suspectunusual

For Lori's Friend Alex

btharp_1@pacbell.net — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 16:33:31 GMT

There was an acquaintance I had in the Marine Corps. Who on our first trip to Japan (1959) had a really strange ambition which he tried to fulfill during our 14 month tour of duty. He decided that he would try and have as many sexual encounters as he could afford (since most would take place with bar girls or ladies –of-the-evening he would have to pay hard, cold, cash for his carnal encounters). These then are the tales of his adventures and misadventures.

When first we arrived in Japan, Fred was a Sgt. This allowed him some small privileges which the privates (PVT) and privates first class (PFC) did not have. Among these were the right to stay overnight in the village adjacent to our base at Atsugi, Japan.

Our first “Liberty” (time away from the base that did not count as vacation) was set for what is called Port and starboard. Liberty could be overnight, 24 hrs, 48 hrs, 72 hrs, or 96 hours. Any longer periods were counted as leave (Vacation time) and were from five days to 30 days at a time. We were divided into four liberty sections, one, two, three, and four, and liberty was given to first the odd numbered sections and the next day (or weekend) was given to the even sections.

Since at the time we were in what was considered a war condition, we were seldom allowed over 48 hours for Liberty. The first liberty section was given liberty from 6:00 PM one day until 7:00 AM the next morning. This particular section was the one that a Staff Sgt in the electronics department was in and he proceeded along with 30 other members of the port section to go into town to enjoy wine, woman, and song. He along with several other NCOs (Non-Commissioned Officers) proceeded to drink, go home with the bar girls and in general have a great time.

Fred had long ago decided he would find one of the bar girls that he considered “safe” (no venereal diseases) and stick with her. The trick was how do you decide which girl is “Safe”? Fred decided he would wait a few days and see if any of the first responders came down with the dread “weepy dick”. Then, feeling relatively safe he started taking home his Non-commissioned officer In Charge’s (NCOIC) favorite bar squeeze.

Every one of us had been told that the results of catching a VD was a bust to the next lower pay grade and 30 day restriction to the base while antibiotics repaired the damage. We were expected to take precautions such as condoms, excellent personal hygiene, and read a list posted in the sick-bay of known transmitters of VD within the village. Upon discovering the fact that we were infected, we were expected to notify sick-bay, undergo testing for several types of VD, and submit to the course of medical treatment required to repair the damage. We also had to identify the girl or girls we had had any contact with so they also could be treated and not infect others.

Shortly thereafter the offending young Marine would be subjected to “Captain’s Mast” which is an informal review of your offending conduct and punishment as required.

Sure enough, Fred showed up at sick-bay with a problem. He was asked which girl, how long ago, etc., and in due time was taken to Captain’s Mast. Prior to sentencing, he was asked if he had taken precautions and if there were any mitigating circumstances.

His response was that normally he took precautions as prescribed but since the Staff NCO he worked for had been going home with this woman for three weeks, he thought it would be safe to do away with the condom.

Ka-ching! Busted to Corporal (Cpl) and forfeiture of one month’s pay, restricted to the base for thirty days, and required to view 20 hours of venereal disease films in his off time as punishment for stupidity!

When his SNCOIC was asked why he didn’t come down with VD, he announced to all and sundry (A) he always used a condom and (B) he practiced immediate personal hygiene after his encounters with any woman.

Now aside from the stupidity shown by Fred, you might ask why I told such a mundane story about a common place event. This story sets the stage for the further adventures of Fred and simply shows that it is hard to break a losing streak .

Alex, I’ll try to write one of these every two or three days and some of them are really funny.

The Car Thief

btharp_1@pacbell.net — Fri, 01 Jun 2007 18:00:25 GMT

In early 1968 I was sent to the Naval Air Station at North Island, California (near San Diego) for Nuclear Courier’s school. The idea being that I would be taught the basics of when to panic if there was a nuclear incident, actually it was to teach a few select people what to do if there was a problem, fortunately, there never was a problem during my Marine Corps time excluding the bomb cart painting incident. written about earlier.

I went to the Nuclear Safety Officer’s school with a Major from my Aircraft Group and we were authorized the use of a rental car. Since he was the senior person in our group of two he kept the keys and as far as I remember, he also kept the car.

On the particular Friday I remember, he suggested that we go out to dinner at a local restaurant called the “Mexican Village” for some spicy food. Since it was a Friday night it was a sure thing there would be unattached members of the opposite sex present and the Major was what I would call a predatory girl chaser.

Sure enough, after dinner he went to the bar and began to romance an attractive woman that seemed to be alone. After about thirty minutes, he came to where I was setting and said he was taking the young woman to downtown San Diego and they were going dancing. He suggested that I find a way back to the base as he was taking the car and did not want to take me home. I was Pis_ed. I had no funds for a taxi and there were no buses after 11:00 PM. This meant that I would have to walk about three miles to get back to the BOQ (Bachelor Officer’s Quarters).

I set out on my walk about 11:30 PM and arrived at the BOQ shortly after 12:40 AM. The duty clerk had left a message in my room that I was to call the police department as soon as possible. Not knowing what was happening, I called the desk Sergeant and he explained that they had a Marine Corps. Major in custody for attempted auto theft. I asked what had happed and he gave the following description,

Shortly after 11:30 PM, the Major and a female companion (released on her own recognizance) were apprehended trying to steal a black Ford Fairlaine sedan in front of the Mexican Village. After having just walked back from the Mexican Village and in no mood to go and bail out the Major, I told the desk Sergeant that I’d never heard of him before but would come in the next day and see if it was anyone I might know…

The next day at about noon, I strolled into the police station and eventually identified the wayward Major and discovered what had happened. The car we rented was a Hertz rental and because the user’s of rental cars did not always leave the key when they returned the car, some enterprising and stupid rental agent made several “Master” keys and when a particular car was missing its key instead of not renting the car, he gave the unknowing customer a master key.

The Major and his “date” had walked out of the Mexican Village, the Major saw the first black Ford Fairlaine at the curb and put the key in the door lock. Of course the door opened (Master Key!) and he and his date entered the car just as two little old ladies came out, saw two strangers entering their car, and screamed THIEF. As fate would have it, two police officers were just driving slowly past and stopped to see what the problem was.

Since the Major had been drinking, he was taken into custody and the rest is as I have written. We found out about the master key from Hertz when the original car was towed to the impound lot (cost the Major another $125.00) and Hertz was called about their impounded car.

Needless to say the Major was mad, broke, hung-over and tried to blame everything on Hertz and me. I pointed out that I was a “straight arrow” as I had walked back to the base and gone to bed while he was having his adventure.

That day the Major picked up a new nick-name. He was known as “the car thief” for many years after.

Remember Pearl Harbor

btharp_1@pacbell.net — Fri, 08 Dec 2006 00:45:11 GMT

This story is a little different from the others I have posted here. It is a personal one as seen through the eyes of a seven year old boy. In its’ way, it was intensely traumatic and life changing.

December the seventh, 1941, a day that I will remember as the most frightening of my seven and a half year old life. My mother, father, and I were preparing to go to church. It was slightly after nine AM. The radio was on and as always, my father was listening to the news.

The announcer suddenly went silent, a pause, and then he said “my God!”. In 1941, anyone who used profanity, and my God was considered profanity, was sure to be fined, go to jail, as well as lose his job.

Then a different voice came on and said, “there are unconfirmed reports that the Japanese are bombing the territory of Hawaii. As soon as there is any additional information, we will break into our regularly scheduled broadcasts to inform you”.

A third announcer began to issue what have since become known as “public service announcements”. “All military personnel will immediately report to there place of duty or to such public and military transport as will take them to their place of duty. All police, firemen, and public service employees such as electric, gas, and sewage personnel will immediately report to their places of employment” it said.

I looked at my mother and father and for the first time in my life I saw their fear and I was afraid.

Within 15 minutes, the original news announcer was on the air and passed the radio feed to some man in Hawaii who was as close to hysterical as I had ever heard. We heard explosions in the background and people yelling and screaming. He began to describe the scene as he saw it. When he got to the explosions on Battleship row and Ford Island, the radio feed went dead.

We were informed there were technical difficulties and an attempt would be made to reconnect the broadcast. We never heard from Hawaii again that day. My family went to church and like all the rest of the families there, discussed the terrible thing that was happening and helped one another to overcome the shock. The pastor of our church led all the church in prayer for the brave men defending us in Hawaii and sent us all home.

The radio broadcasts informed us that a 5:30 PM curfew and martial law had been declared and anyone caught on the streets of Seattle between 5:30 PM and 6:30 AM would be arrested and charged with violating the curfew. I was sent to bed at an unusually early hour (7:00 PM) and I remember seeing my father sitting in front of his big multi-band Zenth console attempting to hear any radio broadcasts from Hawaii.

The next day, everyone was subdued and frightened. We knew that President Roosevelt was scheduled to address a joint session of congress that evening and everyone knew he would ask for a declaration of war against the Empire of Japan. I heard again and again the unbelieving tones of the adults as they said that the Japanese did not even declare war, they stabbed us in the back and they would pay.

That night I heard President Roosevelt say his stirring speech that started out with “Yesterday December 7th, a day that will live in infamy, the Empire of Japan attacked the United States”.

Yes, I always remember Pearl Harbor….

How to Anger an Admiral and get recognition.

btharp_1@pacbell.net — Wed, 06 Dec 2006 20:23:38 GMT

In the summer-Fall of 1955, I was attending the Navy Aviation Electronics Technicians school at the Naval Air Technical Training Center, Millington, TN (this was sometimes erroneously called NAS Memphis). The Naval Air Technical Training Center or NATTC was a group of NAVY/Marine Corps. schools covering all aspects of Naval Aircraft Technical Training. There were 2,600 Marines in a technical training status and 14,000 Sailors at the NATTC Naval base. The Base as did many in that era, fielded a semi-pro football team that was called “NAS Memphis or NAVY Memphis”. Needless to say there were several Marines on the team. In fact, there were 17 Marines out of a team with 26 players on it.

The commanding officer of the Marine detachment had on several occasions been asked to see if some credit could be given for the Marine Corps. members of the team. He asked the Admiral to put a one liner in the programs giving the number of Marines on the team or failing that, at least to append to the appropriate mans name in the program, his branch of service. He was flatly turned down.

A few Marines decided that they would unofficially take action to show their displeasure with the decision. SOOooo on the first moonless night, three of these stalwart souls climbed the side of the three story administration building and removed the Admirals “broad Pennant” or command flag as it was known.

The next day the flag was perceived to be missing and not within the grounds of the administration building. Thinking it had just blown away, a new flag was hoisted and while the security personnel were directed to be especially vigilant, nothing else was done. Again, albeit with a little more difficulty, the three Marines climbed the building and removed the Pendant.

There were at this time 25 Women Marines attending schools at the NATTC Memphis. With a little help from these “Lady Marines” a replacement flag consisting of a set of red ladies underwear – (bra and panties) that had prominent Gold Eagle, Globe, and Anchor symbols of the Corps. embroidered on them, were hoisted as a suitable replacement flag on the flag pole.

Needless to say, the Admiral was not amused and ordered the entire Marine detachment restricted to quarters for 14 days. This included our commanding officer (C. O.) and all the Marine officers attending officer’s training courses. The C. O. held an all-hands meeting and while he did not seem too upset, said that the Admirals flag was totally off limits and we were to no longer target the admiral.

About ten days later, a friend of the Admiral gave him a Goat as a mascot for the football team. It was a long haired angora goat with large curling horns. The goat was snow white and four young sailors were assigned as around-the-clock handlers of this fine animal.

A short conference within the Marine enlisted barracks decided that a decoration of the goat would not be an assault on the Admiral’s flag and the planning began.

It was somewhat harder to get the goat and later return it to its’ stable than to climb a building and change a flag but with proper planning and execution, the deed was done. One night the goat was put to bed by his handler as a white silky flowing specimen of US Navy pride, the next morning, the same animal sported a bright new “saddle sign” dyed into the angora wool that read “USMC” in gold on crimson.

The small mushroom cloud over the Admirals quarters was a beauty to behold. I have it on good authority that the Admiral first laughed, then roared, and finally cried real tears. It seems that the benefactor that had furnished the goat mascot was the head of the US Naval Academy and was to attend the next NAVY Memphis football game and officially hand over to NATTC and the Admiral that symbol of Navy aggressiveness, the Angora goat.

It was decided by the Admiral that under the circumstances, the goat would have to be shorn as a “naked” goat would be easier to explain than a USMC goat. The night before the big game, there were 20 young sailors assigned to guard a very cold and very naked animal. The next day, the goat again sported a freshly painted new USMC saddle in crimson and gold but this time on skin. In desperation, the young sailors who had failed to keep as watchful as they should have been, decided to wash the goat in something like paint thinner but could find none. Eventually someone suggested JP4 (Jet fuel) and the poor defenseless animal was washed in JP4. It expired about an hour before the game and the admiral at least did not have to explain why his goat had Marine Corp colors or initials on it.

The following week, each player had his branch of service in parenthesis behind his name.

Lori's Ancestory

btharp_1@pacbell.net — Mon, 31 Oct 2005 19:14:29 GMT

This entry is somewhat unusual as it is about a man that died 90 or so years ago. He was an ancestor of Lori and some of you may see where she gets her ability to survive and strive... She has great genes and seems to use them. This is about her three times great uncle, Eppenetus Washington McIntosh.

Eppenetus Washington McIntosh was my great, great uncle and my grandmother's favorite uncle. She told me tales about him from the time I was six or seven until I left home to enlist in the U.S. Marine Corps at 18. I lived with her until I was seven and then, when my mother remarried, she and I went to live with my mother and stepfather.

It was very obvious that my grandmother loved Uncle Epp as he was called and though she thought him a little strange, it was more on the side of eccentric than really what I would call "crazy".

As I was researching my ancestry, I and came across some pictures of Uncle Epp in my grandmother's papers and became curious if the stories my grandmother told were real.

Eventually, I sent to the national Archives and received a 3"+ stack of medical, pension, and military records that I am still organizing and
reading (copperplate script is not what I usually read). So far these
papers bear out just about everything my grandmother told me and more.

Uncle Epp was born in Indiana and his family moved to Bloomington Illinois, when he was nine years old (1852). According to the Illinois state records, he enlisted as a drummer on April 12, 1861, in Company E of the 14th Illinois Infantry to serve in the Civil war. He at one time or another was also in Companies A & C as the 14th Illinois was shot up in various battles and the remaining units were consolidated.

I know he was in battles at Pittsburg Landing (Shiloh), the siege of Corinth (where he was sited for bravery as "picking up the fallen colors, waving the flag and charging alone against the enemy", the siege of Vicksburg (talk about irony! my paternal great grandfather was the standard bearer with the Arkansas 1st Calvary Battalion-dismounted that fought opposite the 14th and 15th Illinois during the siege), and an expedition to Jackson, Mississippi, where he was again part of a siege. He was wounded at least three times, twice in the left shoulder and once in the right foot.

Upon the expiration of his original enlistment, he returned to Illinois in 1863, reenlisted as a regular U.S. Army Pvt. but was retained in the combined 14th-15th, Illinois Battalion as a "veteran Private". His new company, Company A, was assigned to guard Rail stations that were key to providing Sherman's Army with supplies during the march through Georgia.

On October 4th, 1864, his luck finally ran out at the railway station in Acworth Georgia when Confederate Calvary under Nathan Bedford Forrest captured him (nope, not my great grandfather this time although that would have made a great story) and over 100 other Illinois soldiers at Acworth Station.

This was the start of his captivity and subsequent voyage on the Sultana. He told my grandmother that they were marched in a cold drizzling rain for five days with no food, little water, and only two or three stops to rest.

They were delivered to Andersonville prison on October 9, 1864 where he was "incarcerated" as my grandmother used to say, until early April, 1865 when he was paroled. The Andersonville records are the first to spell his name with one "p". He was carried on their roles as "Epenetus W. McIntosh". He weighed 185 Lbs when captured at Acworth but only 80 lbs when received at the parole camp outside Vicksburg. The Andersonville national monument has him listed also as a Sultana Survivor. He like many others suffered starvation, dysentery, and hardships at which I can only guess.

Sometime during the first five days in April, Uncle Epp and about 340 some other prisoners were sent by railroad, wagons, marched, and finally delivered to the Black River parole camp outside of Vicksburg, Mississippi.

On his arrival, the Dr. wrote his weight on the acceptance form as 80 Lbs! He could not stand for long nor walk without help and then for only a short distance. Pictures of the time show Epp as "the living Skeleton" and an example of the inhumanity at Andersonville.

He had no shoes, socks or shirt but what he still had was an indomitable will to live. The paroled prisoners were all given a new uniform at the camp and beans, sowbelly, and hardtack to eat. He later said that if anyone would have told him how good hardtack and sow belly could taste he'd have called them liars. According to the stories he told my grandmother, he spent the next seven days eating, sleeping, and making sure he woke up every morning

He was at the parole camp from approximately April 15, 1865 until he and 1,300 other paroled Union veterans were placed on the Henry Ames early on the morning of April 23, 1865. In the eight days at the parole camp, he managed to gain 5 Lbs on beans, sow belly and hardtack!

Notice that the Henry Ames was considered full with only 1,300 paroled prisoners. She was about half the tonnage of the Sultana but the same length, a little over half the width but with the same draft.

When the Henry Ames finally docked at Memphis, family legend has it that Epp left the Henry Ames to get a hot meal from the Sanitary Commission's soldiers home and to "cage" a few drinks from strangers. He apparently met with some success as he literally "missed the boat" when the Henry Ames sailed without him.

He was in trouble until a second steamship docked that was also leaving for Ft. Benton MO. As fate would have it, it was called the Sultana. Uncle Epp
told my grandmother that he took a group of soldiers from the Sultana to the Sanitary Commission soldier's home where he had another hot meal and his new friends had what surely was one of their first good meals in a long time.

As I read in Gene Salecker's book on the Sultana about the drunken seven foot tall Tennessee soldier, I remembered something that my grandmother said. "Epp was great at finding trouble and just as good at leaving it with someone else". Since he was acting as a guide for some of the soldiers, it is not much of a stretch that he may have helped that particular soldier to find free drinks.

In any case, his new friends took him back on board the ship and the rest became chaotic history. Epp told my grandmother that he had found a nice warm piece of the Texas deck to sleep on and with a new found friend on either side, he went to sleep. The next thing he remembered was waking up in cold water after the Sultana exploded.

He said he floated and swam as best he could and quickly disrobed to his "drawers". Since these were 1865 drawers, he probably meant the bottoms of cotton or wool long-johns. Epp could see other soldiers pulling each other under the water to never rise again in their frantic efforts to live so decided to set out on his own. He was able to keep away from other swimmers and finally made it to a sandbar on the Arkansas side that was one or two inches below the surface of the river but too far from the bank to risk swimming further.

He managed to stay on the sandbar turning every little bit to warm himself until he was picked up by two black men in a small boat at about 10:00 am in the morning. He must have been a hearty cuss since he had spent an entire night in cold (40 to 45 degree F. at that time of year) water without clothes or boots, and still weighing at most, 85 Lbs.

Epp swore to the entire family that he was in the water for eight hours but at least 5-6 of them were in very shallow water of the sand-bar from which he was removed by "two colored men and carried to Overton Hospital".

This is recorded on the back of one of the small cards he would sell after he gave a patriotic speech and played the banjo or guitar for interested audiences. The little talks, cards and sometimes concerts were the way he augmented his military pension.

Two days later, he was released from Overton hospital and again embarked on a steamer and sent to Benton Barracks, St. Louis, MO. He was given a recovery furlough and later mustered out on May 30, 1865.

The rest of his life is stranger if not as exciting. He married, fathered three children, cultivated the wander foot that allowed him to wander around the mid-west as a disabled veteran, and in general, living by his wits and his own rules.

I have so many stories told me by my grandmother and more or less backed up by the military, medical, Pension records, and letters about an on-going fight with his wife (she had him declared incompetent in 1888 and the only income he had from then on was from his singing, dancing, and telling stories about Andersonville and the Sultana).

His wife died in 1916 and he was suddenly declared competent and capable of handling his own finances.

He finally succumbed to Parkinson's disease In July 1927. He is buried in the Leavenworth National cemetery, Leavenworth, Leavenworth county, Kansas,
as, McIntosh, Eppenetus W, d. 07/26/1927, Plot: 34 20 11, bur. 07/26/1927

He was aged 83 years and eight months. Not bad for a man that survived Andersonville prison and the greatest maritime disaster in the history of the United States. The sinking of the Sultana resulted in the death of 1,700 people. The Titanic disaster killed 1,200 hundred or so.

The Long Walk Home

btharp_1@pacbell.net — Wed, 10 Aug 2005 19:46:51 GMT

The Long Walk Home

In July 1966, I was on temporary duty at Danang, South Viet Nam. I was attached to the VMGR 152 detachment there. I had just made WO1 (Warrant Officer) and was sent to Danang to get me out of the current Avionics officer's hair ( I was a gunnery Sergeant at the time I was commissioned and had on several occasions, disagreed with the WO3 who was Avionics officer. It did not help that I proved to be right).

My orders read that I was to inspect the current billeting/living area, take what steps were needed to improve conditions and morale. In short, I had been sent to Siberia. I really didn't care as sitting safe and secure at Futema Okinawa was a lot more dangerous to me than being at Danang.

About a week into my assignment and while bored stiff, I happened to run into an old friend at 1st Marine Wing headquarters. In the course of our conversation, he invited me to a poker game the following night. He offered to meet me at the VMGR 152 area as his billeting area was about three miles from ours and I had not been there before.

So at 5:00 PM the next day, he showed up and as required, I put on my weapon (a M1911-A1 45 caliber Pistol) fortified myself with my bankroll ($120 US dollars, not much but enough if I was lucky) and a quart of Jack Daniels No.7 black label as a gift for my host.

Steve and I walked over to his "Hooch" as the eight man squad tents were called, and I was introduced to my fellow gamblers. We played the usual games for our era, five card draw, seven card stud, and my favorite, five card stud. The gods of chance smiled on me and I won small pots but regularly and failed to get the terror of all gamblers, a second best good hand.

As a for instance for the non-players who may read this, if you had a straight (five cards in sequence such as 7,8,9,10,and a jack, but your opponent had a full house, such as three deuces and a pair of fives, he wins. You have a good hand, just not good enough. A very bad thing to have happen. Between some very good hands I bluffed a lot so my fellow players didn't know what I had and when they called, I had the best hand.

I won steadily and had acquired about $ 500.00 dollars by 2:00 AM. I certainly did not come to the game to lose so I began to work on an exit strategy. I waited until I lost a hand and decided this was it.

At about 2:30 AM and with far to many drinks in me, I started to walk home. Steve and the other players tried to discourage me from taking a 3 mile walk through potentially hostile areas at 2:30 in the morning. Later I learned I was in as much danger from my own troops as from the enemy.

I left Steve's hooch at about 2:45 AM and started the walk home. I walked in the center of the two lane dirt road that ran from the 1st Wing billeting area to the airfield runways where my billeting area was located. This had the advantage (or so I thought in my possibly reduced mental capacity) of walking on the grass growing between the lanes and silencing my footsteps. I had gone little more than a mile when I began to hear sounds that were alarmingly like someone crawling through the loose dirt and rocks along side the road.

I stopped. crouched down, and tried to see what it was. Now the night in question was absolutely moonless and with only starlight to see by, I didn't see much. But I could hear very well as for some reason the insects and frogs had seemingly stopped working just as had my breathing. I quite suddenly was sober, aware of my danger, and sure that there was something or someone very close and moving in my direction. I pulled out my 45 and as quietly as possible, pulled the slide back to chamber a cartridge "just in case". "Snick, snick, clank!". Even though I carefully pulled the slide to the rear and just as carefully let the slide ride home to chamber a round, to my hypersensitive ears it sounded as if someone had just loaded a sixteen inch naval cannon and with just as much noise.

Of course now my breathing was fast, loud, and short so that added to the noise my thumping heart was making to a conga beat. What am I doing here, why didn't I listen to my friends, when will I die? Ok, ok, Marines are not supposed to be scared but at that moment the best I could do was keep control of what I was afraid was a very weak bladder.

As my heart dropped from 120 miles an hour to a more comfortable 90 miles per hour, I kept telling myself that this was a figment of my imagination, I would do just fine, and that chances are I'm just a little tipsy and misreading all of this. HoKay, inventory says, heart at a lower rate, breathing under control, brain starting to function in self-preservation mode. Ten fingers all clinched (careful of the first one on the right hand, it could cause a lot of noise if pulled to tightly around the trigger), laying flat on road in the middle of a broad flat area – NOT GOOD.

I start crawling carefully to the side of the road away from the noise. Ok, so far so good. I make the small 10" deep ditch running down the side of the road, slide into it displacing quite a bit of flora and fauna. No worries about flora but the wrong fauna in Viet Nam is deadly. So far no snakes (12 poisonous types there), no rats (they carry Bubonic plague and rabies), only a few frogs who croak their surprise and anger as they jump away.

A sudden burst of fire from behind me, I am to stunned to even fire back. Then before I can respond, a burst of fire comes from where I first heard the crawling noises. Who are the good guys? Is this some horrible intramural fire fight I have caused? If so, why was the first group crawling behind and to my right when all the guard posts are on this side of the road?

I try to picture a map of this area in my head as the fire fight intensifies and I compress a 6 foot tall 186 lb body into a ditch 10 inches deep and about 24 inches wide. Surprise! It can be done. I suppose I am lucky that none of the shots were initially aimed at me as I would have surely been unable to sit for some time if they had.

The map I conjured up showed that if the crawlers had continued on their way, they would eventually wind up at the 1st Wing ammunition dump which contains in addition to small arms ammunition, 100, 200, 500, and 1,000 lb bombs. A nicely placed satchel charge and there would be one hell of a 4th of July going on.

The shooter to my left rear, corresponds to a known guard path that the Wing uses to discourage the "Kong" from entering the area. Mmmmm, the Kong must have scheduled their entry to coincide with the exit of the walking guard, when much to their chagrin, Bill stumbles along where he is not supposed to be then he disappears followed by shots going their way.

I crawl down the ditch and carefully exit the line of fire between the guard and the Kong. By this time, even though only 3 or 4 minutes have elapsed since the first shots, the entire base is coming awake, The Kong have little choice, they must rush and kill the only guard between them and escape. If they do it fast enough, they can furnish their own escape distraction by blowing up the ammo dump and getting away in the resulting confusion.

About the time I see this as a possibility, it occurs to me no one knows I am there! If I lay low, know one will know how stupid I was and if the Kong try to escape, I am in the perfect place to stop them.

Sure enough, up jumps three shadows silhouetted against the now search light covered runway and about 30 yards from me, a long pistol shot but worth the chance before they realize there is someone else in this fight. I carefully support my elbows on the ground in front of me, aim at the last silhouette in the now moving line of three, and squeeze off my first shot ever fired in combat.

The silhouette is thrown to the side as if hit by an invisible fist. The first two haven't noticed yet. Good! Second shot same lead same elevation but a longer shot. Baaam!, a clean miss, Uh oh, the remaining two discover that the guard has help and try to discourage me from further shots. The ditch is not any deeper but fortunately, the shots are at the end where my head is located. My head while not as big as some people say it is, is still big enough to make me concerned about loosing a few ounces.

The guard now realizing that for some reason, the two remaining Kong are not shooting at him so he starts firing at them again. Down goes number one! One left. I put my arm and head up, aim at number two and both my 45 and the guard's M14 fire at the same time. Number two is number 2.

I carefully crawl further down the ditch. Roll onto the road and start yelling at the guard "I'm a Marine, can I help? He says to get up, hold my hands in the air and walk toward him to be identified. I carefully put the 45 safety on, holster the gun in my shoulder holster, and do as he says.

He is really hyped up (I can surely understand why), "did you see me shoot those guys?" he says. I quickly say "no" but removing my 45 from the holster tell him we should go and see if any of them are alive, disarm them and await the arrival of the response team. Count one wounded and two dead Viet Kong. The wounded Kong has a large hole in his hip rendering him unable to walk shoot or since he is unconscious, unable to talk. The other two seem to have several holes each from an M14.

We gather up the assorted guns carried by our late adversaries and then it sets in, I have just been shot at and survived, shot back and actually killed a fellow human being. NOT GOOD.

The Incident Response Team arrives and after an intense and thorough de-brief where I explain I was just out for a short walk, I am let go. It is 6:30 AM I am hungry, tired, sick at my stomach, and afraid that my friends will think me nuts for walking home and into a fire fight.

The Incident Response Team leader calls on me the next day and says, " you were armed with a 45 weren't you?" . I said yes. He says two of the Kong had 45 holes in them and the wounded guy says that they had only received fire from the guard and were getting ready to rush him when out of no where a second "guard" shot him. I smiled and said "they don't arm the walking guards with 45s". He smiled back and asked if I had enjoyed my long walk home...

Ice Cream Social anyone?

btharp_1@pacbell.net — Fri, 10 Jun 2005 21:28:13 GMT

Ice cream, $1,200.00 a Pint

In 1966 when I first arrived in Viet Nam, Two things were in short supply. Fresh Milk, and fresh eggs. If you would have asked the typical Marine which he would rather have, a cold beer or fresh milk, the answer would be fresh milk every time.

I was attached to a transport group that made monthly flights from Viet Nam/Okinawa to El Toro Marine Corps Air Base in Orange County, California. On the return Leg of the flight, the KC-130s refueled at Kaneohe Bay, Hawaii, as their last stateside stop. So periodically when the return flight was direct to the VMGR 152 detachment at Da Nang, South Viet Nam, there was an opportunity to purchase fresh milk at Kaneohe and fly it to the detachment.

In the summer of 1966, the temperatures were regularly over 115 degrees and 100% humidity. When word was passed that a transport was going "stateside" the members of the detachment took up a collection and sent enough money to buy 24 cases of fresh milk in Hawaii on the return leg of the flight. The cases of milk were loaded on the boarding ramp at the rear of the plane as it was the coolest part of the plane in flight. Temperature would range from -20°C to +10°C depending on whether there was heat or no heat.

On the return trip, the crew duly ordered, received, and stowed the 24 cases of milk (10 gallons to the case). After the 36 hour flight from Hawaii to Da Nang via Midway and the Philippines. The plane arrived to about 150 very thirsty Marines who immediately opened the first case. OH SH-T! The case was mislabeled. It contained 10 gallons of pure cream. A quick check of the other cases produced the same results.

What do you do with 240 gallons of pure cream? Well if you are an inventive bunch of hungry Marines, you call the mess hall and ask for a recipe for vanilla ice cream. You borrow two 140 gallon soup cauldrons with covers from the mess hall (I'll bet you didn't think about how much soup one or two thousand men can eat), along with enough vanilla ice cream mixings and try to figure out how the resulting ice cream mix can be quick frozen in 115° weather.

Hmmmm... At 25,000 feet, the ramp temperature is 30° Fahrenheit and it will take two and a half hours for 1,920 Lbs of mix to freeze. Ho-Kay, we just load the soup cauldrons (now full of ice cream mix and weighing 960 Lbs ea.) onto the KC-130 ramp with a fork lift, Have a crew of eight take the KC-130 on a "Routine training flight" and bore holes in the sky for two and a half hours at 25,000 feet.

Since there was no way 150 of us could eat all that ice cream before it melted or spoiled, we invited everyone in the 1st Marine Air Wing to an ice cream social. One of the cargo loaders with a slide rule (for you youngsters that never saw one, you can think of a slide rule as a manually operated mechanical analog computer) figured that all things taken into consideration, that ice cream cost about $ 1,200.00 a pint.

All I know is that the moral boost it supplied was without a price.

Here is another John the Animal Story.

btharp_1@pacbell.net — Sat, 22 Jan 2005 00:15:36 GMT

John the Animal, Part 4

While supporting the troops in Lebanon in 1958 was necessary, it was not pleasant. The troops on the ground were ordered to “withhold fire unless shot at and hit. Then return fire to cause the shooter to cease firing being careful not to cause un-necessary harm to either civilians or militants”. Hell of a way to fight a war huh?

When our transport squadron flew into Beirut International Airport, we nearly always took fire from a heavy (14 MM – over 50 caliber for those who care) water cooled AA (Anti Aircraft) Machine gun. There was not much we could do and since the troops on the ground had been specifically ordered not to give suppressing fire, we just had to grin and bear it. After two flights into and out of the airport, John swore he would cure those “Crazy Bastards” from shooting at his plane.

On the third trip in, we picked up an R4350 (4500 Horsepower radial engine) that was being returned to maintenance as “Unserviceable”. Basically this meant that the engine would be scrapped. We took off the clam-shell doors and stowed them in order to provide room to load the engine. When it came time to depart, John disappeared into the cockpit and when he returned, said “leave the doors stowed and only use one tiedown chain”. Shades of Shakey Watts, what was going on here? John was very safety conscious and a flight of 1200 miles with no rear doors and only one tiedown chain was asking for trouble.

As we lifted off, John said, “Bill give me a hand here”. When I tell you to, hit the tiedown quick-release on this engine. I began to see what was happening! When he said NOW! I tripped the quick release sending one and a half tons of aircraft engine hurtling ground ward and forward at 100+ miles per hour. I made it to the back of the plane just in time to see the engine caroming along the ground, bouncing five or six feet into the air and again rolling, heading directly at the machine gun emplacement.

Little ants began to exit from the sand bag emplacement running to all 360 degrees of the compass as the engine rolled over the machine gun, the emplacement, ammunition, and I suspect one or two of the ants that didn’t make it out. “ I bet those bastards don’t shoot at any other planes with that gun” yelled John over the noise of the slipstream. I asked John what will we tell anyone who asks how this happened? John grinned and said “It beats rocks”.

A Shocking Climax!

btharp_1@pacbell.net — Fri, 21 Jan 2005 23:04:12 GMT

A Shocking Climax

I went to Japan for the first time in 1959 as a 25 year old Staff Sgt. Our entire Squadron was transferred from Cherry Point, NC, to Atsugi Japan. The first thing that we were told upon arriving was there would be a lecture on social and financial arrangements (read how to treat the ladies of the evening) in the city of Atsugi and especially it’s bars and the women who worked there.

The squadron was placed on port and starboard liberty (half had liberty on one day, the rest the next). Of course the first thing 250 single Marines did was to hit the various flesh-pots and check out the talent. I had a young Sgt. working for me who was freshly divorced and had the avowed purpose of making love to as many women as he could while we were deployed (overseas). We’ll call him Sgt. Dumbass (DA) as he sure was not the brightest star in the sky. In fact, in the course of our 14 month deployment, he managed to go from Sgt. to Pvt. A loss of three pay grades (more on this later).

We had been in Japan about six weeks when I received a phone call from the hospital informing me that Sgt. DA was there and being treated for an electrical shock induced fibrillation of his heart. I reported the conversation to the electronics officer, a young 1st lieutenant and he decided to accompany me to the hospital. When we arrived at the hospital, the attending physician told us that Sgt. DA had sustained an electrical shock somewhere and was found by the Shore Patrol (SP, a sort of Navy-Marine Corps police), lying on the street in Atsugi. He said the Sgt. had not yet explained how it happened and was hoping we could assist him in finding out.

When we all went into the ward where Sgt DA was in bed, I had suspicions that he was reluctant to explain as it would require self-incrimination. After assuring him that anything he told us in the hospital was not usable to incriminate him (BIG mistake by the Lieutenant) , he told the following story.

About four days before, he had waited until just before closing time of a bar and then approached one of the girls to become her “date” of the evening. This way he did not have to buy her drinks all night and then close “the deal”. He was one cheap SOB. They arrived at the girl’s home and after the usual event, went off to sleep. He awoke early (he said at 4:00 AM) and crept out without paying the young lady for her services.

The next liberty day (two days later) he decided to go to town and see the same girl. He claimed he wanted to see if he could talk her into going home with the intent to once again “stiff her” by not paying for her hard work…

He said as soon as he walked into the bar, she started calling him a “cheap yonkie som-om-beetch” (which he was). She pounded on his chest with her fists but he said since he was 6’2” tall and weighed 195 Lbs while she was about 5’ tall and 90 or so pounds, she did little or no damage. He calmed her down and started his campaign to go home with her again. He said that he told her “ you know how it is, I hate to pay for the same old thing”. He said she seemed to think for a minute or two and then said “eff I make differun, you pay for two, once last time and once this time”?

He told us he felt he could lie about it and still get what he wanted, sex for free. So when the bar closed they went back to her little apartment. He said it had a kitchen and a bedroom. She slept on the Tatame matting with comforters and sheets. At the foot of the bed was an old fashioned iron radiator for a hot water heating system and at the head of the bed was a small shelf that he hit with his head when horizontal as according to him, the room was about 7 feet by 7 feet in size.

There was a single light dangling from a cord in the ceiling, about two and a half feet from the floor. The cord had two light sockets and an electrical plug socket. A light was connected to a pull chain and screwed into one of the light bulb sockets but the other one was empty. When they went to bed, she reminded him of his promise and asked that he tell her when he was going to finish. Placing his feet firmly against the cast iron radiator, he went to work. He said he had no idea what she was going to do but was game for anything (so he thought). Sure enough when things approached the inevitable climax (Pun definitely intended) he said “now! Now!

At this point he said everything was a bright red explosion, followed by intense cold. When he came to his senses, he said he looked up at her laughing face and saw her finger in the empty light socket! At the precise moment he was making a good connection between her body and the iron radiator, she had put her finger in the light socket. Since by now he did not feel to well, he dressed and attempted to get to the base but passed out on the street. I couldn’t resist asking if he had paid twice as much. He looked at me as if I were crazy and said “of course, how could I lie about a thing like that”?

I’d like to say that that was the end of it but there is one more stupid event. Two days later, I received a call from the commanding officer stating that the Lt. (by now we’ll call him Dumbass #2) was temporarily indisposed and I should take over for a few days. The next call was from Lt. DA #2 asking me to bring some papers to his hospital room (yes, hospital room). A little investigation at the hospital produced a story I still find hard to believe.

The Lt. after hearing Sgt. DA’s story had decided to check it out and after over imbibing with the little Japanese woman, paid to have the same treatment… At least Sgt. DA did not know what was going to happen so there were some mitigating circumstances. Lt. DA #2 was just plain stupid (which is why the Marine Corps provides Staff NCOs to train junior officers).

The final chapter on this story was written by the Navy medical corp. The Young Japanese woman was placed “Off Limits” for all U.S. Personnel, both military and civilian. This was the only time I know of in my 22 years in the Marine Corps that an individual was placed off limits.

New Story - "100 Condoms"

btharp_1@pacbell.net — Fri, 21 Jan 2005 22:18:49 GMT

100 Condoms

When I first arrived at ITR (Individual combat Training Regiment) at Camp Pendleton, California, I was fresh from Boot Camp in San Diego, Greener than the uniform I wore and only knew how little I knew about being a Marine.

One of the first orientation lectures we received was about equipment not issued to us but useful in order to make our jobs and learning experience quicker and less painful. We were already aware of the type and quantity of shoe polish (Kiwi, preferred) needed to spit-shine our shoes and boots so that they were more than presentable, they shone like glass. A good Marine was expected, no, required to wear his boots and “Boondockers” (low quarter shoes that were closer to short boots) in the field, through surf and sand, and then have them ready for inspection the next day looking as if they were made from black glass.

In addition to the shoe care, a good Marine needed a “Housewife”. No, not the female type but a folding kit that contained needles, thread, a thimble, and extra buttons in colors for all Marine Corps Uniforms and other items of apparel (for one, the skivvies we wore, underwear for the uninitiated, had buttons and tie strips to provide a “one size fits all white cotton underpants). The white “T” shirts and skivvies drawers became a tip-off that we were going into a combat area as the Marine Corps had us dye them dark green when we alerted to deployment. But I digress.

Next on our list of desirables were the normal toothpaste, soap, towel (several of these as they made great gun-cleaning rags and quick boot buffers), wash rags, and shaving crème were optional. Combs, nail clippers, and nail brushes were also considered musts.

And then, the huge surprise! 100 condoms, any brand, but none with enhancements (ridges, reservoirs, etc.). What in the blue hell were we going to do here? Then the introduction to how they were to be used… One over the muzzle of your rifle – to keep out water but still allow you to shoot with safety, one over your medical kit bandages so you always had dry bandages, one over your water purification tablets so they would remain useful, one to cover your wallet to keep it clean and dry (yes, it will stretch enough to cover a small wallet or ID folder).

We were always surprised to find additional uses for this humble piece of equipment. Candy bar gets hot and melts in your pocket? No problem, put them in individual rubber containers before they melt and tie it off. Matches getting wet? No problem, get a box of large wooden kitchen matches and put 20 or so in individual condoms, tie a knot in the end and use when needed. They stay dry and usable under almost any conditions. If the matches in use get wet no problem, open a fresh supply.

It became such second nature to go to the Marine Corps exchange and get them when needed, that none of the clerks (mostly Marine’s wives,) or any of the other people in line even paid attention to the purchase.

Then, the unthinkable. I was paid a visit by my Mother and Grandmother and proudly showed them around the base area. My mother asked if I could get her a small package of Kleenex so we went into the small exchange annex in my company area. I thought I’d take the opportunity to get a few items I needed myself. Everything would have been alright except when I entered the car, I handed my mother the small sack with my purchases.

There was a small squeak and then silence as she held up a container of 100 Trojan condoms and in a quiet but demanding voice asked “and what are you going to do with these?”

My grandmother without missing a beat said "he’ll use them Lucille, put them back in the sack”.

Yes, I did explain why I bought them but I’m sure that my mother was unconvinced but since her mother told her to mind her own business, she did so…

How The Story of John Ended

btharp_1@pacbell.net — Tue, 17 Aug 2004 19:27:06 GMT

Story Four:
If you ever go to Washington DC, go to the Viet Nam war memorial. You’ll see John’s name. Look for it, Msgt John D’Adamo Jr. He gave that last full measure of devotion that Lincoln spoke of. I’d bet my life he did it without a single thought as to what it might do to him. I owe it to John and myself to tell this story.

In the natural progression of things, I’ll probably remember additional stories about John D’Adamo. He was that kind of guy. He is one of the Marine Corps.’ true characters and legends. As long as the “Corp.” has men like John, it will “live long and prosper”. John used to say that the captain gets the credit but the crew does the work. Sometimes that is true.

This is a painful and short John story. It is how he died.

In February of 1968, the battle of Khe Sanh raged in the South Viet Namese highlands. Khe Sanh was a Marine firebase of about reinforced battalion strength (800 plus men) and was surrounded by about 5,000 NVA regulars in an attempt to make it another Dien Ben Phu (The major battle lost by the French that resulted in the French withdrawing from Indo-China). The only way to get re-supply to the Marines on the ground was by air. Marine Air Transport Squadron VMGR 152 was tasked with the supply of everything from food to fuel and bullets to artillery rounds.

On February the 10th, 1968, Master Sergeant John D’Adamo was the crew chief of a Marine KC 130 bringing two, 2,000 gallon rubber bladders of fuel to Khe Sanh. The NVA mortar crews waited until the KC 130 was committed to a landing and then began to drop shells on the landing strip. One hit the rear of the plane just as it came to a stop and attempted to taxi to safety (there was none but they tried). The subsequent explosion blew off the tail and set the fuel bladders afire trapping the five man crew in the cockpit of the large transport.

The only escape hatches available for the crew were two windows, one opposite the pilot and one opposite the copilot. These windows are 10 feet above the ground. They measure 18 inches by 20 inches. The three crew members that escaped by squeezing through these windows said that the last they saw of John, he had a hand fire extinguisher (about the size of the one you might have at home) and was headed into the flames of the cargo hold to give them more time to escape. The flames were so hot and all–consuming, that there was nothing recognizable recovered from the cargo hold ashes.

It was so like John, just do what needs to be done and forget your self…

John the Animal Part Three

btharp_1@pacbell.net — Tue, 17 Aug 2004 18:17:38 GMT

The Gun Runner/Ugly American

Story Three:
The Greeks and Turks have been fighting each other for the last five hundred years. I suspect that unless things change, they will continue to fight for the next half millennium as well. In 1958, the pending independence from Great Britain and potential Greek/Turkish warfare on Cyprus was an open sore for both the Greeks and Turks. It was the perfect (?) focus for John’s sometimes upsetting humor.

We were still ferrying supplies to Lebanon from several places in Europe and the Mediterranean area. We had just completed a run to Beirut and were returning to Morocco via Naples when we developed a rough running engine. Since it was foolish in the extreme to fly over water in the R4Q2 with the possibility of loosing half our support (so to speak), the decision was made to land in Greece and make necessary repairs.

It turned out that a broken sparkplug was the culprit so repairs were quickly made allowing the crew to have an unexpected evening in Athens. We checked with the local US Air Force personnel where to go. Their response was heartening. We were told that while the Greeks were mad at the official US policy concerning Cyprus, there were so many Greek Americans that they liked Americans in general. The only advice they gave us was “don’t drink the Ouzos (Greek anise brandy – tastes like nasty licorice)”. So, the first stop was a Greek bar that served Ouzos. We needed to find out what it was those candy-ass wing flappers couldn’t drink.

Weeeellll… They were (ugh) right. We quickly found out that the Greek pallet for alcohol was different from the entire world (unless you are Greek). Ouzos was far worse than “Retsina”. What is Retsina you might ask? It is a sour wine fortified with resin (yes that is the stuff you put on violin bows to make the cat-gut squeal) and Ouzos. When we asked for wine, Retsina is what they brought.

A big Greek dressed in what can be charitably called a working class suit came over to the table and tried to start a conversation with us. John ignored him or maybe just could not understand him. We could just barely make out that he had spent two years in Chicago and wanted to know if any one was from Chicago. Since it sounded like “errr ny eff ou effrm Chicago?” It was hard to communicate. He then turned to John (BIG MISTAKE!!!) and said “Wharrr dew eue cam frmmm?”.

He had meant where did John come from. John elected to understand he meant where were we coming from and without missing a beat, said “Ankara” (Turkey). It was suddenly as quiet as the tomb in the bar. I had visions of wearing a necklace of Greek knives around my throat, all of them energetically sawing at my carotid artery. I knew what was coming next as surely as if I had second sight. I cringed and looked around me. The other four guys were all positioning themselves for a fast if futile attempt at an exit.

“Vat chu dew nn Ankora? Said the big Greek. “Running Guns to the Turks” John said. (count to five very slowly) Then John said “Let me buy you a drink” and smiled. It was if there was a sudden leak in a large balloon as everyone, Greek and American alike exhaled. The big Greek started laughing and said “ewe mk da fnny jake, no?”. John said “I make the funny joke Yess!” and I knew I’d live to have children.

John the Animal Part Two

btharp_1@pacbell.net — Thu, 12 Aug 2004 23:48:01 GMT

Story Two:
The first thing that the State Department does when there is an international crisis is to evacuate all non essential personnel. As soon as our plane arrived in Beirut, Lebanon, it was turned around, loaded with wives and dependants of State Department officials as well as military dependents and ordered to Naples to pick up more. From Naples we were to fly to Gibraltar where US merchant ships would furnish transportation back to CONUS (CONtinental United States).

The Mediterranean in July is hot. As a result the absolute minimum of clothing was worn by all of us. Usually just the cotton flight suit we had been issued (this is before the invention of Nomex). Even at five thousand feet (the maximum we could fly with pregnant women and small children) the internal temperatures were from 80° to 90° F. The standard issue flight suit had more pockets and zippers than a pair of Cargo shorts. Some of the zippers worked both ways, that is, if the zipper were closed, you could either open it by pulling up or pulling down. Most of the pockets and the front suit opening used to put on the suit had these two way zipper types.

Eventually we had a full load of 40+ women and children between the ages of 40 and a few weeks old. With this many children and pregnant women we had rigged the only “potty” space on the aircraft with a pull curtain for some privacy. Normally the “Sitter” as it was called was only used for solid waste but the only other facilities for liquid waste were four interesting devices called “relief tubes” normally used when carrying troops (all male in those days). Since these appliances were emphatically and definitely sexist in construction, that left only the “Sitter” as an alternative for our feminine passengers and the small children.

This also meant that if any of the aircrew needed to relieve themselves, it was the “Sitter” or nothing. Since the flight from Naples was approximately six to seven hours, it was guaranteed that one or all of us would have to use the “Sitter”. Sure enough, about five hours into the flight, John had to go. I was at the tail end of the cargo bay making sure our passengers would use barf bags if they became air sick. I watched John enter the privacy area and close the curtain. Shortly thereafter, he exited the curtain.

Even 25 feet away, I could see that nature had been exceedingly generous with John… He had pulled the wrong zipper closure and was to say it delicately, exposed. Though there was no wind, his personal equipment swayed ponderously as he walked. I tried frantically to get his attention. Finally, in desperation I yelled “Close the Door!” John looked at me and then the privacy curtain. He still did not get it. I mimicked zipping my suit. John looked down and then in a voice that could be heard over the engine’s roars said “Oh Goddammit” and reached for his zipper. Every move being followed by 40 pairs of eyes.

To the last time I saw him, John insisted it had helped his love life enormously.

John the Animal Part One

btharp_1@pacbell.net — Thu, 12 Aug 2004 22:03:14 GMT

Making Friends
In 1957, when I was attached to H&MS 35, President Eisenhower sent the Marines into Lebanon to support the coalition government of Lebanon (Christian, Moslem, and the Druze) against the Syrian fomented rebellion. I was first sent to Lebanon and then within a week, was sent to Port Leyote, Morocco.

The first airplane I flew in had a crew chief named John De Animo. At that time John was a staff sergeant but already a legend within the Marine Corp. air wing. He had for various reasons picked up the nick-name, John the Animal or mostly, just the animal.

I am going to attempt to show John as something he would have fought against (he’d think it was not Masculine enough) but shows him as he really was. John was 32 and I was the youngest staff sergeant in the Marine Corp. (23 years of age). John decided that I needed an education in the seamier side of life, and an assist with my military and social skills.

John took me under his wing and when I flew with him, it was like flying with my mother only she would have to be blind… If I had followed all the advice given me by John, I’d have either been Commandant of the Marine Corp, or DEAD.

Story one:
With the entry of the Marines into Lebanon (all 1200 or so of us) the then Soviet Union threatened to enter in support of Syria who was at that time a “client State” and received all their military equipment and training from the Soviet Union. There were about two Divisions of Infantry “Instructors” – about 30,000 men and one regiment of T-56 Tanks – about 450-500 tanks. The Syrians had an Army of about 200,000 men and about 200 ancient but effective T-34 tanks.

Arrayed against this was a US Marine Corp. BLT (Battalion Landing Team) of approximately 1200 infantry with zero heavy weapons or tanks. MAG 35 was tasked with airborne support for the landing and re-supply as needed until ships from the US east coast could arrive in support (a 30+ day voyage).

I had been on 30 days leave and just headed for the Main gate at Cherry Point North Carolina when the sentries at the gate turned all personnel back to the base with orders to report to their duty stations immediately. I did so and was informed I had ½ hour to change clothes, pack, draw my T.O weapon and return to the flight line for a flight of undetermined length to an undisclosed destination.

I was told to pack light as my weight allowance was 240Lbs including my pistol, ammunition, and any clothing and personal articles I brought with me. Since I weighed 185 Lbs at the time and my weapon with ammo weighed about 10 Lbs that left me with 45 Lbs I could bring with me. I foresaw a lot of laundry in my future .

When I arrived at the R4Q-2 (Yup, same plane as Shaky Watts was in), I was told to Loose an additional 20 Lbs as we were taking a photographer from Life magazine with us and needed to find an additional 230 Lbs of weight allowance. Since the R4Q-2 was NEVER designed as a long haul, over water transport, we would be island hoping across the Atlantic. Remember now, the top cruising speed of the R4Q-2 was 150 miles per hour with a maximum range of 1200 miles. One mistake by the pilot or navigator and we would find out how well we could swim… We would eventually travel a total distance of 4,700+ miles to get to Lebanon.

Total travel time was estimated to be 32 hours not counting refueling stops or any necessary repairs due to the long flight on our well kept but ageing aircraft (average age of our R4Qs was 12 years). After a flight of 800 miles and six hours (head winds slowed us down for those of you math types). Our first stop was Argensia Newfoundland. We ate our last hot meal for a while as the aircraft was refueled. Then back into the air for an 1,150 mile leg to the Azores. Since the range of our plane was 1200 miles, we were fortunate to now have tail winds that helped extend the range (average ground speed of 230 MPH). Five hours later, we arrived at Lojas AFB, in the Azores.

As the plane refueled, I heard one of the air force people manning the refueling equipment say to his friend, “these guys are crazy, flying a four engine ocean in a two engine airplane”. I could not have agreed more. Here we ate cold C rations from the can.

Back into the plane and off to Gibraltar, a short 675 mile leg…Uh oh, headwinds, it took a little over seven hours to get there and we were almost out of fuel. Refueled again and checked the weather/winds. Next leg was to Naples Italy, a flight of 1,000 miles but headwinds of 120 miles per hour! Our effective range went from 1,200 miles to about 300 miles (airspeed of 150 MPH minus 120 MPH head winds equals a forward ground speed of 30 MPH – no joy) with the ten hour fuel supply we had.

Meteorology said that by 6:00 am the next morning, the winds would shift and we would have a 100 knot tail wind. There was nothing for it but to stay overnight. The time was now 3:30 PM local so we decided to go catch some uninterrupted sleep and all meet at the British NCO club for dinner about 7:30PM. At this point, I discovered that John De Animo had taken me under his wing. He informed me that true Marines with 14 1/2 hours to go before a flight used the two ½ available hours (air crew cannot drink for 12 hours before flying) for “hoisting a few” and nearly ordered me to come with him to the NCO club.

We arrived there at about 4:15 PM, right at the time that the heavy drinking Brits showed up to support their club. John and I bellied up to the bar and ordered John’s favorite mixed drink, a boiler maker. First a shot of Irish whisky (No American whisky at the bar) and wash it down with a mug of beer (only English pints thank you!). Two of these and there was a certain glazed/rosy glow all around me.

A VERY large British Marine with the emblem of a Sergeant Major on his sleeve came up and asked John were we the yanks with the twin-tailed plane down at the air field. John allowed as how he had the privilege of speaking to us and yes we were from that plane. The Sergeant Major looked as if he had bit into something distasteful but then asked the question that started my education. He said “I say yank, what do you call that aircraft”? John responded with R4Q2… The Sergeant Major looked stunned for a minute and then hitting John with a perfect haymaker he said “ah Fu_k you too Yank”.

A few minutes later, three men in a uniform that had red armbands and red ribbons about the base of their hats, the Brits equivalent of Military Police, came in to stop the fight (yes, by this time a very numb and slightly drunk young Marine was up to his butt in Royal Marines – and fine fighters they were too). As a man, the Brits and we two Marines turned on these poor individuals, picked them up bodily, and threw them in the swimming pool adjacent to the club. We looked at each other (somewhat the worse for wear) and suggested that a drink might be in order before we continued.

That night after we stumbled of to the transient flight quarters, John said “that’s your first lesson on how to make good friends. People you fight with make the best friends. You already know what you can do for each other”. I never forgot it.

ITR, Green Ducks, and Capt. Marvel

btharp_1@pacbell.net — Wed, 11 Aug 2004 22:26:19 GMT

Green Duck Sir!
In February 1955, I finished Boot Camp at the MCRD San Diego (Marine Corp. Recruit Depot, San Diego California. I had originally joined the Marine Corp. Reserves in December 1952, as a means to complete my schooling before doing my regular 2 – 4 years as mandatory military service.

For those of you who do not remember or know about “The Draft”, it was a means whereby the U.S. Government kept the Army, Navy, and Air Force up to full strength. The Marine Corp. and Coast Guard being considered “Elite” branches of the service did not need to draft replacements during peace time. If you joined a reserve detachment, and as long as you kept your grades to a “B” average, you had a chance to complete your schooling and then be drafted.

In the spring of 1953, I completed my schooling (Trade school) and returned to California. Since I was still had three years of a four year contract with the Marine Corp. Reserves to complete, I requested a transfer to the Marine Corp. Reserve Rifle Company Headquartered at Compton California.

Within six months of my return, I received a summons to take the Selective Service examination in preparation of being drafted. I immediately requested active duty orders from the Marine Corp. Reserve and was sent to the Marine Corp. Recruit Depot in San Diego California.

After 100 days of tender, loving care at the Marine Corp. Boot Camp, I was sent to Camp Pendleton California for training at the ITR (Infantry Training Regiment) school. There I met a young PFC (Private First Class) who came from a rather wealthy Mississippi family and who had a strange sense of humor.

Most of the young Marines (myself included) spent most of their time scared out of their wits by the military training and regulations. George (that was his name) had followed three previous generations of his family into the Marine Corp. and had little if any awe of the Corp.

It is a rule that military courtesy requires all enlisted to salute all officers and to do so first (the one exception being that Congressional Medal of Honor holders are saluted first by everyone no matter what their rank). At the ITR, new graduates of the Recruit Depot are the lowest form of life. Totally unproven, no experience, and fit only for guard duty (more about that later). Where ever we went, we marched in a group and the one in charge saluted for all of us. With the hand salute, you were expected to make a comment such as “good morning sir”, “Good evening sir”, or any other appropriate phrase.

George had a theory that no one ever listened to what you said, they only made sure you saluted and said something. To prove his theory, he took to saluting officers when he passed them and saying “Green Duck sir”. Sure enough, no one seemed to notice other than some strange looks of one or two who seemed to be unwilling to challenge his greeting and then find they had mis-heard him.

Then one day, he met a colonel, rendered the obligatory salute and said “green duck sir”. The Colonel halted as though he had hit a brick wall, and never missing a beat, he said “Marine I wear green but I sure as hell am not a duck”, what is your name and organization?

Shortly after, At office hours (a form of non-judicial punishment) George had a nice chat with the Captain who was our company commander who explained to him just how the Captain felt as the colonel quietly but professionally informed the Captain how he should pay more attention to his troops.

George was then given thirty days of extra duty and restricted to the base. I thought that was the end of it but in 1982, as I was passing through a small town in Mississippi, I saw a large sign declaring that this was the home of Green Duck Inc. It was just too much of a coincidence so I stopped and called the company. After identifying myself to the receptionist, I was put through to the President and CEO of Green Duck Inc., a multi-million dollar manufacturer of novelties.

It was George!

During the same 10 weeks at ITR, I was assigned to Guard Duty. Guard duty was where a live body with an empty rifle was assigned to what amounted to “Fire Watch” to ensure that buildings did not burn down, people stayed where they were supposed to be, and no one exercised “Midnight Survey” (stealing) to obtain government property. The only exception to the unloaded rifle was when walking guard duty around sensitive areas such as the armory (Where arms and a limited amount of rifle and pistol ammunition are stored) and “Ammunition Lockers” where everything from Rifle and pistol ammunition to hand grenades and mortar shells are kept).

Walking guard duty in these areas was a serious business and only the steadiest and brightest young Marines were issued live ammunition and carried a loaded rifle. Like every other guard duty post they also carried their rifle with the bayonet affixed. The normal post (area you were responsible for) was provided with a verbal sign/countersign. That is, the guard on post would challenge the approaching person by saying “Halt. Who goes there?”

The person so challenged would respond with their name and rank as well as the verbal sign (for instance, the sign might be “Green” and the countersign might be “Duck”. The sentry would then respond “Duck”, pass Lt/Capt whatever was given as the name and rank. Standing orders were that if there was any doubt as to the identity of the person challenged by a guard, or if the person approached the sentry and his post without authorization and failed to halt when ordered, then deadly force was approved. Since the officer of the guard was supposed to check every guard post at least once during the watch, I knew I would be tested.

On this night I was assigned guard duty, it was moonless, cold, and the last watch (2:00 AM to 6:00 AM). I was assigned a walking post around an ammunition storage locker in the middle of Camp Pendleton. The only light was from the pole lights that were sprinkled sparsely around the perimeter of the barbed wire fence. I was supposed to walk just outside this small pool of light and guard against whatever boogie men would come to steal government property.

About 2:45 AM, I heard a jeep approach the post and knowing that I would be inspected, was prepared for the officer of the guard. I heard the jeep stop and the person in it dismount. He approached my position and I issued the challenge “Halt! Who goes there?” He responded with “Captain Marvel and I don’t know the sign” Knowing that the officer of the guard was a Lt Jefferies, I responded by loading a round (ammunition) in my rifle, a quite distinct sound, and saying “Yeh and I am Superman. If you don’t stop right now, we’ll see if bullets bounce off of Captain Marvel”.

Since all I could see was an outline and shadows, I forced the now captive individual to lie down in the dirt and spread-eagle himself while I went to establish what I had caught. His angry voice was giving me orders while staying absolutely still. You must imagine how he felt, here was a nervous young Marine who had only been a Marine for less than five months, he has a loaded rifle, the captive individual does not know the sign or countersign and is completely unknown to the young Marine. In addition, by the rules of engagement, deadly force is authorized. I suspect that at that point the Captain was expecting anything. Fortunately, the Corp. picks its’ men for their abilities to think and interpret as well as to carry out orders.

Holding the Captain in the dirt, I used the Post phone to call the Guard Shack. When I told the Sergeant that answered what I had done, first there was absolute silence followed by hysterical laughter. I was told to hold my “Prisoner” until the Sergeant could confirm his identity. Apparently what had happened was the Lt. had suffered an appendicitis attack and the Captain (YES! His name was Marvel) had taken over the last watch without obtaining the sign/countersign.

In due course the Sergeant arrived, identified the Captain while unsuccessfully trying not to laugh, and left with him for the Guard Shack. Upon my relief, I was ordered to report to the Captain of the Guard. Imagine my concern when it turned out that Captain Marvel in addition to being a superhero was also the head of the ITR Guard Company!

Entering the Captains office along with the Sergeant of the Guard, I had visions of never seeing daylight again. What Captain Marvel said was “I really ought to make you lay in the dirt for a few hours so you can see what it is like. Instead, and since you followed your orders intelligently, I am giving you a written commendation for thinking instead of shooting.” This was my first introduction to a true “Officer of Marines” and prepared me for the many others I met in my 22 years of service. It is the only time I truly felt like “Superman”.

Tiger Story#2

btharp_1@pacbell.net — Thu, 05 Aug 2004 16:20:02 GMT

This story first appeared in the military daily newspaper “Stars & Stripes”. It really happened but I personally cannot imagine the horror that the young Marine felt during his “Adventure”.

It was early 1966 and the 1st Marine Division had landed in Viet Nam near the Demilitarized Zone that separated North Viet Nam from South Viet Nam. Two days after the landing, there was a long and heavily contested battle with North Viet Namese Regulars that resulted in driving them back into the Demilitarized Zone and holding them there until the division was moved. This story occurred during this first fierce, deadly, battle.

A young Marine Corporal from Detroit Michigan was leading his fire team (a Marine Corp. fire team is the smallest maneuver group used by the Corp. in combat. It is composed of two riflemen, an automatic rifleman, and a corporal or PFC [Private First Class] who is the fire team leader). The Corporal was 19 years old, away from home and out of the U.S. for the first time in his life.

He had been promoted to Corporal two weeks earlier and had never been in combat. He was understandably nervous and apprehensive about having the responsibility for the lives of his men as well as the responsibility of accomplishing the search and destroy orders he had been given. His fire team had been given the point position and was fifty yards ahead of their Battalion when the doors of Hell opened.

The entire fire team was hit by mortars, machinegun fire, rifle fire and to the Corporal it felt as if Charlie was cleaning out the ammo locker and throwing everything at him and his men. He had been hit in both legs and could not stand on broken legs. So in the middle of the fight, he pulled himself first to one and then another of his men. “Marines do not leave their wounded or dead” he reminded himself.

All three were dead. He was alone as bullets and fragments screamed over him. He carefully pulled the bodies of his three men together and laid down beside them, rifle pointed out to defend them and himself. At some point, he fainted from shock and loss of blood.

He awoke to find an eerie silence, a night that was, hot, wet, totally black, and smelled of death. He began to hear what he thought was someone moaning and moving. A quick check of the three bodies next to him confirmed that they were in fact dead. Perhaps it was the enemy. Maybe another Marine that needed help. He pulled himself toward the noise stopping now and then to confirm he was headed in the right direction.

As he pulled himself into a clear area in the high grass, he thought he saw something moving. He again began pulling himself toward the motion. It stopped. Suddenly he felt pressure and then pain in his left shoulder. He turned his head and the muzzle and whiskers of a large Tiger brushed his face. The Tiger had him by the shoulder and was starting to drag this new and alive meal somewhere less open in order to finish the kill and eat.

As the Corporal told Stars & Stripes much later, I could only remember what my pop told me as I was growing up in Detroit. “If a bully picks on you, hit him in the nose”. My right arm was free so I started hitting the #$%^& Bastard in the nose. After the third or fourth blow, he let go. I wanted to run away but since I didn’t have working legs, I hit him again in the nose as hard as I could. He sounded just like a cat when you step on its’ tail, only louder. The last I saw of him, he was shaking his head and running as fast as he could go.

The Corporal pulled himself back to the bodies of his men and resumed his vigil. The next morning when the Marines came for their dead and wounded, he was not too surprised to learn that several of the bodies around him and his men had been partially eaten but after the initial attack on him, he and his men were not bothered.

Smart but bleary eyed Tigers look for an easy meal…

Shaky Watts the non-conformist

btharp_1@pacbell.net — Wed, 04 Aug 2004 02:35:08 GMT

Here are a series of stories from the mid to late 1950s about the crew chief of a Marine transport referred to in the Navy/Marine Corp. as an R4Q-2 and in the Air Force as a C-119 Flying Boxcar. First designed in 1942 to replace the venerable DC-3, they were not manufactured until late 1945.

These planes somewhat like the Bumble Bee are aerodynamically unsound and without the power of the two R-4350 engines they cannot fly (the R stands for Rotary and the 4350 stands for the horse power of the engine). When first designed, R-3300 engines (3,300 horse power) were specified but the plane would not fly with any stability when so grossly under powered.

The designers had to await the more powerful R-4350 engines to proceed. These planes are made with riveted sheets of aluminum around a almost stick-like aluminum frame. When flying, the engine vibration is so intense that the airframe vibrates in tune with the engines and you can look between the sheets covering the airframe and see the ground/sea/snow or whatever you are flying over. They could carry about 10,000 lbs of cargo/troops/vehicles/etc.

They have twin tail booms with a square oblong fuselage hung between them. Hence the Flying boxcar name. Top speed is 180 Knots empty (about 200 MPH) and cruising speed with a load is restricted to 135 Knots (about150 MPH) due to vibration and airframe stress. The U.S. Air Force early on decided that this was a short term transport solution and gave their C-119s to the Marine Corp. replacing them with the Lockheed C-130 Hercules. The R4Q-2 had a flight range capability when fully loaded of roughly 1,200 miles but with a reduced load, the Marine Corp. was able to get 1,400 miles out of them. Normally, they were restricted from flying long distances over water but again, that was regularly ignored when circumstance required (that is another story I’ll tell later).

Shaky Watts was a Marine Gunnery Sergeant and had been in Marine aviation (or “the air wing” as Marines call it) since 1942 when he had enlisted to fight WW II. I first met Shaky in 1957 at Cherry Point North Carolina. I was a young (23 year old infant) Staff Sergeant and we were both members of MAG 35 (Marine Air Group 35) I was in the Headquarters and Maintenance Squadron (H&MS-35) Electronics section and so was called upon to assist the Squadron electronics people from time to time.

Shaky was part of VMF-353, a transport squadron that had recently been moved from Miami, Florida to Cherry Point when the Miami base was turned over to civilian control. I first heard about shaky when the squadron was officially attached to MAG-35.

Shaky could spout the regulations (safety and otherwise) by chapter and verse. The only problem was that occasionally, he did not agree with them and so was prone to do what he wanted. As long as there were no problems with operations, most of the squadron’s pilots turned a blind eye on Shaky’s idiosyncrasies so there were sometimes very interesting results.

One rule of aviation is that anything lose in a cargo bay (the inside of the flying boxcar was a cargo bay) must be secured to prevent damage or injury when encountering turbulence. Shaky obeyed this with some selective reasoning. He (like all crew chiefs) was responsible for the condition of the aircraft both internal and external. This included maintaining and servicing the planes assigned equipment as well as cleaning and polishing the plane and any equipment that required maintenance of this type.

Most crew chiefs had a 30 gallon steel garbage can on board that served as a temporary storage for cleaning equipment as well as a collecting point for the garbage when the aircraft was cleaned. Shaky felt that it should be mobile and easy to reach so left it free to be moved as needed. The can empty weighed about 20 lbs (remember this is steel not the aluminum or plastic cans of today), the contents another 30 lbs and it was capped with a snap-on steel lid so that the contents could not spill out.

Normally, there were cargo or troops in the back so if the can would move something or someone always was available to stop it. On this particular flight, the plane was “dead-heading”, that is, returning to Cherry Point empty.

As the plane approached Cherry Point the sky was filled with “thunderheads”. These are rain clouds that usually occur in the summer and contain a strong updraft in their interior and strong downdrafts on there outsides. Any sane pilot steers absolutely away from them or at worst, between them when flying. Unfortunately there was at that time no way to predict or see the wind sheer that the outside of these clouds produce.

While on the approach to the Cherry Point runway, the plane flew to close to a thunderhead, hit the wind sheer, and rapidly dropped several hundred feet causing the garbage can to become airborne with danger that it might jam or damage the control cables to the tail of the aircraft. Shaky as crew chief was responsible (on several levels) for getting it back under control. He went to the cargo bay and the plane tried to get back in the landing pattern resulting in contact first with an updraft and then a downdraft as it exited the thunderhead.

Finally the plane successfully landed and the crew went into the cargo bay top see what the damage was.
They found Shaky with his arms wrapped around the can, his feet wedged into the seat webbing, and very unconscious. Results, total damage to the plane zero, total damage to Shaky, three broken ribs, a broken ankle, several broken fingers and a broken collar bone.

From that point on, it was a legend in the Corp. that if you dropped a candy bar wrapper on Shaky’s airplane it would have a cargo chain around it 10 seconds later. Actual fact was there were signs posted everywhere on his plane declaring, “if it does not breath, tie it down”. It did not make Shaky stop interpreting the rules his own way (as you’ll read later) but it cured the interpretation of when to use a tie down chain quite nicely thank you.

Story Two about Shaky Watts

Rules pertaining to aircraft maintenance and safety declare a 20 foot square “safety” area around the Prop (Propeller) of an aircraft with an internal combustion engine. Why you might ask? Because of the way an internal combustion engine works, at least one and in the case of the R-4350, three cylinders have their valves closed and the pistons in position to fire when the engine is at rest.

Since the electric system used to fire the cylinder’s sparkplugs is off and grounded to ensure no accidental firing, it would seem that the engine is safe from accidental firing. WRONG!!!!!
When the cylinder is in the firing position, it has an air/fuel mixture trapped in the cylinder.

If the cylinder becomes hot enough to cause combustion in this mixture, it fires with or without electricity (the fuel is 115-145 octane aviation gasoline) causing the propeller to move violently at least ¼ turn and some times a full revolution. This is called “the arc of the prop”. Since the propeller assembly weighs about 800 Lbs, it presents a formidable moving force.

Safety regulations (yes those darn fun spoilers) say that a safety area must be defined by four poles and a yellow tape proscribing the 20 foot square area that no one is to walk through. Since the R4Q-2 has two propellers, Shaky was required to set up two exclusion areas. One such area is beside the forward cargo and access door. It inconvenienced Shaky so on short stops, one hour or less, Shaky just did not put out the tapes rather relying on his memory to remember not to walk under the arc of the prop.

Ho-kay, you probably have guessed by now that Shaky’s memory was not as good as he thought. In a hurry to get to the re-fueling truck, Shaky walked through the arc of the prop. The engine fired (called cooking off) the prop turned, Shaky went for an unscheduled flight without benefit of aircraft or parachute, and upon return to earth, Shaky again went to the hospital. Score this time, airplane 1, Shaky, broken shoulder broken collar bone (again), and a broken leg. After six weeks in the hospital, three months of light duty, and a lot of pain, Shaky was returned to duty

I swear, if Shaky’s plane was on the ground, and the engines were stopped, the safety tapes were up before the rest of the crew could get off the plane. As Shaky recovered from his accidents, his plane was becoming the safest plane in the Group. We were placing bets as to the next thing that would (and did) go wrong.

Story 3 of Shaky Watts.

The old R4Q-2s had several radios on board. They were HF, VHF, and UHF Radios (High Frequency, Very High Frequency, and Ultra High Frequency, respectively). The HF had two antennae. One was the short wire (on the top of the plane) and the other was a trailing wire antenna that allowed the radio operator to reel out and reel in the wire to tune the antenna for the most efficient use of the radio. Because of this, there was a “blade switch” that allowed you to select either the upper or lower antenna.

Since the blade switch was connected to the radio and the radio was a 50 watt transmitter, care had to be taken that personnel did not come in contact with the switch to prevent RF burns as the radio waves transited your body (very unpleasant and did make nasty burns). That said, old time Radio Operators knew that if they were out of matches or their trusty Zippo lighter was out of fluid, they could light their cigarettes by placing the end to be lit at the blade switch and just slightly breaking blade contact while keying the transmitter. The resultant arc allowed the cigarette to be lit and smoked thereafter.

Apparently Shaky had not seen/noticed this before in his career and being out of matches asked the Radio Operator to key the transmitter as he lit his smoke. When Shaky stopped ricocheting around the cabin, it was found he has RF burns to his fingers, lips, and a highly singed moustache. Apparently, as a good cigar smoker normally does, Shaky had carefully licked the out side of his cigar before lighting it…

The wet cigar leaf was a perfect path for the RF that soon found a better path through Shaky. New score Radio 1, Shaky 0. As before after the “accident”, Shaky found a way to “Safe” the blade switch so that no one could get burned on his plane. It also took him six months to grow half a moustache.

As I remember more Shaky stories, I’ll add to this.

A Tiger's Tale

btharp_1@pacbell.net — Wed, 04 Aug 2004 02:32:02 GMT

Third Installment. The first Tiger story. This is a very short one but I swear it is the absolute truth.
In 1966, the Viet Namese war was still a “Patriotic war” and the young men who fought it still believed they were protecting home and hearth. I had received orders for the far east in February of 1966 and left for Okinawa where I would be assigned for further duty.

I was 32 years old and a Gunnery Sergeant in the good ol’ USMC. I was assigned to a Marine transport squadron home-based on Okinawa and flying supplies and munitions between Futema, Okinawa, and Viet Nam. In addition, we flew Flare drops for night combat. These were known as “Cadillac runs” as the cost of each hi-intensity flare was $2,700 each, about the price of a new Cadillac in 1966 dollars.

Supported points in Viet Nam were Danang, where the Marines shared an airfield with the Air Force, Hue, Khesanh, where there was a Special Forces fort supporting the “Yards” (Montenards, an indigenous Viet Namese people roughly equivalent to our American Indians), and the demilitarized zone (DMZ) that separated the North from the South.

The only thing demilitarized about it was no Marines or Americans were allowed to enter it. The First Marine Division was spread 50 miles along the demilitarized zone. That is roughly one Marine or Officer of Marines every 10 yards. To say they were stretched thin is an understatement.

Strong points were set up and held but the rest of the country belonged to whose ever feet were currently standing on it. The French had prepared positions 10-15 years before when they were fighting in Viet Nam so the American commanders used these as well as setting up there own. One of these positions was next to a 2,600 foot long auxiliary landing strip. That is about ½ mile of dirt runway.

Our job (VMR – 152 the transport squadron I was assigned to) was to supply the first division with what they needed to fight. I’ll address that in another story. In August of 1966 I was commissioned a Warrant Officer and sent to Danang for a short stay as assistant maintenance officer (they did not know what else to do with me).

I took a flight into the DMZ field with one of our aircrews and as we went to a small slat and grass shack that passed for the air operations dispatch point, I noticed a Tiger skin nailed to the wall. The skin was 12 feet from the nose to the tip of the tail. I was curious as to how it came to be there and was told the following story.

A young Marine (18 years old) had been sent as a replacement for a wounded Marine. As fate would have it, the day he arrived all offensive operations were suspended so there would be no night patrols. Since everyone else was very tired from a battle the previous day, and he was relatively rested, he was assigned to an M60 machine gun as part of the perimeter defense. He was told that this was for this night a “free fire zone” meaning if anything moved out there he was to shoot it.

Now the M60 was loaded with belts of 100 rounds and can be served by one man but a gunner and a loader are the preferred way to use it. Another replacement was detailed to act as loader and everyone settled in for the night.

The story goes this way. About 2:30 AM on a clouded, moonless night, the young Marine heard noises to his immediate front. He later said he estimated it to be about 50 meters (150 feet or so) in front of him. Since it was a free fire zone, he shot a complete 100 round belt at the noises.

The noise intensified and thinking he had a group of Charlies (Viet Cong/North Vietnamese Regulars) at his front, he reloaded and shot an additional 100 rounds at the noise. The noises stopped.

At first light in the morning, a patrol was sent out to see what the young Marine had shot. They found the partially eaten body of a North Viet Namese regular that had been dug up by a Tiger and a Tiger with over 170 holes in its’ body.

The young Marine for some strange reason was called “Tiger” from that point on. He also was assigned permanently to an M60 and Platoons fought over his assignment. The theory was if he could shoot that well by hearing, he would be gang-busters with sight. No one ever asked the Tiger what it thought…

2nd Installment-The Rifle Range

btharp_1@pacbell.net — Mon, 02 Aug 2004 23:11:41 GMT

Ho-Kay, installment #2, the Rifle Range story. Lori seemed to like this so perhaps some of her friends might as well.

In the summer of 1965,I was a young (32 years…Yeh, well everything is relative and compared to now I was wet behind the ears) Marine Staff Sergeant at the Marine Air Detachment Memphis, Tennessee. I tried out for the MAD (Marine Air Detachment) Memphis, competition rifle team. I have always been a pretty good rifle shot so I was pleased to find I was successful. What I had not realized was the interminable hours spent practicing aiming. Holding the rifle just so, and in general preparing my body, muscles, and heartbeat to provide the stability required for success.

One of the exercises I hated was “dry firing” the team would pair off into five groups of two each and one Marine would practice the rifle positions, holding the “sight picture”, and trigger squeeze required for obtaining high scores in competition. The second Marine would actuate the bolt when the trigger was pulled as if an actual live round had been fired. This simulated having the rifle slammed into your shoulder and cocked the weapon for the next round. The more you practiced, the better you became so dry firing was practiced four hours a day, six days a week for the three months before the Eastern Division Rifle match (a very big thing in the Marine Corp.).

In August of 1965, our team composed of a PFC (Private First Class), two Corporals, a Sergeant, three Staff Sergeants, a Gunny Sergeant, a Master Sergeant, and a First Lieutenant, went to Camp Lejune, North Carolina, the scene of the 1965 Eastern Division Rifle and Pistol matches. Eight of the team members had been part of the team the year before. Only the lieutenant and I had not been to the matches before.

The Marine Corp. is divided into two parts, Marines (all enlisted) and “Officers of Marines” (all officers). No officer is a Marine unless he was first an enlisted man. These Marine officers are called “Mustangs”. But other Marine officers must earn the appellation, “Officer of Marines”.

Some do in combat, others by training and force of character. This lieutenant being very young (27 at the time), had grown a handlebar moustache that he kept waxed and pointy to appear older. When thinking, he would twirl the ends and make them pointier yet. But he had yet to prove himself.

Camp Lejune in the summer is about 95 to 100+ degrees, 90+% humidity, sand fleas, sand, and in general, not a vacation land. Our routines were the same, four hours of dry firing, two hours of actual on the range shooting, and hour or so of discussions on how we could better ourselves and the team, and finally, some practice in the changes we could try without actually shooting. Our practice days ran to nine or ten hours each day except Saturday.

Then back to the barracks to clean and care for the rifles, shower, shave, put on clean clothes, eat, do laundry, take out dry cleaning if necessary and if you had any energy, hit what laughingly passed for night life 50 miles from a large city. Usually that meant going to one of the service clubs. In the case of the Staff Sergeants, Gunnery Sergeants, and our Master Sergeant, it meant going to the SNCO Club (Staff Non-Commissioned Officers Club).

On Saturday, we only dry fired so we had all Saturday afternoon off and were free until 4:30 AM Monday morning. One of the Staff Sergeants (we’ll call him Tom) had a friend in another team. They had shot against each other the year before and had become part of the Marine Corp National Team for the 1964-65 matches shooting against all the other service teams such as the Army, Air force, Navy, Coast Guard, and several civilian teams. That was the goal of every member of our team, to be part of the Marine Corp. Team.

This friend (we’ll call him Harry) had a car with him and Tom did not. So Harry offered Tom a ride to the SNCO Club for a bite to eat and some libations as time allowed. I was at the club for the same reasons they were, to eat, drink, and check out the local talent (GIRLS/WOMEN).

It was normally quite futile as 90% or more of the ladies present were with their husbands or boyfriends. The other ten percent were either there while their husbands were deployed or were widows of Marines so still had club privileges (only active duty Marines, their families, and survivors of Marines killed in line of duty, male or female are allowed club privileges).

Tom and Harry both saw her (we’ll call her Sally) at the same time. It took very little investigation to discover she was a widow and had been for two-three years. Apparently, when she felt lonely (no children), she went to the club on a Saturday night and discreetly partied.

That night her every wish and desire was destined to be filled by two attentive and lonely Marines. The rest of us laughed and made bets about who would stay in town that night and who would walk home. The club closed at 1:30 AM on Saturday so we all piled in my car to return to the barracks. As we drove off, we watched Tom and Harry escort Sally into Harry’s car and drive off.

Imagine our surprise when about thirty minutes after we had returned, Tom and Harry both showed up much disappointed and very tired. It seems that they had bought a quart of Jack Daniels in preparation to continuing the party at Sally’s house but upon arrival there, she informed them that while they were very attractive young Marines, she was tired, a little drunk, and going to bed alone.

In an attempt to salvage something from this fiasco, Tom suggested that they leave the bottle and come to her house the next day when everyone was rested. Sally agreed and so Tom and Harry returned to the barracks.

At 7:00 AM on Sunday, Tom shook Harry awake and asked if he could borrow his car to take his, Tom’s dry cleaning to the cleaners (a service town so laundries and dry cleaners were open seven days a week). Harry mumbled something about Tom had to be back by 2:00 PM as he (Harry) was going to town then. Tom said OK and Harry rolled over to get more than the three hours sleep he had to that point. Sure enough, Tom was back about 1:45 PM and at 2:30 PM. Harry drove off.

The next morning, at 6:30 AM or so, the entire team was at the dry fire range “snapping in”. Harry appears and starts cursing Tom enthusiastically and not without a little admiration in his voice. The lieutenant, afraid there might be a fight comes over to the two of them as the rest of us gathered to watch. The lieutenant asks “what is the problem Sergeant”? Without answering the Lieutenant, Harry asks, “Lieutenant, what would you call a man who borrows your car, runs it out of gas, drinks your whisky, and scr-ws your girl”?

The lieutenant thought for a moment as he twirled his moustache and sought a way to defuse a possible fight. In less than a second, he responded “Officer material”. We all laughed so hard that there could be no fight. The lieutenant had that day become an “officer of Marines” and a true leader.

Ho-kay, here is Lori'sdad

btharp_1@pacbell.net — Mon, 02 Aug 2004 19:40:47 GMT

I'm supposed to use this to re-tell the stories I told Lori when she was growing up. I am very flattered that she thinks them interesting enough to set to paper (computer that is). One of her favorite ones is what I call "the N unclear explosion" (no that is not a typo it is intentional).

One of the innumerable schools I attended as a U.S. Marine was a small wonder call "Nuclear Safety Officer's School. As an 18 year enlisted type, I see that title as an oxymoron on several levels...

Any way, one of my duties was to be an observer while operational readiness inspections were performed by Special Weapons Teams to ensure both training and safety was current.

One day in early May, 1969, I was scheduled to observe an operational readiness inspection and safety inspection of the Special Weapons detachment, MCAS (Marine Corp. Air Station), Cherry Point, North Carolina. At 7:00 AM I met with the safety team from the DOD (department of Defense) and along with the four members of the team we were Bused to the secure area where weapons and their special tools were stored.

As we walked to the inspection area one of the inspectors remarked to no one in particular that it was good to see the detachment commander keeping his equipment in esthetically good shape as well as protecting it. There were ten-12 young Marines busy painting a tractor, the bomb cart that the tractor pulled and in general keeping everything ship shape. The tractor had been driven up on ramps to elevate it so the undercarriage could be painted as well as the more accessible areas and the bomb cart was having it's 250 Lb towing "tongue" lifted to give access to the underside. Both were next to the concrete cinder block inspection and storage building.

We entered the disassembly area and were given a written list of the expected work and safety points.

I'll digress for a moment to give some idea as to how serious the safety of a nuclear device is taken. At that time, every nuclear Bomb had multiple safety devices incorporated to prevent "accidental discharge". All had many prevention devices that to me seemed to defeat the purpose of having a "ready" weapon but I must admit it made me feel much safer. Now back to the story.

The purpose of the day's exercise was to open, disassemble, and service the bomb, it's casing, it's component parts, and the conventional explosives used to trigger the nuclear material.

The Bomb used was a standard 5 megaton warhead considered a small bomb. Of course if it went off with a person (ME!) standing next to it, it really did not matter if it were a 50 megaton bomb (Very Large) or a small one. In fact, it did not even matter if the nuclear material even went off. The HE (High Explosive) used to trigger the bomb would take out half a city block and render everything else within a large radius, radioactive.

As the special weapons team proceeded, the casing was removed, and the first safety device was open to view. It's contacts were closed! The first "safety" was indeed an oxymoron as it was no longer safe. No problem there are X additional ones to protect us (I use X as the number of safety devices since the actual number safety devices may yet be classified).

The second safety device is uncovered and whoops, it too is unsafe. The third, fourth, fifth, and several others were found "defeated" There is now a tremendous humidity in the air as a result of the 12 + Marines and civilians sweating heavily (I felt it was mostly mine).

As the last safety device was uncovered, it too was found closed and in the unsafe condition. It was apparent to everyone in the room that there was an armed and live nuclear device sitting five feet in front of us with nothing to keep it from exploding if there was a static electric discharge, someone accidentally touched the wrong part, or really, for no reason at all. After all, hadn't the safety devices seemingly been defeated with no outside intervention?

BOOOOOM! came a very loud noise and the concrete cinderblock building shook. Everyone in the room responded the same way, 12 + Marine and civilian voices spoke the same two words as if synchronized "OH SH_T!" they said.

An immediate inventory of the room revealed that we were all still there, still alive, (though three had wet their pants - yes Marines also know fear and no thank God I was not one of them). and everything was still intact. As one man, every Marine ran outside of the building to see what had happened. We were in time to see the painting detail attempting to lift the 250 Lb tongue of the bomb cart away from the building wall were it had fallen while being painted. With sighs/grunt/prayers of relief, everyone raced back into the building where it became apparent why the DOD civilians had not raced outside with us.

All four were nearly rolling around on the ground laughing. The "Bomb" was a simulation and could not explode as even the HE was "simulated. This had been a test of procedure which had been passed perfectly until the "BOOOM".

Looking back from the detachment of 30 + years, it is funny to me also. At the time I was only glad that my heart proved as strong as my bladder.