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Sgt. Grit,
I served in our beloved Corps from 1987 - 1991. I have been a
letter carrier for the Postal Service for the past 16 years. I
have a walking route that crosses many busy streets and
businesses. I have a Senior Citizen Center on my route. Every
day I see a van dropping off senior citizens.
One day, after dropping the mail off, I noticed a man wearing an
Iwo Jima survivor hat. I nodded as I walked by but I didn't
speak to him as he was involved in a conversation with a few
other gentlemen.
About a week later, I saw the van again. When the man got off
the van, he looked at me and nodded as we passed. I stopped,
turned around and shouted "Hey Marine!" He could have been an 18
year old boot all over again. He stopped, turned, stood at
attention and responded, "I haven't been called Marine in 60
years". He saluted smartly and I returned the salute.
The next time I saw him, he had his daughter with him. She told
me that when he came home the week before, he was walking taller
and seemed in much better spirits. He told her what had
happened. She said that she felt obligated to come and meet me.
I told her that all Marines are brothers no matter when they
served. This Marine survived one of the bloodiest battles of
WWII and everyone is in his debt.
I still see him weekly and always say "hello" and make sure he
is not in need of anything.
Former, X, whatever... A Marine is a Marine - plain and simple!
Sincerely,
Jeff Zgorzelski
Regular People
Sgt Grit.-
I have a story that I am certain every Marine can understand how
exactly it was we felt. I am currently deployed with the Joint
Special Operations Task Force-Philippines with a group of 23
Marines from 12th Marines Regiment in Okinawa, Japan. We are a
small unit and don't see any action, just supporting the command
and the Armed Forces of the Philippines and the Philippine
National Police. Thanksgiving day rolling around for us means a
good meal at the chow hall (one that's not either microwaved or
fried) and an extra 6 hours spent out on the road escorting some
"Distinguished Visitors" from the US Congress. (I know most
people probably have never heard of OEF-Philippines. But its
real, Google it.)
As one of the few NCOs down here, I am proud to say that me and
my Marines executed flawlessly, as we always do. It's no Iraq or
Afghan here, but spending long amounts of time in up-armored
vehicles in 90 degrees with 90% humidity, along with full body
armor and combat loads seems to make me think of another war in
the Marine Corps' history. We get the DVs to our compound and
disembark to get some chow, hopefully a good meal. None of us
rush in to get food, though, we make sure our weapons are clear
and functioning and that nothing has happened to our trucks
while we were out.
By the time our weapons are put up (no weapons in chow hall
here) and gear and trucks secured, the party of "D.V.s" is
seated and eating their Thanksgiving dinner. We walk up to the
door and are turned away by an Army E-8 saying we are not
allowed to eat right now. Nearly appalled (and pretty p!ssed
because who in the h&ll is this hooah to deny my Marines a
Thanksgiving meal!?), I ask the MSgt why; "Regular people aren't
allowed in while the DVs are in there. You guys can come back
when they are finished."
I calmly explained that we were there security escort, and as
soon as they finished we had to take them back out, could we get
food to go? Nope, guess not. I tell my guys to hold on, and I go
find Gunny with a major WTF? Look on my face. (Note: Last
Christmas in Okinawa, I recall Marine Colonels and Generals
serving their Marines food, not taking over the chow hall for
themselves.) Gunny gets it arranged so we can get a quick bite
to go before we head back out, but on thanksgiving a turkey
sandwich and a can of cranberries just doesn't cut us. But not
once, NOT F'IN ONCE, do I hear any of my Marine gripe or
complain, they simply step off, suit up, go Condition 1, and
head back out to our trucks
We prep the vehicles and wait for our DVs to come out, tummies
with just enough in them to make a man mighty angry. Everyone's
out, missions go, we move out, one hand on my M9, one on the
wheel. After a few stops at designated "Visit Locations," the
DVs are out and back on the plane. We head back to the compound,
but games not over yet. We still got 15 mikes outside the wire.
Our shoulders relax a little with the DVs out of the target
area. We get back and all non-USMC personnel rush out of the
convoy to eat for the second time.
Not my Marines. We clear our vehicles, secure hatches, check and
double check our weapons. Brush off our armor, and then head to
the chow hall. Almost closing time, but we make it in. Not a
soul in sight in there except for our buddies the Filipino
cooks. What a pleasant surprise. After hours in the heat totally
tac'ed up in gear, being denied chow because we are just
"regular people," and some crazy driving through the streets in
the Philippines, we Marines can sit down and eat a real
Thanksgiving dinner with just each other. We go through the line
sticky, sweaty and worn the h&ll out; get some cold turkey, some
mashed potatoes that aren't quite as squishy as they probably
were when the hooahs got to eat, some dressing crumbs, and,
well, we all know what happens to gravy when it gets cold. The
cake is droopy by now, all the pies are gone, there isn't even
any d*mn ice cream left.
We sit down with each other, and I realize that as sh*tty as the
end of the stick is that we got today, this makes it worth it.
We don't care about feeling important and eating with important
people, it's that every single one of us got back and are able
to sit down and eat thanksgiving dinner with each other. Some
days I regret enlisting, like everybody does, and I am certain
that I am only doing 4 and out, but this camaraderie, this
family I have developed with my Marines cannot be found anywhere
else. This is what makes it worthwhile. As we finish our meals,
one of the workers, who is grinning from ear to ear, comes out
and sets a fresh baked pumpkin pie down right in front of us.
Not sure why they saved it for us, but my advice to every Marine
out there, make friends with your chow hall workers.
Today my Marines did their jobs, and they did them d*mn well. We
didn't expect much, but we didn't expect to be denied
Thanksgiving dinner because we are just regular people, but I
guess that's how the army does it. We knew we weren't going to
get a thank you or a job well done from anybody but Gunny and
maybe the TF Commander (Army O-6, but he's a h&lluva guy, for a
hooah). But we did get a fresh pumpkin pie and we got to eat it
together. And brothers, we are what it is all about. I couldn't
care less what a US Congressman thinks of me or my guys, because
the only thing that matters were the guys eating Thanksgiving
dinner with me.
S/F
Phil Stover
Cpl USMC
Joint Special Operations Task Force-Philippines
SOCPAC/ 3rd Bn 12th Marines 3d MarDiv
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Two Of Them Join Me
Sgt. Grit,
As a young man I successfully made an attempt to get away from
my father by joining the Corps. I managed to get one of my
"connected" friends get me a forged birth certificate, because I
was only 16 years old, and as soon as I got it I went down to
the Marine Corps recruiting office at the main post office in
Chicago, Illinois and enlisted. I was subsequently sent out to
MCRD San Diego where I completed my boot camp early in 1952 and
went to Camp Pendleton with the 1st Marines for advanced
infantry training. Immediately after that I shipped out to
Korea in late 1952. I served in Korea until the spring of 1953
when I was wounded and sent home.
Arriving back at Camp Pendleton after my recovery from the
wounds I had received I was selected to go to DI training for
almost three months and then assigned to MCRD San Diego as a
junior DI under World War II S/Sgt H. D. Herrington of Bangor,
ME. S/Sgt Herrington was an excellent example of what Marines
should be, and he taught me how to become a better Marine and
train Marines which the Corps could be proud of.
After a couple of years of this I was enlisted for guard company
and eventually ended up at Great Lakes Naval Training Center on
the North shore of Chicago, my home town. My father was totally
unaware of how close I was to home and during one of my leaves
to the city I ran in to him and he was totally shocked at how
much I had grown up and matured since I had last seen him. He
tried to fall in to his old pattern of physically abusing me,
but when he swung on me I grabbed his wrist in a vice like grip
and drove him to his knees, as I was taught, and told him that
his days of abusing me were over.
I thank the Marine Corps for the values I have today and for the
experiences which they afforded me. Now that I am retired I
willingly volunteer at the local VA hospital in an effort to
give back to our men and women in uniform and who served bravely
in all of the conflicts we have been involved in. It will be my
pleasure to have two of them join me for Thanksgiving dinner and
to share what I have with them for their service and their
sacrifice.
I have met a young Marine with the 3rd Marines who has just
returned from Afghanistan, and thanks to you I was able to get
him an Iraqi Freedom ka-bar for Christmas, when he will be
coming home to Southern California to be with his whole family.
When I lost all of my medals and ribbons while going through my
divorce, I am now able to replace them little by little each
month. I will soon have all of them organized once again so
that I can mount them in one of your display case.
Semper Fi,
S/Sgt I. J. Oshana, (Ret)
2Bn. 1st Marine Div.
1952 - 1962
Eight Gallons Of
There was a note in your letter of Nov 19 stating that a lot of
men had R after their USMC. During WWII most of the Marines
were in that category and the reason was that many patriotic men
enlisted for "Duration of the war plus six months" and wanted
to return to their civilian jobs after the war was over. This
also allowed the USMC to return to its prewar strength without
having to wait for four-year enlistments to expire. The Corps
did not accept draftees until the latter months of 1942 or early
1943. I believe that all men who became Marines after being
drafted were classified USMCR and went through boot camp.
One thing I have never seen in the Sgt. Grit Newsletter is that
some civilian specialists were sent to boot camp for some
training. I don't think they received the whole training but it
was for conditioning and familiarization with military
procedures. Most of these men were too old for the Corps but
their specialties were needed and they could train others. I
remember some of them talking about some military wiremen
splicing phone wires and making errors where a man could make a
phone call and wind up talking to himself on the long loop that
was created around the whole island. These specialists had to
troubleshoot to correct the errors.
A lot of Marines came from states where driver licenses were not
issued until age 21 which caused a shortage of drivers.
Personally, though I was attached to a HQ Bn, When it came time
to drive vehicles onto the beach from an LST a call was made for
any man aboard who had a civilian driver license to report to
the tank deck. When I reported and asked the ensign in charge
where my jeep was he told me that all jeeps were taken and
pointed to a truck with several buckets from steam shovels
aboard. Murphy's law took over and the throttle was stuck and I
had to keep slipping the clutch to keep from running over the
vehicle ahead of me. Two of my buddies wanted to go with me
just so they could ride instead of wade. We had some time
before we were to start so they borrowed two cases of food from
the ship's supply.
Several days after eating K-rations we decided to open our
purloined food supply. We did not appreciate the eight gallons
of prunes.
SSgt Gaston
384564 USMCR-PM
Memorial Tattoo
Dear Sgt. Grit,
I have been reading your newsletter for a while now and have
ordered several items through your wonderful catalog. It is
inspiring to see the amount of loyalty and time honored
tradition that you display. I served from 1980 to 1985 as a
corpsman, 14 months of which was on the island of Okinawa at 1st
Marine Air Wing MCAS Futenma. I was assigned to the dispensary
as well as to MATCS 18 when they deployed to the field.
In October 1983 when the Marine barracks were in Beirut were
bombed we all felt the loss of someone who we knew. The base had
a candlelight service that evening to honor our fallen comrades
and it did not matter whether you were Navy or Marine, we all
came together as one at this time of sorrow.
I recently decided to add another tattoo to my collection, and
since I had none from my service days, my wife and I thought a
memorial tattoo to my fallen brothers would be appropriate.
Below is my latest tat, and the phrase I think I coined, "Semper
Fi corpsman". I have been called devil doc and doc by many, but
this term seems to fit like a glove. The upside down hearts
represent teardrops, one for our fallen Marine brothers and the
other for all of the corpsman that have died doing what they do.
Thank you for your newsletter, keep up the excellent work you do
and Semper Fi to all who served before, who now serve and who
will in our future protect this great country..
God bless
Robert L. Seago, HM3
Redding , Ca
Corpsman In Every Hatch
SF Sgt Grit,
Before leaving the Nam in June 1971, one requirement was to have
our shot records updated. We went to a dispensary in DaNang
where the Navy checked our "International Certificates Of
Vaccination". Those of us needing new immunization injections
had numbers marked on our shoulders corresponding to a
particular shot. I believe I had two numbers on one shoulder and
one on the other. As I walked down a hallway with corpsmen in
every hatch, I received about eight inoculations, most with
those air injection guns. (remember those?)
Thanks guys for not letting me bring anything detrimental back
to the world!
LCpl Daniel Buchanan
Ancient 2531
Chesty
Chesty Puller's Grave site. His is to the left, his wife's is to
the right.
Floyd Newkirk
1953
Pictures of our wedding. Dec.26 1953
Chuck & Barbara Batherson
Detroit, Mi.
11th Engineers
Just recently I received a few photos from my former
platoon Sgt. Billy Johnson of Conn.
In the photo was a group of Marines from the 11th Engineer
Bn - Charlie Co. out on route # 1 and involved in road sweeps
for the day - the year was 1968 and the area was the DMZ.
Listed on Marine L/Cpl. Danny L. Jones' helmet was the message
of "Painesville Ohio". So with our big reunion coming up next
Oct 2010 in DC, I called for information. Nothing. Then on the
2nd day - we found him!
Marine L/Cpl. Danny L. Jones of Charlie co 11th Engr Bn
completed his tour and went home to his family after being
separated at Treasure Island, Ca. Danny went to work, raised his
kids and lives today still in Painsville, Ohio. He's also now
planning to attend his first reunion and visit DC plus the
Vietnam Wall for the very first time.
The Marines that served with the 11th Engineer Bn 3rd Marine
Division from 1966 to 1969 [on pullout] can be proud of their
hard work that was achieved under combat conditions and it times
of uncertainty.
Approx 200 purple hearts were earned during those times to also
include a few silver and bronze stars too.
Keeping the major roads open that included routes one and nine -
helped keep the fire support bases up and resupplied as well
when the choppers could get in or were on other major
operations.
Welcome home Danny and to all who served in that area once
called the "DMZ" .
Gene T. Spanos
Sgt. USMC 66-71
11th Engr Bn 2/68-2/69 [ Sqd Ldr Cpl ]
Vietnam - DMZ
Saved My Life
It was a Friday afternoon in November 2008 just after
Thanksgiving. I stopped in the Worcester, (MA) Detachment Marine
Corps League for a beer or two in the Leatherneck Lounge. The
only one there was the bar manager Marine Joe Ricci. Within five
minutes one of our few remaining WW II vets, Marine Carlo
Mastrototaro came in and sat beside me at the bar. Within two
minutes the door opens and the second WW II vet Marine Walter
Maloney enters and sits next to me on the other side.
We immediately started talking about how Carlo and Walter Had
met in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba in 1941. The four of us (including
Joe) had served at Guantanamo Bay at one time or another, so we
called it a Gitmo Bay reunion. After a few minutes I realized
that I was sitting between History. Both Carlo and Walter Joined
the Marine Corps in 1939, both are 88 years old , soon to be 89
in 2009, both served at Gitmo in 1941 and 1942, both were from
Worcester, MA, both served in the Pacific against the Japanese
on three different islands each.
So I took the opportunity to ask the two of them about their
exploits in the Pacific. At first they both didn't want to talk
about it but after some prodding on my part and specific
questions to Carlo ;"tell us how you earned the silver star?"
and "tell us where you were and how you were wounded?". Carlo
looked at me for a moment, then said "you really want to hear
about it?" I said there are over 260 Marines in our Detachment
and I'll bet not one of them know how you were awarded the
Silver Star and Purple Heart, we all want to hear about it, it's
time Carlo. "I have never talked about this before" he said "so
I may not get all the facts right".
He started by telling us about being stationed in Iceland, Cuba,
then Camp Pendleton (stories for another day) and finally
Saipan, Marianas Islands. "It was about mid June 1944" he said
"I was the BAR man for my squad of "B" Company, 1st Battalion,
25th Marines, 4th Marine Division. We were on the third wave on
a Higgins Boat just about to hit the beach on Saipan when the
landing craft next to us hit a mine and blew about twenty feet
out of the water and split in half, Marine bodies were flying
everywhere. The next thing I remember is being on the beach
about forty or fifty yards from the water's edge, laying on the
ground behind a small ridge with the rest of my outfit.
The next two weeks the fighting was fierce and heavy and we had
many casualties but I made it without a scratch. It was a couple
of days after my birthday July 3rd, I had the watch at night
while most of the platoon slept in their fox holes. I heard a
noise behind me and when I turned to look I saw a couple of
shadows hit the deck. I challenged the shadows real loud to
alert my platoon, and after the second challenge with no reply
or pass word, I jumped out of my fox hole and moved toward them
to get a better angle to fire from because they were still lying
down. I emptied my BAR and got all of them, about 8 or 9 of the
enemy without being hit by their fire. My Battalion Commander
put me up for a silver star for saving my platoon from an enemy
sneak attack from the rear."
"A few weeks later we landed on Tinian. The first night I gave
my spot in a four man fox hole to a wounded Marine Ralph Hamit.
A couple of hours later a mortar round hit next to the fox hole
and all five of us were badly wounded. The next day we were
evacuated to a hospital ship. After about 6 months in hospitals,
I was given a medical discharge. A few weeks later the 4th
Division made the landing at Iwo Jima and most of my outfit was
wiped out on the island. That mortar round probably saved my
life."
Carlo died October 5th 2009 at the age of 89 surrounded by his
family.
Chris Manos 1845911 USMC 1958-1962
The Commandant
Sgt Grit Marketing Director Kristy Fomin meets General Conway at
Birthday luncheon hosted by the US Marine Corps Coordinating
Council of Oklahoma.
Short Rounds
Tom Bogan said the 03 didn't have a clip, that's not correct it
had a 5 round stripper clip that was inserted into the receiver
and the rounds were pushed down into the magazine. When you
closed the bolt the clip was flipped out. The Mauser rifle
also used this clip.
Semper Fi
E.L. Collins
Plt. 280, VMGR-352, Cpl '59-66
Hey Cheri Y,
I had the same dream only Chesty was smoking a pipe! I fear that
if I don't come up with this black and silver "detailed EGA"
license plate for Chesty's jeep that I may be on his $hit list.
From one Marine to another - that is one LZ I do not want to
tread. ?
Semper Fi
SSgt U
Welcome home, Marines! You make us so very proud! We all know
that "uncommon valor is a common virtue"; and that will never
change.
Semper Fidelis,
Brad Clay
Sgt USMC 1975-78
In 1957 we had the SIP (Special Instruction Platoon) where
"misfits" and those, set back because of medical programs,
delayed their training!
Platoon 317 in 1957
Ooohrah to all of you Marines. When I was retired in 1991 after
28 years in the Corps, I missed it. Although I am at the age
"who gives a d*mn" I would gladly go back in as a mercenary or
as a regular Marine. I guess I am one of those who just doesn't
give z d*mn.
Ron
My longest year. June 1967-July 1968. 5th Marines, Sgt. Robert
(Bob) Filice.
http://home.pacbell.net/reznorb5/Bob/
Isn't It Strange
The day I went into the Marine Corps my mother told me "do not
get a tattoo. It is the sign of being a pervert and they will
not let you into the Missouri Highway Patrol." Well I never got
a tattoo not because of what she said but because I don't think
I ever got inebriated enough. Besides I never wanted to be in
the Highway Patrol anyway. But isn't it strange that in the old
days only Sailors and Marines had tattoos and now everybody
seems to have one. Yet the one place they really don't want you
to get a tattoo is the Marines Corps?
Hmmm?
Jim Grimes
Marine Corps Raiders
Dear Sgt Grit,
On October 8th 2009, my friend Ken O'Donnell passed away. Mr.
O'Donnell was a Marine Corps Raider and was the president of the
Marine Corps Raiders Association. Mr. O'Donnell was a wonderful
man and it was my privilege to have known him.
I've enclosed a couple of links that tell Mr, O'Donnells story:
Marine Raiders: Kenneth M. O'Donnell
A Warrior and a Gentleman
At the bottom of the second website, there are links to two
YouTube videos that go into detail about the Raiders and Mr.
O'Donnells mission.
Regards,
Larry Lemieux
I am Now 50
Sgt. Grit,
I have been following the stories about Marine Reservists with
interest. One of my goals in life was to be a Sgt. of Marines.
My parents goal was for me to go to college. In 1978 a Marine
recruiter showed me that I could do both and I signed on the
bottom line. I spent a marvelous summer in San Diego an all
expense paid learning experience at MCRD. I don't know about
other Reserve programs, but I stood on the yellow footprints and
earned the EGA. Oh, by the way I entered Boot Camp weighing 105
lbs, standing a tall 5 foot 2 inches. After Boot Camp I returned
home and went to college and went to weekend Drills. The
following summer I went to my MOS training. I was trained as a
4631. I served six years 1978-84 and received an Honorable
Discharge.
Six months before my enlistment was up a drunk driver wrecked me
on my motorcycle. I sustained very serious injuries and did not
fully recover before my enlistment was up. I felt I could not
reup because I could not keep up although the option was
presented to me. It was at least two years before I "felt" 100%
again.
Now, I am 50 years old, I have a Master of Divinity, pastor a
church, have an outstanding family, and the one thing I am most
proud of is the fact that I served in the United States Marine
Corps. I never deny the fact that I served in the 4th LAAMBn 4th
MAW, a reserve unit. I stood on the footprints, marched on the
grinder, got gassed, spent time in the pit, qualified expert
with the M16 A1, earned the EGA, in a 12 week Boot Camp, and was
ready, willing, and able to go where ever, when ever, I was
called.
A few months ago I was talking to a young man who noticed my
Sgt. Grit t-shirt, he was servicing our copier at our church. He
told me that he had a lot of respect for the Marines. He tried
to become a Marine but washed out of Boot Camp. When he said
that it hit me how significant it was for a 5 ft. 2 in. 105 lb.
scrawny little runt to earn the EGA.
I am very proud to say that I am not only a part of the
organization that God has trusted to guard the streets of
Heaven, I am also a part of the organization that guides people
to Heaven.
By the way, as a preacher I am not able to wear the "One weekend
my A--" t-shirt. Got any others in the works?
Once a Marine always a Marine (ask my kids!)
Rev. M. Duke
Sgt. of Marines 1978-84
4th LAAMBn 4th MAW
S.0.S. Recipe - U.S.M.C. Style
What you've all been waiting for!
Everyone recalls the famous pre-invasion Marine Corps breakfast
of steak and eggs. However, that was not the normal morning meal
served aboard transports as they slowly plodded across seas to
deliver Old Breed Marines to their next combat venture.
Once in a while a great document of historical importance
concerning the Marine Corps comes to light. This is not one of
them, but worth printing for those of you who miss the famous,
everyday meal commonly called S.O.S. One note of interest, did
you know Marines had their own 'special' recipe, which differs
from any other branch of service?
S.0.S. Recipe - U.S.M.C. Style
1-1/2 pounds extra lean hamburger or ground chuck
2 table spoons Oleo or Butter
1 cup freshly cut chopped onion
2 table spoons flour
2 tea spoons granulated garlic
4 table spoons Soy Sauce
1 table spoon Worcestershire Sauce
2 cups milk
Salt and pepper to taste
Brown meat, add oleo and stir. Add onions and cook until they
are translucent. Add flour, stir and cook two to three minutes.
Add garlic, soy sauce and Worcestershire. Mix thoroughly. Add
milk and stir till it thickens. Serve on a shingle (toast}.
It's now time to rush to the grocery store to get any
ingredients you don't already have. One must keep this in mind
before leaving the house. You either: (1) miss the Corps
terribly and should volunteer for fleet duty, (2) have a great
desire to do bodily injury to yourself, (3) suffer from dain-
bramage or, (4) have neighbors you can't stand and want to
invite them to a special dinner. Before doing option #4, suggest
you dig a slit trench in the back yard in case of emergency
gastric distress imposed upon your guests.
Written (with tongue-in-cheek) by:
Historian, FMDA
Submitted by:
Some good eating.
CPL JIM HOPKINS
1956-1960
S.O.S. Recipes and other Humorous Tidbits
Elliott's Beach ??
Sgt Grit,
I really enjoy the letters you get from Marines and their
families.
I've got plenty of USMC hats and T-shirts from you.
Anyway, in reference to SSGT Greg Rasmussen's story about
The "Crucible", I'm not sure what they called it in 1978 but
when
I went thru boot at PI October of 1965, it was called
"ELLIOTT'S BEACH" Was it called that in 1978?
I really appreciate all you do Sgt Grit. The letters bring back
Some good memories of my time in the Corps.
SGT Robert S. Malloy USMC
1965-1969
1ST MAW MAG 36 VMO-6
1ST MAW MAG 26 VMO-1
SEMPER FI
Know How To Party
I read the story that Sgt Vincent Meyers wrote about being
aboard the USS Princeton in 1954. I also was aboard the
Princeton at the same time. As I recall, we boarded the ship in
Japan, and I was in the helicopter squadron that he mentioned.
The squadron was HMR 162, and the helicopters were HRS 16,
manufactured by Sikorsky.
But the date was 1955, and the operation was called, "OPERATION
FIRM LINK". I remember the Marine with the bag pipes. I was on
the flight deck when that helicopter went into the drink, and
yes the bagpipes went down with the helicopter.
We were alongside the taxi way with our shelter half's at Don
Maung Airport. There were a lot of NATO Forces there with us.
They had Missals and other Ordinance on display. We hung out
with some of the Australian Marines. And let me tell you, they
sure know how to party.
SSgt James Witter
Plt 458 July 1952 - 1963
Peacemakers
Sgt Grit
Our Ministry with Motorcycles is called Peacemakers. Our title
comes from Matthew 5:9 - Blessed are the Peacemakers, for they
will be called Sons of God. Our church is New Wine Church in
Fullerton.
Enclosed is a pic of our patch. When I saw the bumper sticker on
your on line catalog, I had to have a few.
Also enclosed are a couple of cake pics one from the 233rd
birthday and the 234th birthday. I have the honor and privilege
of putting the display together, and ordering the cake. We have
4 Marines, a couple Sailors, one or two Soldiers, and one or two
Wing Nuts at work among the 50 or so employees.
We are still waiting for them to step up to the plate for their
respective birthdays. Many have never seen a place set for those
that won't return because of their POW/MIA status. I was honored
to do that for them, and to explain what that was all about.
Semper FI
Carson J. Gibson
Former Active Sgt
USMC
Navy Corpsman
My brother who served with the 3rd Marines as a Corpsman during
Vietnam fired off the attached letter in response to an article
in the Navy Times. I think that it's an excellent article and
should be shared, and would be especially appreciated by any
Marine whose life ever depended on a Corpsman.
Ed Livingston
Navy Corpsman
Commentary / Editorial
After reading the August 24th, 2009 Navy Times, the section
called, For The Record, this section deals with, Operation
Enduring Freedom, the war in Afghanistan. It lists the deaths in
Afghanistan for the period of August, 7th - 13th, 2009,
confirmed by the Defense Department. There were nine Marines
killed, three Army personnel and one Navy Corpsman.
This letter is about Navy Corpsmen. There are so many people
that I run into that have no idea of what a Navy Corpsman is or
better yet, what the roll of the Corpsman is in the Navy.
In 1898 Congress officially designated the Hospital Corps as
part of the Navy's Medical Department. A Corpsman is a cross
between an R.N., LPN, Physician Assistant, and a Paramedic. He
or she is a Navy enlisted sailor who after boot camp picks a
profession that they would like to pursue in the Navy. After
leaving boot camp, the sailor will head for an A School as the
Navy calls it. An A School can be any number of different jobs
in the Navy. If you decide to become a Corpsman, that "A" School
will focus on your medical education. It will provide you with
the skills needed to become a Navy Corpsman.
After the A school is complete, a Corpsman will be sent to any
number of duty stations around the world. This duty station may
be a hospital, a ship or even another school. There are many
different assignments to be had as a Navy Corpsman. Many ships
are classified as independent duty stations, this means, there
is no Doctor on board and the responsibilities for the health of
the crew is in the hands of the Corpsman on that ship. Some
Corpsmen will be sent to, Field Medical Service School after
they finish their "A" School. They will spend a number of weeks
with the Marines at Camp Lejeune, N.C. or Camp Pendleton in
California. There the Corpsman is transformed into a Combat
Medic with the Marines. As any Corpsman can tell you; you are
now an HM -8404. This is the Enlisted Classification for a Navy
Combat Medic. No matter how long you stay in the Navy or what
training you may receive later on, a Corpsman will always be,
first and foremost, an 8404.
Remember, the Marine Corps is a branch of the Navy and depends
on Navy Corpsmen for their medical care in the field. The Navy
provides all Medical and Dental care needed to keep our Marines
healthy. In Field Medical Service School, the Corpsman will
learn how to treat combat injuries and learn many skills needed
to survive and treat the wounded on the battlefield.
When any young man or woman joins any branch of the service,
they write a blank check and it is made payable to the United
States of America. What this means, is that the individual is
willing to give his or her life for this great country that we
live in. A Corpsman also makes this commitment, but as a Combat
Medic, the Corpsman writes a bigger check. This check not only
covers the Corpsman's willingness to give his life for his
country, it also covers his commitment to his Marines. When a
Marine is wounded, the call for ( Corpsman Up or Get The Doc)
goes out. At that time, the Corpsman will leave his place of
safety and under fire, head for the wounded Marine. That means,
caring for, treating and protecting that wounded Marine at all
cost. Corpsmen will covered their wounded Marine with their own
body to protect that wounded Marine from incoming fire. In the
end, the Corpsman may pay the ultimate price.
This unselfish act has cost many Corpsman their lives. There
have been over 36 deaths in the war on terror of Navy Corpsmen.
They have gone above and beyond the call of duty in all of
America's wars. Between WWI and Vietnam, there have been 18
Corpsmen who have received the Congressional Medal of Honor.
I was a Navy Corpsman with the Marines during the Vietnam War.
The title, " Doc", is what the Marines call their Corpsmen. As a
Navy Corpsman, it is an honor to be called "Doc" and carry the
title of, 8404. It is a title that I am very proud of. To this
day, if I am out somewhere and I run into a Marine, there is an
instant bond that only a Corpsman and a Marine can have. So now
when you sit home at night and hear that there were Marines
killed in Afghanistan along with a sailor, (that is usually how
the news media reports it) you can figure that another Navy
Corpsman has given his life for his country in an attempt to
save the life of a follow Marine.
J. Andrews "Doc" Livingston
Topsham, Maine
"Welcome Home"
By Michael Tank
As a nineteen-year-old college dropout, forty years ago on this
past August 18th, I was being pushed and shoved off a bus at
MCRD, San Diego, California, as we 'boots' were trying
desperately to move as fast as we could for what we were all
sure was a bunch of rabid DI's. They were after all, foaming at
the mouth. With my voluntary three year enlistment, when I
placed my feet upon those famous yellow footprints I had
willingly entered a world of controlled chaos for the next
thirteen weeks. But it was thirteen weeks of an organized,
skillfully planned, detailed and time tested mayhem that were
necessary to prepare me for the thirteen months of the h&ll on
earth called Vietnam.
In the days and weeks prior to my arrival at Marine Corps boot
camp in that August of 1969, an American had walked on the moon
for the first time, the Manson Family had committed their evil
senseless murders and five hundred thousand drugged upped
Americans had partied at Woodstock. In the fifteen years prior
to my arrival almost fifty thousand Americans had died in
Vietnam.
At nineteen, I was a bit older than most of my fellow recruits
as I had stumbled through a year of indecision before I finally
did what I knew I had always intended to do. Even as a young boy
I had wanted to someday be a Marine. I fully understand that
most people, even when they are young, do not actively place
themselves in life threatening situations. Still, as foolish as
this may seem to many of you, I vividly remember sitting in my
high school library during my senior year looking at the graphic
pictures in Time magazine of the embattled Marines of Hue and
Khe Sanh during the 1968 Tet offensive, and thinking that these
were the men I wanted to join.
Read More (Click to Expand)
Besides, serving in the Armed Forces was somewhat of a family
tradition, and I came from a big family. My father had been in
the Navy during WW II. On the destroyer USS Shubrick, he and his
shipmates were in action as one of those now famous 'Gallant
Destroyers' at Utah Beach on D-Day, June 6, 1944. Weeks later
this proud ship was once again supporting the lesser-known, but
just as treacherous and important landings in Southern France.
Dad was one of the few men who stayed on board his crippled ship
after it had been hit by a Kamikaze during the Battle of
Okinawa. Of my four older uncles of that generation, three had
served in either the Army or Navy, while the fourth had been
turned down for medical reasons when he tried to enlist. Of my
father's six cousins all had served in combat including a young
26 year old Marine named Harlan Tank who was killed on the
bloody beaches of Iwo Jima. My three remaining younger uncles
had also all served after WW II. Yet I was never pushed in that
direction, in fact as the oldest son of six children in a middle
class family it was unanimously understood that I should attend
college. But in living among such heroes, I was divided in what
everyone expected me to do and in what I believed was my duty to
serve.
So it was that after high school graduation I took a summer job
working with a construction company for which my father was a
superintendent, proving that at times nepotism even benefits the
working classes. As this was a union job I made more money as a
laborer than most other eighteen year olds. I bought my first
car, a white, 1962 small block 327 Chevy Impala with a red
interior and a red stripe down her sides for $800 bucks, then I
spent that much again tricking her out. Cruising around on those
hot Illinois' summer nights, listening to Rock 'n Roll, well, I
had it made in the shade. At the end of the summer I enrolled at
Black Hawk Community College, but I was soon gone after just one
disastrous, boring semester. Restless and unable to find the
self-discipline it takes to advance in the academic world, and
much to my parents' dismay, I voluntarily enlisted in the Marine
Corps on their delayed entry program. I then spent a couple of
months working the late night shift at a factory in Moline. Two
weeks before I departed I quit that job to have a little last
minute fun before I shoved off for Boot Camp.
Once in boot camp my biggest fear was that I could not 'hack it'
and would be sent home in disgrace. Those recruits who could not
complete the rigorous training due to some mental or physical
"malfunction" were contemptuously known as non-hackers. The
result was that I placed as much pressure upon myself to succeed
as my seemingly, constantly, and extremely irritated DI's, as
the thought of returning home, as a washed out, malfunctioning
non-hacker, was unbearable. Many of the anti-war distracters
will tell you that during this time of the Vietnam War, and the
draft, that the Marine Corps was not all that particular about
who got to wear their uniform since they badly needed bodies to
ship off to the war. But I am here to tell you that was not the
case, as more than just a few of the men who started out with
our platoon did not make it to graduation.
Through the unrelenting, unforgiving, and sometimes
unmentionable, process of the Marine Corps' Boot Camp we
recruits were transformed from what our deranged DI's had so
degradingly referred to us upon our arrival as "maggots" into
Marines. Throughout this process we were instilled with the
traditions, history and pride of what was now "Our Corps." We
had inherited a heavy responsibility in that it was now up to us
to uphold these traditions and to preserve the honor of our
Corps by upholding the Oath we had all been sworn to in
defending our Country against all Her enemies, foreign and
domestic.
To accomplish these formidable tasks we were to live by such
mottos as "God, Country, Corps", "Honor, Courage, and
Commitment", and "Semper Fidelis." We were told that "Once a
Marine, Always a Marine." All of this fit perfectly into my
young, and perhaps a bit too idealistic mind, with the words of
a slain leader echoing on from years past of asking what I could
do for my country, and of fighting every foe. As Marines we were
now members of an elite Brotherhood and while to some extent we
all had come to understand this Brotherhood through our shared
experiences and hardships in boot camp, this concept of a
Brotherhood would be driven home even more deeply by those of us
who went on to see combat.
Upon graduation I was assigned the Military Occupational
Specialty (MOS) of 0311 or Rifleman. This is more proudly
referred to in the Corps as being a "Grunt." It was also to say
that I was pretty sure I had just gotten a ticket to Vietnam.
But just to make it absolutely positive that a year in Nam was
in my future I volunteered for the Scout/Sniper School after
completing the advanced infantry training in the Infantry
Training Regiment (ITR). After a month in Scout/Sniper School I
now had an MOS of 0311/8541, or Grunt-Scout/Sniper. I received
orders to report to the Scout/Sniper Platoon, HQ Company, 1st
Battalion, 1st Marines in Da Nang, South Vietnam. I was finally
going to join those brave men that I had worshiped in my
childhood.
It should not be said that those of us who were on our way to
Vietnam did not worry about getting killed. Going into the
unknown we did have second thoughts, but we didn't exactly dwell
on it much either. For one there is always that all too human
belief that bad things always happen to 'the other guy.' Besides
as with most young men who join the Marines I was looking to get
into the fight. The Marine Corps has a Warrior Tradition, every
Marine is a rifleman first and foremost; in other words, men do
not join the Marines unless they are willing to go to war, or at
least they shouldn't. So my biggest concern was not of living or
dying, for I was too young and inexperienced to worry about all
that. After all I was only nineteen, physically fit, and at
nineteen you think you will live forever. Even I knew from
watching the movies that you never show your buddy a picture of
your Sweetheart just before you go into a fight, and you never,
ever tell anyone on the eve of a battle that you have "a real
bad feeling about this one." Besides in the movies the main
characters rarely, if ever, get killed off, and in each of our
lives, or our own personal little movies, we are the main
characters. So even though I was confident in my own abilities,
one concern was the question of being able to live up to the
high standards of the US military fighting men, and in
particular those of the United States Marines'; centuries' old
standards which had been set extremely high by all those who had
gone before.
Back in boot camp the idea was for the crazed DI's to strip the
soft, undisciplined civilian "maggots" down to their foundation,
leaving only the individuals' basic values and morality, and
then through a detailed core curriculum, these same meticulous
DI's would rebuild those individuals into hard, disciplined,
highly motivated Marines with a well defined set of values. In
Vietnam the war once again stripped us down, only now it was to
the bone. Even more so than any boot camp specialists could ever
hope to achieve, war strips a man down to his soul leaving only
his core values, beliefs and morality. Some men lose even those.
War breaks everything down into its simplest form. Young men who
had always had some form of protection from the elements now
found themselves at the mercy of nature's most abject conditions
with nowhere to seek refuge. When you are hungry, and I mean
stomach rumbling, painful, I'm feeling weak hungry, whenever
possible you eat whatever is available. When you are dead tired,
whenever and wherever possible you sleep. And when you are
thirsty, dried out and can't spit you will drink whatever you
can find.
In war you find that when it comes down to it, there is nothing
more simple than choosing between life and death. So the man
shooting at you is your enemy and he wants to kill you, thus he
has no value and he must be killed in your stead. The man next
to you is your Brother and like you, must not be allowed to die.
Once men start dying in the most gruesome ways imaginable, you
realize that your own personal little movie just might have that
all too tragic and abrupt ending after all. You come to
understand that you are no longer fighting for Mom, apple pie,
or The Flag. Gone are the more or less abstract, noble ideals of
fighting for one's freedoms and prosperity or in trying to
preserve the honor of anything. For what it finally comes down
to is simply survival and so what you end up fighting for is
your life and the lives of your fellow Marines, while hoping and
praying for the chance that all of you will live long enough to
get the h&ll out of there. And the best way of improving that
possibility is to kill as many of your enemy as you can. War at
its worst is simple simplicity.
By living in such an absolute nightmare, war has a way of
defining your religion. Some of us found God like never before,
or again. Others lost Him completely, or blamed Him for what we
humans had brought upon ourselves, or just simply abandoned all
hope. But whatever is lost or remains, if you survive, it is
then left up to each of us to rebuild ourselves as there are no
longer any capable, highly trained and caring DI's around with
an explicit syllabus to once again show us the way back.
Throughout our lives everyone changes over time through
maturity, and knowledge gained from education and life
experiences. The difference in someone who has survived a war is
that these changes are not allowed to progress over the usual
period of time and in the natural rhythm of our controlled
existence. Instead when you go to war these changes are thrust
upon you in a compressed time frame while very often they arrive
violently and unexpected. Often, because of your youth and
inexperience, and the utter unexpected violence of the episode,
you lack the necessary tools to absorb the information and
experiences in a positive or un-harmful manner. You also do not
have the luxuries of time to evaluate the information or anyone
who can help you in that evaluation.
This metamorphosis is not a visible or conscious transformation.
It is not universal in its degree or complications for every
Veteran. But it is real and every combat Veteran goes through
some degree of personal change. We don't see or feel it actually
happening because at the time we don't even know that it is
happening and it may even be years before we realize that it has
happened at all. Basically, at the end of our trial by fire we
all look the same, a bit older, always a lot thinner, more
callused, but outwardly we still seem to be the same young man
that first came aboard.
But I know that the boy I was who went to Vietnam is no longer
with us. He had just turned twenty years old but then on one
violent, hot, sunny day he was gone, and yet no one had even
fired a shot. He perished just as surely as those Vietnamese
civilians that were so brutally murdered that day by the VC. I
know where, when, how and why that young man perished, but it
took me some thirty years to come to that realization. Now those
memories that he held of his younger life seem to belong to
someone else, because in truth they do. I am just the keeper of
those youthful memories. It was through the next eleven months
in country that I became me. Like nothing before or after, the
war made me who I am today and that is why Vietnam never leaves
us. War is a Veteran's defining moment, his death and rebirth,
and that is what most people will never understand.
So in April 1971, after three years had passed since that
innocent and naive kid sat in the United Township High School's
South Campus library looking at pictures of my Brother Marines
fighting in Hue and Khe Sanh, I was sitting half way around the
world on a bunker pulling guard duty the night before I was to
leave Vietnam. I clearly remember my anxiety in wondering if I
was going to be able to even leave as through the night sky
could be seen the occasional VC rockets aimed at the Da Nang
airport, from which I was soon due to depart. As part of Nixon's
new pullout strategy I had been given an early rotation date
back to The World.
Without ever looking square into the eyes of a terrified
Vietnamese civilian whom we had promised to defend, in never
having to lay in the soaking mud, cold, frightened and miserable
in an all night ambush or sitting back to back with a Brother
Marine on a listening post staring into the blinding emptiness
of a silent, pitch black night, without ever enduring the rain
soaked, freezing monsoons, or the humid, blistering heat, in
never feeling the mind shattering, abject fear of near death by
an exploding incoming round, by never squeezing off a single
shot at the enemy, or narrowly escaping one of their own, in
never having to watch helplessly as a fellow Marine died or
watching a Corpsman weep because he could not save him, and
without ever having to witness the sickening aftermath of the
VC's butchery on the innocents, now Nixon, his fellow spineless
politicians, and the Left's elitists, self absorbed, anti-war
groupies had had enough and were calling it quits.
After all the years of hardship, sacrifice, death and
destruction, Nixon and the Left were now finally pulling defeat
from the jaws of victory. A victory, that history has shown, was
won by those very Marines and soldiers who had so soundly
defeated the NVA and the VC in their' all out gamble at Hue, Khe
Sanh and elsewhere around that God forsaken country during the
Tet Offensive in 1968. It had been a hard won victory, which was
never acknowledged or announced by the American media or our
politicians, but a victory all the same.
In leaving Vietnam I will always remember walking up to that big
Freedom Bird in a dreamlike trance as it was almost impossible
for me to believe that I was actually going home. When the plane
lifted off there was a resounding cheer that went up inside that
plane the likes of which I have never heard again. Yet almost as
immediately as the cheer went up it was followed by what I can
only describe as a long sad silence. God help me but as I sat
there listening to the engines whine a strange pressure was
building up so rapidly in my chest that I at once thought that I
was either going to bust out of my clothes or bust out crying.
Whether it was stress, sadness, joy or just plain old confusion
I could not tell, but it was intense.
This plane took us to Okinawa where we would get cleaned up,
change into our traveling uniforms that we had left there on the
way over and then fly home. Home, I wonder how many Americans
every really get to appreciate what that one simple word means?
During the war most of us went to and left Vietnam alone. There
was little full unit movement after the beginning of the war
until it was coming to an end. It is strange feeling going to
war alone, but even stranger coming home. One night you are
sitting on a bunker, locked and loaded watching VC rockets fly
through the night sky then three days later you are back on the
street in your hometown. I honestly don't remember even saying
one word to anyone from the time I left Vietnam until I got home
to Illinois. To say the least, it is surreal.
In November 1970, about halfway through my tour, I had taken R&R
to Hawaii to get married. Once there I met my soon to be wife,
my younger sister and my best friend. I spent four nights and
three days in the World, say hello, get married, say goodbye and
then back to Nam. If coming and going to war alone was surreal,
than going on R&R to get married only to once again find
yourself in the middle of a war has to be phantasmagoric.
As I was rotating home early only my older sister knew I was
coming home. She and her husband met me at the Moline Airport
and took me to the John Deere factory in East Moline where my
wife worked; she didn't expect me home for another two months.
In a scene straight out of a movie, this skinny tanned Marine
wearing his winter-greens walked into an office filled with
dozens of people. There way in the back sat my beautiful bride,
her head down working away at her typewriter. With flowers in my
hand I had to traverse the complete length of that huge office
to get to her and by the time I arrived, still unnoticed by her,
there wasn't another person in that entire office who wasn't
watching. The only sounds were a few whispered murmurs from the
onlookers and the tapping of my wife's typewriter keys.
I quietly stood in front of her desk and for a moment I didn't
say a word, then I softly said, "Hi Baby" and she looked up.
Without saying a word she jumped out of her chair and ran around
her desk to me, we embraced, kissed, and embraced some more,
then she started to cry as her co-workers applauded and cheered.
We then left to surprise my parents and brothers and sisters.
I have often thought of how no matter what many of those
strangers in that office may have felt about the Vietnam War, I
would have to bet that all of them still remember that day when
a Marine came home from Vietnam.
Now I'm not telling you this because I hope you will all think
that this is somehow special, or that I am. I am certainly not
special although this little movie is special to me because it
is mine, I'm the leading man, and it's the only one I get to
make in this life.
I am telling this story because it is so similar to millions of
other stories when young men have gone off to war and then
returned. The names are different, as are many of the minor
details, but our feelings and experiences are all very much the
same. I wanted you all to know that those of us who are Veterans
are not what many in our society would lead you to believe. We
are Veterans, not criminals or murderers. We were the boys who
lived next door. We were the young kids who cut your neighbors'
grass, shoveled their snow and delivered your newspapers. We
took your daughters and sisters to the dance and played baseball
with your sons and brothers. Then one day we found ourselves in
a very different world, but we never lost our identity or forgot
who we were, America's sons.
The word nobility is hardly used anymore, and when it is it is
usually inappropriately used to describe some lifetime
politician. But whenever I think of my fellow Veterans, and
because of the bitter criticism of the Vietnam War, in
particular those Vietnam Veterans, the word noble always come to
mind. Veterans don't get to pick the fight, or even start it.
Politicians always do that. Plain and simple a Veteran's job is
to end the fight by winning it, whether people agree or not that
we should even be fighting. Wherever America has fought
someone's freedoms have been at stake.
As I stated earlier once in the fight everything is reduced to
its simplest form. But at one time prior to that point a Veteran
had to pick up the gauntlet and enter the fray while believing
in the cause. To do that while knowingly putting your life on
the line for someone else's freedoms is noble. It doesn't matter
what the critics say while bloviating in their safety on other
side of the world, or what the historians will someday explain
as to the whys and wherefores of the conflict. By taking up the
banner of freedom Veterans are the noblest men I know. Veterans
also understand that the Oath to protect our country from all
enemies, foreign and domestic, that we were sworn to has no
expiration date.
In the past forty years since coming home I have had a lot of
time to reflect about my experiences and youthful decisions. Not
to mention that way back as a nineteen-year-old "maggot" the
idea of being a fifty-nine year-old man was as remote to me as
what it would have been like to be Armstrong walking on the
Moon.
In the Corps, it is firmly held that upon graduation you
automatically become a Marine. It is also true that Once A
Marine, Always A Marine, because it never really leaves you. But
I understand now that upon graduation, while you have certainly
earned the right to be called a Marine, in or out of the Corps,
being a Marine is a lifelong endeavor. That living up to the
high standards set by the Marine Corps on a daily basis is a lot
more difficult than shooting at someone, or even being shot at.
Many of us fail at one time or another, but it is only then that
we can show what we are really made of by picking ourselves up
and continuing on, all the while trying to become a better
person, father, husband, Marine.
At this past anniversary of Woodstock we were once again
reminded that it was the defining moment of the 60's generation.
But that is simply not true as Vietnam defined my generation
more than any single weekend. And although I have never taken
illegal drugs, I truly believe that no hippie Woodstock acid
trip could have been half as surrealistic as my lonely trips to
and from Vietnam or as fantastically illusory as that h&ll to
paradise then back to h&ll fantasy of my R&R marriage in Hawaii.
Currently there are 58,256 Americans names on the Vietnam War
Memorial, and we are still adding names. So please don't try to
tell me that Woodstock was the defining moment of my generation.
During the war I saw things that would have made the most
hardened drug crazed Manson Family member cringe with disgust.
Forty years later these images still give me some sleepless
nights. It would be wrong for me not to tell you that at times I
do wonder what my life would be like if I had not gone to war. I
would hope that my bouts of depression would not be so severe,
or that this anger inside me would have never materialized.
Sometimes I imagine what it must be like to go somewhere and not
feel the anxiety or fear that something bad is going to happen,
even if it was just that little drive to take my granddaughter
to school. I wish that I could feel the joy that others seem to,
for some reason I can easily hit all the low points but those
high happy points elude me. It is also during these times that I
mourn the loss of that kid I once knew.
But this daydreaming only last a little while and they are
coming more and more rare. I have resigned myself to the fact
that my life is what I made it and I realize that there are many
reasons that if I had it to do over again I would do the same as
before. For one this is who I am. For another I cannot imagine
not belonging to the Marine Brotherhood. Such an honored
fraternity must surely have a dear admission price to be so
special.
But most of all what it always comes down to in answering the
question of if I would do it all again, my answer is always the
same.
How could I not, for once I walked among Heroes.
How few others can say the same.
Have A Great Veterans' Day
Pray For and Support Our Troops
God Bless America
Semper Fi,
Mike
"Copyright 2009. Michael E. Tank All rights reserved. No part
of this document may be copied, faxed, electronically
transmitted, or in any other manner duplicated without express
written permission of the author."
Marine Corps 14" Nutcracker
Select Your Quote- Double Flag and Eagle T-shirt
Welcome Home Marine, Job Well Done!
Semper Fi
Sgt Grit
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