Dec. 2011: Letter Of The Month

I was a Navy corpsman from the mid-1970s to the mid-1980s. I was a pharmacy technician, with a secondary military occupational specialty of 8404, Fleet Marine Force corpsman. As a pharmacy tech, my chances of serving with the FMF were two—slim to none. After nearly eight years, I ran into some “rocks and shoals” and ended up at captain’s mast.

My commanding officer said I lacked self-control and self-discipline. He pulled my pharmacy tech rating and cancelled my orders to a “welded to the pier” tender in Charleston, S.C., and sent me to the Marines. I reported to Second Marine Division as the senior (time in service) hospital corpsman third class in the entire U.S. Navy. Additionally, he called the division surgeon and told him to put me in a rifle company.

When I reported in, I found that I knew the division surgeon. He was a resident when I was in pharmacy school. He told me, “Normally, you would go to a tank battalion or an artillery battery because of your age, but you’re going to the Second Marine Regiment.”

I also was informed that I was a disci-pline problem and a fat body, which wouldn’t be tolerated. I received the same spiel at the regimental aid station and from my chief at the battalion aid station when I checked into 1st Battalion, 2d Marines. When I got to “Bravo” Company, the first sergeant, my platoon commander and the captain had a chat. I was told, “Just do your job, ‘Doc.’ Don’t worry about the weight or the crap the Navy gave you.”

In less than a year, I was at Marine Corps weight for my height and could pass the PFT. I went from being the “bearded, long-haired, Marine-hatin’ sailor” of Major Gene Duncan’s definition into a born-again, hard FMF corpsman, who could “hang” with anything my Marines did. My out-look on why I served and how I served my country did a 180. I was more proud of my tour with the Marines than anything I had done in the Navy previously.

Fast forward 26 years and I’m a district vice commandant in the Marine Corps League in North Carolina. In February 2010, I was diagnosed with Stage III can-cer of the head and neck, and given a 25 percent chance of surviving the next eight months. A member of a nearby MCL detachment who had the same type of cancer told me, “Doc, before this is over, you’ll wish you were dead, and you will want to quit.”

During my radiation and chemotherapy, compounded by a life-threatening infec-tion, I did wish I would die, while praying I wouldn’t. I wanted to live for my wife, children and grandchildren. The pain was intense, and the meds barely put a dent in it. I went in at least a half-dozen times to tell my doctors I wanted to stop the treat-ment. I just didn’t care anymore, and given my slim chances, I didn’t want any more pain.

The thing that stopped me was the support I received from Ma-rines and corps-men of the Marine Corps League who called and sent e-mails, cards and financial support. That support came not only from my de-tachment, but from in-dividual members of the MCL within North Carolina.

I could not find any way to stand up in front of those Marines and corpsmen and say, “I quit.” We know Marines don’t quit. “Quit” isn’t in a Marine’s vocabulary. Every time I wanted to quit, I remembered how many times I wanted to quit when I was serving in the Corps. But “Doc” can’t quit, he has to be there if something hap-pens to a Marine. I remember the first time I treated one of my Marines and he said, “Thanks, Marine,” instead of “Thanks, Doc.” I knew I’d never quit while still conscious, even if I had to be dragged by my pack straps.

In May 2010, my treatment was over and I was declared cancer free. My doctors did their job, God did the healing, and my service in the Marine Corps and my brothers and sisters in the Marine Corps League helped me bear up to my disease and gave me the resolve not to quit, no matter how bad the pain.

The Navy CO, who had been a corpsman in World War II and who sent me to the 2dMarDiv, told me that my orders were part of my punishment. He died many years ago, but I sure would like to tell him, “You didn’t punish me, Captain. You saved my life!”

Hank Kaczmarek
Lincolnton, N.C.