History - Marine Corps Association

The Making of Chu Lai Airfield

On June 1, 1965, four A-4 Skyhawks, led by Marine Air Group (MAG) 12 Commanding Officer, Colonel John Noble, landed around 8 a.m. on the first fully consolidated Short Airfield for Tactical Support (SATS) built and operated by the Marine Corps. It was an amazing feat: Within 30 days of boots on the ground, and with only 90 days’ advance notice, MAG-12 and the Navy’s Mobile Construction Battalion 10 built enough of “MCAS” Chu Lai to allow those four Skyhawks, followed shortly by another flight of A-4s, to refuel, arm and, four hours later, fly the first of thousands of sorties over the next several years.

The U.S. Marines and Navy Seabees needed only 25 days to transform 100 square miles into the Chu Lai Airfield, which was designed as a Short Airfield for Tactical Support (SATS). Pilots utilized arresting hooks to snag steel cables that stretched across the aluminum runway surface so that high-speed jets could land safely. (USMC)

That spring, a brigade of Marines was sent to provide security at Da Nang Air Base. However, Lieutenant General Victor “Brute” Krulak, Commanding General, Fleet Marine Force, Pacific (FMFPac), had been told by senior Air Force officers that Da Nang was at capacity and would not be available to support the Marines. A tentative approval was made on March 30 to establish another air base 57 miles south, which the officers told Krulak would take close to a year to build.

Little did they know, Krulak and members of his staff had already evaluated several scenarios. Although the area he had chosen for the base did not appear on their maps, Krulak dubbed the area “Chu Lai,” later explaining, “In order to settle the matter immediately, I had simply given [it] the Mandarin Chinese characters for my name.”

Based on that trip and assessment, Krulak, in so many words, assured the military brass that there would be no problem providing the needed air support in a timely manner. When asked by Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara how long it would take, LtGen Krulak hesitated for a moment and then said, “25 days.”

The senior Air Force officers exclaimed that it couldn’t be done. However, as was typical of Marines’ foresight and creativity, they had begun working on a new approach that would allow this to happen nearly a decade earlier. It had already culminated in the testing of a prototype runway and taxiway surface and technical support systems at two different sites. One was built in California in 1962, and the other at Marine Corps Base Quantico, Va., in 1963.

In essence, it would be an aircraft carrier on land. Support systems would be prepackaged units of equipment in boxes, crates, vans and trailers—one for each wing—stored in strategically placed warehouses and when deployed, placed along the runway and taxiway surfaces. Navy Seabees and Marine combat and air base engineers would do the site prep, lay the surfaces and erect camps for personnel support services, resulting in a functioning Marine Corps air station in weeks rather than many months. Ultimately, it was decided that MAG-12 would take the lead, as its aircraft squadrons were more suited for the type of support and would have the greatest need for the airfield.

**An aerial view showing the Chu Lai Airfield in full operation, showcasing the layout of the land-based aircraft carrier.** *(Courtesy of Lawrence Krudwig)*

The History of the SATS

The concept of a SATS dates back decades prior. Its early days were rather simple, as those aircraft could land on almost any type of reasonably level and smooth surface. All that was needed beyond the field was some type of shelter from the weather to work on the aircraft and house the staff. As aircraft got heavier and faster, a suitable airfield became much more complex. World War II, especially the Pacific theater, saw the need for a quickly constructed and maintained airfield. The introduction of pierced steel (Marston) matting provided an interim step between graded dirt with compacted gravel and a permanent surface such as concrete, which took months to pour and cure. However, this did not eliminate the need for fairly long runways requiring conventional grading, and it was not suitable for larger and heavier aircraft.

Korea was the next major conflict to raise the bar on the need for an improved tactical airfield with the introduction of jet aircraft. Their sleeker design required a longer runway to obtain a faster air speed for the necessary lift on the wings. Those speeds also required a smoother runway surface.

There were three choices for commanders needing tactical air support immediately following Korea: to fly long distances from existing airfields, build a new airfield close to the needed air support or rely on an aircraft carrier if an ocean, sea or bay was close by. However, it could take upwards of a year to build such a facility, and carriers posed limitations regarding distance from the water and availability.

In the mid to late 1950s, the idea of the SATS emerged. The task for developing such an airfield was given to the Naval Air Engineering Station at Lakehurst, N.J. Basically, only four critical elements were needed to make this land-based aircraft carrier work: the runway, the taxiway and ramp areas, the catapult and arresting gear, and advanced technical support services.

The first was a smooth runway surface of suitable length. It was determined that a little more than the length of an aircraft carrier would be acceptable. Preliminary lengths were established in 1958 at between 2,000 and 3,000 feet. The Naval Mobile Construction Battalion (NMCB) Seabees could successfully provide an adequate level surface within a couple of weeks once earth-moving machines and personnel were in place, as they had plenty of experience doing that in the island hopping of World War II. The surface material was another matter. However, that was solved rather quickly with the development of AM-2 matting, a fabricated aluminum panel, 1 1/2 inches thick, with connecters so that the ends of the panels could be rotated and interlocked. Once interlocked, they could screw into an underlying base material. The panels came in sections 2 feet wide by 12 feet long, weighing 140 pounds. They could be easily handled by a four-man crew and support the weight and impact of any aircraft in the tactical aircraft inventory.

**Working against a 25-day deadline and 115-degree heat, Navy Seabees and Marines manually offload supplies from the beach at Chu Lai.** *(USMC)*

The next critical element was the catapult and arresting gear. The arresting gear was the easier of the two to develop. All Navy and Marine aircraft are equipped with a hook that drops down below the level of the wheels as they approach landing. The arresting gear on a carrier has a couple of very strong steel cables stretched across the deck just past the normal touchdown point of the aircraft. The tail hook drags the landing surface until it engages one of the cables. On early versions of aircraft, the cables zigzag back and forth between two pulleys on each side of the landing deck, separated by large hydraulic pistons. As the hook pulls the cables down the landing surface, the cables begin to shorten. The pistons resist compression and quickly slow the aircraft to a stop.

**To stop vehicles from getting trapped in sand, dirt was excavated from nearby hills, creating the solid base necessary to support the high-impact landings.** *(USMC)*

The mobile arresting gear for the early SATS used the same early technique, except the speed-reducing hydraulic pistons were mounted in a steel frame along each side of the runway and anchored securely to the ground.

Carrier catapult systems used almost a reverse process of the arresting gear. At that time, large steam-driven pistons were located under the deck of the carrier at the departure end of the ship. The SATS catapult systems required a different approach, since there were no source of high-pressure steam and no provisions for equipment under the runway. The final design was to use a standard jet engine (GE J79) as a power source. An actual catapult system did not become available at Chu Lai until much later. In the meantime, aircraft at Chu Lai had to use jet-assisted takeoff bottles, attached to the rear sides of the aircraft.

The last of the four critical elements was the technical support required of modern aircraft and combat flight operations. Those items included, but were not limited to, air traffic control, communications, avionics repair, machine and mechanics shop, meteorological services and refueling. All these services were to be housed in self-contained or modular units.

The SATS catapult system used a standard GE J79 jet engine (above) as its power source to drive the catapult. The engine was then linked to a high-tension catapult belt (right). While pilots initially used jet-assisted takeoff (JATO) bottles during the base’s first weeks, the installation of this engine-driven catapult system completed Chu Lai’s transformation. (Photos courtesy of Lawrence Krudwig)

Marines dug this initial pit to tap into a freshwater source, allowing the unit to refill water buffaloes and expand into a network of pipes and water towers. (Courtesy of Lawrence Krudwig)

**Marines construct bunkers at Chu Lai, a grueling task where the sand fought back.** *(Courtesy of Lawrence Krudwig)*

The Building of Chu Lai

A proposal approved on April 20 called for the MAG to be organized into six teams and transported in several landing ship, tank (LSTs) to Chu Lai in three phases. The first phase covered airfield construction, the installation of the SATS components including a basic camp layout, and the installation of certain camp facilities. The second phase was based on a fully operational airfield supporting one Marine attack squadron (VMA) with further campsite development to accommodate additional personnel and supporting functions. The third phase would bring the remainder of the MAG and an additional VMA. That plan was shortly revised to combine phases two and three. Marine Air Base Squadron (MABS) 12 had the lead on establishing the SATS and was initially scheduled to have use of four LSTs—the first two to embark phase one and the other two to follow in a couple of weeks with the remainder of the squadron.

With the ink not even dry on the plans and order, the first of many problems occurred.

Shortly before the first LST, Windham County (LST-1170), arrived on April 23 to transport troops to Chu Lai, the Navy informed 1st MAW and MAG-12 commanders that it would not be able to supply the needed LSTs or landing ships, dock (LSDs) and indicated others would not be immediately forthcoming. Loading the Windham County commenced at 6 a.m. on April 24 and proceeded satisfactorily until word was received that there would be only one LST available. This required changing all the embarkation plans to provide a maximum overall capacity on only one LST, as well as a larger construction effort. This required a complete rescheduling of manpower and materiel and the reorganizing of materiel already on the docks and in the adjacent warehouses. Reloading the Windham County was completed on April 27.

**MAG-12 erected tents immediately after landing on May 7, installing the infrastructure needed for those who would be flying and maintaining the base.** *(Courtesy of Lawrence Krudwig)*

**In a display of classic Marine Corps humor, the sign dubs this bunker the “Holliday Inn.”** (*Courtesy of Lawrence Krudwig)*

The NMCB’s transportation was entirely different, since their primary point of departure was composed of two sections from Port Hueneme and Point Mugu, Calif., following two separate exercises to Camp Kinser, Okinawa. On April 29, the NMCB, along with the 3rd Marine Expeditionary Brigade, left for Vietnam aboard two LSTs, an LSD and an attack cargo ship as part of the III Marine Expeditionary Force. The Marine brigade, acting as the advance element of a larger force, had the initial goal of hitting the beach, securing the area and acting as security for the construction and the air wing units soon to follow. They landed at 8 a.m. on May 7.

The first echelon of MAG-12 was comprised largely of personnel from MABS-12. They arrived at Chu Lai on May 7 and immediately began to unload to expedite a return to Iwakuni, Japan, to bring the remaining personnel and materiel. The personnel began the task to install and operate the facilities, such as shelters, food, water, sanitation, roads, transportation, communications, internal security and medical for the well-being of those who would be flying and maintaining the aircraft on the future base.

After setting up a basic camp, NMCB-10 began construction on May 9. While the location of the SATS facility was good for tactical purposes, heat and humidity were an issue. Official observations often recorded daytime temperatures in the upper 90s to low 100s with humidity values around 50%. Later runway temperatures were often at or above 115 degrees. Even more oppressive was late at night, when readings were in the low 90s with dew points in the 90s, resulting in humidity values at or near 100%. The weather conditions were manageable for crews by drinking plenty of water, taking salt tablets and pacing work sessions; however, the humidity still impacted productivity, equipment failures and aircraft performance.

It was the sand, however, that would be a major obstacle to meeting their operational deadline. The area was roughly 100 square miles of scrub pine trees and sand that was so dry and fine, it could be described as powdery. Once a wheeled vehicle moved away from the wet sand and high tide, it would become stuck, and its wheels would just spin like in deep snow. On May 9, Lieutenant Colonel Charles Goode, the 1st MAW engineering officer, recorded, “My general impression of the entire day was that there was much wheel spinning, resulting in disorganization and little work accomplished, all compounded by the fact that three of the C.B. TD-24 tractors went out of commission.” The problems continued into the following day as more equipment fell victim to the heat and sand. With typical Navy and Marine creativity and the reprioritization of equipment, things began to fall back into place and back on schedule.

**To bypass the sand on the beach, this causeway constructed at Chu Lai allowed heavy machinery and vital supplies to**
**be offloaded directly from ships and moved inland.**
***(Photo courtesy of Lawrence Krudwig)***

Over time, conditions got markedly better, as dirt was hauled in from the nearby hills to create a more extensive network of surfaced roads.

However, the sand also worked its way into bearings, clutches and other moving parts, causing premature failure. It blew into communications printers and electronic system switches and tuners. Air filters on motors required constant replacement. Because the sand was so dry and fine, it provided no suitable grounding conductive capability. This created a shock hazard to people and damage to improperly grounded equipment. The Marines needed more generators spread out at more distant locations and a three-wire feed for the hot, neutral and “ground” wires coming from and going back to the generators. They received less than half of the wires they needed, severely limiting the availability of electrical service.

Sandbagged safety and security bunkers had to be dug by hand, but for every two shovels full that were thrown out of a hole, one shovel full trickled back in. Bunkers often had to be three to four times in diameter bigger than needed before the first row of sandbags could be put in place. The sand was equally problematic for personnel, as it got into everything from toothpaste and shaving cream to food and bedding.

According to unit diaries and other documents, only two days into excavation, things were going painfully slow. It became clear the sand was going to wreak havoc on this project. With a deadline of May 29, the construction battalion began working 24/7 moving dirt from a nearby hill, dumping and grading 64,500 cubic yards of the laterite. However, this approach would ultimately need ongoing and continued maintenance after any heavy rain, as the sand below would soften and collapse. Simultaneous with air-field construction, the servicemembers continued working on the basic camp facilities, security and communications.

Marines at Chu Lai dubbed this tent the “Chu Lai Hilton.” (*Courtesy of Lawrence Krudwig)*

One of the first orders of camp business was to find a local supply of fresh water. A pit was dug and after letting the par-ticulate settle to the bottom, the water was tested. It was free of

A servicemember walks down a dirt path leading through tent city, Chu Lai, 1965. (*Courtesy of Lawrence Krudwig)*

salt, requiring only chlorination. Marines began piping the main camp facilities and refilling water buffaloes, eventually digging an additional well and building a water tower.

Another immediate need was perimeter security. The Viet Cong used various methods to try to infiltrate the camp. And there were snipers, especially at night when any light was detectable in range. One of the first orders regarding security was that anyone’s authorized weapon was to never be more than an arm’s length away.

During the first weeks, sniper rounds started coming in from small fishing boats in the bay, beyond the effective range of the M14. A call was placed to the regimental landing team headquarters, and within minutes, an Ontos was coming down the beach in a cloud of dust. When an incoming round ricocheted off the anti-tank vehicle, the unit commander quickly spun around, lined up, fired a couple of tracer rounds and eliminated the threat.

There were other hazards as well. Local villagers and their children often approached the perimeter offering to sell items, especially cold drinks, to nearby personnel. Quick action by senior staff stopped such a practice.

The only known casualties were senior enlisted staff members. When they failed to make roll call the next morning, search parties scoured the area for days, never finding any evidence of their whereabouts. It was assumed they may have strayed too close to the perimeter during the night and were taken captive.

By May 16, enough runway surface had been prepared so that crews could begin laying the AM-2 matting. Six days later, 2,300 feet of matting had been laid.

As the first AM-2 mats were installed, the second echelon of personnel and materiel prepared to embark from Iwakuni with the remaining members of the MAG, MABS and flying squadrons, arriving on May 23. The unit diary noted that the midday temperature that day reached 117 degrees. VMA-311 and VMA-225 aircraft departed for NAS Cubi Point in the Philippines on May 26 to await the completion of the SATS runway and taxiway complex, scheduled for May 29.

The arriving ships were greeted by materiel that still sat on the beaches from the first deliveries, as well as an unstable causeway. Tracked vehicles were still needed to pull wheeled units off the beach. After all the ships were unloaded and departed, only the USS Iwo Jima (LPH-2) remained. It had supported the initial brigade landing three weeks earlier using its UH-34D helicopters and was still on station continuing needed support. Work on the runways, taxiways and camp continued. By the end of the day on May 29, the runway was 3,545 feet with an accompanying taxiway and ramp area. All systems necessary to support combat flight operations were in place, and VMA-311 and 225 were ready at NAS Cubi Point. The only nemesis remaining was the weather. The remnants of a tropical storm made conditions unsafe for the Skyhawks to make the nearly 900-mile trip to the airstrip. Success would have to wait another day.

An Operational Air Station

**On June 1, 1965, Col John Noble landed the first aircraft at Chu Lai: the A-4 Skyhawk.** (*Phom R.L. Dukes, USN*)

On June 1, 1965, MCAS Chu Lai was officially declared operational. At 8 a.m., the first aircraft, the A-4 Skyhawk CE#6 piloted by Col Noble, touched down. The first VMA-311 aircraft touched down 30 minutes later. No time was wasted in arming and refueling four aircraft that would depart at 1:15 p.m. in support of an operation only six miles from the airfield. As work on the air station continued, air support missions went into full swing. At the end of June, MAG-12 aircraft had flown 303 missions and 969 sorties, delivering 2,338 bombs, 4,454 rockets and 58,471 20 mm rounds in support of infantry operations and enemy supply locations.

The month of June also saw a significant increase in camp facilities and improvements in creature comforts. The most noteworthy event was the completion of 8,000 feet of runway and adjacent taxiway on June 25. This virtually eliminated the need for jet-assisted takeoffs and landing arrests.

A mess hall, which had opened at the end of May, served two meals a day and obtained refrigerators, meaning more fresh meals were making their way to the troops. A post exchange was able to open on June 28, providing cold beverages. Recreation was most often achieved with a dip in the bay, which was as good as any expensive resort, and a primitive outdoor theater began showing films two days a week. The arrival of VMA-214 placed a greater demand on tent housing and sanitation, such as fixing hot showers and heads.

Electronic equipment continued to have periodic outages as the result of heat and dust. Air traffic control and radars were of most concern. High-vol-ume communications between major commands were still inadequate because of atmospheric issues caused by the heat.

Noble, the commanding officer of MAG-12, celebrates with a cake cutting (below) at the newly constructed airfield. The journey that began with a grueling fight against sand and heat culminated in a hard-won triumph. This marked the end of the frantic 25-day construction marathon and the beginning of full-scale flight operations for the MAG-12 Skyhawks. (*Courtesy of Lawrence Krudwig)*

As Chu Lai transitioned into an operational air station, the focus now shifted to sustaining and improving the lives of the personnel living there. (Courtesy of Lawrence Krudwig)

Although the brigade was getting bigger, the Marines were also becoming engaged in more offensive actions against the enemy. The MAG ordered the MABS to organize the equivalent of two rifle companies to take over base security, as there was a reinforced regiment of the NVA committed to throwing the Marines back into the sea. This would ultimately evolve into a mission on Aug. 18 called Operation Starlite, in an area only 12 miles south of the SATS. It would become the Corps’ first major operation in Vietnam, catching the NVA by surprise. The operation confirmed that the integration of close air support for ground operations was a sound and viable concept for the future of Marine operations.

The squadrons flew a combined total of 1,610 sorties in July and 1,656 in August, with aircraft availability at an amazing 76-79% under very harsh conditions. Ordnance delivery averaged approximately 1,000 tons per month. The first hangar was started on August 6, by which time other maintenance facilities had already been built, allowing for night repairs. Mess halls were in full operation, off-duty clubs were built, the tent city was taking on more features such as electricity, plywood floors, nearby potable water and laundry. The personnel were supplied with new utility uniforms, as the old-style cotton was literally rotting away.

**After weeks of labor to complete the airfield, Marines and Seabees finally found moments for recreation on the surf, located right on the edge of the base.** (*Courtesy of Lawrence Krudwig)*

The Marines had landed and were there to stay. Several months later, construction crews began the task of installing a new concrete runway to replace the matted one, a few hundred yards to the west. Lieutenant Colonel Robert W. Baker, Commanding Officer of VMA-225, said of the original airstrip, “This aluminum field was as flat and even as a pool table, the smoothest, bump-free surface I ever flew from.”

Although some weeks later, a monsoon caused cavitation and created a slippery roller coaster effect, he went on to say, “But we flew!” The SATS concept had worked.

About the Author

Lawrence Krudwig is a Vietnam veteran who served as a corporal in the aerology sections of MAG-36 and MAG-12, deploying in 1965 to help establish the first SATS airfield at Chu Lai. Following his military service, he dedicated 37 years to the National Weather Service, earning numerous Department of Commerce medals for his work on national emergency alert systems.

He now lives in Missouri, where he remains active with the Marine Corps League and Missouri State University’s physics advisory board.

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The Dogs of War: Canine Companions Vital to Corps’ Success

Executive Editor’s note: We bring you this story in recognition of National K9 Veterans Day on March 13. It marks the date in 1942 when the U.S. Army began training dogs specifically for military use.

A light, intermittent rain fell on Guam and the Marines of 1st Battalion, 9th Marine Regiment on the night of July 25, 1944. The inky darkness was broken by occasional flares rocketing up from offshore destroyers and 60 mm mortars closer to the front lines. Along the entire line, Marines experienced probing attacks from the Japanese. The Marines of 1/9 could hear Japan’s night assault against their division’s reconnaissance company. Ahead of them lay the heights of Mount Tenjo, where the Japanese consumed sake, working themselves into a frenzy for an attack.

Embedded in the lines of Company C, an unusual trio of Marines huddled in a foxhole. Corporal Harry Brown and Private First Class Dale Fetzer slept fitfully. Perched on the lip was PFC Skipper, a black Labrador Retriever, ears perked up and listening for sounds undetectable to human senses. A canvas leash ran from Skipper’s collar to the hand of PFC Fetzer, his handler.

Around 4 a.m., Skipper abruptly shot up in a low crouch, staring toward Mount Tenjo. Every follicle of hair stood on end as Skipper bared his teeth and gave a nearly imperceptible growl. PFC Fetzer snapped awake, recognizing at once Skipper’s alert posture. Shaking his partner, Fetzer whispered, “Get the lieutenant. They are coming,” before turning his attention back to the dog. After quietly praising Skipper for his alert, he ordered him to the bottom of the hole, to lie down and stay.Around 4 a.m., Skipper abruptly shot up in a low crouch, staring toward Mount Tenjo. Every follicle of hair stood on end as Skipper bared his teeth and gave a nearly imperceptible growl. PFC Fetzer snapped awake, recognizing at once Skipper’s alert posture. Shaking his partner, Fetzer whispered, “Get the lieutenant. They are coming,” before turning his attention back to the dog. After quietly praising Skipper for his alert, he ordered him to the bottom of the hole, to lie down and stay.

Within 10 minutes, Japanese soldiers poured down from Mt. Tenjo, crashing into the lines of 1/9, attempting to exploit a gap between their regiment and 3rd Battalion, 21st Marine Regiment (3/21). Skipper lay nervously in the hole as the world erupted in gunfire. PFC Fetzer, atop the hole, fired away with his M1 carbine at the hordes of Japanese. A Japanese hand grenade shot into their foxhole, shredding Fetzer’s legs and sending him down into the hole, beside his lifeless comrade, Skipper. Fetzer later described what happened next as a blacked-out maniacal rage over the death of his dog. He leapt from his hole and, by his own account, killed every Japanese soldier he could find.

As sunlight swept away the horrors of that night, it revealed dead Japanese all around. Lieutenant William Putney, 3rd Marine War Dog Platoon (MWDP) Commander, found Fetzer sitting on the edge of his foxhole cradling Skipper’s body, tears streaming down his face. Lt Putney drove Fetzer and Skipper to graves registration, near Blue Beach, where they had landed five As sunlight swept away the horrors of that night, it revealed dead Japanese all around. Lieutenant William Putney, 3rd Marine War Dog Platoon (MWDP) Commander, found Fetzer sitting on the edge of his foxhole cradling Skipper’s body, tears streaming down his face. Lt Putney drove Fetzer and Skipper to graves registration, near Blue Beach, where they had landed five days earlier. The MWDP commanders had already established a war dog cemetery, beside 3rd Division’s. Skipper’s name was stenciled to a white cross, and he was laid to rest beside the Marines he had protected. Skipper was credited with saving the company with his early warning against the Japanese onslaught. He was not the first nor the last Marine war dog buried there.

**Members of the 3rd Marine War Dog Platoon (MWDP) pause on Guadalcanal en route to the fighting on Guam. (USMC)**

Cpl William Scott and his war dog, Prince, assigned to 1stMarDiv, take a moment on the beach during the Peleliu campaign. Dogs like Prince were essential for detecting enemy movement in the dense foliage of the Pacific islands. (USMC)

**PFC Dale Fetzer and Skipper on Guadalcanal, staging for the invasion of Guam. Skipper would give his life alerting Marines to a midnight ambush, an act of valor that saved his entire company.** **(USMC)**

The Inception of the War Dog

Using dogs in combat goes back centuries; however, the practice wasn’t adopted by the United States military prior to 1941. Working dogs were a foreign concept to the American people, particularly the military. When the events of Dec. 7, 1941, thrust America into World War II, the nation mobilized to assist the war effort. A civilian agency, Dogs for Defense, was created shortly after the outbreak of the war to recruit dogs for service with the military.

Initially, the Marine Corps turned down the idea of war dogs, believing only units directly involved in destroying the enemy or saving Marines should be created. But as weary Marines fought desperately for their lives on Guadalcanal, they came to understand the ferocity of the Japanese and the need for tactical advantages. The idea was reconsidered, perhaps influenced by the Marine Corps prewar publication “Small Wars Manual,” which stated that dogs “may sometimes be profitably employed … to detect the presence of hostile forces.” In November 1942, Commandant Thomas Holcomb ordered the establishment of a war dog training school at New River, N.C.

The first to arrive were 20 Marines and 38 dogs from Army training centers. More dogs came from the civilian population through donations made to the Marine Corps. The first donor was the Doberman Pinscher Club of America, which initially contributed 20 Dobermans. Recurring donations ensured Dobermans were included among all war dog platoons throughout the war. Families caught up in patriotic fervor donated their pets as well, leading to a mix of breeds in Marine kennels. There were few formal requirements for Marine dogs during the war.

Dogs were disqualified if they were too skittish, barked excessively or had a fear-based bite reflex. Dogs who passed the physical and temperament tests were paired with handlers, who came as infantrymen from the Fleet Marine Force or infantry training school. Once matched, they would then begin a 14-week course. Teams would be separated into one of three assigned jobs. Messenger dogs were trained to run back and forth between two handlers at the command “Report!” These dogs covered impressive distances and could track down a handler who was far out of eyesight.

Scout dogs were trained to lead patrols, never bark and sense for movement in their surrounding environment. Similarly, sentry dogs were trained to alert their handlers and guard command posts, stationary emplacements and the front line at night. Contrary to belief, dogs were never trained to “sniff” for the enemy. At the time hand-lers did not understand how to train a dog to alert based on scent. Instead, each dog was trained to detect movement, with their own unique way of alerting, which a handler had to learn and anticipate. A dog might crouch low and give a growl or point their nose at a movement. During training it was discovered that dogs can alert on enemy movement up to 500 yards away.

A wounded dog is carried to the veterinarian aid station during the invasion of Guam. Marine 1stLt William Putney served as both the 3rd MWDP commander and the veterinarian, thanks to his prewar occupation. (USMC)

Guy Wachtstetter and Tubby, assigned to the 2nd MWDP, landed on Guam attached to the 3rd Marine Division Amphibious Reconnaissance Company. Tubby did not survive the fighting on Guam. (Courtesy of National Archives)

To the Pacific

Marines eyed up these “dog Marines” for the first time in 1942 and were skeptical of their abilities. The infantrymen imagined dogs barking at night, giving away their position or eating all their rations. No one wanted to give the 1st Marine War Dog Platoon a chance until the 2nd Raider Regiment commander, Lieutenant Colonel Alan Shapley, witnessed their capabilities.

On Nov. 1, 1943, D-day on Bougainville in the Northern Solomons, handlers climbed down cargo nets into Higgins boats while their dogs were lowered in improvised harnesses. They landed an hour after the first wave, splashing onto the thin strip of sand before plunging into the dark, impenetrable jungle. Two dog teams were attached to Company M, 3rd Raiders: Doberman scout dog Andy, with handlers PFCs Robert Lansley and John Mahoney, and German shepherd messenger dog Caesar, with handler PFC Rufus Mayo. Their task was to patrol down the Piva Trail and take up a blocking position deep in the enemy jungle. Andy led the way, giving multiple alerts on enemy positions, which the trailing Raiders deftly handled. Not a Marine was lost.

**To get war dogs from transport ships to Higgins boats, Marines turned their utility jackets inside out, put the dogs’ legs through the sleeves, and lowered them down. (USMC)**

**Marine dog teams walk down a road during the Peleliu operation. Despite the intense combat and high temperatures, war dogs proved highly effective. (USMC)**

Despite the initial success, doom soon crept on the Raiders. Their radios became saturated with moisture as they fought off Japanese incursions on the trail. Caesar reestablished the communications link by running 1,500 yards nine times under fire, carrying handwritten messages. At sunrise on the morning of Nov. 3, PFC Mayo lay in a damp foxhole when Caesar suddenly leaped over the edge, teeth bared for a fight. Before Mayo could comprehend the situation, he recalled Caesar, who turned to run back. Just then, three shots rang out from the jungle. Caesar yelped and fled down the trail. Mayo took off after him and found Caesar back at the company area with another handler, three bullets in his body. Nearby Raiders, showing their newfound love for war dogs, improvised a litter and carried Caesar to the aid station for lifesaving surgery. He survived, returning only weeks later to duty and his adoring Raiders.

A war dog signals the presence of the enemy on Iwo Jima. Because Japanese forces used elaborate underground defenses, the Marine Corps relied on war dog teams to identify occupied caves that were often invisible to the human eye. (USMC)

**PFC H.J. Finley and Jack were one of the three dog teams on Bougainville, belonging to the 1st MWDP, 2nd Raider Regiment. (PFC P. Scheer, USMC)**

“An Unqualified Success”

Word spread across the Marine Corps, and the United States, about these four-legged heroes. Caesar’s likeness adorned postage stamps, and newspaper articles described the dog’s ordeal. LtCol Shapley praised the dogs’ performances, calling them “an unqualified success,” which encouraged additional war dog platoons. By the end of the war, seven war dog platoons were constituted. Each Marine division was assigned at least one war dog platoon. The dogs accompanied the infantry into every campaign from 1944 to the end of the war.

Although the infantrymen were dismissive at first, once the Marines dug in for the night, they watched and hoped for the war dogs and handlers to come to their lines for night security. These dogs, experts at catching infiltrators, remained alert all night. Riflemen discovered that if a dog and handler were in the hole with them, they could sleep, perhaps the only deep sleep they could get during a campaign. As the dog teams walked to the front lines in the evenings, they were welcomed with pre-dug foxholes and infantrymen inviting them in.

The war dogs led the riflemen into the jungles of Guam, flushed out Japanese stragglers on Saipan, endured the murderous shelling on Iwo Jima and shared the miserable conditions on Okinawa. During the Peleliu campaign, the war dogs shared astoundingly harsh conditions. Temperatures soared well into the triple digits, and razor-sharp coral, which covered the island, cut up the dogs’ paws. Handlers carried their dogs over the terrain to spare them the agony of walking.

**Dog teams from the 6th and 7th MWDP landed on D-day on Iwo Jima. Despite the terrific bombardment, the teams were able to move inland. (USMC)**

PFC Thomas Price and his Doberman Chips, of the 5th MWDP, were attached to 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines, on Peleliu. Price wrote home to his parents in October describing the torment of fighting there. Chips saved his life during the first night by alerting him to an infiltrator. He recounted his absolute terror as he waited, Ka-Bar in hand, for the enemy to come.

The next night, they endured a mortar barrage. “I got in a foxhole with Chips and started praying,” wrote Price. He continued, “Then Chips gave a yelp. I reached down and felt blood running down his leg.” Despite the wound, Chips alerted around 4 a.m. The entire company opened fire on this early morning attack, dispersing the Japanese before they could surprise the Marines. Both Chips and Price were wounded by shrapnel, and Chips was evacuated. He was one among dozens of war dog casualties during the brutal fight on Peleliu.

In another letter, Price wrote that “it would be like losing my right arm, if anything happened to Chips.” All handlers shared his sentiment, forming incredible bonds with their dogs. They endured all manners of hardship and terror, looking out for one another while enduring the most savage of conditions.

Even the dogs demonstrated these bonds of companionship. On Guam, the night of July 22, 1944, Edward Topka, 3rd MWDP, fought furiously for his life after his Doberman, Lucky, alerted. Topka was nearly overrun by Japanese but held them off at the cost of a mortal wound. Corpsmen found him at sunrise, surrounded by a dozen slain enemies. They did everything possible to save him. Lucky lay faithfully by Topka’s side. As Topka’s final breath left him, Lucky’s demeanor shifted from mournful to ferociously protective. He snapped at the corpsmen, driving them off Topka’s body. Teeth and claws bared, he stood watch over his fallen master, ready to tear apart anyone who came too close. It took several fellow handlers to subdue the devastated Lucky to recover Topka’s body. According to Lt Putney, Lucky was never the same, and he was sent back to the States.

**Pvt Francis Hall and his Doberman on Iwo Jima, March 1945. The pair were attached to Headquarters and Service Co, 25th Marines, for the duration of the battle.** **(USMC)**

Tom Price and Chips both survived the brutal Peleliu invasion despite being wounded by shrapnel. Following the war, Price refused to part with his partner. He adopted Chips and brought him home to Maryland, where the pair continued their lives together. (Tom Price Collection)

Always Faithful

As the fighting on Okinawa died down in July 1945, the war dog platoons with the 1st and 6th Marine Divisions continued their patrols to uncover any bypassed Japanese. Marines in the Pacific were preparing to invade Japan when the news of the Japanese surrender reached them. Instead of invading, the men and dogs transitioned into an occupation force. Slowly, they were all sent back to Camp Lejeune, N.C., as the need for dogs decreased.

Originally, there was no plan for how to handle these aggressive, combat-hardened dogs. The idea of euthanasia was floated but instantly shut down by the platoon commanders who had endured combat alongside them. They developed a de-training program in the hopes of rehabilitating them.

The dogs were trained to re-enter civilian life, breaking their military routine. Handlers were changed frequently, dogs were allowed to relax and Marines from the Camp Lejeune Women’s Reserve units took the dogs for walks. William Putney, now the war dog veterinarian at New River, tabulated that only four dogs, out of 559, were euthanized for extreme, trauma-related aggressiveness. This was an astounding accomplishment, contradictory to outside predictions.

When the war dog training facility shuttered in 1946, dogs were returned to their civilian owners. Many of the dogs were able to accompany their handlers, as Marines received permission from the original owners to keep their wartime companions. Tom Price and Chips went back to Maryland to continue their lives together. Few, like Corporal Marvin Corff and Rocky, from the 2nd MWDP, had to tearfully part ways. Corff’s last view of Rocky, his faithful companion through the war, was sitting on his owner’s front steps in Chicago, Ill.

The dogs and men of the Marine war dog platoons had followed the same motto as all Marines since the Corps’ inception: Semper Fidelis. These men and dogs endured the worst campaigns in the Pacific, never wavering in their dedication to mission and to each other. Their profound bond held them together, as it does all combat veterans. Their legacy of service lives on in memorials to these men and four-legged Marines across the country.

Nowhere is it more evident, however, than on a tiny corner of Guam, near a beach where decades earlier, Marines splashed ashore with their war dogs under fire. A statue of a Doberman overlooks the final resting place of the dogs who died during that campaign, including Skipper, the savior of Company C, 1/9. His ears are perked up, head erect, and he is vigilantly on watch, always faithful.

Derek the Doberman

By: Jennifer Castro

From the islands of the Pacific to Iraq and Afghanistan, Marine Corps dogs have served with valor and heroism. During World War II, war dogs served as scout or messenger dogs; more recently, dogs have helped locate IEDs, one of the major threats against the lives of Marines fighting terrorism.

Corporal Derek Dunn, serial number 260, was a male Doberman pinscher that served 20 months as a messenger dog with the 1st War Dog Platoon in the South Pacific. He was wounded twice—once by shrapnel and once by a bullet—and was awarded a Purple Heart. Derek belonged to Army Staff Sergeant Frank L. Dunn and his wife. Dunn enrolled him in the Marine Corps Devil Dogs program in January 1944 rather than sell or give him away when he went overseas.

Derek was reunited with his owners after the war and spent time with former World War I Marine walking champion George Baker, who took Derek to reunions, parades and hospitals to visit wounded service veterans, giving a new purpose to the retired canine. This custom summer khaki uniform coat was made for him.

Featured Photo (Top): Pvt John L. Drugan and Pal, 4th MWDP, on Okinawa, May 1945. Pal saved a platoon of Marines from an ambush by alerting his handler of a hidden Japanese machine-gun nest.

About the Author

Chris Kuhns, a former Marine infantryman, separated from the Marine Corps to pursue his passion for military history, specializing in the history of the Marine Corps. He serves as the director of the Pennsylvania Military Museum in Boalsburg, Pa., and as the deputy director of the U.S. Marine Corps Historical Company, a nonprofit organization. He calls Gettysburg, Pa. home.

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“History in Motion”: Newly Digitized Film Collection Brings Marine Corps’ Past to Life

The theater aboard USS Yorktown (CV-10) at Patriots Point Naval & Maritime Museum in Mount Pleasant, S.C., went dark March 29, National Vietnam War Veterans Day. Archival films of the Vietnam War lit that darkness. In the audience, Medal of Honor recipient Major General James Livingston, USMC (Ret), and other Vietnam War veterans and families watched their shared history.

It was a remarkable opportunity to see their generation of Marines in action—and it’s an opportunity that is increasingly available to all Marines and their families, thanks to a partnership between the Marine Corps History Division and the University of South Carolina Libraries that is preserving and making public over a thousand hours of historic films from the Division’s archives.

The United States Marine Corps Film Repository is one of the most comprehensive archives of its kind, containing thousands of films that span the 20th century. Moving Image Research Collections (MIRC) at the University Libraries is actively in the process of digitizing the films and adding them to a free, search-able database that anyone can access.

The films bring to life the Marine Corps experience in a way that both allows veterans to re-engage with memories and helps their families and friends understand more fully what that experience was like.

MajGen Livingston knows firsthand about living with the memory of a battle that people at home can only ever imagine. He was awarded the Medal of Honor while serving as the commanding officer, Company E, in action against enemy forces in Dai Do, Quang Tri Province in the Republic of Vietnam, according to the award citation.

Livingston visited the MIRC last year to see where the U.S. Marine Corps Film Repository calls home. This wasn’t the first time he had come to see the collection, however. He made the trip to Columbia in 2017 for the ribbon-cutting of the new cold storage vault and digital scanning center that now holds the collection. The vault—both temperature and moisture controlled—is lined with shelves upon shelves of film canisters, each individually labeled and identified by carefully trained hands. At the time of the ribbon-cutting, few of the films had been digitized and even fewer were available to the public.

**Thousands of restored reels can be found in the LtCol James H. Davis Vault**.

By his second visit in June 2025, thousands of films were available to be digitally sifted through, watched and enjoyed. No longer stuck in preservation-grade canisters, the films brought the history MajGen Livingston and his fellow Marines lived through back to life in front of his eyes. Beyond his own memories, he was able to access the shared endeavor that all Marines embrace when they earn the eagle, globe and anchor.

“The United States Marine Corps Film Collection is more than old films—it’s our history in motion,” he said. “It’s the story of courage and sacrifice told through the lens by those who lived it.”

The films came to the University of South Carolina Libraries when the Marine Corps University reached out to MIRC in 2015, with the goal of finding a permanent storage facility for the canisters, which had been housed at Quantico, Va., for generations. The Marine Corps University wanted to provide the materials with a state-of-the-art home, and the films to be preserved, digitized and shared with the wider community. MIRC’s expertise and experience with archival film made them an obvious choice for the vast collection.

Left: A combat engineer looks on as an M-60 tank rumbles by during a training exercise at Twentynine Palms, Calif., in 1980.

Center: Marines celebrate their return home from Iwo Jima in 1945.

Right: **Pilots from VMF-351 celebrate on the decks of USS Cape Gloucester (CVE-109) after a 1945 aerial victory.**

USC Libraries’ ultimate task was, and is, to care for and conserve these films. In doing so, they hope to give the public an important piece of their collective history.

The collection captures more than just Vietnam footage. The United States Marine Corps Film Repository is one of the most comprehensive archives of Marine Corps footage in our nation, holding over 19,000 reels of 16 and 35 mm films dating from the 1910s through the 1980s. They document the operations of the Corps throughout the 20th century. Footage includes clips from World War II, the Korean War and the Vietnam War, giving viewers glimpses of what it was like on the front lines of battles that still live in public memory today.

Combat is just one of the many facets of Marine Corps life the films capture. The collection also contains peacetime films of training, testing and public relations activities. These films give detailed insight into the life of soldiers while they’re deployed, from the most routine daily activities to highly specialized training. Viewers see Marines laughing, cooking, joking around, training and conversing with each other as if they were at a barbeque back home.

In fact, one of the most important impacts of the films is the way they humanize our nation’s soldiers and bring them to the forefront of our minds, showing us who they were beyond the battles they fought. Seeing these films allows current and future generations to remember who these Marines were and what they fought for in a way that goes beyond learning about their sacrifice in the two-dimensional world of history books. Now, through USC Libraries’ efforts, the experiences of these American heroes are readily available to any scholar, researcher, student, veteran or casual viewer who wants to see this history for themselves.

While such a vast archive of films capturing several generations of Marine Corps life might seem to present an overwhelming amount of information to the typical viewer, the digital collection is maintained in a specifically organized and curated online platform that is freely available and searchable by the public. That makes it easy for viewers to approach the films in whatever way they’d like, whether it’s dipping in and out of the films at random, exploring a particular time period or researching specific information about a particular battle.

To make this possible, the films go through a multi-step process to conserve the fragile material and ensure they are readily available online, with keyword searching and easy identification on MIRC’s database.

Dr. Greg Wilsbacher, Curator of the U.S. Marine Corps Film Repository, oversees this process as well as the staff who operate it. Various staff members, students and even volunteers assist in conserving such a vast and significant piece of America’s past.

“Being stewards of the Marine Corps’ film heritage is a privilege for all of us in the University Libraries who work on the project—students, staff and volunteers,” said Wilsbacher. “Every day, we see the best of America on film, men and women who have committed themselves to the defense of the nation. Every day, we watch this history unfold in some distant corner of the world or on a base here at home. Every day, we are humbled by the personal sacrifices captured on film. Keeping this history alive and available for all is one way we can honor all Marines, past and present.”

A screenshot from a film of Marines of 1stMarDiv as they are greeted by loved ones upon their arrival in San Francisco, Calif., March 5, 1951.

The processing of each film in the collection begins with an inspection by a careful hand on a film bench to check for and repair any damage that might have occurred to the reel. A protective film leader is added to the beginning and end of each reel to ensure no further damage occurs. Film technicians then assign a new inventory number to the reel and begin to gather basic information about the content of the film so that it can be described in the record. That information contains everything from general location and date, if available, to what can be seen going on in the film, and any other notable identifying information.

Once the film has been generally described and, if necessary, repaired, it is then moved to a preservation-grade film storage can where it gets a new label, barcode and other identifying features. The films are then placed into cold storage in the Lieutenant Colonel James H. Davis Film Vault, named to honor a University of South Carolina alumnus and family member of longtime library supporters Richard and Novelle Smith, who funded the vault.

When the films have been processed, they are ready for digitization. Staff bring the films to the John S. Davis Scanning Center, named after another Marine and South Carolina alumnus of the Smith family. There, they are scanned at 2K resolution. Staff create online streaming copies of the films before reviewing them in their entirety to be catalogued and described in as much detail as possible for the average viewer. Only then are the videos able to be placed online in a keyword-searchable database.

The thorough cataloging process ensures that films can be searched by location, time period, units or topics. If viewers want to see combat footage or public press relating to Iwo Jima, all they need to do is type it into the search bar and let the database retrieve the footage. If a viewer has a family member they know served in the 1st Marine Division, they can search unit specific footage without sifting through thousands of films.

Films from the History Division’s collection are first inspected by hand on specialized tables like the one used by Kat Favre of University of South Carolina Libraries. The process ensures that the films are properly identified and that it is safe for them to be digitized.

Moving Image Research Collections uses state-of-the-art film scanning equipment to recover the history of the Marine Corps and make it available to the public. Sam Heidenreich is one of two scanning technicians performing the skilled task.

This degree of searchability has been especially helpful for people looking to reconnect with a presumed lost history of their loved ones. A recent visitor to MIRC, retired LtCol Robert Barrow, after leaving the university, went home and spent all afternoon searching through the repository. Barrow ended up finding footage of his father, General Robert H. Barrow, 27th Commandant of the Marine Corps from 1979 to 1983, who passed away in 2008, during his time of service. It’s footage that Barrow never thought he would get the chance to see for himself.

“The tour we had last year was truly inspiring,” said LtCol Barrow. “Just as a test, I asked to see what footage the website might have on my father. To demonstrate the ease of search … in a matter of seconds, [Dr. Wilsbacher] pulled up some footage I never knew existed on Dewey Canyon in Vietnam. I shared one link with my siblings that showed only the hands and watch of a Marine reviewing a map in the field in Vietnam. They all came back with the same conclusion: ‘Those are Dad’s hands and definitely his watch.’ ”

That ability to witness the experience of a loved one whose service may have taken place halfway around the world, or even before the viewer was born, is transformative. Many Marines have lived through extraordinary events, fighting for freedom and liberty on foreign coasts, while their families were at home unable to imagine what their loved ones went through overseas. Often, these memories have remained shrouded in the past, unable to be fully articulated to those who were not there to experience them. The United States Marine Corps Film Repository preserves these stories for generations to come. Now, USC Libraries’ digitization of the films makes them accessible to all and brings them vividly to life for both those who have lived through them and those who have not.

Featured Photo (Top): A Marine holds a slate for PFC Baker of Combat Camera during the filming of a training exercise at Onslow Beach, N.C., August 1952.

Author’s bio:

Abigail Cole is a staff writer and photographer for University of South Carolina Libraries in Columbia, S.C. Her work has appeared in The New York Times.

Executive Editor’s note: These films are available to watch by anyone, anywhere, at any time. Visit digital.library.sc.edu/marinecorps to get access to the Marine Corps Film Repository. To searchthrough the films, click the “Watch the Films” tab at the top of the page. The re–pository is keyword searchable.

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The Battle of Khe Sanh: A Fourth Touchstone Battle for the Marine Corps

FIRST-PLACE WINNER: Leatherneck Magazine Writing Contest

Executive Editor’s note: The following article received 1st place in the 2025 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. On Jan. 1, we will begin accepting submissions for the 2026 Leatherneck Magazine Writing Contest.

Belleau Wood, Iwo Jima and the Chosin Reservoir are the Marine Corps’ three touchstone battles—names that hit like a mortar round in the chest. They’re the gold standard: Marines charging into hell, bleeding for every scrap of ground and coming out on top when the odds say we shouldn’t. I carried those stories with me through my time at 3rd Battalion, 6th Marines, Scout Sniper Surveillance and Target Acquisition (SS STA) 3/6, Camp Lejeune, N.C., until I hung up my uniform on Jan. 25, 2004.

As the Corps turns 250, I’ve been chewing on what other fight deserves to stand with those giants. For me, it’s the Battle of Khe Sanh, Vietnam, 1968. That siege wasn’t just a battle—it was a crucible, a 77-day gut check that forged Marines into something unbreakable. It belongs up there with the big three, and here’s why.

Khe Sanh started in January 1968, when the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) clamped down on the Khe Sanh Combat Base, a speck of dirt near the DMZ and the Laotian border. About 6,000 Marines and allies—mostly the 26th Marine Regiment—found themselves surrounded by 20,000 to 40,000 NVA troops. The enemy’s plan was straight out of its playbook: besiege, bombard and bury, just like they did to the French at Dien Bien Phu. For 77 days, those Marines took a pounding—over 10,000-15,000 rounds of artillery and rockets, in addition to U.S. bombing, and more than 1,000 rounds a day at the worst of it. Hill 881 South, Hill 861, the main base—they became islands in a sea of mud and fire. Supplies ran thin, the weather was a soup of fog and rain, and the NVA kept coming. But the Marines didn’t just hold—they fought.

That’s what makes Khe Sanh a touch-stone: the sheer stubborn will it took to stay in the fight. I picture those grunts in their trenches, caked in red clay, patching bunkers after every barrage. Resupply drops came under fire, with C-130s and Hueys dodging antiaircraft guns to get ammo and chow through. It was chaos, but it was controlled chaos, the kind I saw in my own small way at Lejeune with SS STA 3/6. We weren’t in combat, but we kept the battalion’s gears turning—logistics, comms, planning. Khe Sanh was that on steroids: Every Marine, from the commanding officer to the newest private, locked in to keep the machine running. Patrols slipped out to hit NVA positions, artillery crews fired until their barrels glowed, and air support—Marine, Navy and Air Force—dropped over 100,000 tons of bombs, turning the hills into a wasteland. When Operation Pegasus rolled in with Army and Marine reinforcements in April, the NVA limped away, leaving bodies and broken plans behind.

***Air Force F-100s deliver close air support following an assault on ARVN Ranger positions, Khe Sanh, 1968.***

Khe Sanh mirrors Belleau Wood, Iwo Jima and Chosin in ways that cut to the bone. Belleau Wood was raw guts—Marines rushing German lines, taking casualties but never stopping. Khe Sanh had that same fire, just pinned down instead of charging. Iwo Jima was about digging in, making a volcanic rock a fortress—Khe Sanh’s hills were the same, only with jungle and mud instead of ash. And Chosin? That frozen march out of a Chinese trap, outnumbered 10 to one? Khe Sanh was its echo—surrounded, outgunned but never outfought. The difference is the siege itself: 77 days of unrelenting pressure, a modern test of what Marines can endure. It wasn’t about maneuvering or grand strategy; it was about standing fast when everything said to break.

Now, some will argue Khe Sanh doesn’t fit because we pulled out after the siege. The base got torched and abandoned in July ’68, and critics say that stains the victory. Fair point: Nobody’s raising a flag over Khe Sanh today like we did on Suribachi. But touchstones aren’t about holding dirt forever; they’re about what the fight reveals. Khe Sanh was a slugfest that messed up the NVA’s Tet Offensive, tying down divisions they needed elsewhere. It cost them thousands—estimates run from 10,000 to 15,000 dead—while we lost under 500 KIA. More than that, it was a middle finger to the idea that Marines could be cracked. I’d tell those doubters victory isn’t just a map pin; it’s the message you send. Khe Sanh screamed, “You can’t take us.”

Khe Sanh was that spirit writ large—Marines doing the dirty, thankless work to hold the line. I remember a gunny who’d been at Chu Lai in ’69, not Khe Sanh, but he talked about Vietnam like it was yesterday. He’d say, “You don’t win by running—you win by staying.” That’s Khe Sanh: staying when every instinct says go. I left the military in ’04, honorable discharge in hand, but that lesson stuck.

**In the White House situation room, President Lyndon B. Johnson (second from left) examines a scale model of the Khe Sanh Combat Base, Feb. 15, 1968.**

It’s what I’d tell the boots today: Stand your ground, because that’s what Marines do.

The battle’s legacy runs deep. It showed combined arms at its peak—air strikes syncing with arty, infantry holding the perimeter. I can see the forward air controllers on those hills, calling in Phantoms while mortars pounded the treeline. It’s a blueprint for how we fight now—integrated, relentless. Khe Sanh also cemented small-unit leadership. Lieutenants and sergeants kept their squads tight, kept them believing, even when the sky was falling. That’s the Corps I knew: NCOs running the show when it counts. And the vets? I’ve met a few—gray-haired, quiet types at VFW halls. They don’t brag, but you see Khe Sanh in their handshake, their nod. It’s the same steel you feel from Chosin survivors or Iwo vets—a brotherhood forged in the worst of it.

Khe Sanh’s place as a touchstone isn’t just about ’68; it’s about 2025 and beyond. It’s a reminder that wars change but Marines don’t. We adapt, sure—Vietnam wasn’t Belleau Wood’s trenches or Iwo’s beaches, but the core stays: Fight hard, fight smart, fight together. Khe Sanh teaches that isolation isn’t weakness; it’s a chance to prove what you’ve got. I’d tell any Marine to study it. Feel the weight of those 77 days. It’s not just history—it’s us, at our toughest, our proudest. Belleau Wood, Iwo Jima, Chosin—they’ve got a brother in Khe Sanh. On our 250th, let’s give it the honor it’s earned.

Marines of 1st Platoon, Company K, 3rd Battalion, 4th Marines, salute as the American flag is raised during a memorial service at Khe Sanh. Joined by soldiers of the Army of the Republic of Vietnam, the ceremony paid tribute to those lost during the 77-day siege. (Photo by SSgt Fred Lowe III, USMC)

Featured Image (Top): During the 77-day siege of Khe Sanh, Marines stacked tons of expended 105 mm shell casings, a testament to the intensity of the bombardment. (Photo by Sgt T.H. Nairns, USMC)

Author’s bio:

HM3 Brian Nielson served with 3rd Battalion, 6th Marines, Scout Sniper Surveillance and Target Acquisition (SS STA) 3/6 at Camp Lejeune and was honorably discharged in 2004. Nielson served as the senior corpsman of SS STA on Camp Lejeune and is the founder and CEO of Kern + Bellows, a defense contractor specializing in re-cruitment and advertising.

The Great Hagaru-ri Airlift: Six Momentous Days in the Korean War

On Nov. 27, 1950, the 5th and 7th Regiments of the 1st Marine Division were in Yudam-ni, a mountain hamlet on the western side of the Chosin Reservoir, positioned for a thrust west across the upper reaches of the Taebaek Mountains and a link-up with the American 8th Army. The Marine offensive would be part of the “Home by Christmas” offensive, the grand design of the U.S. Commander in Chief, Far East, General of the Army Douglas MacArthur, to end the Korean War. As proposed in his double envelopment strategy, found in Roy E. Appleman’s “South to the Naktong, North to the Yalu,” the X Corps, which included 1stMarDiv, and 8th Army would act as giant pincers, ensnaring and destroying the remnants of the North Korean People’s Army (NKPA) that were fleeing north after the breakout of the 8th Army from the Pusan Perimeter and the successful amphibious landings of 1stMarDiv at Inchon in September.

In developing this stratagem, MacArthur’s war planners seemingly disregarded reports that Chinese Communist Forces (CCF) were amassing in southern Manchuria, and that perhaps tens of thousands of them had already crossed into North Korea by the middle of October, writes Appleman.

Entrapment and Breakout

The 5th and 7th Marines began moving west and were shortly engaged, not by the disorganized units of the NKPA but by the hardened troops of the 79th and 89th Divisions of the CCF’s IX Army Group, 3rd Field Army. A third division, the 59th, struck to the rear at the Toktong Pass to interdict the main supply route (MSR). After four days of violent combat, the 5th and 7th Marines began a fighting withdrawal to Hagaru-ri, the division’s forward operating base some 14 miles south. They brought with them all their wounded and dead; and they did so during one of the coldest winters seen in northeast Korea—blustery, snowy Siberian winds dropped the temperatures into the minus 30s, causing weapons, artillery and vehicles to malfunction. Moreover, though they had been issued cold-weather gear, an alarming number of cold-weather casualties began to appear—hypothermia, chilblains, trench foot and frostbite of the face, hands and feet.

***The 7th Marine Regiment at Yudam-ni prepares to depart, ready to fight its way back to Hagaru-ri and on to the sea for extraction in December 1950.***

Meanwhile, more divisions of the IX Army Group struck south at Hagaru-ri, Koto-ri and Chinhung-ni and cut the MSR in several places. The hardest hit was Hagaru-ri. There, on the night of Nov. 28—“Hagaru’s Night of Fire,” according to Lynn Montross and Nicholas Canzona’s “The Chosin Reservoir Campaign”—the 58th Division attacked the southwest defensive perimeter and threatened to overrun a medical battalion hospital and the partially completed airstrip, which Lieutenant Colonel John H. Partridge’s 1st Engineer Battalion had been working on since the division arrived in Haragu-ri on Nov. 15. Fortunately, with the help of a detachment of engineers who left their heavy equipment and took up arms, the attack was thwarted.

As the fighting in the southwest wound down, another CCF division attacked East Hill, the largest of the hills surrounding Hagaru-ri. During the ensuing seesaw battle, the Chinese Communists took the hill and resisted several attempts to dislodge them. By the morning of Nov. 29, the only force preventing a CCF breakthrough at East Hill was a ragtag group of defenders—administrative and supply personnel, and bits and pieces of infantry units—bolstered by several tanks and machine-gun emplacements.

Though seriously outnumbered, the doughty defenders of Hagaru-ri had held the line, and further CCF attempts to breach the defensive perimeter would fail.

During the early morning of Dec. 1, General Oliver P. Smith met with his division surgeon, Captain Eugene R. Hering Jr., at the division command post at Hagaru-ri. Smith recorded the reason for the meeting in his aide-mémoire (war journal) entry for that day: “The casualties in his installations were piling up and he was concerned over his ability to provide suitable medical care. At that time he had about 600 casualties at Hagaru-ri awaiting evacuation.” Hering expected “400 additional casualties” to arrive from the east side of the Chosin Reservoir, where the 7th Infantry Division’s 31st Regimental Combat Team had been decimated by several CCF divisions, and many, many more from the 5th and 7th Marines, who were fighting their way back to Hagaru-ri. “The only solution to our casualty problem,” wrote Smith, “was the completion of the C-47 strip.” However, he noted that “the Engineers considered the strip to be only 40% completed”; nonetheless, “it was decided to bring in a C-47 on a trial run.”

At about the time of their meeting, General William H. Tunner, commander of the Combat Cargo Command of the U.S. Far East Air Force, received a message from Colonel Hoyt Prindle, his liaison officer with X Corps—a composite of 1stMarDiv and the 3rd and 7th Infantry Divisions, commanded by Army General Edward M. Almond. In the message, Prindle related the important details of recent staff meetings at the Corps headquarters in Hungnam, which can be found in Tunner’s book “Over the Hump”: “I am in General Almond’s outer office and waiting to get in to see him. I attended briefings both last night and this morning … The situation at and near the Chosin Reservoir is critical. We must exert every possible effort to airdrop supplies and ammunition into that area in order to get the 1st Marine Division out or we will be lost. There are already between 900 and 1,000 casualties that urgently need air evacuation now. If we don’t get them out, they won’t get out.”

Prindle also briefed Tunner on the status of the landing strip at Hagaru-ri: “A 3,200-foot strip being hacked out of the frozen earth will be ready by 4 p.m. this afternoon. It may or may not be under enemy fire. We will have to take that chance. If usable it will help the air evacuation situation and also re-supply the unit that is near the strip. The support of others must be handled by air drop.”

He further expressed the need for immediate action, stating that “roughly ten Chinese Red divisions” were “closing in” on Hagaru-ri and that waiting a “few more days” was not an option. He wrote, “The roads to this area are cut in a number of places and everyone will have to fight his way out.”

Later that same morning, Prindle again messaged Tunner: “I just came out of Almond’s office and he asked me to express to you in the strongest terms the urgency of the situation in the Chosin Reservoir area. Re-supply of those units will have priority over all other requests.” Prindle emphasized in his closing remarks that “the drop situation and the relief of the 1st Marine Division is most urgent,” and recommended a course of action: “It is a C-47 operation entirely from the way I look at it … if we are able to air land into the strip which is located one mile south of the southern end of the reservoir.” C-47s and their Marine Corps variant, the R4D, were large, multi-engine transports that could carry up to 6,000 pounds of cargo, 28 troops or walking wounded, or 18 stretcher cases—and more often than not carried far more.

Tunner, who had directed the 1948 Berlin Airlift, agreed with Prindle. After receiving the approval of his superior, Lieutenant General George E. Stratemeyer, commander of the U.S. Far East Air Force, he recalled telling Pringle, “I am going to move every C-47 I’ve got up there.” He also committed to using “two squadrons of C-119’s … to do air drops of ammunition, clothes, and anything else” the Marines needed.

According to Paul C. Fritz’s article “The Kyushu Gypsy Squadron in Korea” in Air Power History, word was soon passed to the 21st Troop Carrier Squadron (TCS)—the “Kyushu Gypsies”—at Itazuke Air Base in Japan to dispatch 11 C-47s to Yonpo Airfield, the aviation facility closest to the port city of Hungnam, the southern anchor of 1stMarDiv’s MSR.

Last Days at Hagaru-ri

The first Gypsy C-47 touched down at Hagaru-ri on the afternoon of Dec. 1, but, according to “The Chosin Reservoir Campaign,” the landing and subsequent takeoff were anything but uneventful: “It was a tense moment, at 1430 that afternoon, when the knots of parka-clad Marine spectators watched the wheels of the first FEAF C-47 hit the frozen, snow-covered strip.

The big two-motored aircraft bounced and lurched its way over the rough surface, but the landing was a success. An even more nerve-racking test ensued half an hour later when the pilot took off with 24 casualties. It seemed for a breath-snatching instant that the run wouldn’t be long enough for the machine to become airborne, but at last the tail lifted and the wings got enough ‘bite’ to clear the hills to the south.”

Several more planes of the 21st TCS flew into Hagaru-ri after that, offloaded their cargoes and left for Yonpo fully loaded with casualties. The last arrival of the day, a Marine Corps R4D heavily laden with ammunition, broke its landing gear on touchdown and crashed. A total of 211 casualties were flown out of Hagru-ri that day: 157 by C-47s and 54 by Stinson OY-1 aircraft and Sikorsky HO3S-1 helicopters of Marine Observation Squadron 6.

According to Captain Annis G. Thompson’s “The Greatest Airlift: The Story of Combat Cargo,” few planes flew in and out of Hagaru-ri without experiencing damage from harassing enemy groundfire or mishaps.

In fact, the Air Force considered the flights to be so dangerous that it prohibited flight nurses of the 801st Medical Air Evacuation Squadron based at Yonpo from participating in them; only aeromedical technicians of the squadron provided in-flight care.

When casualties from Hagaru-ri arrived at Yonpo Airfield, they were triaged by X Corps medical clearing teams to one of the three fully staffed and equipped hospitals in the Hungnam area; to the hospital ship, USS Consolation (AH-15), moored in Hungnam Harbor; or flown to a military hospital in Japan.

The evening of Dec. 1, survivors of the embattled 31st Regimental Combat Team began arriving at Hagaru-ri. About 1,050 of those making it to safety required evacuation.

On Dec. 2, “an all-out effort was made to evacuate the casualties on hand by both C-47 and liaison plane,” Smith wrote in his aide-mémoire. Nine hundred and sixty casualties were flown to Yonpo that day. According to Gail B. Shisler’s book “For Country and Corps: The Life of General Oliver P. Smith,” things were so busy at the airfield, that it reminded Smith of LaGuardia Airport.

At about this time, Fritz, the assistant squadron officer of the 21st TCS, flew into Hagaru-ri, and later wrote of the experience: “Hagaru-ri lay in a bowl formed by mountains in all directions, except on the north side, which opened to the reservoir, a long narrow lake extended northward. The hamlet and our newly hacked airstrip area were protected from excess water by a long east-west dike about twenty-five high. The airstrip was oriented north-northwest to south-southeast, with the north end pushing right up to the dike. These features dictated landings north, with a guarantee of no over-shooting, and takeoffs south.”

Fritz also noted that runway was “about 2,500 feet” and that there was a “parking area for three C-47s.” Between the hamlet and airfield to the west was a “drop zone for C-119s,” above which “Marine Corps and Navy fighter aircraft droned in lazy circles.” But what he found most memorable was what he saw in and around the makeshift terminal: “After parking, I learned that people can overcome unbelievable difficulties. To an ex-Minnesotan and ex-infantryman/officer, this was a composite of a disaster and catastrophe. Severe cold greeted us, with a horrible stench—a pungent combination of vehicle exhausts, fired gunpowder, smoke from bonfires, and men’s bloody clothing over unwashed bodies.” Those ambulatory casualties who were waiting to be evacuated were “huddled speechless in knots, their eyes vacant from witnessing untold horrors, unshaven for days, and wearing blankets draped over their shoulders.” Everyone was disabled in one way or another: “Many hobbled about with walking poles or canes fashioned from tree limbs. Some were barefoot with bright-red or gangrene-blackened feet. One man who boarded my C-47 flipped away all of his toes like rotten apples before getting aboard. Not a word was spoken—a brief flicker in their eyes was their thanks for our ‘magic-carpet’ that would whisk them away to safety and medical attention.”

Some 464 casualties were evacuated to Yonpo on Dec. 3. At dusk, when air operations ceased, most of the casualties remaining at Hagaru-ri were those unable to be transported out and those among the survivors of the 31st Regimental Combat Team trickling in.

Sometime that day, Capt Hering went to the division command post to see Gen Smith. In his oral history transcript in the Marine Corps University Archives, Smith would remember that Hering was “fit to be tied” because he realized that some men with minor wounds or mild frostbite were gaming the system. Apparently, medical malingerers “would go down to the strip and get a blanket and a stretcher and then groan a bit,” and try to talk their way onto a flight. “It was our fault probably,” Smith admitted, “because the Air Force had sent up what they called an Evacuation Officer, and the doctor [Hering] assumed that the Evacuation Officer would see that the proper people got aboard the planes, but that was not his function at all; he was just thinking in terms of planes, not on what was flown on the planes.” As a stopgap measure, Hering promptly introduced a stationed at the loading area of every outgoing plane. “Nobody after that got on any plane without a [doctor-issued] ticket that showed that he was due to get out,” said Smith.

Hering also issued strict, multilevel triaging procedures for frostbite casualties, documented in a 1stMarDiv special action report dated Oct. 8-Dec. 15, 1950: “All frostbite [cases] were screened three times, once by their own unit surgeons, again by the medical companies and finally by a team consisting of the Division and Regimental surgeons and a senior line officer from each regiment. As a working criterion, those with large blisters or large discolored areas [Grade 3 frostbite] were considered candidates for evacuation.”

Borderline cases were referred to Hering, who later explained the simple but austere standard—the “Lessenden Rule”—that he used to decide for or against evacuation in his article, “Combat Medical Practice”: “This sorting of frost-bite added greatly to our medical burden and was … almost brutally done, as we needed every man capable of bearing a rifle … I personally passed on all controversial cases, using as my criteria the feet of the 5th Regimental Surgeon [LCDR Chet Lessenden]. He refused to be evacuated although he could not walk without great pain, but insisted on riding in an ambulance with his medical section. Those worse than we evacuated, those less fought their way back.”

***Marines of the 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines, set up a command post in the hills around Chosin Reservoir.***

Just after 7 p.m. on Dec. 3, the lead element of the column from Yudam-ni entered the Hagaru-ri defensive perimeter, and about twenty hours later, the rear guard arrived. As noted in one account of the heroic withdrawal from Yudam-ni in “The Chosin Reservoir Campaign,” “The four-day operation passed into history. Some 1,500 casualties were brought to Hagaru, a third of them being in the non-battle category, chiefly frostbite cases. It had taken the head of the column about 59 hours to cover the 14 miles, and the rear units 79 hours.”

The medical needs of the arriving casualties overwhelmed the medical facilities and personnel at Hagaru-ri. Yet, as Capt Hering later recalled, “Somehow they were sorted, those in need given resuscitation and definitive care, sheltered, warmed, and fed.” The critically wounded were shunted to the two medical battalion hospitals, Charlie and Easy Med, which were near the airstrip.

The commanding officer of Easy Med, Navy Lieutenant Commander Charles K. Holloway Jr., a veteran of the Second World War and one of the most experienced surgeons in the division, vividly remembered the challenges he faced on Dec. 4, as recounted in his unpublished manuscript “Escape From Hell: A Navy Surgeon Remembers Pusan, Inchon, and Chosin”: “We had so many patients lying, sitting, and standing that we could hardly see the floor. The 300 triple-deck bunks of our expanded capacity were simple wooden frames that held the patients’ own litters. I stacked patients like sardines in the commandeered pyramidal tents, 25 casualties in a circle around the center stove.

Their own body heat and warmth from the heater kept them from freezing until we could load them on planes in the few hours of safe operation left at the airstrip. There was not much else we could do for them at the time, but it was enough to save most of them.”

Those requiring “emergency surgery, and there was surprisingly few, managed to get it.”

**CAPT Eugene Hering, USN, 1st Marine Division surgeon, right, shows Secretary of the Navy Francis P. Matthews the hospital at Hamhung.**

Those whose surgery could be delayed “were evacuated by air to get needed surgical treatment later at the First Marine Division Hospital in Hamhung.” Those “who had made the supreme sacrifice for their buddies” were placed in a “morgue tent” erected in front of the hospital.

Dec. 5 was 1stMarDiv’s last full day at Hagaru-ri, and the rush was on to evacuate the remaining casualties. That day, according to Air Force historian William M. Leary’s book “Anything, Anywhere, Any Time: Combat Cargo in the Korean War,” the 21st TCS “flew 44 missions into the perimeter … the 1st Marine Aircraft Wing flew 10, and a detachment of C-47s from the Royal Hellenic Air Force flew 8.” Together they “brought in 254,851 pounds of freight and 81 replacement Marines” and evacuated “1,561 casualties.” Regretfully, wrote Leary, “there was neither the time nor the space on the airplanes to bring out all the bodies of the dead.”

While the busiest day of the airlift unfolded, correspondents scrambled to file their last-minute reports from Hagaru-ri. All civilians and nonessential personnel were directed to leave by the end of the day, as Gen Smith had ordered 1stMarDiv to begin the breakout from Hagaru-ri the following morning.

Their dramatic stories, accompanied by maps, filled the front pages of the nation’s newspapers. Their common theme: The oldest and most venerated division in the Marine Corps, the finest group of fighting men in the world, was in mortal danger of being annihilated by an overwhelming force of Chinese Communists. An estimated nine divisions had taken up positions along the MSR with the avowed intent of exterminating the 1st Marine Division. When a reporter asked Gen Smith whether he was retreating or withdrawing from the Chosin Reservoir, he replied that he had done neither. There is no retreating or withdrawing when you’re surrounded, he was purported to say, you can only attack. His response was quickly transmuted by the press into perhaps the most memorable phrase of the war: “Retreat, Hell! We are just attacking in a different direction.” Smith had refused General Tunner’s earlier offer to fly out the entire division—“It just didn’t occur to us that we wouldn’t be able to fight our way out,” he later said, according to the Marine Corps University Archives transcript.

During the snowy, sub-freezing morning of Dec. 6, the 7th Marines passed through the Hagaru-ri defensive perimeter and proceeded along the MSR toward Koto-ri, some 11 miles to the south; the breakout from the Chosin Reservoir had begun. “Twenty miles of icy, winding, mountain road barred by a 6,000-foot pass with enemy spread on both sides, stand between the Marines and the open road to the ocean,” wrote war correspondent Keyes Beech that day.

*A wounded Marine sips hot coffee from a canteen cup while awaiting evacuation to a rear area hospital for treatment.*

While this was unfolding, the evacuation of the remaining casualties continued. At noon, the director of operations for the Combat Cargo Command, Colonel Robert D. Forman, flew into Hagaru-ri to direct the final evacuation flights. Accompanying him was Michael James of the New York Times, who later described the final moments they spent at the airstrip: “By this time the whole area was a sea of flames. Not only were Marines burning their surplus stocks, but two slightly damaged C-47 transports, neither of which could be flown out due to lack of immediate repairs, went up in flames.

Colonel Forman who flew the last transport out … was notified by radio jeep that there was one more wounded man desperately in need of expert medical attention. For one hour Forman waited while the enemy closed in on the field. Eventually a jeep drove up with the last casualty who was taken aboard.”

As the plane lifted off through a swirling snowstorm and hail of enemy gunfire, countless Chinese Communist foot soldiers swarmed over the abandoned airfield.

An Unparalleled Aeromedical Operation

The following day, General Stratemeyer sent a redline message to the Chief of Staff of the U.S. Air Force, General Hoyt Vandenberg, reporting that 4,369 wounded Marines and soldiers had been evacuated by the Combat Cargo Command during the six-day Hagaru-ri airlift, as documented in “The Three Wars of Lt. Gen. George E Stratemeyer: His Korean War Diary.” By any standards, it was a historic achievement—a “very outstanding performance,” commented Stratemeyer in a dispatch to General Tunner. Time magazine was so impressed with the airlift that it featured Tunner on its Dec. 18 cover, calling him the “Airlifter.”

**Marine tanks maneuver around a blown bridge south of Koto-ri as the allies push to break out from a Chinese Communist encirclement en route to the beachhead at Hungnam, December 1950.**

Gen Smith was unsparing in his praise of the Hagaru-ri airlift. “I believe the story of this evacuation is without parallel,” he wrote in his aide-memoir. “Credit must go to the troop commanders whose determination and self-sacrifice made it possible to get the wounded out, to the medical personnel whose devotion to duty and untiring efforts saved many lives, and to the Marine and Air Force (including Greek) pilots who accomplished this difficult task without a fatal accident in spite of the hazards of the weather and the rudimentary landing strip.”

The “fabulous” airlift ushered in a new era in combat medicine, Hering said in a press conference after 1stMarDiv reached the safe environs of Hungnam, prompting one exuberant Kansas City Star reporter to label aeromedical evacuation as the “great medical weapon” of the war. Later, Hering would clarify its role in military medical operations in the article he wrote for The Military Surgeon journal: “Air evacuation is only a link in the chain of casualty care. It is a strong member of the team, but it is not the whole answer. Every other member of the team must be utilized under most conditions, from the company aid men all the way through to the evacuation hospital, the naval hospital ship, and the base hospitals in the zone of the interior. It is a wonderful adjunct, our greatest advance in the evacuation of casualties, but still an adjunct.”

Featured Image (Top): Casualties are loaded onto a C-47 at Hagaru-ri for evacuation during the Battle of the Chosin Reservoir, December 1950. Over six days, more than 4,300 casualties were flown out under constant threat of enemy fire.

Authors:

Dr. Eugene Ginchereau is a military historian and retired Navy physician.

André B. Sobocinski serves as the historian at the U.S. Navy Bureau of Medicine and Surgery.

The Rifle, the Creed And the General: Honoring the Legacy Of Major General William H. Rupertus

In March 1942, just months after the bombing of Pearl Harbor, the Marine Corps Chevron published a short but powerful piece titled “My Rifle: The Creed of a United States Marine.” Its author, then-Brigadier General William H. Rupertus, was serving as the commanding officer of Marine Corps Base San Diego, Calif. A career Marine and seasoned marksman, he understood better than most that a Marine’s rifle was more than a weapon—it was a lifeline.

That simple yet stirring creed, written during a time of global chaos and national mobilization, would go on to define the ethos of the United States Marine Corps for generations. As we celebrate the 250th anniversary of the Marine Corps, I want to share the story behind the rifle creed and the man who wrote it. He was my grandfather.

MajGen William H. Rupertus began his Marine Corps career as a competitive shooter and expert marksman. While commanding 1stMarDiv in the Pacific, Rupertus instilled in his Marines the same discipline and respect for the rifle that defined his own service. His legacy endures through the Rifleman’s Creed, a reflection of his belief that a Marine’s rifle is his most trusted companion in battle.

A Marksman from the Start

Rupertus joined the Marine Corps in 1913 after transferring from the U.S. Revenue Cutter Service (USRCS). He had graduated from the USRCS Academy second in his class but was denied sea duty due to his diagnosis with Bright’s Disease, which was supposed to kill him within three to five years.

Determined, he set his sights on the Marine Corps and graduated first in his class from the Marine Officers’ School. By 1914, he had been chosen, along with several classmates, to serve on the Marine Corps rifle team, a prestigious group that competed at the national level and symbolized the Corps’ elite marksmanship tradition. In addition to his duty on the USS Florida (BB-30), his early career centered on the rifle team and the disciplined culture it required.

Rupertus was not just a competent marksman—he was an Expert, earning several awards and the Distinguished Marksman badge.

Later, he spent time at the Marine Corps Headquarters in Washington, D.C., working closely with legendary marks-men and instructors, shaping the next generation of Marine riflemen. In an era when precision shooting was still revered and rifle qualification meant something personal, Rupertus helped instill a culture of marksmanship that remains a hallmark of the Corps to this day.

When he was stationed in China as a commanding officer with the 4th Marines, he also oversaw many rifle matches, a popular activity for these “China Marines” and competing countries.

Why He Wrote the Creed

After the Japanese attacked our fleet at Pearl Harbor on Dec. 7, 1941, catapulting us into World War II, the Marine Corps expanded rapidly, and thousands of new recruits filled training depots. In early 1942, Rupertus headed from Marine Corps Base San Diego, where he oversaw one of the nation’s largest hubs for preparing new recruits, to New River, N.C., to join General Alexander A. Vandegrift in the formation and training of the 1st Marine Division.

These young men came from all over the country, many with no military background and little experience with firearms. But they were ready to fight.

Rupertus had witnessed the brutal Japanese military tactics in China during the 1937 Battle of Shanghai while with the 4th Marines on his second duty tour in China; he and many of the officers and men there had predicted the Japanese would attack the United States.

Rupertus understood that the rifle had to become personal and sacred to each Marine if it was going to save their lives and win the ground battles in the Pacific. According to family and Marine Corps lore, Rupertus wrote the creed on a piece of paper in late February 1942 after reflecting on the importance of personal responsibility, discipline and survival in combat. He wanted every Marine, especially those new to the service, to understand that their rifle was not merely another piece of issued equipment.

And so, in quiet reflection, he wrote “My Rifle: The Creed of a United States Marine.”

“This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine. … My rifle is my life. I must master it as I master my life.”

Upon publication, the creed was immediately embraced. While the Chevron is no longer in print, Rupertus’ words have become a permanent fixture in the soul of the Corps.

A Quiet Tradition

William H. Rupertus went on to command 1stMarDiv during some of the most brutal fighting of the Pacific War, including Tulagi, Guadalcanal, Cape Gloucester and Peleliu. His belief in the rifleman, forged on the rifle range and articulated in the creed, never wavered.

When you understand the background, this rifleman’s creed is poetic, brutally practical and profound, knowing what America, our allies, the Marine Corps and all of the U.S. military were facing in 1942. And what we face today.

Since the creed was first published, it has been memorized by generations of Marines and other branches of our military. It’s been recited in the movies “Full Metal Jacket” and “Jarhead” as well as the popular video game “Call of Duty: Modern Warfare.” Though modern boot camp training no longer has recruits reciting it aloud daily, its words still echo in the ethos of every rifle range and combat zone where Marines serve.

Rupertus, right, meets with Col Jerry Thomas, left, and Gen A.A. Vandegrift, on Guadalcanal.

ADM Chester Nimitz presents Rupertus with the Navy Cross on Oct. 1, 1942, on Guadalcanal.

A Legacy Carried Forward

Though he fought hard, Rupertus did not see the end of the war. He died of a heart attack in March 1945 at the Marine Corps Barracks Washington, during a party with fellow veterans of 1stMarDiv.

In recent years, while researching his military background, I learned to recite the rifle creed myself. It’s more than military prose. It’s a reflection of who my grandfather was: precise, principled and utterly dedicated to the mission and the Marine. Above all, understanding that in the fog of war, a Marine must rely on what he knows best: his rifle, his training and his brothers and sisters in arms.

Over 80 years later, the rifle creed still speaks not only to the Marine Corps but to anyone who understands what it means to take responsibility, to train with purpose and to treat their tools—and their mission—with respect.

As we honor 250 years of the Marine Corps in 2025—and reflect on the nation it has served for two and a half centuries—I offer this story in remembrance of a man who knew that the heart of the Corps beats in the chest of every rifleman and riflewoman. Because before the battles, before the medals and before the victories—there was a Marine and his rifle.

Semper Fidelis.

Then-BGen William H. Rupertus outside of his command post on Guadalcanal, November 1942.

Author’s bio: Amy Rupertus Peacock is a daughter and granddaughter of U.S. Marines and co-author of the book “Old Breed General.”