With my return to An Hoa after our little visit to the Arizona, I figured that my service in the field was probably done for my tour. Not so fast there, bucko!
A couple of days after the battalion headed for the area southeast of Phu Loc (6), I was called to the XO’s office. Along with several officers, I was informed that starting the next morning, the US Forces in Vietnam would be recovering all currently issued Military Payment Certificates (“MPC”), the scrip we used for money, and issuing a new version. We were the exchange officers.
Starting shortly after the United States entered the war in 1965, a huge black market had developed, with the intent of getting access to US currency. Neither North nor South Vietnam had a recognized hard currency for foreign trade and dollars were in real demand. To shortstop the black market and to control access to US currency, as soon as a soldier, sailor, airman, or Marine arrived in Vietnam, he would exchange any US currency in his possession for scrip. When I arrived in An Hoa in December 1968, I had about $60 US. By June 1969, I still had about $20 of the scrip I received in December.
Issued in denominations of $.05, $.10, $.25, $1.00, $5.00, and $10.00, the bills were about half the size of regular US bills and were printed in any color except green. The version in use when I arrived had scenes from US history and were printed in blue, brown, red, and purple, depending on the denomination.
There was an apocryphal story that when it was first announced that scrip would replace greenbacks back in 1965, one enterprising soldier stationed in Saigon raided his unit’s rec room, removed all the bills from the Monopoly game, and went on a shopping spree. I hope it is true!
The next morning, all entrances to the base were closed. Authorized contractors, such as the mama-sans who ran the laundry and the papa-sans in the barber shop had been told to leave their cash with the disbursing officer when they left the night before. There were dozens of Vietnamese standing outside the gate trying to get the sentries to convert their illegally obtained MPCs. With officers observing each gate, they were pretty much out of luck.
I reported to the Disbursing bunker to obtain a payroll for Alpha Company, a stack of mimeographed receipts, a package of carbon paper, and a waterproof ammunition box to store the cash. I then headed down to the LZ and caught the first bird to Alpha Company.
Upon my arrival, the company reported to me by squads. For each man, I took his MPC, we counted it together, and I gave him my personal receipt for the agreed upon amount, keeping my carbon for the record. By 1300, I was done, but I had to wait until the next morning to get back to An Hoa. As soon as I got there, I returned to Disbursing where I counted and turned in the old MPC and my receipts, obtaining a receipt from the Disbursing Officer.
The next morning, I reported back to disbursing. There I counted out the new MPC (same size, color and denominations, but all of the pictures were from the manned space program), took custody of the cash and the carbons of my receipts, delivering the DO’s receipt to him, and headed back out. In the bush, I then “bought back” my receipts from the troops. The Disbursing clerks had spent all night paying out cash for each individual receipt, and we were cautioned not to “make change” for anyone.
Everything went well, except that two Marines had been medevac-ed during the night. I spent another night in the bush and had the opportunity to experience a couple of artillery short rounds that landed less than 100 meters outside the lines. As Father O'Brien said, "Friendly fire ain't!"
When I got back to An Hoa the next morning, the battalion appointed one officer to take the cash for wounded Marines from all 5 companies and go to Danang to pay them. I passed on that opportunity.
And yes, I followed the same procedure for myself. Of course, following the practice of pay officers back in those days of cash pay days, I had paid myself last in case there was a shortage. How it happened, I don’t know, but I made a profit.
I was a nickel ahead when all was done.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
18 March 2010
17 March 2010
EDMUND GIBSON ROSS, WHERE ARE YOU WHEN WE NEED YOU?
An epidemic of cowardice is sweeping through the halls of Congress. Led by the most duplicitous Speaker since Thomas Brackett “Czar” Reed, eulogized by Henry Cabot Lodge as "a good hater,” the House of Representatives is about to display cowardice of the worst kind. They will place fear of the Czarina above love of the Constitution.
Reed was the Speaker of the House in the 54th and 55th Congresses. His famous dictum that "The best system is to have one party govern and the other party watch," is probably inscribed on a card on Czarina Pelosi’s desk.
Pelosi and her cabal of anti-constitutionalists clearly pose the greatest threat to our system since the Radical Republicans of the 40th Congress. She wants her preferred version the so-called “health care reform bill” (which has nothing at all to do with health care and everything to do with centralized government control over the lives of citizens). Her caucus knows that any such bill is probably a deadly threat to their continued control of the House. Many representatives, especially those in swing districts, know that the people do not trust the proposed legislation and distrust the Congress even more.
They are afraid of voting for the deeply flawed bill, but afraid even more of Pelosi, herself a very good hater.
The problem facing that caucus is that the bill that the House passed is doomed because the Constitution, in Article I, Section 5, clause 2 provides that “ Each House may determine the rules of its proceedings, punish its members for disorderly behavior, and, with the concurrence of two thirds, expel a member. ” The rules adopted by Senate still allow a member, once recognized by the President to have the the floor, to speak until he or she surrenders the floor. This enables the filibuster, a parliamentary tool by which a minority of one may delay the business of the Senate for so long as he can keep the floor. It has been best portrayed by Jimmy Stewart in Mr. Smith Goes To Washington.
Still, the Senate has somewhat limited that right by adopting a rule on “cloture” which allows a limitation on debate. A cloture motion requires a vote of three-fifths of the members to invoke cloture.
Moreover, Article I, Section 5, clause 3 provides that “Each House shall keep a journal of its proceedings, and from time to time publish the same, . . .; and the yeas and nays of the members of either House on any question shall, at the desire of one fifth of those present, be entered on the journal.”
It was the “filibuster-proof” Senate that allowed Harry Reid to pass the Senate version of health care reform in the first place, a version that is anathema to all Republican Senators and many Democratic representatives. He had to do so because the House bill was anathema to a sufficient number of Senators that it could never pass the Senate. Even so, to get his 60 votes for cloture, Reid had to entice a number of Senators with sweetheart deals for their States, deals now entered into Senate Lore as the "Cornhusker Kickback," the "Louisiana Purchase," and others which were as costly but not susceptible to monikers.
The plan was for the House-Senate Committee to then take the two bills, work out a compromise and present the compromise to both houses for approval. Then came the election of Scott Brown, and that plan was dead. Reid could no longer prevent a filibuster.
Pelosi and Reid were in a real pickle.
There were two bills, each of which had passed one house. The only workable solution was for the House to adopt verbatim the version already approved by the Senate, avoiding the necessity of further action by the Senate and the inevitability of a filibuster.
But Pelosi hates the Senate bill, as do a significant number of her caucus. Even more, she hates and fears the Constitutional requirement that the affirmative assent of both houses is necessary before a bill is sent to the President. That pesky constitutional right of only 20% of the House could require her caucus to stand up and have recorded their vote on a bill that a majority of Americans do not trust and do not want. The votes would be recorded for posterity--and for use by their opponents for re-election--and that threatened the passage of the legislation.
Her caucus, a caucus of cowards, wants a bill that the Country does not want, but they do not want anyone to know that they voted for the bill. They want to be able to say “No, I did not vote for the Senate bill. I just voted to fix a 'flawed' bill that had already been enacted. I was against it before I was for it.”
They know that there is a strong likelihood that they will lose control of the House of Representatives if the bill passes and their constituents are presented with a recorded vote in favor. If they must actually conduct, in the words of the President, “an up or down vote," enough representatives faced with the loss of their seat if their vote is known might just vote “nay.”
“But,” says the Czarina, “let’s not let the Constitution get in the way.”
Side-stepping the Constitution, she has decided that the House need not vote on the Senate bill. Instead they will vote on a bill to re-write the Senate bill and in so-doing, “deem” the Senate bill to have passed both Houses of Congress. “Fie on the Constitutional right of the minority to demand the yeas and nays on a piece of legislation. Let them eat cake.”
Which brings me to Senator Ross. At the time of the gravest threat to the Constitution, graver even than that posed by the secession of the Southern States and the subsequent civil war, the Congress sought to convert our republican form of government with its separation of powers into a Parliamentary system. In 1867, President Andrew Johnson, who was seeking a Lincoln-esque reconstruction of the Union threatened to remove from office Secretary of War, Edwin Stanton (a really scary dude).
After Lincoln's death, Stanton ignored the President, kept control of the War Department, assumed de facto control of the State Department, and used the Secret Service to spy on the President, members of Congress and other enemies, setting the precedent for J. Edgar Hoover and Richard Nixon. Unlike the President, Stanton wanted retribution against the South that would have made what France and Britain did to Germany after WWI look like a Sunday School picnic. And probably with the same results.
The majority in Congress who also favored punishing the South forever passed a law, over Johnson’s veto, making the long-observed right of the President to remove members of his cabinet contingent upon Senate approval. Johnson fired Stanton and the House promptly impeached him. The Senate tried the case and voted 35-19 to convict, one vote shy of the two-thirds necessary to convict.
While five Republican senators broke with their party leadership to oppose conviction, it is Senator Edmund Gibson Ross of Kansas, a hero of the Civil War, who is usually acknowledged to have cast the decisive vote (and thus saving the Constitution). No less worthy than John F. Kennedy, in his Pulitzer Prize-winning book, Profiles in Courage, gives the credit to Ross. In recounting the vote, Ross later wrote “I looked into my open grave,” and he was right. He did the right thing, even though it called down upon his head the wrath of the vindictive and dictatorial leaders of his party and ended his political career.
Now the Czarina and her cabal seek to subvert the Constitution by purporting to enact legislation by fiat. Of course, the President could veto any such bill as he is required by his oath to “preserve, protect and defend the Constitution,” but he needs something upon which to claim political “victory.” And while it is likely that the Supreme Court will declare any “deemed” legislation to be a Constitutional nullity, that will take time.
So, for the sake of the American people and constitutional government, I pray that there are enough Edmund Gibson Ross-es among the members of the Democratic Party in Congress, representatives who will place their sworn duty to the Constitution above their fear of the Czarina.
Reed was the Speaker of the House in the 54th and 55th Congresses. His famous dictum that "The best system is to have one party govern and the other party watch," is probably inscribed on a card on Czarina Pelosi’s desk.
Pelosi and her cabal of anti-constitutionalists clearly pose the greatest threat to our system since the Radical Republicans of the 40th Congress. She wants her preferred version the so-called “health care reform bill” (which has nothing at all to do with health care and everything to do with centralized government control over the lives of citizens). Her caucus knows that any such bill is probably a deadly threat to their continued control of the House. Many representatives, especially those in swing districts, know that the people do not trust the proposed legislation and distrust the Congress even more.
They are afraid of voting for the deeply flawed bill, but afraid even more of Pelosi, herself a very good hater.
The problem facing that caucus is that the bill that the House passed is doomed because the Constitution, in Article I, Section 5, clause 2 provides that “ Each House may determine the rules of its proceedings, punish its members for disorderly behavior, and, with the concurrence of two thirds, expel a member. ” The rules adopted by Senate still allow a member, once recognized by the President to have the the floor, to speak until he or she surrenders the floor. This enables the filibuster, a parliamentary tool by which a minority of one may delay the business of the Senate for so long as he can keep the floor. It has been best portrayed by Jimmy Stewart in Mr. Smith Goes To Washington.
Still, the Senate has somewhat limited that right by adopting a rule on “cloture” which allows a limitation on debate. A cloture motion requires a vote of three-fifths of the members to invoke cloture.
Moreover, Article I, Section 5, clause 3 provides that “Each House shall keep a journal of its proceedings, and from time to time publish the same, . . .; and the yeas and nays of the members of either House on any question shall, at the desire of one fifth of those present, be entered on the journal.”
It was the “filibuster-proof” Senate that allowed Harry Reid to pass the Senate version of health care reform in the first place, a version that is anathema to all Republican Senators and many Democratic representatives. He had to do so because the House bill was anathema to a sufficient number of Senators that it could never pass the Senate. Even so, to get his 60 votes for cloture, Reid had to entice a number of Senators with sweetheart deals for their States, deals now entered into Senate Lore as the "Cornhusker Kickback," the "Louisiana Purchase," and others which were as costly but not susceptible to monikers.
The plan was for the House-Senate Committee to then take the two bills, work out a compromise and present the compromise to both houses for approval. Then came the election of Scott Brown, and that plan was dead. Reid could no longer prevent a filibuster.
Pelosi and Reid were in a real pickle.
There were two bills, each of which had passed one house. The only workable solution was for the House to adopt verbatim the version already approved by the Senate, avoiding the necessity of further action by the Senate and the inevitability of a filibuster.
But Pelosi hates the Senate bill, as do a significant number of her caucus. Even more, she hates and fears the Constitutional requirement that the affirmative assent of both houses is necessary before a bill is sent to the President. That pesky constitutional right of only 20% of the House could require her caucus to stand up and have recorded their vote on a bill that a majority of Americans do not trust and do not want. The votes would be recorded for posterity--and for use by their opponents for re-election--and that threatened the passage of the legislation.
Her caucus, a caucus of cowards, wants a bill that the Country does not want, but they do not want anyone to know that they voted for the bill. They want to be able to say “No, I did not vote for the Senate bill. I just voted to fix a 'flawed' bill that had already been enacted. I was against it before I was for it.”
They know that there is a strong likelihood that they will lose control of the House of Representatives if the bill passes and their constituents are presented with a recorded vote in favor. If they must actually conduct, in the words of the President, “an up or down vote," enough representatives faced with the loss of their seat if their vote is known might just vote “nay.”
“But,” says the Czarina, “let’s not let the Constitution get in the way.”
Side-stepping the Constitution, she has decided that the House need not vote on the Senate bill. Instead they will vote on a bill to re-write the Senate bill and in so-doing, “deem” the Senate bill to have passed both Houses of Congress. “Fie on the Constitutional right of the minority to demand the yeas and nays on a piece of legislation. Let them eat cake.”
Which brings me to Senator Ross. At the time of the gravest threat to the Constitution, graver even than that posed by the secession of the Southern States and the subsequent civil war, the Congress sought to convert our republican form of government with its separation of powers into a Parliamentary system. In 1867, President Andrew Johnson, who was seeking a Lincoln-esque reconstruction of the Union threatened to remove from office Secretary of War, Edwin Stanton (a really scary dude).
After Lincoln's death, Stanton ignored the President, kept control of the War Department, assumed de facto control of the State Department, and used the Secret Service to spy on the President, members of Congress and other enemies, setting the precedent for J. Edgar Hoover and Richard Nixon. Unlike the President, Stanton wanted retribution against the South that would have made what France and Britain did to Germany after WWI look like a Sunday School picnic. And probably with the same results.
The majority in Congress who also favored punishing the South forever passed a law, over Johnson’s veto, making the long-observed right of the President to remove members of his cabinet contingent upon Senate approval. Johnson fired Stanton and the House promptly impeached him. The Senate tried the case and voted 35-19 to convict, one vote shy of the two-thirds necessary to convict.
While five Republican senators broke with their party leadership to oppose conviction, it is Senator Edmund Gibson Ross of Kansas, a hero of the Civil War, who is usually acknowledged to have cast the decisive vote (and thus saving the Constitution). No less worthy than John F. Kennedy, in his Pulitzer Prize-winning book, Profiles in Courage, gives the credit to Ross. In recounting the vote, Ross later wrote “I looked into my open grave,” and he was right. He did the right thing, even though it called down upon his head the wrath of the vindictive and dictatorial leaders of his party and ended his political career.
Now the Czarina and her cabal seek to subvert the Constitution by purporting to enact legislation by fiat. Of course, the President could veto any such bill as he is required by his oath to “preserve, protect and defend the Constitution,” but he needs something upon which to claim political “victory.” And while it is likely that the Supreme Court will declare any “deemed” legislation to be a Constitutional nullity, that will take time.
So, for the sake of the American people and constitutional government, I pray that there are enough Edmund Gibson Ross-es among the members of the Democratic Party in Congress, representatives who will place their sworn duty to the Constitution above their fear of the Czarina.
16 March 2010
EVERY MARINE A RIFLEMAN
All Marines, except some members of the United States Marine Band (“The President’s Own”), go through recruit training or OCS. One of the changes that Jim Webb argued for when he was Secretary of the Navy was for midshipmen from the Naval Academy to attend a six-week session of OCS, just as their NROTC brethren did. Boot Camp and OCS are a common ground that enlisted Marines and their officers share with their peers.
I have long felt that all Marines should complete recruit training, even those who are already destined for OCS. Many of the Mustangs with whom I have served were better troop leaders for once having been enlisted Marines. But I can settle for an OCS requirement.
Central to such training is marksmanship. “Every Marine a rifleman” is gospel within the Corps. The ability to routinely place killing aimed rifle fire on target out to 500 or more yards has been our raison d’ etre since 1775. The Germans at Belleau Wood were so surprised to learn that entire regiments of Marines could consistently kill them out to 800 to 1,000 yards that they named us teuffelhunden (“devil dogs”).
Thus, while the 0311 (rifleman) is the primary practitioner of the art of musketry, the cook in the mess hall, the clerk in battalion headquarters, and the mechanic on the flight line will also be on the rifle range each year honing and reinforcing the skills necessary to “put one between an enemy’s running lights (eyes)” at distance—just in case. And their officers will be right there with them, firing the same course of fire. That’s what makes us all Marines.
When I returned to An Hoa, I called the Company First Sergeants to the S-4 bunker and explained that the CO had directed me to form a provisional rifle company to take to the Arizona in a few days. Based on their advice, I decided that 60 Marines would be able to do the job. We routinely had about 50 to 80 “casuals,” Marines recuperating from slight wounds, Marines awaiting disciplinary action, and some short-timers, who helped us meet the requirement that we man the regimental lines. We figured that if we used 30 of those Marines, and stripped another 30 out of the company and battalion headquarters, we could man up the provisional company while still meeting the battalion’s responsibilities.
The First Sergeant of Headquarters & Service Company suggested that we could reduce the number of cooks and messmen we provided to the mess hall because we would be reducing the number of Marines from 1/5 eating there. Three cooks, a Sergeant and two PFC’s became my mortar “squad.” We formed two 28 man platoons commanded by Sergeants, and a Staff Sergeant from Motor Transport volunteered to be my “gunny.”
In fact, the entire “company” was made up of volunteers.
The folks in the rear—truck drivers, mechanics, clerks, supply men, and cooks—rankled when their peers in the rifle companies referred to them as “REMF’s” (rear echelon m----f-----). Presented with an opportunity to prove their mettle as Marines, they jumped at the chance. The three cooks never did return to the mess hall—it turns out that they were natural born mortar men, and at their request, they moved to the 81mm mortar platoon when we disbanded the “company.”
The Battalion moved to the Arizona a few days later. The first night that we were in the bush, I was talking to the Colonel when we began to receive in-coming mortar fire. I threw myself to the deck, angry that my buttons were so thick that they kept me elevated. I looked over at the Old Man. He was hunkered down just as low as was I, but he was grinning.
“Now you know why I let you con me into this crazy plan of yours, Mac. I wanted you to be eligible for the Combat Action Ribbon.” The CAR had been instituted by the Secretary of the Navy in February 1969 (retroactive to 1961) to recognize Marines and sailors who “have rendered satisfactory performance under enemy fire while actively participating in a ground or surface engagement.”
I muttered that I had been eligible since December 26, thank you very much, but he just winked.
The attack ended, but the cries of “Corpsman, Corpsman” started. A communicator from the battalion CP group had been hit in the groin. When I got there, two corpsmen were already working on him. The Operations Chief, a Master Sergeant, was with him, calming him with the assurance that “I can see that you still got yer pecker and at least one of your balls, son. Don’t worry about it. I lost one at Chosin Reservoir and we’ve have had seven kids since then.”
The Marine was on a medevac chopper within minutes, headed for Da Nang.
Life in the bush had a numbing and reassuring repetition. I sent out patrols during the day, a single ambush at night, and resumed my practice of weapons inspections every day. The 24 days raced past. Every two or three days, I would fly into An Hoa to do “S-4 stuff” as the XO called it, but never missed a night in the field.
Three events stand out in my memory.
One night, I let the mortar squad try a new (for them) method of adjusting fire. The put up a flare and then re-laid the mortar for high explosive rounds on the now visible target. The first HE round was a direct hit. They were whooped and hollered like the teenagers they were, I was impressed, and the 81 mm mortar platoon commander began his negotiations to sign them up.
Then there was the day that we received, unsolicited, an Army psychological operations team. They arrived on the afternoon resupply bird, complete with loudspeakers, a phonograph, a small generator, and assorted microphones and cables.
The Colonel talked to them and then called me over. “Take charge of these psychos. Just keep them out of my hair.”
I took the Staff Sergeant and his Sergeant the location in which they could set up. As they were doing so, I suggested that they needed a fighting hole because we had been taking occasional mortar fire.
“Well,” the Sergeant asked, “where is it?” Huh?
My gunny shook his head and said, “Well, damn, Sergeant, you’re standing right in it. You just ain’t dug the dirt outen it yet.” There then followed a short discussion regarding the different philosophies of the Army and the Marine Corps. Needless to say, the doggies were soon digging away.
After they were dug in, I briefed them on their sectors of fire.
“Sectors of fire,” the Staff Sergeant asked?
“Yeah, you’re in the line and you have specified sectors of fire.”
“Oh, no sir. We’re specialists. The host unit is responsible for our security. We don’t stand lines.”
“Really?” I called the gunny over and explained our apparent responsibilities as good hosts. He chuckled and called to the Marines in the holes on either side of our guests’ quarters. The Marines came over.
“OK, Marines. This here is Staff Sergeant ______ and Sergeant _______. They don’t want to stand lines tonight. If they get out of their holes after stand to, kill them.” The Marines nodded. The gunny turned to the doggies. “Are we clear now? Everybody happy? Good. C’mon, Lieutenant, let’s let these folks get acquainted.”
The Army team returned to from whence they came the very next morning.
And then there was the Army Warrant Officer.
We had noticed that our ambush patrols were having less and less contact. We suspected that locals were observing as the ambushes left our lines and were then warning the NVA of their locations. To counter this, we began to send the ambushes out with afternoon security patrols. The ambush squad would intermingle with the security patrol. At one of the security patrol’s stops, the ambush would go to ground and stay behind when the security patrol moved on. After dark, the ambush would move into position and our results began to improve.
One afternoon, a patrol from Alpha Company was approaching a treeline when it erupted with small arms and automatic weapons fire, pinning the patrol down in a rice paddy. The point man was hit in the chest.
Two CH 46’s were soon on station to conduct a medevac. As dash one (the lead chopper) tried to land, he came under heavy fire and could not land. He tried two more times and were shot out of the zone both times. On the last attempt, the bird was hit, one of the crew was seriously wounded, and the chopper began to leak hydraulic fluid.
He called “no joy,” and headed back to An Hoa, with dash two in trail to provide security.
I was with the battalion CP group, listening to the radio reports on the Battalion Tactical and Alpha’s Company Tactical frequencies. Alpha was sending a reinforcing platoon, but the patrol was nearly 1500 meters from the Company.
Suddenly, a new voice came up on Alpha’s company tac. “Alpha 3, Alpha 3, this is Snafflering Juliet 56. Can we be of assistance.”
“This is Alpha Six. Who the [universal modifier] are you?”
Alpha Six, I am a huey gunship coming out of Antenna Valley and orbiting just west of An Hoa. Can I help?”
Alpha 6 quickly directed the chopper to Alpha 3’s location, and the platoon commander directed the chopper’s fires onto the treeline. We could see him make low pass after low pass, occasionally hovering face to face with an NVA gunner, working out their differences with 2.75 inch rockets and machine gun fire.
The NVA fire had pretty much stopped when Snafflering Juliet finally called out that he was nearly out of ammo and could make only one more pass. “Anything else I can do to help,” he asked?
He was asked to land and evacuate the casualty, which he did. A Corpsman went with the casualty to Da Nang.
The Colonel contacted Alpha 3. “Did you identify that guy?”
“Yessir. Got his side number, his bureau number, and his call sign.”
The Old Man turned to me and said “Let’s write him up for a Silver Star. Division Air can figure out who he is.”
I sat down and wrote up a description of the action and a proposed citation, ending with the traditional words “His actions were in keeping with the finest traditions of the Marine Corps and the United States Naval Service.” That is high praise that we do not ordinarily shower on outsiders.
About six weeks later, I was back in An Hoa. The Colonel came into the S-4 bunker and sat down next to my desk.
“I just talked to an Army Major with some aviation unit over at Hoi An. He called to thank me for the medal that he had just presented to one of his 20 year old Warrant Officers. Said he was glad to be able to do it, because this kid came back with over 50 bullet holes in his bird and reported that he had been shot up while flying 30 miles outside his assigned patrol area in response to a call over a radio net he was not authorized to monitor. They were about to court-martial him, but he got our Silver Star instead. He said the kicker was that the citation still had the reference to the standards of the Marine Corps. Thought you’d like to know.”
So, while a very few doggies didn’t quite measure up, most did. Army helicopter pilots tended to be kids who had been running their ‘56 Chevies up and down main street only a year or two earlier. We gave them their very own helicopters, complete with with rockets and machine guns, and they did the rest. God bless ‘em.
The battalion left the Arizona in late September and headed out to an area southeast of Phu Loc (6). I went back to being the S-4, and most of my “company” went back to performing their primary duties, but confident that in everyone’s eyes, they were no longer REMFs.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
I have long felt that all Marines should complete recruit training, even those who are already destined for OCS. Many of the Mustangs with whom I have served were better troop leaders for once having been enlisted Marines. But I can settle for an OCS requirement.
Central to such training is marksmanship. “Every Marine a rifleman” is gospel within the Corps. The ability to routinely place killing aimed rifle fire on target out to 500 or more yards has been our raison d’ etre since 1775. The Germans at Belleau Wood were so surprised to learn that entire regiments of Marines could consistently kill them out to 800 to 1,000 yards that they named us teuffelhunden (“devil dogs”).
Thus, while the 0311 (rifleman) is the primary practitioner of the art of musketry, the cook in the mess hall, the clerk in battalion headquarters, and the mechanic on the flight line will also be on the rifle range each year honing and reinforcing the skills necessary to “put one between an enemy’s running lights (eyes)” at distance—just in case. And their officers will be right there with them, firing the same course of fire. That’s what makes us all Marines.
When I returned to An Hoa, I called the Company First Sergeants to the S-4 bunker and explained that the CO had directed me to form a provisional rifle company to take to the Arizona in a few days. Based on their advice, I decided that 60 Marines would be able to do the job. We routinely had about 50 to 80 “casuals,” Marines recuperating from slight wounds, Marines awaiting disciplinary action, and some short-timers, who helped us meet the requirement that we man the regimental lines. We figured that if we used 30 of those Marines, and stripped another 30 out of the company and battalion headquarters, we could man up the provisional company while still meeting the battalion’s responsibilities.
The First Sergeant of Headquarters & Service Company suggested that we could reduce the number of cooks and messmen we provided to the mess hall because we would be reducing the number of Marines from 1/5 eating there. Three cooks, a Sergeant and two PFC’s became my mortar “squad.” We formed two 28 man platoons commanded by Sergeants, and a Staff Sergeant from Motor Transport volunteered to be my “gunny.”
In fact, the entire “company” was made up of volunteers.
The folks in the rear—truck drivers, mechanics, clerks, supply men, and cooks—rankled when their peers in the rifle companies referred to them as “REMF’s” (rear echelon m----f-----). Presented with an opportunity to prove their mettle as Marines, they jumped at the chance. The three cooks never did return to the mess hall—it turns out that they were natural born mortar men, and at their request, they moved to the 81mm mortar platoon when we disbanded the “company.”
The Battalion moved to the Arizona a few days later. The first night that we were in the bush, I was talking to the Colonel when we began to receive in-coming mortar fire. I threw myself to the deck, angry that my buttons were so thick that they kept me elevated. I looked over at the Old Man. He was hunkered down just as low as was I, but he was grinning.
“Now you know why I let you con me into this crazy plan of yours, Mac. I wanted you to be eligible for the Combat Action Ribbon.” The CAR had been instituted by the Secretary of the Navy in February 1969 (retroactive to 1961) to recognize Marines and sailors who “have rendered satisfactory performance under enemy fire while actively participating in a ground or surface engagement.”
I muttered that I had been eligible since December 26, thank you very much, but he just winked.
The attack ended, but the cries of “Corpsman, Corpsman” started. A communicator from the battalion CP group had been hit in the groin. When I got there, two corpsmen were already working on him. The Operations Chief, a Master Sergeant, was with him, calming him with the assurance that “I can see that you still got yer pecker and at least one of your balls, son. Don’t worry about it. I lost one at Chosin Reservoir and we’ve have had seven kids since then.”
The Marine was on a medevac chopper within minutes, headed for Da Nang.
Life in the bush had a numbing and reassuring repetition. I sent out patrols during the day, a single ambush at night, and resumed my practice of weapons inspections every day. The 24 days raced past. Every two or three days, I would fly into An Hoa to do “S-4 stuff” as the XO called it, but never missed a night in the field.
Three events stand out in my memory.
One night, I let the mortar squad try a new (for them) method of adjusting fire. The put up a flare and then re-laid the mortar for high explosive rounds on the now visible target. The first HE round was a direct hit. They were whooped and hollered like the teenagers they were, I was impressed, and the 81 mm mortar platoon commander began his negotiations to sign them up.
Then there was the day that we received, unsolicited, an Army psychological operations team. They arrived on the afternoon resupply bird, complete with loudspeakers, a phonograph, a small generator, and assorted microphones and cables.
The Colonel talked to them and then called me over. “Take charge of these psychos. Just keep them out of my hair.”
I took the Staff Sergeant and his Sergeant the location in which they could set up. As they were doing so, I suggested that they needed a fighting hole because we had been taking occasional mortar fire.
“Well,” the Sergeant asked, “where is it?” Huh?
My gunny shook his head and said, “Well, damn, Sergeant, you’re standing right in it. You just ain’t dug the dirt outen it yet.” There then followed a short discussion regarding the different philosophies of the Army and the Marine Corps. Needless to say, the doggies were soon digging away.
After they were dug in, I briefed them on their sectors of fire.
“Sectors of fire,” the Staff Sergeant asked?
“Yeah, you’re in the line and you have specified sectors of fire.”
“Oh, no sir. We’re specialists. The host unit is responsible for our security. We don’t stand lines.”
“Really?” I called the gunny over and explained our apparent responsibilities as good hosts. He chuckled and called to the Marines in the holes on either side of our guests’ quarters. The Marines came over.
“OK, Marines. This here is Staff Sergeant ______ and Sergeant _______. They don’t want to stand lines tonight. If they get out of their holes after stand to, kill them.” The Marines nodded. The gunny turned to the doggies. “Are we clear now? Everybody happy? Good. C’mon, Lieutenant, let’s let these folks get acquainted.”
The Army team returned to from whence they came the very next morning.
And then there was the Army Warrant Officer.
We had noticed that our ambush patrols were having less and less contact. We suspected that locals were observing as the ambushes left our lines and were then warning the NVA of their locations. To counter this, we began to send the ambushes out with afternoon security patrols. The ambush squad would intermingle with the security patrol. At one of the security patrol’s stops, the ambush would go to ground and stay behind when the security patrol moved on. After dark, the ambush would move into position and our results began to improve.
One afternoon, a patrol from Alpha Company was approaching a treeline when it erupted with small arms and automatic weapons fire, pinning the patrol down in a rice paddy. The point man was hit in the chest.
Two CH 46’s were soon on station to conduct a medevac. As dash one (the lead chopper) tried to land, he came under heavy fire and could not land. He tried two more times and were shot out of the zone both times. On the last attempt, the bird was hit, one of the crew was seriously wounded, and the chopper began to leak hydraulic fluid.
He called “no joy,” and headed back to An Hoa, with dash two in trail to provide security.
I was with the battalion CP group, listening to the radio reports on the Battalion Tactical and Alpha’s Company Tactical frequencies. Alpha was sending a reinforcing platoon, but the patrol was nearly 1500 meters from the Company.
Suddenly, a new voice came up on Alpha’s company tac. “Alpha 3, Alpha 3, this is Snafflering Juliet 56. Can we be of assistance.”
“This is Alpha Six. Who the [universal modifier] are you?”
Alpha Six, I am a huey gunship coming out of Antenna Valley and orbiting just west of An Hoa. Can I help?”
Alpha 6 quickly directed the chopper to Alpha 3’s location, and the platoon commander directed the chopper’s fires onto the treeline. We could see him make low pass after low pass, occasionally hovering face to face with an NVA gunner, working out their differences with 2.75 inch rockets and machine gun fire.
The NVA fire had pretty much stopped when Snafflering Juliet finally called out that he was nearly out of ammo and could make only one more pass. “Anything else I can do to help,” he asked?
He was asked to land and evacuate the casualty, which he did. A Corpsman went with the casualty to Da Nang.
The Colonel contacted Alpha 3. “Did you identify that guy?”
“Yessir. Got his side number, his bureau number, and his call sign.”
The Old Man turned to me and said “Let’s write him up for a Silver Star. Division Air can figure out who he is.”
I sat down and wrote up a description of the action and a proposed citation, ending with the traditional words “His actions were in keeping with the finest traditions of the Marine Corps and the United States Naval Service.” That is high praise that we do not ordinarily shower on outsiders.
About six weeks later, I was back in An Hoa. The Colonel came into the S-4 bunker and sat down next to my desk.
“I just talked to an Army Major with some aviation unit over at Hoi An. He called to thank me for the medal that he had just presented to one of his 20 year old Warrant Officers. Said he was glad to be able to do it, because this kid came back with over 50 bullet holes in his bird and reported that he had been shot up while flying 30 miles outside his assigned patrol area in response to a call over a radio net he was not authorized to monitor. They were about to court-martial him, but he got our Silver Star instead. He said the kicker was that the citation still had the reference to the standards of the Marine Corps. Thought you’d like to know.”
So, while a very few doggies didn’t quite measure up, most did. Army helicopter pilots tended to be kids who had been running their ‘56 Chevies up and down main street only a year or two earlier. We gave them their very own helicopters, complete with with rockets and machine guns, and they did the rest. God bless ‘em.
The battalion left the Arizona in late September and headed out to an area southeast of Phu Loc (6). I went back to being the S-4, and most of my “company” went back to performing their primary duties, but confident that in everyone’s eyes, they were no longer REMFs.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
15 March 2010
5 SEPTEMBER 1969
On the morning of 5 September, a runner came up from the S-1 bunker. “The Adjutant’s compliments, Sir, and he says ‘Haul ass for the LZ and get up to Phu Loc (6) right now. The CO wants to see you.’” The Battalion Headquarters was at the Bridge, and I knew we were about to return to the Arizona, so I assumed the Old Man wanted to talk logistics.
I grabbed my helmet, rifle and flak jacket and ran down to the LZ, located about a quarter of a mile away at the end of the runway. Fortunately, there was a CH-46 just heading to Danang that could stop at the Bridge. Ten minutes later, I was in the LZ at Phu Loc (6). As my bird flew away, another 46 landed and Jim Webb ran down the tail ramp. I waited for him.
“What’s going on,” I asked?
“We’re getting promoted.”
Oh. I realized that Academy guys were a little more conscious of those things. In another 5 minutes we were in the Command Post bunker. Colonel Griffis, read the AlMar (a message from Headquarters, Marine Corps addressed to “all Marine units”) announcing the promotion of the newest batch of First Lieutenants of Marines. He reminded us that, while our original oaths of office remained in effect, it was customary to renew them on promotion. We renewed our oaths.
If that oath sounds familiar, it is because it is the oath administered to every officer of the United States from the Vice President, Senator, Representative in Congress down to the newest Second Lieutenant.
We signed our acceptances of the President’s new commission and became the newest First Lieutenants in the Corps, at least for a couple of minutes. Webb and I got the special rush treatment because we were the only regular lieutenants in the Battalion. The law in effect at that time said that Reserve officers could be commissioned and their date of rank (and entitlement to pay and allowances in their new grade) could refer back to the date of their commission. Regular officers, however, did not receive their new pay and allowances until that actually signed the acceptance of their commission. The other second lieutenants in the battalion who had been commissioned in June 1968 were promoted quickly, but if it happened on 6 or 7 or 8 September, they lost nothing from the short delay.
The CO then reminded us that we had just lost one benefit. “Ten minutes ago you could have made a minor mistake and we would say ‘Well, he’s just a dumb second lieutenant.’ But now, I can say ‘What the heck is the matter with you? You’re a First Lieutenant for heaven’s sake.’ Congratulations. Now get back to work!”
The other assembled officers and Staff NCOs offered their congratulations.
The CO then called the Company Commanders, the Sergeant Major, and the principal staff officers into his “office.” He informed us that the battalion would soon be returning to the Arizona. The mission was to aggressively patrol and interdict NVA and VC patrols coming down out of the mountains in search of rice.
Looking at the map, he said “At our current strength, I’m not sure how we can get the coverage we need with four companies.” He and the S-3 (Operations Officer) began to discuss deployment of the battalion and the task was indeed daunting.
I was sitting next to the Sergeant Major. I looked at him and said “It’s too bad we can’t strip all of us REMFs out of An Hoa and put them in the field. At least we could be the ‘palace guard’ (security for the command group) and free up another maneuver company.”
To my surprise, the Sergeant Major said “Excuse me, Colonel, but I think the lieutenant may have just earned that new pay.” Turning to me he said “Say that again, Lieutenant.” I repeated my thought.
The XO said “You’re talking about clerks and cooks and bakers and mechanics?”
”Dammit, sir, they’re Marines,” the Sergeant Major growled.
The Old Man paused. “It’s worth a thought. OK, Mac, it’s your idea. Put it together and see what it looks like.”
Thus was born 1/5’s provisional rifle company, commanded by yours truly. I headed back to An Hoa to “put it together and see what it looks like.”
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
I grabbed my helmet, rifle and flak jacket and ran down to the LZ, located about a quarter of a mile away at the end of the runway. Fortunately, there was a CH-46 just heading to Danang that could stop at the Bridge. Ten minutes later, I was in the LZ at Phu Loc (6). As my bird flew away, another 46 landed and Jim Webb ran down the tail ramp. I waited for him.
“What’s going on,” I asked?
“We’re getting promoted.”
Oh. I realized that Academy guys were a little more conscious of those things. In another 5 minutes we were in the Command Post bunker. Colonel Griffis, read the AlMar (a message from Headquarters, Marine Corps addressed to “all Marine units”) announcing the promotion of the newest batch of First Lieutenants of Marines. He reminded us that, while our original oaths of office remained in effect, it was customary to renew them on promotion. We renewed our oaths.
I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office upon which I am about to enter. So help me God.
If that oath sounds familiar, it is because it is the oath administered to every officer of the United States from the Vice President, Senator, Representative in Congress down to the newest Second Lieutenant.
We signed our acceptances of the President’s new commission and became the newest First Lieutenants in the Corps, at least for a couple of minutes. Webb and I got the special rush treatment because we were the only regular lieutenants in the Battalion. The law in effect at that time said that Reserve officers could be commissioned and their date of rank (and entitlement to pay and allowances in their new grade) could refer back to the date of their commission. Regular officers, however, did not receive their new pay and allowances until that actually signed the acceptance of their commission. The other second lieutenants in the battalion who had been commissioned in June 1968 were promoted quickly, but if it happened on 6 or 7 or 8 September, they lost nothing from the short delay.
The CO then reminded us that we had just lost one benefit. “Ten minutes ago you could have made a minor mistake and we would say ‘Well, he’s just a dumb second lieutenant.’ But now, I can say ‘What the heck is the matter with you? You’re a First Lieutenant for heaven’s sake.’ Congratulations. Now get back to work!”
The other assembled officers and Staff NCOs offered their congratulations.
The CO then called the Company Commanders, the Sergeant Major, and the principal staff officers into his “office.” He informed us that the battalion would soon be returning to the Arizona. The mission was to aggressively patrol and interdict NVA and VC patrols coming down out of the mountains in search of rice.
Looking at the map, he said “At our current strength, I’m not sure how we can get the coverage we need with four companies.” He and the S-3 (Operations Officer) began to discuss deployment of the battalion and the task was indeed daunting.
I was sitting next to the Sergeant Major. I looked at him and said “It’s too bad we can’t strip all of us REMFs out of An Hoa and put them in the field. At least we could be the ‘palace guard’ (security for the command group) and free up another maneuver company.”
To my surprise, the Sergeant Major said “Excuse me, Colonel, but I think the lieutenant may have just earned that new pay.” Turning to me he said “Say that again, Lieutenant.” I repeated my thought.
The XO said “You’re talking about clerks and cooks and bakers and mechanics?”
”Dammit, sir, they’re Marines,” the Sergeant Major growled.
The Old Man paused. “It’s worth a thought. OK, Mac, it’s your idea. Put it together and see what it looks like.”
Thus was born 1/5’s provisional rifle company, commanded by yours truly. I headed back to An Hoa to “put it together and see what it looks like.”
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
14 March 2010
THE LAST CASUALTY OF BOC 12-68
Beginning in June 1969, the United States began to withdraw troops from Vietnam as part of President Nixon’s “vietnamization” process. Eerily reminiscent of President Obama’s plan for Iraq and Afghanistan, the idea was to turn the war over to the South Vietnamese. Thereafter, the US would provide logistic support for the South. It might have worked, too, except that as soon as our combat units were out, the Democratic controlled Congress welshed on the logistic support part of the deal, cutting off all aid and abandoning the South Vietnamese to fight a North Vietnamese army that was fully supported by the Soviet Union.
The Ninth Marines were pulled back to Okinawa in July, and by September the entire 3d Marine Division was gone. The Fourth Marines went to Oki and the Third Marines to Hawaii, where, along with a battalion of the 11th Marines, it became the ground combat element of the 1st Marine Brigade.
As soon as I returned to An Hoa, along with all other embarkation officers in the 1st Marine Division, I was called to Division headquarters for an embarkation conference. The gist of the two day conference was that since the Division’s arrival in Vietnam in 1965, no thought had been given to the process of leaving. Mount-out boxes for all our gear were either non-existent or in bad repair after 4 hard years. Our embark plans were out of date. We needed to get our respective units ready so that we could move on short notice.
As I was preparing to return to An Hoa, I was in the visiting officers quarters (a strong-back tent), packing up. Suddenly, Lieutenant Chuck (“Liberty”) Vallance walked in. We are Basic School classmates, and I had seen him the night before in the mess. He looked shaken.
“Hey, Mac. Tom Pottenger is still your S-1, right?”
“Sure is.”
“Well, when you get back, tell him Mike Quinn is dead.” Lieutenant Quinn had been one of Pot’s classmates in OCS and one of his roommates at TBS. Liberty had been called over to Graves Registration to identify the body.
On that somber note, I returned to An Hoa and immediately broke the news to Tom. He was stunned. Roy Phillips, KIA with Bravo Company right after we arrived, had been his other roommate. I went back to the S-4 bunker to settle in.
A few minutes later, a wild-eyed Pottenger was in my face, calling me every name in the book. He wound down with “That’s just not funny, Mac. I just talked to the G-1 casualty officer and Quinn’s not dead.” At that moment, a runner from S-1 came in.
“S’cuse me, Mr. Pottenger, Sir. G-1 Casualty just called back. They said to tell you that they just got word that that Lieutenant named Quinn you was askin’ about was reported KIA today. When you called, they hadn’t got the word yet. They said to tell you they’re sorry.” We grieved again.
It was late for our class to be losing people. In the early months of our tour, I dreaded seeing the back pages of each month’s Marine Corps Gazette. The official magazine of the Marine Corps Association, it was still a true gazette in 1969. In the back pages each month, rank by rank, were reported promotions, retirements, transfers, awards, and command assignments. And deaths. Until at least June, I saw the names of classmates every month. But by now, we were mostly out the bush and less exposed to danger.
To the best of my knowledge, Mike Quinn was the last member of our class to be killed in ground combat in Vietnam. At the time of his death, he was serving as Executive Officer, Company H, 2d Battalion, 7th Marines, 1st Marine Division. He was 23. His name appears on the Wall on Panel 18W, Line 8.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
The Ninth Marines were pulled back to Okinawa in July, and by September the entire 3d Marine Division was gone. The Fourth Marines went to Oki and the Third Marines to Hawaii, where, along with a battalion of the 11th Marines, it became the ground combat element of the 1st Marine Brigade.
As soon as I returned to An Hoa, along with all other embarkation officers in the 1st Marine Division, I was called to Division headquarters for an embarkation conference. The gist of the two day conference was that since the Division’s arrival in Vietnam in 1965, no thought had been given to the process of leaving. Mount-out boxes for all our gear were either non-existent or in bad repair after 4 hard years. Our embark plans were out of date. We needed to get our respective units ready so that we could move on short notice.
As I was preparing to return to An Hoa, I was in the visiting officers quarters (a strong-back tent), packing up. Suddenly, Lieutenant Chuck (“Liberty”) Vallance walked in. We are Basic School classmates, and I had seen him the night before in the mess. He looked shaken.
“Hey, Mac. Tom Pottenger is still your S-1, right?”
“Sure is.”
“Well, when you get back, tell him Mike Quinn is dead.” Lieutenant Quinn had been one of Pot’s classmates in OCS and one of his roommates at TBS. Liberty had been called over to Graves Registration to identify the body.
On that somber note, I returned to An Hoa and immediately broke the news to Tom. He was stunned. Roy Phillips, KIA with Bravo Company right after we arrived, had been his other roommate. I went back to the S-4 bunker to settle in.
A few minutes later, a wild-eyed Pottenger was in my face, calling me every name in the book. He wound down with “That’s just not funny, Mac. I just talked to the G-1 casualty officer and Quinn’s not dead.” At that moment, a runner from S-1 came in.
“S’cuse me, Mr. Pottenger, Sir. G-1 Casualty just called back. They said to tell you that they just got word that that Lieutenant named Quinn you was askin’ about was reported KIA today. When you called, they hadn’t got the word yet. They said to tell you they’re sorry.” We grieved again.
It was late for our class to be losing people. In the early months of our tour, I dreaded seeing the back pages of each month’s Marine Corps Gazette. The official magazine of the Marine Corps Association, it was still a true gazette in 1969. In the back pages each month, rank by rank, were reported promotions, retirements, transfers, awards, and command assignments. And deaths. Until at least June, I saw the names of classmates every month. But by now, we were mostly out the bush and less exposed to danger.
To the best of my knowledge, Mike Quinn was the last member of our class to be killed in ground combat in Vietnam. At the time of his death, he was serving as Executive Officer, Company H, 2d Battalion, 7th Marines, 1st Marine Division. He was 23. His name appears on the Wall on Panel 18W, Line 8.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
13 March 2010
LIEUTENANT COLONEL JOSEPH K. GRIFFIS, Jr., USMC
For the men who read this, I think we will all agree that there are men who we meet in life who stand out, men who are “giants in the earth in [our] days.” My Dad, my grandfather, Rector H. Smith, and my friend, Lieutenant Colonel Pat Oates, are three such men. So, too, is Joe Griffis. While I have mentioned him in passing elsewhere, and shall set down some specific adventures in future posts, allow me the privilege of fully introducing Joe Griffis, Lieutenant Colonel of Marines.
Colonel Griffis assumed command of the battalion while I was on R and R. A new commanding officer can be unsettling to a unit. Who is this new guy? Does he know his stuff? What does he expect of his commanders? His staff?
I met him the day after I returned from R&R. The XO called me down and informed me that the battalion would be returning from the Arizona to An Hoa that night for one night, and then would move to Phu Loc (6) for about a month. The new CO wanted to have a cook out for the troops and they need a place to bed down. I turned to.
My S-4 Chief, a Staff Sergeant, coordinated with the Regimental Mess Chief, a Master Sergeant, to arrange for grills. The menu was steaks grilled on the spot, baked potatoes, mixed vegetables, and two Cokes and two beers per man.
In the meantime, the Police Sergeant organized a working party from the casual personnel we had in the rear. We moved a dozen 40-man General Purpose tents into an open area and began setting them up. There being no law of which I am aware that prohibits an officer from getting dirty (contrary to the belief of some) I was the 6th man on one of the 6-man teams that erected a dozen tents in about three hours.
At about 1600, the battalion arrived on foot, still wet from fording the Song Thu Bon. The grills were up and burning, we had a couple of jeep trailers filled with ice, Cokes and beer, and we began to feed the troops almost immediately. I met the Colonel and gave him a quick rundown on what we had done. He nodded.
He was a man in his early 40’s, somewhat grizzled, graying. In 1943, he left home and tried to join the United States Marine Corps. He was 15 and too young to enlist, so he joined the Merchant Marine and sailed on Atlantic convoy duty. The next year, at 16, he fudged his age a bit and enlisted in the Marine Corps. He went through boot camp and then served in combat in the South Pacific. After the War, he attended Officer Candidate School, was commissioned, and led troops as an infantry officer in the Korean War. Vietnam was his third war and this was his second tour of duty. He never stopped being a Grunt!!
Now, the Old Man had a couple of quirks, as all great commanders seem to have. He wore a blue bandanna tied around his neck; he was never without it. He had obtained a carbine version of the M-16 with a folding stock and carried it everywhere. And he thought every Marine, officer and enlisted, in his battalion ought to carry a rifle unless he was a gunner on an M-60 machine gun.
“I want it done quickly, Four. Get moving.”
The good news was that because we were under-strength, we had excess rifles in the armory. I approached the Regimental Four, Major Castagnetti, to see about getting the rest of the rifles we needed.
“Are you outta your mind,” he counseled? “How do you resupply?”
“Sir, my Six says he wants it done. I’m just asking if I can get the rifles?”
“Yeah, you can, but it is gonna bite you in the ass one of these days, young Lieutenant.”
Unbelievably, we swapped out all the pistols from officers, SNCOs and others by the time the battalion entrucked the next afternoon. The Old Man said nothing, which I soon learned was high praise. He had ordered and his staff had performed to his standard. Simple.
Thirty years later, at my first reunion of the Division, I went to re- introduce myself. “Colonel, you probably don’t remember me, but….”
“I know who you are, Mac. You’re my Four. Nice job on the rifles.” Oh, man!
As reported in his obituary, he was a strong proponent of education for everyone and set the example by earning his Associates, Bachelors, two Masters and a Doctorate. After he retired from the Corps, he taught in many venues, including University of Louisville, Adelphi, Pontifical Universidade, Catolico (Rio de Janeiro on a NIMH grant), and presented workshops and seminars. He had a private group psychology practice in Burlington , Vermont, from which he retired in 1989.
Bored, he soon came out of retirement again to work as a counselor at the Veterans Center in Key Largo , Florida, and then transferred to Lake Worth , Florida. Until his final retirement in 2006, he was the team leader at the Veterans Center in Lake Worth .
In his obituary, it was said that “Hurting veterans build walls; he helped them and their families build bridges. He carried these skills and abilities to battalion and other military reunions where he offered unconditional help to participants.” It was thanks to his urging that I finally turned to the VA for help in 2007.
He was a fixture at reunions of the battalion held in conjunction with the reunion of the 1st Marine Division Association. His last was in Philadelphia in 2007. He had been gallantly fighting cancer for years. To see him with “his Marines,” you would never have known how sick he was…but we did.
As we were leaving the hotel for the Battalion Dinner, most folks planned to walk to the restaurant. I was quietly grabbing people to ensure that the Old Man and the XO, Colonel O’Toole, had rides. The Colonel saw what I was doing and, grinning broadly, wagged a finger at me. “Still the Four, aren’t you, Mac?”
It was at that reunion that I could finally introduce my kids to Joe. He was gracious, as ever. When I introduced Andrew, I mentioned that he was named after Chip.
“Then you are a lucky boy, Son,” he said to Andy. “He was a good man!” (Such was Chip's reputation in the battalion; he was KIA before the Old Man took command, but the Colonel had heard the stories. The next night, as we walked to the hotel from the Company Dinner, Andy reduced me to tears. He suddenly stopped and looked up at me. “That Mr. Chip must have been a good man. Everybody says so.” And the people of God say “Amen” and “amen.”)
As we were leaving the final banquet to head home, I went over to say goodbye, praying that it would not be our last, suspecting that it would. He stood up and when I said “So long, Sir” he hugged me. “I love you, Son,” he said. “Love you, too, Sir.”
In his introduction to his classic memoir of WWII, On Valor’s Side, T. Grady Gallant talks of Marines as men who “are not ashamed.” At the conclusion, he writes that when they returned to the States after the War, as they tied up at the pier, they wept openly. “And we were not ashamed.”
That night, as I took my leave of the Old Man, I wept and was not ashamed.
We had had our last conversation that night, at least for a while. He reported to Marine Barracks, Heaven, the next winter. I traveled to Arlington for the interment. As we got to the grave site, there was a figure leaning against a tree, checking a blackberry. Several other young people hovered around.
“Well, it’s nice to see Charlie Company could make it,” said the former Delta-6 and now- Senator Jim Webb. His staff seemed a little concerned that the then-newly minted Senator was missing several committee meetings, but none of the people who counted were bothered. This was the Old Man’s funeral. Nothing was more important.
I trust that we will serve together again. I expect to hear “Now, Four, this morning I was talking with God and we really need to do something about . . .”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
Colonel Griffis assumed command of the battalion while I was on R and R. A new commanding officer can be unsettling to a unit. Who is this new guy? Does he know his stuff? What does he expect of his commanders? His staff?
I met him the day after I returned from R&R. The XO called me down and informed me that the battalion would be returning from the Arizona to An Hoa that night for one night, and then would move to Phu Loc (6) for about a month. The new CO wanted to have a cook out for the troops and they need a place to bed down. I turned to.
My S-4 Chief, a Staff Sergeant, coordinated with the Regimental Mess Chief, a Master Sergeant, to arrange for grills. The menu was steaks grilled on the spot, baked potatoes, mixed vegetables, and two Cokes and two beers per man.
In the meantime, the Police Sergeant organized a working party from the casual personnel we had in the rear. We moved a dozen 40-man General Purpose tents into an open area and began setting them up. There being no law of which I am aware that prohibits an officer from getting dirty (contrary to the belief of some) I was the 6th man on one of the 6-man teams that erected a dozen tents in about three hours.
At about 1600, the battalion arrived on foot, still wet from fording the Song Thu Bon. The grills were up and burning, we had a couple of jeep trailers filled with ice, Cokes and beer, and we began to feed the troops almost immediately. I met the Colonel and gave him a quick rundown on what we had done. He nodded.
He was a man in his early 40’s, somewhat grizzled, graying. In 1943, he left home and tried to join the United States Marine Corps. He was 15 and too young to enlist, so he joined the Merchant Marine and sailed on Atlantic convoy duty. The next year, at 16, he fudged his age a bit and enlisted in the Marine Corps. He went through boot camp and then served in combat in the South Pacific. After the War, he attended Officer Candidate School, was commissioned, and led troops as an infantry officer in the Korean War. Vietnam was his third war and this was his second tour of duty. He never stopped being a Grunt!!
Now, the Old Man had a couple of quirks, as all great commanders seem to have. He wore a blue bandanna tied around his neck; he was never without it. He had obtained a carbine version of the M-16 with a folding stock and carried it everywhere. And he thought every Marine, officer and enlisted, in his battalion ought to carry a rifle unless he was a gunner on an M-60 machine gun.
“I want it done quickly, Four. Get moving.”
The good news was that because we were under-strength, we had excess rifles in the armory. I approached the Regimental Four, Major Castagnetti, to see about getting the rest of the rifles we needed.
“Are you outta your mind,” he counseled? “How do you resupply?”
“Sir, my Six says he wants it done. I’m just asking if I can get the rifles?”
“Yeah, you can, but it is gonna bite you in the ass one of these days, young Lieutenant.”
Unbelievably, we swapped out all the pistols from officers, SNCOs and others by the time the battalion entrucked the next afternoon. The Old Man said nothing, which I soon learned was high praise. He had ordered and his staff had performed to his standard. Simple.
Thirty years later, at my first reunion of the Division, I went to re- introduce myself. “Colonel, you probably don’t remember me, but….”
“I know who you are, Mac. You’re my Four. Nice job on the rifles.” Oh, man!
As reported in his obituary, he was a strong proponent of education for everyone and set the example by earning his Associates, Bachelors, two Masters and a Doctorate. After he retired from the Corps, he taught in many venues, including University of Louisville, Adelphi, Pontifical Universidade, Catolico (Rio de Janeiro on a NIMH grant), and presented workshops and seminars. He had a private group psychology practice in Burlington , Vermont, from which he retired in 1989.
Bored, he soon came out of retirement again to work as a counselor at the Veterans Center in Key Largo , Florida, and then transferred to Lake Worth , Florida. Until his final retirement in 2006, he was the team leader at the Veterans Center in Lake Worth .
In his obituary, it was said that “Hurting veterans build walls; he helped them and their families build bridges. He carried these skills and abilities to battalion and other military reunions where he offered unconditional help to participants.” It was thanks to his urging that I finally turned to the VA for help in 2007.
He was a fixture at reunions of the battalion held in conjunction with the reunion of the 1st Marine Division Association. His last was in Philadelphia in 2007. He had been gallantly fighting cancer for years. To see him with “his Marines,” you would never have known how sick he was…but we did.
As we were leaving the hotel for the Battalion Dinner, most folks planned to walk to the restaurant. I was quietly grabbing people to ensure that the Old Man and the XO, Colonel O’Toole, had rides. The Colonel saw what I was doing and, grinning broadly, wagged a finger at me. “Still the Four, aren’t you, Mac?”
It was at that reunion that I could finally introduce my kids to Joe. He was gracious, as ever. When I introduced Andrew, I mentioned that he was named after Chip.
“Then you are a lucky boy, Son,” he said to Andy. “He was a good man!” (Such was Chip's reputation in the battalion; he was KIA before the Old Man took command, but the Colonel had heard the stories. The next night, as we walked to the hotel from the Company Dinner, Andy reduced me to tears. He suddenly stopped and looked up at me. “That Mr. Chip must have been a good man. Everybody says so.” And the people of God say “Amen” and “amen.”)
As we were leaving the final banquet to head home, I went over to say goodbye, praying that it would not be our last, suspecting that it would. He stood up and when I said “So long, Sir” he hugged me. “I love you, Son,” he said. “Love you, too, Sir.”
In his introduction to his classic memoir of WWII, On Valor’s Side, T. Grady Gallant talks of Marines as men who “are not ashamed.” At the conclusion, he writes that when they returned to the States after the War, as they tied up at the pier, they wept openly. “And we were not ashamed.”
That night, as I took my leave of the Old Man, I wept and was not ashamed.
We had had our last conversation that night, at least for a while. He reported to Marine Barracks, Heaven, the next winter. I traveled to Arlington for the interment. As we got to the grave site, there was a figure leaning against a tree, checking a blackberry. Several other young people hovered around.
“Well, it’s nice to see Charlie Company could make it,” said the former Delta-6 and now- Senator Jim Webb. His staff seemed a little concerned that the then-newly minted Senator was missing several committee meetings, but none of the people who counted were bothered. This was the Old Man’s funeral. Nothing was more important.
I trust that we will serve together again. I expect to hear “Now, Four, this morning I was talking with God and we really need to do something about . . .”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
12 March 2010
R and R (Part 2)
The remainder of our flight to Hawaii was uneventful. We were escorted to the R and R Center where we were briefed on the program, received a discount card that the Chamber of Commerce had arranged with merchants, informed of the time we were to report for our return flight (no, they did not extend our stay!!), and sent on our way.
I had told Maryann to go straight to the hotel, so I caught a cab and was off.
Honolulu out did itself. Every store had the “Aloha, R&R” sticker in the window. Cabbies knew that R&R rates applied to us. The hotel staffs bent over backward to be, if you will pardon the pun, accommodating. Maryann was already in our room. We celebrated and then went shopping.
The “uniform of the day’” was Hawaiian vacation garb all the way—aloha shirts, slacks and shorts, swim wear. We all needed new clothes. I was all the way back up to 140 pounds, but my uniform had hung on me. The merchants were gracious and everyone seemed to be genuinely glad to see us. I spent 1500 (1969) dollars in four and a half days. Multiplied by hundreds of new arrivals every day, that probably helped their attitude, too.
We swam and sunned at Waikiki, went to the Arizona Memorial and Punch Bowl Crater, shopped, dined and did all the things young people in love have done over the ages when the warriors come home. We were close enough to the wedding to plan the honeymoon trip in detail (New Orleans) and to just relax.
Relaxing did not come easy. I woke often to find myself prowling our room “checking lines.” A couple of chance encounters with fire crackers did not go well. I was not alone; as we met other couples, the wives and girlfriends shared amazingly similar experiences with one another. It was the first time (of many) Maryann referred to me as “old.”
On our last day in Hawaii, I suggested to Maryann that we get married right away—“just in case.” Bad move on my part. She freaked out, and the rest of that evening was spent calming her down. [There was more to her hesitation than that, but that came out 20 years later.]
I learned that that, too, was normal. One Captain I knew had been shot in the neck. He had asked that his wife not be officially notified, deciding he would break it to her himself. He “forgot” and she learned when he threw his arm around her shoulders and she turned to see a pretty ugly scar. She spent the first day of their visit on meds. I know of two cases where wives arrived at the Center only to be informed that their husbands had been killed in action just before leaving Vietnam.
I took her to the airport for her return flight to Chicago and then reported for our return flight. As we were about to walk out to the plane (no jet ways in those days), one helicopter pilot walked over to a couple of MP’s and demanded that they handcuff him and escort him to the plane.
“Sir?”
“Look, you’ve got to be crazy to go back to Vietnam. I gotta go back, but I’m not crazy. So, take me away.” They did, all of us, including the pilot, laughing as we walked.
What a goofy war. . .
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
I had told Maryann to go straight to the hotel, so I caught a cab and was off.
Honolulu out did itself. Every store had the “Aloha, R&R” sticker in the window. Cabbies knew that R&R rates applied to us. The hotel staffs bent over backward to be, if you will pardon the pun, accommodating. Maryann was already in our room. We celebrated and then went shopping.
The “uniform of the day’” was Hawaiian vacation garb all the way—aloha shirts, slacks and shorts, swim wear. We all needed new clothes. I was all the way back up to 140 pounds, but my uniform had hung on me. The merchants were gracious and everyone seemed to be genuinely glad to see us. I spent 1500 (1969) dollars in four and a half days. Multiplied by hundreds of new arrivals every day, that probably helped their attitude, too.
We swam and sunned at Waikiki, went to the Arizona Memorial and Punch Bowl Crater, shopped, dined and did all the things young people in love have done over the ages when the warriors come home. We were close enough to the wedding to plan the honeymoon trip in detail (New Orleans) and to just relax.
Relaxing did not come easy. I woke often to find myself prowling our room “checking lines.” A couple of chance encounters with fire crackers did not go well. I was not alone; as we met other couples, the wives and girlfriends shared amazingly similar experiences with one another. It was the first time (of many) Maryann referred to me as “old.”
On our last day in Hawaii, I suggested to Maryann that we get married right away—“just in case.” Bad move on my part. She freaked out, and the rest of that evening was spent calming her down. [There was more to her hesitation than that, but that came out 20 years later.]
I learned that that, too, was normal. One Captain I knew had been shot in the neck. He had asked that his wife not be officially notified, deciding he would break it to her himself. He “forgot” and she learned when he threw his arm around her shoulders and she turned to see a pretty ugly scar. She spent the first day of their visit on meds. I know of two cases where wives arrived at the Center only to be informed that their husbands had been killed in action just before leaving Vietnam.
I took her to the airport for her return flight to Chicago and then reported for our return flight. As we were about to walk out to the plane (no jet ways in those days), one helicopter pilot walked over to a couple of MP’s and demanded that they handcuff him and escort him to the plane.
“Sir?”
“Look, you’ve got to be crazy to go back to Vietnam. I gotta go back, but I’m not crazy. So, take me away.” They did, all of us, including the pilot, laughing as we walked.
What a goofy war. . .
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
11 March 2010
R and R (Part 1)
This is a continuation of my Vietnam memoir...
During the Vietnam War, there was a policy that each service member in Country should receive a five-day rest and recreation period in one of several locations. Troops were allowed to select their desired destination which could include Bangkok, Thailand; Sydney, Australia; Taipei, Taiwan; Tokyo, Japan; Kuala Lampur, Maylasia; and Honolulu, Hawaii. Hawaii was a popular locale for married Marines, and for many whose fiancés or girl friends could come to Honolulu. It was strictly forbidden for individuals to travel beyond Hawaii, i.e., to the continental United States, but some adventurous souls did so.
As I was engaged, I asked to take my R and R in Hawaii.
Getting ready was an adventure in itself.I had to go to Disbursing to draw greenbacks for the trip. (We used scrip in country.) I then retrieved my seabag and the one summer service uniform I had brought in country. I now had four ribbons instead of the single National Defense Service Medal I had worn in country. Civvies would be my first purchase in Hawaii.
The morning before my scheduled flight, I went to the LZ in An Hoa and flew up to Danang. I spent the night at the R and R Center at Danang AFB, where I could get a haircut, shower, press out my uniform, shine my leather and brass, and generally make myself presentable for the inspection that would precede our trip.
Our flight was scheduled to depart at about 1600. A Marine Colonel was the senior officer on the trip. Our flight filled every seat (6 abreast) on a Pan Am DC-8. There were representatives of all 5 services; I ended up sitting between an Air Force lieutenant colonel F-4 pilot and his Lieutenant back-seater. As we left Danang, two F-4s from their squadron “escorted” us out to sea.
Our trip to Anderson AFB, Guam (our re-fueling stop) was uneventful. We arrived at about 2300 and had about 90 minutes to visit the “duty free store” to purchase alcohol for our use in Hawaii. I had become an aficionado of Chivas Regal and purchased two fifths for $2.00 apiece. Those were the days, my friend…
We took off for Hawaii at 0030. We had just settled back for the last leg of the trip when the two pilots sat up, looked at each other, and said “What the (universal modifier) was that?” Damn!
A few minutes later, the Captain informed us that a widget had broken and that we were dumping fuel en route to Agana Naval Air Station, Guam, for repairs. We landed at about 0115.They made us de-plane and we waited.
At about 0300, the Pan Am Station Manager informed the officers that they had fixed the widget, but that they were removing another part from our plane to use on a passenger flight from Tokyo to Sydney. We were “not to worry” because Pan Am would have a replacement part in Guam later that day and we could then resume our flight. That we would lose a precious day of R and R mattered not! The Colonel was livid. He informed the Station Manager that we all had families waiting for us.
“Well, I don’t know what we can do,” replied that worthy rep of American aviation. “The flight from Tokyo was carrying passengers. We couldn’t very well delay them when we had an available part.” Oooooooops. Big mistake.
Very quietly, the Colonel asked “And just what the (universal modifier) are we, [anatomical reference to the sphincter muscle]?” Because the Colonel’s face was only an inch or two away from the Bozo’s face, he quickly realized that he had erred. He paled visibly.
“I’ll call Honolulu and tell them to inform the military authorities so they can alert your folks.”
“The hell you say. We’ll use your phone and call 'em ourselves.” Remember that this was 1969, when transpacific cable phone lines charged a dollar or more for each minute.
The Station Manager looked at the assembled officers, steely-eyed killers to a man, counted to about 30, and then discretion became the better part of his valor.“Fine. I’ll allow your officers a three minute call, each.”
“Go ahead, boys,” the Colonel said. They headed into the Station Manager’s office. “Lieutenant, come here,” he said, motioning to me. “Find me the two biggest Marines you can and send them over here. Then tell all the troops that Pan Am is giving away free phone calls until we leave. And they can talk as long as they want. (muttering) I’ll show you passengers, you sob.”
The next time I saw the Station Manager, flanked by two big Sergeants, he was sweating dollar signs!
The Navy bussed the officers to the Bachelor Officer’s Quarters for breakfast and a place to sleep. (The troops who were not waiting for the phone were marched to a nearby messhall.) We got to the BOQ at about 0450. As we entered and headed for the dining room, a Navy steward came out.
“Good morning, gentlemen.”
“Where’s the bar,” my Air force seatmate growled.
“Oh, Sir, the bar does not open until 1700 [12 hours away]. But I can seat you for breakfast.”
We picked up our bags and boxes of duty free booze and followed him. As we sat down, a mess man came over to take our orders.
“Gimme a glass and a bucket of ice,” said our worthy birdman. We all joined in the order and a lot of the duty free stuff disappeared quickly. Great breakfast!
At about 1300 we were finally on our plane and headed for Hawaii, 12 hours late.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
During the Vietnam War, there was a policy that each service member in Country should receive a five-day rest and recreation period in one of several locations. Troops were allowed to select their desired destination which could include Bangkok, Thailand; Sydney, Australia; Taipei, Taiwan; Tokyo, Japan; Kuala Lampur, Maylasia; and Honolulu, Hawaii. Hawaii was a popular locale for married Marines, and for many whose fiancés or girl friends could come to Honolulu. It was strictly forbidden for individuals to travel beyond Hawaii, i.e., to the continental United States, but some adventurous souls did so.
As I was engaged, I asked to take my R and R in Hawaii.
Getting ready was an adventure in itself.I had to go to Disbursing to draw greenbacks for the trip. (We used scrip in country.) I then retrieved my seabag and the one summer service uniform I had brought in country. I now had four ribbons instead of the single National Defense Service Medal I had worn in country. Civvies would be my first purchase in Hawaii.
The morning before my scheduled flight, I went to the LZ in An Hoa and flew up to Danang. I spent the night at the R and R Center at Danang AFB, where I could get a haircut, shower, press out my uniform, shine my leather and brass, and generally make myself presentable for the inspection that would precede our trip.
Our flight was scheduled to depart at about 1600. A Marine Colonel was the senior officer on the trip. Our flight filled every seat (6 abreast) on a Pan Am DC-8. There were representatives of all 5 services; I ended up sitting between an Air Force lieutenant colonel F-4 pilot and his Lieutenant back-seater. As we left Danang, two F-4s from their squadron “escorted” us out to sea.
Our trip to Anderson AFB, Guam (our re-fueling stop) was uneventful. We arrived at about 2300 and had about 90 minutes to visit the “duty free store” to purchase alcohol for our use in Hawaii. I had become an aficionado of Chivas Regal and purchased two fifths for $2.00 apiece. Those were the days, my friend…
We took off for Hawaii at 0030. We had just settled back for the last leg of the trip when the two pilots sat up, looked at each other, and said “What the (universal modifier) was that?” Damn!
A few minutes later, the Captain informed us that a widget had broken and that we were dumping fuel en route to Agana Naval Air Station, Guam, for repairs. We landed at about 0115.They made us de-plane and we waited.
At about 0300, the Pan Am Station Manager informed the officers that they had fixed the widget, but that they were removing another part from our plane to use on a passenger flight from Tokyo to Sydney. We were “not to worry” because Pan Am would have a replacement part in Guam later that day and we could then resume our flight. That we would lose a precious day of R and R mattered not! The Colonel was livid. He informed the Station Manager that we all had families waiting for us.
“Well, I don’t know what we can do,” replied that worthy rep of American aviation. “The flight from Tokyo was carrying passengers. We couldn’t very well delay them when we had an available part.” Oooooooops. Big mistake.
Very quietly, the Colonel asked “And just what the (universal modifier) are we, [anatomical reference to the sphincter muscle]?” Because the Colonel’s face was only an inch or two away from the Bozo’s face, he quickly realized that he had erred. He paled visibly.
“I’ll call Honolulu and tell them to inform the military authorities so they can alert your folks.”
“The hell you say. We’ll use your phone and call 'em ourselves.” Remember that this was 1969, when transpacific cable phone lines charged a dollar or more for each minute.
The Station Manager looked at the assembled officers, steely-eyed killers to a man, counted to about 30, and then discretion became the better part of his valor.“Fine. I’ll allow your officers a three minute call, each.”
“Go ahead, boys,” the Colonel said. They headed into the Station Manager’s office. “Lieutenant, come here,” he said, motioning to me. “Find me the two biggest Marines you can and send them over here. Then tell all the troops that Pan Am is giving away free phone calls until we leave. And they can talk as long as they want. (muttering) I’ll show you passengers, you sob.”
The next time I saw the Station Manager, flanked by two big Sergeants, he was sweating dollar signs!
The Navy bussed the officers to the Bachelor Officer’s Quarters for breakfast and a place to sleep. (The troops who were not waiting for the phone were marched to a nearby messhall.) We got to the BOQ at about 0450. As we entered and headed for the dining room, a Navy steward came out.
“Good morning, gentlemen.”
“Where’s the bar,” my Air force seatmate growled.
“Oh, Sir, the bar does not open until 1700 [12 hours away]. But I can seat you for breakfast.”
We picked up our bags and boxes of duty free booze and followed him. As we sat down, a mess man came over to take our orders.
“Gimme a glass and a bucket of ice,” said our worthy birdman. We all joined in the order and a lot of the duty free stuff disappeared quickly. Great breakfast!
At about 1300 we were finally on our plane and headed for Hawaii, 12 hours late.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
09 March 2010
THE MOST DANGEROUS AMENDMENT?
“A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.”
U.S. Const, Amend 2
In the run-up to and aftermath of the Supreme Court argument in the Chicago gun ban case, McDonald v. Chicago, I heard an anti-gunner refer to the Second Amendment as “the most dangerous amendment.” Then the Philadelphia Inquirer, a champion of the First Amendment, editorialized in the same vein, although it did not use those words. And it got me to wondering. . ..
The document that the Constitutional Convention of 1787 sent to the States for review and ratification was a framework for a central government of limited powers. However, a number of prominent Americans, particularly George Mason of Virginia, one of the drafters of the Constitution, were concerned about the absence in the document of any protections of the fundamental rights of free men. So distressed was he that he refused to sign the document in part because it lacked any provisions specifically protecting explicit States’ rights and individual rights to balance against the significantly increased federal powers conferred upon the proposed central government. Upon his return to Virginia, along with Patrick Henry and other anti-federalists, he pressed for such a statement. The result was a “bill” (or list) of 12 amendments to be taken up by the First Congress which sent them to the States in 1789. Based on the Virginia Declaration of Rights, which Mason had drafted in 1776, proposals 3 through 12 were ratified by the States by 1791 and are now known to us as "the Bill of Rights."
Allow me to digress. The second proposed amendment, which was also sent to the States in 1789 was finally ratified in 1992 as the 27th Amendment. That amendment limits the power of Congress to increase the salaries of its members by requiring one election to occur after a pay raise is adopted before it goes into effect. Significantly, Congress has not formally raised its own pay since ratification, taking only occasional “cost of living” increases based on inflation. Those pesky voters might object, eh?
To return to the topic, what is it that makes our liberal friends so fear the Second Amendment, while revering the First and Fourth through Eighth? Why do folks who find a “right of privacy” (never mentioned in the Constitution) which, they claim, “clearly” allows unlimited abortion nonetheless deny the very explicit statement of the Second Amendment?
I suspect that it is for the same reason that one “scholar” on a recent national news program opined that it is “unfair” for small States to have the same number of Senators as, e.g., California, thus enabling 20 small States to block “important, crucial” legislation such as his preference for national single payer health insurance. (Quaere: Has our educational system become so bankrupt as to fail to teach Americans our constitutional history—that the great compromise of 1787 envisioned exactly that result?)
The importance of the Second Amendment to the preservation of our liberties is demonstrated
every time a politician, sadly, usually a member of the Democratic Party, claims to know better what the people need than do individual citizens. That claim of a right of the elitist liberal ruling class to ignore the desires of the people is exactly what the framers knew they had to protect against by adopting the Bill of Rights.
And to ensure that the new federal government was never allowed to usurp the rights of the people, a right of the people to keep and bear arms was essential. After the Revolutionary War, most of the 13 States incorporated into their constitutions a “right of revolution.” The current Constitution of New Hampshire, adopted in 1784, provides in Part I, Article 10 that
Thus, the Second Amendment is actually the most important, the one that ensures all the others, and the least dangerous to the freedom and rights of the people. It ensures the survival of the protections afforded by the rest of the Constitution.
In 1989, as the Nation celebrated the bi-Centennial of the Constitution, the Philadelphia Inquirer ran a ten-day series of articles on the Bill of Rights, one article per day. When it came to the Second Amendment, the writer was a law professor from the University of Pennsylvania. Expecting the worst, I was pleasantly surprised when the author, whose name I cannot find, wrote that the Second Amendment clearly protected an individual right.
In summing up, he wrote (as nearly as I can remember): “We have all seen the bumper sticker that says ‘When guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns.’ If the Framers had written that bumper sticker, it would read ‘If guns are outlawed, only government will have guns.’ And that scared them a lot more than anything else!”
U.S. Const, Amend 2
In the run-up to and aftermath of the Supreme Court argument in the Chicago gun ban case, McDonald v. Chicago, I heard an anti-gunner refer to the Second Amendment as “the most dangerous amendment.” Then the Philadelphia Inquirer, a champion of the First Amendment, editorialized in the same vein, although it did not use those words. And it got me to wondering. . ..
The document that the Constitutional Convention of 1787 sent to the States for review and ratification was a framework for a central government of limited powers. However, a number of prominent Americans, particularly George Mason of Virginia, one of the drafters of the Constitution, were concerned about the absence in the document of any protections of the fundamental rights of free men. So distressed was he that he refused to sign the document in part because it lacked any provisions specifically protecting explicit States’ rights and individual rights to balance against the significantly increased federal powers conferred upon the proposed central government. Upon his return to Virginia, along with Patrick Henry and other anti-federalists, he pressed for such a statement. The result was a “bill” (or list) of 12 amendments to be taken up by the First Congress which sent them to the States in 1789. Based on the Virginia Declaration of Rights, which Mason had drafted in 1776, proposals 3 through 12 were ratified by the States by 1791 and are now known to us as "the Bill of Rights."
Allow me to digress. The second proposed amendment, which was also sent to the States in 1789 was finally ratified in 1992 as the 27th Amendment. That amendment limits the power of Congress to increase the salaries of its members by requiring one election to occur after a pay raise is adopted before it goes into effect. Significantly, Congress has not formally raised its own pay since ratification, taking only occasional “cost of living” increases based on inflation. Those pesky voters might object, eh?
To return to the topic, what is it that makes our liberal friends so fear the Second Amendment, while revering the First and Fourth through Eighth? Why do folks who find a “right of privacy” (never mentioned in the Constitution) which, they claim, “clearly” allows unlimited abortion nonetheless deny the very explicit statement of the Second Amendment?
I suspect that it is for the same reason that one “scholar” on a recent national news program opined that it is “unfair” for small States to have the same number of Senators as, e.g., California, thus enabling 20 small States to block “important, crucial” legislation such as his preference for national single payer health insurance. (Quaere: Has our educational system become so bankrupt as to fail to teach Americans our constitutional history—that the great compromise of 1787 envisioned exactly that result?)
The importance of the Second Amendment to the preservation of our liberties is demonstrated
every time a politician, sadly, usually a member of the Democratic Party, claims to know better what the people need than do individual citizens. That claim of a right of the elitist liberal ruling class to ignore the desires of the people is exactly what the framers knew they had to protect against by adopting the Bill of Rights.
And to ensure that the new federal government was never allowed to usurp the rights of the people, a right of the people to keep and bear arms was essential. After the Revolutionary War, most of the 13 States incorporated into their constitutions a “right of revolution.” The current Constitution of New Hampshire, adopted in 1784, provides in Part I, Article 10 that
Government being instituted for the common benefit, protection, and security, of the whole community, and not for the private interest or emolument of any one man, family, or class of men; therefore, whenever the ends of government are perverted, and public liberty manifestly endangered, and all other means of redress are ineffectual, the people may, and of right ought to reform the old, or establish a new government. The doctrine of nonresistance against arbitrary power, and oppression, is absurd, slavish, and destructive of the good and happiness of mankind.The Constitutions of at least two other States (North Carolina and Tennessee) and 2 Commonwealths (Pennsylvania and Kentucky) still specifically recognize a right of revolution, described in the constitutions of the two commonwealths as “an inalienable and indefeasible right [of the people] to alter, reform or abolish their government in such manner as they may deem proper.”
Thus, the Second Amendment is actually the most important, the one that ensures all the others, and the least dangerous to the freedom and rights of the people. It ensures the survival of the protections afforded by the rest of the Constitution.
In 1989, as the Nation celebrated the bi-Centennial of the Constitution, the Philadelphia Inquirer ran a ten-day series of articles on the Bill of Rights, one article per day. When it came to the Second Amendment, the writer was a law professor from the University of Pennsylvania. Expecting the worst, I was pleasantly surprised when the author, whose name I cannot find, wrote that the Second Amendment clearly protected an individual right.
In summing up, he wrote (as nearly as I can remember): “We have all seen the bumper sticker that says ‘When guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns.’ If the Framers had written that bumper sticker, it would read ‘If guns are outlawed, only government will have guns.’ And that scared them a lot more than anything else!”
08 March 2010
A REVIEW: THE PACIFIC
When this man gets to heaven
To St. Peter he will tell:
“Another Marine reporting, Sir.
I’ve served my time in hell.”
Epitaph scribbled by a shipmate on the cross over a grave of a Marine on Guadalcanal
Starting this Sunday, March 14, HBO will present its 10 part series, The Pacific. It is the second part of the story that began with Band of Brothers in 2001. Spielberg and Hanks did a wonderful job in translating Steven Ambroses’ marvelous retelling of the feats of Easy Company, 506th Parachute Infantry to the screen. However, there has been some concern among WWII vets and others that that, considering the sorry state of education in America today, many folks might forget that at the same time, there was also a little ruckus going on in the Pacific in WWII. Disclaimer: my Dad made 5 opposed landings in WWII—Tarawa, Kwajalien, Saipan, Tinian, and Pelelieu, and I’m a Marine, so I may be over-sensitive. Nonetheless, it is an historical fact that D-Day on Iwo Jima was more deadly than D-Day in Normandy, and it is great that the rest of the story will now be told.
Following Ambrose’s model, the story will focus on three real Marines: Gunnery Sergeant John (“Manila John”) Basilone, Robert Leckie, and Eugene “Sledgehammer” Sledge. Gunny Basilone was awarded the Medal of Honor on Guadalcanal with the First Marine Division and was sent home. He insisted on returning to combat and was killed in action on D-Day on Iwo while serving with 1st Battalion, 27th Marines, 5th Marine Division. He received the Navy Cross posthumously. He is a legend in the First Marine Division (“The Old Breed”), my Division in Vietnam. Leckie, the author of Helmet For My Pillow, and Sledge, author of With The Old Breed at Pelelieu and Okinawa, also served with the First Marine Division. Both died in 2001.
The presentation of the story appears to have the same attention to detail that was so apparent in Band of Brothers. Watching the work they did to portray the effects of the Spring monsoon on Okinawa made me long for my old poncho. I suspect that anyone who watches The Pacific will quickly realize that Semper Fidelis is legitimately the motto of the Corps and that “the Hymn” isn’t kidding about Marines having the natural responsibility of guarding the streets of Heaven.
Finally, I hope the Spielberg and Hanks will find appropriate vehicles to portray the "Mighty Eighth" Air Force's air war in Europe, although the classic 12 O’Clock High will be a tough act to follow. Then I would like to see the gallantry of our Navy brethren depicted, perhaps through a recounting of the action in San Bernadino Strait (Last Stand of the Tin Can Sailors) and off Okinawa (Brave Ship, Brave Men). I once met one of the Aaron Ward sailors and the story of their 30 minutes of hell deserves retelling
At any rate, I think Band of Brothers and The Pacific will reveal to today’s America just how much we owe those men who won WWII. In a documentary about Pelelieu, Peter Graves summed it up by reading a letter from a wounded Marine aboard a hospital ship to his mother back in West Virginia.
He wrote “They say I’ll be coming home soon. Give my love to Dad, sisters, brothers, and kin folk. And if you see Parson Brown, tell him I’d like to talk to him when I get home. I want to talk about heaven. Tell him there is no need to talk about hell—I’ve been there.”
Semper Fi.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
To St. Peter he will tell:
“Another Marine reporting, Sir.
I’ve served my time in hell.”
Epitaph scribbled by a shipmate on the cross over a grave of a Marine on Guadalcanal
Starting this Sunday, March 14, HBO will present its 10 part series, The Pacific. It is the second part of the story that began with Band of Brothers in 2001. Spielberg and Hanks did a wonderful job in translating Steven Ambroses’ marvelous retelling of the feats of Easy Company, 506th Parachute Infantry to the screen. However, there has been some concern among WWII vets and others that that, considering the sorry state of education in America today, many folks might forget that at the same time, there was also a little ruckus going on in the Pacific in WWII. Disclaimer: my Dad made 5 opposed landings in WWII—Tarawa, Kwajalien, Saipan, Tinian, and Pelelieu, and I’m a Marine, so I may be over-sensitive. Nonetheless, it is an historical fact that D-Day on Iwo Jima was more deadly than D-Day in Normandy, and it is great that the rest of the story will now be told.
Following Ambrose’s model, the story will focus on three real Marines: Gunnery Sergeant John (“Manila John”) Basilone, Robert Leckie, and Eugene “Sledgehammer” Sledge. Gunny Basilone was awarded the Medal of Honor on Guadalcanal with the First Marine Division and was sent home. He insisted on returning to combat and was killed in action on D-Day on Iwo while serving with 1st Battalion, 27th Marines, 5th Marine Division. He received the Navy Cross posthumously. He is a legend in the First Marine Division (“The Old Breed”), my Division in Vietnam. Leckie, the author of Helmet For My Pillow, and Sledge, author of With The Old Breed at Pelelieu and Okinawa, also served with the First Marine Division. Both died in 2001.
The presentation of the story appears to have the same attention to detail that was so apparent in Band of Brothers. Watching the work they did to portray the effects of the Spring monsoon on Okinawa made me long for my old poncho. I suspect that anyone who watches The Pacific will quickly realize that Semper Fidelis is legitimately the motto of the Corps and that “the Hymn” isn’t kidding about Marines having the natural responsibility of guarding the streets of Heaven.
Finally, I hope the Spielberg and Hanks will find appropriate vehicles to portray the "Mighty Eighth" Air Force's air war in Europe, although the classic 12 O’Clock High will be a tough act to follow. Then I would like to see the gallantry of our Navy brethren depicted, perhaps through a recounting of the action in San Bernadino Strait (Last Stand of the Tin Can Sailors) and off Okinawa (Brave Ship, Brave Men). I once met one of the Aaron Ward sailors and the story of their 30 minutes of hell deserves retelling
At any rate, I think Band of Brothers and The Pacific will reveal to today’s America just how much we owe those men who won WWII. In a documentary about Pelelieu, Peter Graves summed it up by reading a letter from a wounded Marine aboard a hospital ship to his mother back in West Virginia.
He wrote “They say I’ll be coming home soon. Give my love to Dad, sisters, brothers, and kin folk. And if you see Parson Brown, tell him I’d like to talk to him when I get home. I want to talk about heaven. Tell him there is no need to talk about hell—I’ve been there.”
Semper Fi.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
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