Vieques Island: A Few Good Men on Radio Hill

By Theo V. Bennett

Experience with Sgt. Elbo Janes and Cpl. T.V. Bennett the explosion of an atomic bomb at Desert Rock, Nevada. Sail with them to Vieques Island, Puerto Rico on Navy ships. Meet John, the Merchant of Vieques, who came to Radio Hill on horseback bringing orange pop, bread, or a woman in a red dress. Watch as Banshee fighter planes off the Carrier USS Midway, strafe, shell and spread fiery Napalm on the Eastern end of Vieques. Take an inside look at the fun, the fights and the loves of these Marines on liberty in New York, San Juan and Havana. Laugh at some of their escapades as they try to live up to their own motto: "Hell, we're Marines: We can do anything we want to do!" Share in their growth as individuals and the building of life-long friendships.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 3, 2001
• ISBN: 9781462091171

Theo V. Bennett

T.V. Bennett has called Ohio home for most of his life. His years of experience in Communications began with his Marine Corps training. He used this knowledge with the Ohio State Highway Patrol, The Central Intelligence Agency, and the A.T.&T. Company. His formal education includes a degree from the University of Dayton, Ohio.

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All Rights Reserved © 2001 by Theo V. Bennett

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

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This is a work of Creative Non-Fiction.

ISBN: 0-595-21059-7

ISBN: 978-1-4620-9117-1 (eBook)

Printed in the United States of America

For our son David

Contents

Acknowledgements

Author’s Notes

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About the Author

Acknowledgements

To Marlene, my wife, best friend and editor. To the wives of the Marines, thanks for the contribution to the book. To Don Wright, who believed in me, and encouraged me to get published. To Joe Niehaus, and Gary Vest, for their friendship and inspiration to keep writing. To our families and friends for all their support.

Author’s Notes

The story began in 1950. Few of the Marines who formed up the Second Signal Operations Company, (Tent Camp, Camp Lejeune, North Carolina) and founded Radio Hill on Vieques Island, ever saw combat. We served on U.S. Navy Carriers, LSTs, LCUs, and Troop Ships—as well as on land and in the air. Two of our small group did serve in Korea.

As Marines, we were no longer under parental scrutiny. We were as Gung Ho about our work as we were in our search for adventure. On the job, we worked hard as professional military radiomen. Off the job, we used our intelligence and creative abilities in pursuit of action, excitement and pleasure.

In 1967, some of us re-united in Missouri to rehash old times, with the idea of producing a book. For several days and nights in a log cabin, a reel-to-reel tape recorder ran. As memories surfaced, sea stories were recited. Things we couldn’t tell our mothers, and things we were not allowed to tell about our jobs finally surfaced.

On returning home, several former Marines wrote to me, revealing childhoods, family backgrounds, or dreams and aspirations. Letters saved by my mother until my discharge were returned to me. My seabag bore the names of many of the camps, bases and ships where we served as young men.

The letters provided Where, When, What and How things took place, but often the Whys and Whos were not spelled out. While some of the places and events were real, creative non-fiction techniques were used to fill in the gaps. As well, names have been changed to respect the privacy of participants, and families.

With the untimely deaths of four of us—Tex Carson, Cheesy Dean, Elbo Janes and Mac McCarthy, the motivation to complete this project became accelerated. The narrative began. The outline began to build.

Characters appeared, talked with one another, and conflicts developed between them. This book is about a few highly-selected, well-qualified and skilled radio operators. We came from the farms and towns of Ohio, Illinois, Kentucky, Missouri, Pennsylvania and Texas. The story uncovers the relationships, the struggles, the conflicts and the loves we experienced as we grew to become close friends. You’ll find us in this story as Elbo, Cheesy, Tex, Norb, Mike, Mac and Benny. We ended up working and playing together in the Radio Platoon, 8th Signal Battalion, 2ndSigOpCo, Tent Camp/Camp Geiger, North Carolina.

We were a hard-working, dedicated bunch of youths, but at times a bit wild, as members of a close-knit fraternity are bound to be. Allow me to introduce some of my special friends:

J. S. Marchetti: Mike

Mike Marchetti was the quiet one in Hut 452. Quiet but intelligent. Here is his story in his own words, from his letter dated January 21,1967.

I graduated from Hazleton Pennsylvania High School in June 1948, attending Penn State as an Engineering student until January 1951. I hadn’t been studying the last year in college. I thought I’d save face with the family by joining the Marines. I chose the Corps mainly because friends of mine and my family had served in the Corps during WWII. I had received copies of the Leatherneck Magazine from them, plus I had heard a lot of sea stories about the Corps.

At the time of my enlistment, I cannot recall any humorous events. On the contrary, the only incident I can recall had a rather sobering influence on me. I enlisted at The Customs House in Philadelphia. Because the vision in my one eye was substandard, I was taken to the Philadelphia Naval Hospital for a more comprehensive exam. At the hospital, I saw quite a few Marines just back from Korea—many amputees and blinded men. This was shortly after the Division had come back from the Chosin reservoir.

It really impressed on me what I was getting into. Fortunately, I passed the eye exam, and shortly thereafter I was sworn in. We rode to Parris Island, S.C. via the Atlantic Coast Line Railroad. I’m really being generous calling it a railroad; it was a very dumpy operation. I remember feeling a little self-conscious on the train as I had worn old Levi’s and a sweatshirt.

I had been told we wouldn’t get to mail our clothes we were wearing home once we got to Parris Island—which proved to be bum scoop. I remember passing through MCS Quantico, the Marine Officer Candidate School in Virginia. The R.R. tracks ran right in between the town and the base. I never considered that I might later be stationed there on two different occasions. The trip to Yemassee, S.C. was uneventful. My first impression of that place was that it was right out of Tobacco Road.

The arrival at P.I. (Parris Island) was the usual scene. We were met by a squared away Pfc who went through the old bit about: For the next 8 weeks I’m your God, etc. We got fed at a Casual Company mess hall and given a sack for the night, shown how to make it properly, rushed into the shower and then lights out.

The only thing I was concerned about was that as I was rather small, I wouldn’t be able to get through the physical part of Boot. I wasn’t worried about tolerating the discipline, or so I thought.

The next day we were assigned to Platoon 144, 6th Recruit Training Bn., situated in tents in a sandy field near a couple of what I guessed were radio towers. You know how your world is limited; all you know is what you are told by the DI. I guess he felt it wasn’t his obligation to give us a Cook’s tour of Parris Island. (Our senior DI was Pfc Benoit, with seven-and-a-half years in the Corps. He’d been through the islands (South Pacific) and was a very tough cookie. His rank of Pfc was the result of a vigorous application of corrective measures to some unidentified and unfortunate Boot, long gone from the scene.

Our other DI was one Corporal King, who was not quite as mean as Pfc Benoit, probably because he didn’t present the image of a perfect Marine that Benoit did. Pfc Benoit was later relieved of command of our platoon shortly before our graduation. He was reduced in rank for an alleged case of maltreating one of the jerks in our platoon. I really admired Benoit and never felt angry about his mean streaks. He showed up as our bus was leaving P.I., as Private Benoit. I really felt sorry for him, that he got a bum deal. I know I’ll never forget him as long as I live.

The guy who fell in on my left was as kid of Mexican descent from Huntington, W.Va. He was a very nice guy to work with. Whenever we had things to do in pairs, I always tried to avoid the fat guy and work with Julius Jacques. Julius was concerned about doing everything perfectly. When we went for our dental checkup, he said it was the first time he had ever been to a dentist. He didn’t have a cavity at all; perfect teeth. I was envious of that.

His being of Mexican descent was the source of an incident that was funny for me, but disastrous for Jacques. You know how the DIs used to use that salty cadence and commands. Jacques had trouble understanding whether the DI said Port Arms or Platoon Halt. The usual scene would take place. The DI came over, and depending on what mood he was in, would start harassing poor Jacques.

Well, you know how funny it is when someone else is getting worked over. I used to snicker like hell inside. Once in a while, I’d burst out with a little laugh. You know what happened next: the DI would immediately let go of Jacques and get a good grip on my dungaree jacket with his thumb pressed firmly against my Adam’s Apple, lifting up so I was on my tip toes. Then he’d start his routine of nasty comments for which there was no correct answer. It sure did sober me up in a hurry.

I got harassed twice in Boot. Once on a linen survey day, we took our sheets and pillow case to the tent. We were to put the sheets on one pile and the pillow cases on the other pile. They had a special way for folding the sheets. In a rush I apparently folded one sheet correctly but the other one wrong. I wasn’t aware of this until I laid them on the stack of soiled linen. Old Hawk-eye Benoit noticed one wasn’t folded right. I got grabbed rather roughly and back-handed across the face four or five times. He turned me around and kicked me very hard in the ass. He shoved me out the door of the tent. By the time I regained my composure, I was so mad that my adrenaline was really pumping, but what could you do? I was a pretty sad pup for the next few days. I tried to keep out of Benoit’s attention.

The other boot camp incident involved a package my sister sent me while I was at the rifle range. I was called to the DI’s tent, made to kneel in front of him, and open this package loaded with goodies such as cheese and crackers, doughnuts and apples. All the while I was undergoing verbal abuse and in the end I volunteered to contribute just about all of my package to the DIs. I was glad to get out of there without getting maltreated. I didn’t hold any hard feelings against them; I knew I shouldn’t have gotten the package in the first place.

The other incident was the one which led to Pfc Benoit’s relief as our DI and his subsequent reduction in rank. One day we were getting our usual large dose of close order drill. It must have been hard on the DIs, as we had some pretty dumb cats in our bunch. The DI got fed up with one big guy who was pretty slow. After awhile the DI’s line of insults and questions led up to the fact that the recruit should always obey orders. The boot acknowledged this with a vigorous Yes Sir!

Then the DI gave him a command to march him out of the platoon and over to a big iron pole. The DI gave him an order to commence banging his head against the pole until ordered to stop. Naturally, the boot yelled Yes Sir, but couldn’t bring himself to bang his head against the pole. The DI then commenced to do it for him. The boot’s head was sort of red and cut and bleeding a little, but I don’t think he suffered any permanent damage, except to his pride.

However, the next Sunday the guy must have complained to the Chaplain, with the ensuing relief of our DI’s command. I felt it was a poor thing for the boot to do, as I felt that you should do anything if ordered. Needless to say, the boot was treated with reserve by the other guys from then on. They never got too friendly with him, unless we were all going through some particularly grim order and you looked for help wherever you could get it.

Another incident with a lasting effect on my personal habits had to do with overeating. With so much activity, it seemed you never got enough to eat. We used to fill up on sugar, spread on bread. I used to even spread ice cream on bread. One day we were the last platoon to go through the chow line. Our DI, with his sadistic bent, let us eat to our hearts desire. It was heavy food—roast beef, mashed potatoes, and gravy. After chow we were taken out in the hot afternoon sun and run around until the DI sensed the platoon was coming apart at the seams.

It was a lesson well learned. To this day I have always made it a practice not to overeat—except for Holidays, that is.

One other thing that happened gave me a rather minor hatred of smokers. One Sunday all the Catholics were marched to Mass by an NCO from Battalion. On the way back to the area after breakfast, the DI allowed everyone to smoke a butt. I didn’t smoke, but when our DI found out about the cigarette, all of us got the calisthenics treatment until we couldn’t go on any more. I also resented having to police up butts during my Marine Corps career. I had no particular emotion about leaving Parris Island, except when our old DI came down to the bus to say good-bye. I thought it was a nice gesture on his part.

One thing I disliked was they didn’t take great pains about how our uniforms looked. We weren’t given much time to shine our shoes before going home. We looked presentable, but not sharp. I really felt bad—maybe because we were still Boots and hadn’t learned to look salty in uniform. I didn’t wear my uniform at all while home on leave.

Arriving at LeJeune was the usual rat race of getting linens by a sleepy Duty NCO in the middle of the night. When I woke the next morning, there I was in the company of a lot of older guys, reservists. I can’t remember their names, but I felt the usual backward feeling. I tried to find out what to do to get into the mainstream as quickly as possible. The guys who stood out on that first day were Bob Knox from Boston, and D. L. Grover, the clown from Arkansas. This was April 11th or 12th, 1951, I think.

That was my beginning with 2nd Signal Operations. From Vieques Island I went to Korea on the same draft as Norbert Ferry. I felt badly about missing the shooting in Korea, as I went up on the front line with the Fifth Marines, H&S 1/5. I later got to be Battalion Radio Chief and got discharged as a Staff Sergeant in February 1955.

After a year and a half kicking around as a drummer in a jazz group, I re-enlisted for six years on August 30,1956. I went back in as an E-4.

I went to electronics school at Great Lakes, Illinois, and Radar and Terrier Missile schools at San Diego—in the same rooms where we copied Morse Code in 1951. I later spent several years as a Fire Control Technician for Missiles at 29 Palms, California. I returned to the missile school as an instructor for a year. When the Terrier was phased out, I was sent to Hawk Missile school at Redstone Arsenal, Alabama, then back to 29 Palms for work in the field again. We shot a total of 70 Terriers and Hawks at 29 Palms, Point Mugu and Point Arguello while I was in the field. The only drawback to the whole deal was that I couldn’t get promoted while in school. After I missed one promotion, they changed the rank structure. When I finally did get the thing, I got a $20 pay raise and made Sergeant all over again; they had upped Staff Sergeant to E-6.

When I went to Hawk School, they said don’t worry about promotion. We will waive it because you’re at an Army school. When I got back to 29 Palms, they said Sorry about that, you have to take the tests. I passed both OK. I wasn’t about to wait another year for a stripe, so I pulled the pin and got out again as an E-5. It was really disappointing to me as I really liked the Corps and figured myself career material.

The crowning blow to my career as a Marine came about a month before I got out. We were on a missile shoot on San Nicolas Island off the coast of California. A drunken Staff Sergeant relieved himself on my sleeping bag, and on me too. After a quick shower, I stormed up to the gutless Captain we had for a C.O. there.

He said he’d take some sort of disciplinary action, which he failed to do. I asked to go back to the mainland and get discharged. I was disappointed in what I considered a breach of discipline, and it went unpunished.

I got out on August 30, 1962, with ten good years of service and no money. I went to work for Federal Electric Corp., which was in the service division of ITT. I went to the Dewline at $242.00 a week, tax free, with expenses. I stayed up there for three years. It was very isolated, 500 miles from the nearest Air Force Base. Only an occasional Eskimo was to be seen. I took one vacation a year, but then the isolation caught up with me. I and five other guys quit in a three week period, despite the pay of $325 a week. May 1966, I came home and bought a new Pontiac. I have been on vacation ever since. I go whole hog when I do things.

N. J. Ferry: Norb

Norb Ferry grew up and still lives in Louisville, Kentucky. His father died during Norb’s teens. His mother had to work long hours to support the family. We had a good sized yard to take care of, Norb said. I had a younger sister. She helped get supper and do the wash for the family. School took the rest of my time.

After graduating from high school, in July 1950, and facing the Draft, Norb and four of his buddies agreed one night to join the Marines. The next day, I was the only one who showed up, Norb said. At the time, he had two brothers in the Navy and one in the 82nd Airborne, at Fort Bragg, North Carolina.

As to his memories of Vieques Island, Norb said he seldom took a seabag on maneuvers, like most Marines. I just stowed my footlocker in the cab of a radio van. When we got to Vieques, I moved it to my tent. My clothes and personal stuff was still clean, dry and neat.

On Vieques, Norb always had a horse to ride. He bought the first one from our native friend John, for five dollars. It was an old white horse. A Marine would buy it from John, ride it somewhere, then turn it loose. I’ll bet John sold that old white horse ten times, he said.

Norb’s horse was critical to the operation of Radio Hill. We would buy ice in Isabel Segunda. Norb used his horse to take ice down to the Second Marine Division on Vieques, and trade for beer, vehicle batteries or parts.

On one of our liberties, some of us went to Port Au Prince, Haiti. It was a picturesque island, but not much excitement there. We took an LCM (Landing Craft Mechanized) from the ship into the dock. A lady who ran the hotel sort of took us under her wing and we stayed there all weekend.

Norb’s wife Sylvia, a registered nurse, who was dedicated to her family and community, died in April 2000, after battling cancer.

J. C. Carson: Tex

Tex Carson was all Texan. Extroverted, fun-loving, street smart, looked sharp in his Marine uniform. He liked to count cadence in his deep Texas drawl. He boxed in his teens, and always worked out on the light bag. Tex also enjoyed his wife Rose and his Lone Star Beer. It was Tex’s idea to write a book. Here is a letter dated Sunday, September 4, 1963 from my best Marine buddy:

Hi Benny:

It sure was great talking to you the other night. It is hard to realize that it has been thirteen years since we were in Camp LeJeune. (Tent Camp, actually). Time just seems to fly by. I used to get Christmas cards from some of the guys, but in the last few years I haven’t heard from any of them. I wonder what ever happened to Mac, Ferry, Duffy and the rest of the drunks in our Quonset hut?

Sorry to hear about your racial trouble up there in Dayton. Luckily we haven’t had any around here. I have been working all morning on one of my shotguns. Dove season opens in a couple of weeks and I have to get ready. We Dove hunt until squirrel season starts. Squirrel season ends, we start deer hunting. We hunt deer until quail season starts. Sure lots of fun. You ought to come down to Beaumont and give it a try.

We have a small rifle and pistol range down here, close to the house. We do competition rifle shooting up to 300 yards. One of our guys went up to Camp Perry (Ohio, on Lake Erie), last year and shot in the Nationals.

I went over to Houston the other night to see