honour of the Confederate government that no Confederate secretary could touch a bell and send a citizen to prison."

Yankee power was most unrestrained in Missouri. From its initial defiant movement of troops, the Union routinely escalated hostilities. They encouraged atrocities, insidiously veiled behind a facade of inept negligence. They exhibited arrogance and contempt for law, their own constitution, Southerners, and life itself.

The authorities entered private homes without warrant or provocation, seizing arms and other properties. They required written permits for travel. Random "drive-by" shootings of citizens from trains by soldiers were commonplace. Citizens were fined, jailed, banished, and even executed for as little as expressing dissent, or upon the accusation of a government informer. Authorities called citizens to their door in the middle of the night and shot them or took them away. Amnesty was promised to partisans, but many who attempted to surrender were executed. Men like Frank and Jesse James witnessed these things and vowed never to accept a pardon from such a government.

Senator Jim Lane, known as "the grim chieftain of Kansas," ravaged Missouri. Halleck wrote McClellan: "I receive almost daily complaints of outrages committed by these men in the name of the United States, and the evidence is so conclusive as to leave no doubt of their correctness . . . Lane has been made a brigadier-general. I cannot conceive of a more injudicious appointment . . . offering a premium for rascality and robbing." McClellan gave the letter to Lincoln. After reading it, Lincoln turned it over and wrote on the back, "An excellent letter, though I am sorry General Halleck is so unfavourably impressed with General Lane."

September 1862 brought executions for refusing to swear allegiance to the U.S. In October at Palmyra, Missouri, ten political prisoners and POWs were executed because a Union informer disappeared. Soon afterwards, Lincoln promoted to brigadier-general the man responsible.

In 1863 General Ewing imprisoned as many wives, mothers, and sisters of Quantrill's Confederate partisan band as could be found. The building housing most of them collapsed in August, killing many. Ewing had been warned that the building was in danger of collapse, and the guerrillas believed that it had been deliberate. In retaliation Quantrill sacked and burned Lawrence, Kansas. Ewing then issued an order forcing all persons in four counties of western Missouri living more than a mile from a military base to leave the state. They were forced from their homes at gunpoint and escorted away. Then all property was destroyed. Cass County, which had a population of 10,000 was reduced to 600 by this "ethnic cleansing." Union Colonel Lazear wrote his wife that the ensuing arson was so thorough that only stone chimneys could be seen for hundreds of miles. "It is heart sickening to see what I have seen since I have been back here. A desolated country, men, women, and children, some of them almost naked. Some on foot and some in wagons. Oh God."

Loyalty oaths and bonds were required of all citizens. If guerrillas attacked, property in the area was confiscated and sold at auction. Suspects were imprisoned and by 1864 the mortality rate of Union-held prisoners had reached fifty percent. Union Surgeon George Rex reported: Undergoing the confinement in these crowded and insufficiently ventilated quarters are many citizen prisoners, against whom the charges are of a very trivial character, or perhaps upon investigation . . . no charges at all are sustained.

The Union implemented Sherman's philosophy of war against civilians. He wrote: "To the petulant and persistent secessionist, why, death is mercy, and the quicker he or she is disposed of the better. . . . There is a class of people . . . who must be killed or banished before you can hope for peace and order." To General Sheridan, Sherman wrote: ". . . the present class of men who rule the South must be killed outright rather than in conquest of territory. . . a great deal of it yet remains to be done, therefore, I shall expect you on any and all occasions to make bloody results." To General Kilpatrick he wrote: "It is petty nonsense for Wheeler and Beauregard and such vain heroes to talk of our warring against women and children. If they claim to be men they should defend their women and children and prevent us reaching their homes." In a moment of candour he wrote Grant: "You and I and every commander must go through the war justly chargeable with crimes."

While ransacking Georgia, Sherman removed two thousand women, children, and elderly to Ohio where they were forced to work in Union war factories. Families were separated, property confiscated, and even wedding bands taken from their hands. The U.S. never tried to reunite them.

Crimes were committed on both sides, but the Confederate offenses were a fraction of the Federals'.

The Southern leadership spoke and acted against abuses, while Lincoln ran a "loose ship" of administration, under which authorities could tacitly countenance abuses while professing to be against them. Lincoln once asked McClellan if he could get close enough to Richmond to shell the civilian population of the city. When Jefferson Davis was urged to retaliate in kind, and adopt a cruel war policy like the U.S., cabinet member Judah P. Benjamin said "he was immovable in resistance to such counsels, insisting that it was repugnant to every sentiment of justice and humanity that the innocent should be made victims for the crimes of such monsters."

America lost the "civil war" because she lost her soul. You opine that those were necessary war measures? Then why were they never employed by the Confederacy even in the dark days of imminent defeat? It was because the South still adhered to the transcendence of principle. The South did not believe that the end justified the means. Most Southerners believed that right and wrong and truth were God-given, and not man's creation. Therefore, man had to submit to them. It was not man's place to decide that principles could be abandoned when expedient. Robert E. Lee said it best: "There is a true glory and a true honour; the glory of duty done the honour of the integrity of principle."

Transcendence means "above and independent of, and supreme." To recognise the transcendence of principle is to recognise that there are absolutes, and that absolutes must come from a Creator. It is to acknowledge that these absolutes are not social constructs that have evolved over time or situational posits that can be altered when fashionable. This humility leads men to respect authority, honour their heritage, and submit to the wisdom that has preceded them, acknowledging their own dependence, and not imagining that they are autonomous, without accountability.

It is chiefly social and familial accountability, enabled by the presence of law written in the conscience of humanity, which restrains the evil that is present within man, thereby establishing civilisation. The reality of evil within humanity is evident in the corrupting effect of power, since power is of itself neither good nor evil. Power, in its simplest form, is the lack of restraint, while restraint is accountability in some form. Enduring and benevolent civilisations have recognised this and embraced restraints to ensure that human power would not be concentrated to their detriment. The Constitution was a codified restraint of this kind.

Restraints on the central government are as necessary to protect us from tyranny as the balance between the executive, legislative, and judicial branches. The limits are proportional to the power retained by the states, because the states are the only entities capable of enforcing meaningful restraint upon the federal government. Although they originally delegated limited power to that government, it has usurped all the power. That usurpation became unstoppable after the South lost, because the tenth amendment became a dead letter, and all the states lost. The possibility of secession was the only deterrent sufficient to guarantee states the sovereignty necessary to hold the central power accountable.

The victors justified themselves to the world and history by brute force and sly obfuscation. The elimination of slavery was trumpeted as the justifying crown of victory. As to saving the Union, is that not like preserving a marriage by beating the wife into submission?

The result is the humanist monster-state, and activist judges who reinvent what the constitution means. They have lost the ability to understand and receive it, since they have abandoned the transcendence of principle. They will always find a way to make themselves the final authority. New amendments designed to strengthen the plain intent of the Founding Fathers will eventually fail, because no loophole can be drawn so tight as to eliminate a scoundrel.

Both sides lost. The U.S. lost its character and began the abandonment of transcendent foundations. Dixie lost its will to live. Yet where principles remain- under cold ashes, deeply buried remains an ember of hope. And where there is a smouldering hope, the fire may yet burn again.

Mr Rudulph is the SL Southwest Alabama District Chairman.

DixieNet™ is maintained by Apologia Services © Copyright 1995-1998, The League of the South, Inc., Tuscaloosa, Alabama, CSA. All rights reserved. Last revised on Tuesday, 03 November 1998.
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Marines
Sites & Forums
By R.W. "Dick" Gaines
GySgt USMC (Ret.)
1952-72
~~~~~~~~~~

FROM THE SHORES OF PARRIS ISLAND

Reprinted from NewsMax.com
From the Shores of Parris Island
Phil Brennan
Wednesday, Nov. 5, 2003 Sixty years ago today, Nov. 5, 1943, I went over to New York with my 14-year-old brother. I was 17 years old and about to embark on that sea of uncertainty known as adulthood, which lapped the shores of the Marine Corps Recruit Depot on Parris Island, S.C., my destination that day.

We stood around having an awkward conversation of the kind one has with his kid brother when neither of you knows what to say, as the time for saying goodbye approached. When it came, we shook hands and Jim turned and headed for home.

As he slowly faded from sight down Lexington Avenue, what was happening suddenly rolled over me like an onrushing Sherman tank and I thought, "What in God's name have I done?"

Then I boarded the bus that would take me and a few dozen other Marine Corps recruits to the train station where the journey south – and the end of my sheltered youth – would begin.

Sometimes I try to reflect on the meaning of it all. Why did I cut the closest – and most comfortable – of family ties on what was essentially a spur-of-the-moment impulse? What did I learn as a result of that impulse? How much of what happened during the next three years helped shape the man I am today? And a lot of the answers still largely elude me.

It's easy to say that I came into the Corps as a kid and emerged as a man, but that begs the question: What kind of a man? Moreover, what kind of experiences went into the making of the man?

Boot camp was cruel. I was ill prepared for it. I had lived what was very much a sheltered, almost pampered existence surrounded by people who thought as I did, and had been raised as I had been and in the same environment. I can't say it was a closed society, but it came damned close to it.

We lived in Brooklyn in the fall, winter and spring months, went to the same parochial grammar schools and the same Jesuit prep schools, and spent magical glorious summers on that part of Long Island that was, in those days, largely a summer resort.

It was a tight, Victorian, Irish Catholic, upper middle class society rooted in the certitudes of Western Christian civilization best exemplified by the Roman Catholic Church and the United States of America.

In other words, the world of my childhood and teen years lacked – and I hate to use this hateful Marxist word – diversity. Sure, there were friends, classmates, acquaintances who didn't share our advantages – but in the main, they shared our beliefs and our attitudes.

On Parris Island I found myself in a very different world, surrounded by people whose backgrounds were as alien to mine as mine was to theirs, and making the transition was anything but easy.

The people around me spoke one language and I spoke another. It was a melting pot and the process of being melted down to become one part of a homogeneous whole was anything but pleasant. And I had the bruises to prove it.

In the end, however, that homogeneous whole, thanks to the geniuses who designed the system of making Marines at Parris Island, was the United States Marine Corps, and whatever else we had been before joining the Corps we were now what we would be for the rest of our lives: members of a storied elite – United States Marines.

I think that recognition, that somehow I had become a member of a famously elite organization, more than anything else, helped shape me into the man I eventually became. But I was still very much the product of my upbringing – what I was had simply been poured into the Marine Corps mold, strengthened, disciplined and made purposeful.

A lot of what I learned in my years in the Corps was good, and a lot of what I learned was not so good.

What was good was the complete acceptance of the fact that I had obligations to my God, to my country, to my fellow Marines and to the people around me, that simply needed to be fulfilled at all costs. If I had a job to do, it had to be done. No shirking. No excuses. Just do it, or die trying.

That stays with you for the rest of your life. Try to evade it and you'll hear the harsh voice of a phantom top sergeant – one of your guardian angels – shouting the Corps' patented obscenities at you.

What was also good, was the recognition that it didn't matter what your opponents did to you or said about you. What mattered was how you stood up to them without flinching or backing down. When you knew that you were acting in good conscience and good faith, nothing else mattered, even if it created the most serious consequences for you. It's called sticking to your guns.

What was not so good were the lessons I learned that taught you how to get around certain tasks and obligations by being fast on your feet.

I recall being sent down to the docks in San Pedro to help load the ship we would be boarding for our excursion into the Pacific war zone. There was a lot of heavy lifting to be done, and this 130-pound, skin-and-bones Marine was not at all enthralled with the idea of doing it.

So I found a clipboard and toted it around, making imaginary entries on a sheet of paper and (fortunately for my physical well-being) nobody questioned me. Everybody thought I was doing an assigned task.

In the latter part of my time in the Corps I got around a lot of things I should have done by using similar tactics. I had learned how to turn the system – the one described as having been designed by geniuses for execution by idiots – against itself.

There was a lot of smug satisfaction in getting away with it, but I finally understood that the real victim of my contempt for the rules and regulations and those who established them was my self-respect. I was, in short, acting like a liberal. I now realize the truth of what somebody once said: "Character is what you do when nobody is looking."

The older I get – and I've managed to get pretty damned old – the more I recognize the traits instilled in me by the Corps. And I see them in a lot of the mail about my columns I get from fellow Marines, past and present.

We seem to think a lot alike on most of the issues of the day. We are, for the most part, strongly conservative, both politically and in our personal lives, proudly patriotic and exuberantly proud of our Marine Corps heritage.

That can't be a coincidence. What we have become began on that first day on Parris Island, and I thank God I was there to begin the process.

Semper Fi.

* *

Phil Brennan is a veteran journalist who writes for NewsMax.com. He is editor & publisher of Wednesday on the Web (http://www.pvbr.com>) and was Washington columnist for National Review magazine in the 1960s. He also served as a staff aide for the House Republican Policy Committee and helped handle the Washington public relations operation for the Alaska Statehood Committee which won statehood for Alaska. He is also a trustee of the Lincoln Heritage Institute and a member of the Association of Former Intelligence Officers.

He can be reached at phil@newsmax.com.

Editor's note:
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This is...
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By R.W. "Dick" Gaines
GySgt USMC (Ret.)
1952-72
~~~~~

MARINE's 'INCREDIBLE JOURNEY' ...

Marine’s ‘incredible journey’ started with horrific childhood
James Walker , Special to the Register 08/17/2003

From left, Chris Gentili holding his son, Giancarlo, and daughter, Giulianna, in the arms of big "brother" Thomas Dolan, and Mary Gentili. Contributed photo
DEEP RIVER — When 2nd Lt. Thomas Dolan returned to Mount St. John’s Home and School for Boys recently, he was no longer the scared, waif-like kid with the chip on his shoulder who had arrived on the school’s doorstep 13 years ago.

A level head, confidence and self-control were evident. The qualities had replaced an explosive temper, guarded eyes and teenage sneer that had evolved from a miserable adolescence wrought by years of physical and mental abuse at his West Haven home.

The abuse that Dolan endured might have derailed another youth. For Dolan, who did have helping hands, it set him on a path to achievement.

Recently, standing before hundreds of family, friends, staff and dignitaries, the brass buttons on Dolan’s dress blue Marine Corps jacket gleamed. The razor-sharp crease in his white uniform pants settled precisely against black regulation shoes polished to a mirrored finish. The white hat with black brim and gold band sat squarely on his head.

Three weeks after graduating from the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis, Md., Dolan, 26, was basking in thunderous applause upon his triumphant return. The Marine officer had returned to the school for troubled youths to accept St. John’s first "Leadership Through Learning" alumni award.

"I wanted to honor the incredible journey he had taken from here," said St. John’s executive director, Cathi Coridan. "I wanted the other kids to see a real-life hero whose story starts out just like their own."

That story started Dec. 27, 1989, when Dolan’s father, a truck driver, kissed him goodbye, jumped into his Jeep and never returned. As his father’s favorite child, he bore the brunt of his mother’s wrath, Dolan said.

For two years, Dolan’s mother had isolated him from his two younger brothers and sister by forcing him to live in the dimly lit, damp cellar in their home at 275 W. Spring St. in West Haven.

A kitchen chair was jammed under the doorknob to prevent him from opening the door to enter the interior of the house. A cellar door that led to the outside of the home was kept locked; if he went through it he could not use it to return.. There was no bathroom. He got in and out of the cellar by sliding through a window he broke. He lived in fear his mother would find out but it was no secret, he said.

Once a day, his mother removed the chair so she could feed him.

"She used to throw a can of Geisha tuna fish down to me along with a couple of slices of freezer-burnt bread," Dolan recalled. "I was banished to the basement with the dog."

He made his bed on the carpeted section of the floor until his step-grandfather purchased a rollaway bed for him. Nearby, the family dog, Nikki, which was never walked properly, according to Dolan, was chained to the oil tank. Dolan said he could not wash the scent of the animal’s urine off his body or out of his clothes.

Dolan, who’s known as Robbie, washed at friends’ homes or in the bathrooms at McDonald’s, before heading off to class at Carrigan Middle School. Soon, he stopped going. The school system was phasing out truancy officers, he said, and his name was just one among dozens sitting in a filing cabinet.

"I didn’t want to go to school because I was ashamed of how I looked and smelled," he said. "One day I came home and found the dog had climbed on my bed and given birth. I still had to sleep there. I can’t believe some of the things I went through. It was so primitive."

Dolan said he rarely saw his mother, except when she came down the eight steps to the basement to do laundry, to beat him or holler at him. He often hid in his "safety zone," which was an area under the stairs next to the oil tank. He would squeeze himself into the tight space because his mother couldn’t reach him. He ran an extension cord to the area so he could have light to read or listen to the radio.

The isolation was suffocating and disturbing.

"I began to grow wild," he said. "We had Sheetrock wall down there and I kept hitting it with my foot and fist. I just wanted attention."

His home life also was became violent. At one point, he said, his mother struck him over the right eye with a piece of wood and he was taken to the hospital for treatment, he said. At his mother’s insistence, Dolan told doctors he fell.

The violence, however, continued to escalate and Dolan snapped when she struck him in the face with a rubber hose.

"I picked up something and went after her," he said.

He didn’t hit her but destroyed furnishings around the house. Dolan was arrested for reckless endangerment, assault and threatening. He was taken to the New Haven Juvenile Detention Center, where he was stripped naked and disinfected. His new home was behind a "large steel door," along with 156 other youthful offenders.

"I cannot describe the amount of fear I had at that moment," he said.

A month later, when asked by a judge if she wanted her son back, his mother replied, "No." It was the last word he would ever hear her say. He was 13 years old and hasn’t seen her or his siblings since.

"I still didn’t know what I had done wrong," Dolan said. He later found out his father committed suicide.

Filled with rage at being abandoned by both parents, Dolan turned his anger on the establishment. He became a seasoned pro at getting kicked out of youth homes.

His short stints included stops at the Northern Middlesex Temporary Youth Shelter in Middletown, the Salvation Army Youth Emergency Shelter in Waterbury and Junction 1019 in West Hartford. Dolan was in the fast lane on a road that had one exit: steel doors with 24-hour security and armed guards.

SOMEONE TO CARE

When Dolan arrived at St. John’s, he hit a speed bump — a 24-year-old social worker named Chris Gentili, who was fresh out of Wesleyan University and had also just arrived at the school.

Gentili believed social workers were meant to change the world.

He couldn’t do that. But when he looked into the sunken, troubled blue eyes of Dolan, he saw beyond the cocky attitude. Gentili said he saw intelligence and motivation.

"He had a tough background and came from a real tough situation, but he was a smart kid," Gentili said.

Dolan saw in Gentili someone young enough not to be threatening but old enough to be an authority figure. More importantly, Gentili was new and hadn’t formed strong ties to any of the other boys.

The two forged a tightly knit relationship and soon Gentili realized they had formed more than a conventional social worker/at-risk youth alliance.

He had become a strong father figure at a critical time in the young boy’s life. He instilled discipline in Dolan and taught him how to shave and eventually how to drive. The harder he drove him, the more Dolan tried to impress him.

Athletically, he excelled in softball and basketball and won awards on the wrestling team. Academically, he became a top-notch student.

"He was a real competitor," Gentili said. "He didn’t have limits. Everything was fueled by the chip on his shoulders."

Gentili left St. John’s for greener pastures in his home state of Rhode Island, but the bond between the two remained strong. He continued to see Dolan once a week and spoke with him regularly.

Meanwhile, Gentili had been dating and decided to get married. He had already involved his future wife, Mary, in Dolan’s life. Though she took to him right away, Dolan was threatened by the new woman in his mentor’s life. He had already lost one father.

Without Gentili’s daily supervision, Dolan stumbled. Now 17 and no longer a resident at St. John’s, he was living on his own and making bad decisions. He had dropped out of Robert E. Fitch Senior High School in Groton and went to work on a lobster boat.

FINALLY, A FAMILY

Two weeks after Chris and Mary Gentili tied the knot, however, they made a big decision. They decided Dolan had come too far to throw everything away. They invited Dolan to move into their cramped, two-room apartment in Cranston, R.I.

"It took me 11 seconds to say yes," Dolan said. "I finally had a family."

Through an agreement with Fitch High School, Dolan enrolled in the Community College of Rhode Island, where he took 12 credits — six toward his high school diploma.

Each day he walked two miles to the school’s Knight Campus to attend class, bypassing two malls on his way.

"It was all uphill," Dolan recalled. "Boy, it was tough."

After earning his diploma, he joined the Marines and was stationed for two years at Camp Lejeune in North Carolina. His enthusiasm and work ethic caught the eyes of a superior, who urged him to apply to the Naval Academy Preparatory School in Newport, R.I.

He spent about one year at the prep school before arriving in 1999 at the U. S. Naval Academy. It had been a long journey. As an enlisted marine, Dolan didn’t need a recommendation from a U.S. senator or representative. His test scores and letters of recommendation from his chain of command were enough to get him in.

A MARINE’S VICTORY

The memory of those isolated nights in the basement when he sat on the concrete floor and escaped into the world of Alexander Dumas’ "The Count of Monte Cristo" still burns in his head. But now, the burn comes the glow of triumph.

With his speech gripped in his hand and the applause thundering in his ears, Dolan stepped to the microphone at St. John’s. He looked with pride at Chris and Mary Gentili.

The good-looking Marine with the crystal-clear blue eyes told his audience, "it is an honor to say a brief word to you all."

It was more than an honor for Dolan. It was a victory.

"To be able to go back there was so special," Dolan said. "It meant so much."

An imposing brick and granite building, St. John’s sits high on a bluff above the Connecticut River in Deep River. It has nurtured young boys for almost 100 years. Started in 1904 as an industrial school, it became an orphanage in 1919. Operated under the Roman Catholic Diocese of Norwich, it has been helping at-risk youth since 1953.

Its motto is, "It is better to build boys than to mend men."

Mary Gentili believes they helped build a winner in Dolan.

"He’s everything you want your daughter to marry," she said. "He’s turned out to be an incredible, thoughtful and caring man."

Over the years, Dolan had made attempts to reconcile with his mother, he said. After winning first place in the Class L state championships in 1995 when he was at Fitch High, he appeared in the sports section of two local papers. He left newspaper clippings of his achievement in her mailbox, hoping she would contact him. She never did. He no longer knows where she lives.

But another family found its way into Dolan’s heart.

That family includes the parents of Chris and Mary, as well as their brothers and sisters and extended relatives throughout the Unites States — all who have welcomed the kid who beat the odds.

Life has given him something more. Dolan again has a little brother and sister: Giancarlo, 3, and Giulianna, 1, Chris and Mary’s two children.

Dolan intends to make a career out of the military. In January he heads to school in Quantico, Va., where he hopes to become an infantry officer. He has locked his eyes on acquiring a degree from Harvard Law School. Future aspirations include a position as a judge advocate general and eventually the halls of Congress as a senator from Rhode Island.

"Looking back, my life has been a turbulent roller coaster of emotion, never knowing if it would stay on the right track," Dolan said. "The adversity I have overcome has forged me into the person I am today."

He owes much to one special man who believes that kids don’t need "part-time help."

"Most people have their parents," Dolan said. "I didn’t. I had books and I have Chris. That’s what I have."

James Walker is a reporter for the Pictorial Gazaette, a Journal Register newspaper.

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©New Haven Register 2003

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

COMMUNIST GOALS (1963)

Communist Goals (1963)
http://www.uhuh.com/nwo/communism/comgoals.htm
http://www.uhuh.com/nwo/communism/comgoals.htm
Documention below
Congressional Record--Appendix, pp. A34-A35

January 10, 1963

Current Communist Goals

EXTENSION OF REMARKS OF HON. A. S. HERLONG, JR. OF FLORIDA

IN THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES

Thursday, January 10, 1963



Mr. HERLONG. Mr. Speaker, Mrs. Patricia Nordman of De Land, Fla., is an ardent and articulate opponent of communism, and until recently published the De Land Courier, which she dedicated to the purpose of alerting the public to the dangers of communism in America.

At Mrs. Nordman's request, I include in the RECORD, under unanimous consent, the following "Current Communist Goals," which she identifies as an excerpt from "The Naked Communist," by Cleon Skousen:

[From "The Naked Communist," by Cleon Skousen]

CURRENT COMMUNIST GOALS

1. U.S. acceptance of coexistence as the only alternative to atomic war.

2. U.S. willingness to capitulate in preference to engaging in atomic war.

3. Develop the illusion that total disarmament [by] the United States would be a demonstration of moral strength.

4. Permit free trade between all nations regardless of Communist affiliation and regardless of whether or not items could be used for war.

5. Extension of long-term loans to Russia and Soviet satellites.

6. Provide American aid to all nations regardless of Communist domination.

7. Grant recognition of Red China. Admission of Red China to the U.N.

8. Set up East and West Germany as separate states in spite of Khrushchev's promise in 1955 to settle the German question by free elections under supervision of the U.N.

9. Prolong the conferences to ban atomic tests because the United States has agreed to suspend tests as long as negotiations are in progress.

10. Allow all Soviet satellites individual representation in the U.N.

11. Promote the U.N. as the only hope for mankind. If its charter is rewritten, demand that it be set up as a one-world government with its own independent armed forces. (Some Communist leaders believe the world can be taken over as easily by the U.N. as by Moscow. Sometimes these two centers compete with each other as they are now doing in the Congo.)

12. Resist any attempt to outlaw the Communist Party.

13. Do away with all loyalty oaths.

14. Continue giving Russia access to the U.S. Patent Office.

15. Capture one or both of the political parties in the United States.

16. Use technical decisions of the courts to weaken basic American institutions by claiming their activities violate civil rights.

17. Get control of the schools. Use them as transmission belts for socialism and current Communist propaganda. Soften the curriculum. Get control of teachers' associations. Put the party line in textbooks.

18. Gain control of all student newspapers.

19. Use student riots to foment public protests against programs or organizations which are under Communist attack.

20. Infiltrate the press. Get control of book-review assignments, editorial writing, policymaking positions.

21. Gain control of key positions in radio, TV, and motion pictures.

22. Continue discrediting American culture by degrading all forms of artistic expression. An American Communist cell was told to "eliminate all good sculpture from parks and buildings, substitute shapeless, awkward and meaningless forms."

23. Control art critics and directors of art museums. "Our plan is to promote ugliness, repulsive, meaningless art."

24. Eliminate all laws governing obscenity by calling them "censorship" and a violation of free speech and free press.

25. Break down cultural standards of morality by promoting pornography and obscenity in books, magazines, motion pictures, radio, and TV.

26. Present homosexuality, degeneracy and promiscuity as "normal, natural, healthy."

27. Infiltrate the churches and replace revealed religion with "social" religion. Discredit the Bible and emphasize the need for intellectual maturity which does not need a "religious crutch."

28. Eliminate prayer or any phase of religious expression in the schools on the ground that it violates the principle of "separation of church and state."

29. Discredit the American Constitution by calling it inadequate, old-fashioned, out of step with modern needs, a hindrance to cooperation between nations on a worldwide basis.

30. Discredit the American Founding Fathers. Present them as selfish aristocrats who had no concern for the "common man."

31. Belittle all forms of American culture and discourage the teaching of American history on the ground that it was only a minor part of the "big picture." Give more emphasis to Russian history since the Communists took over.

32. Support any socialist movement to give centralized control over any part of the culture--education, social agencies, welfare programs, mental health clinics, etc.

33. Eliminate all laws or procedures which interfere with the operation of the Communist apparatus.

34. Eliminate the House Committee on Un-American Activities.

35. Discredit and eventually dismantle the FBI.

36. Infiltrate and gain control of more unions.

37. Infiltrate and gain control of big business.

38. Transfer some of the powers of arrest from the police to social agencies. Treat all behavioral problems as psychiatric disorders which no one but psychiatrists can understand [or treat].

39. Dominate the psychiatric profession and use mental health laws as a means of gaining coercive control over those who oppose Communist goals.

40. Discredit the family as an institution. Encourage promiscuity and easy divorce.

41. Emphasize the need to raise children away from the negative influence of parents. Attribute prejudices, mental blocks and retarding of children to suppressive influence of parents.

42. Create the impression that violence and insurrection are legitimate aspects of the American tradition; that students and special-interest groups should rise up and use ["]united force["] to solve economic, political or social problems.

43. Overthrow all colonial governments before native populations are ready for self-government.

44. Internationalize the Panama Canal.

45. Repeal the Connally reservation so the United States cannot prevent the World Court from seizing jurisdiction [over domestic problems. Give the World Court jurisdiction] over nations and individuals alike.



Note by Webmaster: The Congressional Record back this far has not be digitized and posted on the Internet.

It will probably be available at your nearest library that is a federal repository. Call them and ask them.

Your college library is probably a repository. This is an excellent source of government records.

Another source are your Congress Critters. They should be more than happy to help you in this matter.

You will find the Ten Planks of the Communist Manifesto interesting at this point.

Click here to see them listed with brain-challenging comments.

Documentation
Webmaster Forest Glen Durland found the document in the library.
Sources are listed below.
The quote starts on page 259.

Microfilm:
California State University at San Jose
Clark Library, Government Floor
Phone (408)924-2770
Microfilm
Call Number:
J
11
.R5
Congressional Record, Vol. 109
88th Congress, 1st Session
Appendix Pages A1-A2842
Jan. 9-May 7, 1963
Reel 12

The book was found in the off campus stacks, was ordered and checked. The quote below was checked against the original and is correct. The few errors in the copy from the Congressional Record are shown in [ ] .

The quote starts on page 259.

California State University at San Jose, Clark Library stacks call number:
Naked Communist
HX
56
S55

Book title page:
Skousen, W. Cleon. Naked Communist
Salt Lake City, Utah: Ensign Publishing Co.
C. 1961 , 9th edition July 1961.

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IWO JIMA VET TO REGROUP FELLOW MARINES

Ventura County Star

Iwo Jima veteran to regroup his fellow Marines
T.O. soldier heads to San Diego

By John Mitchell, jmitchell@insidevc.com
September 1, 2003

Jim Lieberknecht's scariest moments during World War II came in his fifth major battle, the invasion of Iwo Jima in February 1945.

"It was almost like a textbook operation," said Lieberknecht, then a master technical sergeant with the 2nd Battalion, 155 Howitzers, Corps Artillery, U.S. Marine Corps. "We could see the ships firing at the island and at Mount Suribachi, and we could see the landing boats going in to the beach.

"We went in the second day," the Thousand Oaks man recalled. "We could hear small arms fire pinging on (our boat), and we ducked behind the superstructure. We were a little stressed at that, because we were carrying gas and ammunition as well as the howitzers. At the beach we got off as quick as we could; that was the rule of experienced people."

The experiences of Lieberknecht's war, like this one, are buried deep inside his memory. He will talk about them, but often, as he visualizes the men and the unspoken horrors he saw, he will occasionally surrender to overwhelming feelings, and weep.

Later this week, he and his wife, Anne, will travel from their home in Thousand Oaks to San Diego, where they will participate in an annual reunion of Lieberknecht's World War II outfit. The old Marines will greet each other, memories and emotions will be stirred, and stories will be exchanged.

Like Lieberknecht's first night on Iwo Jima.

"Our position, where we would set up the batteries, wasn't established, and we were pretty much on our own," he said. "I was in a foxhole with guys I didn't even know, and we sat there all night. I think there was a light rain. We just wanted to get through the night, not knowing which direction was which. It turned out to be pretty calm but scary."

Before Iwo Jima, there was Tulagi-Guadacanal, Tarawa, Saipan and Guam, all of them milestone assaults as U.S. forces brought the war closer to Japan. Lieberknecht participated in all.

Saipan, in the Marianas, was a monthlong hell hole for the Americans. Near the end of the fighting, the remnants of a desperate Japanese garrison launched bloody suicide attacks, and many civilians leaped to their deaths from cliffs.

Lieberknecht, who was his battalion's communications chief, remembers the two Marines who came back to their foxhole on Saipan to discover it had taken a direct hit and was blown to bits.

And the runner from one of the infantry companies coming through the artillery area. "Suddenly we got hit with mortar fire, and the guy says, 'Damn, I'm going back up to the front. I don't like this at all.' "

Later, a communications officer pulled up in a jeep and told Lieberknecht he was going to show him the front.

"It was amazing," Lieberknecht said. "As we got closer to the front, we'd see more and more (dead) Marines wrapped in ponchos, and Japanese body parts were all over the place. The smell was something like you'd smell nowhere else. It was overwhelming, awful."

Today, Lieberknecht, 80, is far removed from the dangers and horrors of his memories. He and Anne, 65, spend much time in the peaceful ambience and spirituality of Holy Trinity Lutheran Church in Thousand Oaks. They refer to the church as their "second home." Both do custodial work and care for the church's five rose gardens. Lieberknecht, retired after 32 years as an IBM manager, is the congregation's bookkeeper.

This year, it was his turn to organize his outfit's three-day reunion. With help from Anne, his wife of 39 years, he's done it meticulously.

"Although there's an age difference between us, we share being ever so prideful of our nation and the ground we walk on," his wife said.

"I've had the chance to walk with these guys for 40 years," she said. "I'm walking in history, because they are really historic figures who served their country. I feel I'm a very strong part of them."

This year, 28 veterans have said they will show up, a big drop from the more than 100 who came in 1987. A few are staying home this year because their wives are ill.

"The reunions are an emotional thing for me, sort of a renewal," Lieberknecht said. "It's one of the most important parts of my life. I cry sometimes. The stories get better each year. I love to talk to the guys. Everyone has his own little war he was in, so you pick up bits and pieces and then say, 'I didn't know that!' "

"These reunions are everything to Jim," his wife said. "We go melded together as one, and we stand very prideful, and then are so humbled by the others. We embrace each other and their wives. It's such an incredibly close time, a time to renew friendships and camaraderie."

Lieberknecht told the story of Gunnery Sgt. John Grivich when both were in a camp in New Zealand in 1943.

"Grivich used to drive into town and pick up supplies for us," Lieberknecht said. "One time he comes back holding up a pair of undershorts. He had written on the shorts, 'Are you short of drawers? If you are, I'll buy you a couple.' "

Forty-four years later, Grivich and Lieberknecht met at a reunion. Lieberknecht opened up his World War II scrapbook and there, in all its glory, were the same shorts with Grivich's words intact.

"Grivich was always a very outgoing, extroverted type of guy," Lieberknecht said. "When he saw the shorts, he got very excited and started walking around holding them up for everyone to see. 'Look what Lieberknecht kept; look at this!' he kept saying."

Lieberknecht shed no tears with that story, just a big smile.

On Saturday morning at the Holiday Inn in San Diego, Nelson Roetter, "one of the guys" who entered the ministry, will conduct a memorial.

"He always has a moment in the service where we remember those who went this past year, and we pray again for those who went before them," Anne Lieberknecht said. "After a moment of silence, I sing The Lord's Prayer. Then I say, 'Marines rise.' They stand, and we lift our voices in 'The Marine Hymn.' "

http://www.insidevc.com/vcs/county_news/article/0,1375,VCS_226_2225384,00.html
http://www.insidevc.com/vcs/county_news/article/0,1375,VCS_226_2225384,00.html
Copyright 2003, Ventura County Star. All Rights Reserved.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
R.W. "Dick" Gaines
GySgt USMC (Ret.)
1952-72
Gunny G's GLOBE and ANCHOR Sites & Forums
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~~~~~

V-J DAY MEMORIES

The Washington Times
www.washingtontimes.com

V-J Day memories
By Stroube Smith
THE WASHINGTON TIMES
Published August 14, 2003


The day Japan gave up in World War II, Aug. 14, 1945, was exactly a week before I was to celebrate my 11th birthday. Up until President Truman's announcement at 7 p.m. Eastern time, I had really thought the war was going to last long enough for me to become a GI and achieve various heroic deeds of derring-do. Of such things are adolescent dreams and delusions made.

There is some confusion over when we should say this cataclysmic conflict ended. The AP Stylebook says Aug. 15, the day Japanese Emperor Hirohito broadcast the news to his people. Because of that notation, that is the date most often used by newspapers. Others insist on Sept. 2, when Gen. Douglas MacArthur presided over the formal surrender signing aboard the USS Missouri in Tokyo Bay.

To me, though, it will always be that evening of Aug. 14 and the wild celebrations Truman's announcement set off on South Lee Street in Alexandria, in the rest of the city and across the nation. It is also the day the killing, for the most part, came to an end.

I suppose it is impossible to really convey the giddy relief that swept the country. It was not just the ending of the war, as costly and devastating as that had been. For a decade and a half, since the beginning of the Depression, Americans had been struggling through grim, harsh days when sheer survival could be an iffy proposition.

With the announcement Japan had had enough, the end of years of strain snapped something loose in the country's soul, and the delirium that marked the end was truly feverish. People poured out of their homes or whatever public place they were in, laughing and shouting, hugging and kissing.

As the din mounted, a church bell began ringing, and one by one all the bells of the city added their voices to the bedlam. Somehow, a few people even got their hands on fireworks to light up the sky.
Leaving my mother, who was crying with relief over the survival of my soldier brother, my father and I walked to a newsstand on King Street and bought extras of at least three Washington daily newspapers. Along the way, I got to view alcoholic celebrations for the first time. Among the people we ran across was our family doctor, a squeaky prim and sober man, and he was as carried away as anyone.

While we walked, we listened to the radios elaborating on the news. In those days before air conditioning in private homes, I could walk across town on warm days and not miss any of my favorite radio shows — Jack Benny, Fred Allen, Fibber McGee. As you can tell, I tried to keep a light heart.

How to count the cost? Dollars and cents are too cheap a way to calculate. According to my almanac, more than 16.3 million Americans served in uniform. Battle deaths totaled more than 292,000, with 115,000 deaths from other causes. The wounded came to almost 673,000. The total casualties for the United States came to well more than 1 million.
The 1930 Census set the U.S. population at 132 million; as the figures show, the human cost was dreadful. By comparison, the 2000 Census figure was 281 million. It would take much more than 2 million casualties to be the equal proportionally for today's United States.

And the United States came off comparatively lightly among the major combatants. Japan was hit by two atomic bombs that effectively erased two major cities. Tokyo was fire-bombed, leaving acres of the city a wasteland. Germany was equally leveled by bombing and massive artillery barrages from both west and east. Italy did not get off much more lightly.

Of our Allies, the Soviet Union often used the lives of its troops to make up for the equipment and technology it did not have, and its casualties were practically beyond belief. Britain and its empire entered the war in Europe at its very beginning, years before the United States, and was bled each and every year that the fighting went on. France, though defeated, managed an army of liberation. China was brutalized by the Japanese acting both as a combatant and as an occupying force.

All these countries, Allies and Axis both, suffered civilian casualties that in many cases are impossible to calculate. And beyond those numbers loom the millions consumed by the Holocaust.

I'm afraid that on that Aug. 14 not many of us had much thought for the suffering of all those other peoples. I didn't know, for example, that the Germans had sent into their front lines 11-year-old boys, as I was only days away from becoming. And the Germans had not been the only ones handing weapons to children that young. We just knew that our own ordeal was at an end, and that our fighters would soon be on the way home.

And even on that joyful night there were reminders that the pain had not ended for everyone. Across the street an elderly gentlemen was crying. I stopped and asked him what was wrong. He waved a yellow telegram that he had received only hours before: His son, had been killed, one of the last casualties of the Pacific war.
That young man the summer before had driven me crazy by endlessly practicing "You Are My Sunshine" on his guitar at an open window late into almost every sweltering night.
And that was how my V-J Day and night ended.


Stroube Smith is a copy editor for The Washington Times and a freelance writer.




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