Happy 236th Birthday!!

Two hundred and thirty-sixy years ago, on Nov. 10, 1775, at Tun Tavern in Philadelphia, Capt. Samuel Nichols, the first commandant of the Marine Corps, began recruiting the first two battalions of Continental Marines.

For those of us who've claimed the title of United States Marine, it's a special day. A day we reach out to our brothers and sisters we've served with, remember the years we spent together, how we were young once and say a little prayer for today's Marines - in whatever clime and place they may be.

One special tradition on the Marine Corps Birthday is the reading of General John A. Lejeune's 1921 birthday message. Even after 90 years it - especially the last paragraph - says exactly what it means to be a Marine.

Today is particularly special for me because not only was I a Marine, but so were both of my brothers. So, if you will excuse me, I've got a couple of phone calls to make.

Semper Fidelis.

I'm proud to claim the title...

…of United States Marine.

Sgt. Dakota Meyer, somehow just saying Semper Fi doesn’t seem like enough. How do you say thank you to a man credited with saving three dozen fellow soldiers (13 Americans and 23 Afghans)?



That there is the picture of a hard, hard man.

For those of you not familiar with Sergeant Meyer's story, he received the Medal of Honor from President Obama today, becoming the first living Marine to be so honored in almost four decades. He got it for willingly running back into a withering enemy fire not just once, not twice, but five times to rescue his fellow warriors during a battle in Afghanistan on Sept. 8, 2009. The last time he went back, he went to recover the bodies of three Marines and a Navy Corpsman who’d been killed in the ambush.

That is what being a Marine is.

If you want to read more about Sergeant Meyer, go here.

With a humility that's difficult for any Marine to summon, but is easy today, "Thank you."

Here's health to you and to our Corps
Which we are proud to serve;
In many a strife we've fought for life
And never lost our nerve;
If the Army and the Navy
Ever look on Heaven’s scenes;
They will find the streets are guarded
By The United States Marines.

– Marines’ Hymn, Third Verse

Garden of Stone

I'm often amazed by what I find when I look at the world through the lens of my camera. I took a walk today, braving what was an exceedingly hot Memorial Day here in the D.C. area. All along I was wishing CamelBak made a camera bag so I might carry both my camera and a supply of cool water.

But that's not the point of this post. Opening your eyes is.

My walk took me to Arlington National Cemetery. I've been there before, often when it snowed and around Christmas, but I think this was the first time I went on Memorial Day.

Coming into the cemetery there are memorials to many of the U.S. military's units. In front of the memorial for the 101st Airborne Division, there were probably 20 or so floral arrangements, but this one caught my eye ...
.Maj. Richard Winters, who the world came to know through the book and mini-series Band of Brothers, died earlier this year on Jan. 2. He was 92 years old. In the mini-series, Winters quoted a fellow soldier, saying, "I cherish the memories of a question my grandson asked me the other day when he said, 'Grandpa, were you a hero in the war?' Grandpa said 'No… but I served in a company of heroes.' "

Indeed he did.

As I entered Arlington I bent around to the right. If you've never been to Arlington, the headstones are, for the most part, as uniform as anything you'll ever see. Aligned in staggered ranks, the Marines, soldiers, sailors, airmen and Coast Guardsmen are in formation as if they were awaiting inspection.

There are few things that make one of the stones stand out, but the pile of rocks atop the one below drew my attention. I saw it from behind and I wondered who it might be that would draw such attention. As soon as I read the name, it was easy to understand the respect he is paid ...

Medgar Evers served in the Army in France during World War II and was buried with full military honors after he was murdered, shot down in his driveway for believing that all men are indeed created equal.

My original intent was to try to get the quintessential Arlington picture - endless rows of white marble stones and fluttering flags. I don't think I quite succeeded, but that was mainly because I was in the more rolling part of the cemetery. This picture, however, came the closest ...


And, finally, the words on this balloon pretty much say it all ...

When I got home and got a closer look at this picture I saw that HMC John David Wilson was a Navy chief hospitalman serving with the Fleet Marine Force. He was a corpsman serving with the Marines. Navy corpsmen hold a special place in Marines' hearts because we know that no matter what, no matter how badly we're hit and how bad the enemy fire is, a corpsman will crawl through the very gates of Hell to pull a wounded Marine to safety.

Thanks to you and all your brothers and sisters for keeping us safe and free. Semper fi Chief.

My annual Toys for Tots post

You know what time it is, right? It's time to crack open those wallets and kick in a couple of bucks for one of my favorite organizations, the Marine Corps Reserve's Toys For Tots program.

Here's one of my favorite commercials of all time...



After seeing that, who wouldn't want to donate? Yeah, you in the back, I can see you trying to sneak out without anyone noticing. I've got my eye on you...

I kid of course. Donating should be voluntary, so let me retell, in part, a story I wrote about last year to help your hearts grow three sizes today:

In December 1994 I spent two days driving around Greensboro, N.C., in a Humvee, in my Dress Blues. My reserve unit was collecting toys from elementary schools and bank drop-off locations for the local Toys for Tots. The best pickups, I will say, were at the schools. Many of the kids donating the toys had given up a shot at a toy they wanted so their families could donate a new, unwrapped toy to a child who would otherwise have nothing.

Toys for Tots began modestly in 1947 when Maj. Bill Hendricks, USMCR(eserve), and a group of Marine Reservists in Los Angeles collected and distributed 5,000 toys to children. Since then, things have grown a bit. During the past 62 years of the Toys for Tots program, Marines have distributed more than 400 million toys to more than 188 million needy children.

Now that's a mighty big tree.

Continuing the memory ... [wavy finger motions] "Dododoloo, dododoloo, dododoloo..." Another cool part of the day I spent collecting was getting to unwrap about a hundred presents picked up from the banks. Despite the wonderful effort some folks went to to wrap up their donations, everything had to be unwrapped to make sure we weren't giving away any S&M Barbie dolls or live hand grenades. That wouldn't have been good. Moral of this story: Donate a toy, but don't wrap it up 'cause some Marine is just going to have fun tearing the paper off.

You can click these links for a list of drop-off locations in the District, NoVa or Maryland (for the last two, you'll have to select a county from the drop-down menu). Now, if you don't have time to go out, buy a toy and bring it unwrapped, (seriously, I'm not kidding) to a drop-off location you can still donate online to the Toys for Tots Foundation. According to its website, more than 96 percent of all donations go to buying toys, books and other gifts for kids, "The 4 percent spent on support principally covers fundraising expenses - not one donated dollar goes to pay for salaries or any other manpower costs."

Times are still tough for many of us this year, but I'm pretty sure anyone reading this can probably spare $25 to bring a smile to the face of a kid on Christmas morning. To put this in more concrete, understandable terms, $25 is way less than you'll pay for round at happy hour this week.
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Christmas is just 10 days away, you don't want it to be your fault those kids didn't get anything from Santa, do you?

Memories of Wars Past

Today is December the seventh. A day that brings to mind for many of us grainy newsreel visions of sunken ships burning on Pearl Harbor’s Battleship Row and Franklin Roosevelt’s speech to Congress.

And it does for me as well, but I also have other thoughts about a different Dec. 7 in the recesses of my memory. Twenty years ago today I set off from Camp Lejeune, N.C., as part of a small band of Marines.

We stole this sign from the beach at Camp Lejeune.

Yes, we Marines can be ironic when we want to.

We were the advance party of our battalion, leading the way overseas. Destination: Al Jubayl, Saudi Arabia. It was into an uncertain future we flew - a couple of days later it turns out. We had some oversized equipment that required a C-5 Galaxy, one of the largest planes in the world. So big in fact, the cargo bay is longer than the Wright Brother’s first flight. So we waited for our plane.

And waited.

Much of the time we while were cooling our heels at Marine Corps Air Station Cherry Point, N.C., was spent outside. In the rain. Dealing with the thousand and one details that need to be dealt with before heading into the unknown. And, as with any military operation, there was also a lot of sitting around doing nothing and trying to figure out how to steal the things needed but didn't have from either the Marine air wing or, better yet, the Air Force.

You might think doing nothing would be a good thing, but it’s not. Your mind wanders. Wanders to thoughts of what might happen when you get to where you’re going. All of us had gas masks with us and some of us, the ones Gunny Mike trusted, also had live ammo. Not all of us, believe me, I wouldn’t have trusted a couple of those guys with a loaded water pistol, let alone an M-16 with live rounds. But the NCOs from my platoon were all solid guys and we all had a couple or three full magazines.

In a way, though, it was kinda … exciting. Yes, we were headed to a potential (and eventual) war zone to battle a megalomaniacal tyrant who, at the time, did indeed have chemical and biological weapons. And, yes, war is a bad thing.

But we were Marines. We were 18, 19, 20-something years old and this is what we’d signed up for. Young men and women may join the Army, Navy or Air Force for many reasons: “adventure,” “job training” or “college funds,” but Marines are cut from a different bolt of cloth. While we may not yet have reached Heinlein’s “Everybody fights” credo, Marines really do believe in the concept of “Every Marine is a rifleman.”

We didn’t know exactly what we were heading for, but we had 215 years of history backing us up as we went.

Speaking of fighting, the one memorable event from our time at Cherry Point came the night after we’d finished up all of our prep work and before we got on the plane. After working our asses off for days in the rain, Gunny Mike finally let us have on-base liberty that last night. Much to his everlasting regret, we went to the club.

Before the night was over Gunny Mike visited both the MP lock-up and the ER. The first to bail two guys out, and the second to pick up another guy who was having a MP's German shepherd removed from his arm. Ah the things that happen when you combine ground pounders, air wing types and beer. Lots and lots of beer.

Our battle cry for the next week was, “Hey Gunny, is the club off limits?”

Over the next couple of months I think I’ll revisit more these memories. Christmas and New Years in Saudi. The terror of the dreaded “Ratch” (this is funny rather than scary). January 17. Spades played under a red-filtered light. The most honest game of Monopoly in history.

There are others, and as they come to me I’ll write about them. But for today, I’ll look back on my own personal history with a bit of pride in what I did. Also, I’ll take a moment to think about the soldiers, sailors, airmen and those beautiful creatures we call Marines who have gone and who are still in harm’s way today.

May they all return home safe and sound.

Happy 235th Marine Corps Birthday!

On this most august of days, 10 November, I want to wish my fellow Marines – past and present – a very happy Marine Corps birthday.

No matter where in the world they are – at home, aboard ship or deployed overseas – Marines will hear Gen. John A. Lejeune's Birthday Message. These are the same words every Marine has heard on this day since 1921, and the spirit of General Lejeune’s message is one of the things that bind us together as Marines.

General Lejeune’s Birthday Message of Nov. 10, 1921:

On November 10, 1775, a Corps of Marines was created by a resolution of the Continental Congress. Since that date many thousands of men have borne that name Marine. In memory of them it is fitting that we who are Marines should commemorate the Birthday of our Corps by calling to mind the glories of its long and illustrious history.

The record of our Corps is one which will bear comparison with that of the most famous military organizations in the world’s history. During 90 of the 146 years of its existence the Marine Corps has been in action against the Nation’s foes. From the Battle of Trenton to the Argonne, Marines have won foremost honors in war and in the long era of tranquility at home generation after generation of Marines have grown gray in war in both hemispheres, and in every corner of the seven seas so that our country and its citizens might enjoy peace and security.

In every battle and skirmish since the Birth of the Corps, Marines have acquitted themselves with the greatest distinction, winning new honors on each occasion until the term “Marine” has come to signify all that is highest in military efficiency and soldierly virtue.

This high name of distinction and soldierly repute we who are Marines today have received from those who preceded us in the Corps. With it we also received from them the eternal spirit which has animated our Corps from generation and has long been the distinguishing mark of Marines in every age. So long as that spirit continues to flourish Marines will be found equal to every emergency in the future as they have been in the past, and the me of our nation will regard us as worthy successors to the long line of illustrious men who have served as “Soldiers of the Sea” since the founding of the Corps.

I make my living with words and one thing I was just thinking of was the sentence, “…until the term ‘Marine’ has come to signify all that is highest in military efficiency and soldierly virtue.” As a former Marine, I like that it is a proper noun, unlike soldier, sailor or airman. The truth is, soldiers and sailors come from many countries, and many countries have marine corps – our is, in fact, descended from the Royal Marines. But if someone says they’re a Marine you can almost hear the verbal capitalization, and you know exactly where they’re from.

Following tradition, here is this year’s Birthday Message from the new Commandant of the Marine Corps, Gen. James Amos:

Sixty years ago, the United States Marine Corps—as it has throughout our history—demonstrated its vital role as America’s Expeditionary Force in Readiness. Just weeks after North Korean Communist forces crossed the 38th Parallel, the First Marine Provisional Brigade landed in South Korea, forming the backbone of the perimeter around the city of Pusan. The efforts of the “Fire Brigade” at Pusan allowed for the daring amphibious landing at Inchon and set the stage for one of the most savage campaigns in our Corps’ history—the Chosin Reservoir. As we pause to celebrate our 235th Birthday, we pay special tribute to the Marines of the Korean War and recognize their contributions to our enduring legacy.

This past year marked the end of Marine Corps combat operations in Iraq. Beginning with the invasion in March 2003 and through the next seven years of fighting, our Corps acquitted itself valiantly in the Anbar province and throughout the country. Locations such as Fallujah and Ramadi have taken their place in the illustrious battle history of our Corps. Our efforts in defeating the insurgency helped to build a brighter future for all Iraqis.

For 235 years, at sea and ashore, Marines have succeeded in every clime and place . . . where hardship and adversity have often been the common thread. Today, in the rugged mountains and valleys of Afghanistan—and recently in earthquake-damaged Haiti . . . in flood-ravaged Pakistan . . . or off the coast of Africa—we continue to protect our Nation, just as we did 60 years ago in Korea.

To the Marines and Sailors deployed overseas, to those training and preparing for their next deployment and to the warriors who no longer wear our uniform . . . we honor your selfless service to the Nation. To our loved ones who endure the many difficulties that come with being part of the Marine Family, I want to extend my sincerest thanks for all you have done and all you continue to do.

Happy 235th Birthday, Marines!

Semper Fidelis,
James F. Amos
General, U.S. Marine Corps

Not much I can add after all that. But if you know a Marine or run across someone sporting an eagle, globe and anchor today, wish them a happy birthday and watch their face light up.

They Came in Peace

Some of you may recognize this post. It’s pretty much the same one I wrote this on this day last year, but it bears repeating. Changes for timeliness are in brackets.

I still remember walking out of church [26] years ago today and hearing the news that someone had driven a truck loaded with explosives into a Marine barracks in Beirut, Lebanon. I was young then, still in middle school in fact, but the memory sticks with me to this day. The attack made a powerful impression on a young boy.

A few short years later, I found myself stationed at Camp Lejeune, home of Battalion Landing Team 1/8 (a.k.a. 1st Battalion, Eighth Marine Regiment), and the memories of the attack on that unit were still vivid for my fellow Marines.

Still raw.


I spent almost six years at Lejeune between the Marine Corps and working as a reporter there after college. It wasn't a bad place if you had to be stuck somewhere in (or near) the military, and the 14-or-so miles of beach put it way ahead of the alternative just up the road, Fort Bragg.

Through all of that time one of my most favorite places was the Beirut Memorial. Actually, there are three memorials to the 241 Marines, sailors and soldiers killed Oct. 23, 1983: The wall, a plaque and a living memorial of 241 Bradford pear trees.

According to the Camp Lejeune Web site: “At the Northwoods Park Middle School, a group of classes, taught by Mrs. Martha Warren, initiated a support project to write the families of the men who had lost their lives. These students also helped to raise funds for the memorial trees and became a focal point in this effort. A ninth-grader auctioned her Cabbage Patch doll and raised $1,500 for the project. One tree was planted for each lost serviceman along Lejeune Boulevard and the completed tree project was dedicated on March 24, 1984.”

The gray granite wall of the memorial resembles those the Marines saw every day on patrol throughout Beirut – broken and jagged. Set in the middle of the wall is a statue of a single Marine. Rifle in hand, dog tags hanging out he stares out into a distant horizon. The wall beside him bears the simple phrase, carved deep into the Georgia stone:

They Came In Peace.

It’s a quiet place, the memorial is, tucked under a towering cathedral roof of Carolina pines and animated only by the wind whispering through the trees and the distant rush of Highway 24. But no matter the time of year you visit the memorial, there are always little tributes placed at the base of the wall. Flags, Teddy bears, a bottle of Jack or a six of Pabst with one or two of the tops popped.

[Eleven] years ago, I visited the memorial about a week after the 15th anniversary of the attack. Tucked between the slabs was a letter. A letter a 16- or 17-year-old girl wrote to her father telling him how her life had been going since she last saw him when she was just 1 or 2. It also told him how much she still missed him every day.

So, if you have a free moment today in amongst the hustle and bustle of your life, perhaps you could spend it thinking about these young men [and the many who’ve joined them since] who never had the chance to become old.

Semper Fi.

Left...right...left (but not in so many words)

Some friends and I journeyed over to Rosslyn Tuesday evening for the Sunset Parade at the Marine Corps War Memorial, known to some as the Iwo Jima Memorial. Or, as my brother's Scottish rugby coach called it, "That statue of six guys stealing a pipe." Funny people those Scots.

I've been to the parade before, twice in fact, but it's still a pleasant way to spend a summer evening. Here's a couple of pictures of the Silent Drill Platoon.

As we walked in, we noticed a bit of a commotion over this fellow here:

He was introduced as retired Col. George "Bud" Day, a former Marine who received the Medal of Honor for his actions as a prisoner of war in Vietnam (he was in the Air Force by then). Here's a picture of the flag they unfurled as he arrived in the reviewing area:

A blue field with 13 white stars, just like the ribbon around his neck. It's the first one I've ever seen. Just after Day was escorted to the reviewing stand, his former Hanoi Hilton cellmate Sen. John McCain arrived to a round of cheers and applause. (I don't know they were actually at the Hilton, but I'm using that as an example. Day and McCain did share a cell.)

First to take the field was the Marine Corps Drum and Bugle Corps.

And after the musical portion of our program, the boys who work without words were up. Like the announcer, I'll point out those M-1 rifles weigh 10 or so pounds and that is a bayonet attached to the muzzle. Just sayin'.

And the big finale: A bugler playing Taps and a 21-gun rifle salute before they marched off into the sunset.

If you're looking for something to do next Tuesday, head on over to Rosslyn for the last Sunset Parade of the summer of 2009.

Picking your battles

Gene Gogolak: All right, then, let's see. Basketball hoop and backboard. Portable. Nope, I'm sorry. It's not allowed.
Fox Mulder: You're kidding?
Gene Gogolak: I'm afraid not. Rules are rules. It may not sound like anything — a simple basketball hoop — but from there, it's just a few short steps to spinning daisy reflectors and a bass boat in the driveway.
Mulder: In other words, anarchy.
Gene Gogolak: It may sound tough, but ours is a system that works. That's why The Falls is one of the top-ranked planned communities in all of California. Most of our homeowners have been here since day one.
Mulder: I love the decor here, Mr. Gogolak. Is it, um... Occidental?
Gene Gogolak: Well, it's, uh, Nepalese and Tibetan, mostly. I go there twice a year on business.
Mulder: Oh.
Gene Gogolak: I run Pier 9 Imports. I can get you a great deal on rattan furniture if you're interested. Indoor only. Outdoor use is prohibited by our... CC&Rs. [Ed note: Contracts, Covenants and Restrictions]

-- from “Arcadia” 7-3-99 Season 6 of The X-Files

Somehow, some way, my email got on a listserv many years ago for former Marines. I don’t know what I signed up for or responded to or clicked on that caused this, but it happened. Usually, I’ll take a look at the subject line and delete it as soon as I notice it in my inbox.

Other times, if my interest is sufficiently peaked, I’ll click on it to see what the most recent outrage is, they’re usually post or links to articles about the shabby treatment of veterans in general and Marines and Marine vets in particular.

This link is one of the latter.

The story comes out of Houston and involves Frank Larison, a disabled Marine Vietnam vet, and a disagreement he’s having with his homeowners association. Apparently, someone on the HOA board has taken offense at the seven Marine Corps bumper stickers Larison has plastered on the back of his truck.

Larison’s HOA sent him a letter saying he either has to remove the stickers because they’re advertisements and, therefore, prohibited, or face having his car towed and being fined by the HOA.

Leaving aside matters of taste – seven bumper stickers is a bit much – did whatever genius who made this decision and then sent this letter really think they were going to win this fight? Ferchrissakes, they’re in friggin' Texas! Among the things you don’t mess with in Texas are bluebonnets on the side of the road, the Alamo and disabled vets. Did they really think they guy was going to knuckle under and take the stickers off? Or, more likely, was he going to pick up the phone and call the local TV news?

I should mention, I think HOAs blow great big monkey dicks. I mean, they luuuuv sucking on ‘em. Lots and lots and lots. And maybe even tossin' their salad a bit.

Like PTAs, school boards and other groups of their ilk, in my experience I’ve found they’re usually staffed by rigid, small-minded people with an over-developed sense of their own importance and a fanatical adherence to the rules no matter how petty. The problem is, they often have virtually unlimited power when it comes to regulating the lives of their fellow homeowners and can, in some cases, even foreclose on a person’s home.

This story? This story is a reporter’s dream. First off, it’s easy. Second, it’s got a sympathetic victim. And third, they get to make someone look really, really stupid. I mean monstrously stupid. If this were me in Larison’s position there would have been a sonic boom between me opening the letter and my phone call to the news station (I also would have called the papers too, but that's just me). I've said it before, and I'll say it again: The first rule of the news biz is don't mess with people who buy their ink by the barrel.

What’s going to end up happening here is the HOA is going to drop it and apologize, mainly because just about every other car in the lot has an advertisement-type bumper sticker on its ass end. And then, in about a year, they’re going to go after Larison again for some other reason and look even dumber.

But that’s just the way people like that think.

From Arcadia:

Dana Scully: [fadeout voiceover] "Several residents of The Falls have now come forward to blame the deaths in the neighborhood on Home Owner Association President Gene Gogolak. These same residents deny Agent Mulder's allegation that they were in some sense all responsible for the demise of Gogolak himself, claiming ignorance as to what actually killed him. It would seem the code of silence that hid the sins of this community has not only survived but — in its creator — claimed a final victim. Meanwhile, The Falls at Arcadia has been named one of the top planned communities in California for the sixth year running."

TMI Thursday: From the (HACK! COUGH! AHHHHHH!)

It's TMI Thursday my friends. For more stories that will entertain and disgust you at the same time go to LiLu’s place for this week's full list. And now, on to the fun!

In TMIs far and wide, the four Ps have been widely discussed. For those unfamiliar with the four Ps, they are, in descending order: Pussy, Penis, Piss and Poo. In a way they kind of remind me of George Carlin’s “Seven Dirty Words You Can’t Say On TV.” Such wonderful words those were: shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker and tits.

Anyway, for your consideration, I’d like to suggest a fifth P, Phlegm, and its subcategory, snot, with this little story.

[Note: After a day's contemplation, I realized, Phlegm, and its subcategory, snot, would actually be the sixth P. I'd forgotten one of the most venerated Ps earlier and I'd like to take this opportunity to give Puke its proper due. So, Puke, here's to you! Huzzah!]

It was late November; we’d been aboard that little island off the South Carolina coast for about nine weeks. None of us had any hair yet, mainly because it’d been shorn to the skin about four times in the two months, but we were starting to believe we maybe just might march off the Parris Island parade deck as Marines in about a month. (Historical note: It was freezing fucking cold Dec. 17 of that year and I got to graduate from boot camp indoors. Yipee!)

Yes, we were hard, hard young men. We’d lost weight – in my case, more than 50 pounds in nine weeks while eating about 7,500 calories a day – built muscle and learned to shoot a man from 500 yards. We’d run the obstacle course, learned how to turn our backpacks into a flotation device we could shoot from while assaulting a beach and battled the other platoons in the pugil stick ring.

We were tough.

Yeah, not so much.

Nothing, and I mean nothing at boot camp is done without a reason. No matter what you may think at the time or later, there is a method to the seemingly insane madness that is Parris Island. The drill instructors know the recruits’ heads are getting a bit swollen now that they’ve survived more than two months and made it through the rifle range and Mess & Maintenance (working in the chow hall) weeks. So it’s time to take them down a peg or two.

Or, say, 20.

The build-up starts the day before. DIs laughing and smiling and commenting about what’s coming tomorrow. “Ha, boy, we’re gonna git you good,” is a common refrain.

And then, suddenly, it’s the next day already. It’s time.

You’ve had the classes, you know your mask works, but that’s little comfort as you pass through a door with this sign over the lintel: Even the Brave Cry Here.

The gas chamber.

You walk in with your hand on the shoulder of the recruit in front of you, and the hand of the recruit behind you on your shoulder. The air is thick, you can barely see the person you’re holding onto for dear life.

The billowing clouds of acrid CS (tear gas) bite hard into the exposed skin of your head, neck and hands. Unlike the DIs you’re not wearing a hood or gloves to protect these parts of your body. But then again, they’re going in and out, you just have to do it once (easy in retrospect to understand, but it kinda sucked at the time).

“Just let me get through the next three minutes. Just let me get through thenextthreeminutes. HolyFuckingShit!Justletmegetthroughthenextthreeminutes!”

They start you start slow. You crack the seal of the mask while holding your breath and let the mask fill with the gas and then re-seal it and clear the gas by blowing hard. You get most of it out, but not all, and now your cheeks are tingling…just like your ears. (I’ve heard tell CS feels a bit like a sunburn. That’s a fucking lie. It feels like a sunburn someone is rubbing with steel wool.)

After everyone’s clear and gives the thumbs up, it’s time. Time for the mask to come off. Completely.

The funny thing about CS is while you may think you can avoid it by holding your breath, you can’t. You may not be breathing, but it’s still seeping up your nose, irritating it and causing you to breath in just a little.

And that’s all it takes my friend. That tiny, insignificant breath, no more than the tiniest little whiff really, and you’re done cause your next instinct is to take a deep breath to really blow it out and now it’s in your lungs and you’re coughing and you’re hacking and the only thing keeping you from screaming like a little bitch is the one thing you’ve remembered is to keep your fucking eyes closed.

Oh, and did I mention it doesn’t matter if you’re an pearl diver from the Philippines and can hold your breath for five minutes? You don’t get the chance to hold your breath because the DIs start asking you questions which you have to answer. This requires you to breathe, which you can’t do 'cause your lungs are filled with CS gas resulting in a scene suitable for America’s Funniest Pseudo-Sadistic Home Videos.

And then, like the cherry on top of a shit Sundae, you get to sing the Marines Hymn.

“From the (cough, cough,) Halls of Montezuma (hack, cough, hack), to (cough) the (hack) shores (hack-cough) of (cough-hack) Tripoli (cough-hack, hack-cough, spit, hack, hack, hack)…”

Eventually, they let you don and clear your mask proving, again, the equipment works, which is all the gas chamber is really for anyway.

Then you’re allowed to leave the chamber, your hand on the shoulder of the man in front, one hand on your shoulder. When you emerge into the weak, late fall sun, it’s only two minutes after you went in, but your head’s a lot less swollen.

Probably a side effect of the five gallons of phlegm leaking from your nose and mouth. Seriously, have you ever seen a man with a 4-foot trail of snot running from his nose?

I have. And I’ve been that man as well. It pretty much sucks. But on the bright side, my sinuses were cleared for the next week or so.

And that's not even a very long snot trail.

TMI Thursday: Anybody got a mint?

It's TMI Thursday my friends. For more stories that will entertain and disgust you at the same time go to LiLu’s place for this week's full list. And now, on to the fun!

One night, after a visit to his girlfriend, my friend Chuck was driving his red Camaro through the front gate at Camp Lejeune, N.C. When it came his turn for the sentry to wave him back into the welcoming arms of the Marine Corps, instead of the usual perfunctory “move along” signal, Chuck got directed to the side of the road.

[Little background: If you ever visited the different services’ bases pre-9/11 you may have noticed how they all handled security in their own special ways. Army bases often had state highways running right through them. The folks guarding Air Farce bases generally thought “security” was an investment option. The Navy, because it can’t be trusted to do the job itself had Marines on post (especially on bases where there were nukes). And the Marine Corps guarded the keys to the head (nautical terminology for bathroom) and the whole of their bases with the same tenacity it showed at Khe Sanh. Now you have to give blood, stool, urine and hair samples along with fingerprints and a detailed FBI check before you're allowed to even look at a military base, let alone go aboard one.]

So, doing as he was told like the good Marine he was, Chuck pulled over to the side, got out his ID card and awaited the guard’s questioning. (So good a Marine, in fact, that within the year Chuck would be selected as a Marine Security Guard. He spent the next three years guarding the U.S. Embassies in Budapest and Rio de Janeiro.)

After a glancing inspection of my buddy’s ID, the lance corporal on duty set to work finding himself an evil-doer. It should be pointed out at this juncture, my pal Chuck was a corporal, one grade senior, and while he was a pretty easy-going guy, he took his responsibilities as a non commissioned officer seriously.

“Where have you been tonight?” the guard asked.

“Out,” was Chuck’s response.

“Out where?”

“In town,” Chuck said, now a little annoyed at the disrespectful tone he’s hearing.

“I think you’ve been out drinking,” came the accusation.

“Dressed like this?” Chuck replied, pointing to his bare feet, running shorts and tank top. Apparently, he’d had to leave in a bit of a hurry when her father, a colonel, arrived home unexpectedly.

No balloons being handy, the sentry took off his cover (Marine for “hat”), put it in front of Chuck’s face and commanded, “Breathe into this.”

Knowing he was innocent, Chuck later told me with a sly grin, he complied.

The guard pulled his cover back up to his face and inhaled deeply.

“You like that?” Chuck asked, “Her name’s Heather.”

With an angry wave he was sent on his way.

TMI Thursday: Free Beer Every 30 to 45 Minutes

It's TMI Thursday my friends. For more stories that will entertain and disgust you at the same time to to LiLu's place for this week's full list. And now, on to the fun!

As I looked back through my TMIs I realized many of them come from my time in the Marine Corps. There is a reason for this, and it’s not because Marines are stupid. I’d say we just had a healthy appetite to explore the unknown.

We also liked free stuff. People’d think when you live for free in the barracks – generally a two-man room perhaps a little larger than your average dorm room – and eat for free in the Mess Hall – again, about on par with your average college dining hall – you wouldn’t really need anything else. Not true, not true at all.

Most of us had to make payments on cars we couldn’t afford. And then there were the tattoos, just one of these little beauties could eat up a whole month’s disposable income (including some of what you needed for your car payment, but meh, you can make that up next month, right?)

So the truth is when the chance for something free comes along, especially free beer, if there’s Marines around you should probably watch out since there’s going to be a rush to the bar.

The setting for our little story is the Marine Corps Mountain Warfare Training Center at a place called Pickle Meadows in Bridgeport, Calif. At the end of a row of tents where the units live during their six-week mountain and winter warfare training rotations, is a Quonset hut housing what used to be called a slop chute.

The name of this slop chute was the Pickle Bunker – they even had a cute little logo with a pickle in a machine gun bunker. The fare proffered by this humble establishment was, well, humble. One tap with two heads poured the regular and light versions of an American brew, usually Bud or Miller, and if you were lucky the fridge might have a frozen burrito or pizza for sale.

But the really special part of the Pickle Bunker was the grey Rubbermaid tub located just below the beer taps. There was no drain system under the taps of the Pickle Bunker like in yer fancier joints, so the overflow and foam created while beers were poured was just spilled into the tub.

Kinda like this one:

Depending on the intensity level of training that day – ranging from the merely sadistic to things the Founding Fathers didn’t even dream of when they wrote about prohibiting cruel and unusual punishment for criminals, let alone training for servants of the government – the tub would fill up with a gallon or two of beer about every 30 to 45 minutes.

Being resourceful young Marines with few liquid assets available, the leap from “tub of piss-warm beer foam and spillover” to “free beer” was microscopic and virtually instantaneous.

When the free beer reached the rim, the tub was gently and carefully removed from beneath the taps – we didn’t want to spill any of the free beer – carried in front of the bar and anyone who wanted some free beer was welcome to partake.

Of course, since the tub was kinda wiggly, as Rubbermaid tubs tend to be when filled with a liquid, we decided it probably wasn’t a good idea to try to pour the free beer into mugs. You'd spill more than you'd drink.

And, seriously, who wants free beer from a tub everyone and their brother’s been dipping their dirty mugs into?

The simplest solution was, as usual, the most obvious: why even bother with mugs when you can just bend over, stick your face fully in the beer and drink to your heart’s content.

As long as you could hold your breath, you could drink to your fill and never have to pay a dime.

Two flags for our fathers

I was going to write a TMI today, until I got to the “This Day in History” section at the bottom of my online NYT. It sent my thoughts in another direction.

Does anyone recognize this picture shot by Lou Lowery:

What about this one by Bob Campbell:

No? I didn’t think so. These two pictures are not nearly as famous as this one, taken by Associated Press photographer Joe Rosenthal:

Yeah, I figured that one might be familiar. It was taken about a half second before Campbell's photo above it and from a slightly different angle.

As famous as Rosenthal’s photo of the flag going up on Mount Suribachi is, it is important to remember Rosenthal passed Lowery as Lowery was going down the mountain after taking his picture. This in no way lessens the historical impact of Rosenthal’s Pulitzer Prize-winning picture. It’s an amazing picture (and one of the most reproduced photographs in history) and is an icon of the Marine Corps.

“(T)he raising of that flag on Suribachi means a Marine Corps for the next five hundred years” – Secretary of the Navy James Forrestal, after witnessing the first flag raised on Mount Suribachi

Three of the Marines in Rosenthal’s picture – Franklin Sousley, Harlon Block, and Michael Strank – were killed in action on Iwo Jima. The other three men – Marines Rene Gagnon and Ira Hayes, and Navy corpsman (medic) John Bradley – survived the battle and returned home. In the picture they are, from left to right: Hayes, Sousley, Strank, Bradley, Gagnon and Block.

In the end, though, Lowery worked for Leatherneck Magazine and Rosenthal for the AP and it was his picture that filled the front pages of American newspapers within days. Not only is history written by the winners, it’s often difficult to change the history that is written first.

(Speaking of history, if anyone’s interested, both flags now call the National Museum of the Marine Corps in Quantico home. They’re displayed on a rotating basis to protect them from the ravages of time.)

Facts about the Battle of Iwo Jima
Today is not the anniversary of the Suribachi flag raising – that comes next week on Feb. 24. But it was 64 years ago today when U.S. Marines first stormed the eerily quiet beaches of Iwo Jima. They didn’t stay that way for long and battle for the island raged for the next 35 days.

During those 35 days, 110,000 Americans (mostly Marines) battled more than 22,000 Japanese soldiers for control of the 8 square mile island. Arlington County, the smallest county in the United States, has an area of 26 square miles.

When the battle ended, 21,703 of the Japanese soldiers had been killed and 1,083 were captured. The 3rd, 4th and 5th Marine Divisions lost 6,821 killed and 19,189 wounded.