20 Years at Parade Rest

By Frank Washam

The author joined the U. S. Marine Corps Reserve in April, 1948 while a student at Baylor University. He was subsequently promoted to corporaland selected for the Platoon Leaders Class (PLC) program. This program consisted of two summers of Officer Candidate School training and an appointment to Second Lieutenant upon graduating from college. Washam graduated in May, 1951, received his appointment to 2Lt in the U.S. Marine Corps Reserve and was immediately ordered to active duty.



This book is a chronicle of his 20 years of active duty which included tours at various U.S. bases and overseas tours in Korea, Japan, three in Viet Nam, Hawaii, Okinawa, the Philippines, and the editerranean Sea. There were also shorter junkets to the Caribbean on training exercises and various humanitarian relief efforts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456719265

Frank Washam

The author joined the U. S. Marine Corps Reserve in April, 1948 while a student at Baylor University. He was subsequently promoted to corporal and selected for the Platoon Leaders Class (PLC) program. This program consisted of two summers of Officer Candidate School training and an appointment to Second Lieutenant upon graduating from college. Washam graduated in May, 1951, received his appointment to 2Lt in the U.S. Marine Corps Reserve and was immediately ordered to active duty. This book is a chronicle of his 20 years of active duty which included tours at various U.S. bases and overseas tours in Korea, Japan, three in Viet Nam, Hawaii, Okinawa, the Philippines, and the Mediterranean Sea. There were also shorter junkets to the Caribbean on training exercises and various humanitarian relief efforts.

Book preview

FORWARD

This book is humbly dedicated to the memory of Major Ralph Dryden USMC, who gave me the name for it. Major Dryden’s years at parade rest ended one bright, hot Sunday morning in July 1968, in a rice paddy west of Danang, RVN when the helicopter he was flying blew a turbine, caught fire in the air and crashed in a flaming inferno, killing everyone aboard. I was scheduled to be his copilot that morning, but a faulty lip mike caused me to be scrubbed and another copilot assigned. . . . . . . .

If you think one of the incidents in this tale might have happened to you, you man be assured that, with but one or two exceptions, it didn’t! All incidents contained herein are facts, or based on fact, or are based upon the best of someone’s recollections. Since the frame of reference for this story is a rather narrow one and since many similar events happen to similar people engaged in similar pursuits it may still appear that you are the subject of one of the anecdotes. In which case, think what you will!

Contents

FORWARD

Chapter 1

The Beginning

CHAPTER 2

PLC, 1949

Chapter 3

DRAFT DODGING, 1950 STYLE

CHAPTER 4

BASIC SCHOOL

Chapter 5

MOTOR TRANSPORT MAINTENANCE OFFICER’S COURSE

CHAPTER 6

SUPPLY DEPOT

CHAPTER 7

FLIGHT SCHOOL

Chapter 8

VMA-225 and MABS-14

CHAPTER 9

KOREA 1955

CHAPTER 10

JAPAN 1955, ‘56

CHAPTER 11

INTERMISSION AND RETURN

CHAPTER 12

GITMO, 1962

CHAPTER 13

THE HELICOPTER AS AN ASSISTANT TO A COLLEGE REGISTRAR SEPT. 1962

CHAPTER 14

CUBAN FLAP OCTOBER 1962

CHAPTER 15

RITTER’S CRITTERS

CHAPTER 15

HMM-162

20 YEARS, CHAPTER 16, HAWAII

CHAPTER 17

VIETNAM REVISITED

CHAPTER 18

NEW RIVER REVISITED

CHAPTER 19

TWILIGHT TOUR

CHAPTER 20

MEMPHIS, THE FINAL INSULT

Chapter 1

The Beginning

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I suppose it would be a romantic beginning to be able to say that a girl started this chain of events. Fact is, that I had wanted to be a Marine all of my life, particularly a Marine Pilot. I was in high school when WWII ended and can still remember the newsreels, etc., of the heros of the Pacific Island Campaigns.

In all truth and fairness there was a girl involved in the beginnings of this thing although it probably would stretch a point to say that she was the sole cause of it. What is often thought to be Kismet can sometimes be traced to a series of small events. None too terribly important itself but each necessary to the final outcome. In the fall of 1947 I was a student at Baylor University. In the early fall a fellow San Antonian offered me a ride home at a price reasonable enough to be within my financial reach. (Actually, it figured out to be about 8% of my weekly income.) This included delivery to and pick-up from the front door and turned out to be a weekly affair. A deal like this you don’t turn down, especially when you have the hots for a home-town chick and it seems that she is finally available. The driver of this $2.00 round-trip was an ex-Navy Corpsman in his senior year of Pre-Med. Clarence had a dual goal in life--medical school, or a commission and career in the military--any service. He did later spend a while in the Navy or Coast Guard Supply Corps and ended up as a Pharmacist in our hometown. Years later he was murdered in his store by some freaked-out young thieves hunting drugs.

The weekend trip home became a regular thing and it would have made a good old American romance to say I married the broad and lived happily ever after. That being the case I would have only a one page story, and not a very interesting one at that.

Our romance drifted happily along until early the following spring when two significant events occurred during the same week. Had these happenings been separated, the entire course of history probably would have been affected. Event # two: A Marine Corps Head-Hunting Team, recruiting PLC’s (Candidates for the Platoon Leader’s Class, A Reserve Officer Candidate Course, which engaged in two summers of training at Quantico, Va. and earned a commission upon graduation from college) arrived on campus one Friday morning. My ride home, sensing the possibility of a commission in the Marine Corps, delayed our departure to talk to these folks. Not wanting to be left behind, I followed him into the room and chose a vantage point in the corner, not too far from the door. I was just standing there, minding my own business, when this character with a uniform on and stripes all up and down both sleeves happened to look over my way. Sensing fresh meat he said, Come over here, boy, I want to talk to you! I was leaning against the wall, and since there was no one behind me, it was rather obvious that he was talking to me. Without trying to remember the entire conversation or making any exact quotes, the upshot of the whole thing was that I left the room with 172 years of Marine Corps History and Tradition swirling around in my head and an armload of brochures extolling the virtues of the Marine Platoon Leader’s Class (bring your golf clubs) and a career in the Corps. All of this might possibly come to naught had not Event # one of that particular week provided me with a great deal of reason to ponder upon the vagaries of the female of the species. I had gotten a Dear John letter and, while consoling myself at the local Soda Shoppe my roommate, who incidentally, had attended my same high school, wandered in. During the course of the ensuing conversation I mentioned my plight. The roommate was familiar with both principals in the drama and so took some time from his otherwise busy schedule to explain a few facts of life to me that had previously been neglected. It seems that I was not the only one in contention for the favors of the above mentioned young lady. I would come home on weekends and we would sit and hold hands and talk about the wonderful future and all the beautiful things that would transpire. We had even gone as far as to announce our engaged-to-be-engaged engagement at a New Year’s Eve party. (This all seems so inconsequential now, but puppy love is very real to the puppy!) I learned that there was a third party about whom I had known very little or nothing and it seems that the little lady had made her choice. Needless to say, I was rather discomfited by my roomie’s disclosure and the following weekend did little to alter the situation. A gala evening at Club Seven Oaks and a painful Sayonara. No pain is as intense as the pain of a broken heart which must be suffered alone and in silence. Even aspirin didn’t help, but since this affliction is rarely fatal in itself, I returned to the PLC Recruiting Team with all necessary papers, bearing all necessary signatures. It was just like joining the French Foreign Legion to escape the past. Anyway, I rationalized, If there should happen to be another war, I would be going first class. I knew not at the time the definition of first class as applied to Marine 2nd Lt. Platoon Leaders. All this was easy to say at a time when the WWII Draft Law had expired, there was no war going on anywhere in the world, (except the French thing in Indo-China) and a six-week summer vacation in Quantico, Va. with pay--$75.00 per month--had a positive ring to it.

I don’t remember a great deal about that summer of 1948 Platoon Leaders’ Class (PLC) except that I was the only one without prior military service in a company of some 240 WWII, Vets. There were enough ribbons and badges on chests to stock an Army-Navy Surplus store.

The train ride from San Antonio to Quantico had been an experience itself. Twenty-four hours to St. Louis, change trains, and another long ride to Cincinnati for another train change. By this time there were enough of us gathered together to fill two Pullman cars and we had our own special dining car. The conductor would have been a credit on any Basic Training drill field in the world. It was all so new to me that I was having a ball.

For whatever individual reason, there we stood--all 240 of us. Starched, almost white, khakis, ribbons, medals, badges, field scarves (cotton neck ties worn in the Old Corps) pressed to an edge you could almost shave with, shoes with that particular shine, and me. I still had the price tags on my uniform. No one but an Old Corps Marine knows how unutterably wretched khaki could look until it had been laundered many times and had received the tender, loving care that gave it that special look. This look does not magically appear the first time you take new khaki out of the laundry package. It takes at least a dozen launderings to get the little paper stickers off the stuff and repeated scrubbing with proper incantations to complete the job. Being dragged in the ocean at the end of a rope behind a ship helps, I hear.

There we stood, with Sgt. P. pacing back and forth, looking at us through the eyes of a seasoned, veteran Marine DI. It would have been obvious to anyone that there was one individual here who perhaps did not have quite as much experience in things military as the rest of the troop. However, Sgt. P., with the savoir-faire that can only come from years of experience, and with gentility possible only to men of his calling quietly announced, "ALL RIGHT, ALL YOUSE PEOPLE THAT DON'T KNOW CLOSE ORDER DRILL, TAKE ONE PACE FORWARD!" Since we were standing at attention it was difficult to see what was going on more than a few people to either side, but I cut my eyes as far as I could both ways to see who was stepping out. No one moved, least of all me. Sgt. P., who stood a full 5'6 in his doublesoled, cleated cordovans began moving down the long line. I had so much to learn that I didn't even know how much I had to learn. Here came my tutor in things military, my tormentor as it were, for the next six weeks, heading for me with but one question, Mister, where did youse learn close order drill? (He could put more feeling in the word mister than most sailors can put into a whole string of adjectives) I was quite sincere in my answer. In high school band. After all, we had won every marching contest we had entered, had marched in the half-time show of 39 football games in the four years I was there, and numerous parades, plus hours of summertime practice. This must not have been the answer he was seeking. His face turned a rather unusual purple color and he was quite white around the lips. The snickers that rippled through the assembled company did not serve to improve his mood a great deal. He said that we would test my skills the following morning and promised me a large measure of special attention and consideration if I made so much as one mistake. I was quite confident that nothing could go amiss until that night in the barracks when Dutch mentioned the M-1 rifle. We had been issued these weapons later that same day but close order drill and M-1 rifle" had not passed through my mind simultaneously. As I said, I was not yet aware of how much learning lay ahead.

I must state, at this point, that nowhere but in the Corps do friendships form so quickly and nowhere else can you find practical strangers who are so willing to help the novitiate learn the necessary skills. Dutch asked me if I knew the manual-of-arms. I told him that I did not but would try to get a copy of it at the library first chance. At this point others were beginning to take an interest in my plight and, after quite a lengthy discussion, it was decided that no member of the 4th Platoon of M Company was going to appear in the early dawn, pitted against so formidable an opponent as Sgt. P. without at least an idea of what he was facing. I spent that night learning the manual-of-arms. My instructors worked in shifts, instructing a while and sleeping a while. By morning I felt that I could make the team if only I could keep standing up and not go to sleep in mid-step. However, there was one slight omission in my night of instruction. No one took the trouble to explain the difference between the regular manual-of-arms and the Queen Anne's Manual-of-arms, which is strictly for drill teams on exhibition. Sgt. P. called me out in front of the company with my newly-acquired rifle and stood me at attention. (Still remember the serial number of that rifle--2740611) His first order was, Po-o-o-r-rt, Arms. I smartly kicked the butt of my M-1 out to the side, twirled it like a drum major's baton and came to the correct position of port arms. This was the first time in our short acquaintance that I had noticed Sgt. P. blink. I previously thought that he had been born without eyelids. It took only two more movements to convince him that he had been had, Ri-i-ight Shoulder, Arms, and Or-r-derr-r, Arms." The whole company busted out in cheers. I wish I could have been in on the joke at the time. It might have made subsequent days somewhat easier.

That was on a Tuesday. Two days later we had our first inspection. By then a war had been declared. I was one of the combatants, but was blissfully unaware of it. By Thursday, inspection time, I had found someone my size who was willing to trade me a good, broke-in inspection uniform for only two of my new ones. This made me happier than a pig in a pile of sour mash.

For some unknown reason my beard was rather late in developing. I had never bothered to examine the physiological reasons for this phenomenon, if any, I had just accepted it as a favorable condition not to be questioned. I shaved, or tweezered, as the occasion demanded, usually on a bimonthly or quarterly basis, or whenever there was an extra-special occasion. This circumstance was about to start the second skirmish of the undeclared war.

0600, Thursday morning, inspection time had arrived. Sgt. P. was quickly moving through the ranks for a preliminary look before the Company Commander arrived. When he came to me, he stopped, turned that funny color again, a dark mauve, pale around the lips. Mister, when did you shave last? I thought for a few seconds and said, A week ago Saturday. This was the truth. It was my last night in town before launching into the unknown, some heavy celebrating, therefore the need to shave. "Mister, in the Marine Corps we shave every day! ! ! It wasn't as if I had a beard like Eric the Red. I had maybe two hairs on my chin, long enough to break the surface, and one on my neck that the collar didn't quite cover. I was saved from further counseling by the arrival of the Company Commander and the four Platoon Leaders. They whipped up and down the rows, inspecting rifles, commenting on various and sundry things and, in general, being rather pleasant. Right past me with never a second look! I had just about forgotten about the incident when, the next morning at 0500 Sgt. P. appeared on the scene. He had with him a new Schick Injector Razor, shaving brush, Old Spice Lather Shaving Soap in a shaving mug with a picture of a sailing ship on the side of it, all things necessary for the daily torture of scraping one's face free of the hirsute adornment put there by nature for reasons unfathomable. I had taken his admonition to heart and, the night before, had whisked off the two or three barely noticeable whiskers. But no, shaving lessons were about to begin. I was humiliated, but too terror-stricken to resist. The rest of the company loved it. I found out a couple of weeks later that, to a man, they thought I was intentionally making fun of Sgt. P. that the baiting I was doing was on purpose. I cannot take the credit. I was neither smart enough nor brave enough to have been acting as accused. Nevertheless, the lessons continued--Saturday, Sunday (on his own time). Finally, on Monday, Sgt. P. thought it was time for a new blade in the Schick, notwithstanding the fact that the old one had nothing to cut. He wouldn't hear of me using my own Enders Speed Shaver--a present from my father and only used half a dozen times. We changed blades by the numbers, 1-2-3-4, PULL-PUSH-CLICK-CLICK! Then a remarkable thing happened. The little dummy blade, that Schicks come from the store with, fell out on the shelf beneath the mirror. I had been shaving for three days with a dummy blade. Again, that strange deep purple color spread over Sgt. P.'s face. He was quite white around the mouth and making little noises like a cross between choking and sobbing. I couldn't imagine what was wrong. When I asked, What happened?" He just ran out of the head without a word--followed by great bellows of laughter (after he was gone) and everyone congratulating me. The explanation was still several weeks away.

With my Marine Corps uniform on I felt about nine feet tall, particularly in my traded for inspection uniform. So, there was nothing to do but to go on liberty. Come Saturday, everything in order, a couple of us donned our finery and headed out. The PLC Regimental Area, although at the far end of the main base, was in easy walking distance of the front gate. The sleepy little town of Quantico and its train station were wholly within the confines of the base. A train came through every hour headed north, so after a short walk and a short wait we were on our way. By the time the train arrived in D. C. we had been joined by several others and had a fairly sizeable group. As is usually the case when more than one Marine get together in a group, someone suggested a party. The idea was immediately seconded and one of the group, who seemed to know more about D. C. than the rest of us suggested that we get rooms at the old Raleigh Hotel, which was conveniently located and reasonably priced. An added feature was that all rooms were inner-connected and if we get several rooms together it would be a better place to party. As I remember there were six or seven of us in the group and the Raleigh wasn't just overflowing with guests so our arrangements were fairly simple to complete.

The remainder of the afternoon was spent at sightseeing and allowing ourselves to be seen, proud in our immaculate uniforms. A couple of us got paired off and discovered O'Donnel's Sea Food Restaurant and, for dinner, treated ourselves to delights of the deep.

Inner man satisfied, my companion suggested that we go look for some wimmen. All this was new and wonderful to me. Here I was--country bumpkin--in company of an older, experienced tutor who really seemed to know his way around. Our search lead us in and out of many places. Not being a drinker, I ordered what I imagined to Be the weakest drink available--rum and coke--and would take only a small sip or two at each place. Then it happened! We were at some nameless bar and T.C. (Trusted Companion) had gone to answer the call of nature. The bar stool next to me was suddenly occupied by someone other than T.C. She could talk! Buy a gal a drink? I did and we engaged for a few minutes in the usual small talk, Where are you from? What are you doing here? Let's get out of here. At this suggestion I looked around and spotted. T.C. about four bar stools away. He gave me the circled thumb and forefinger signal that everything was OK, so my new companion and I left. Where are you staying, she asked. I told here and she suggested that it would be cheaper and better if we bought a bottle and went up to my room to drink. I gave this suggestion about three seconds' consideration and agreed. After all, I reasoned, Even though she is older (probably about 27 or so) she is a classy looking chick and makes some of the most marvelous suggestions. While she waited I ducked into the corner package store and bought a bottle--a whole half-pint of genuine Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whisky--no neutral grain spirits added! Only the best for my friends. We went to my room, ordered some ice and coke, got a little more comfortable, and settled down--for what, I knew not. The anticipated party hadn't developed so we had the area all to ourselves. After a drink or two I had to answer the call of nature and when I came out of the bathroom my lovely companion was nowhere to be seen. Her purse was gone, the bottle was gone, and in this quick inventory taking, I noticed that my wallet was lying on the bed. While getting more comfortable I had become separated from the pocket that carried my wallet. A quick check revealed that she had left my ID card and my return trip ticket to Quantico. My money, the entire $14.00, was gone! Luckily, the room had been paid for in advance and I had enough change for a Danish and coffee for breakfast. It was a long, lonely walk to the train station the next morning. I was too embarrassed to look for any of my buddies of the day before and the walk gave me an opportunity to ponder upon man's inhumanity to man.

Upon my arrival back at the barracks, T.C. asked the inevitable question. For an answer I said, I sure did. As a matter of fact I got the screwing of my life--certainly one I'll never forget!

Time went on apace and Dutch finally realized that I was really all innocence and explained about the dummy blade and the Queen Anne's Manual and several other facts of military life to me. Also, about the same time, Sgt. P. either realized the real extent of my ignorance or thought that he had finally met his match. Whichever, he ceased to single me out for so much personal attention.

After four weeks' training mainside, including endless hours in the classroom, doubletime to chow, a few minutes to relax, doubletime back to class, days and days on the rifle range firing our weapons, pulling butts, cleaning out the results of corrosive primers in our M-1's with gallons of hot, soapy water, we were told we were moving to the field. This was all so new and different to me that I looked forward to every moment and to everything new that was happening. The field was Camp Onville–a collection of small, half-platoon sized Quonset huts and a larger one for a chow hall. A row of huts housing L Company on one side of the drill field (the grinder) and a like row on the other side, housing M Company, with the chow hall hut closing one end of the quadrangle. Sgt. P. had told us that we were going to make up Field Transport Packs and walk out to Onville. The word was that as soon as we got there and got our area squared away we could go on liberty. To this end we made up our packs after secure Friday evening and set forth in the wee hours of Saturday morning. After about a four-hour hike, trucks picked us up and we rode the rest of the way. We found, upon our arrival, that through some stroke of fortune cleaning gear had not arrived or otherwise been arranged for and it took us no time at all to empty our packs and stow our meager belongings.

The Camp Commander had been eagerly awaiting our arrival. Evidently, he had looked out upon the dry, dusty field that was the parade ground and thought how nice it would look covered with lush, green, manicured grass.

He figured that in order to get his much-wanted grass to grow, the field needed some fertilizer and grass seed. To this end he had ordered several loads of sheep manure and it was piled in great piles scattered about the drill field and nearly 400 automatic, voice-actuated manure spreaders had just arrived! Alright, youse guys, turn to and spread the sheep shit. Won't be no liberty ‘til it's done. Sgt. P. must have actually sorry for us. He didn't call us mister or gennelmen. Grumbling, griping, bitching, we turned to. There weren't enough spreading implements for all of us so we were taking turns, and with such a huge working party the job should have been a short one. However, the manure was still wet, sticky, and steamy on the inside of the piles and we had no more than started when we were hit with a torrential summer downpour.

First, someone slipped down, then someone was tripped and fell, then we were all in it, rolling, wrestling and having a grand old time. We carried half the stuff to the showers coated upon us. Then, to our utter horror, we found that the water had not yet been turned on in the showers! This was not the simple turning of a valve like it should have been. The valve had to be turned by someone from Public Works or Camp Maintenance. Public Works was civilian employees who didn't work on Saturdays. Camp Maintenance, marines, was on liberty. Scattered about the camp were fire barrels. These were 55 gallon drums full of water with a 2X4 across the top and a bucket hanging from each end of the 2X4. Each was covered with a thin film of oil to prevent mosquitos from breeding therein. We figured that a light coat of oil was better than a heavy coating of sheep manure so we gathered around the barrels, stripped and showered. For some reason or another no grass grew while we were there that summer. It could have been from the pitter-patter of more than 800 little feet in our daily sessions of close order drill.

One highlight of this first six-weeks training had to be the drill competition. Each platoon was allowed to elect a DI from among its members and a contest would be held. We elected Dutch. He had quite a bit of prior service, some drill team experience, and was totally unruffleable (if that's a word). We practiced the basics and added a little special drill that I had remembered from one of my high school marching band contests. Everyone worked super hard. I think much of it was so they could stuff me down Sgt. P.'s throat because of all the static he had given me about where I had learned close order drill and his special attention to me in general. I had volunteered to break a leg or something so that I would be out of the contest. I felt that the platoon had a much better chance without me. However, this suggestion was me with almost universal dissent. It wouldn't be nearly as much fun winning without you. Besides, look at Jerry W. He was in the Navy and your high school band should be able to march as good as a bunch of sailors! I silently promised the rest of the platoon that I would not make a mistake.

The big day arrived and the rules of the contest were published. Impartial judges from outside the local command were on hand to watch. The way the thing ran was for all platoons to start drilling at the same time--eight of us. We were to perform normal, ordinary drill and if the observers saw a serious mistake, that platoon was eliminated from the play. When it got down to two platoons we would be allowed to show our stuff individually. First with a canned set of movements and then with any special stuff we cared to show. It took about four hours to weed the crowd down to two. Straws were drawn and we had the opportunity to go last. We were nothing less than perfect. The special drill had Sgt. P. looking at us very closely. We were the unanimous decision of the judges. I think that even Sgt. P. was a little proud of us. The prize was an unengraved, 75 cent Zippo lighter, but we were as proud of these as if they had been 12-foot trophies. I still have mine.

At the end of this six-week stint of training, Sgt. P. took me aside and admitted that it was possible that he had been a little hard on me at the beginning; however, it had been for a reason. He said that, at first, he couldn't understand what he had done to deserve a student like me, but the realization finally came, I finally realized why God put you on earth. . . He put you here just to piss me off!

If I had to name two people outside of my immediate family who had the most influence shaping my life, I would have to name that high school band director and Sgt. P.

CHAPTER 2

PLC, 1949

The summer of 1949 dawned bright and clear. Although I knew somewhat what I was in for, I was looking forward to it. By now Congress had passed a new draft law so there was an added incentive for successful completion. Instead of a Travel Request and train ride as I had done the previous summer I decided to ride the bus and see some country. I went through Dallas, Little Rock, St. Louis, Cincinnati, Charleston, W. Va., and on into D.C. planning to return down the East Coast and through the Gulf States, including a visit to New Orleans. Traveling was pleasant and I met a Baylor classmate in St. Louis. She was on her way home to New York from after visiting her sister and brother-in-law in Denver. So I had a good travel companion as far as Washington. Having left San Antonio early enough to give myself plenty of time, I had a couple of days to kill before going on down to Quantico. A day or two in the old Raleigh Hotel with said traveling companion served to rest me from my travels.

As expected, Senior Platoon Leader's Class turned out to be much like the year before--with one glaring exception. We had nothing that even remotely resembled Sgt. P. among our leaders. (This may have been due to the fact that our current DI faced nothing that even remotely resembled what I had looked like the previous year.) While there were many new faces in the ranks, there were also many old friends refound. Dutch was there. Jerry was there. Nellie was there. Enough familiar faces so that this summer lacked the complete outer-space newness and strangeness of the virgin year. We did have the opportunity to see Sgt. P. His enlistment had expired, he had gotten out of the Marine Corps and was going to college. He had enrolled in the PLC Program. What are youse guys staring at? I know a good deal when I see one!

In 1948 we had spent four weeks Mainside and two weeks at Camp Onville, later known as Camp Barrett and home of The Basic School. This time it was three weeks Mainside, classrooms, and rifle and pistol range, and three weeks in the field at Camp Upsure.

An amusing incident happened at the Pistol Range. It could have been tragic but, luckily, it was not and turned out to be hilarious. It was the first time some of us had actually held the .45 Colt, Model 1911A1, semi-automatic pistol in our hands. This is a big piece of ordnance and packs a pretty good wallop at both ends. One of the relays was up at the line firing and the rest of us were engaged in our favorite pastime--crapping out. (Resting) All of a sudden one of the shooters whirled around and appeared to shoot the man on his right, square in the balls. The one who appeared to have been shot grabbed his crotch and rolled on the ground, yelling at the top of his lungs. We ran over and, after some effort, managed to pry his hands loose from his crotch. We found nothing wrong but powder burns, ragged cloth, and probably some bruises. No real injuries. Pieced together, the best we could figure was that shooter A, who was not wearing a Tee shirt and had the front of his utility jacket unbuttoned part way down, had caught a round of hot brass down his shirt from the shooter on his left. Nervous, as we all were, this surprised him enough that he whirled just as he was squeezing off a round. As his pistol went off, it was comfortably (or uncomfortably) nestled in the crotch of shooter B on his right--just how, we'll never know. The blast was enough to convince shooter B that he had lost something very important and valuable to him. Fortunately, he was the last one on the line so the ricochet bounded harmlessly off into the woods.

One lingering memory of that summer is boiled potatoes, butter, and iced tea. The food was criminal! Breakfast could sometimes be salvaged by stale, dry cereal with tepid milk. Some mornings the milk was actually warmer than the coffee. It is almost impossible to screw up a potato, especially if you just throw it in water without peeling it and let it boil. The butter was purchased on the outside so it was good, and the iced tea (when we had ice) was just lucky. They either baked or bought bread (unwrapped) on Thursdays, and stored it in a large, screened cabinet through which air could circulate freely. Friday the bread was still reasonably fresh, but it went straight downhill from there, and by Thursday again you could shingle a roof with it. This was all after we got to Upshur. The food at Mainside had been pretty good. The heat in the Upshur chowhall was very nearly unbearable. I don't recall that flies were much of a problem. They either ate in the kitchen or died of heat stroke before they got very far inside. Even Charles of the Ritz couldn't have made a living under these conditions. By suppertime you were so tired that you stuffed something down your gullet and hoped that it wasn't poison. This is where the boiled potatoes and butter came in. These items were present at every evening meal.

We had a standard meal when we ate in the field away from the chowhall. Good Humor Ice Cream Bars! The Good Humor Man must have had a copy of our schedule and was a very dependable vendor. It was either this or turkey-a-la-king. Whoever thought up turkey-a-la-king for field rations should have been court martialed. (Incidentally, he later was--but not for the turkey. It seems that he was fooling around with the money he was supposed to spend to feed us.) We would go through the chow line, get our turkey-a-la-king, dump it in the wet garbage GI can, wash our mess gear, and get in line for the Good Humor truck. (A significant observation at this point is that the Instructors and our Company Officers all seemed to be brown baggers and would hold their little picnic off to the side somewhere, usually upwind) The reason for our routine of getting the turkey and dumping it was to try to use up all of the stuff and maybe they would change and give us something else--like chicken-a-la-king. Resilient bunch that we were none of us died of malnutrition. I even gained a couple of pounds.

About the time we moved to Upshur we were told that if we hurried and finished the syllabus early we could go home early. (Looks like we would learn after a while) One big thing that kept some of us going was the fact that there was a definite end to all of this, after which the bad dreams would end, we could eat some real food and walk around in a world full of real things and people. We had a super-hot young Platoon Leader who also believed the early home story. If he got us finished early he could have a couple of days off before getting his next platoon. He was with us constantly--leading, pushing, drawing us along. Let me explain here that this activity on his part was not at all required. He could have stood in the shade and watched. We had our student company commanders, student platoon leaders, etc., all the way down to student fire team leaders assigned each day. The real Platoon Leaders just stood around and watched. The real Company Commanders were seldom seen. Our Platoon Leader was one of the real leaders I met during my career. I later heard that he was killed in Korea.

The sixth syllabus week came while we were still in about the middle of the fifth week and, in spite of a couple of little incidents that could have set us back rather seriously, the end was in sight. One of these incidents had to do with a major who always seemed to be tagging along with us in his jeep, with driver. He always carried a gas mask bag and soon our collective curiosity became aroused about what he carried in this bag besides his lunch and coffee thermos. He left it unattended in the jeep one morning and one of the braver of our little band snuck a peek while the driver was attending to other business. Nothing more exciting than a roll of toilet paper.

A day or two later we were doing Company in the Offense--Mopping Up when we suddenly discovered a need for something with which to mark booby traps. The same thought struck several of us simultaneously. The major's toilet paper. Since he was never far from us we reasoned that one of us could go ask the good major for a few feet of the paper for a good cause. Our elected messenger came back with the entire roll and we went merrily about, discovering booby traps and swathing them in paper. About the middle of the morning there came a beller that could have been heard for miles. The major had discovered the loss of his precious paper at a very unfortunate time and, creature of longstanding habit that he was, very nearly had a terrible accident. He had served in WWII and I have since wondered how he managed to get the Japs to take 10 during the middle of the morning so he could succumb to the call. Naturally, he was furious and threatened to shorten the careers of a few of the young hopefuls when he found us with his purloined paper. We discovered that our messenger, not finding the major to ask for the paper, had done the next best thing. The major soon calmed down when he discovered that we had left enough on the roll for its intended use and went mumbling off into the woods for his period of nature study. It was at this time that we learned that he was the Training Battalion S-3, or Operations Officer and carried a pretty big bucket of water.

By Tuesday mid-afternoon of the sixth week we were finished with everything. All cleaned up, 782 gear and rifles spotless and ready to turn in and by suppertime we were looking forward to whatever graduation ceremony there was to be and home again. I had big plans to visit my school friend who lived in New York and, so, was doubly eager to leave.

However, In the Beginning was the Word, and the word was changed! In a way this foretold my entire career--you simply cannot plan past sundown today and even then you must be ready for your plans to be changed for you. LtCol. Lewis Walt, later a three-star and Commanding General of IIIMAF in Vietnam and the first non-Commandant four-star in the Marine Corps was the after dinner speaker. He was the Training Battalion Commander. He had supper with us and after supper the entire company was assembled to hear him speak. What followed was one of the most closely-guarded secrets of all time. We had not an inkling of what lay before us. There had not even been a rumor that anything was amiss. If any of us thought anything of this gathering and speech we probably thought it was a well-done sort of thing. As he mounted the hood of his jeep in front of the assembled company a wind came up and threatening clouds appeared on the horizon. Looks like it might rain, he opined, But that's all right, Marines have gotten wet before." We chuckled good naturedly at his little joke. Nothing could bother us now, we were finished. We just wished he would hurry up with his little congratulatory speech so we could hit the slop-chute. He then went on to outline a new three-day war he had thought up to occupy our time since we had nothing to do until graduation day. I think now that it was all planned from the beginning.

Rain it did! I don't think I had ever been so miserable in my entire life. I heard some serious reflections by some of the older troops that they had been more comfortable and better fed on Saipan or Iwo Jima. The three-day war would have been bad enough any time. It was merely a three-day lesson in digging a foxhole, filling it in, walking five miles, digging another foxhole, filling it in, walking five miles, etc. But with three days of rain, three more days of turkey-a-la-king, (someone had discovered a new supply of the stuff and this three-day war was designed solely to have someone to feed it to) all happening during three days I was planning to spend in bed was almost more than a mortal could stand. They (I'll say more about that word later) had told us at the beginning of the first summer that we could drop out any time we wanted to. This promise had been repeated at the beginning of the current summer. All we had to do was to tell the Company First Sgt and the next day we were on our way home. During this last three days a couple of people actually left. Just like Moses Rose leaving the Alamo, they had had enough of war. The straw that broke . . . The rest of us were so mad that we were going to stay the whole three days, and more if necessary, just so the SOB who planned this would have to be out there with us.

The earth kept on turning and Friday finally came. As we trudged back to camp in the midmorning gloom we were really handed the final straw. "You have just two hours to clean up, turn in your gear, and get into the uniform of the day. The Commandant is coming for lunch and will present graduation certificates. Groan! But we made it. We actually had a fairly decent meal. Upon entering the chow hall, the Commandant made a comment on the temperature and people were practically kicking out walls to get some ventilation in the place. It seems that the windows on that particular type of Quonset Hut were not the type that could be opened. We were more-or-less accustomed to the heat. It had been with us all summer.

The Commandant invited the honor student, Dutch, and another student whose father he had served with during WWI to join him at his table and the whole atmosphere was quite pleasant. I don't know if anyone else got a graduation certificate or not. Mine was a rolled-up piece of typing paper with my name printed lightly in pencil on the outside. At least it was handed to me by the Commandant. I probably still have it somewhere.

After the Commandant left, we got our