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Editor’s note: This article was originally published in the December 2016 issue of Leatherneck Magazine. It is being re-published in remembrance of the attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941.

Sergeant Delmar “Dick” Lewis was exhausted. Having recently returned to Hawaii after being sent to build airstrips on the islands in the Central Pacific, he was preparing to relieve the guard who was on duty at Ford Island a few minutes before 8 a.m. on Dec. 7, 1941.

“Four of us were standing there at the end of the runway,” Lewis recalled in a later interview, “and I looked over my shoulder and saw these planes flying right at us. I thought they were Army planes at first and wondered why they were flying maneuvers on Sunday morning,” Lewis said.

“Then I noticed … meatballs on the wings and wondered why they covered up the stars on the bottom of the wings. That’s how dumb I was at first. Then I saw something coming out of the planes and didn’t know what it was that was hitting the airstrip and making fire jump off the runway. ‘That looks funny,’ I said. ‘They’re throwing something that’s landing on the ground out there.’
“They were still quite a ways away from us, and pretty soon something went, ‘Yiiinnnggg,’ and I went end over end. I got a ricocheted bullet in my right shoulder. And I knew it was for real then.”

Bleeding badly, Lewis yanked off his dungaree jacket to get down to his under­shirt, which he tore off. He used his fingers to push the shirt into the hole in his shoulder to stop the bleeding. But his arm was hanging straight down and he couldn’t move it.

“We’re under attack, boys,” Lewis shouted, watching the Japanese airplanes fly over the island. “This is the real thing.”

By that time the smoke was beginning to billow up over the harbor. Lewis said they were on the other end of Ford Island, about 3 miles from Battleship Row, and smoke was billowing up over the hangars, too. Aircraft were folded up and burning right in front of them.

“There was a big stack of empty, 50-­gallon oil drums out there, not far from where we were standing, and I think the plane that did get me was after [the] drums, thinking they were probably full of gasoline. They were shot full of holes and nothing happened, and he didn’t waste any more rounds,” said Lewis.

Lewis said he tried to find a corpsman.

“I was walking,” he said, “and I was better off than a lot of others and didn’t find one who wasn’t busy.”

Since he couldn’t get medical attention, Lewis and the three other Marines tried to get a boat back to Marine Corps Air Station Ewa at Barbers Point, where they previously had been stationed and had built an airstrip before going to the Central Pacific.

According to Lewis, the four of them couldn’t find a boat, so they volunteered to help remove the dead and wounded in Pearl Harbor. Later, when they finally got near Ewa, they were able to go ashore and found that it had been hit hard.
“They destroyed about every … plane at Ewa,” Lewis said. “We were an army without anything to fight with. I only had a .45, and you can’t shoot planes with a .45.”

Lewis received medical attention on the base, but went back to duty after the wound was dressed and bandaged. “I don’t need to be in the hospital,” Lewis told the medical personnel.

Like many men who joined the military during the Great Depression, Lewis had traveled around the country looking for work. Originally from Illinois, he spent the majority of his life farming, but went to Chicago in November 1939.
“I’d hitchhiked around 25 states looking for work. I’d hear of a job somewhere and take off for it but never found much. I finally got tired of it in Chicago and joined the Marine Corps.”

Assigned to the Marine air wing in San Diego, Lewis met pilot Loren “Doc” Everton and served with him through the first years in the Pacific in what became Marine Fighting Squadron (VMF) 212. They served together again during a sec­ond tour in the Pacific from September 1943 to November 1944, when Everton took command of VMF-113. Everton was awarded the Navy Cross and a Distin­guished Flying Cross for his service.

In VMF-113 pilot Andrew Jones’ book, “The Corsair Years,” he writes: “Doc Everton’s devotion to his people paid off not only in up-and-down loyalty, but in horizontal lockstep at every level. It was much in evidence among the salty non-coms he’d hand-picked for enlisted leader­ship—Sully and John Cates, Delmar Lewis and Nick Sheppard, George Duffy, Abie Greenhouse, Jack Carol, Al Ackerman, Fred Scroggins and my plane captain, Joe Gonzales, to name a few. Some of them had served with him before Pearl Harbor. They called themselves ‘the airfield build­ers’ for they had prepared the airstrips and built facilities at Ewa, Espiritu Santos, Efate, Guadalcanal and here on Engebi, and they had let it be known throughout the organization that they would lay a strip down the mainstream of hell if Doc asked them to.”
In early 1941, the forward echelon was sent to Ewa to build an airfield at Barbers Point.

“When we first went out there, we called it Ewa Mooring Mast,” Lewis said. “You won’t find many people that know that, but there was a big old mooring mast out there. They were looking around to see how it would be to have those big dirigibles haul people from the States out there. Of course that didn’t work out, but this moor­ing mast was a place they could land in. And around that we build an airstrip.”

From there, they went to Guam and other islands building airstrips in prepara­tion for the war Lewis said they felt was coming. “… We went on to Midway and helped build an airstrip on Eastern Island and got on ship and came back to Ewa on the fourth or fifth of December. And we came into Pearl Harbor and unloaded all our planes and things,” said Lewis.

“And for some reason, right then they took a number of ships out. Now I’m not talking about battleships. I’m talking about troop transport ships like I was on. [They took them] out in the ocean so these bigger ships, the battleships, could come in. Lots of our material went back out. We hadn’t gotten it all unloaded yet—and I was down at Ford Island, which is right in the middle of Pearl Harbor. I was sergeant of the guard, and I was off at 8 o’clock that morning. I’d gone out to relieve the old guard and put the new guard on.”

The enemy aircraft flew over the moun­tain range to the north, over Schofield Bar­racks, and came right in over Barbers Point, Lewis said. Another group came down the middle over the bay and Aiea Heights.

“They never did realize they were flying over the tank farm on the other side of Aiea Heights where there was 50-75 30,000-barrel tanks with tanker oil for the ships. They never strafed or bombed that area,” Lewis said.
“We couldn’t get off the island; other guys wanting to get on couldn’t get on. I saw them bring in Navy men. Well, they could have been Navy or Marines. They were bringing them off the ships. They brought them in in front of that administration building, which was prob­ably a block long. It had a big arched drive in front of it and a sidewalk in front of it and a piece of grass between the sidewalk and the building. They brought them in there, [they were] covered in tar and oil, dead, and I saw a stack of men there when I went around trying to find a doctor to do something for me,” said Lewis.

“For the full length of that administration building, which I’m going say was 200 feet, there were bodies stacked up four and five high like cord wood,” Lewis said, because when the men were pulled out of the water, there wasn’t anything that could be done to save them.

The men had been blown off the ships out into the oil-covered harbor.
“Most of it was burning and they jumped in it, then they had to come back up through it and come right back up in the fire. They had oil all over them and they couldn’t see anything over their head and face. And a lot of [men burned] to death right there … . That night, after that hectic day, wherever you were, it was a good idea to stay there or you could get shot. You could hear machine-gun and rifle fire all night. Everybody was gun happy that night.”
Within a month after the attack on Pearl Harbor, Lewis said, volunteers were asked to man the forward echelon “going south.” They didn’t know where there were going, but they thought they were going right into battle.
“They sent us to Johnston Island and we built an airstrip, then we went to Palmyra [Atoll] and we built an airstrip and went on down to the Hebrides Island.”

Lewis spent more than six years in the Marine Corps, including two different tours in the Pacific. He was discharged on Dec. 7, 1945, exactly four years after he was first wounded while relieving the guard on Ford Island on the morning of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.
“What I saw there … is still very, very vivid in my mind,” he said in an interview a few years before his death in 2005. “They killed more than 2,000 men [2,403 killed and 1,178 wounded] and destroyed our battleships and planes. I couldn’t believe we let them drive up to our back door and shoot us. But that’s exactly what they did.”

Author’s bio: Marine veteran Ray Elliott is an English and journalism educator who has written three novels and edited numerous others. He was communications director of the Iwo Jima Association of America and Black Sands editor, and currently edits The Spearhead News for the Fifth Marine Division Association and serves as its secretary. The three-time president of the James Jones Literary Society, he worked as the military adviser in London on the 2013 production of “From Here to Eternity—the Musical.”

One of the first international chal­lenges facing the newly formed United States in the 19th century came from the Barbary States on the northern coast of Africa and their lucrative business of state-sponsored piracy. In 1804, President Thomas Jefferson seized an opportunity to split the leadership of the Tripolitan pirates, forging an alliance with Hamet Karamanli, the former bashaw of Tripoli. Expelled by his brother, Yusuf, Karamanli desired a return to the throne. The United States supported the overthrow of Yusuf in exchange for a favorable treaty with the Barbary States.

William Eaton, a former Army officer, was appointed United States Navy Agent for the Barbary Regencies. It was his responsibility to negotiate with the un­manageable North Afri­can states and expedite the transfer of power in Tripoli by force. Eaton planned an audacious ex­pedition to capture the fortified city of Derna, one of the wealthiest cites in the Tripolitan re­gion. In taking Derna, the road would lie open for further advance to the capital city of Tripoli, and ultimately return Karamanli to the throne over one of the most powerful Barbary States. How­ever, Eaton’s expedition required traveling over 400 miles through the un­forgiving desert to reach the objective.

Eaton requested the American warships of Commodore Samuel Barron’s naval squadron in addition to 100 Marines. He was denied the men. Under his authority was Lieutenant Presley N. O’Bannon, who requested 20 Marines from his own command over USS Argus. He was allowed only six. Corporal Arthur Campbell and Privates Bernard O’Brian, David Thomas, James Owen, Edward Stewart and John Wilton were selected for the incredible 400-mile journey.

The selected six were relative new­comers to the Marine Corps, all having enlisted in 1803 and served on USS Argus for almost all of their enlistment. Private Thomas was typical of the men selected, having been promoted to corporal on Sept.10 of that same year and returned to the rank of private nine months later for being “drunk in quarters.” Bernard O’Brian reached the rank of corporal during the expedition but reverted back to private several months later as well.

Knowing what awaited him at Derna, and the unpredictable qualities of his own hired Bedouins, Eaton again requested more men for the expedition, repeating his requirement for 100 Marines with bayonets to “place the success beyond the caprice of incident.” He was again denied. Lieutenant O’Bannon and his six Marines remained the American support for the expedition, leaving just 14 Marines on the Argus.

On March 6, 1805, Eaton’s “band of brothers” began their march for Derna. The colorful procession was composed of 12 nationalities, offering a picturesque view of approximately 300 Bedouin cavalrymen leading the journey and 70 Christian Egyptians recruited by Eaton at Alexandria and 67 Greek mercenaries, interspersed with 190 camels bearing supplies. Lieutenant O’Bannon and his six Marines joined the march, accom­panied by two Navy midshipmen, George W. Mann and Pascal Paoli Peck. The un­usual column’s first day’s march proved impressive, making it 40 miles before halt­ing for camp. But they were initiated into the reality of what awaited them on the road to Derna when their water source turned up dry.

“Here commenced the first of our suf­ferings,” recalled Mid­shipman Peck. “After marching near 40 miles in burning sun, buoyed up with the idea of finding water at the end … not the least sign of water, nor was a green thing to be seen.” The next morning, a search discovered a nearby supply of putrid water. Little worried about the questionable nature of the water, the men considered it re­juvenating, declaring it “more delicious than the most precious cordial.” The column trudged on.

Several times in the coming days and weeks the Bedouins refused to move on without pay or venture further into the desert, leaving the Marines stranded. Un­fortunately, deals made in the desert were more suggestions than contracts; they drained Eaton’s available cash sup­ply. Even when Karamanli’s men received pay, they departed with it to Cairo. Eaton’s plan to reach Derna seemed doomed to fail.

Eaton tried to calm the remaining Bedouin leaders by prom­ising the arrival of American warships at Bomba, but they declared no further movement would be made until a messenger confirmed the ships’ arrival. Eaton’s response was emphatic. He furiously ordered all rations cut off from them. The small but potent detachment of Marines shaped the backbone of the security, ready to protect the American supplies and put an end to any further duplicity as they waited for messengers from the American Naval Squadron.

“I left the Arab Chiefs in the Bashaw’s tent confused and embarrassed,” Eaton wrote in his journal that night, “and re­tired to my own markee and reflections.” The American mission seemed hopelessly stuck in the desert, far from help. “We have marched a distance of [200] miles,” Eaton recorded, “through an inhospitable waste of world without seeing the habita­tion of an animated being, or the tracks of man … o’er burning sands and rocky mountains.” However, fortune favored the Americans when Karamanli’s re­main­ing Bedouins considered their choices of starvation or marching, and agreed to rejoin the expedition.

Better news arrived on April 6 as Eaton’s men discovered the welcome but stagnant liquid of a well, dug 70 feet into the ground. The dubious contents, “feted and saline,” caused some concern, but Eaton’s horses were thirsty, having had no water for 42 hours, and the men had had only a single drink of nauseating water the night before. Overwhelming dehydration became the driving force of both man and beast as they crowded together around the well. Their frantic efforts toward being the first to gain access to the brackish liquid resulted in tragedy, when a horse slid backwards through the crowd, crashing into the well. The fall killed the horse instantly, but the crowd drank anyway.

The combination of hunger and thirst tested even the strong­est men. Doubts of the ships’ arrival at Bomba grew with every disappointment.

Karamanli grew suspicious and dis­patched couriers on his own to contact the American squadron, supposed to be at Bomba. Eaton was outraged at this turn of events, knowing only six more days of rice remained. He insisted the march must continue or they would starve, but the bashaw and his chiefs vowed to proceed no further. Eaton countered by cutting off the rice supply, causing them to recognize hunger as the major flaw in their power play.
When the Bashaw made a show of pack­ing up his tent and baggage, be­ginning his own march, Eaton noted that he “waited without emotion the result of this movement” as not to “betray a con­cern for ourselves.” Calm handling of the situation allowed him to discover the bashaw’s plan to capture all of the provi­sions for the Bedouins.

Eaton’s drummer beat the call to arms, bringing Lieutenant O’Bannon’s Marines into line before the supply tent to defend the invaluable rice. The Christian Egypt­ians joined the seven Marines, as they had few options in the middle of a barren desert. Two hundred of Karamanli’s cav­al­ry­men drew up in a show of force. The opposing forces faced each another for one hour, each side reluctant to be the first to open fire.

As if on cue, the bashaw appeared with his entourage, dis­mounted, and raised his tent, as a message that he would now stay. He convinced the Bedouins to with­draw from the field, end­ing the confronta­tion. Eaton ordered O’Bannon and his Marines to go through the manual of arms as a sign the Americans were also standing down. The Bedouins watched the Ma­rines and immediately roared, “The Christians are preparing to fire on us!” The bashaw leapt back on his horse, calling out to his people, “For God’s sake do not fire! The Christians are our friends.”

Despite his best efforts, the 200 cav­alry­men charged across the field at a full sprint. Most of Eaton’s demoralized Greeks ran, leaving the American Ma­rines on their own. “Mr. O’Bannon, Mr. Peck, and young [British mercenary Richard] Farquhar stood firmly by me,” Eaton recalled. The charging horsemen halted only a few feet away from the small band of loyal Marines, allowing time for Eaton an attempt again to end the confrontation. Farquhar stood in the midst of the crowd, receiving a pistol thrust against his chest, but the weapon misfired, leaving him unhurt. A clamoring swarm of voices erupted, drowning out any attempt to enforce order before a single accurate shot would initiate a fatal battle in the middle of the desert.

With drawn swords, the bashaw’s offi­cers rode into the melee. They forcefully separated the two sides, preventing the impending slaughter. Eaton chastised Karamanli for generating the clash. “The firm and decisive conduct of Mr. O’Bannon, as on all other occasions, did much to deter th[ose] by whom we were surrounded,” Eaton confided in his journal, “as well as to support our own dignity and character.”

On April 9, the column advanced peace­fully, traveling 10 miles toward the salva­tion of the American warships at Bomba. They were lucky enough to locate a water cistern containing potable water. The column made camp near the water among the ruins of ancient houses and walls, perhaps portending their own ruin. Worse was the discovery of two swollen, rotting corpses in the well. They were thought to be murdered by local tribesmen, but Eaton confided in his journal: “We were obliged nevertheless to use the water.”

They traveled another 10 miles on April 10, where they came upon a pic­tur­esque valley with water at last un­tainted by death. The men were starved now, existing on half rations of rice alone. Apprehension arose in camp, centered on whether the supply ships had arrived in Bomba Bay. Eaton countered the starved panic by calling a council of war addressing the collapse of his command. Some of the bashaw’s people would not take another step without proof of the arrival of the ships at Bomba. Eaton coun­tered with a two days’ march fol­lowed by a halt to await the messengers dispatched to find the ships. With only handfuls of rice left and no hope of gain­ing more from the bleak countryside, Eaton, O’Bannon and the Marines gambled three days would somehow prevent an uprising by the starved mem­bers of his command.

The arrival of the ships “alone will prevent a revolt among our Arabs,” Eaton wrote, “who undoubtedly take any side which will give them the best fare.” If rebellion erupted, Lieutenant O’Bannon and his six Marines faced tall odds for survival. A massacre in a lonesome ra­vine would end a bloody chapter in the American effort to suppress the piracy of the Barbary States.

A mutiny began that evening, when Greek cannoneers de­manded their share of provisions. Eaton confided only in Lieu­tenant O’Bannon the gravity of the situation. He dispatched a messenger to inform the insurgents “on pain of death, not to appear in arms to make any remon­strances with me.” With deadly con­fron­ta­tion to break out at any moment, the Bomba messenger returned with word of the presence of supply ships. The mood in camp changed instantly to celebration.

The bashaw assured Eaton he would lead his men to Derna. At 9 p.m., how­ever, the only one not cele­brating was the bashaw, who began a series of “spasms and vomiting,” which “continued the greater part of the night.” Eaton con­tinued his expedition 6 more miles toward Bomba before establishing camp without water. The halt resulted when Karamanli could go no further.
His Excellency the Bashaw Yusuf of Tripoli finally took an active interest in his brother’s invasion force on April 12, moving closer to his stronghold at Derna.

Captain William Bainbridge, command­ing the blockading squadron off Tripoli, received an angry message from Yusuf, acknowledging his “particular resent­ment” of his brother traveling with the American expedition. He threatened his Ameri­can prisoners with death. Marine Captain John Hall, Lieutenants William S. Osborne, Robert Greenleaf and John Howard and 44 enlisted Marines were part of American captives taken during the disastrous capture of USS Philadel­phia. The prisoners were informed that “if the Americans drove him to extrem­ities, or attacked his town, he would put every American prisoner to death.”

Bashaw Yusuf might have been less concerned if he had known of the true condition of the American invasion force. The last rice had been consumed raw. Starvation plagued the camp. The bashaw allowed one of his camels to be slaughtered to feed his men, trading another to the Bedouin families for one of their sheep. Full rations of camel and sheep were provided to the hungry Marines, but “they were without salt or bread” to make it more appetizing. The fresh meat allowed the column to continue the march to Tobruk, but a daily loss of pack animals meant eventual disaster. The only choice remaining was to reach Bomba Bay at any cost.

On April 15, Captain Samuel Barron ordered Master Com­mandant John H. Dent to proceed with his schooner, USS Nautilus, to establish communication with Eaton. Dent found no sign of the expe­dition, as the coastline proved des­olate. With no word from Eaton, disaster seemed a logical conclusion. Without knowledge of Dent’s foray, Eaton’s pros­pects were bleak. as the day of USS Nautilus’s de­parture, Eaton and his starv­ing command finally reached the Mediterranean Sea. Their excitement quickly vanished as they gazed at an empty sea.

“What was my astonishment,” Eaton admitted, “to find at this celebrated port not the trace of a human being, nor a drop of water.” Three locals claimed they saw two ships in the bay a few days before, but they departed without landing. The famished Bedouins saw yet another betrayal in Eaton’s promises, who “abused [them] as imposters and infidels,” and “all began now to think of the means of individual safety.” The collapse of Eaton’s promises erupted in disparate overnight discussions by all factions of the expedition. Lt O’Bannon’s Marines remained resolute, but few others could be depended on.

The Bedouins threatened to depart the following morning, but Eaton somehow yet again persuaded everyone to continue toward Derna. He took the Christian mem­bers of his command to a high point above the bay, kindling fires all night to signal to any ship passing in the night that the expedition was there at Bomba, waiting for support.

The morning of April 16 dawned with a hunger-fed depression, followed by the breakaway of some of the Bedouins. A final messenger rode up the high moun­tain for one last glimpse across the sea. Incredibly, the sails of the USS Argus appeared!

Eaton wrote, “Language is too poor to paint the joy and exaltation” in every person in the camp, including Lieutenant O’Bannon and his Marines. Overjoyed, Eaton went aboard to confer with the Navy officers over the path ahead.

Seven thousand Spanish dollars were transferred by Master Commandant Isaac Hull to Eaton, ensuring the travelers re­mained loyal to the United States. Per­haps believing his role in the attack might prove fatal, Eaton gave Hull his cloak and small sword in thanks for his support and requested his Damascus sabre and gold watch be sent to Captain Barron, “due to his goodness and valor.”

But Eaton faced a new challenge when Hull unexpectedly ordered Lieutenant O’Bannon and his Marines back on USS Argus. O’Bannon penned a letter requesting permission to continue with the expedition at least “during his stay on land, or, at least [until] we arrive at [Derna].” Navy Ensign George Mann also requested to accompany Eaton, “by a wish to contribute generally by my services to the Interest of my Country.” Hull granted the requests in exchange for the return of Midshipman Peck. More than pleased to depart, Peck recalled the hardships as he sailed away. “We were very frequently 24 hours without water, and once 47 hours without a drop … for the space of 450 mile we saw neither house nor tree, nor hardly anything green, and, except in one place, not a trace of a human being.”

On April 23, the expedition left camp for the final 60 miles to Derna, led by O’Bannon’s ever faithful Marines. They soon encountered the welcome sight of cultivated farmland and a natural spring. The column made 15 more miles the following day, marching under the shade of huge and beautiful red cedar trees, the first trees of any semblance to a forest since they began their journey. Eaton camped that night only five hours from Derna.

A courier entered the camp, con­firm­ing the near arrival of enemy re­inforcements from Tripoli, joining the forces already defending the city. “Alarm and consternation” overwhelmed the Bedouin chiefs and the bashaw into a private night conference, to which Eaton was not invited. However, the American consul had problems of his own. No further advance could be made as a fierce storm scattered the American warships. And no attack could be made without their cannons. Coordination between the American forces on land and sea was critical for any hope of success.

On April 25, drummers woke the sleep­ing Marines and men at 6 a.m., just as Eaton issued orders for the day’s march to finally close on Derna. “The Arabs mutinized,” Eaton wrote later, “The Sheiks il Taiib and Mahomet at the head of the Arab cavalry took up a retrograde march, and the Bedouins refused to strike their tents.” Only Lt O’Bannon’s Marines and the Greek mercenaries stood ready to march to Derna. Once again, failure seemed immensely possible, despite the many weeks of travel over 400 miles of desert misery. For the first time, the reali­z­ation of combat loomed, giving pause to many in the expedition.

Eaton quickly but skillfully navigated the various hazards of the morning, satis­fy­ing the concerns of his men with per­suasion, negotiation, and $2,000 dollars issued to various leaders. Lt O’Bannon and his Marines watched the proceedings carefully, made the march as planned, and occupied a knoll with a commanding view of the city and the Mediterranean Sea beyond. Despite all of the trials and tribulations which would have frustrated commanders from any era, Eaton’s expe­dition finally arrived within sight of the rooftops of Derna.

Eaton’s perch above the city allowed for a quick assessment of their task ahead. A water battery of eight formidable 8-pound­er cannon looked ominous to naval attack while a fort on a nearby hill over­looked the city, commanding the Ameri­can approach to the city. Hastily built breastworks interlocking with the walls of old and new buildings along the bay were filled with firing positions. The gov­ernor’s palace was defended by a 10-inch howitzer positioned on the terrace, defending the city in all directions.

Several of the Derna Sheikhs came to the American camp in the evening, swear­ing their loyalty and that of two thirds of the city’s population to Hamet Karam­anli. However, they warned the party that the governor boasted of 800 soldiers supported by formidable artil­lery, soon to be strengthened by Yusuf’s reinforce­ments ap­proach­ing from Tripoli. Worst of all, the waves of the Med­iter­ranean Sea revealed no sign of those essential American war­ships. Even Karamanli looked ex­tremely nervous, perhaps de­siring to walk “himself back to Egypt.”

Retreating 441 miles to safety was never an option, nor was a frontal assault on a fortified city defended by superior numbers. Eaton reviewed the cards of chance which had been dealt to him and came up with yet another option—that of diplomacy. “I want no territory,” Eaton wrote to Governor Mustafa, who oversaw the defenses of the city. “With me is advancing the legitimate Sovereign of your country. Give us a passage through your city; and sup­plies of which we shall need you shall receive fair compensation.” He assured the governor that his position would remain the same and offered, “Let no differences of religion induce us to shed the blood of harmless men who think little and know nothing.”

A message soon arrived from Mustafa, wasting few words in reply: “My head or yours.”

Good fortune favored Eaton and O’Bannon once again. The welcome sight of approaching sails changed the course of events at Derna yet again. Master Com­mandant Dent arrived, guiding USS Nautilus close to shore. “Make my respects to O’Bannon,” Dent signaled, “and all of your followers and wishing you all the success you so fully deserve.”

“I expressed my determination to at­tack the town tomorrow,” Eaton wrote that night, “if the other vessels came in seasonably.” With or without the essential gunfire from the sea, the dominant fort must be captured before any further prog­ress could be made inside the city walls. Providence again interceded, with the arrival of USS Hornet and USS Argus arriving at 5:30 a.m. on April 27.

The break of dawn revealed all three warships in tandem, ready for combat.
Alarming intelligence reached Eaton that morning, indicating a large relief column of Tripolitan soldiers approach­ing. This column was estimated to be only two days and 14 hours’ march away from the city, leaving no time for delay by the Americans. Understanding victory this day was absolutely essential, Eaton prepared to take the head of his opponent, Mustafa, along with his city. Orders sent the Marines and men advancing toward the walls of Derna, comforted by the presence of the three warships in position as close to land as they could be, daring the enemy cannons to fire.

A good wind coming offshore allowed the Nautilus and Hornet to anchor close to Derna’s ocean­front, where they un­loaded sup­plies for Eaton, in­cluding both of the cannon rowed ashore in small boats “with much difficulty.” Sailors then hauled one of guns up a steep downslope of boulders but left the other gun behind on orders from Eaton, who feared the time expended would result in “losing this favorable moment of attack.”

The mass of Marines, Bedouins, Greeks, Egyptians, and Christians reached their forward positions without dispute, while Navy Lieu­tenant Samuel Evans maneuvered the Hornet to within 100 yards of the formidable water battery, an­choring on the seaport side of Derna. Evans immediately open fire on the Tripolitan cannons at pistol range, guar­an­tee­ing the gunners would hardly miss their targets. The fair winds allowed the Nautilus to anchor close to shore as well, where he unleashed a continuous barrage against the now beleaguered battery.

Lieutenant Evans’ duel with the water battery proved epic, chal­lenging his 6-inch brass guns against the heavy 9-pound cannon of the fort. Both sides traded volleys, with Evans spraying the Tripolitan gun crews with grapeshot, silencing the heavier cannon in 45 min­utes. However, one of the enemy shells cut the Hornet’s flag from the halyard. Navy Midshipman Samuel G. Blodgett gathered the flag and climbed into the rigging, nailing the colors to the mainmast.
Blodgett’s foray provided an easy target for the enemy marksmen on the wall, but he escaped harm from the hail of musket balls passing through the sails around him. One lucky bullet lodged in his pocket watch chain, saving his life. At the same time, Commandant Hull maneuvered Argus to a position just to the south of Dent close to shore, dispatching shell after battering shell into the city. His 24-pounder cannon proved particularly effective in lobbing projectiles into the streets, scattering both soldiers and townspeople.

Covered by the warships’ fire, Lieu­tenant O’Bannon led the ground assault on the left, taking position under the cover of a hill overlooking the main body of Mustafa’s infantry. Eaton held the ground between O’Bannon and the sea with a small detachment of Christian infantry. Curiously, the Hornet’s six Marines, Nautilus’ 17 Marines and the 15 Marines of O’Bannon’s own detachment of Argus remained aboard ship.

O’Bannon and his six Marines, 24 artil­lerymen, 26 Greek mercenaries and a scattering of Bedouin cavalry gazed across the open ground, sizing up the opposing defenders. The Marines posi­tioned themselves to face the newly dug parapets and a sheltered ravine on the southeast side of the city. As a backdrop of shells tore into the city from the Ameri­can warships, O’Bannon observed another threat to the southwest. Mustafa’s men defended an old castle, supported by a body of cavalry deployed on the plain beyond. These flanking forces thankfully remained out of the fight.

The intensity of the shelling reached a crescendo just before 2 p.m., striking everywhere the Tripolitans showed them­selves. Forty-five minutes of constant fire silenced the sea battery, forcing most of the supporting infantrymen to disperse. The walls were still held by the bravest soldiers, clinging tightly to their positions. Another threat emerged in front of Eaton’s Christian detachment along the coast, however, forming their “most vulnerable point.” The cannon hauled ashore from the USS Nautilus was no longer effective. In the excitement of battle, the gunners fired the rammer along with a shell into the city.

Rifle fire from the city intensified on the attackers. “Our troops were thrown into confusion,” Eaton noted, “and un­disciplined as they were, it was impossible to reduce them to order.” The assault stalled as the whine of bullets whistled overhead. With defeat in the air, “I per­ceived a charge,” Eaton decided, as his “only resort.” Although they were out­numbered, the men of the 441-mile trek across the North African desert would not be denied victory. The warships paused, allowing an opening for the Marines and their party. Lt O’Bannon seized the moment, charging across the open area into the battery.

“We rushed forward against a host of [enemy],” Eaton reported, “more than [10] to our one.” A well-aimed bullet struck Eaton’s wrist just as the charge began, instantly taking him out of the fight. The defenders of Derna held out, content to exchange fire with the American co­alition behind their defensive walls and breastworks, even under the renewed fire of the three warships.

As O’Bannon approached, the defend­ers of the fort had to decide: engage in a deadly brawl with the attackers or flee to safety. The audacity of the Marines panicked the defenders, who chose flight. The defenders abandoned their position quickly, leaving behind their cannon fully primed and ready to fire one last salvo at the sprinting Marines. Mustafa’s men broke without firing the cannon, unwill­ing to face close combat with the Marines.

O’Bannon and his men leapt over the breastworks, surprised to find the battery abandoned by the fleeing enemy cannon­eers. O’Bannon ripped down the sultan’s flag from the ramparts, replacing the enemy flag with that of the United States, announcing American victory. This was the first time the colors of the United States waved above a captured fort in the “old” world. The battle was not without cost. Marine Private John Wilton was killed in the assault, with Corporals David Thomas and Bernard O’Brian wounded. This left only four Marines still in the fight. Ten Greek soldiers were wounded in the charge, but the flag of the United States flying over the captured battery announced defeat for the Tripolitans.

The Marines promptly turned the guns on their previous owners, who were still not inclined to offer firm resistance to the Americans. The Tripolitans continued to fire from every palm tree and city wall in retreat, but sheltering in the houses proved disastrous as point blank shells from the American warships rooted out the Tripolitans one by one. Karamanli and his advisors captured the now-empty governor’s palace, but Mustafa eluded capture. He first found safety in a mosque, but then retired to the sacred sanctuary of a harem, where safety was more assured.

The battle lasted only two and a half hours, with gunfire ending at 4 p.m. The bashaw’s cavalry completed the victory by flanking the enemy’s retreat, ending the fight. Derna was now under complete American control, except for the sanctity of the governor’s harem. The conduct of Lieutenant O’Bannon and his Marines drew the admiration from all who wit­nessed the attack. Their bravery and leadership inspired the entire coalition force, as did the three Navy commanders who Eaton declared “could not have taken better positions for their vessels nor managed their fire with more skill and advantage.” The Hornet’s cannon fired so often their plank shears gave way, disabling the guns, which required a time in port for repair.

Eaton saved his finest words for Lieu­tenant O’Bannon, whose “conduct needs no encomium, and it is believed the dis­position our Government has always dis­played to encourage merit, will be extended to this intrepid, judicious and enterprising Officer.” Eaton also served as a recruiter for the Marine Corps in recommending Farquhar, who “has in all cases of difficulty, ex­hibited a firmness and attachment,” to the rank of lieutenant in the Marine Corps. No record exists of Farquhar serving in the Marine Corps.

The price of victory proved high for the six enlisted Marines in the battle. In addition to the loss of Private Wilton and Thomas and O’Brian’s injuries, Private Edward Stewart was badly wounded and eventually died on May 30, 1805, in Derna. Only Corporal Arthur Campbell and Private James Owen were uninjured.

Fighting continued on June 3, when the 16,000 soldiers from Tripoli, commanded by Commander in Chief Hussein Bey, finally reached Derna to drive Karamanli and the American coalition back to Egypt. Karamanli’s men held their own for a time but were driven back into the walls of the city. O’Bannon led his four Marines and other reinforcements through Derna to reinforce Karamanli. They were greeted by “every body, age and childhood, even women from their recluses, shout[ing], “Live the Americans, Long live our friends and protectors!”

The American warships opened fire with the ships’ guns and captured artill­ery, easily crushing the attack from the city walls. Lieutenant O’Bannon “was im­­patient to lead his Marines and Greeks, (about 30 in number),” to further disperse the attackers, who fled in great disorder, ending any thought of Bashaw Yusuf driving his brother out of Derna. Bey deserted his forces because of his defeat, fleeing to the desert to escape retribution for his failed leadership.

On April 29, Master Commandant Hull wrote to Commodore Barron from Derna, informing him, “I am clearly of the opinion that three or four hundred Christian soldiers, with additional sup­plies, will be necessary to pursue the expedition to Benghazi and Tripoli.” The way lay open to carry the war to the capital city, freeing the American prisoners and putting an end to the conflict. Instead of allowing Eaton and O’Bannon to march on Tripoli, Barron chose the now more certain path of diplomacy.

With the fall of Derna and repulse of his army, Yusuf ended hostilities with the United States. He sent a message to the Americans through the Spanish consul in Tripoli that the time had come for peace negotiations. By chance, Tobias Lear, the United States Consul General to the Barbary States, was visiting Barron at his headquarters on the island of Malta. Barron entrusted Lear to begin negotia­tions with Yusuf to end the war with Tripoli. A former secretary to George Washington, Lear proved a skilled diplo­mat as well, ready to take on his opponent to create a lasting peace.

On April 30, Lear noted the failure of previous negotiations “on the part of the Bashaw to make peace on admissible terms. Lately there seems to be a Change in his sentiments … a few weeks will decide the matter, by negotiation or try the effect of our cannon.” The USS Essex transported Lear to Tripoli on May 26, where he received a formal salute of nine cannons instead of the previously common seven, admitting the new prom­inence of the United States.

Bashaw Yusuf immediately threatened to kill all of the American prisoners if the march from Derna continued, but should his brother withdraw, the captives would be freed. This concession brought America to a quick treaty on June 3, 1805. The United States paid a $60,000 settlement, thereby liberating the 400 American prisoners in 24 hours, with an agreement protecting American trade with no further payment to Tripoli. Lear admitted Karamanli “was entitled to some con­sideration from us, but I found this impactable, and if persisted in would drive him to measures which might prove fatal to our countrymen in his power.”

On May 19, 1805, Commodore Barron wrote to Eaton, informing him that Kara­manli “has not in himself energy or the talent, and is so destitute of means and re­sources, as not to be able to move on with successful progress … he must be held unworthy of further support … you will state explicitly to his excellency, that our supplies of money, arms, and pro­visions are at an end.”

Outraged, Eaton wrote directly to Sec­retary of the Navy expressing his view of the treaty and the denial of his request of 100 Marines to support the expedition. Barron “had not seen Tripoli during the last eight months,” he pointed out, “his squadron had never been displayed to the enemies’ view, nor a shot exchanged with the batteries of Tripoli since Commodore Preble [of earlier conflicts in the Barbary States] left the coast.”

In retrospect, Eaton still regretted that he had not been permitted a larger Marine Corps detachment at Bomba, “within an hour’s march of the main force of the enemy … only for the want of [200] bayo­nets! …In a bombardment or a cruise, Marines are of little more use in a man of war than cavalry or pioneers,” he wrote, “and while laying in port they are used only as badges of rank and machines of ceremony. Why not send them where they could be useful … Gentlemen of that corps, I am well assured, actuated, like their brethren of the navy, by a manly zeal to distinguish themselves, were ready to volunteer for the expedition. And it did not require a greater latitude of discretion to indulge to fight at Derna, than to furlough them on parties of pleasure at Catania. … Would such a detachment have defeated the great operation carrying on by the squadron?”

If Lieutenant O’Bannon and six Marines led the capture of Derna and repulse the soldiers sent to recapture the city, the presence of 100 Marines might well have overrun each coastal town before them, including the capital of Tripoli. Eaton also despaired at Lear’s payment of $60,000 for the release of prisoners while he held Derna, one of the most prosperous and largest cities under Yusuf’s rule, with a population between 12,000 to 15,000 citizens who could have been exchanged for the captive Americans.

Consul Lear’s final pronouncement over the embarrassment of Karamanli was direct and to the point. “This is all that could be done,” Lear wrote, “and I have no doubt the United States will, if deserving, place him in a situation as eligible as that in which he was found.” Hamet Karamanli never regained his rule over Tripoli and returned to his exile in Egypt, accompanied by Eaton. In ex­change for his withdrawal, a provi­sion of the treaty insured his wife and children, held hostage by Yusuf, were re­turned to him. Unfortunately, his Bedouin fol­low­ers were rumored to be massacred by Yusuf’s forces, never to rise against the throne again.

The lessons of American power re­verberated across North Africa, resulting in new peace agreements with Algeria and Tunis. “The Mediterranean was the cradle of the American navy,” wrote M.M. Noah, the former United States consul in Tripoli in 1804. “It’s character and dis­cipline—subsequent success in war—its influence in peace, and its pres­ent high character throughout the world have their origin in the wars declared against the several powers on the Barbary coast.” The Marine detachments aboard those ships and on land at Derna earned the same honor “to secure forever to the American flag that freedom which it claimed.”

Lear did acknowledge Eaton and the Marine Corps’ accomplishments, closing his letter with praise, writing, “I pray you will accept yourself and present to Mr. O’Bannon and our countrymen with you, my sincere congratulations on an event which your and their heroic bravery has tendered to render so honorable to our country.” The deaths of Private Wilton and Stewart and the wounds of Corporals Thomas and O’Brian are evidence enough of the valor required to end the hostile relations between Tripoli and the United States.

On March 18, 1806, the Senate of the United States passed a resolution reward­ing the surviving Marines, Lieutenant O’Bannon, Corporals Campbell, O’Brian and Thomas, and Private Owen, for their services in North Africa. O’Bannon and Midshipman George W. Mann each re­ceived a thousand acres of land in the territory that would become Kentucky, and “each of the four enlisted Marines awarded 320 acres, to be granted to them respectively, their heirs, and assigns for­ever.” Eaton was also rewarded with the establishment of a town 6 miles square in the new territory, to be named Derne.

Lieutenant O’Bannon and his six Marines became celebrated heroes for the young United States, establishing the nation’s admiration of the fighting spirit of the Marine Corps. The events of 1805 are remembered with every rendition of “The Marines’ Hymn” with the words, “To the shores of Tripoli.”

Author’s bio: Mike Miller has written five books and many articles about Marine Corps and Civil War history. A longtime Leatherneck contributor, he retired in 2016 after a 34-year career in the Marine Corps archival, museum and history programs. His latest book is “The 4th Marine Brigade at Belleau Wood and Soissons: History and Battlefield Guide.”

Staff Sergeant Harry Harth’s remark­able, pain-filled journey back to being a Reconnaissance Marine has come to a storybook conclusion.

On Sept. 25, 2022, Harth fell 100 feet off a beachside cliff on the night he was celebrating his rank promotion with a fellow Marine. The freak accident nearly killed him and left him with severe damage to his right foot and leg. But after countless hours rehabbing in the Wounded Warrior Battalion-West at Camp Pendle­ton, Calif., Harth passed his Reconnais­sance Physical Assessment Test on Sept. 27. He is now awaiting deployment with the 1st Recon Battalion, possibly to the Philippines.

For a boy growing up determined to serve his country, all the blood, sweat and tears were worth it in the end.

“People will tell you that you’re des­tined to live a certain way, or that you’re stuck in a certain situation,” SSgt Harth said. “They’re wrong, you are the master of your own fate, you can choose the ending of your own story.”

His mother Linda Harth put it more succinctly.

“Harry has been a positive force ever since he was conceived.”

The Fall
When Harth started his military career after high school, his goal was to be a Recon Marine. But he pushed himself too hard, too quickly. He ended up dislocating three disks in his back, which gave him permanent scoliosis and temporarily paralyzed him from the waist down. In 2016, the Marine Corps gave him an option of staying in for four years as a data administrator if he could pass a physical fitness test.

Harth not only passed the test, but he became a Recon Marine in 2021 thanks to his rigorous off-duty health and fitness routine. Unfortunately, all that hard work was soon put into jeopardy. During his free time away from a shooting package, Harth was celebrating his promotion to staff sergeant at a bar in Encinitas. After having a few beers, Harth stepped outside to relieve himself instead of waiting in a long line inside the bar. Before going to the bathroom, he noticed an inebriated fellow bar patron stumbling behind the building, so he helped the man arrange an Uber ride to get home.

A few minutes later, Harth decided to take a walk near a cliff further down the road instead of going back inside the crowded establishment. Eventually nature called, and when he stopped to urinate, the section of ground he was on gave way. He started sliding down a bluff.

On his initial descent he broke his tail bone on a tree root. But instead of the tree breaking his fall completely, he continued going. Seconds later, he was clinging to a clump of pickleweed, 100 feet above the beach. He could not manage a firm grip on the vegetation and eventually plunged to the coastline below.

The fall shattered Harth’s right femur, broke every metatarsal in his right foot, tore up his right knee and opened up his femoral artery. To complicate matters, he was out of cell phone range and the tide was coming in. The next few hours were agonizing for Harth, dragging his mangled leg behind him as he crawled along the sand. He finally got a hold of emergency responders after multiple calls and immediately passed out from the pain.

He was rushed to the emergency room where hospital staff considered amputat­ing his leg due to the severity of the in­jury. Doctors then considered removing his foot when they discovered that necro­sis was turning his appendage black. Harth said the only reason he lived was due to the compression shorts he was wearing that night. The snug shorts helped prevent him from bleeding out from his femoral artery.

After several emergency surgeries, Harth recovered enough to be discharged from the hospital. He moved in with his Marine friend, SSgt Nicholas Reid, and his wife Chelsea. The couple had become fast friends since they met at a local gym after Nicholas was stationed at Camp Pendleton. In fact, texts from Harth late at night became so commonplace that they almost didn’t respond to his text from the hospital.

“During one of my feeding times with my [infant] son, I look over and my phone is blowing up,” Chelsea said. “And [it’s] Harry again. We just had this discussion [about him texting]. So, I just ignored it and finally I heard my husband’s phone going off the hook. So, I was like, ‘there is something going on.’ ”

After a few weeks of Harth mostly being immobile on their couch, the Reids went out of town for a brief vacation and were concerned about whether their friend would need assistance while they were gone. Not only did he refuse any sort of help, but by the time they got back, Harth was hopping around on one crutch.

The Road Back
For nearly two years, Harth has dealt with daily pain. But each day, the 27-year-old Marine pushed his physical limits on his reconstructed leg. Each day, he trained. Each day he found a way to better both himself and others around him.

Whatever it took to be a Reconnaissance Marine again, Harth was willing to do.
His drive and passion to regain his elite fighting group status is partly why the Virginia native was named the Wounded Warrior Regiment’s Recovering Service Member of the Year. The regiment honored Harth on May 1 for his contri­butions during an awards lunch hosted by the Marine Corps Association.

“The Marine Corps Association is proud to recognize the incredible achieve­ments of Marines through our awards program,” said Colonel Tim Mundy, USMC (Ret), the Vice President of MCA’s Foundation. “Marines like SSgt Harth, who have wounds or injuries, but over­come them to continue to serve certainly deserve recognition.”

Many of the recovering servicemembers never go back to active duty, their lives permanently changed due to a traumatic injury or a terminal illness. But that didn’t stop Harth from being a positive influence in their lives.
“I tell them, ‘You’re not forgotten when you came here, you are still part of this organization, you are just in a weird transitional period,’” Harth said. “You are still a Marine.”

According to fellow Wounded Warrior Regiment RSM Ashley Christman, there are times when you are lacking confidence during your rehabilitation and all it takes is one person to help you get over that obstacle. On many occasions, that person was Harth.

“He is constantly encouraging others, constantly there for others,” said Christman, who is battling neuroen­docrine cancer. “He has been a reliable and important part of my support system, which I appreciate his brotherhood and have really benefitted from his brother­hood, and support and encouragement.”

Harth even motivated the regiment staff. His athletic trainer at Wounded Warrior, Nick Tavoukjian, wakes up at 2:30 every morning and commutes 100 miles to get to work. Getting to see Harth every day was one of the highlights of his job.

“He motivates me to get into work every day, to get him going,” Tavoukjian said.

Harth’s daily workouts varied from weightlifting to rucking to even surfing. He also stuck meticulously to a healthy diet and even quit drinking alcohol altogether, even though it had nothing to do with his accident. Physical therapist Patrick Everett said Harth’s ability to recover quickly is quite unusual com­pared to the average person.

“He’s been one of the most insane healers in terms of his own body working and repairing itself,” said Everett, who runs Cuirim Sports Recovery in Costa Mesa, Calif. “He has broken every time­line, every expectation. … In fairness, for what he’s done and how hard he’s pushed himself, [his healing] doesn’t make sense in terms of by-the-book medicine.”

Destined to Be a Marine
Harth’s commitment to serve started at a young age. Long before he could run long distances or hold a rifle, Harth was fascinated with the Armed Services. His brother Zechariah Blatz, served in the Army and a family friend, Sean Callahan, was serving in the Corps when he tragically lost his life in an IED blast in 2011. Harth’s father had taken Callahan under his wing when Harry was around 9 years old, and the older teenager quickly became Harry’s idol.

“I remember when we were around 8, and Harry had this little soldier’s uniform and he would wear it around all the time,” sister Kerry said. “That’s what he wanted to do even before he really knew what he wanted to do. … So, Sean was like a hero to him.”

“When he [Callahan] died, I made the decision to go honor his legacy,” Harth said.

As a teenager, Harth participated in the Young Marines program while wrestling and swimming for Osbourn Park High School in Manassas, Va. Harth joked that the only reason he made varsity as a senior was because the swim coach felt sorry for him. But when Harth joined the Marine Corps after high school, he immediately began pushing himself to his physical limits, even off duty.

Harth remembers passing a sign-up for a marathon near a mall in Carlsbad, Calif., and remarking how cool it would be to finish it. The race was the next day, but he decided to pull over and sign up despite never having run more than 10 miles in his life.

Finishing that race gave Harth a jolt of confidence, and he went on to complete 65 half-marathons and another marathon as a Marine. Post fall, Harth continued to compete. He was a member of the 2024 Marine Corps’ Department of Defense Warrior Games team and is scheduled to participate in the international Invictus Games in 2025. In the DOD Games this June, Harth won a gold medal in the 50-meter freestyle in swimming and the bronze medal in the 100-meter dash in track.

Early in Harth’s recovery, there were moments of self-doubt once the realiza­tion of what happened to him kicked in. Harth’s ankle can’t move the same way as a normal one due to the fact that two of his foot bones—the talus and the navicular—are fused together. This has forced him to run with an unusual stride. It also puts more stress on his left leg. He’s also had multiple surgeries since his emergency surgeries after the accident.

“I have no mobility in my ankle, it’s kind of locked in one spot,” Harth said. “Running on that, which I do every day, creates its own set of problems.”
But Harth did not let his physical ailments distract him from his ultimate goal.
“I came back from such a debilitating [back] injury back then that I just thought there has to be a way around this,” Harth said. “It is a daily struggle. [I ask] Am I going to make it? What happens if I don’t? Am I doing this for nothing? … But I have never said I am going to give up or take the easy way out.”

And his family remains amazed at what he has accomplished.

“I felt like I was just hoping that he would be able to compete in the Invictus games in February, but he has, again, way exceeded my hopes and expectations,” Linda said. “I’m still amazed that he can walk. … Harry is truly inspiring.”
“Was this a sign that maybe he should do something different,” Kerry asked herself after her brother’s accident. “But I truly believe that Harry is, by far, the most determined person. I honestly didn’t think he’d be able to walk or run again. … But if anybody can do it, to have that much of a 180 [degree] recovery story, it’s Harry.”

Author’s bio: Kipp Hanley is the deputy editor for Leatherneck and resident of Woodbridge, Va. The award-winning journalist has covered a variety of topics in his writing career including the mil­itary, government, education, business and sports.

The American fire service and Marine Corps maintain a long-standing relationship, enjoyed and perpetuated by veterans of both services. Though dramatically different at face value, one seeking to close with and destroy the enemy while the other seeks to save life and protect property, the identities harmonize within the men and women who have worn both uniforms. Thousands of Marine veterans today have discovered this gem in the civilian world, offering a lifestyle with stunning similarity to service on active duty. In­deed, veterans from every branch find fulfillment, community, and a natural career fit within the fire service.

A select group possesses the rare op­por­tunity to hold both careers simulta­neously, serving as Marine Corps Air­craft Rescue and Firefighting (ARFF) Specialists. Out of more than 170,000 personnel on active duty, less than 800 of these firefighters exist within Marine Wing Support Squadrons (MWSS), or as permanent staff of the Marine Corps Air Stations (MCAS). To achieve their 7051 Military Occupational Specialty (MOS), ARFF Marines begin their train­ing with the U.S. Air Force.

The Department of Defense (DOD) Fire Academy trains firefighters from the U.S. Air Force, Army, Marine Corps, and even a few from the Navy, at Good­fellow Air Force Base in San Angelo, Texas. After three months, students grad­uate with basic certifications in structural firefighting, aircraft rescue and fire­fighting, hazardous materials operations, and Emergency Medical Responder. From the schoolhouse, ARFF Marines move on to their respective duty stations, either “wing side” or “station side.”

“Station side” firefighters staff MCAS fire departments around the world. They work in a non-deployable capacity, op­erating in similar fashion to typical state­side firehouses. Crews remain on shift for 24 to 72 hours at a time. During their tour of duty, Marines work together, train together, cook, clean, and exercise together. Their primary mission is re­sponding to any sort of aircraft-related emergency, thus enabling the flying squadrons of each air station to maintain flight schedules 24/7.

The primary apparatus utilized for aircraft firefighting is the P-19R. These behemoth trucks have served the Marine Corps in various configurations since the early days of the Global War on Terror. In addition to fire hose, ladders, and compartment space for tools and firefighting equipment, a P-19 hauls 1,000 gallons of water, 130 gallons of foam, and 500 pounds of Halotron, an auxiliary firefighting agent. Dual turrets mounted to the roof and front bumper dispense up to 750 gallons of water per minute. Without hydrants around a flight line, station fire departments also utilize water tankers, hauling up to 4,000 gallons.

ARFF Marines serve as subject matter experts on aircraft and vehicle extrication. With axes and Halligan bars, or hydraulic spreaders, cutters, and rams, firefighters train to extricate patients from vehicles or different types of aircraft. The Ma­rines’ training as Emergency Medical Responders works closely in conjunction with their extrication skill set, as inci­dents in any form often involve patients needing immediate medical care.

Station fire departments work in con­junction with the local departments sur­rounding their base. Even in places like Japan, where a language barrier poses a significant obstacle to overcome, Marines train with their Japanese coun­ter­parts to understand each other’s tactics and capa­bil­i­ties and develop plans for mutual aid in the event of significant incidents.

This past summer, the ARFF Ma­rines from MCAS Iwakuni, Japan, were rec­og­nized for their outstanding perfor­mance, earning top scores as the 2023 USMC Medium Fire Department of the Year. The award marked the second year in a row these Marines earned the title for their department size category, and no small achievement. They displayed an outstanding example of performance and professionalism, while maintaining stand­­ards of excellence in both their qual­ifica­tions as airport firefighters and those re­­quired of every Marine, such as weap­ons qualifications and the physical fitness test.

One Marine from the Iwakuni ARFF department stood out even further. In June, Sergeant Yasmine Huley-Morris received the 2023 Military Firefighter of the Year Award. This immense in­dividual honor was awarded by the DOD following a competitive selection process. Nominees included not only firefighters  from the Marine Corps’ comparatively small pool, but servicemembers across every branch of the U.S. military. Huley-Morris serves as a station captain, re­sponsible for 22 Marines and four pieces of firefighting or rescue apparatus. Dur­ing her tenure with at Iwakuni, Huley-Morris has responded to numerous in­cidents, including Nov. 29, 2023, when a U.S. Air Force CV-22B Osprey lifted off from MCAS Iwakuni and crashed in the water off the Japanese coast, killing eight airmen.

On the flip side of the same coin, “wing” firefighters with the MWSS lead a significantly different lifestyle. While the number of personnel assigned to station fire departments varies depending on the size of the airfield and the type of aircraft it supports, the Table of Organiza­tion for a MWSS calls for 43 firefighters. These Marines hold the same certifica­tions and utilize most of the same equip­ment but work in forward deployed avi­ation ground support elements. Their capabilities include supporting operations such as Forward Arming and Refueling Points (FARPs), Aircraft Salvage and Recovery, Base Recovery After Attack, and casualty evacuations.

“The biggest difference between MWSS and station firefighters is the simple fact of deployable versus non-deployable,” said Gunnery Sergeant John Ritchie, who currently serves as the ARFF Assistant Chief of Operations, Headquarters and Headquarters Squad­ron, MCAS Yuma, Ariz. “In my opinion, you cannot learn the trade of a 7051 without spending time in both types of units.”

On Aug. 22, Ritchie was honored as the 2024 Expeditionary Warfare Non­com­missioned Officer of the Year for his recent role on deployment with the 13th Marine Expeditionary Unit (MEU). Beginning in November 2022, Ritchie served as the Marine Wing Support De­tachment Operations Chief. In addition, he was the senior firefighter on the deployment.

A typical MEU deploys with only four or five firefighters. The 13th MEU set sail with a larger detachment, including nine ARFF Marines split across two ships. Their primary focus centered around FARP operations, enabling more than 500 flight hours in over 200 sorties from multiple FARPs throughout the deployment. To support firefighting oper­ations, the MEU embarked the Marine Corps’ HMMWV-mounted Fire Suppres­sion System (FSS) rather than the bigger and heavier P-19. Though significantly limited in firefighting capabilities when compared to the P-19, the FSS offers a lightweight, off-road-capable platform. The Marines executed the deployment free of aircraft mishaps and returned home in June 2023. The most memorable call for service during their time abroad came in Thailand when the firefighters helped extinguish a wildfire lit off during a live-fire training range.

Early in Ritchie’s career in 2009, he deployed to Afghanistan. His ARFF pla­toon from MWSS-372 served aboard Camp Dwyer and Camp Bastion during the deployment.

“One of the first emergencies we had in country was a Huey and a Cobra that collided in midair and crashed outside the wire,” Ritchie remembered. “We were tasked to respond, so we met up with a quick reaction force in our P-19s and went out to do what we had to do.”

Other calls for service ranged from minor fires to forklifts rolled over. Much of the firefighters’ time was dedicated to medevac missions, helping move casual­ties of every nationality, friendly and enemy, from helicopters to ambulances for transport to the hospital.

Shortly after Ritchie’s squadron re­turned home, Marines from MWSS-274 battled a massive inferno at Camp Leatherneck, the Marine Corps base adjoining Camp Bastion. In May 2010, the Supply Management Unit lot, packed full of every sort of supply, somehow lit off. By the time ARFF arrived, heavy equipment operators were plowing fire lines through boxes and pallets with bulldozers working to stem the fire spread. The blaze increased dramatically as the sun set. A massive sandstorm de­scended as the firefighters dragged hose through the burning lot. Visibility decreased less than 6 feet. The winds fed the fire as it consumed everything in its path. Even the air seemed on fire, glowing hot hues of orange and red. The firefighters and equipment operators battled the blaze undeterred, salvaging everything they could. By morning, the inferno was finally under control.

Two years later, ARFF Marines fought fire while under fire during one of the most catastrophic attacks to occur through the entire 20-year war in Afghanistan. Shortly after 10 p.m. on Sept. 14, 2012, Sgt Justin Starleigh was in the MWSS-273 office on Camp Leatherneck when a Marine walked in and began putting on body armor. When Starleigh asked what he was doing, the Marine told him the British-controlled airfield at Camp Bastion was under attack.

“I called the team stationed over at the airfield and the sergeant we had over there was irate,” remembered Starleigh. “I asked what was going on and he was like, ‘there’s Taliban everywhere, there’s fire, we’re under attack!’ I realized this was not a drill and told him we were on the way.”

Starleigh and two other sergeants loaded their firefighting gear, combat gear, and a backpack full of rifle mag­azines into a P-19 and headed toward the flight line. They paused at the runway, awaiting clearance from the Brits to cross over. In the distance, an orange glow illuminated the night sky.

Unknown to them, 15 enemy fighters had penetrated the base perimeter. One team of insurgents killed two Marines and went to work destroying aircraft lined up near the runway. Another team attacked the flight line’s cryogenics facility. At the other end of the runway, massive bladders storing hundreds of thousands of gallons of aviation gas lay in a designated fuel farm. A third insurgent team fired Rocket Propelled Grenades into the farm, igniting a raging fuel fire.

Starleigh’s P-19 finally arrived on scene. Marines in another truck geared up for primary fire attack and nosed up to the berm surrounding the fuel farm. Intense heat radiated from the fire as the aviation fuel burned at temperatures over 1,000 degrees. A firefighter standing in the roof hatch aimed the turret toward the blaze and opened the nozzle. Starleigh positioned his P-19 behind the primary truck to provide additional water. Enemy rounds cracked through the air. The Marines not actively engaged in fire­fighting fanned out around the trucks, lying prone behind their rifles.

A Marine assigned to the fuel farm  approached Starleigh and reported they had potential casualties missing. He pointed away toward a nearby hangar where they had last been seen. Starleigh and another ARFF Marine formed a fire team with two fuel specialists and set out to the hangar. They cleared the inside of the structure then went outside. Large shipping boxes and storage containers funneled them into a corridor down the side of the hangar. Pallets of water and other supplies littered the area, offering concealment throughout the alley.

Starleigh moved on point through the darkened maze as the Marines approached the back corner of the hangar.

“We got about 15 feet from the end of the building when an insurgent stands up from behind a Palcon at the end of the road and started shooting,” Starleigh said. “I immediately returned fire and the figure fell down. In my brain, I don’t know if I hit him or if he just went down to take cover. I don’t know what he’s hiding behind, and I don’t know who else might be behind him. I just knew we needed to get out of that corridor.”

Starleigh fired a magazine to cover the Marines as they withdrew toward the P-19s, still fighting the fuel fire nearby in their direct line of site.
“There was a lot going on,” he remem­bered. “Our ARFF leadership arrived and was looking for accountability. We were in contact right there at the hangar. We were fighting the fire and establishing 360 security. Rounds were flying. One Marine was providing aid to a British sol­dier who got shot. All the while, Harriers were getting blown up on the other side of the airfield, the Marines over there were engaged, and there was another fire going at the cryogenics lab.”

When the attack began, Corporal Vincent Colombo and three other fire­fighters from MWSS-373 drove their P-19 toward the aircraft along the runway. Multiple AV-8B Harriers had lit off, igniting the fabric sunshades covering them. Smaller spot fires burned through­out the vicinity. The firefighters stretched hose lines and extinguished each aircraft one by one as gunfire echoed around the structures. A quick reaction force, filled out by a hodgepodge of mechanics, sup­port personnel, and even British fire­fighters, dispersed through the area re­pelling insurgents while the Marines fought the fire.

“I have always joked with people, we are like the ultimate POGs,” Colombo said today. “We are not meant to close with and destroy the enemy. We are meant to save lives and protect property. We were in such a unique position. It’s not like we were wearing flak and Kevlar underneath our firefighting gear. We couldn’t carry our rifles because we were carrying hundreds of feet of hose to put out the fires.”

With the Harrier fires extinguished, Colombo’s team moved to the cryogenics facility, an interconnected group of ship­ping containers modified to house the lab where liquid oxygen was stored for the jets’ on-board oxygen systems. A single door led into the facility. The limited ventilation contained all the heat and smoke inside, making conditions un­tenable even for firefighters in full gear. The Marines advanced a hose line and began flowing water while pulling items outside to create space. Thick black smoke pulsed through the open door, rolling upwards like an inverse waterfall. Heat baked the Marines through their gear. The opening fed the fire with the oxygen boost it needed to flashover. Every­thing inside that could burn, including the im­penetrable smoke banking down from the ceiling, simultaneously ignited in an explosion of fire.

Mercifully, the Marines remained unharmed as they backed out the door. They lugged a saw to the back side of the containers and cut a large hole, creating a flow path through which the smoke and heat could escape. Running low on air, the Marines swapped bottles in their self-contained breathing apparatus and went back to work.

Under normal circumstances, multiple trucks with numerous firefighters would be on scene to accomplish every task and rotate fresh crews into the structure. They also would not be getting shot at. The ARFF Marines at the cryogenics facility fought alone for nearly two hours to con­trol the blaze, enduring everything the fire and the enemy could throw at them.

British ARFF personnel brought tank­ers to the fuel farm, providing many thou­sands of gallons of water needed to knock down the fire. Apache attack helicopters circled overhead, hunting down any insurgents remaining inside the wire. After four hours the attack ended, but ARFF Marines continued extinguishing spot fires all night. Two British firefighters suffered gunshot wounds while battling the fuel farm blaze. In total, the fire consumed 119,000 gallons of fuel. The insurgents destroyed eight Marine Corps Harriers and a U.S. Air Force C-130, and damaged other air­craft or equipment to varying degrees. Two Marines died and a total of 17 U.S. and British personnel were wounded.

When the sun rose, multiple enemy bodies lay around the vicinity where Colombo and his team fought the Har­rier and container fires. They were rec­og­nized later in press releases and after actions for their role containing the hanger fires and saving millions of dollars worth of equipment, but received no personal awards or Combat Action Rib­bons. Starleigh learned the insurgent his team encountered by the hangar was dead, cut down by his covering fire.

For his actions and initiative leading the ad hoc fire team in search of the casualties, Starleigh received a Combat Action Rib­bon and the Navy and Marine Corps Achievement Medal with Combat Distin­guished Device.
Starleigh reenlisted and moved onto the drill field immediately after leaving Afghanistan. He is now a master sergeant serving with MWSS-273 out of Beaufort, S.C. At his present rank, Starleigh holds one of the most senior roles within his MOS where Marines are still certified as firefighters and actively involved in the daily operations of their respective fire departments.

Beyond master sergeant, career Marine firefighters have two available paths. Fewer than 10 hold the rank of master gunnery sergeant, serving in Corps-wide planning or training roles. Considerably more progress into warrant officer ranks as a 7002, Expeditionary Airfield and Emergency Services Officer. Colombo serves in this capacity today, now a chief warrant officer 3 serving with Marine Air Control Group 38. These senior Marines serve at each MWSS, air station, Wing, and Marine Expeditionary Force. They hold primary responsibility for planning and overseeing the installation, operation, and maintenance of expeditionary air­field equipment and aircraft recovery equipment. They can serve as Incident Commander during aircraft emergencies, structure fires, rescue operations, and hazardous materials responses.

Despite the available career paths, some ARFF Marines choose to leave the Marine Corps following their first enlistment. Marine firefighters have the op­portunity to leave active duty with direct­ly transferrable skills, performing the exact same job in the civilian world. The decision, in the end, boils down to which uniform, which identity, each individual wants to wear.
“In my opinion, you have to love be­ing a Marine more than you love being a firefighter,” said GySgt Ritchie. “The guys who love being a firefighter more than anything else in the world are prob­ably better suited to serve with a civilian or federal fire department. I think you have to love the ability to be forward de­ployed. You have to wake up every morn­ing, put the uniform on, look in the mir­ror, and still have a lot of pride wear­ing that eagle, globe, and anchor.”

For those who move on, the civilian fire service offers a familiar and promising career. ARFF Marines may find the shift more seamless, but Marines coming from any field will discover in the firehouse a world full of people and experiences that likely checks all the same boxes that earlier convinced them to join the military.

Todd Angell left the military in 2012 after serving as a U.S. Navy corpsman with 1st Battalion, 8th Marines. The cita­tion for his Silver Star details a three-month period during 2010 in Afghanistan where Angell single-handedly rescued multiple Marines or Afghan soldiers who were blown up by improvised explosive devises, grievously wounded, and trapped inside a minefield. It later describes his critical role in gunfights, personally account­ing for multiple enemy dead. Today, Angell serves as a firefighter with Hillsborough County, Fla., and as a flight paramedic flying out of a hospital in Tampa.

“Being a Fleet Marine Force corpsman was a dream of mine,” he said. “I’m super proud of it and it is something that’s always going to be a part of me. But that was a goal I accomplished in another life, and goals change. Not everyone wants the military to be their identity forever, but even if you just serve four years and get out, hanging up that uniform is one of the hardest things you’ll do.”

Similar to transitioning ARFF Marines, as a Navy corpsman, Angell’s path into the fire service might appear natural or inevitable, moving from one “first re­spond­er” role into another.

“I’ve talked to several younger guys who are still active duty, and I tell them don’t look at this job like it’s the only thing you can do when you get out. It’s a great job. It’s definitely not for everybody, but those of us who are in it love it. I couldn’t see myself doing anything else. I think a lot of guys coming from the military would fit that mold.”

The baseline values and life lessons Angell gained from the military set him up for success. Simple things learned as early on as boot camp prove especially applicable in the fire service; showing up on time, pride in your appearance, and the humility to shut up and listen when someone is trying to teach you something, even if you think you already know the answer. Perhaps most important is the understanding that the fire service, like the military, should be approached as a noble calling, not for everyone and not just the next job.

“We served our nation, and now to be able to serve our communities is a natural fit for us,” said Dakota Meyer, Marine veteran who is now a firefighter. “We all served in the military because we wanted to be needed, to be part of the greater good, and to do something that not everybody had the opportunity to do. The fire service fills that same cup; being able to be whatever it takes to make the world that you’re a part of just a little bit better.”

Meyer left active duty in 2010 after seeing combat in Iraq and Afghanistan and becoming the first living Marine recipient of the Medal of Honor since the Vietnam War. Ten years later, in 2020, Meyer enrolled in the fire academy in his home state of Texas and joined the volunteer firefighters serving with Spicewood Fire Rescue in Burnet County.

On Feb. 22, 2022, Meyer and two other volunteer firefighters responded to a reported vehicle in water. Once on scene, Meyer spotted a pickup truck that ran off the road, through a fence, and was now completely submerged in a pond just below the surface of the water. A civilian on the bank told him a victim remained trapped in the truck. Meyer stripped off his heavy bunker gear and jumped in. He swam to the truck and searched for a way inside, treading in the frigid water for several minutes before another firefighter successfully broke out a window. Meyer dove down into the cab, located the un­conscious victim, and helped drag him back to shore. The firefighters performed cardiopulmonary resuscitation until para­medics arrived in a helicopter to rush the victim to the hospital. By the time the helicopter landed, the victim’s pulse re­turned, and he started breathing on his own. Miraculously, four weeks later, he walked out of the hospital fully recovered. For their swift actions and lifesaving measures critical to the patient’s outcome, Meyer and the other firefighters involved in the rescue received the department’s Firefighter Medal of Valor.

“The level of creativity being in this job is kind of like being a Marine,” Meyer said. “Every gunfight is different. Being a warfighter requires a level of creativity, taking everything that you have, your skills and capabilities, and putting those things together in a way to provide a solution to the problem that you face. That’s exactly what being a firefighter is. You’ve got what you’ve got and how are you going to fix the problem that’s at hand?”

Today, Meyer serves as a Fire Captain with Spicewood, as well as serving part-
time with another professional depart­ment in Burnet County. He is one of many Marines who have found and embraced this new uniform and identity, continuing the long-standing relationship between Marines and the fire service.

Another example from years past is Gunny Sergeant Fred Stockham . Stock­ham was a firefighter in Detroit, Mich., before enlisting in the Marines in 1903. When his four-year contract ended, Stockham returned to the fire service in Newark, N.J., where he remained until reenlisting once again in 1912. By 1918, Stockham achieved the rank of gunnery sergeant while serving in the trenches during World War I. On the night of June 13 to 14, Stockham’s company endured heavy German bombardment with high explosives and mustard gas. Stockham donned his gas mask as the yellow-brown chemical seeped across the front spilling into the trenches. A Marine next to Stock­ham lay wounded in the mud, his gas mask shot off his face. Without hesitation, Stockham removed his own mask and placed it on the wounded Marine. Mustard gas seared his lungs and blistered his skin as Stockham evac­uated the casualty to safety. He continued evacuating other wounded until the effects of the gas finally overwhelmed him. Stockham died in a hospital eight days later. For his heroic, selfless sacri­fice, he posthumously received the Medal of Honor.

Bobby Wayne Abshire is another name every Marine (and firefighter) should know. Abshire graduated from high school in 1961 and enlisted in the Marine Corps. He spent nine years on active duty, serving three combat tours in Vietnam. In May 1966, Abshire worked as a crew chief aboard a Huey conducting medical evacuations. The call arrived one day for an infantry platoon in dire straits. Viet Cong trapped the grunts in an open rice paddy with more than half the platoon dead or wounded. Abshire’s pilot dropped in over the rice paddy, but enemy ma­chine-gun fire drove the helicopter back. The pilot landed on his second approach. Casualties lay all around the helicopter. With no one else able-bodied enough to help the wounded to the chopper, Abshire jumped out. Enemy bullets dug into the earth all around him as he assisted two wounded Marines into the Huey. The chopper struggled into the air once more, delivering the casualties to safety.

Back at the airfield, ground crews deemed the Huey too shot up to fly again. Abshire unhesitatingly transferred his gear to a new Huey and volunteered to return. During eight separate trips into the rice paddy, Abshire left his Huey to collect fallen Marines. On one of these occasions, he found a grenade launcher and wiped out an enemy machine gun. Abshire and his crew evacuated 23 cas­ual­ties from the field. For his outstanding resolve, courage, and dedication, Abshire was nominated for the Medal of Honor. His award was downgraded to the Navy Cross.

Abshire left the Marines in 1971 as a staff sergeant. He returned home to Texas and joined his father as a firefighter in Fort Worth.
“I remember one night we were coming home from a ballgame and a young kid had been hit on a bicycle. He had to stop and help,” Abshire’s wife, Jean, said in a 1984 Fort Worth Star-Telegram story. “He was always doing that. He’d tell me, ‘I could be the difference between someone living and someone dying because I know what I’m doing.’ ”

His belief proved true. In 1974, Abshire received his department’s meritorious service award for resuscitating a 2-year-old boy who nearly drowned in a fishing pond. Abshire served the Fort Worth com­munity for 10 more years.
He performed his final act of service on Jun. 9, 1984. Driving home off duty, well after midnight, he happened upon a driver with a disabled vehicle stranded on the side of the road. Abshire stopped and walked back to the driver to help. While they talked, a drunk driver speed­ing down the road lost control as he passed by. The tires squealed and the headlights illuminated both men as the car careened off the road directly towards them. “Watch out!” Abshire yelled and shoved the other man out of the way. The vehicle missed the other driver but hit Abshire at full speed. He died an hour later at the hospital. He was 41 years old.

The willingness to place others before yourself is a hallmark trait of firefighters and Marines. Stockham and Abshire’s stories are just two examples of how this trait is interchangeably applied between both services and, for them, resulted in the ultimate sacrifice. Staff Sergeant Christopher Slutman represents a modern example, loved and remembered by both communities. Slutman served simultane­ous­ly as a Marine reservist and a 15-year veteran of the Fire Department of New York City. In 2014, he earned a medal for valor after climbing in full gear to a 7th floor apartment that was on fire, crawling through the smoke to locate a victim in the back bedroom, then drag­ging her to safety. He died in April 2019 at age 43 while wearing his other uniform. Assigned to “Echo” Company, 2nd Bat­talion, 25th Marines, Slutman deployed to Afghanistan where a vehicle-borne improvised explosive devise struck his convoy near Bagram Airfield. He and two other Marines died in the explosion.

Every Marine understands the incalcu­la­ble value and personal meaning of shar­ing pleasure and pain with your brothers and sisters in uniform. Combat veterans rely on those who fought alongside them to interpret the lasting effects of their shared trauma and help each other heal. Uncanny parallels to combat unfold for veterans running calls in the civilian world, at times sitting around the dinner table with their shift mates working through the horrible calls they all hope to forget, other times doubled over in pain around the same table laughing as hard as they ever have before.

“I think my combat experience helped set me up for success but having it doesn’t necessarily make you a better firefighter,” reflected Angell. “Serving with the in­fantry was a hard, back-breaking job, but there is so much pride and camaraderie to come out of it. I see the fire department the same way. You are going to work. Any­body who has been on a single structure fire will tell you it’s probably one of the most physically demanding things you can do. When you get back you clean all your tools, clean all your gear, and get it ready for the next run, just like the Marine Corps. Do your mis­sion and when it’s over, get ready for the next one. The camaraderie with your crew is huge. I quickly realized that, as a civilian, you’re going to run calls that are as bad, and maybe even worse, than combat. Having guys at your firehouse that you can trust to talk about things is key. That’s an ability I learned from the Marine Corps. You’re not a victim, you have 50 guys from your platoon who just went through everything you went through, and you’re not alone.”

“We in the military try to make our PTSD like it’s something that nobody understands,” echoed Meyer. “We try to make it like it’s this exclusive trauma nobody will get, like the only way you can understand me is if you’ve been in a gunfight, and that’s simply not true. I’ve ran two shifts back to back in the firehouse that made everything I saw in combat look like child’s play. The fire service is the closest thing that I have found to being with the type of people who are in the Marine Corps and that’s because the stakes are high. Nobody’s calling us when everything is great. We are there to be problem solvers for people in their worst moments. With that, it’s kind of like combat; you deal with combat and hard times with humor, and it’s the same thing in the fire service. There’s this unspoken support of each other, a sense of brotherhood where having each other’s back is unconditional.”

The dual identities of Marine vet­eran firefighters face off in friendly com­petition. The idea of, “once a Marine, always a Marine” proves challenging to assimilate with their new profession and equally defining lifestyle. Their trucks sport Marine Corps stickers down one side of the rear glass, while fire depart­ment decals fill the opposite side. Ma­chine guns, bayonets, and MOS codes decorate their skin alongside Halligan bars, Maltese crosses, and “Never Forget” 9/11 tattoos. Their professional counter­parts on active duty, meanwhile, remain singularly identified; they are Marines. But whether military or civilian, Marine firefighters or Marines who became firefighters, those who claim both titles enjoy the best job in the world and wear it with pride.

Author’s bio: Kyle Watts is the staff writer for Leatherneck. He served on active duty in the Marine Corps as a communications officer from 2009-2013. He is the 2019 winner of the Colonel Robert Debs Heinl Jr. Award for Marine Corps History. He lives in Richmond, Va., with his wife and three children.

Editor’s note: This story was originally published in the November 1959 issue of Leatherneck Magazine.

Anyone digging into Marine Corps archives of the years just before the War of 1812 might be startled to see there on the rolls of officers the name Ichabod Crane-perhaps one of the best known names in American literature. The discovery is particularly interesting because Washington Irving was then beginning to write, and it was just seven years after Lieutenant Crane resigned from the Marine Corps that “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” was published-date 1819.

The beloved story offers various local guesses as to what became of the schoolmaster after the hapless fellow’s encounter with the “headless horseman” and subsequent disappearance. Different villagers said he “had changed his quarters to a distant part of the country; had kept school and studied law at the same time; had been admitted to the bar, turned politician, electioneered, written for the newspapers, and finally had been made a justice of the Ten Pound Court.”

Not one of the villagers of Sleepy Hollow said that perhaps Ichabod had gone and joined the Marines. He may, indeed, have tried but been sent kiting by a supply sergeant at wit’s end, attempting to furnish a uniform. For Ichabod, you will recall, was “exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels.”

At any rate, it is logical today to speculate that Washington Irving did take the name for the village school-master from a Lieutenant Ichabod B. Crane of the Marine Corps, having most certainly encountered the name not long before he wrote the tale, and, what is more, having quite probably met the officer. The author’s fancy may have been caught by the name. The schoolmaster was a period piece, who merely needed a name. The model was not uncommon.

Ichabod B. Crane was a native of Elizabethtown (now Elizabeth) New Jersey, a descendant of a first settler of the town. He was appointed a second lieutenant in the Marine Corps on 26 January, 1809, from Irving’s State of New York, receiving $25 a month and subsistence. Ichabod’s father, General William Crane, had been a Revolutionary artilleryman, wounded at the attack on Quebec, but surviving to serve as Major General of New Jersey Militia during the War of 1812. Ichabod’s brother, William Montgomery Crane, entered the Navy as a midshipman in May, 1799, serving on the United States, becoming a lieutenant in 1803, and a commander by 1813.

Ichabod, upon joining the Marine Corps, was assigned in February, 1809, to command the Marine detachment on board the United States, which was a 44-gun frigate, a sister ship to Old Ironsides, and herself affectionately termed the “Old Waggon.” The detachment was authorized to number two sergeants, two corporals, two musics (a fifer and a drummer), and 50 privates, but it was seldom near that strength. Lt Crane’s routine experience as commander of the seagoing Marines may well have consisted partly of settling arguments between Marines and Sailors of that rough period. Your “rights . . . are sometimes liable to be infringed on.” warned Lieutenant Archibald Hender-son. later a Marine Corps Commandant. All through the 19th century a Marine detachment on board a ship was known as the Marine Guard. In peacetime they composed a disciplinary force at sea, deterring mutiny—”the bulwark between the cabin and the forecastle.”

Lt Crane continued on the United States until December, 1810. when he was detached to Marine Corps Headquarters at Washington. In March, 1812, he was due to relieve a Captain Williams at a Florida post, but a change of plans kept him at Washington.

In May, 1810, Captain Stephen Decatur, a close friend of Washington Irving, was ordered to command the United States. Thus, for almost a year. Lt Crane had served under living’s friend-in charge of the Marines on that ship.

Decatur and Irving once roomed together in New York, and through the years, before Irving went to England (1815) the two men saw each other often. The author could, therefore, well have been introduced to Decatur’s Marine officer. Decatur may at least have mentioned the man.

Irving possessed what William Cullen Bryant called a ”frolicsome fancy” -certainly exhibited in his stories of Dutch New York. He delighted in naming literary characters after persons he knew or heard of. In 1809 he wrote Diedrich Knickerbocker’s humorous history of New York. In it he freely employed old Dutch family names—“but I did not dream of offense,” said the amiable Irving.

Irving wrote “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” while on a visit to England. The story, like others of the Sketch Book series, appeared in America in 1819 under Irving’s pen name, Geoffrey Crayon. Few persons, either in America or abroad, ever did learn who the real author was. Many, especially in Great Britain, thought it was Sir Walter Scott, the literary lion of the hour and a most admiring friend of Irving.

The Sketch Book series became at once popular, selling rapidly, and Ichabod B. Crane must surely have either read of the schoolmaster or had his attention called to the coincidence of names. Whether he knew, however, that “Geoffrey Crayon” was actually Decatur’s friend, Irving, is less presumable. By that date, Crane was a major in the Army. After resigning from the Marine Corps on April 28, 1812, he had accepted a captaincy from the Army. It was the military which engrossed the life of Ichabod B. Crane. He was not a horseman-nor did he ever write, like Washington Irving or his own descendant, Stephen Crane, the New Jersey author of the Civil War story, “The Red Badge of Courage.” Lt Crane of the Marine Corps would have been interested to foresee that Stephen Crane, as a war correspondent, covered a Marine landing in 1898 at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.

Washington Irving’s interest in the Navy must surely have included the Marine Corps, which then, as today, was a part of the Navy Department. The author became well acquainted with Charles Nicholas of Philadelphia, a son of Samuel Nicholas, the first Marine officer appointed by the Continental Congress after it voted for two battalions of Marines on 10 November 1775, the historic birthday of the Marine Corps.

Although Irving showed a zest for naval exploits and affairs, his role was essentially that of a detached bystander, rather than a participant. He declined two offers of a post in the Navy Department. In 1818, Commodore Decatur was serving on the Board of Navy Commissioners at Washington, a sort of directorate composed mainly of ex-naval heroes. So Decatur had no difficulty obtaining the job of first clerk in the Navy Department for his good friend Irving but entirely unsolicited by the author, who was then in Europe.

William, Washington’s brother, then a Congressman, wrote enthusiastically to the author: “Commodore Decatur informs me that he had made such arrangements, and such steps would further be made by the Navy Board, as that you will be able to obtain the office of first clerk in the Navy Department, which is similar to that of under-secretary in England. The salary is equal to $2400 per annum, which, as the Commodore says, is sufficient to enable you to live in Washington like a prince.”

But Irving was indifferent to so bright a prospect. He turned down the job, explaining that it meant a “routine of duties” which would “prevent my atending to literary pursuits”—although William had emphasized that he could still do that while holding the clerkship. Practical William was concerned about the declining family fortunes. Their long-time hardware business had just gone through bankruptcy, and young Washington, then 35 years old, was not yet the prosperous author. To brother William, as well as to Decatur, the Navy clerkship seemed a profitable and secure plum until Washington’s literary talents were more appreciated.

In 1838, President Van Buren, a personal friend, like Decatur, wanted Irving to become Secretary of the Navy. But then, as 20 years before, and despite a permanent interest in the Navy, Irving still did not care for a desk job at the Department. In declining this time, he said that “a short career of public life at Washington . . . would render me mentally and physically a perfect wreck.”

During subsequent years Irving enjoyed the life of a celebrated author at his home, “Sunnyside,” near Tarrytown, New York. Meanwhile, at some Army post, Crane was serving as a colonel of artillery. He died in 1857, just two years before Irving, on Staten Island, New York.

Ichabod B. Crane’s Marine Corps service was just a brief three years. It provided no occasion where he could win fame in the heroic annals of the Corps. Nor did the Army supply a chance for remembered glory. Yet, as men sometimes do, he achieved a quite unexpected kind of immortality. Because of Washington Irving, his name wells forever on the pages of American literature.

Executive Editor’s note: We bring you this story from the Leatherneck archives, which covers the seagoing roots of the Corps. Leading up to the Marine Corps’ 250th birthday on Nov. 10, 2025, Leatherneck is dedicating space each month to an article associated with a specific period in the service’s history. This month, we recognize William Jennison, a New Englander who recruited young Marines to fight the British at sea during the Revolutionary War. For more about this time period, see “This Is My Rifle,” and Saved Round.

After six weeks of recruiting duty, William Jennison was thoroughly bored with the Marines. Although only 19 years of age in the spring of 1776, he already had served almost a full year in the Continental armed forces. In April 1775, when the embattled farmers at Lexington fired the shot heard around the world, William, a graduate of Harvard College, was studying law at Providence, R.I. The smoke of this first skirmish of the American Revolution had scarcely cleared when he returned to his home at Mendon, Mass., and enlisted in an infantry company. The company was promptly incorporated in the 13th Massachusetts Regiment, and young Jennison was appointed regimental quartermaster, an assignment which he held until the following spring.
Since Continental troops generally served for a year or less, Jennison left the regiment early in 1776 and returned to Providence and the practice of the law. Here he first learned of the Marines, a military organization that had yet to celebrate its first birthday.

The Continental Marines had been established on Nov. 10, 1775, when the Continental Congress authorized the recruiting of men skilled at fighting on either land or sea. Under the leadership of Samuel Nicholas, the first Marine Corps Commandant, the task of recruiting these men got under way. Among the most difficult problems facing the new Commandant was the organization and training of a Marine guard, usually 20 to 50 men, for each warship in the rapidly expanding Continental Navy. When William Jennison arrived at Providence in April 1776, just such a ship’s guard was being formed to serve in the 32-gun frigate Warren, which was fitting out at the city.

The idea of being a soldier of the sea appealed to Jennison, so he quickly volunteered to serve in the frigate’s Marine guard. Captain Esek Hopkins, the commander in chief of the Continental fleet and skipper of Warren, was so impressed by the young man’s enthusiasm that he urged him to apply instead for a commission in the Marines. Since final approval of the application was expected within a few days, Hopkins directed Jennison to begin recruiting a Marine guard of at least 36 men for Warren. Assisted by a drummer and fifer, Jennison began touring Rhode Island in search of recruits.

At each stop on this journey, he set up a recruiting office at some tavern or inn. The drummer and fifer paraded through town, playing some patriotic tune to attract a crowd. Jennison would then explain what was expected of a Marine—courage, skill with a musket and unquestioning obedience. At each village, he found a few able-bodied men who seemed capable of serving on board ship as well as on land. After administering the oath of enlistment, he would dip into a bag of money given him by Hopkins and hand each of the men a few dollars as an advance against his future pay. By accepting this advance, the recruits bound themselves to the service of the new nation.

As the weeks dragged by, the ranks of the Marine guard were gradually filled, but nothing was heard concerning Jennison’s commission. Overwhelmed by the thousand burdens of conducting the war, Congress was unable to keep up with the flood of applications, and he remained a civilian. What was worse, the work of readying the Warren for battle fell so far behind schedule that Jennison began to wonder if the frigate ever would sail. No wonder, then, that he became bored with his duties.

While the Warren rode listlessly at anchor, the Continental Army was hurriedly throwing up fortifications on Long Island, where General George Washington believed the British would attack. A call went out for volunteers, men who would serve for five months in the ranks of the Continental forces, and once again the men of Massachusetts responded. Another infantry company was formed at Mendon, and among the members of this unit was William Jennison. The fate of the troops assembled to defend New York was, he believed, vital to the success of the Revolution. If Washington’s army were destroyed, the cause of American liberty would perish along with it and the enemy would be able to march unopposed through the colonies. Jennison felt that he had no choice but to turn his Marines, along with the remainder of the recruiting money, over to Hopkins and then to volunteer for five months’ service in the Massachusetts regiment. The Mendon troops marched off to Long Island, arriving there a few weeks before the British struck.

Late in June 1776, within a few days of America’s declaration of independence from Great Britain, enemy warships began gathering off New York. Some 20,000 Red Coats swarmed ashore on Long Island, divided into three columns, and pounced upon the ill-trained Continentals defending the area that has since become the borough of Brooklyn. This opening battle cost the defenders some 400 killed or wounded and 1,000 men taken prisoner. Washington’s remaining forces, among them the regiment in which Jennison was serving, now were isolated at Brooklyn Heights, their backs to the East River. While the enemy was gathering strength to storm this final redoubt, Washington, under cover of darkness, moved 9,000 men with their artillery and supplies across the river to Manhattan Island. Although the British twice attempted to destroy Washington’s command, most of the Americans managed to escape from Manhattan and eventually found temporary refuge in New Jersey.

In November 1776, after five months of campaigning, William Jennison’s enlistment expired. “I left the army at Fishkill,” he wrote in his diary, “with the intent of not being in the land service again.” True to his word, he made his way to Boston where he enlisted on Jan. 14, 1777, as a seaman on the ship Boston, a 24-gun frigate. Then, in February, he finally received his appointment as a lieutenant of Marines and was assigned as second in command of the Boston’s guard detachment.

This cruise of Boston, Jennison’s introduction to warfare at sea, was far from successful. The Boston and the 32-gun Hancock, one of the largest of the Continental frigates, were unable to weigh anchor until late in May. The delay was caused in part by the constant quarreling between the two ships’ captains, Manley of Hancock and McNeill of Boston. “If they are not better united,” reported an agent of the Continental Congress, “infinite damage may accrue.”
Whatever their personal feelings, Manley and McNeill cooperated enthusiastically during their battle with the Fox, a British frigate that mounted 28 guns. Manley struck first, coming alongside the enemy and exchanging salvos broadside to broadside. When the Hancock was clear of the British frigate, the Boston entered the fight, delivering what Capt McNeill called a “Noble Broadside” and forcing the enemy to strike his colors.

As far as Boston was concerned, the remainder of the cruise was a study in frustration. Although a few small merchantmen fell victim to the Yankee frigate, McNeill’s vessel usually ended up fleeing from larger and more heavily gunned British warships. A worse fate, however, lay in store for Hancock. Under the impression that he was being attacked by a 64-gun British man-of-war, Manley surrendered his ship only to discover that the adversary was a mere frigate scarcely larger than his own.

In August, after some 10 weeks at sea, the Boston came about and headed for port. Except for the cap­ture of the Fox, the voyage had been a failure. One of the midshipmen, in an effort to ease the monotony and lessen the crew’s sense of disappointment, organized a raffle. Unfortunately, McNeill learned of this scheme for raising morale and had Jennison place the man in irons on the charge of “selling lottery tickets on board.”

No sooner had the frigate anchored at Boston harbor than the work of refitting got under way. Although Captain Samuel Tucker replaced the quarrelsome McNeill, Richard Palmes continued in command of the Marine guard, with Jennison as his lieutenant.

By December, Boston was almost ready for sea. Since one of the remaining tasks was the finding of replacements for those Marines whose enlistments had expired, Jennison was given $200 and sent out on another recruiting tour. This was more than enough money, for advances against pay were neither large nor freely given. A veteran corporal could expect an advance of no more than $6 upon reenlisting, and a private got less than half that amount. Within 10 days, Jennison had signed on a corporal and three privates.

As was the custom, Tucker, upon assuming command of Boston, pub­lished a formal order detailing the specific duties of the guard de­tach­ment. Although Tucker planned to use the Marines almost exclusively as sentinels, they could perform, with one exception, “any other duty and service on board the ship which they are capable of.” The sole excep­tion was going aloft to handle the sails, a task ordinarily reserved for seamen. In spite of the fact that a Ma­rine “could not be beat or punished” for not showing an “inclination” to go aloft, Capt Tucker nevertheless felt “assured” that “the ambitious will do it without driving.” In other words, the skipper expected the guard to volunteer for work aloft in the event of a storm or other emergency.

Whenever a Yankee frigate went into action, the Marines had two principal jobs—to keep the gun crews at their weapons and to fire from the fighting tops onto the enemy deck. As soon as the crew was called to quarters, each Marine was issued a musket and a cartridge pouch. The sharpshooters then climbed rope ladders to platforms built around the masts some 30 to 40 feet above the deck. These plat­forms seldom had room for more than two or three men, so the best shots would fire from the prone position while the others reloaded. Those Marines assigned to keep the gunners at their posts also could be employed in boarding parties or could help repel enemy boarders. It did not pay to become “disconcerted or disheartened” during a fight, for anyone who left his post was to be shot immediately.

Once the battle had ended, each Marine was expected to find a piece of cloth, clean his weapon, and return it to his sergeant. Since no musket was returned dirty to the arms chest, the Marines often spent more time cleaning their weapons than they had fighting the battle.

At long last, the Boston was ready for sea, and on Feb. 13, 1778, after the last of the stores had been loaded, “the Honorable John Adams and suite” were piped aboard. Adams had been chosen to serve as a diplomatic representative of the Continental Congress at the French court. Boston was to carry him safely across the Atlantic to this new assignment and, “Capt Tucker,” according to Jennison, “had instructions not to risque the ship in any way that might endanger Mr. Adams.”

The Marines were issued new uniforms, probably in honor of their distinguished passenger. Each man received a white waistcoat, white knee length breeches and a green coat. A black hat, a green cloth belt, white leggings and black shoes completed the uniform.

Although they no doubt were the best dressed Marines of the Revolution, Jennison’s men had their share of problems. Shore leave, for example, was hard to come by. No Navy officer, not even the skipper, could grant leave to a member of the guard if the Captain of Marines objected to the man’s going ashore. Seldom did anyone, either Sailor or Marine, try to slip past the sentinels to spend the evening at some friendly tavern. Skippers tried always to anchor far enough from shore to discourage even the best swimmer, and the ship’s boats were carefully guarded.

The voyage got off to a bad start. The frigate had traveled no more than 5 miles, when “the ship’s first lieutenant fell overboard and by catching hold of the flukes of the anchor, which he was trying to fish, was haply caught and got on board.” Worse misfortunes were soon to follow.

On the morning of Feb. 19, three vessels appeared on the horizon. One of the ships veered off in pursuit of the Boston and kept up the chase in spite of dense clouds, darkness and rain. As if the presence astern of this British frigate were not bad enough, shortly after midnight on the 21st, the rain grew heavier, accompanied by winds of near hurricane force. At the height of the storm, lightning struck the American frigate’s mainmast, coursed downward into the hold, and finally passed through the ship’s keel. “A Terrible night,” wrote Jennison in his journal. The captain of the mainmast was struck with the lightning, which burned a place in the top of his head about the bigness of a quarter dollar. He lived three days and died raving mad.”

The hurricane continued to rage throughout the hours of darkness. Although Jennison later confessed that he spent most of the night “absorbed in the Abyss of Reflection,” Capt Tucker had no time for philosophizing. The skipper called for reports of the damage inflicted by the storm and learned that between four and five feet of water had poured into the hold. The Sailors were ordered to man the pumps, as the ship butted stubbornly against the raging sea. Within a quarter of an hour, the weary seamen had lowered the water level to three feet; the vessel was saved from the storm. “Providence ruled,” commented Jennison in his journal.

There still remained the menace of the British warship not far astern. Tucker waited until the storm had slackened, then ordered the quartermaster to change course. The flashes of lightning were fewer now, so that the night remained dark for several minutes at a time. A lightning bolt split the skies; and as soon as the searing light had died away, the American frigate swung sharply to starboard. When the lightning next flashed, the British lookout scanned the seas in vain for some trace of the Boston. Tucker had successfully eluded his pursuer.

Again on March 10, a hostile sail inched over the horizon. The 16-gun British brig Martha boldly closed the range. At high noon, Jennison later noted in his diary, “she fired three guns at us, one of which carried away our mizenyard.” This “Ball,” according to John Adams, “went directly over my Head.” The Boston replied with a devastating 12-gun broadside, and the battered Martha quickly struck her colors. When Tucker strode along the deck to survey the damage done to his ship during the brief action, he came face to face with John Adams, musket in hand and wearing the green coat of a Continental Marine. “What are you doing here?” asked the skipper. “I ought to do my share of fighting,” the future president of the United States replied.

This was the last action fought by the Boston on her voyage to France, but further bad luck was to befall the vessel. On March 13, Tucker sighted an unarmed British merchantman and called for the gunner to fire a shot as a signal for the approaching vessel to halt. “Mr. Barron, Capt Palmes and myself,” wrote Jennison, “were sitting on the main gratings, when the Captain called for the Gunner to fire a nine pounder.” All three men rose to their feet and, with Barron in the lead, started toward the gun that was being loaded. No sooner had the young naval officer reached the squat, ugly cannon than it exploded, wounding three mem­bers of the gun crew and shattering Barren’s leg. “He was carried,” continued Jennison, “to Dr. Noel (who had been the principle surgeon in the Army under Gen Washington) who amputated his leg and dressed his wounds.” “I was present,” wrote John Adams, “at this affecting Scaene and held Mr. Barron in my Arms while the Doctor put on the Turnequett and cutt off the Limb.” Despite the ship’s surgeon’s efforts, however, he was unable to save the lieutenant’s life. Ironically, the vessel at which the shot was to be fired turned out to be a British merchantman that had been captured a few days earlier by the French and was being sailed into port by a prize crew.

LT Barron was buried at sea on March 26. His body was placed in a wooden chest along with several 12-pound shot. A piece of the shattered cannon was then lashed to the top of the makeshift coffin. After one of the ship’s officers had read the burial service, the weighted box was pushed through an opened gun port and allowed to plummet “into his watery grave.”

On April 2, after riding out another fierce storm, Boston anchored at the French port of Bordeaux where John Adams, went ashore.

Boston had been so battered during the crossing that she was not fit for another cruise until June. After mending the leaking hull, repairing or replacing sails, and recruiting a number of French sailors, Tucker put to sea and spent the summer of 1778 operating against British shipping in the Bay of Biscay. During these months, Boston’s Marine guard was again put to the test, for trouble was brewing on board the frigate.

Late in May, even before the ship had sailed from Bordeaux, two seamen informed the master-at-arms that they had been asked by another sailor to join in a plot to seize the ship. Jennison and the Marines quickly arrested the ringleaders, but this did not prevent further trouble. On July 17, one of the American sailors tried to stab a French recruit who had recently joined the ship. The assailant was arrested by the Marines, tried, found guilty, and given 42 lashes. Thanks to the Marines, order eventually was restored, and the vessel returned that autumn to Boston, pausing en route to conduct a successful raid on the British fishing fleet off Newfoundland.

In April 1779, while Boston rode at anchor in the Mystic River, Jennison obtained Tucker’s permission to serve in the privateer Resolution, a light but swift vessel manned by a crew of 35 men and mounting only six guns. The Resolution, Jennison and the others hoped, would be able to capture several British fishing vessels, bring them back to Boston, auction off the cargoes, and divide the profits. Privateering, in short, was a kind of legalized piracy that could be practiced against the enemy in time of war.

On this particular cruise, however, there were no profits. On May 10, off the Newfoundland coast, the Resolution sighted a sail and altered course to investigate. The stranger proved to be no fisherman, but rather the Blonde, a 32-gun frigate in the service of His Majesty the King. Before the sun had set, Jennison and his fellow privateers were prisoners of war.

The men of Resolution were sent to a hastily constructed prison compound at Halifax, Nova Scotia. The moment they arrived, they began laying plans for their escape. Using spoons and pieces of broken pottery, Jennison and the others managed to weaken three of the wooden pickets that formed the outer wall of the stockade. On the afternoon of July 29, a dense fog rolled over Halifax. The prisoners, 10 men in all, quietly broke off the weakened pickets and began crawling through the opening, but the alarm was given even before the last man had made his way out of the enclosure. Only one of the 10 got away. He promptly got lost in the fog, wandered in a vast circle, and was recaptured a few hours later when he blundered through the prison’s main gate.

In spite of this failure, Jennison was not destined to remain for long a prisoner of war. He was exchanged on Sept. 22, 1779, for a British officer of equal rank who had been captured by the Continentals. Upon regaining his freedom, he reported immediately to Tucker. Since another Marine officer had been assigned to the frigate as Jennison’s replacement, the ex-prisoner was appointed purser, a job that required him to wear a Navy uniform. Instead of serving as second in command of the Marine guard, he now was responsible for laying in, storing, and distributing the food and clothing required by tie frigate’s 200-man crew.

Since the British fleet had, by now, gained control of the North Atlantic, the Boston and other surviving American frigates took refuge during the winter of 1779 at Charleston, S. C. This change of port, however, merely postponed the destruction of the Boston and the other gallant ships. On Feb. 11, 1780, while a British fleet blockaded all routes of exit from the harbor, 10,000 British soldiers and Marines landed to lay siege to Charleston. The outcome was inevitable, for only a handful of ships and no more than 4,000 troops were available to defend the city. Yet, in spite of the overwhelming British numbers, the Americans held out until May 11, a day about which the Marine officer made only a single comment, “A flag to the enemy accepting the terms offered.” After the surrender, Jennison and the other Continental officers were released, provided that they took an oath that they would take no further part in the war. This practice of granting paroles to prisoners of war was quite common during the Revolution.

Thus ended the military career of William Jennison, who served his country in all three branches of the Continental service. When Congress authorized the recruiting of Marines—men able to fight on land as well as at sea—Jennison was precisely the kind of person that the Revolutionary lawmakers had in mind. After the war, he married Nancy Vibert of Boston, abandoned the study of the law, and became a schoolmaster first at Vicksburg, Miss., and later at Baton Rouge, La. He died in Boston in 1843 at the age of 86.

 

“Each night during the north­ward trip I had noticed the beautiful Southern Cross constellation slipping lower and lower on the starlit horizon. Finally, it disappeared. It was the only thing about the South and Central Pacific I would miss. The Southern Cross formed a part of our 1st Marine Division shoulder patch and was, therefore, especially symbolic.

We had intense pride in the identifica­tion with our units and drew considerable strength from the symbolism attached to them. As we drew closer to Okinawa, the knowledge that I was a member of Com­pany K, 3d Battalion, 5th Marine Reg­iment, 1st Marine Division helped me prepare myself for what I knew was coming.”
—Eugene Sledge, “With the Old Breed: At Peleliu and Okinawa”

This pride that Eugene Sledge de­scribed while en route to the bloody battle of Okinawa is a feeling that generations of Marines have found in their unit insignia. These symbols serve as beacons of motivation that act as a connecting thread from one generation of Marines to the next. Many of the logos that represent Marine Corps units today stem from two very distinct eras in the Corps’ history—times when Marines wore the insignia proudly affixed to their shoulders.

One of the most iconic images of Ma­rines in World War II, outside of combat, is that of young Marines on liberty in their service uniforms with their unit patches on their sleeves. Although the use of shoulder sleeve insignia (SSI) was at its peak in this period, it was not the first time Marines represented the units they served with on their uniforms.

The history of the SSI predates the founding of the nation and likely finds its origins in the heraldry displayed by the knights, who would often paint their symbol onto their armor and shields. British officers adopted patches as a form to identify ranks many years later. In the United States, instances of SSI date back to the War of 1812, the Mexican-American War, and, most prominently, the Civil War, when some states sewed insignia on their uniforms to distinguish separate outfits. However, because these patches were made by hand, they were often crude, never distributed in abundance, and impossible to standardize. Although SSI was used during these time frames, this is not the historical beginning that the modern-day military would recognize for the insignia as they are thought of today.

It was not until WW I, a war in which the character of fighting was dramatically transformed by the effects of the Indus­trial Revolution, that the SSI became the official tradition to the U.S. military that is known as today. Upon their deployment to France in 1918, the 81st Division of the U.S. Army became the first unit to adopt an insignia that would be worn. A black wildcat was authorized as their SSI by the General Headquarters American Expeditionary Forces (AEF), which “rec­og­nized the value of this means of build­ing morale and helping troops to re­assem­ble under their own officers after an of­fen­sive.” As a result, on Oct. 19, 1918, all units that fell under the AEF were tasked with submitting their own pro­posals for SSI.

For the Marines who fell under the command of the Army in this theater, developing a unit branding to be worn on their shoulders filled a different role as well. It would help further distinguish them from their Army counterparts. Be­cause of the shortage of uniforms to sup­ply the surge of troops sent over quickly to the western front, and to simplify sup­ply and distribution procedures, General Pershing, Supreme Allied Commander, AEF, ordered all units to don the U.S. Army olive-drab uniform. Almost im­mediately Marines began looking for ways to differentiate themselves, and thus began the tradition of affixing the eagle, globe and anchor to their neck tabs and helmets.

Earlier in the year, the 2nd Division, an Army unit commanded by Marine Major General John A. Lejeune and housing all of the 5th and 6th Marine regiments as well as Army units, had hosted a competition for a logo which was to be painted on all vehicles to help with identification. The final logo was a combination of the first- and second-place entries, an Indian head and a white star, respectively. Because this logo had al­ready been adopted by the division and was being used widely to mark gear, MajGen Lejeune submitted his response to the AEF headquarters in a memo dated Oct. 21, 1918, to establish this as the di­vision’s SSI. Variations in background colors and shapes on the patches distin­guished the 5th and 6th Marine Regiments as well as their supporting components.

This new SSI would be sewn onto the uniform sleeves of the Marines in France until they returned to Quantico in the summer of 1919. At home, they exchanged their Army uniforms for their own and trans­ferred their patches over to signify their service in the Great War. Soon after their return to the States, all Marine units fell back under the Naval command, and the use of SSI insignia was discontinued. But the insignia’s design would have a life much longer still, representing the regiment and its subunits aboard Marine Corps Base Camp Lejeune, N.C., to this day.

The 5th Marine Brigade, stood up to assist these regiments in WW I, also had its own SSI approved by Headquarters Marine Corps before returning home from Europe: a crimson square with a black eagle, globe and anchor in the center and a gold “V” through its middle.
In the interwar years, the Army con­tinued the use of SSI and expanded its use to other units under its command, but it was not until the start of World War II that Marines would again dawn the organizational emblems of the units they fought for.

Many believe that the first official patch of WW II for the Marines was the 1stMarDiv’s famous blue diamond. Al­though this is the patch that started the general adoption for SSI by the Marine Corps, it was not the first time Marines were sewing SSI on their shoulders again. Even before America entered the war, the 1st Marine Brigade Provisional was activated for service in Iceland to serve alongside the British garrison to defend the land from any hostile attack.

The Marines were so well received by the British troops that, on top of being pro­vided with gear and a place to live, they were honored by British Commander Gen­eral Henry O. Curtis with the priv­ilege of wearing the unit’s logo, a white polar bear, on service and dress uniforms. This request was authorized by Com­mandant of the Marine Corps Lieutenant General Thomas Holcomb under the con­dition that they be removed before re­turning stateside, thus making it a theater-only allowance.

Only a few months after the arrival of Marines in Iceland, the nation would be thrust into war, and the Marine Corps would shift its focus to becoming the primary fighting force in the Pacific theater. In August of 1942, Marines would have their chance to prove to the nation and the world the ability of a free nation to prevail on the battlefield against the tyrannical rule of an empire. And that test would come on the island of Guadal­canal. After four bloody months of com­bat, the 1stMarDiv had proven they could defeat their adversary in battle cementing themselves in the history of the nation. When the island was turned over to re­inforcements in December 1942, the divi­sion’s commanding general, future Com­mandant Major General Alexander A. Vandegrift began his departure to Australia, where the division would re­assemble for rest, liberty, and training for future battles. It was on this plane ride south that the blue diamond was birthed into Corps history. This story is best captured in “The Old Breed: A History of the First Marine Division in World War II” by George McMillan, and is as follows:

“They sat in facing bucket seats, be­tween them the litter of packs, seabags, typewriters, briefcases—the kinds of things that staff officers would necessarily bring out of battle.

“General Vandegrift had begun to be a little bored with the monotony of the long plane ride. ‘Twining,’ he said, ‘what are you doing?’

“Twining, full colonel and division operations officer, handed Vandegrift a sketch. It was on overlay paper.

“ ‘An idea I had for a shoulder patch,’ said Twining. ‘The stars are the Southern Cross.’

“Vandegrift looked at it for a moment, scribbled something on it, and handed it back to Twining who saw the word, “Approved,” with the initials, “A.A.V.”

“That had been on the ride from Guadalcanal to Brisbane. Because the first few days in Australia were hectic, Twining did nothing else about the patch until one morning he was called to Vandegrift’s quarters.

“ ‘Well, Twining, where’s your patch?’ Vandegrift asked, to the discomfort of Twining.

“ ‘I bought a box of watercolors,’ ” Twining says in recalling the incident, ‘and turned in with malaria. I made six sketches, each with a different color scheme. In a couple of days, I went back to the General with my finished drawings. He studied them only a minute or so and then approved the one that is now the Division patch.

“Twining knew that there was more to his mission. He placed an order for a hundred thousand.’’

Not long afterwards, the Marine Corps officially authorized the wear of SSI fleet­wide in the Letter of Instruction No. 372, dated March 1943. This letter designated that the senior officer in theater would be the approver of designs for units, that SSI would not be worn in advanced com­bat zones, and which units would be granted SSI. By the end of WW II, there would be 33 unique SSIs authorized for wear by Marines serving in the Fleet Marine Force.

During the war, there were some issues with fielding patches, most prominently with the 2ndMarDiv’s unit logo. Three variations of the patch exist as a result of this confusion. Those who replaced the 1stMarDiv for the final two months of fighting on Guadalcanal adopted the same blue diamond logo as the 1stMarDiv but had substituted the large number one in the center with a red coral snake in the shape of a number two. This logo was never officially approved but was worn for some time by Marines in the division.

The official 2ndMarDiv logo that persists to this day is the red spearhead with a white hand holding a golden torch with the number two. Surrounding the center­piece are the stars of the Southern Cross, like the 1stMarDiv logo. But even in pro­ducing these official patches, there were still issues in communication between Marines and the companies making the patches. Most notably this resulted in a large quantity of patches going into circu­lation with the shape of an upside-down heart instead of a spearhead. This patch is affectionately referred to as the kidney patch by collectors nowadays.

The legendary logos that represent the fighting units of the force today were all created during the war: the 3rdMarDiv’s trinity, 4thMarDiv’s bold four, the air­craft wing’s gold wings and Roman numerals to delineate, and Edson’s Raiders’ modern-day Jolly Rodgers skull. And along with the Marines who bore these representations on their arms, their Navy corpsmen did so proudly as well.

Following the war, a memorandum was sent to the Commandant to determine whether SSI should be discontinued. Some of the reasons presented on both sides were that in the post-war Marine Corps, almost all of the units wearing SSI would be disbanded; wearing SSI is an Army tradition; unit pride, as well as prejudice, is fostered by wearing them; the Marine emblem is distinctive enough; and finally they may have some value for use in recruiting. Some of the conclusions drawn from these points were that “the use of SSI is a custom alien to the tradition of the Marine Corps,” that because the Marine Corps would shrink back down to a small force it would be unnecessary, and that pride in the Marine Corps should be prioritized over that in units. Ultimately it was recommended that they be discontinued, with the exception that recruiters could still wear theirs. Letter of Instruction No. 1499 officially ended the use of SSI, effective Jan. 1, 1948. In 1952, Marines pushed to bring SSI back, and the plea made its way to the uniform board in study No. 2-1952. The board ruled against the readoption, restating all the same reasons verbatim from memo 1499 four years prior.

As the Marine Corps pivots back to its amphibious roots in the Pacific much like the Marines of WW II, it is unknown if Marines will wear SSI on their uniforms again and carry on the tradition that gave rise to many of its most storied units. However, the logos themselves have been carried on and found a home in the units and with the Marines they represented. And although many of the units in ex­istence during WW II were disbanded following the war, the insignia designed for all the Marine divisions, air wings and Marine Raiders are the same logos that represent those units today. Emblems born in the cauldron of fire that is combat and solidified for generations of Marines to come. For the decades following the war, and even now, it would be almost impossible to step foot on a Marine Corps base without seeing these historical logos represented all over the place. From stickers on cars to tattoos inked into Marines’ skin, the pride in unit history and lineage runs deeper than ever.

With the rise and proliferation of social media, not only unit pride but even SSI has found a new home among Marines. Even though SSI has not been officially worn for more than 80 years, the ability for Marines to gather online into communities has resulted in a common idea circulating the internet: a call to bring back tradition and reinstate the use of SSI. Tens of thousands of Marines active, reserve, and veteran—officer and enlisted, have joined in on this movement trending online. Following many of the most prominent leaders in the space today, this topic is often posted about and shared around spaces primarily in the Instagram “mil community.”

Since none of these Marines have lived long enough to experience this tradition—or in some cases even met someone who has—why there is such a strong desire to bring the SSI back? One thing is apparent, though, and that is that Marines believe that SSI is not a “custom alien to the tradition of the Marine Corps” and in fact is a custom that was built out of the very eras that defined what has become the Marine Corps.

Authors bio: GySgt Chase McGrorty-Hunter is a cyber network chief with 9th Com­munications Battalion. He is an avid writer and founder of the Bayonet War­fighting Society.

Well before dawn, on Nov. 10, 2004, Hospitalman Alonso Rogero tossed and turned. The Marines surrounding Rogero seemed just as restless. Nights in Fallujah grew bitterly cold, and Rogero had left his blanket behind when they pushed into the city two days earlier. Lance Corporal Erick Hodges lay nearby.

“Dude, you gotta let me borrow your blanket,” Rogero pleaded. “I’m freezing my ass off.”

Hodges scooted closer and unwrapped part of his blanket. The Marine and the Navy corpsman shared their warmth and snacks from MREs as the night droned on. Outside, the incessant wailing of col­icky babies and cats in heat echoed through the streets. A U.S. Army Psy­cho­­logical Operations team trailed the Marines to the front line with a creative collection of unsettling tracks and direc­tional speakers focused toward the enemy. The noise ricocheted off every building and returned to torment the Marines. Only daylight would bring relief, and a resumption of their mission to kick down every door in their path.

Captain Andrew McNulty gathered his warriors from “Kilo” Company, 3rd Bat­talion, 5th Marines, after first light. Rogero, Hodges, and the rest of 1st Platoon knelt or stood alongside the remainder of the unit, nearly 200 strong. McNulty turned the PSYOPs speakers around and addressed his Marines and Sailors through the microphone.

“On November 10, 1775, a Corps of Marines was created by a resolution of Continental Congress. Since that date many thousand men have borne the 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.”

McNulty proclaimed the Marine Corps Birthday message while the grunts re­flected on the day ahead. What part would they play in that illustrious history? Many were veterans of the 2003 invasion of Iraq, already witness to history in the mak­ing. Now, after two days in Fallujah, the company had exploded out of the gate, trouncing any enemy resistance and suf­fering no casualties. How long could such a streak last?

“The current battlefields of the Global War on Terror are linked to the storied campaigns of our past,” McNulty con­tinued, reading the Commandant’s 229th birthday message which had been pub­lished that same week. The Commandant listed Belleau Wood, Iwo Jima, Chosin Reservoir, and other battles fought by Marines. He named only one battlefield from present day.
“Now, in places like Fallujah, Marines have consistently demonstrated a dedica­tion to duty, a commitment to warfighting excellence, and a devotion to each other that has instilled a fierce determination to overcome seemingly impossible challenges.”

How many times had Marines at the front been told the fight they waged would be recognized in the line of storied campaigns defining our history? How many battles achieved such prominence as Belleau Wood, Iwo Jima, or the Chosin Reservoir when they had only just begun? As the Marines considered their mission, they placed confidence in their dedication to duty and war fighting excellence, but especially in their devotion to each other. No challenges seemed impossible to overcome in the company of the men standing to their left and right.

The Corps’ experience in Fallujah earlier that year, perhaps, compelled the Commandant to highlight the seemingly impossible challenges Marines were about to face. On April 4, the 1st Marine Expeditionary Force (I MEF) kicked off Operation Vigilant Resolve, the first large-scale American effort to capture Fallujah from insurgent forces. Intense fighting raged for six days. Reporting on the battle was decidedly biased as the enemy’s propaganda machine published stories of American atrocities and photos of dead civilians. Under pressure from the provisional Iraqi government, Co­alition leaders ordered a ceasefire on April 9 and officially concluded Vigilant Resolve at the end of the month. Marines withdrew, leaving the city in the deceitful hands of the “Fallujah Brigade.” Former Iraqi soldiers who served under Saddam Hussein made up the Iraqi unit, harboring nothing but hatred for their American occupiers. The Fallujah Brigade dissolved within weeks, its members and resources joining the insurgent ranks flooding into the city. By the fall of 2004, Fallujah gained notoriety as the worst city in the worst province in the entire country. It could not be ignored. I MEF once again received the task to secure the city in November, this time decisively.

McNulty finished his birthday message readings. He dismissed the Marines to their day’s work with a final exhortation.

“Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast. Today, I expect the enemy to stand and fight. Kill him and kill him twice. Oorah, Semper Fi, and Happy Birthday.”

The mission for Nov. 10 placed “Kilo” Company at the center of the battalion’s line, resuming the southern sweep through Fallujah’s Jolan District. The enemy scattered their fighting positions, weapons caches, bomb-making materials and torture chambers throughout the city. Through two days of fighting, the Marines kicked in every door, searched every closet, flipped every bed, opened every drawer. An abundance of other Marine or Army units attacked concurrently into the city from multiple directions, block­ing the enemy’s every avenue of with­drawal. For the grunts clearing house to house through the urban maze, an up close and brutal fight loomed.

Doc Rogero fell in with Hodges’ fire­team. While Rogero knew all three Ma­rines well on a professional level, the others were best friends. Lance Corporal Ryan Sunnerville served as fire team leader, with Hodges carrying the team’s Squad Automatic Weapon. Private First Class Christopher Adlesperger filled out the team as rifleman. Barely 20 years old and one of the junior Marines in the com­pany, Adlesperger still caught the eyes of even the battalion’s senior leadership with his charismatic personality and gung-ho spirit. He loved his family, loved his brothers in arms and loved being a United States Marine.
First platoon crossed the line of de­parture with 3rd platoon on their flank. Sergeant Kenneth Distelhorst led his squad from 3rd platoon from house to house.

“PSYOPS was following us around playing their messages throughout the city, but that morning they came up with their speakers and just blasted ‘The Marines’ Hymn,’ ” he remembered. “It was pretty motivating. You could hear it throughout the entire city as we were kicking down doors.”

Distelhorst’s Marines worked closely with another 3rd platoon squad led by Sgt Jeffrey Kirk. Like Chris Adlesperger, Kirk was another magnetic personality who drew the attention of everyone around him. McNulty regarded Kirk as the standard bearer for the rank of ser­geant, both in 2004 and as a point of comparison throughout McNulty’s career. A combat veteran from 3/5’s deployment the year before, formerly serving as a Marine Security Guard, and qualified as a Military Operations in Urban Terrain (MOUT) instructor, Kirk seemed effort­lessly exceptional in every way.

“He was truly a Marine’s Marine,” Distelhorst said today. “The valor I wit­nessed in Fallujah was just unbelievable; Marines being Marines, everyone was courageous. But Kirk was another level. His Marines loved him. They would do anything for him. Anything. And he was hard on his Marines. He was firm, but fair, and they loved him for it.”

By early afternoon, Kilo progressed through several blocks. 1st and 3rd platoons encountered multiple enemy observation posts (OPs) manned by one or two insurgents. In each case, they fought to the death. The engagements painted a picture of the enemy’s defenses laid out directly in Kilo’s path.
Around 1 p.m., Adlesperger, Hodges, and the rest of their squad discovered a blood trail leading into a building. They made entry and worked from room to room, finally encountering a single insurgent armed with a Rocket Propelled Grenade (RPG). Sunnerville’s fire team worked together to kill the insurgent before he could fire. They uncovered a large weapons cache but found no signs of additional enemy. The insurgent served as yet another one-man OP, left to die as an early warning for others somewhere nearby.

Less than one block away, Distelhorst and Kirk paused with their squads inside a ruined building. Dead bodies littered the floor while gunfire echoed through the street outside. The two sergeants sur­veyed a row of nearby houses they intended to clear next. They planned to leapfrog through each structure to the end of the street; one squad clearing a house, then using the building as an overwatch position for the other squad clearing the next house. While his Marines rested, Kirk departed to conduct a leader’s recon. Unwilling to let Kirk venture out alone, Distelhorst grabbed Corporal Will Silcox, a fire team leader in Kirk’s squad, and the two followed Kirk down the street.

A machine-gunner from Lima Com­pany operating on 3rd platoon’s right flank lay behind his gun at the street corner unleashing his weapon at something out of sight. On the left flank, a furious roar of gunfire erupted from somewhere nearby where 1st platoon pushed through the adjacent block. Kirk, Distelhorst and Silcox decided to clear the first house themselves, affording their Marines a bit more time to recuperate.

They approached the two-story struc­ture, closed off by a tall wall surrounding the house and a large courtyard. A locked gate blocked their access. Silcox drew a sledgehammer from his breaching kit and smacked the gate. It didn’t budge. He struck again, but the gate refused to yield. The Marines took turns hammering the gate nearly a dozen times. Finally, Kirk bent down and grabbed the bottom of the gate. With minimal effort, he lifted up and pulled it out enough for a man to fit through.

“Well, shit,” he said smiling.

Kirk led into the courtyard. The fire­fight in 1st platoon’s area raged on unseen in the distance. On the porch, Kirk peeked through a window. A barricaded machine gun sat unmanned just inside, pointed toward the door. Distelhorst and Silcox backed off the porch with rifles aimed upward covering the second-story win­dows. Kirk silently checked for tension on the doorknob and other indicators that the door might be boobytrapped.

“By the grace of God, Sgt Kirk was getting ready to open the door, but he looked down and shouted, ‘Sgt D, gre­nade!’ ” Remembered Distelhorst. “I looked down and there was an old WW II-style pineapple grenade sitting right between my feet.”

The Marines scattered. The explosion stitched Distelhort’s lower half and left hand with shrapnel. Adrenaline carried him seemingly uninjured back through the gate. As fast as lightning, Kirk scaled the outer wall and was already back to the rest of the platoon gathering more Marines to take down the house. Silcox had not made it out. Distelhorst looked back through the gate and saw him lying motionless in the courtyard. He shouted to Silcox, but the wounded Marine could not move. Distelhorst forced himself back into the courtyard again. A large chunk of metal tore a gnarly gash in Silcox’s thigh. Distelhorst helped him up and staggered toward the gate. An enemy fighter appeared at the front door spraying them with fire. Dirt kicked up around the Marines as they moved toward the gate. One round hit Silcox in the leg. Distelhorst fired a full magazine into the front of the house, driving the insurgent inside long enough to get Silcox on the other side of the courtyard wall. Kirk returned with additional firepower. He stacked up Ma­rines at the gate, taking point for the charge into the teeth of the enemy oc­cupying the house.

Back down the street, Adlesperger’s squad left the site of the OP and weapon’s cache and moved to the next structure. An “L” shaped courtyard closely mirrored the dimensions of the “L” shaped house, married together forming a rectangle barely 50 feet from one corner of the building to the opposite corner of the courtyard. A tall wall with two gates, one on the long axis of the courtyard and one on the short axis, masked the courtyard and exterior of the building. Two doors also led into different sections of the house. One door led from the courtyard into the short axis near the right angle at the center of the “L.” The other lay around the corner, leading into the end of the long axis.

Cpl Jeremy Baker led another fire team in Adlesperger’s squad. Baker’s Marines covered the gate on the short axis while, Adlesperger, Hodges, Sunnerville and Rogero made entry. They proceeded directly toward the closest door at the end of the building. Adlesperger and Rogero cleared an outdoor bathroom while Hodges and Sunnerville tried the door. It was locked. A stairwell ex­tended down from the roof right next to the door. The Marines first decided to try accessing the house from the other door. Hodges and Sunnerville rounded the corner into the open courtyard. The wall in front of them held the door and a barred window, with both access points closed. A small hole was carved out of the wall between the door and window. Through the hole, hiding in the shadows, an enemy machine-gunner lay waiting behind his weapon.

The insurgent opened up through the firing port. Bullets tore through Hodges, killing him immediately, and struck Sunnerville in his right leg. Adlesperger jumped out into the courtyard trading rifle fire with the machine-gunner. His shooting interrupted the enemy long enough for Sunnerville to move back around the corner to cover. Cpl Baker seized the opportunity to rush through the gate. The machine gun resumed fir­ing, preventing additional Marines from reinforcing those trapped in the courtyard.

Rogero and Baker treated Sunnerville while Adlesperger remained partially exposed at the corner returning fire. The enemy machine gun roared with an uninterrupted stream of bullets, fir­ing at Adlesperger and the Marines piled into the alcove around the corner, the Marines sheltering outside the gate, and into Hodges’ lifeless body. One bullet struck Rogero, passing through the side of his body armor into his chest. More insur­gents inside the house tossed grenades into the courtyard. Adlesperger ducked behind the corner as they exploded, but shrapnel ripped across his face. He ig­nored the wounds and continued engaging the enemy machine gun.

“At first, I didn’t even realize I had gotten shot,” Rogero said today. “My priority was caring for Sunnerville, he had been shot in the knee. I kept thinking about Hodges. I didn’t know what I could do or how I could get to him in the situa­tion we were in. I remember looking through a little gap under the door that was next to us there where we were tak­ing cover and seeing the insurgents inside scrambling around. I told the guys we needed to get out of there because we were about to get shot through that door too.”

Baker traded places with Adlesperger and ordered him up the stairwell to the roof in search of another way out. He climbed the stairs alone and cleared the roof, discovering a high wall separating the house from the roof of another ad­joining structure. He returned to the court­yard and helped Baker and Rogero carry Sunnerville up the stairs. Getting through that wall proved their best hope.

Almost simultaneously, Sgt Kirk was advancing into the courtyard a block away with rifle at the ready. The enemy machine gun behind the door barked to life, spraying rounds out the front of the house. Grenades thudded into the dirt around Kirk’s feet. The Marines fell back to the gate, returning rifle fire and grenades as they withdrew. Kirk formed his squad once again and led the stack through the gate a second time. Enemy fire erupted. Kirk pushed through it, un­fazed, and reached the front porch. An insurgent hidden inside the window opened up, shooting Kirk in the buttocks. Still, Kirk remained on the front porch. He threw a grenade through the front door. The explosion stunned the insur­gents inside. Kirk took aim and killed the enemy machine-gunner with his rifle before enemy fire resumed, driving him back to the gate once again.

“We were trying to get a medevac going for Silcox, and I remember looking up and Kirk was stacked up trying to make his way inside that courtyard” said Distelhorst. “Every time he tried to get inside of that house, they would throw another grenade or shoot that machine gun. To watch him push through all of that and take that first guy out, it was just a beautiful thing to witness. Kirk went into a straight slaughter. They killed everyone in that house.”

The Marines stacked up for a third time. Kirk refused medical treatment and resumed his point position. The Marines sprinted across the courtyard. Finally, Kirk burst through the front door. The Marines cleared room after room, finding and killing several more insurgents lodged inside. They emerged onto the rooftop with a view down the street to­ward the house where Hodges lay dead and Adlesperger fought to save the rest of his fire team.

On the roof, Adlesperger peered over the parapet into the courtyard. A hail of bullets impacted the wall in front of him. He loaded the M203 grenade launcher attached to his rifle and lobbed grenades toward the barred window.

After several shots, he scored a direct hit through the bars, detonating a grenade inside the machine-gun nest. Multiple insurgents streamed out the door rushing past Hodges’ body toward the stairwell. Adlesperger moved to the top of the stairs and shot dead the first enemy to appear. He tossed down a grenade at two more insurgents accessing the stairs, forcing them out the gate where additional Ma­rines cut them down in the street. He relocated back to the parapet, feeling the battle’s momentum turning in his favor.
Marines entering the courtyard later witnessed the results of Adlesperger’s fury and skilled marksmanship. As in­surgents poured out of the house, the PFC dropped them one by one. Several fell with well-aimed headshots.

Adlesperger crossed the rooftop multiple times to Baker and the others, rearming his gre­nades and rifle magazines. His deadly fire alone obliterated the enemy occupy­ing the house.

“I remember hearing people trying to come up the stairs and Adlesperger just lighting every one of them up without thinking twice about it,” said Rogero. “I was just sitting there trying to gather what was happening. It was a very surreal experience, almost like a movie. I started having shortness of breath and thought I was having a panic attack. When I felt like I couldn’t breathe any more, I reached up inside my flak jacket where it was hurting and sure enough my hand was covered in blood.”

Rogero pulled a homemade occlusive dressing from his medical kit and applied it to his sucking chest wound. At the same time, banging sounds rose over the ad­joining wall from the roof next door. With much effort, another 1st platoon squad breached the wall, bashing down a sec­tion large enough to evacuate the casual­ties. Adlesperger provided security as the others moved to safety. He was the last one off the roof.

McNulty stood outside the compound coordinating the efforts of his entire company. For 20 minutes prior, he held a front row seat to Adlesperger’s actions, observing the PFC’s fight from an adjacent rooftop while working through the chaos to bring a host of reinforcements to Adlesperger’s aid. He met Adlesperger and Baker in the street when they evac­uated the roof. Both Marines were covered in sweat and blood, either their own or that of Sunnerville and Rogero. McNulty learned for the first time of Hodges’ fate and that his body still lay in the courtyard. Despite the wounds to his face, Adlesperger refused to let anyone else lead the effort to recover his friend. McNulty relented, allowing Adlesperger to take point and stacked up behind him with Baker and 1st platoon’s platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Paul Starner.

The enemy machine-gunner who started the ambush remained stubbornly barricaded in the room, still firing. The four Marines donned gas masks as they prepared to suffocate the enemy and charge in. Adlesperger, Starner and Baker lobbed high concentrate smoke grenades over the wall, obscuring the gunner’s line of sight. McNulty followed up with frag­mentation grenades, finally silencing the gun. An Amphibious Assault Vehicle rammed through the gate into the court­yard, toppling part of the wall. Adlesperger stormed through the opening. One of the insurgents he’d wounded earlier tried to raise his rifle.

Adlesperger finished him off before he could pull the trigger. Another Marine in the stack killed two more insurgents protecting the machine gun. The Marines searched for Hodges, finding him amidst the carnage buried beneath a portion of the collapsed wall. The compound fell silent. The bodies of 11 insurgents littered the house, courtyard, and street. One Marine PFC almost single-handedly eliminated the largest enemy element encountered by Kilo Company that day, saving the lives of his fire team. The position was later assessed by higher headquarters to be a command and control node for the enemy.

Kilo Company spent the remainder of Nov. 10 clearing the Jolan District. By the end of the day, 50 enemy lay dead in its wake. Kilo suffered 14 wounded that day and Hodges killed. Adlesperger remained at the front after being treated for the shrapnel wounds to his face. Kirk relented to medical treatment for his gunshot wound and was evacuated to a hospital at Camp Baharia, just outside Fallujah. Due to the severity of their i­juries, Distelhorst, Silcox, Rogero, and Sunnerville were evacuated to the United States.

That night, while planning the next day’s assault, the company gunnery sergeant appeared with cake for Marines to celebrate the birthday. As the planning finished and cake was being eaten, immediately behind the leadership the mortar section began digging in. An enemy fighter slipped through the lines, opened fire with an AK-47, and was cut down by the mortarmen, finally ending the bloodshed for the day. The intense fighting experienced on the Marine Corps birthday continued through the rest of the month. On Dec. 2, Kilo Company paused to meritoriously promote Adlesperger to Lance Corporal.

“When I pinned his new rank on at the ceremony, he had bullet holes through his collar near his neck,” said Patrick Malay, a lieutenant colonel in 2004 and the commanding officer of 3/5.

In addition to the promotion, the officers in Adlesperger’s chain of command took further steps to recognize his heroism, filling out the required paperwork and witness statements recommending him for the Medal of Honor.
While Adlesperger remained at the front, Kirk begrudgingly convalesced at the hospital.

“After I made it home to the States, Kirk called me from Iraq to see how I was doing,” said Distelhorst. “He was still sitting on a donut trying to heal his ass up. I told him, ‘hey man, I never got a chance to tell you this, but you saved my life by calling that grenade out.’ He just said, ‘yeah, whatever dude. I got shot in the ass and now they’re making me just sit here.’”

Kirk complained about the people around him saying he received a “million dollar wound,” giving him a ticket home. A full magazine of rounds lodged in his butt could never have kept him from re­turning to the fight. The doctors finally released Kirk back to combat. In the meantime, Kirk’s chain of command sub­mitted his actions on Nov. 10 to be recognized with a Navy Cross.

Over the following weeks, 3/5 pro­gressed out of the Jolan District to other areas of the city. To the Marines’ great dismay, they discovered other units took a different approach, leaving portions uncleared as they swept forward; 3/5 would reap the tragic consequences.

The battalion assumed responsibility for an area of operation from a different unit pulling out of Fallujah. Flavored by his experience in Jolan, Malay or­ganized a detailed back clearing of the areas supposedly already cleared, while removing the extensive ammunition and weapon stockpiles found throughout 3/5’s area of operations.

“When we got done with the Jolan District, it looked like something out of Berlin in 1945. It was such a mess from us ripping it apart.” remembered Malay. “Going into that new AO was one of the more eerie moments for us. It had not been cleared. There were entire houses that had not even been opened up.”

The back clearing operation, dubbed Task Force Bruno, commenced in late November. The battalion executive offi­cer, Major Todd Desgrosseilliers, led the task force as it worked back through the Jolan District and eventually into other areas now under the responsibility of 3/5. Meanwhile, Kilo and India companies went on the assault to “reclear” the new area they were to assume. On the morning of Dec. 9, newly promoted LCpl Adlesperger led his fire team.

“We crossed the line of departure that morning to begin the detailed back clearing,” Malay stated. “Less than 20 minutes later, Adlesperger was dead.”

When Adlesperger’s squad made entry into a courtyard, he and another Marine proceeded toward the front door. An enemy machine gun hidden inside opened fire as the Marines came into view, along with other enemy fighters positioned in an L shaped ambush. Bullets struck Adlesperger’s body armor, spinning him around. More bullets penetrated his chest, striking heart and lungs as they passed through. Adlesperger fell, mortally wounded, the Marine behind him severely wounded. Others fought to recover them. Four more Marines were wounded before successfully reaching the casualties and isolating the house. The company fire support team brought in air support to demolish the house and those in the immediate vicinity. The company commander cleared the strikes, some only 62 meters away, demolishing the building where the ambush was positioned, and the enemy fighters with it.

Three days later, on Dec. 12, Kilo Company endured further tragedy, suf­fering greatly at the hands of the insur­gents remaining in the supposedly cleared zone. While 1st platoon and the com­pany’s tanks and fire support team were temporarily retasked to support Task Force Bruno as they back-cleared an area immediately adjacent to where Adlesperger had been killed, 2nd and 3rd platoons repositioned to clear another section of the city. The day wore on and dusk approached. With the lateness in the day, McNulty ordered the Marines to set up for the night in a school. The unit previously responsible for the zone utilized the school as its command post for the duration of their time in that area. A long row of tightly packed houses lay directly across the street. One of McNulty’s platoon commanders ordered his Marines to go through the houses in search of additional bedding before the temperature dropped after dark instead of unloading the packs out of the trucks and amtraks.

Sgt Kirk had just returned to 3rd pla­toon following more than a month out of action. After voicing his concern to his peers, knowing the buildings hadn’t been cleared, Kirk led his squad across the street. The Marines split up between two houses next to each other. As Kirk searched through one structure, gunfire rang out next door. When one of his Marines, Cpl Ian Stewart, ascended a staircase to the second floor, enemy bullets immediately cut him down. The remaining Marines in the house ran up after Stewart. A hail of fire from 11 holed up insurgents greeted them.

The majority of Kilo Company de­scended on the row of houses, encoun­tering more than 40 fighters. When the guns began to sound, Kirk left the struc­ture he was in to search for another way into the contact house next door. He exited into a narrow alley between the two buildings. An insurgent guarding the alley from above shot Kirk in the head, killing him instantly.

The firefight descended further into a bloody and chaotic mess. Heroism abounded as Marines unhesitatingly charged time and time again into the insurgents’ guns to recover their fallen comrades. Five Marines died in the battle. One of these, Corporal Jason Clairday, would posthumously receive the Navy Cross for his outstanding resolve and selfless efforts to recover his fellow Ma­rines, leading to his own death. Twenty more Marines were wounded, with 15 of those suffering gunshots or shrapnel wounds severely enough they had to be medically evacuated.

On Dec. 14, Kilo Company suffered its last KIA. The following day, with the enemy’s backs to the desert in the last section of the city Kilo was to clear, fighting raged continuously for hours before a U.S. Air Force F-15 Strike Eagle checked in on station. The company’s fire support team gave the pilot an enemy-filled box to blanket with ordnance. With­in five minutes, the aircraft dropped nine bombs, killing dozens of fighters that would be dug out from the rubble in the weeks that followed, undoubtedly saving countless Marines and Sailors.

Kilo Company began running patrols and the city slowly repopulated with civilians. For Task Force Bruno, the battle dragged on through the end of December. Even with the city officially declared “secure,” Marines routinely encountered enemy resistance. Many of the “civilians” allowed back into Fallujah, clothed and fed by the Americans, worked by day to clean up the destruction. At night, however, they linked up with insurgent pockets hiding throughout the city to help them escape the American cordon. The USMC History Division publication detailing the battle credits 3/5 Marines in Task Force Bruno with conducting the battle’s last major action on Dec. 23, defeating the final group of insurgents left in the city. This culminating fight cost the battalion three more killed and 18 wounded. The Marines and soldiers clearing house to house won a resounding but costly victory over the insurgents, who fought to the very end.

Before the Marines even left the city, they began experiencing the struggle known to all combat veterans coming off their high and reacclimatizing to peace.

“We performed exceptionally well in combat,” remembered Mike Cragholm, a recently retired infantry officer who served as Adlesperger’s platoon com­mander. “You tell Marines, ‘hey, you see that building over there? Raze it to the ground.’ Boom, that’s easy. But, after­word, you tell them they have to be nice and kind to everybody and not do things like shoot the dogs in the city that are attacking them, that’s more difficult. To me, there seemed to be a complete in­ability for some people to understand you can’t just flip that switch. We were rabid pit bulls. We were trained like rabid pit bulls leading up to the battle, we were told we were rabid pit bulls during the battle, and that’s the way we fought. The issue became that as soon as it was over, and once we got home, everyone expected us to be labradors.”

The gears of military bureaucracy churned slowly, processing the stream of personal awards flowing out of the battle. After two and a half years, Adlesperger and Kirk were finally recognized for their heroism. Inexplicably, both Marines re­ceived downgraded medals. Kirk received a Silver Star in March 2007, presented posthumously to his widow, Carly, at Camp Pendleton. At the cere­mony, Carly read aloud the last letter she received from her husband before he died.

“I hope that if I do go, then I went with honor and courage. I hope that I died leading my Marines against the enemy…There are some fine Marines under my charge, and I want to go knowing that I did the best I could for them. Honor and courage —they deserve it, and I hope to give it to them.”

Adlesperger’s family travelled to Camp Pendleton the following month, where the Marine Corps presented them with Christopher’s posthumous Navy Cross. Mike Cragholm spoke to the assembled crowd.

“I told his family that day, ‘Christopher is the warrior the Marine Corps will remember.’ And he is. I’ve had people contact me often over the years because they want to hear about him. But the thing is, it’s not just about him. There are so many other men that performed ad­mirably, we just couldn’t award them all.”
Today, the warriors who fought in Fallujah are regarded with legendary status. The survivors recall their brothers lost and the chaotic urban combat in vivid spurts of detail, each shedding a completely unique light on what Marines experienced there. For some, the intervening time has made the memories more palatable.

“I can sit and think about it now, but if I think about it too long my heart starts racing,” said Distelhorst. “It’s just crazy, the level of heroism. We walked among giants, like Sgt Kirk. But when I think about days like November 10th, I don’t want to sit and dwell on it. It will drive you crazy if you dwell on it too much. I think it’s sad the way we eventually left, letting ISIS take over Fallujah like it was all for nothing. But, at the same time, the terrible things we saw in that city like the torture chambers and things like that, at the end of the day, we got to kill a lot of evil men, and that makes it worth it.”

“I think people deserve to know what we went through,” reflected Rogero, who survived his sucking chest wound after being medevaced to the States. “If we don’t talk about it, people will forget about it. We were all just kids with guns. We really didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into. Any time I think about it, it fills me with a lot of emotion. Any time I’m having a bad day, I think about the guys who didn’t have the opportunity to be here. I’ll be 41 this year. These guys were kids when they died, just 19 or 20. There’s no day I don’t go without thinking about them. It’s almost like we’re living for them because they didn’t get to. Because of them, we get to be here.”

The battle indeed achieved the level of prominence predicted in the Com­mandant’s birthday message 20 years ago, recognized as a modern day equivalent to the Global War on Terror that Inchon or Chosin was to Korea, or Con Thien was to Vietnam. Names like Adlesperger and Kirk stand alongside the host of forerunners who wore the eagle, globe and anchor and are re­membered for exemplifying the best of what Marines should be. Every young PFC has the potential to be the next Adlesperger. Every NCO is promoted with the daunting expectation they will recognize and foster those outstanding qualities. Leaders like Kirk provide the example for them to follow.

“I remember when I was just a young Marine, I was reading stories in Leatherneck magazine about the Old Breed at Peleliu and across the Pacific,” said Malay, now a retired colonel. “Now, it dawns on me that here we are talking about our stories, and some young Marine is going to be reading this. I hope they will figure out that, one day, it’s going to be their turn for their story to be told, and they need to pay attention.”

Author’s bio: Kyle Watts is the staff writer for Leatherneck. He served on active duty in the Marine Corps as a communications officer from 2009-2013. He is the 2019 winner of the Colonel Robert Debs Heinl Jr. Award for Marine Corps History. He lives in Richmond, Va., with his wife and three children.

More than likely, you’ve seen comedian and actor Rob Riggle on TV. He’s appeared on “The Daily Show,” “Saturday Night Live,” “The Simpson’s” and “Modern Family.” He’s been in films like “Talla­dega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby,” “The Hangover,” and “Step Brothers.”

Riggle also had a 23-year career in the Marine Corps, retiring as lieutenant colonel. Between 1990 and 2013, he was a public affairs officer and a civil affairs officer and he deployed to numerous places around the globe, including Af­ghanistan, Albania, Liberia and Kosovo.

“The beautiful thing about being an American is you can have as many dreams as you want,” said Riggle. “If you go after your dreams, there is no limit to what you can pursue.”

People often seem puzzled by Riggle’s Marine Corps background, telling him that seems an unlikely beginning for a career in making people laugh. “Some of the funniest people I ever met were in the Marine Corps,” said Riggle.
“A profound sense of patriotism” led Rob Riggle to join the Marine Corps at age 19. Though he was not the first in his family to serve—his grandfather served in the 8th Air Force in World War II and his uncle served in the Army during the Vietnam War—he was the first to become a Marine.

The Corps served as a bridge for Riggle to make the transition from “boyhood to manhood.” The Marine Corps showed him he was “capable of a lot more than [he thought he] was.” He was shown that his limits were “way beyond” what he had perceived. Once his mind processed the newfound standards of the Corps, what he demanded of himself “went up,” and he thought to himself,

“Maybe I should try these dreams that seem too crazy to try; maybe I should try it.” He said he was doubtful at first about pursuing comedy because he didn’t know anyone in the industry. No surprise, everyone around him thought he was crazy, but Riggle had a new “sense of belief in himself” that, “if I applied myself, I could do anything.”

Riggle initially planned to pursue a career as a naval aviator in the Corps so he earned his private pilot’s license while he was an undergraduate at the University of Kansas. Being voted “Most Humor­ous” in high school ignited his desire to work in comedy, so his degree was in theater and film. After graduation, he was commissioned and went to The Basic School in Quantico, Va. When he was ready to go to Naval Air Station (NAS) Pen­sacola, Fla., for flight training, he discovered the pipeline was clogged—there would be a delay to get trained as a pilot. In the meantime, the Corps sent him to be an Assistant Officer Selection Officer and recruit Marines in Kansas City. He did OSO duty for a few months, then reported to Pensacola.

Again, NAS Pensacola was backed up on student pilots. The Corps said, “Find a job,” so he and his roommates ended up training Saudi Arabian flight school students in entry-level piloting while waiting to start their own training. They trained their students in meteorology, engines and physical fitness. They taught them how to swim and get comfortable in the water. After that, Riggle completed his first phase of flight training and was sent to Corpus Christi, Texas, for further instruction.

While at Intermediate Flight Training in Corpus Christi, Riggle experienced what he calls his “quarter-life crisis.” He had to choose whether to pursue being a pilot and staying in for nearly 10 years on a flight contract or going a different route, with a three-year contract and the goal of getting out to pursue comedy. The burning question in his soul was, “Can I be an actor?”
He mulled it over for months before realizing he could “live with the failure better than the not knowing.” Riggle made his decision after much thought and prayer out on the beach in Corpus Christi. He knew what he wanted; he wanted to act.

From the mid-1990s until his big break in 2004 on “Saturday Night Live,” Riggle had multiple day jobs, late nights of writing and performing, and an endless marathon of obstacles to overcome. Around 2000, Riggle transitioned from active duty to the Marine Corps reserves.
He admits that he “sincerely thought about quitting,” after having given acting and comedy a true shot. The truth was, he had responsibilities. Riggle said he had “tough moments” and, “just like a long hike in the Corps, [he] just kept going.” He considers himself “very lucky and blessed to have stayed in it just a little longer.”

He auditioned for a TV pilot for Comedy Central, “The Jim Breuer Show” and did rehearsals at night while still on active-duty during the day. He took leave when they filmed the pilot. Unfortunately, the pilot did not get picked up, but the exper­ience showed Riggle that he could “get gigs” and was “on the right path.” He de­ployed to Kosovo but was back in Manhattan with MTU-17 when the 9/11 terrorist attacks happened.

MTU-17 was activated, and he was in his utilities at Ground Zero the next day. He worked on the rubble piles in the bucket brigade as part of the rescue efforts. He volunteered to go back on active duty. He said that, during that period, “everybody wanted to contribute. Everybody wanted to do something.” He remembered people bringing boxes of clothes and lines for blood donations going around the block. He said, “As a captain in the Marine Corps I could contribute right away.”

Riggle got orders on Nov. 10, 2001, to go to U.S. Central Command (CENT­COM). He reported on Nov. 17 and was on a plane to Afghanistan on Nov. 30. He served in the public affairs section for CENTCOM under LtCol Max Bowers, who commanded the 3rd Battalion, 5th Special Forces Group and was later highlighted in the book and film “12 Strong“; Riggle portrayed Bowers in the feature film. In real life, Riggle joined the unit right after they took Mazar-i-Sharif. While on the staff, he served alongside a military attorney and an Army civil affairs team, and he was moved into a civil affairs billet.

Riggle took a tactical pause in the spring of 2004 when he had a chance for a big corporate job that paid well and the opportunity to own a home after living in “rinky-dink” apartments in New York City. In the summer of 2004, the invitation only call came for him to audition for “Saturday Night Live.” The program hired only one new person for the show that year: Riggle.

Riggle got the call from producer Lorne Michaels nearly 10 years to the day after which he wrote in the back of a book, “I’m going to get on Saturday Night Live.” Riggle said, “It took 10 years, two wars, a marriage, and a kid … there were so many things on that path … and the next 10 years [were] all a grind.”

After SNL, Riggle went to “The Daily Show,” where he said he had a “good run” on the program and found more work through his time on it. He learned a very valuable lesson about show business: “There is no time to relax. It is always a competition … even for the Brad Pitts and Leos of the world; they still compete for the best scripts and the best projects. It is always a competition and a final exam … If you deliver on your most recent opportunity, maybe you get another one.” He said there are “no guarantees and no promises.” When you “eat what you kill,” he emphasized, “you have to hook and jab every single day.” Riggle shared key wisdom, too, saying, “If you are a working actor, consider yourself a success … If it’s your purpose and your passion, you can’t do anything else.”

The Marine Corps and acting have taken this Midwest native all over the country and the world. During most of his deployments he was assigned a billet in civil affairs to go along with his public affairs leadership position. In Afghani­stan, he was out having lunch with mul­lahs, talking about helping the local civil populace by building them a school or drainage ditch. Riggle also served with the Red Cross, and his Marines ensured safety for the Red Cross to engage with the civil populace. He said, “I would have to meet [the Afghan civilians] out in the street, as they didn’t want the Marines to have their weapons with them … “If I don’t have my weapon then we won’t be having the meeting … I’m not going anywhere without that sucker.”

Riggle reiterates that the, “leadership lessons learned in the Corps … JJDIDTIEBUCKLE … those fundamen­tals, they stick. They didn’t just fall out of the sky [and they’re not just] cliche, they are effective. They work.” He further elaborates with, “ ‘Warfighting,’ that doc­ument … you can take that and apply it to almost every facet of your life and find success. Take it. Apply it to whatever you are doing, and you will likely find more success.”

Riggle said the things he misses most about the Corps are “the integrity, the discipline … the getting up early and going for a run … doing what Marines do … the fraternity, the brotherhood. It was always an honor to be part of that organization. I treasure it. I don’t take it for granted.”
He said that “service” will always be “part of who he is.”

Riggle’s Marine Corps experience also guides his volunteer and philanthropy efforts; he created a charity in Kansas City for the Children’s Emergency Hospital, which is going into its 15th. He works with the Semper Fi and America’s Fund, and he has even done charitable efforts for the Tunnels to Towers Foundation and Pat Tillman Foundation. Riggle recently competed in a charity poker tournament for the Special Olympics for kids and used to run a gold tournament called the InVETational with We Are The Mighty and the Semper Fi and America’s Fund. Bob Parsons, a fellow Marine, decorated Vietnam veteran, founder of multiple companies including GoDaddy and PXG (see the interview with Parsons in the October 2022 issue of Leatherneck), was a big supporter of the InVETational and whatever Riggle raised, Parsons matched.

Riggle takes great pride in his service and still considers honor, courage and commitment his guiding principles. And when he writes out his goals for each year, he also writes down his Corps values. He references those values “every day … it becomes part of your fabric and who you are.”
Riggle said that in addition to feeling pride about his time in the Corps, he is forever grateful to the Corps for “taking [him] from boyhood to manhood” and giving him the opportunity to become a leader. Serving and leading Marines “… is the greatest honor I’ve ever had,” said Riggle. He said he plans to lead and give back “until the day I die.”

Author’s bio: Joel Searls is a journalist, writer, and creative who serves as a major in civil affairs and COMMSTRAT in the Marine Corps Reserve. He has completed the Writer’s Guild Foundation Veterans Writing Project, is a produced playwright, a commission screenwriter, and an entertainment consultant. His most recent feature film-producing project is “Running with the Devil.” He is a graduate of The Ohio State University.

Executive Editor’s note: The following article received third place in the 2024 Leatherneck Magazine Writing Contest. The award is provided through an endowment by the Colonel Charles E. Michaels Foundation and is being given in memory of Colonel William E. Barber, USMC, who fought on Iwo Jima during World War II, and was the recipient of the Medal of Honor for his actions at the Battle of Chosin Reservoir during the Korean War. Upcoming issues of Leatherneck will feature honorable mentions entries.

The year is 1918. You are a Marine in the 4th Marine Brigade, sitting in a trench in Belleau Wood, France. You’ve only eaten one piece of bread in the past few days, and your stomach feels like it’s eating you from the inside. You are too tired to bother with the rats scampering across your feet. Sergeant Randall comes to your side, his sunken face and protruding cheekbones a testament to malnourishment. Despite this, he gives you his last piece of bread. He is always doing things like this, always putting you and your comrades before himself.

You try to focus on chewing the bread but cannot escape the smell of your brother Marines rotting in no-man’s-land, their corpses bloated and crawling with maggots. The smell is repulsive. But you are starving, so you eat. You hear a whistle down the line followed by a blood-curdling cry. Another company has been called “over the top” to charge the German positions. The enemy gunfire and artillery commences. The sound is deafening and rattles your bones like thunder. You watch as Marines are cut down in droves. You watch as your brothers are torn apart by a hail of machine-gun fire. You watch as their numbers quickly dwindle and the few left, retreat to the trench. You watch … knowing that soon it will be your turn. You are paralyzed with fear. How can you bring yourself to charge into such a meat grinder? Five times that day your fellow Marines have charged, and five times they have been pushed back.

The German machine-gunners are good. Their interlocking fields of fire create a nearly impenetrable wall of steel. Your mind starts to wander to your mother back home, to her cooking break­fast for you in the kitchen. She made the best biscuits and gravy. Your thoughts are broken by a whistle and a call to go over the top. Your time has come. At first you don’t move, too afraid to face what is surely certain death. Then you see Sgt Randall; first over the top, bayonet fixed, determination on his face. You remember the bread he gave you, how much he cared for you. This gives you a new resolve. If he is going to die this day, you are going to die with him. You climb out of the trench and charge.

What motivates someone to follow their leader “over the top?” In his seminal book “Gates of Fire,” Steven Pressfield introduces us to Dienekes, a Spartan pla­toon commander. Dienekes is a seemingly fearless leader, but we soon learn that he is not fearless, he merely embraces fear. Dienekes refers to himself as a “student of fear” and asks a question whose answer eludes him: What is the opposite of fear, courage or bravery; recklessness or fear­lessness? Finally, on the eve of battle, Dienekes realizes his answer, which is undoubtedly the answer to ours as well. The opposite of fear, and the central com­ponent of leadership, is love.

Love takes many different forms. The love you have for your spouse is different from the love you have for your parents. In leadership, love takes the form of a parent-child relationship. In “The Art of War,” Sun Tzu says, “Regard your soldiers as your children, and they will follow you into the deepest valleys. Look on them as your own beloved sons, and they will stand by you even unto death.” Love means you have empathy for them, you put them first, you demonstrate the behavior you want to see in them, and you discipline them.

During my time in the Marine Corps, I saw both the good and the ugly in leadership. The bad leaders did not truly care for me or my comrades; their own image was all that mattered. But the good ones were the guys who willingly got in the trenches with us; the guys who would give us their last piece of bread. One that sticks with me is Sergeant Isaiah Wuich. My platoon was at a range in Twentynine Palms, and my peers and I were tasked with filling sandbags. As we sweated in the brutal desert sun, we looked over and saw our seniors sitting in the shade eating lunch. All except Sgt Wuich. He was fill­ing sandbags with us and in the process filling us with motivation and pride in our leadership. We would have filled sand­bags until our hands fell off if he told us to. He exuded the Marine Corps’ principle of “Leaders Eat Last” and dem­onstrated what a good leader looks like.

Sergeant Wuich trained us vigorously, but he trained with us. He was not the kind of Marine to sit and watch while we ran a drill or did PT; he was always there, keeping pace. Often in the field he would take somebody’s hour of fire watch, so they could get some much-needed sleep. He was a leader every day, not just in cer­tain moments, and was a powerful ex­ample for us. Because of his love for us, we would follow him anywhere.

In 2021 I deployed to the Middle East. About two months from the end of our deployment, we were pulled from Kuwait to evacuate masses of civilians from Hamid Karzai International Airport in Kabul, Afghanistan. We were thrilled to be getting a real mis­sion. As we were getting our gear together, though, we were told that Sgt Wuich would not be going. It was a sock in the gut. This was our call “over the top,” and we were leaving one of our best leaders behind.

The evacuation was rough on all of us. Many days were spent doing noth­ing but kicking people out. Most were women and child­ren whose hus­bands and fathers had abandoned them to secure their own pas­sage. The same scene played out over and over. We es­corted a group of people to the gate where we would stuff them through a tiny hole cut in the chain link fence. As they were going through one by one, the children would beg us to help them. They thought if they could explain to us that they would be killed if they went back out, we would let them stay. We told them we couldn’t help them and sent them back through the fence. We tried to ignore the sound of the gunshots that came after.

After repeating that cycle for days, I was sinking into the abyss. I felt like a monster, and I didn’t know how much longer I could handle it. One of my ser­geants noticed. He pulled me aside and helped me focus on how many people we were saving rather than the ones we weren’t. Despite the toll the situation was undoubtedly taking on him, he went out of his way to make sure I was OK. He wasn’t someone I normally looked at as a good leader. He typically led with an iron fist. But he rose to the occasion at the airport.

Which leader is better, the one who lives it daily, but remains untested or the one who rises to the occasion? Leadership during hardship is important. My ser­geant in Kabul rose to the occasion and got me through a difficult time. But leader­ship with love starts in the minutiae of every day.

As a leader, it is your job to prepare your Marines for combat. If you love them, you will train them vigorously. But that is not enough. You must train with them. Too many times you see leaders watching as their junior Marines carry the log or run a gun drill for the 100th time that day. All the while these leaders are yelling at them, degrading them, and, ultimately, losing their respect. Most leaders do that because that is how they were trained. Sgt Wuich taught me another way. He taught me to get under the log with them and to run that gun drill with them. I knew that it wasn’t only their lives on the line, but mine as well. When I was gifted with the opportunity to lead, I took Sgt Wuich’s example with me. I never watched my juniors train, I trained with them. They needed to know that I was willing to do the dirty work with them. I learned their abilities and knew that I could trust them as they knew they could trust me.

While leadership during physical ad­versity is important, it is equally impor­tant on a personal level. A leader must show that they care about their Marines’ well-being. Whether that is a challenge involving the military or a problem at home, everyone is dealing with some­thing. A leader who cares for his Marines will take the time to check on their well-being. My sergeant in Kabul taught me that lesson. He set aside his own struggles to make sure I was taken care of and gave me the ability to carry on. When I became a leader, I strove to create an environment where my juniors knew they could talk to me about problems. I have stayed up with them at night talking through prob­lems they had at home. If one of them wasn’t performing how they normally did, I checked on them. They knew that I cared about them, and they were willing to do anything I asked of them.

Loving those you lead sometimes means doing things that are uncomfortable. I had one Marine who was stellar. He was always at the front of the pack during PT, and he could recite verbatim every bit of knowledge that we taught him. But he was arrogant. He treated his peers as if they were less than him. I had to talk to him about his attitude. I knew he could one day be a great leader if he set aside his ego. It was a difficult conversation, but I cared about him and wanted to see him succeed. He was grateful that I did. He fixed his attitude and became a leader among his peers. Our conversation changed him for the better.

Like Sgt Wuich, I was never afforded the opportunity to go “over the top” with those I led. In some ways I am grateful, because that would have meant some of them would likely die. Some of them may still be called “over the top” in their careers. I can only hope that the training I gave them will keep them alive. But one thing I am confident of is that they knew I loved them. They knew I would give them my last piece of bread, and they were willing to follow me anywhere. I carried on the legacy that was passed to me from Sgt Wuich, and I pray my Marines will continue to carry it. I pray that they will lead with love. Then they will know that when they are called, their Marines will follow. When you are called, will your Marines follow?

Author’s bio: Cpl Damon Gossett, from Hugo, Colo., enlisted in the Marine Corps in August 2019. He deployed with 2/1 in 2021 as a machine-gunner.

For nearly 40 years, a small group of Marine Combat Engineers performed a special duty at Naval Station Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. On a daily basis, Marines from the Minefield Maintenance (MFM) section entered the minefields surrounding the base to locate, dig up, and replace the live explosives. Their uniquely hazardous job offered the only place a Marine could obtain a combat fitness report for some of the time the unit existed. Now, more than 20 years after their final deactivation, veterans who worked the fields remember their time at “Gitmo” as the highlight of their career.

The United States established its pres­ence at Guantanamo Bay in 1903. Engi­neers began laying mines in 1961 and completed the fields the following year in the wake of the Cuban Missile Crisis. The Marine barracks at Gitmo established MFM concurrently with the defensive bar­rier’s creation. Twenty-one different minefields surrounded the 17-mile perim­eter of the base, packed with 55,000 mines. Detailed maps identified the exact location of every mine and “strip line” crossing the fields, the designated paths along which the Marines could advance in relative safety.

Before Marines joined MFM, they underwent a month of training and eval­uation at Courthouse Bay, N.C., at the Corps’ basic combat engineer school. Those who passed advanced on to Cuba, where MFM Marines put them through two more weeks of rigorous testing in a practice field. In one exam, students were required to use their mine detector to locate the head of a nail with accuracy and consistency. Engineers who could not make the cut received assignments to other duties or returned to the States. Evaluation continued throughout their tour. Officers and Navy corpsmen ana­lyzed the Marines every morning at break­fast to gauge their mental state and fitness for duty. Marines who exhibited traits such as overconfidence or reckless actions could be permanently pulled from the fields.

In order to enter the minefields, an orchestrated series of puzzle pieces must fit together perfectly. Depending on the size of the field being worked, one or more two-man teams prepared to cross the wire for the day. Back up teams geared up as well, in the event that anything went wrong with the primary teams. The Ma­rines wore Korean War-era sateen uni­forms, protected by nothing but a flak jacket and “diaper,” ballistic lower torso armor also left over from Korea. Prior to beginning work on a new field, the engineers burned off the vegetation. They circled the perimeter standing on top of a tanker truck, armed with a fire hose, dousing the earth with aviation fuel. The ensuing conflagration destroyed every­thing in its path, leaving a barren land­scape on which to work.

A duty engineer oversaw the operation, with someone to work the radio, a corps­man, and additional personnel to drive the vehicles and hump old mines away from the wire, or new mines in. For a section limited to only 20 to 25 Marines at a time, daily operations involved nearly every Marine present. A helicopter re­mained on call to promptly evacuate any casualties. If at any time the chopper was unable to arrive within 20 minutes, operations halted until the helicopter again became available.

Everything done was to provide the safest environment possible for the two-person team, which was composed of the “ear” and the “finger.” Every Ma­rine in the section was certified and pulled their weight as an ear or finger, including the officers. When the Marines crossed the wire, rank ceased to exist.
The ear advanced first with a metal detector. He walked the strip line until he arrived where a mine cluster should be located. Each cluster consisted of five mines; one large antitank mine sur­rounded by four smaller anti-personnel mines. Sweeping back and forth, the ear moved off the strip in search of the anti­tank mine. Once located, he called up the finger and identified the location.

The finger dug out and removed the mine to the strip line. Next, the ear returned to locate the antipersonnel mines. Standing in the hole left by the antitank mine, the ear swept slowly around in a circle. Each smaller mine should have been buried within two paces. Once identified, the ear placed a wooden dowel on the ground pointing to the three-pronged fuse. The finger then returned to disarm and dig up the four remaining explosives. A typi­cal day began well before dawn, placing teams in the fields at first light. Their goal each day was to complete 10 mine clusters, whether removing or replacing. Some went quickly and easily. Others proved more difficult.

“That dowel rod pointed right at the fuse, but if you couldn’t see it you had to probe around for it. That was the most disturbing thing you had to do,” remembered George Van Orden, a MFM veteran from 1991 to 1992. “Depending on the angle you hit it, you can set a mine off with fingernail pressure. Uncovering that antipersonnel mine was the most dangerous part.”

Bob Fitta arrived at Gitmo in 1975. He entered his first live minefield as a finger. He looked on with expected nerves as his ear located the antitank mine on their first cluster of the day. Fitta popped the mine out of the ground effortlessly, feeling his confidence swell; his first live mine in the books. The ear marked the locations of the four antipersonnel mines. Fitta returned and discovered the mines were nowhere in sight. He drew his pocket knife, knelt in the antitank mine hole, and began digging.

“I dug a hole probably 18 inches long, 12 inches wide, and an inch or two deep,” Fitta remembered. “I couldn’t find that damn mine to save my life. I called the ear back up two or three times and he kept saying, ‘yeah it’s right here, it’s right here.’ The last time he came up, he did it again then started slapping the battery pack on his mine detector. Keep in mind, this was my first cluster ever. I’m looking at him and he’s slapping this damn machine and I’m just like ‘what in the hell are you doing?’ He flipped the thing up on his shoulder and looked at me and just said, ‘detector’s broke. I gotta go get another one.’”
The ear returned and repeated the proc­ess. He adjusted the markers over to the locations identified by the new detector. Fitta knelt in the hole and scanned the dirt. His adrenaline and anxiety peaked.

“The tip of a prong was sticking out of the dirt less than a quarter inch from my fingerprint where I had been pressing down on the ground digging,” he said. “It took me close to two hours to finish that cluster. I was covered in dirt and sweat and after it was done, I had to go out and take a break.”
Despite the maps, surround­ing fences, and signage identify­ing the hazards, accidents occurred. In 1964, five U.S. Navy Sailors on liberty from their ship wandered into a minefield after dark. On their way to the beach, wearing swim­suits and carrying towels, all five stumbled across a cluster of mines and were killed in the resulting explosions. Several Cuban defectors also lost their lives, either escaping Cuba for sanctuary within the American base, or escaping U.S. confinement and returning to the communist controlled part of the island.

On several occasions, Cubans knowingly entered the minefields in their effort to escape communism. One man lost a foot to an exploding mine but regarded the injury as a small sacrifice to pay to have reached the American base with his life. Another time, Americans found a Cuban wandering through base housing. He explained his crossing of the minefields and turned over a detailed map of the minefield he successfully navigated. How the map came into his possession re­mained a mystery.

Marines tasked to work the fields suf­fered casualties as well, particularly through the early years. Two MFM engi­neers died in the minefields the same year the unit was organized. Three more were killed in 1965. Officers overseeing the program banned junior Marines from the section, hoping a higher level of rank and maturity would decrease the number of accidents and close calls. Two MFM sergeants died in 1966, adding to the section’s lessons learned in blood. In total, 13 engineers died working in the minefields throughout the unit’s history.

Each incident initiated SOP changes for working in a minefield. They served as poignant case studies and reminders for newly arrived Marines on the difficulty they faced and absolute focus required to do the job safely. Each heard the story of one Marine who sat on an antitank mine for a smoke break, believing the explosive to be disarmed. Another story told of an ear who stepped on an antipersonnel mine while sweeping back and forth with a mine detector, searching for the mine where he believed it should be rather than where it actually was. Whenever an accident occurred, the Marines did their best to identify what went wrong and ensure it would not happen again.

“Since everyone was at least 30 meters away, it was nearly impossible to tell exactly what a Marine was doing when the mine went off,” said Van Orden. “The SOPs changed every time someone died to ensure we all did the job in the same order.”

The equipment MFM carried or wore accounted for numerous close calls or even deaths. Early on, the Marines stopped wearing helmets in the fields after several of them fell off and detonated a mine or nearly triggered one. The steel pots offered virtually no protection in the first place, and Marines replaced them with bandanas or boonie covers to combat the heat. In later years, Marines clipped their pocket knives and other gear to their flak jackets, rather than simply placing them in a pocket, after a Marine died when his knife apparently fell from his pocket and detonated a mine when he bent over.

Mines often presented with complica­tions. Extreme weather and growing vegetation moved the dirt and buried mines or submerged them in water. After burning a field, the fuse of some mines would melt, leaving it nearly impossible to disarm. Mine defects sometimes actual­ly spared the lives of Marines rather than putting them at greater risk. The anti­personnel mines consisted of two sep­arate explosive charges; one to shoot the primary charge out of the ground to det­onate a few feet off the ground, and the second to provide the killing blow. Many Marines found “out of the can poppers” lying on the ground; mines that fired out of the ground, but failed to explode. Those who experienced them firsthand were left stunned by their brush with death.

In the late 1980s, one Marine finger worked a cluster on the side of a steep hill. He inadvertently dislodged a rock that rolled away down the slope. The rock landed in a cluster at the base of the hill and triggered an antipersonnel mine. The charge exploded from the ground and soared up the hill, landing just feet away from the Marine. The faulty popper mercifully failed to detonate the primary charge. The Marine returned as one of the very few who survived a detonation in a minefield.

If everything worked properly, every procedure perfectly followed, and every mine cooperated as it should, the Marines could still easily die. Unintentional ex­plosions occurred frequently. The vast majority of these resulted from deer mov­ing through the fields. MFM investigated every explosion. Quite often, the Marines found dismembered pieces of deer scat­tered around the area. Flocks of buzzards, dubbed by Marines “the Cuban air force,” circled and descended daily cleaning up the scraps. No amount of mine explosions or hunting could adequately combat the deer population. Indeed, the abundance of deer at Gitmo created one of the most dangerous conditions for MFM.

“We were the only ones allowed to hunt out there, and there were no natural pred­ators to kill the deer other than the mine­fields, so they populated like crazy” re­membered David Brooks, a MFM officer from 1992 to 1994. “Between the guys that like to fish and the deer, we had some of the best barbecues on the island.”

The Marines adopted standard prac­tices to thwart the deer. Before entering a field each morning, Marines drove a vehicle around the perimeter with a siren blaring, hoping to startle any deer in hiding and oust them from the field. In later years, a Marine carried a shotgun as the designated hunter and would open fire as soon as the deer crossed out of the wire. Despite the counter measures, almost every MFM veteran has a story of a deer encountered in a minefield.

Frank Miller’s deer encounter came in 1990, just a few weeks into his tour. Miller advanced down a strip line into a field as the finger laying new mines in the ground. With four clusters installed behind him and working on his fifth, a horn suddenly blasted from the road behind him.
“That was the signal for a deer in the field,” Miller said. “I got down on the strip line, which was the SOP. They started yelling, ‘Miller, don’t move! There’s a deer coming your way!’ I could hear him running up the hill at me.”

The deer sprinted parallel to the strip line, straight through the four clusters Miller had just put down. Somehow, the deer dodged all 20 mines and veered away out of sight.

“I don’t know exactly how close he got to me,” Miller said. “I can tell you it was close enough that I was trying to dig underneath that cable.”

A special breed of Navy corpsmen joined MFM in the fields. In order to work with the section, corpsmen endured the same minefield training as the Marines. They also received advanced medical training.

“We were essentially put in the role of a pre-hospital paramedic so we had to have all the abilities of that level of care, including artificial airways and advanced trauma life support” said Bryan “Doc” Ritter, who served in Gitmo from 1988 to 1991. “After going through all that, we had to learn how to do the Marines’ job. We had to learn about the ears and the fingers, the mine clusters and the strip lines, everything learned in the practice field before we actually got to go into a live minefield.”

The corpsmen practiced casualty evac­uations to elevate their speed and perfor­mance in the event an incident occurred. These hyper realistic exercises included evacuating the simulated casualty from a live minefield and loading him onto a helicopter for transport to the hospital. The event ended after the Marine was evaluated by hospital staff and rushed into an operating room. Despite the multitude of close calls over the decades, relatively few incidents occurred requir­ing medical evacuation.

“Quite frankly, minefield duty for corps­men was pretty boring,” remembered Ritter. “A lot of people have asked me when we were in the minefields what did we do? I usually tell them about six hours of the day I just sat playing spades with the Marines praying no one would get hurt. It was boring right up until it wasn’t boring.”

Ritter understood this sentiment better than most minefield corpsmen. He served as the senior doc on the team in 1990 when the last Marine to die in the mine­fields lost his life.

Navy Explosive Ordnance Disposal technicians assisted MFM with getting rid of old mines. Twice a week, Marines drove truckloads to the EOD range where antitank mines were stacked in neat piles with anti-personnel mines lining both sides of the stack.

“They’d place a quarter stick of TNT in each stack and detonate 10 stacks every Tuesday and Thursday,” said Brooks. “Those explosions would send shock­waves throughout the entire base.”

The day Brooks’ wife joined him in Cuba happened to be an EOD “blow day.”

The explosions knocked open the door to his room in the bachelor officer quarters. His wife ran out to the balcony, expecting to see a mushroom cloud billowing in the sky or communist tanks rolling down the street. Another Marine sat on the balcony next door, casually smoking a cigarette.

“What’s going on?” Brooks’ wife shouted. The Marine glanced her way, unaffected by the commotion.

“You don’t know? That’s your husband.”

By the mid-1990s, MFM transitioned from placing new mines to only pulling old ones after the Clinton administration ordered the fields removed in favor of other security measures. Marines worked for several years, painstakingly clearing each field one mine at a time. They swept the fields again with detectors once the work was complete. For a final verific­tion, explosive-sniffing dogs and ground penetrating radar systems scanned the soil through each minefield. By early 2000, MFM certified the entire base pe­rim­eter mine free. The section packed its gear, boxed its records, and shipped its Marines elsewhere. After nearly 40 years of performing their hazardous duty, the section was deactivated.

Whether counting on each other with their lives in the minefields, or roasting a deer together off duty, the minefield Marines of Gitmo shared an entirely unique set of stories that could only have been experienced inside the section. In a world and a Corps that witnessed drastic changes throughout the four decades of MFM’s existence, engineers who arrived in the 1960s or the 1990s performed large­ly the same job, using mostly the same gear, wearing the same old uniforms.

“Everyone I’ve talked to, when they are asked about Gitmo, they will say it was the highlight of their career,” said Brooks. “The camaraderie you see with these guys is absolutely unbelievable to me. I can’t shake them. It’s been 30 years this year since I left Gitmo, and we are still around catching up and following each other.”

“It was my most rewarding tour,” echoed Fitta.“It was the only place, except for combat, where a Marine engineer actually did his job.”

Today, the gear and records of MFM are housed in storage at the National Museum of the Marine Corps and the USMC History Division. The veterans who served there hope the section will be included in a future display at the museum to recognize their work and sacrifice. In the meantime, MFM lives on through their memories.

Author’s bio: Kyle Watts is the staff writer for Leatherneck. He served on active duty in the Marine Corps as a communications officer from 2009-2013. He is the 2019 winner of the Colonel Robert Debs Heinl Jr. Award for Marine Corps History. He lives in Richmond, Va., with his wife and three children.