GENERAL PATTON ON KERRY....

Source: E-Mail
(GyG'sMailbag: Via Marine Richard Roberts)

Obituary for a Patriot: Maj. Gen George S. Patton Dies at 80
by Scott Stanley, Jr.

George Smith Patton III was a senior at West Point when his famous
father was killed in a bizarre December 1945 road accident in Germany.
When Westbrook Pegler and other journalists approached Bea Patton for
confirmation from her husband's papers that Gen. Dwight Eisenhower had
carried on a notorious affair with his British driver Kaye Summersby, she
refused, explaining that she did not believe loose talk and, besides, her
son was a career officer. He was indeed, and a very good one. The younger
Patton first saw action in Korea and later served three tours in Vietnam,
where he was awarded a Purple Heart and two Distinguished Service Crosses.
As a colonel he commanded the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment in Vietnam and
rose to the rank of major general when he was about to be named commander
of U.S. armored forces in Germany. It was 1980, Jimmy Carter was
president, and when the Soviets objected to so able a son of their old
enemy being given such a command, Carter flinched and Patton retired in
disgust.

At the family home in Hamilton, Mass., with his wife Joanne, Patton
turned his hand in retirement to the unlikely profession of "tomato
farmer" at Green Meadow Farm, the family estate, and delighted to sell his
produce at a roadside stand. Patton's friend, Lt. Gen. Charley Brown, told
the story of a ragtag National Guard tank convoy that had stopped to buy
cold cider at the Patton stand and returned to headquarters that evening
to report an encounter with a crazy old farmer who chewed them out for the
shabby state of their equipment, their dress, and their demeanor.

"And get this," a National Guard private confided to the colonel in
charge of the armory, "the crazy old son of a bitch thought he was Gen.
George S. Patton."

He was indeed, every inch of him, and when the turncoat John F. Kerry
ran for the U.S. Senate, Patton called a press conference, declared Kerry
to be "soft on communism," and said that by providing propaganda for the
enemy during the Vietnam War, Kerry "gave aid and comfort to the enemy and
probably caused some of my guys to get killed."

How George would have loved it that today the New York Times gave
exactly twice as much space to the obituary of lifelong communist
propagandist Agnes Cunningham as it did to his. No doubt that would have
amused him as much as his retirement business cards, printed in green ink,
that read: "George S. Patton, Farmer."

Funeral services will be held Wednesday, July 7, at 10 a.m. in St.
John's Episcopal Church, Beverly Farms, Mass.; his burial service will
take place at Arlington National Cemetery on Friday, Aug. 27, at 11 a.m.

----------------------------------------


~~~~~~~~~~
This is...
Gunny G's...
GLOBE and ANCHOR
Marines Sites & Forums
By R.W. "Dick" Gaines
Gny Sgt USMC (Ret.)
1952-'72
Semper Fidelis
~~~~~~~~~~
Note:
GyG's G&A Sites & Forums is an informational site and not for profit. Copyrighted material provided soley for education, study, research, and discussion, etc. Full credit to source shown when available.
~~~~~

TO THE TERRORIST PIGS IN IRAQ

(From GyG'sMailbag)

Letter to the Terrorists
in Iraq
From: aabufalo@aol.com
Date: Mon, 28 Jun 2004 08:37:43 EDT
Subject: [ReconMarines] From: aabufalo@aol.com
Date: Mon, 28 Jun 2004 08:37:43 EDT
Subject: [ReconMarines] Letter to the Terrorists
in Iraq

This letter is for Abu Musab al-Zarqawi,
''Islamic Response,'' and
the rest of the so-called "insurgents" in Iraq.
I obviously do not
have an e-mail address for these vermin, so I am
forwarding this
letter to my entire address book in the hope you
good people will
forward it to as many people as possible, and
that eventually through
the miracle of the internet it somehow ends up in
the hands of the
intended recipients. Thank you all for your
assistance.



To the terrorists currently operating in Iraq:

I see that you have captured a U. S. Marine,
and that you plan to
cut off his head if your demands are not met.
Big mistake. Before
you carry out your threat I suggest you read up
on Marine Corps
history. The Japanese tried the same thing on
Makin Island and in a
few other places during World War Two, and came
to regret it. Go
ahead and read about what then happened to the
mighty Imperial Army
on Tarawa, Iwo Jima and Okinawa. They paid full
price for what they
did, and you will too.

You look at America and you see a soft
target, and to a large
extent you are right. Our country is filled with
a lot of spoiled
people who drive BMWs, sip decaf lattes and watch
ridiculous reality
TV shows. They are for the most part decent,
hard working citizens,
but they are soft. When you cut off Nick Berg's
head those people
gasped, and you got the media coverage you
sought, and then those
people went back to their lives. This time it is
different. We also
have a warrior culture in this country, and they
are called Marines.
It is a brotherhood forged in the fire of many
wars, and the bond
between us is stronger than blood. While it is
true that this
country has produced nitwits like Michael Moore,
Howard Dean and Jane
Fonda who can be easily manipulated by your
gruesome tactics, we have
also produced men like Jason Dunham, Brian
Chontosh and Joseph
Perez. If you don't recognize those names you
should. They are all
Marines who distinguished themselves fighting to
liberate Iraq, and
there will be many more just like them coming for
you.

Before the current politically correct
climate enveloped our
culture one of the recruiting slogans of our band
of brothers
was "The Marine Corps Builds Men." You will soon
find out just how
true that is. You, on the other hand, are
nothing but a bunch of
women. If you were men you would show your faces,
and take us on in a
fair fight. Instead, you are cowards who hide
behind masks and
decapitate helpless victims. If you truly
represented the interest
of the Iraqi people you would not be ambushing
those who come to your
country to repair your power plants, or sabotage
the oil pipelines
which fuel the Iraqi economy. Your agenda is
hate, plain and simple.

When you raise that sword over your head I
want you to remember
one thing. Corporal Wassef Ali Hassoun is not
alone as he kneels
before you. Every Marine who has ever worn the
uniform is there with
him, and when you strike him you are striking all
of us. If you
think the Marines were tough on you when they
were cleaning out
Fallujah a few weeks ago you haven't seen
anything yet. If you want
to know what it feels like to have the Wrath of
God called down upon
you then go ahead and do it. We are not Turkish
truck drivers, or
Pakistani laborers, or independent contractors
hoping to find work in
your country. We are the United States Marines,
and we will be
coming for you.

Andy Bufalo
MSgt USMC (Ret)
USMCstories
-----------------------------------------------------------------


~~~~~~~~~~
This is...
Gunny G's...
GLOBE and ANCHOR
Marines Sites & Forums
By R.W. "Dick" Gaines
Gny Sgt USMC (Ret.)
1952-'72
Semper Fidelis
~~~~~~~~~~
Note:
GyG's G&A Sites & Forums is an informational site and not for profit. Copyrighted material provided soley for education, study, research, and discussion, etc. Full credit to source shown when available.
~~~~~

DRAW THE PAY-TALK THE LINGO!

Source: GyG'sMailbag...

Salty Language
Salty Language by Col James W. Hammond Jr., USMC (Ret)

In the (not so) old Corps, the first time a "boot" referred to a vertical partition as a "wall" or said that he had spilled something on the "floor," he incurred the unmitigated wrath of the nearest drill instructor. To gain the attention of the miscreant, the DI would smash his swagger stick on the top of the boot's pith helmet accompanied by a very loud bit of enduring advice, "That's 'bulkhead' [or 'deck']. If you draw the pay, you speak the language!"

Marines are "Soldiers of the Sea," and it is right and proper that conversation be sprinkled with nautical expressions. In "The Leatherneck," his introduction to "Fix Bayonets," the late Colonel John W. Thompson Jr., USMC (Ret) described the many men making up the 4th Marine Brigade about to see action at Belleau Wood in June 1918: "And there were also a number of diverse people who ran curiously to type, with drilled shoulders and a bone-deep sunburn, a tolerant scorn of nearly everything on earth. Their speech was flavored with Navy words, and words culled from all the folk who live on the seas and ports where our war-ships go." He was describing Marine professionals who, like all professionals, have a language peculiar unto themselves.

A language is a living and evolving thing. As we go to more strange and distant climes, some foreign words creep in. Some are transitory and don't survive. Marines still go to the "head" to "pump bilges," although there was a generation or two who went to the benjo for the same thing. I've always liked the story of the world-traveler Marine sitting in a bar in Athens who politely summoned the waiter and ordered a beer with "Garcon, iddy-wa, una botella de cerveza bitte."

But over the years I have detected not just a lessening of the use of nautical terms among the naval services, but almost a complete lack of them. This is more than 25 years ago when my son came home from the United States Naval Academy his Plebe Christmas. He had been raised on "deck," "bulkhead," "overhead," "ladder," "galley," etc. He called his Boy Scout equipment "782 gear," but he was no longer using those descriptive terms because they weren't in use at the Academy.

After he graduated, I spent a dozen years in Annapolis on the staff of the Alumni Association of my alma mater. I was appalled at the lubberly-ness of the staff, faculty and midshipmen at the Academy. Fortunately, the Marines on duty there kept the tradition of nautical language alive. It must be paying off because every year the allotted "boat spaces" for Marines on graduation are oversubscribed.

But I am not concerned with Navy per se, but rather our Corps of Marines. I equate it to the reply an old gunnery sergeant gave to the lady who upon hearing the legend that the quatrefoil on the cover of Marine Officers' frame caps stems from days of sail when Marines in the "fighting tops" could identify their officers on deck by the chalked cross on their caps and not fire on them, asked, "What about the Navy Officers?" "Who cared?" snapped the gunny."

Language is both spoken and written. "The Marines' Hymn" says, "We are proud to claim the title of United States Marines." There are Army officers and soldiers, Navy officers and sailors, Air Force officers and airmen, but we are all Marines. That is why Marine is always written with a capital "M."

We must be careful not to allow our own professional culture to be corrupted by the words of other services. The Army says 1600 (sixteen hundred) hours. We say 1600 (sixteen hundred). It is a small but subtle difference. Many years ago at a large East Coast Marine base, an over zealous "police sergeant" neatly painted on the "deck" in front of a regimental headquarters building: "NO PARKING AFTER 1600 HOURS." The commanding general, or "CG," came by and saw the offending sign. He dashed into headquarters, burst in the office of the commanding officer, or "CO," and began holding "school-of-the-boat" (the most basic instruction one can give to the landlubber) on the colonel.

He said, "In the Army, it's 1600 hours; in the Navy, it's 8 bells; in the Air Force, I think it is 'when Mickey's big hand is on 12 and his little hand is on 4,' but in the Corps, it is 1600. Get that abomination corrected immediately!"

Most Marines knew the motto of our Corps before they went to boot camp, or they probably wouldn't have gone. It is "semper fidelis" - always faithful. Shortened to "semper fi," it is a bond of respectful recognition between and among Marines. One Marine greets another with it. When they part company, each says to the other, "Semper fi." Informal memos or e-mails between Marines usually are signed "Semper fi" or just S/F. But there used to be a darker side. Used by Marines to members of the other services or civilians, "Semper fi, Mac," said with a sneer, had a sinister connotation. It could mean anything from "I got mine; the hell with you!" to "I did fine; how did you do?" An old "China Hand" once told me that on payday night in Shanghai cabarets, it meant, "You buy the fifth; my girl is drunk already!" I much prefer the version denoting mutual respect among a "band of brothers" than the cynical version.

Some words and phrases have found their way into common American usage through the Marine Corps. Some are of foreign origin. "We have fought in every clime and place." Others were Marine-coined.

The best example of a Marine-coined word in widespread use is "gizmo." "Gung-ho" is of Chinese origin, via Col. Evans F. Carlson of the World War II Carlson's Raiders. Going back several campaigns, we find that "boondocks" comes from the Tagalog "bundok" or mountain jungles of the Philippines. "Honcho" came back from Korea and Japan.

Another word that is sacred to our Corps is "Doc" - the corpsman who wear our uniform, joins with and cares for us in combat. Many years ago I had a "Stateside" battalion during the time that doctors were drafted for two years of service. My battalion surgeon (billet title since he wasn't really a "cutter") came to me with a complaint. The young Marines were addressing him as "Doc." Since he was a professional man, he felt he deserved the respect of being addressed as "Doctor." I told him that evidently he was not ready to be addressed as "Doc" inasmuch as that is the highest honor that a Marine can bestow upon a "squid."

The language door swings both ways. We have allowed civilian language to corrupt our pure nautical expression. While a landlubber may refer to a ship as "it," a true "soldier of the sea" knows that a ship is a "she." Likewise, it is a real nautical bust, both orally and in writing, to precede the name of a ship with a definite article. A ship is a distinct personality, and referring to the Lexington is as improper as referring to me as the Hammond. She is Lexington. Many readers will argue that the definite article is used in professional naval publications, and I invite their attention to the fact that those journals have professional editors and writers, not naval professionals. Finally, one serves in not on a ship. If it is the latter, you are in deep trouble. To a precise reader or listener it conjures up the vision of your sitting on the keel of a capsized vessel.

How did this departure from salty language occur? I alluded to the traumatic change to the nautical nature of the Naval Academy, at least in my observation. Emphasis was more on turning out graduates who could go on for advanced degrees. "Techies" and their bastardization of English for computer talk followed. This was compounded by flooding the faculty with academics holding advanced degrees from campuses of the '60s. This sizeable group of civilians avoided being part of the naval culture. Over the past quarter century, the leadership of half the naval service has eroded much of the base of salty-language usage. If those at the top don't lead the way, it is a military axiom that those below won't follow.

But how did the decline of the use of salty language creep into our Corps? Drill instructors still drill into recruits the use of "deck," "bulkhead," "ladder," etc., although perhaps with a less emphatic way of getting their attention then in the (not so) old Corps.

For one thing, more Marines are married these days, and many live ashore among the civilian community. These Marines try to blend into the civilian community rather than flaunt their pride of being a Marine. Their use of salty language becomes one of the first casualties.

Even today it is a matter of pride to sport a regulation haircut, spit-shined shoes, proper civilian attire and, of course, salty language. It is gratifying when some stranger at a cocktail party says, "You sound like you're a Marine."

Another reason for the decline of salty language is that many young Marines are "cool." Nautical talk is not cool, computer talk and jive talk are. Unlike the Navy with its many technicians, "every Marine is a rifleman" and has the privilege of displaying pride in the language of his profession. It is a privilege not available to others.

How can we restore this eroding tradition? Like everything else in the Corps, it begins at the top. Senior officers should use salty language at every opportunity and hold school-of-the-boat on their subordinates who don't. Top staff noncommissioned officers should do likewise.

Tradition is not something that can be ordered. It must have solid roots to survive. Marines should want to show that they are a different breed and be willing to demonstrate their uniqueness at every opportunity whether among other Marines or among civilians. That's what it is about personal pride in being a Marine.

More than 50 years ago, during the Cherry Blossom Pageant in Washington, DC, 10 junior officers from the Army, Air Force, Navy, Coast Guard and Marine Corps were detailed as escorts for princesses from 48 states and the territories of Alaska and Hawaii. Most of the Marines were strangers to each other.

At the end of the ceremonies a musical tribute to the gallant escorts of the lovely princesses was announced. The band struck up a medley of "The Caisson Song," "The Air Force Song," "Anchors Aweigh" and "Semper Paratus." At the first note of "The Marines' Hymn," 10 Marine lieutenants scattered among the audience were on their feet as 20 heels clicked as one. An officer from another service paid them a high compliment. In a stage whisper audible to all, he said, "Those s.o.b.s!" That's what it is all about - exhibiting your pride in your Corps every time you can.

About 30 years ago there was the tale of an old Sergeant Major who retired and had a nice job, although he was putting in long hours. He had another problem as well, or at least his boss and co-workers thought so. He still said "deck," "bulkhead," "overhead," etc. The boss made him an appointment with the company psychiatrist. The sergeant major arrived, and the doctor, who was of the Freudian school, directed him to lie on the couch.

Doctor: "Do you lead an active sex life?" SgtMaj: "Sure!" Doctor: "Tel me about it." SgtMaj: " What do you want to know?" Doctor: "Your last affair, when was it?" SgtMaj: "About 1950?" Doctor: "You call that active?" SgtMaj: looking at his watch: "It's only 2115 now!"

Draw the pay; speak the language.

Semper fi.

[Col Hammond enlisted in the Corps in 1946, was appointed to the Naval Academy in 1947 and was commissioned as an infantry officer in 1951. He commanded an infantry platoon and company, an artillery battery and battalion, an infantry battalion (2/4) in combat (RVN). He was wounded in action during the Korean War and twice wounded in the Vietnam War. He is the author of more than 50 professional articles in a wide variety of professional publications, including Marine Corps Gazette, Naval Institute Proceedings, The Hook and others. He was managing editor and then editor-publisher for Gazette from 1964 to 1966 and in retirement was editor of the U. S. Naval Academy Alumni Association's monthly magazine, Shipmate. He has written two books: "Poison Gas - The Myths Versus Reality" and "The Treaty Navy - The Story of the U. S. Naval Service Between the World Wars". Colonel and Mrs. Hammond make their home in Reno, but can be found in Annapolis during football season.]

~~~~~~~~~~
This is...
Gunny G's...
GLOBE and ANCHOR
Marines Sites & Forums
By R.W. "Dick" Gaines
Gny Sgt USMC (Ret.)
1952-'72
Semper Fidelis
~~~~~~~~~~
Note:
GyG's G&A Sites & Forums is an informational site and not for profit. Copyrighted material provided soley for education, study, research, and discussion, etc. Full credit to source shown when available.
~~~~~

NO, 9/11 WAS NOT THE BEGINNING!

(From Maj Howard Bell)

Wed, 16 Jun 2004 21:57:45 -0500
From: "Howard Bell" View Contact Details
To:
Subject: Asleep at the wheel
A little bit of history Regardless of how you vote and
what you believe, we should all read this and really
let it sink in. As it says, this is NOT a political
speech. It is something that we should all know and
(and probably do) but don't let the overall impact
register. But, put together like this, it is very
impressive.

U.S. Navy Capt. Ouimette is the XO at NAS, Pensacola.
Here is a copy of the speech he gave last month. It is
an accurate account of why we are in so much trouble
today and why this action is so necessary.

AMERICA NEEDS TO WAKE UP!

That's what we think we heard on the 11th of September
2001 and maybe it was, but I think it should have been
"Get Out of Bed!" In fact, I think the alarm clock has
been buzzing since 1979 and we have continued to hit
the snooze button and roll over for a few more minutes
of peaceful sleep since then.

It was a cool fall day in November 1979 in a country
going through a religious and political upheaval when
a group of Iranian students attacked and seized the
American Embassy in Tehran. This seizure was an
outright attack on American soil; it was an attack
that held the world's most powerful country hostage and
paralyzed a Presidency. The attack on this sovereign U.
S. embassy set the stage for events to follow for the
next 23 years.

America was still reeling from the aftermath of the
Vietnam experience and had a serious threat from the
Soviet Union when then, President Carter, had to do
something. He chose to conduct a clandestine raid in
the desert. The ill-fated mission ended in ruin, but
stood as a symbol of America's inability to deal with
terrorism.

America's military had been decimated and
downsized/right sized since the end of the Vietnam War.
A poorly trained, poorly equipped and poorly organized
military was called on to execute a complex mission
that was doomed from the start.

Shortly after the Tehran experience, Americans began
to be kidnapped and killed throughout the Middle East.
America could do little to protect her citizens living
and working abroad. The attacks against US soil
continued.

In April of 1983 a large vehicle packed with high
explosives was driven into the US Embassy compound in
Beirut. When it explodes, it kills 63 people. The
alarm went off again and America hit the Snooze Button
once more.

Then just six short months later a large truck heavily
laden down with over 2500 pounds of TNT smashed
through the main gate of the US Marine Corps
headquarters in Beirut and 241 US servicemen are
killed. America mourns her dead and hit the Snooze
Button once more.

Two months later in December 1983, another truck
loaded with explosives is driven into the US Embassy in
Kuwait, and America continues her slumber.

The following year, in September 1984, another van was
driven into the gates of the US Embassy in Beirut and
America slept.

Soon the terrorism spreads to Europe. In April 1985 a
bomb explodes in a restaurant frequented by US
soldiers in Madrid.

Then in August a Volkswagen loaded with explosives is
driven into the main gate of the US Air Force Base at
Rhein-Main, 22 are killed and the snooze alarm is
buzzing louder and louder as US interests are
continually attacked.

Fifty-nine days later a cruise ship, the Achille Lauro
is hijacked and we watched as an American in a
wheelchair is singled out of the passenger list and
executed.

The terrorists then shift their tactics to bombing
civilian airliners when they bomb TWA Flight 840 in
April of 1986 that killed 4 and the most tragic
bombing, Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland in
1988, killing 259.

America wants to treat these terrorist acts as crimes;
in fact we are still trying to bring these people to
trial. These are acts of war.

The wake up alarm is getting louder and louder The
terrorists decide to bring the fight to America. In
January 1993, two CIA agents are shot and killed as
they enter CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.

The following month, February 1993, a group of
terrorists are arrested after a rented van packed with
explosives is driven into the underground parking
garage of the World Trade Center in New York City. Six
people are killed and over 1000 are injured. Still
this is a crime and not an act of war?

The Snooze alarm is depressed again. Then in November
1995 a car bomb explodes at a US military complex in
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia killing seven service men and
women.

A few months later in June of 1996, another truck bomb
explodes only 35 yards from the US military compound
in Dhahran, Saudi Arabia. It destroys the Khobar
Towers, a US Air Force barracks, killing 19 and
injuring over 500. The terrorists are getting braver
and smarter as they see that America does not respond
decisively..

They move to coordinate their attacks in a
simultaneous attack on two US embassies in Kenya and
Tanzania. These attacks were planned with precision.
They kill 224. America responds with cruise missile
attacks and goes back to sleep.

The USS Cole was docked in the port of Aden, Yemen for
refueling on 12 October 2000, when a small craft
pulled along side the ship and exploded killing 17 US
Navy Sailors. Attacking a US War Ship is an act of
war, but we sent the FBI to investigate the crime and
went back to sleep.

And of course you know the events of 11 September 2001.
Most Americans think this was the first attack against
US soil or in America. How wrong they are. America has
been under a constant attack since 1979 and we chose
to hit the snooze alarm and roll over and go back to
sleep.

In the news lately we have seen lots of finger
pointing from every high officials in government over
what they knew and what they didn't know. But if
you've read the papers and paid a little attention I
think you can see exactly what they knew. You don't
have to be in the FBI or CIA or on the National
Security Council to see the pattern that has been
developing since 1979.

The President is right on when he says we are engaged
in a war. I think we have been in a war for the past
23 years and it will continue until we as a people
decide enough is enough.

America needs to "Get out of Bed" and act decisively
now. America has been changed forever. We have to be
ready to pay the price and make the sacrifice to
ensure our way of life continues. We cannot afford to
keep hitting the snooze button again and again and
roll over and go back to sleep.

After the attack on Pearl Harbor, Admiral Yamamoto
said "...it seems all we have done is awakened a
sleeping giant." This is the message we need to
disseminate to terrorists around the world.

Support Our Troops and support President Bush for
having the courage, political or militarily, to
address what so many who preceded him didn't have the
backbone to do both Democrat and Republican. This is
not a political thing to be hashed over in an election
year this is an AMERICAN thing. This is about our
Freedom and the Freedom of our children in years to
come.
~~~~~~~~~~
This is...
Gunny G's...
GLOBE and ANCHOR
Marines Sites & Forums
By R.W. "Dick" Gaines
GySgt USMC (Ret.)
1952-72
Semper Fidelis
~~~~~~~~~~
Note:
GyG's G&A Sites & Forums is an informational site and not for profit. Copyrighted material provided soley for education, study, research, and discussion, etc. Full credit to source shown when available.
~~~~~

JOHN BROWNING'S .45 AUTO, by Marine Richard Roberts

Date: Sun, 25 Apr 2004 10:08:27 -0700

I wrote this story about 7 years ago.


JOHN BROWNING’S 45 AUTO
I tried very hard to obtain a 45 Auto while in
Marine Advanced Infantry
training in 1943. They were just about
impossible to obtain in those war
years.
Finally one of my mother’s friends, a carpet
dealer in Hunting Park, Ca.
presented me with one just before I shipped
out. He also placed a condition
on it. I was to return it to him when I
returned with a complete history how
I used it.
I carried it all through the Pacific War in
many good times and a few bad;
it had served me faithfully.
Whenever we had a shakedown, the Officer would
always take my word on how I
obtained it.
I used it on Okinawa more than on Siapan and
Tarawa. I did a lot of guard
duty on water holes at night. The Japs got just
as thirty as we did. The
Engineers issued me a Thompson for patrol duty.
Got a few good licks with it
also.
Was cleaning out a cave one time. I shot that
Jap square through the helmet
with my .45. Broke all the bones in his head
just like sake of marbles. We
had a saying in those days “If God wanted a
foxhole gun, he’d pick a Colt
.45 Auto.”
When I returned home from the Pacific, I
returned the .45 with a handwritten
letter of its history with me. Of course I
added a few things as Bill was a
salesman and he would enjoy bragging rights.
Bill then took me right down to the gun dealer
and presented me a brand new
.45, target grade.
To bad our government still don’t issue it. But
our politics wanted those
Italian bases, so we ended up with a Baretta
9mm. Guise they forgot why we
adopted a .45. It was to put down those Mad
Muslims. Well, it seems we have
more mad Muslims now than before.
When we finally arrived in Tiensen China after
two years in the Pacific war,
I had made a set of silver grips for it. Cost
me $50.00 A fortune for a buck
private in those days. One months pay.
It had a beautiful Chinese dragon carved on one
side with the Marine emblem
and the First Division crest carved in the
other side. My old foxhole gun
finally got all dressed up as a reward for its
years of faithful duty,
service and of course, my vanity.
I watched the Chinese craftsmen work on my
silver grips. We use engraving
blocks in the West to hold the object while we
were working on. In the
Orient they have a leather pad they put their
work on and hold the job with
their toes. The cutting tool has a wooden heel
and is held in their left
hand and bops it with their ball of their right
hand and uses their feet and
toes to manipulate the work. While we use a
straight cutting tool with a
chasing hammer and an engraving block to hold
the work and of course, get to
site on a stool. Interesting comparisons.
The biggest tourist attraction for Marines in
those days was not the Great
Wall of China, but the American Embassy in
Peking. In particular the old
Marine Barracks.
Whenever we did visit the Great Wall, there was
an old Marine Tradition.
“You weren’t a real China Marine till you
pissed on the Great Wall.”
In 1941 there was a young Marine stationed
there by the name of Bob Carlson.
When war broke out they, the Embassy felt very
isolated and frustrated. They
tried constantly to radio for instructions on
their next step on what to do?
To no avail, The U.S. had closed down the radio
receiver on them. No more
messages.
Bob never gave me the details on the final
surrender but he ended up in
Japan in a POW camp.
He got the job of making Jap signature stamps
out of bamboo. If memory
serves, the Japs called them “chops”.
Bob pretty well served out the war doing this.
An interesting side note to this story is that
when the Japs took roll call
on the prisoners, they would have alphabetical
sections and numbers. Like in
“B” row and then their number in that row. As
the POWs called out their
numbers in Japanese, the one that called out “
B29 “ always got a few good
licks with a bamboo pole from the guards if
there was a B29 raid at that
particular time.
When the Air Force dropped that giant Jap birth
control pill, a Jap guard
kept running through their barracks calling
out,” Ichi bomb, and ichi bomb.”
I hope I remember the Jap word for “one “ I
hope this is right.
I meant Bob in a GI apprenticeship job after
the war. We were cutting and
polishing a die for the “Hop-Along Cassidy cap
pistol. All you young Boots
out there, you must have played with this cap
pistol at one time or another.
It had to have a perfect finish to it so to
“Pop Out” of the die after the
injection casting. Any flaw in the cutting
would cause a “Hang Up”.
About this time I got tired of the job of
polishing out dies so went to work
for a manufacturing jeweler. I would do their
engraving and they would teach
me diamond setting. They also made me a bill
collector, which I didn’t like
very much at all. I guess my size was supposed
to intimidate people.
Couldn’t intimidate Roy Weatherbe. Just as I
was hitting him up for work
done and not paid for, he said” How do you
expect me to pay you, look they
are hauling off my chronograph for
non-payment.” About that time John Wayne
bought 49 percent off the biz from Roy. And Roy
of course, came out smelling
like a rose. Roy was a terrific salesman and
good enough to have invented
the expression “He really could literally sell
ice cubes to Eskimos”.
Weatherbe asked me “Why don’t you spend more
time on my job’s? Did you know
that last one you engraved went to the Shaw of
Iran?” I said “ROY, why don’t
you pay more money, I have instructions to work
on your stuff only for 8
hours, that’s $35.00 [I got $20.00 per day
then. Not bad wages for the
times] so if you want more detail, I’ll put
more time on it, you just only
have to pay a better price !”
Roy Weatherbe was actually a great person. He
even let me test group his
rifles in his basement range. His theory was
all wet on no rifling for the
first 5 inches, but he had the best stock maker
in the world doing his stock
work. Just beautiful wood and craftsmanship.
I could never get better than 5 minutes of
angle from his rifles. [Bench
rest] While Winchester guaranteed 2 minutes of
angel with their Model 70,
bolt action. Remmington 40X single shot
guarantied [Marine Sniper Rifle] one
minute of angle. After that it was the “Nut
behind the buttplate”
responsibility.
My next really big and interesting job was to
set the diamonds in Sheriff
Eugene Biscaluz police badge. All his cronies
donated the diamonds. There
was a 5-carat diamond in the center and
one-carat diamond in each star
point. The badge was made of 18Kt gold and the
center was of platinum. Of
course Sheriff Gene never had to pay a dime on
this. He was Los Angeles
County Sheriff for over 25 years.
Bob and I would go out on Saturdays and
practice our 45 cal shooting at the
Long Beach Police Pistol Rang. We shared in
purchasing expense of buying
hand-loading equipment for our 45s.
We got very good at target shooting after a
short time and the Long Beach
Police invited us to join their pistol team. We
naturally jumped at the
chance cause it meant free ammo,rang ,and entry
fees.
We both bought the High Standard 22 rim fire
target grade auto’s and shot
our 45s in the center fire and 45 cal National
Match Course’s. We became
master’s in a very short time. The Long Beach
Police sponsored our team in
the entire local NRA registered [Southern Cal.]
competitions. They
especially liked us to beat hell out of the Los
Angeles Police Team. I
continued on in various marksmanship types
shooting events for the next 30
years are so.
Just before I moved to the Puget Sound area,
Bob died a tragic death of
cancer. He was only 30 years old.
It was a great privilege on for me to have
counted this fine Marine as one
of my very great friends. I will never forget
him.
More later, maybe.

Semper Fi RR

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TWO MARINE CORPS

Two Marine Corps

by William S. Lind
by William S. Lind

Since sometime before Caesar was a lance corporal, the United States Marine Corps’ greatest fear has been becoming "a second land army." It has long believed that if the country perceived it had two armies, it would require one to go away, and that one would be the Marine Corps. It is therefore ironic that the United States now finds itself with not one, but two Marine Corps, and the final result may be that both disappear.

Almost any Marine knows the two Marine Corps of which I speak. One is the heir of the maneuver warfare movement of the 1970s and 80s, of Al Gray and Warfighting, of free play training, officer education focused on how to think, not what to do, of the belief that the highest goal of all Marines is winning in combat with the smallest possible losses. This is the Marine Corps that led the advance to Baghdad in the first phase of the ongoing war in Iraq. It is also the Marine Corps that recently "fought smart" in Fallujah by not taking the city.

The other Marine Corps’ highest goal is programs, money and bureaucratic success "inside the Beltway." Its priorities are absurdities such as the MV-22 "Albatross" and reviving the 1990s "Sea Worm" project under the label "distributed operations," which are referred to openly at Quantico as "putting lipstick on a pig." This Marine Corps is anti-intellectual, sees the First Generation culture of order as sacred, believes that sufficient rank justifies any idiot and regards politics, not combat, as the "real world."

Regrettably, in the war between these two Marine Corps, the second one is winning. I recently encountered a horrifying example of its success at the Marine Corps Command & Staff School at Quantico. At the end of this academic year, the Command & Staff faculty simply got rid of 250 copies of Martin van Creveld’s superb book, Fighting Power. This book, which lays out the fundamentaldifference between the Second Generation U.S. Army in World War II and the Third Generation Wehrmacht, is one of the seven books of "the canon," the readings that take you from the First Generation into the Fourth. It should be required reading for every Marine Corps and Army officer.

When I asked someone associated with Command & Staff how such a thing could be done, he replied that the faculty has decided it "doesn’t like" van Creveld. This is similar to a band of Hottentots deciding they "don’t like" Queen Victoria. Martin van Creveld is perhaps the most perceptive military historian now writing. But in the end, the books went; future generations of students at Command & Staff won’t have them.

A friend who attended the last Marine Corps General Officers’ conference reported the same division between the two Marine Corps. The officers from the field, he said, had completely different concerns from those stationed in Washington. They were ships passing in the night. But it is the interests of the Washington Marine Corps, not those in the field, that determine Marine Corps policy. And that policy is affected little, if at all, by the two wars in which Marines are now fighting.

Throughout my years as a Senate staffer, the Marine Corps’ clout on Capitol Hill was envied by the other services. The Marine Corps then had little money and not much interest in programs. Its message to Congress and to the American public was, "We’re not like the other services. We aren’t about money and stuff. We’re about war." That message brought the Corps unrivalled public and political support.

In the mid-1990s, the Marine Corps changed its message and, without realizing what it was doing, abandoned its successful grand strategy for survival. The new message became, "We are just like the other services. We too are now about money and programs." And that new message is what now dominates Headquarters Marine Corps and Quantico. Thinking about war is out; money and stuff is in. In effect, the Marine Corps has sat down at the highest-stakes poker game in the world, American defense politics, with 25 cents in its pocket. It simply cannot compete with the Army, Navy or Air Force at buying Congressional and public support. But it is determined to try.

If the dumb (and increasingly corrupt) "Washington" Marine Corps finally triumphs over the smart, Warfighting Marine Corps, in the end both will disappear. And that will be a shame, because the smart Marine Corps, Al Gray’s Marine Corps, really had something going. It was on its way to becoming the first American Third Generation armed service.

Maybe Martin van Creveld’s next book should be The Rise and Decline of the United States Marine Corps.

June 5, 2004

William Lind [send him mail] is Director of the Center for Cultural Conservatism at the Free Congress Foundation.

Copyright © 2004 William S. Lind

William Lind Archives



Find this article at:
http://www.lewrockwell.com/lind/lind25.html
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ONE MARINE'S REMARKS REGARDING D-DAY, NORMANDY, ETC.

This weekend (June 2004) marks the 60th anniversary of the Normandy invasion of WW II. There has been much ado in the media and so forth regarding the massive Normandy "amphibious invasion," Ike's brilliant planning and execution, courage, heroism, etc.--and rightfully so.The Normandy invasion is often regarded as the largest amphibious operation in history; some have even compared the amphibious landings in the Pacific as miniscule in comparison.

In perusing the book, Soldiers Of The Sea-The United States Marine Corps, 1775-1962, by Robert Debs Heinl, Jr., Colonel, USMC (The National Aviation Publishing Company of America, Baltimore, Maryland, 1991, page 513), I find an interesting remark by the author regarding the above.

"Under atomic attack, the World war II amphibious assault was finished. Normandy (more a ferrying operation than a true oceanic amphibious assault in any case) and Okinawa would never be repeated."

Of course, there was another amphibious landing, at Inchon in 1950.

Although Col. Heinl's mention of Normandy, above, is not much more than an aside comment and not the main thrust of his point regarding amphibious assault in general, his remark does, I think, sum up and define the major difference between the Normandy Invasion and Marine Corps amphibious operations in the Pacific. And he does so in a very few words, and in a more correct light than is usually perceived.

I like Colonel Heinl's insights into historical Marine Corps topics as he is always most thorough, and he delves into areas usually left untouched by other writers. Then, too, Heinl's book sports a photo by S/Sgt Lou Lowery (Leatherneck magazine) of the Iwo Jima Flag Raising; not the Joe Rosenthal version, mind you, but the first flag raising that preceeded the "replacemnet flag" raising some time later, which was captured on motion-picture film by Sgt Genaust, and photographed by Rosenthal. But, then, this is an area of special interest to me.

And also, part of the book title says it all, and immediately gains my attention--"...1775-1962," for it was those years that I find as most significant, and interesting for me.

Semper Fidelis
Richard Gaines
GySgt USMC (Ret.)
1952-72
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THE SOON-TO-BE-FORGOTTEN GENERATION

From : George B. Clark
Sent : Saturday, June 5, 2004 8:56 AM
To : <"Undisclosed-Recipient:, "@ms4.surfglobal.net>
Subject : Fw: The Soon-to-Be Forgotten Generation


| | | Inbox
Attachment : image001.gif (< 0.01 MB), image002.jpg (0.03 MB)


Hate to bore you, but Pacific War veterans will certainly be pleased with the following. At least one academic has his head screwed on properly.
gbc

----- Original Message -----
From: Dale Wilson
To: Dale Wilson
Sent: Friday, June 04, 2004 4:34 PM
Subject: The Soon-to-Be Forgotten Generation

Aloha, Friends!



Yale prof David Gelertner takes members of my generation to task for offering "too much, too late" in honor of its WWII forbearers. I'm afraid I must agree with him.



dale







Too Much, Too Late
Baby boomers heap insincere praise on the "greatest generation."

BY DAVID GELERNTER
Friday, June 4, 2004 12:01 a.m.

My political credo is simple and many people share it: I am against phonies. A cultural establishment that (on the whole) doesn't give a damn about World War II or its veterans thinks it can undo a half-century of indifference verging on contempt by repeating a silly phrase ("the greatest generation") like a magic spell while deploying fulsome praise like carpet bombing.

The campaign is especially intense among members of the 1960s generation who once chose to treat all present and former soldiers like dirt and are willing at long last to risk some friendly words about World War II veterans, now that most are safely underground and guaranteed not to talk back, enjoy their celebrity or start acting like they own the joint. A quick glance at the famous Hemingway B.S. detector shows the needle pegged at Maximum, where it's been all week, from Memorial Day through the D-Day anniversary run-up.

When I was in junior high school long ago, a touring arts program visited schools in New York state. One performance consisted of a celebrated actress reciting Emily Dickinson's poetry onstage for 90 minutes or so. I defy any audience to listen attentively to 90 minutes of Dickinson without showing the strain, and my school definitely wasn't having any.

A few minutes into the show, the auditorium was alive with student chatter, so loud a buzz you could barely hear the performance. Being a poetry-lover, I devoted myself to setting an example of rapt attention for, maybe, five minutes, at which point I threw in the towel and joined the mass murmur.

The actress manfully completed her performance. When it was over we gave her a stupendous ovation. We were glad it was finished and (more important) knew perfectly well that we had behaved like pigs and intended to make up for it by clapping and roaring and shouting. But the performer wasn't having any. She gave us a cold curtsy and left the stage and would not return for a second bow.

I have always admired her for that: a more memorable declaration than anything Dickinson ever wrote. And today's endless ovation for World War II vets doesn't change the fact that this nation has behaved boorishly, with colossal disrespect. If we cared about that war, the men who won it and the ideas it suggests, we would teach our children (at least) four topics:

• The major battles of the war. When I was a child in the 1960s, names like Corregidor and Iwo Jima were still sacred, and pronounced everywhere with respect. Writing in the 1960s about the battle of Midway, Samuel Eliot Morison stepped out of character to plead with his readers: "Threescore young aviators . . . met flaming death that day in reversing the verdict of battle. Think of them, reader, every Fourth of June. They and their comrades who survived changed the whole course of the Pacific War." Today the Battle of Midway has become niche-market nostalgia material, and most children (and many adults) have never heard of it. Thus we honor "the greatest generation." (And if I hear that phrase one more time I will surely puke.)

• The bestiality of the Japanese. The Japanese army saw captive soldiers as cowards, lower than lice. If we forget this we dishonor the thousands who were tortured and murdered, and put ourselves in danger of believing the soul-corroding lie that all cultures are equally bad or good. Some Americans nowadays seem to think America's behavior during the war was worse than Japan's--we did intern many loyal Americans of Japanese descent. That was unforgivable--and unspeakably trivial compared to Japan's unique achievement, mass murder one atrocity at a time.

In "The Other Nuremberg," Arnold Brackman cites (for instance) "the case of Lucas Doctolero, crucified, nails driven through hands, feet and skull"; "the case of a blind woman who was dragged from her home November 17, 1943, stripped naked, and hanged"; "five Filipinos thrown into a latrine and buried alive." In the Japanese-occupied Philippines alone, at least 131,028 civilians and Allied prisoners of war were murdered. The Japanese committed crimes against Allied POWs and Asians that would be hard still, today, for a respectable newspaper even to describe. Mr. Brackman's 1987 book must be read by everyone who cares about World War II and its veterans, or the human race.

• The attitude of American intellectuals. Before Pearl Harbor but long after the character of Hitlerism was clear--after the Nuremberg laws, the Kristallnacht pogrom, the establishment of Dachau and the Gestapo--American intellectuals tended to be dead against the U.S. joining Britain's war on Hitler.

Today's students learn (sometimes) about right-wing isolationists like Charles Lindbergh and the America Firsters. They are less likely to read documents like this, which appeared in Partisan Review (the U.S. intelligentsia's No. 1 favorite mag) in fall 1939, signed by John Dewey, William Carlos Williams, Meyer Schapiro and many more of the era's leading lights. "The last war showed only too clearly that we can have no faith in imperialist crusades to bring freedom to any people. Our entry into the war, under the slogan of 'Stop Hitler!' would actually result in the immediate introduction of totalitarianism over here. . . . The American masses can best help [the German people] by fighting at home to keep their own liberties." The intelligentsia acted on its convictions. "By one means or another," Diana Trilling later wrote of this period, "most of the intellectuals of our acquaintance evaded the draft."

Why rake up these Profiles in Disgrace? Because in the Iraq War era they have a painfully familiar ring.

• The veterans' neglected voice. World War II produced an extraordinary literature of first-person soldier narratives--most of them out of print or unknown. Books like George MacDonald Fraser's "Quartered Safe Out Here," Philip Ardery's "Bomber Pilot," James Fahey's "Pacific War Diary." If we were serious about commemorating the war, we would do something serious. The Library of America includes two volumes on "Reporting World War II," but where are the soldiers' memoirs versus the reporters'? If we were serious, we would have every grade school in the nation introduce itself to local veterans and invite them over. We'd use software to record these informal talks and weave them into a National Second World War Narrative in cyberspace. That would be a monument worth having.

Speaking of which: I am privileged to know a gentleman who enlisted in the Army as an aviation cadet in 1942, served in combat as a navigator in a B-24, was shot down and interned in Switzerland, escaped, and flew in the air transport command for the rest of the war. He became a scientist and had a long, distinguished career. Among his friends he is a celebrated raconteur, and his prose is strong and charming. He wrote up his World War II experiences, and no one--no magazine, no book publisher--will take them on. My suggestions have all bombed out.

If you're interested, give me a call. But I'm not holding my breath. The country is too busy toasting the "greatest generation" to pay attention to its actual members.

Mr. Gelernter is a contributing editor of The Weekly Standard and professor of computer science at Yale.



Copyright © 2004 Dow Jones & Company, Inc. All Rights Reserved.


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RIVALRY AT NORMANDY

June 04, 2004, 8:51 a.m.
Rivalry at Normandy
U.S. Marines barred from the June 6, 1944 landings.

By W. Thomas Smith Jr.

Sixty-years-ago, along a 60-mile stretch of France's Normandy coastline, a combined force of American, British, and Canadian soldiers began streaming ashore as German artillery, mortar, machine-gun, and rifle fire ripped into their ranks. The mission of the Allied force was to kick down the door of Nazi Germany's Fortress Europe, and then launch a drive toward the heart of Adolf Hitler's Third Reich.

Overseen by American Gen. Dwight D. "Ike" Eisenhower, the operation was — and remains to this day — the largest amphibious assault in history.

Since then, the question has often been raised as to why the U.S. Marine Corps did not play a leading role in the landings. After all, the Corps's raison d'être was amphibious warfare. Marines had been perfecting the art of the amphibious assault since the 1920's, and between 1942 and 1944, they had put their skills to practical use at places like Guadalcanal, Makin, Bougainville, and Tarawa, in the Pacific.

In the Atlantic, Marines had trained Army forces for seaborne landings prior to the North African campaign in 1942, and then made landings during the same. Marines trained Army forces for the Sicilian-Italian landings in 1943. Marine Corps amphibious experts were on Ike's staff. And most Normandy-bound Army units were in fact instructed by Marines prior to the 1944 invasion.

So why didn't U.S. Marines storm the French coast with their Army counterparts?

First, the Marine Corps was then — as it has always been — much smaller than the Army. During World War II, the Corps swelled to a force comprising six divisions, whereas the Army expanded to 89 divisions. The Corps' resources were stretched thin, and much of its efforts were focused on the fighting in the Pacific.

Second, a deep-seeded rivalry between the Army and Marines was in full bloom: Its origins stretching back to World War I; the defining period of the modern Marine Corps.

Following the 1918 Battle of Belleau Wood (France), in which Marines played a leading role, newspapers in the U.S. credited much of the success of the American Expeditionary Force to the Marines. This occurred at the expense of deserving Army units even when referring to actions in which Marines did not participate.

In one instance, a number of newspapers covering the fighting at the Marne River bridges at Chateau-Thierry (a few days prior to the Battle of Belleau Wood) published headlines that read "Germans stopped at Chateau-Thierry with help of God and a few Marines." The headlines contributed to the Corps' already legendary reputation, and the Army was justifiably incensed. The Germans in fact had been stopped at Chateau-Thierry by the U.S. Army's 7th machinegun battalion.

Army leaders — including Generals George C. Marshall, Eisenhower, and Omar N. Bradley — were determined not to be upstaged by Marines, again. Thus, when America entered World War II in late 1941, the Marine Corps was deliberately excluded from large-scale participation in the European theater. And when the largest amphibious operation in history was launched, it was for all intents and purposes an Army show.

In the wee hours of June 6, 1944, paratroopers from the American 82nd, 101st, and British 6th Airborne divisions began jumping over France. Hours later, the first assault waves of the initial 175,000-man seaborne force began hitting the Normandy beaches at the Bay of Seine. Five beaches comprised the landing areas: Sword, Juno, and Gold Beaches were struck by Lt. Gen. Miles Christopher Dempsey's Second British Army. Omaha and Utah Beaches were stormed by Gen. Bradley's First U.S. Army.

Between Omaha and Utah, 225 men of the U.S. 2nd Ranger Battalion were tasked with scaling the 100-foot cliffs of Pointe du Hoc. There, five 155-millimeter guns were emplaced in reinforced concrete bunkers. As such the position encompassed "the most dangerous battery in France." It had to be knocked out to protect the landings.

When the Rangers began suffering heavy losses, brief consideration was given to sending-in the Marines from one of the offshore ships' detachments.

Those slated to go were leathernecks from the 84-man Marine Detachment aboard the battleship U.S.S. Texas. On the morning of June 7 (D-plus-one), the Texas's Marines began making last minute preparations: Wiping down weapons, distributing grenades, waterproofing field packs, and sharpening K-Bar fighting knives. Others were on the mess decks eating the traditional pre-landing breakfast of steak and eggs: A fact that concerned the Navy's medical corpsmen who feared they would be treating stomach wounds later in the day. Those anxious to go ashore, watched the ongoing action from the ship's railings.

In his book, Spearheading D-Day, Jonathan Gawne writes, "Most of these Marines had no combat experience and had only been in the Corps for a few months [the same could have been said of many of the soldiers who had just landed]. One of them [the Marines] commented: 'This is going to be the biggest slaughter since Custer got his at the Little Big Horn.'"

At the last minute, word was passed down through the Army chain of command that no Marines would be allowed to go ashore, not even riding shotgun on landing craft ferrying Army troops or supplies. Rumors quickly spread that the Army leadership feared a repeat of the media gaffes in 1918. They did not want to see headlines that read, Marines save Rangers at Normandy. Consequently, the Marines were ordered to "stand down."

Though little-known outside of special-operations circles, Marines did however play a few combat roles in the invasion.

Prior-to, during, and after the landings, Marines assigned to the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) — the predecessor to the Central Intelligence Agency — planned and led sabotage and resistance operations with the French underground against the occupying Germans. On D-Day, Marines helped pave the way for British and American pathfinders and paratroopers who dropped behind enemy lines. Additionally, a handful of Marine Corps observers were attached to Army landing forces.

Offshore, Marines were positioned high in the superstructures of American warships in the English Channel. From their lofty perches, the riflemen fired at and detonated floating mines as the ships moved in close to "bombardment stations" along the French coastline. It was reminiscent of the Old Corps during the age of sail when sharp-shooting Marines climbed the masts and riggings and battled enemy crews from the "fighting tops."

Normandy was indeed big, but the war itself was far bigger. There was enough action in both the Atlantic and Pacific theaters for everyone, and everyone got to play. But that failed to stanch the growing interservice rivalry between the Army and Marines.

The day before the invasion of Normandy, a restless Army Lt. Gen. George S. Patton Jr. addressed his troops (the shorter, less-profane version of that address was made famous by actor George C. Scott, who ironically was a former U.S. Marine).

Publicly, Patton was full of fire and an unsated desire to kill the enemy. Privately, he was disappointed. Neither he nor his 1st U.S. Army Group — a skeleton host formed to deceive the Germans into believing that the Americans would land at Pas de Calais — were going to participate in the landings. But unbeknownst to the general, the coming weeks would see Eisenhower bring Patton off the sidelines, give him command of the U.S. Third Army, and then hurl that force against the reconstituted German defenses beyond the Normandy beachhead. In that capacity, Patton was destined to make headlines of his own.

Outlining his colorful albeit controversial vision of the future, Patton said, "The quicker we clean up this g**damned mess, the quicker we can take a little jaunt against the purple pissing Japs and clean out their nest, too. Before the g**damned Marines get all of the credit."

— A former U.S. Marine infantry leader and paratrooper, W. Thomas Smith Jr. is a freelance journalist whose work has appeared in a variety of national and international publications. His third book, Alpha Bravo Delta Guide to American Airborne Forces, has just been published.

http://www.nationalreview.com/comment/smith200406040851.asp



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OUTNUMBERED BRITISH SOLDIERS IN IRAQ BAYONET CHARGE

Bayonet Brits kill 35 rebels (Brits Go Hand To Hand 5 to 1)
The Sun ^ | 5-19-04

OUTNUMBERED British soldiers killed 35 Iraqi attackers in the Army’s first bayonet charge since the Falklands War 22 years ago. The fearless Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders stormed rebel positions after being ambushed and pinned down.

Despite being outnumbered five to one, they suffered only three minor wounds in the hand-to-hand fighting near the city of Amara.

The battle erupted after Land Rovers carrying 20 Argylls came under attack on a highway.

After radioing for back-up, they fixed bayonets and charged at 100 rebels using tactics learned in drills.

Charge ... tactics from drills

When the fighting ended bodies lay all over the highway — and more were floating in a nearby river. Nine rebels were captured.

An Army spokesman said: “This was an intense engagement.”

The last bayonet charge was by the Scots Guards and the Paras against Argentinian positions.
http://www.thesun.co.uk/article/0,,2-2004223179,00.html

See Also, Post + Responses...

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McCOY's MARINES BACK IN THE THICK OF IT!

Chicago Tribune
May 16, 2004

Marines who liberated Baghdad back in the thick of Iraq fighting

BY EVAN OSNOS

FALLUJAH, Iraq - They were the poster boys - literally - for the swift invasion of Iraq: the U.S. Marines who helped tug down a statue of Saddam Hussein in an instantly iconic image of the fall of Baghdad.

None of them could have predicted where they would end up a year later.

After nine months away from Iraq, the 3rd Battalion of the 4th Marine Regiment returned in February for what its members thought would be a low-key tour of security and reconstruction duty. But within weeks, the troops were urgently reassigned to help quell the uprising in Fallujah, Iraq's most rebellious city, and found themselves in tougher combat than many faced on the road to Baghdad.

"In many ways, this was the fight that we expected last year," said battalion commander Lt. Col. B.P. McCoy. "We were working civil-military operations, handing out candy and kissing babies," when the battalion was ordered to Fallujah, he said.

Their return to combat is a testament to a conflict that still flares with brutal intensity, demanding more troops and heavier armor than expected more than a year after the declared end of major fighting.

The military has already rotated more than 100,000 soldiers into Iraq since January, but the unyielding pace and toll of the conflict has prompted military planners to put off the goal of reducing troop levels by the end of this month.

Two-thirds of the roughly 800 Marines in the 3rd Battalion were in Iraq last year, making them one of the most battle-tested infantry units now in Iraq. The troops played a key role in the invasion, seizing parts of downtown Baghdad on April 9 of last year.

After arriving in Fallujah on April 7, they found themselves in round-the-clock clashes with rebels and responded with a full range of combat power, from mortars to fighter jets.

Since April 5, fighting in this Sunni-dominated city 35 miles west of Baghdad has killed hundreds of local residents and dozens of Marines.

The violence has eased up since Marines and civic leaders reached an agreement to form a local security force to police the city, allowing U.S. troops to pull back.

"It's extremely tough because you try to help these people and in the process of doing that some of our people are getting killed," said Sgt. Cornelius Blyther, 30, a father of three from Springfield, Mass.

Cpl. Tom Conroy occasionally sees himself in pictures on postcards or Web sites that commemorate that heady moment in Baghdad last year. That's Conroy, in a helmet and flak jacket, looking surprised at the foot of the falling iron statue of the ousted dictator. Last month, he was among a company of 180 Marines who weathered an ambush and a 14-hour gunfight in the town of Karmah, near Fallujah. Three Marines were wounded; commanders estimated they killed more than 100 suspected insurgents.

"We knew we were coming back but we didn't know it would be that soon," he said.

The battalion members say they are honored by the confidence shown in them and the opportunity to apply what they know. But they don't hide the confusion and uncertainty that surrounds a conflict that lies somewhere between war and peace.

"It is hard explaining to my family why I came back here again," said Lance Cpl. Zac Garland, 21, a Humvee driver with a starburst left by enemy fire a few weeks ago on the bullet-proof windshield in front of his face. "The way I say it to them is that I am here to fight so that my kids grow up exactly as I did."

Nobody ignores the strains that the time away has placed on families, but commanders say they worked hard while at home to prepare wives and children for the months ahead.

"We told them before we left, and told them that the world is watching them and that the terrorists want to see the families be fed up and all we ask them is to support us, be patient, and to share the courage," McCoy said.

After weeks in Baghdad and the southern town of Hillah, the battalion returned last year to its home base in Twenty-Nine Palms, Calif., at the end of May. Six months later, they left to train in Okinawa, Japan. By the third week of February, they were back in Iraq.

The battalion's troops were assigned to security and support operations in the northwestern town of Haditha, visiting schools, chatting with residents, enjoying a riverside barracks with bunk beds and a cool breeze. But when Fallujah erupted in violence last month, they were summoned to help. Mortarmen and others who had been given peacetime jobs regrouped into combat teams.

Now the battalion, after five weeks in Fallujah, has been ordered to return to Haditha. There the Marines will wait for the next trip into downtown Fallujah or the next weapons-hunting expedition in the desert.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
ADDENDUM...
Ref
http://freerepublic.com/focus/f-news/1018860/posts
http://freerepublic.com/focus/f-news/1018860/posts

and

McCoy's Marines, Chapters 1-6...
http://sfgate.com/koopman/

-GyG



~~~~~~~~~~
This is...
Gunny G's...
GLOBE and ANCHOR
Marines Sites & Forums
By R.W. "Dick" Gaines
GySgt USMC (Ret.)
1952-72
Semper Fidelis
~~~~~~~~~~
Note:
GyG's G&A Sites & Forums is an informational site and not for profit. Copyrighted material provided soley for education, study, research, and discussion, etc. Full credit to source shown when available.
~~~~~

Carlson Raider Remembers Makin....

Local man remembers landing on Gilbert Islands during WWII

By FRANK WALLIS
Bulletin Staff Writer

Bulletin Photo by Kevin Pieper

Duane Paulson



EDITOR'S NOTE: With this story, The Baxter Bulletin begins a series of stories featuring veterans of the Twin Lakes Area. The intent of the series is to honor the men and women who served and to expand The Bulletin's capacity as a source of information on WWII and the Korean War for future generations. The series will cover all aspects of service at home and abroad -- from mail call to the mess hall to the battle front. To suggest veteran candidates for this series, e-mail Frank Wallis at frankw@baxterbulletin.com or call (870) 508-8056.

Tour of Duty

On Aug. 17, 1942, Duane Paulson, owner of Cotter Hobbies, landed with a battalion of U.S. Marines on an atoll in the Gilbert Islands in the U.S. military's first and only ground assault launched from submarines.

By day's end, the Marines had killed 83 Japanese and lost 14 to enemy fire. The victory made way for the later destruction of a Japanese airfield that had been part of a vital supply line in Japan's Pacific war plan.

By November, Col. Evan Carlson's 2nd Raider Marine Battalion, including Paulson, would become U.S. Marine legends -- America's first guerilla fighting force for 30 days behind enemy lines on Guadalcanal.

"Near as I could tell, it was the quickest way I could (confront an enemy soldier)," said Paulson of his decision to enlist. "We were at war, and it was the thing for a young man to do."

It was not unprecedented in the Paulson family. His father, Martin Paulson, fought with the Army in France during WWI.

"He got shot up," said Paulson. "I saw him cry for the first time when I left. I wondered what the hell the crying was about. Then, when my son left for Vietnam, I was crying."

During the year before Paulson's enlistment in the Marines, he accepted a football scholarship to attend George Washington University in Washington D.C. "I made a mess of that," he said. Besides being too small to play at the position of defensive tackle, he was distressed academically by "lots of women, cheap whiskey and no legal drinking age."

On the beach

Paulson, now 81, said the Makin assault made encouraging headlines in the United States, but the weather made the landing in rubber boats and retreat from the atoll a challenge that would push the Marines to their physical limits.

"We trained in 20-to-25 foot surf and thought if we can land in that we can land in anything," said Paulson. "We landed in 7- to 8-foot surf. One wave right behind the other didn't give us time to recover in between."

Eight men in each boat paddled the entire way to shore. Because of the uncooperative surf, the battalion was in disarray when it landed, but the expert guns of the Raider Marines would still shoot straight that day.

On shore, an errant discharge from a Browning Automatic Rifle (BAR) was believed to have given away the Marines' position. Paulson said the Japanese had spied the Marines before they landed on the beach. After the shot rang out he ran as hard as he could straight into the jungle until he hit a single strand of barbed wire stretched about mid-chest high between trees.

He broke the wire, but it slammed him onto his back in the process and separated him from his rifle. As he was recovering from the fall, Paulson said, he saw a single Japanese patrol retreating from the area.

"I could have shot him. I should have shot him," said Paulson. It wasn't long before a fire fight was under way.

Twice the Japanese charged straight into the Marines and were mowed down under fire. Paulson said Col. Carlson didn't know it at the time, but most of the Japanese on the atoll had been killed by the end of the second charge. Paulson said there was a president's son on the ground during all the shooting, too -- Maj. James Roosevelt, who would later lead the 4th Battalion of Raider Marines.

Leaving the island against the surf proved impossible for some in the battalion. Col. Carlson would remain behind with a handful of men who ultimately carried boats to a bay across the island to rendezvous with the submarines out of the wind and surf.

'The Long Patrol'

After five days of "R and R" following Makin, Paulson went with the B Company in the 2nd Battalion on "The Long Patrol," believed to be the longest WWII patrol of its kind. Paulson said the Japanese believed they "had an exclusive" on guerilla warfare. The Long Patrol ended with 488 enemy killed, and 32 killed or wounded for the 2nd Raiders.

"They didn't think the soft, decadent Americans could do it," said Paulson. "We surprised them every day."

Paulson said he entered the jungle weighing about 208 pounds and was one of about 400 Marines to finish the patrol. Malnourished at the end of the patrol, Paulson said he weighed 120 pounds and was hospitalized a while in New Zealand. There, he discovered a little know fact about New Zealand.

"New Zealand sent the highest percentage of men per capita into the war than any other allied country," said Paulson. In other words, there were a lot of available women in New Zealand, he said.

Paulson said the delivery of food to Raider Marines during The Long Patrol was a problem for the military. Airplanes would drop rations -- including rice, slab bacon, raisins and sugar -- to the Marines on the ground. Cutting holes in the jungle canopy for the drops was work enough to burn up all the calories the rations provided. Paulson said he learned to fry rice and bananas in the bacon fat.

"I don't recall a day without food, but it was hard to get the calories we needed to do what we were doing," said Paulson.

Col. Carlson learned guerilla warfare from the Japanese as a U.S. emissary assisting the Chinese at war with Japan before WWII.

"He brought a lot of new ideas," said Paulson.

Carlson introduced the fire group patrol, a group of three marines armed with BARs, tommy guns and M1 rifles. The relatively complex movement of a battalion divided into companies and fire groups made for slow but efficient movement through the jungle.

Paulson said his bullets found their mark for sure twice during the patrol.

"It didn't feel very good," said Paulson of the experience of killing the enemy. "I was taught strictly against it in Sunday school.

"I never knew of anyone who liked to kill, but there were some who handled it well," Paulson said.

After the war

Carlson has been a businessman since completing his 12-year military career. His expert marksmanship once earned him a job guarding a nuclear facility. He was four times reactivated by the Marines, first as a rifle coach during the Korean War and three times during peacetime to compete with U.S. Marine Corps shooting teams in international marksmanship contests. He once shot with a team to one point shy of a world championship.

He was motivated politically once to work for the 1964 GOP presidential campaign of Sen. Barry Goldwater.

"I haven't found anyone since who was worthy of that kind of effort," said Paulson.
http://www.baxterbulletin.com/news/stories/20040514/localnews/417312.html

frankw@baxterbulletin.com

Email this story

Originally published Friday, May 14, 2004
~~~~~~~~~~
This is...
Gunny G's...
GLOBE and ANCHOR
Marines Sites & Forums
By R.W. "Dick" Gaines
GySgt USMC (Ret.)
1952-72
Semper Fidelis
~~~~~~~~~~
Note:
GyG's G&A Sites & Forums is an informational site and not for profit. Copyrighted material provided soley for education, study, research, and discussion, etc. Full credit to source shown when available.
~~~~~

A Marine Comes Home--LtCol Strobl

A Marine Comes Home--LtCol Strobl



23 April

A Marine Comes Home--LtCol Strobl



Chance Phelps was wearing his Saint Christopher medal when he was killed on Good Friday. Eight days later, I handed the medallion to his mother. I did not know Chance before he died. Today, I miss him.



Over a year ago, I volunteered to escort the remains of Marines killed in Iraq should the need arise. The military provides a uniformed escort for all casualties to ensure they are delivered safely to the next of kin and are treated with dignity and respect along the way.



Thankfully, I hadn’t been called on to be an escort since Operation Iraqi Freedom began. The first few weeks of April, however, had been a tough month for the Marines. On the Monday after Easter I was reviewing Department of Defense press releases when I saw that a Private First Class Chance Phelps was killed in action outside of Baghdad. The press release listed his hometown as the same town I am from. I notified our Battalion adjutant and told him that, should the duty to escort PFC Phelps fall to our Battalion, I would take him.



I didn’t hear back the rest of Monday and all day Tuesday until 1800. The Battalion duty NCO called my cell phone and said I needed to be ready to leave for Dover Air Force Base at 1900 in order to escort the remains of PFC Phelps.



Before leaving for Dover I called the major who had the task of informing Phelps’ parents of his death. The major said the funeral was going to be in Dubois, Wyoming. (It turned out that PFC Phelps only lived in my hometown for his senior year of high school.) I had never been to Wyoming and had never heard of Dubois.



With two other escorts from Quantico, got to Dover AFB at 2330 on Tuesday night. First thing on Wednesday we reported to the mortuary at the base. In the escort lounge there were about half a dozen Army soldiers and about an equal number of Marines waiting to meet up with their remains for departure. PFC Phelps was not ready, however, and I was told to come back on Thursday. Now, at Dover with nothing to do and a solemn mission ahead, I began to get depressed.



I was wondering about Chance Phelps. I didn’t know anything about him; not even what he looked like. I wondered about his family and what it would be like to meet them. I did pushups in my room until I couldn’t do any more.



On Thursday morning I reported back to the mortuary. This time there was a new group of Army escorts and a couple of the Marines who had been there Wednesday. There was also an Air Force captain there to escort his brother home to San Diego.



We received a brief covering our duties, the proper handling of the remains, the procedures for draping a flag over a casket, and of course, the paperwork attendant to our task. We were shown pictures of the shipping container and told that each one contained, in addition to the casket, a flag. I was given an extra flag since Phelps parents were divorced. This way they would each get one. I didn’t like the idea of stuffing the flag into my luggage but I couldn’t see carrying a large flag, folded for presentation to the next of kin, through an airport while in my Alpha uniform. It barely fit into my suitcase.



It turned out that I was the last escort to leave on Thursday. This meant that I repeatedly got to participate in the small ceremonies that mark all departures from the Dover AFB mortuary.



Most of the remains are taken from Dover AFB by hearse to the airport in Philadelphia for air transport to their final destination. When the remains of a service member are loaded onto a hearse and ready to leave the Dover mortuary, there is an announcement made over the building’s intercom system. With the announcement, all service members working at the mortuary, regardless of service branch, stop work and form up along the driveway to render a slow ceremonial salute as the hearse departs. Escorts also participated in each formation until it was their time to leave.



On this day there were some civilian workers doing construction on the mortuary grounds. As each hearse passed, they would stoop working and place their hard hats over their hearts. This was my first sign that my mission with PFC Phelps was larger than the Marine Corps and that his family and friends were not grieving alone.



Eventually I was the last escort remaining in the lounge. The Marine Master Gunnery Sergeant in charge of the Marine liaison there came to see me. He had Chance Phelps’s personal effects. He removed each item; a large watch, a wooden cross with a lanyard, two loose dog tags, two dog tags on a chain, and a Saint Christopher medal on a silver chain. Although we had been briefed that we might be carrying some personal effects of the deceased, this set me aback. Holding his personal effects, I was starting to get to know Chance Phelps.



Finally we were ready. I grabbed my bags and went outside. I was somewhat startled when I saw the shipping container, loaded three-quarters of the way in to the back of a black Chevy Suburban that had been modified to carry such cargo. This was the first time I saw my cargo and I was surprised at how large the shipping container was. The Master Gunnery Sergeant and I verified that the name on the container was Phelps then they pushed him the rest of the way in and we left. Now it was PFC Chance Phelps’s turn to receive the military and construction workers honors. He was finally moving towards home.



As I chatted with the driver on the hour-long trip to Philadelphia, it became clear that he considered it an honor to be able to contribute in getting Chance home. He offered his sympathy to the family. I was glad to finally be moving yet apprehensive about what things would be like at the airport. I didn’t want this package to be treated like ordinary cargo yet I knew that the simple logistics of moving around a box this large would have to overrule my preferences.



When we got to the Northwest Airlines cargo terminal at the Philadelphia airport, the cargo handler and hearse driver pulled the shipping container onto a loading bay while I stood to the side and executed a slow salute. Once Chance was safely in the cargo area, and I was satisfied that he would be treated with due care and respect, the hearse driver drove me over to the passenger terminal and dropped me off.



As I walked up to the ticketing counter in my uniform, a Northwest employee started to ask me if I knew how to use the automated boarding pass dispenser. Before she could finish another ticketing agent interrupted her. He told me to go straight to the counter then explained to the woman that I was a military escort. She seemed embarrassed. The woman behind the counter already had tears in her eyes as I was pulling out my government travel voucher. She struggled to find words but managed to express her sympathy for the family and thank me for my service. She upgraded my ticket to first class.



After clearing security, I was met by another Northwest Airline employee at the gate. She told me a representative from cargo would be up to take me down to the tarmac to observe the movement and loading of PFC Phelps. I hadn’t really told any of them what my mission was but they all knew.



When the man from the cargo crew met me, he, too, struggled for words. On the tarmac, he told me stories of his childhood as a military brat and repeatedly told me that he was sorry for my loss. I was starting to understand that, even here in Philadelphia, far away from Chance’s hometown, people were mourning with his family.



On the tarmac, the cargo crew was silent expect for occasional instructions to each other. I stood to the side and saluted as the conveyor moved Chance to the aircraft. I was relieved when he was finally settled into place. The rest of the bags were loaded and I watched them shut the cargo bay door before heading back up to board the aircraft.



One of the pilots had taken my carry-on bag himself and had it stored next to the cockpit door so he could watch it while I was on the tarmac. As I boarded the plane, I could tell immediately that the flight attendants had already been informed of my mission. They seemed a little choked up as they led me to my seat.



About 45 minutes into our flight I still hadn’t spoken to anyone expect to tell the first class flight attendant that I would prefer water. I was surprised when the flight attendant from the back of the plane suddenly appeared and leaned down to grab my hands. She said, I want you to have this as she pushed a small gold crucifix, with a relief of Jesus, into my hand. It was her lapel pin and it looked somewhat worn. I suspected it had been hers for quite some time. That was the only thing she said to me the entire flight.



When we landed in Minneapolis, I was the first one off the plane. The pilot himself escorted me straight down the side stairs of the exit tunnel to the tarmac. The cargo crew there already knew what was on this plane. They were unloading some of the luggage when an Army sergeant, a fellow escort who had left Dover earlier that day, appeared next to me. His cargo was going to be loaded onto my plane for its continuing leg. We stood side-by-side in the dark and executed a slow salute as Chance was removed from the plane. The cargo crew at Minneapolis kept Phelps’s shipping case separate from all the other luggage as they waited to take us to the cargo area. I waited with the soldier and we saluted together as his fallen comrade was loaded onto the plane.



My trip with Chance was going to be somewhat unusual in that we were going to have an overnight stopover. We had a late start out of Dover and there was just too much traveling ahead of us to continue on that day. (We still had a flight from Minneapolis to Billings, Montana, then a five-hour drive to the funeral home. That was to be followed by a 90-minute drive to Chance’s hometown.)



I was concerned about leaving him overnight in the Minneapolis cargo area. My ten-minute ride from the tarmac to the cargo holding area eased my apprehension. Just as in Philadelphia, the cargo guys in Minneapolis were extremely respectful and seemed honored to do their part. While talking with them, I learned that the cargo supervisor for Northwest Airlines at the Minneapolis airport is a Lieutenant Colonel in the Marine Corps Reserves. They called him for me and let me talk to him.



Once I was satisfied that all would be okay for the night, I asked one of the cargo crew if he would take me back to the terminal so that I could catch my hotel’s shuttle. Instead, he drove me straight to the hotel himself. At the hotel, the Lieutenant Colonel called me and said he would personally pick me up in the morning and bring me back to the cargo area.



Before leaving the airport, I had told the cargo crew that I wanted to come back to the cargo area in the morning rather than go straight to the passenger terminal. I felt bad for leaving Chance overnight and wanted to see the shipping container where I had left it for the night. It was fine.



The Lieutenant Colonel made a few phone calls then drove me around to the passenger terminal. I was met again by a man from the cargo crew and escorted down to the tarmac. The pilot of the plane joined me as I waited for them to bring Chance from the cargo area. The pilot and I talked of his service in the Air Force and how he missed it.



I saluted as Chance was moved up the conveyor and onto the plane. It was to be a while before the luggage was to be loaded so the pilot took me up to the board the plane where I could watch the tarmac from a window. With no other passengers yet on board, I talked with the flight attendants and one of the cargo guys. He had been in the Navy and one of the attendants had been in the Air Force. Everywhere I went, people were continuing to tell me their relationship to the military. After all the baggage was aboard, I went back down to the tarmac, inspected the cargo bay, and watched them secure the door.



When we arrived at Billings, I was again the first off the plane. This time Chance’s shipping container was the first item out of the cargo hold. The funeral director had driven five hours up from Riverton, Wyoming to meet us. He shook my hand as if I had personally lost a brother.



We moved Chance to a secluded cargo area. Now it was time for me to remove the shipping container and drape the flag over the casket. I had predicted that this would choke me up but I found I was more concerned with proper flag etiquette than the solemnity of the moment. Once the flag was in place, I stood by and saluted as Chance was loaded onto the van from the funeral home. I was thankful that we were in a small airport and the event seemed to go mostly unnoticed. I picked up my rental car and followed Chance for five hours until we reached Riverton. During the long trip I imagined how my meeting with Chance’s parents would go. I was very nervous about that.



When we finally arrived at the funeral home, I had my first face-to-face meeting with the Casualty Assistance Call Officer. It had been his duty to inform the family of Chance’s death. He was on the Inspector/Instructor staff of an infantry company in Salt Lake City, Utah and I knew he had had a difficult week.



Inside I gave the funeral director some of the paperwork from Dover and discussed the plan for the next day. The service was to be at 1400 in the high school gymnasium up in Dubois, population about 900, some 90 miles away. Eventually, we had covered everything. The CACO had some items that the family wanted to be inserted into the casket and I felt I needed to inspect Chance’s uniform to ensure everything was proper. Although it was going to be a closed casket funeral, I still wanted to ensure his uniform was squared away.



Earlier in the day I wasn’t sure how I’d handle this moment. Suddenly, the casket was open and I got my first look at Chance Phelps. His uniform was immaculate a tribute to the professionalism of the Marines at Dover. I noticed that he wore six ribbons over his marksmanship badge; the senior one was his Purple Heart. I had been in the Corps for over 17 years, including a combat tour, and was wearing eight ribbons. This Private First Class, with less than a year in the Corps, had already earned six.



The next morning, I wore my dress blues and followed the hearse for the trip up to Dubois. This was the most difficult leg of our trip for me. I was bracing for the moment when I would meet his parents and hoping I would find the right words as I presented them with Chance’s personal effects.



We got to the high school gym about four hours before the service was to begin. The gym floor was covered with folding chairs neatly lined in rows. There were a few townspeople making final preparations when I stood next to the hearse and saluted as Chance was moved out of the hearse. The sight of a flag-draped coffin was overwhelming to some of the ladies.



We moved Chance into the gym to the place of honor. A Marine sergeant, the command representative from Chance’s battalion, met me at the gym. His eyes were watery as he relieved me of watching Chance so that I could go eat lunch and find my hotel.



At the restaurant, the table had a flier announcing Chance’s service. Dubois High School gym; two o’clock. It also said that the family would be accepting donations so that they could buy flak vests to send to troops in Iraq.



I drove back to the gym at a quarter after one. I could’ve walked, you could walk to just about anywhere in Dubois in ten minutes. I had planned to find a quiet room where I could take his things out of their pouch and untangle the chain of the Saint Christopher medal from the dog tag chains and arrange everything before his parents came in. I had twice before removed the items from the pouch to ensure they were all there even though there was no chance anything could’ve fallen out. Each time, the two chains had been quite tangled. I didn’t want to be fumbling around trying to untangle them in front of his parents. Our meeting, however, didn’t go as expected.



I practically bumped into Chance’s step-mom accidentally and our introductions began in the noisy hallway outside the gym. In short order I had met Chance’s step-mom and father followed by his step-dad and, at last, his mom. I didn’t know how to express to these people my sympathy for their loss and my gratitude for their sacrifice. Now, however, they were repeatedly thanking me for bringing their son home and for my service. I was humbled beyond words.



I told them that I had some of Chance’s things and asked if we could try to find a quiet place. The five of us ended up in what appeared to be a computer lab not what I had envisioned for this occasion.



After we had arranged five chairs around a small table, I told them about our trip. I told them how, at every step, Chance was treated with respect, dignity, and honor. I told them about the staff at Dover and all the folks at Northwest Airlines. I tried to convey how the entire Nation, from Dover to Philadelphia, to Minneapolis, to Billings, and Riverton expressed grief and sympathy over their loss.



Finally, it was time to open the pouch. The first item I happened to pull out was Chance’s large watch. It was still set to Baghdad time. Next were the lanyard and the wooden cross. Then the dog tags and the Saint Christopher medal. This time the chains were not tangled. Once all of his items were laid out on the table, I told his mom that I had one other item to give them. I retrieved the flight attendant’s crucifix from my pocket and told its story. I set that on the table and excused myself. When I next saw Chance’s mom, she was wearing the crucifix on her lapel.



By 1400 most of the seats on the gym floor were filled and people were finding seats in the fixed bleachers high above the gym floor. There were a surprising number of people in military uniform. Many Marines had come up from Salt Lake City. Men from various VFW posts and the Marine Corps League occupied multiple rows of folding chairs. We all stood as Chance’s family took their seats in the front.



It turned out the Chance’s sister, a Petty Officer in the Navy, worked for a Rear Admiral, the Chief of Naval Intelligence at the Pentagon. The Admiral had brought many of the sailors on his staff with him to Dubois pay respects to Chance and support his sister. After a few songs and some words from a Navy Chaplain, the Admiral took the microphone and told us how Chance had died.



Chance was an artillery cannoneer and his unit was acting as provisional military police outside of Baghdad. Chance had volunteered to man a .50 caliber machine gun in the turret of the leading vehicle in a convoy. The convoy came under intense fire but Chance stayed true to his post and returned fire with the big gun, covering the rest of the convoy, until he was fatally wounded.



Then the commander of the local VFW post read some of the letters Chance had written home. In letters to his mom he talked of the mosquitoes and the heat. In letters to his stepfather he told of the dangers of convoy operations and of receiving fire.



The service was a fitting tribute to this hero. When it was over, we stood as the casket was wheeled out with the family following. The casket was placed onto a horse-drawn carriage for the mile-long trip from the gym, down the main street, then up the steep hill to the cemetery. I stood alone and saluted as the carriage departed the high school. I found my car and joined Chance’s convoy.



The town seemingly went from the gym to the street. All along the route, the people had lined the street and were waving small American flags. The flags that were otherwise posted were all at half-staff. For the last quarter mile up the hill, local boy scouts, spaced about 20 feet apart, all in uniform, held large flags. At the foot of the hill, I could look up and back and see the enormity of our procession. I wondered how many people would be at this funeral if it were in, say, Detroit or Los Angeles, probably not as many as were here in little Dubois, Wyoming.



The carriage stopped about 15 yards from the grave and the military pall bearers and the family waited until the men of the VFW and Marine Corps league were formed up and schools busses had arrived carrying many of the people from the procession route. Once the entire crowd was in place, the pallbearers came to attention and began to remove the casket from the caisson. As I had done all week, I came to attention and executed a slow ceremonial salute as Chance was being transferred from one mode of transport to another.



From Dover to Philadelphia; Philadelphia to Minneapolis; Minneapolis to Billings; Billings to Riverton; and Riverton to Dubois we had been together. Now, as I watched them carry him the final 15 yards, I was choking up. I felt that, as long as he was still moving, he was somehow still alive. Then they put him down above his grave. He had stopped moving.



Although my mission had been officially complete once I turned him over to the funeral director at the Billings airport, it was his placement at his grave that really concluded it in my mind. Now, he was home to stay and I suddenly felt at once sad, relieved, and useless.



The chaplain said some words that I couldn’t hear and two Marines removed the flag from the casket and slowly folded it for presentation to his mother. When the ceremony was over, Chance’s father placed a ribbon from his service in Vietnam on Chance’s casket. His mother approached the casket and took something from her blouse and put it on the casket. I later saw that it was the flight attendant’s crucifix. Eventually friends of Chance’s moved closer to the grave. A young man put a can of Coppenhagen on the casket and many others left flowers.



Finally, we all went back to the gym for a reception. There was enough food to feed the entire population for a few days. In one corner of the gym there was a table set up with lots of pictures of Chance and some of his sports awards. People were continually approaching me and the other Marines to thank us for our service. Almost all of them had some story to tell about their connection to the military. About an hour into the reception, I had the impression that every man in Wyoming had, at one time or another, been in the service.



It seemed like every time I saw Chance’s mom she was hugging a different well wisher. As time passed, I began to hear people laughing. We were starting to heal.



After a few hours at the gym, I went back to the hotel to change out of my dress blues. The local VFW post had invited everyone over to celebrate Chance’s life. The Post was on the other end of town from my hotel and the drive took less than two minutes. The crowd was somewhat smaller than what had been at the gym but the Post was packed.



Marines were playing pool at the two tables near the entrance and most of the VFW members were at the bar or around the tables in the bar area. The largest room in the Post was a banquet/dinning/dancing area and it was now called The Chance Phelps Room. Above the entry were two items: a large portrait of Chance in his dress blues and the Eagle, Globe, & Anchor. In one corner of the room there was another memorial to Chance. There were candles burning around another picture of him in his blues. On the table surrounding his photo were his Purple Heart citation and his Purple Heart medal. There was also a framed copy of an excerpt from the Congressional Record. This was an elegant tribute to Chance Phelps delivered on the floor of the United States House of Representatives by Congressman Scott McInnis of Colorado. Above it all was a television that was playing a photomontage of Chance’s life from small boy to proud Marine.



I did not buy a drink that night. As had been happening all day, indeed all week, people were thanking me for my service and for bringing Chance home. Now, in addition to words and handshakes, they were thanking me with beer. I fell in with the men who had handled the horses and horse-drawn carriage. I learned that they had worked through the night to groom and prepare the horses for Chance’s last ride. They were all very grateful that they were able to contribute.



After a while we all gathered in the Chance Phelps room for the formal dedication. The Post commander told us of how Chance had been so looking forward to becoming a Life Member of the VFW. Now, in the Chance Phelps Room of the Dubois, Wyoming post, he would be an eternal member. We all raised our beers and the Chance Phelps room was christened.



Later, as I was walking toward the pool tables, a Staff Sergeant form the Reserve unit in Salt Lake grabbed me and said, Sir, you gotta hear this. There were two other Marines with him and he told the younger one, a Lance Corporal, to tell me his story. The Staff Sergeant said the Lance Corporal was normally too shy and modest to tell it but now he’d had enough beer to overcome his usual tendencies.



As the Lance Corporal started to talk, an older man joined our circle. He wore a baseball cap that indicated he had been with the 1st Marine Division in Korea. Earlier in the evening he had told me about one of his former commanding officers; a Colonel Puller.



So, there I was, standing in a circle with three Marines recently returned from fighting with the 1st Marine Division in Iraq and one not so recently returned from fighting with the 1st Marine Division in Korea. I, who had fought with the 1st Marine Division in Kuwait, was about to gain a new insight into our Corps.



The young Lance Corporal began to tell us his story. At that moment, in this circle of current and former Marines, the differences in our ages and ranks dissipated, we were all simply Marines.



His squad had been on a patrol through a city street. They had taken small arms fire and had literally dodged an RPG round that sailed between two Marines. At one point they received fire from behind a wall and had neutralized the sniper with a SMAW round. The back blast of the SMAW, however, kicked up a substantial rock that hammered the Lance Corporal in the thigh; only missing his groin because he had reflexively turned his body sideways at the shot.



Their squad had suffered some wounded and was receiving more sniper fire when suddenly he was hit in the head by an AK-47 round. I was stunned as he told us how he felt like a baseball bat had been slammed into his head. He had spun around and fell unconscious. When he came to, he had a severe scalp wound but his Kevlar helmet had saved his life. He continued with his unit for a few days before realizing he was suffering the effects of a severe concussion.



As I stood there in the circle with the old man and the other Marines, the Staff Sergeant finished the story. He told of how this Lance Corporal had begged and pleaded with the Battalion surgeon to let him stay with his unit. In the end, the doctor said there was just no way, he had suffered a severe and traumatic head wound and would have to be medic-evaced.



The Marine Corps is a special fraternity. There are moments when we are reminded of this. Interestingly, those moments don’t always happen at awards ceremonies or in dress blues at Birthday Balls. I have found, rather, that they occur at unexpected times and places: next to a loaded moving van at Camp Lejeune’s base housing, in a dirty CP tent in northern Saudi Arabia, and in a smoky VFW post in western Wyoming.



After the story was done, the Lance Corporal stepped over to the old man, put his arm over the man’s shoulder and told him that he, the Korean War vet, was his hero. The two of them stood there with their arms over each other’s shoulders and we were all silent for a moment. When they let go, I told the Lance Corporal that there were recruits down on the yellow footprints tonight that would soon be learning his story.



I was finished drinking beer and telling stories. I found Chance’s father and shook his hand one more time. Chance’s mom had already left and I deeply regretted not being able to tell her goodbye.



I left Dubois in the morning before sunrise for my long drive back to Billings. It had been my honor to take Chance Phelps to his final post. Now he was on the high ground overlooking his town. I miss him.



Regards,



LtCol Strobl
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GLOBE and ANCHOR
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By R.W. "Dick" Gaines
GySgt USMC (Ret.)
1952-72
Semper Fidelis
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