Archives: Leatherneck Magazines

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Editor’s note: This story was originally published in the September 2011 issue of Leatherneck Magazine.

Marine Major Robert J. Darling sat glued to the TV monitor in his office at the Eisenhower Executive Office Building. He was in­credulous. An aircraft had just plowed into the World Trade Center’s South Tower and exploded in a gigantic ball of flaming gasoline. He heard someone exclaim, “My God, did you see that? I can’t believe it!” Someone else yelled, “There’s a full-blown terrorist attack right before our eyes in New York City.”

In minutes, Darling heard the intercom system blast, “Evacuate the White House complex! All personnel are to evacuate the White House complex immediately.” But Darling could not leave his post as the airlift operations officer responsible for the logistical support for the President of the United States, who was traveling and would certainly need him in this crisis.
As the White House and Eisenhower Executive Office Building were evacuated, Darling headed underground toward the President’s Emergency Operations Center, known as the “PEOC.” This is his story of “a morning unlike any other.”

As a Marine Corps officer assigned to the White House Airlift Operations department, I was an integral part of the logistics arm of the White House Military Office (WHMO). Our mission was to support the safe and timely travel of the President, Vice President, first family and other designated VIPs who work in direct support of the White House by prepositioning helicopters, secure phones, Secret Service vehicles and other special equipment, utilizing the heavy-lift assets of the Department of Defense. Essentially, I was a glorified travel agent, and I loved every minute of it.

On Sept. 11, 2001, my alarm went off at 5:20 a.m. and then again at 5:30 a.m. After forcing myself out of bed, I picked out a clean suit and got dressed. Military personnel assigned to the White House wear business attire to work rather than military uniforms, so that it is less like a military base and more like the home of the first family.

On Wednesdays we were permitted to wear our military service uniforms. For Marines, that usually meant wearing the “Charlie” uniform—the green trousers and tan short-sleeved shirt. In the winter months, we switched to a long-sleeved tan shirt with a tie, called the Bravo uniform. The reason why we were permitted to wear our uniforms on Wednesday was a mystery, but it was a welcome opportunity to display ourselves as the fighting men and women of America’s Armed Forces, proud to serve both our country and our President.
By 6 a.m., I was dressed and into my car, heading to Washington and the White House from my home in Stafford, Va., a suburb about 30 miles to the south.

My first stop was the “slug line.” What other cities call “ride sharing” and “carpooling” is known in Washington, D.C./the Virginia suburbs as “slugging,” an informal, self-monitoring system that is free and not only moves thousands of commuters to work every day, but does so faster than the bus, Metro or train systems.

In no time at all, I had the two passen­gers I needed to be able to drive in the High Occupancy Vehicle lanes. They were both female civilians who worked at the Pentagon. They hopped into my car, greeted me with a grateful “hello,” and we were off.

As soon as I heard the click of their seat belts, I turned up the volume on my radio, pulled out of the commuter lot and joined the madness on Interstate 95 North. One of my passengers read her newspaper; the other stared out the window, probably pondering the day ahead.

My day was supposed to be fairly straight­forward and ordinary. President George W. Bush was at the Emma E. Booker Elementary School in Sarasota, Fla., on a trip designed to spotlight edu­cation and reading, and all I had left to do was make sure the Air Mobility Command had everything in place to bring the presidential gear home the moment the President was safely aboard Air Force One on his way back to Washington that afternoon.

I exited the highway near the Pentagon, which is a city unto itself. On any given morning, literally thousands of people head toward the building on foot from the enormous parking lots that surround it. They come by car, by subway or by public transportation, and they represent all walks of life and many different levels of responsibility. As a member of the military family, I always thought of them as unified by their mission: to defend America.

7:20 a.m.
I pulled over to let my passengers out, told them both to have a nice day and carefully made my way out of the parking lot.

I crossed over the Memorial Bridge and then, a few blocks later, parked along the Ellipse, the much-photographed park between the Washington Monument and the White House. I walked to the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, otherwise known around town as the EEOB. It is the only building on the west side of the White House campus.

I passed through security and made my way to the Airlift Operations Office on the fourth floor.

8:10 a.m.
We all gathered around and looked up at the large, white magnetic board on the back wall that displayed all the special-assignment air missions, or SAAMs, that were either being executed or planned. Each VIP was represented by a different colored magnet. Each magnet had a number and a destination.
We didn’t know that at that very moment, four groups of terrorists were bearing down the East Coast to our financial capital and to our political capital.

8:46 a.m.
And so it began.

At approximately 8:46 a.m., American Airlines Flight 11 tore into the 96th floor of the North Tower of the World Trade Center.

Like most Americans who are old enough to remember Sept. 11, 2001, I will carry with me the events of that day for the rest of my life—they are seared into my memory. I watched them unfold from deep within our government’s nerve center—inside the White House bunker. I saw and heard firsthand the reactions and responses of our nation’s leaders as the day passed in all of its minute-by-minute terror, with each event raw, unvarnished and unfiltered by the speculations of news anchors.

The news of the first airplane slamming into the World Trade Center reached the Airlift Operations Office at about 8:50 a.m., and, like much of the country, we turned on CNN to get the details. We all stood in front of the television, speculating as to how and why an aircraft would have hit such a huge and prominent landmark on a crystal-clear morning. Had the pilot had a heart attack? Had some sort of massive aircraft technical failure occurred?
At approximately 9:03 a.m., while staring at the TV, I commented to the others in the room as another airliner came into view. “OK, so what’s this moron doing?” No doubt trying to get a close-up view of the hole in the building, I thought.

All of a sudden, to my horror and total disbelief, the airliner careened into the South Tower at what looked like full power, smashing with such fury that it looked as if the building wanted to fall over right then and there.
Everyone watched in shock, absolutely stunned, as the inferno and billowing smoke poured from New York’s signature monuments to its financial supremacy. We were wrenched from our private thoughts only when someone shouted, “There’s a full-blown terrorist attack happening right before our eyes in New York City!”

Just about then, Dennis Stump, our deputy director, called out, “Attention, everyone! Heads up. I want each of you to stand by for the probability of a lot of high-level, White House-directed airlift requests that might start coming in support of the first responders in New York.”

When tragedy strikes on a national level and emergency supplies have to get to a disaster site immediately to save lives, the White House usually steps in on behalf of another government agency, such as FEMA, and orders the DOD to take action and coordinate the special-assignment air missions necessary to support them.

As Stump was talking, the deafening noise of a low-flying, approaching airliner drowned out his voice as it overflew the EEOB and White House. We paused for a moment, staring at each other before running for the window. After having just watched the destruction in New York in real time, to say we were unnerved would be an understatement. A flyover like this was extremely unusual, because the airspace over the White House is classified as prohibited airspace, meaning no one is allowed to fly over it—ever.

We now had the first inkling that this attack might not just be on New York, but on our nation’s capital as well. Within minutes, CNN announced more breaking news and switched its attention from the World Trade Towers in New York City to reports of a large explosion and significant fire at the Pentagon.

9:45 a.m.
What happened next was even more unbelievable. The building’s intercom suddenly came to life and ordered all personnel to evacuate the White House and the adjoining Eisenhower Executive Office Building.

“Evacuate the White House complex! All personnel are to evacuate the White House complex immediately! … Evacuate the White House complex! All personnel are to evacuate the White House complex immediately!”
When in our history was the last time something like that ever happened? Maybe when Dolley Madison rushed from the White House, carrying out whatever she could as the British closed in on the city? Things were happening so fast that my mind raced to catch up and process this series of incredible events.

As we secured our work spaces and prepared to leave the building, I quickly grabbed Colonel Mike Irwin, USAF, our director of Airlift Operations. We dis­cussed the possibility that the President wouldn’t be coming back to Washington that day, and as the designated Airlift Op­erations officer responsible for his logistics that week, I felt I couldn’t evacuate and leave. If he wasn’t coming back to D.C., where would he go? What would he need? How would we get it to him? It was my job to figure that out, and I wasn’t willing to walk away from that responsibility, no matter what was happening outside.
Col Irwin agreed, and with that, he ordered me to grab the Airlift Operations planning bind­er and to head for the White House basement to the President’s Emergency Operations Center to start coordinating military airlift assets to support the President’s movements.

Grim-faced Secret Service agents were taking up positions in and around the White House to include the Ellipse to the south and Lafayette Park to the north. I paused for a split second at the surreal sight of the mass exodus before me and then quickly focused on getting to the White House basement. I entered the West Wing under the white awning, flashed my military credentials to the armed agents at the entrance and bounded down the stairs at nearly a full run.

Arriving at the entrance, I picked up the phone, called the duty officer inside and requested access. The heavy steel door opened.

As I entered, I immediately saw a very small contingent of WHMO personnel diligently answering phones and taking notes. No sooner had I announced to the duty officer that I was there to coordinate military airlift assets for the President than I saw one of the Vice President’s military aides. He was frantically answering phones and giving orders to other personnel.
“Hey, Bob,” he yelled, “forget whatever it is you’re planning on doing and help me answer the phones. They’re ringing off the hook.”

9:52 a.m.
I put my Airlift Operations binder down in a corner of the room and immediately grabbed the nearest ringing phone, which turned out to be a direct, secure line between the Situation Room, located in the West Wing of the White House, and the PEOC.

“Major Darling, here. Can I help you?”

During the next 24 hours I stood side by side with the Vice President, national security advisor and other high-level White House staffers as America struggled to come to grips with the magnitude of the worst attack on U.S. soil since Pearl Harbor.

Historic events such as the near shoot down of United Flight 93 as it approached a target in Washington, D.C., at more than 500 mph; the scramble to kill an unidentified bogey aircraft approaching the White House from the west only to find out at the very last moment that it was a medical evacuation helicopter on the wrong frequency heading to save lives at the Pentagon; the credible source and the threat to President Bush onboard Air Force One; moving our strategic nuclear forces to Defense Condition 3 (DEFCON) and the concerned call from Russian President Vladimir Putin; and of course, the horrific moments of watching the Twin Towers collapse, the devastation at the Pentagon, and the emotional toll it all had on the President as he was in­formed that the death toll could be as high as 40,000 Americans; as well as the moment al-Qaida was implicated in the attack and how President Bush informed his Cabinet to prepare America for war; and other untold events unfolded while we were inside the White House bunker.

What I witnessed during those 24 hours was unprecedented crisis leadership from our nation’s top officials as they recognized the scale, coordination and devastation of the attacks against us. I was struck by their decisiveness to take lives of those unfortunate enough to be under the control of suicidal terrorists, in order to save scores of innocent lives on the ground. They weren’t just politicians; they were brave Americans who, when faced with the worst reality imaginable, rose to the challenge of our time to protect our America.
I was proud of their courage and I was proud to stand among them.
The next day I returned home to my family and hugged my wife. I knew that our war against terrorism and radical extremism would be a long fight. I was emotional over the thought that my serv­ice to our country wouldn’t be enough to guarantee endless freedom for my children, but that someday they too would most likely have to join ranks to continue to protect and defend the country we love and our American way of life.

Since Sept. 11, 2001, I’ve retired from active-duty service, but continue to watch with pride as America’s servicemen and women wearing the uniforms of the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marine Corps and Coast Guard have stepped forward to be counted as warriors in democracy’s defense.

I drive by the Pentagon often, and I never forget to thank God for what it stands for: the power and might of the greatest nation on earth. The ground at American Flight 77’s site of impact is consecrated soil now. The memorial erected there is an elegant testament to the sacrifice of the 184 men and women on board the plane and in the Pentagon. As I pass by its outer walls, I remember them, and I silently promise them I will never forget their sacrifice.
I think of the heroes of United Airlines Flight 93, who would not let the terrorists win and who may have saved unknown numbers of lives in the nation’s capital with their selfless, spontaneous and collaborative acts of bravery. I hope I would have that much courage if faced with the same decision.

And I think of all our fellow countrymen and citizens of foreign nations who perished in the World Trade Center and the first responders—the firefighters, police, New York City Transit workers and ordinary citizens—who braved a fiery hell itself to save others after American Airlines Flight 11 and United Flight 175 were plunged into the North and South towers.
As a Marine, I am proud to have played even a small role in the events of that transformational September day. And I will never forget.

Author’s bio: LtCol Darling was a former HMX-1 presidential pilot and White House liaison officer.

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

From the spring of 1967 through mid-1969, a firebase named Con Thien, located 1.5 miles south of the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) dividing North and South Vietnam, was the scene of fierce combat between the U.S. Marines and the North Vietnamese Army (NVA). The Marines would hold Con Thien “at all costs,” but the cost was high. By the time the firebase was turned over to the South Vietnamese Army in 1969, 1,400 U.S. Marines and Navy corpsmen had sacrificed all their tomorrows and more than 9,000 were wounded.

I arrived in Vietnam in August 1967, a recent graduate of the Marine officers tracked vehicle training course at Camp Pendleton, Calif. After a brief stint at the 3rd Tank Battalion Headquarters outside of Phu Bai, I was called into the colonel’s bunker one day where I was informed that I was being transferred up to Con Thien to take over command of “Alpha” Company’s 1st Tank Platoon. I was going to replace the tank platoon commander there who had been wounded twice by NVA artillery in 10 days.

Sept. 10, my first morning on Con Thien, I ducked into the tanker bunker to introduce myself when I was greeted by a tall Marine who said, “Welcome to the fighting first platoon, sir!” He then stabbed his bayonet into a warm can of beer and offered me a swig. I remember thinking as I managed to down the warm beer without gagging on it, “All right! I’ve found a home here.”

The Marine who first greeted me was Albert “Bert” Trevail, a 24-year-old lance corporal who had served one tour in the Canadian Army. He then tried college but didn’t enjoy academia, so he came to America, joined the U.S. Marines, and got his wish to be sent to Vietnam. He was the driver on my tank and had been at Con Thien for a month before I arrived. When I mentioned needing to meet with the platoon sergeant, Trevail sat me down and explained what dangers I had to be aware of and how and when it was safe to make any trips on foot around the perimeter. No doubt, I owe my survival during my 40 days under siege at Con Thien to Trevail’s tutoring of his “new-boot second lieutenant.”

Every afternoon, all unit leaders were required to attend the 3/9 CO’s daily briefing at 4 p.m. During one briefing, we twice dove out of our chairs due to several close incoming rounds of artil­lery fired from the DMZ. When the briefing ended, I waited until it was quiet, then sprinted over to my bunker.

Bursting in through the entrance, I noted my crewmen were all sitting hunched over in silence, dejectedly staring at the floor. That’s when I learned that one of the incoming artillery shells had scored a direct hit on the bunker next to ours, critically wounding two Marines. Trevail had ignored the threat of more incoming, rushed over to the two wounded Marines, loaded them on our tank by himself, then drove the tank over to the Battalion Aid Station, likely saving their lives. I made a report on Trevail’s act of bravery under fire to my company commander back in Dong Ha, but never heard any more about it.

My third evening on Con Thien, it was my tank’s turn to spend the night on the northern perimeter. Around 3 a.m., I was asleep on my tank’s rear deck when I was jarred awake by snapping and popping noises zipping over the tank. We were under attack! Flares floating down from overhead revealed numerous enemy figures charging towards our perimeter wire. I jumped inside the tank turret and ordered the crewmen to open fire with our weapons—the 90mm main gun and the .30-caliber coaxial machine gun. But my own cupola-mounted .50-cal. machine gun jammed. Sitting up forward in the driver’s seat, Trevail heard me cursing out my gun. He chose to open the driver’s hatch, expose his head and shoulders to enemy fire, and open fire with his .45 pistol and the M14 rifle he kept (against regulations).

The word was soon passed to cease fire. In the dwindling flare light, numerous NVA bodies lay unmoving on the ground before us. None of them had been able to breach the inner perimeter wire. At daylight, the 3/9 CO and XO were making the rounds of the northern perimeter when they stopped beside our tank. “You tankers did a great job last night, lieutenant,” said the colonel. I thanked him on behalf of my tank crewmen. I would also inform my company com­mander about Trevail’s bravery under fire. Unfortunately, the captain was soon relieved of duty due to some questionable decisions he had made, so my report on Trevail never saw the light of day.

Several months later, after Trevail had made corporal and was promoted to tank commander, we were back up at Con Thien for another 60-day stay. It was a sunny, warm spring day when I was told to mount up my platoon and head out the south gate. A Marine patrol had walked into an ambush southwest of Yankee Station. As my three tanks got in line and charged at the enemy position, an NVA soldier leapt out from behind a shrub and opened fire at Trevail’s tank with his AK-47 rifle. Nearby Marines immediately shot down the NVA soldier, so I believed he had missed Trevail. As my tanks reached the abandoned NVA bunker position, I pulled my tank up next to Trevail’s tank expecting to tell him, “Nice work, Corporal.” That’s when I noticed a bloody bandage wrapped around the side of his face as he was helping hoist an injured Marine up on his tank.

I said in no uncertain terms, “Trevail, you get on over to the medevac area … now!!” He replied, “Sir, I can’t leave these Marines out here.” I replied again, “Bert, that is an order! Now, move out!” He did as ordered but didn’t climb aboard a medevac helicopter until after all the wounded Marines carried on his tank were safely medevacked.

Later that same morning, I rode my tank to our company headquarters in Dong Ha to make a full report on my reaction force attack on the NVA ambush site. I decided to stop in at Delta Med and see how Trevail was doing. He was sitting at a table by himself, his head all bandaged. When he saw me, he jumped up and begged me to take him out of there and back up to Con Thien. I told him I could not do that without the head corpsman’s permission. I told him to enjoy the hot chow, hot showers, and clean sheets to sleep on. But he wanted no part of it. Excusing myself, I left and went over to the Alpha Company CP to report in. Later, after a delicious hot lunch at 9th Motor Transport, my crewmen and I mounted our tank and headed back up the road to Con Thien. As I stepped down into our bunker, who should greet me with a sheepish smile but Cpl Trevail.

“T-Trevail! H-how … how?” I stuttered, totally dumbfounded. I did not know whether to chew him out or what. I de­cided to stay calm and ask him why he was not still back at the hospital. He stated that when he noted a truck convoy forming up outside of Delta Med, he walked out and approached a truck driver, asking him where they were headed. When the driver said “Con Thien,” Trevail asked permission to climb aboard and the driver said, “Sure!”

I did not know what to do. Here was a Marine who would rather be with his buddies in a dangerous place where he would risk getting hurt or worse at any moment than live comfortably for a week in a relatively safe, secure location in the rear. I radioed my company commander back in Dong Ha, told him what Trevail had done, and asked for advice. The cap­tain told me he would cover for Trevail, saying he misunderstood the doctor’s instructions. I thought I heard a few muffled chuckles in the background.

In mid-July, 1968, the entire 9th Ma­rine Regiment embarked upon an incur­sion into the southern half of the DMZ. My five-tank platoon was attached to G/2/9. As we moved out in attack for­mation toward a North Vietnamese bunk­er complex, the enemy opened up on us with a mortar attack. One of my tanks drove down into a 2,000-lb. bomb crater caused by a recent B-52 strike and was stuck in the loose dirt at the bottom. All my tanks halted in place while I tried to think how to undo this dilemma. The infantry company commander was on the radio, yelling at me to get my tanks mov­ing. I told him I couldn’t leave one of my tanks behind. Just then, Trevail pulled his tank up to the edge of the crater, jumped to the ground and unhooked his tow cable. Ignoring the enemy mortar shells impacting nearby, he dragged that heavy, steel tow cable down to the stuck tank and hooked it up. Then he climbed out of the crater and ground-guided the stuck tank out of the crater. We were able then to resume the attack. I subsequently wrote Trevail up for a Bronze Star medal and he received it, as well as a meritorious promotion to sergeant.

I rotated stateside two months later. Trevail extended for two more tours in Vietnam. He remained on active duty for 20 more years, retiring as a master sergeant. Years later, I encountered him through our membership in the USMC Vietnam Tankers Association. I learned that he had gone back to college, achieved his teaching certificate, and was working at a Sacramento, Calif., high school as a computer science instructor. Sadly, Albert Trevail is no longer with us, hav­ing passed away a few years ago. He will always remain in my heart and mind as the most outstanding Marine Corps warrior that I was fortunate to have served with in Vietnam. I personally witnessed his courage under fire numerous times, often when coming to the aid of other wounded Marines.

Author’s bio: Capt James P. Coan served three years active duty in the Marine Corps and three years in the Reserves before being honorably dis­charged in 1972. Coan had a 30-year career with the California Youth Author­ity before retiring to Arizona near his hometown of Tucson. Coan is the author of two books: “Con Thien: The Hill of Angels” and “Time in the Barrel: A Ma­rine’s Account of the Battle for Con Thien.” Coan is a life member of the USMC Vietnam Tankers Association, VFW, Military Order of the Purple Heart and Marine Corps League.

Executive Editor’s note: What’s old is new again. September marks 80 years since Marines fought and died on Peleliu. The island was taken as part of the Allies’ island hopping campaign during World War II.
Peleliu has once again become a critical element in U.S. strategy—this time due to its important location with respect to major power competition with China. Due to the island’s renewed significance, Peleliu’s airstrip has been restored. Read about the recent landing of a Marine Corps KC-130 on the island on page 13.

The September 1944 Battle of Peleliu is not as well-known as other battles in the World War II island hopping campaign. Perhaps because, as one survivor recalled in Colonel Joseph H. Alexander’s book “Storm Landings,” “Everything about Peleliu left a bad taste in your mouth.”

By the time the 1st Marine Division landed on Peleliu, the reason for taking the island had been rendered moot by events elsewhere. Worse, the poor execu­tion of the battle by the senior leadership of the 1st Marine Division bled the di­vision white. Failing to understand that the Japanese were employing a new de­fensive doctrine that had been designed with the goal of inflicting maximum cas­ualties rather than attempting to throw an amphibious assault back into the sea, Major General William Rupertus and his senior subordinates continued to em­ploy the tactics that had worked in the division’s previous battles at Guadalcanal and Cape Gloucester. While the decision to take Peleliu didn’t rest solely with MajGen Rupertus, he and the senior leader­ship of 1stMarDiv were responsible for draining the division’s resources by launching frontal assaults against well dug-in Japanese fortifications. In the end, tactical command of 1stMarDiv was replaced by the Army’s 81st Infantry.

Strategic Background
Prior to World War II, the Navy had developed War Plan Orange, the Navy’s strategy for advancing across the Central Pacific to relieve the Philippines and to fight and win a modern-day Jutland against the Imperial Japanese Navy in the western Pacific. The plan ended with a blockade of the Japanese home islands to ensure a complete U.S. victory. After the attack on Pearl Harbor, the U.S. Navy spent the first two years of the war on the defensive or conducting a slow, me­thodical advance up the Solomon Islands chain. But on Nov. 20, 1943, the Central Pacific offensive began.

Under the strategic direction of Ad­miral Chester Nimitz, Commander in Chief, Pacific Fleet (CINCPAC) and Com­mander in Chief Pacific Ocean Areas, and the tactical command of Admiral Raymond A. Spruance, Com­mander, 5th Fleet, troops landed at Makin and Tarawa in the Gilbert Islands. From that point on, the Central Pacific offensive was very successful, capturing Kwajalein and Roi-Namur in the Marshall Islands (Jan. 31-Feb. 7, 1944) and Saipan, Guam and Tinian in the Mariana Islands (June 15-Aug. 10, 1944). Using new and in­no­vative carrier tactics, Task Force 58 (TF 58), the Fast Carrier Task Force of the 5th Fleet, would isolate an island or group of islands from Japanese air and sea at­tack, while the amphibious ships of the V Amphibious Force carried the Marines and soldiers of V Amphibious Corps to the beaches, who conducted the actual landings.

However, following the capture of Guam in August 1944, the Central Pacific offensive was put on hiatus to focus American resources on supporting General Douglas MacArthur’s return to the Philippines. To that end, ADM Spruance relinquished command to ADM William “Bull” Halsey, and the 5th Fleet was immediately redesignated the 3rd Fleet. TF 58 became TF 38, and the V Amphibious Force became III Amphib­ious Force. The 3rd Fleet also contained the III Amphibious Corps, which had been established in April 1944 and con­sisted of 1stMarDiv and 81st Infantry Division and was com­manded by Marine aviator MajGen Roy S. Geiger.

MacArthur’s Return to the Philippines and Nimitz’s Refusal
To Cancel Peleliu
Following his defeat in the Philippines and his subsequent arrival in Australia in March 1942, General Douglas Mac­Arthur, Commander in Chief, Southwest Pacific Area, was determined to return there. After much debate, including a presidential visit to Pearl Harbor in July 1944 to hear MacArthur’s proposal to take the Philippines and Nimitz’s pro­posal to take Formosa (present-day Taiwan), the joints chiefs of staff granted MacArthur his wish.

MacArthur’s original plan was first to take Mindanao, the southernmost is­land in the archipelago, then Leyte, a large island in the central Philippines, and finally, in the culmination of the cam­paign, Luzon, the northernmost and largest of the Philippines—where Manila, the capital, was located. But ADM Halsey, commanding his newly redesignated 3rd Fleet, recommended a radical change in the plan to Nimitz: “Nimitz had promised Douglas MacArthur in the presence of President Roosevelt the previous summer that he would support his adjoining theater commander’s long-anticipated return to the Philippines,” writes Colonel Joseph Alexander, USMC (Ret) in his book “Storm Landings: Epic Amphibious Battles in the Central Pacific.”

“MacArthur worried about the threat to his right flank in advancing from New Guinea to Mindanao posed by Japanese airfields on Peleliu in the Palaus and on Morotai in the Moluccas. The two com­manders agreed to attack both islands on 15 September, MacArthur against Moro­tai, Nimitz against Peleliu.”
According to Alexander, “Abruptly, at [the] eleventh hour, came a thunderbolt from Halsey. In a flash precedence, top secret message to Nimitz, intended for the Joint Chiefs, Halsey recommended major revisions to the conduct of the Pacific War. While rampaging through the Philippines with his fast carrier task forces, Halsey had found surprisingly light opposition. In his view, the door to the central Philippines lay open (‘this was the vulnerable underbelly of the Imperial Dragon’). His message suggested mind-boggling changes: cancel the invasion of Mindanao altogether; strike instead at Leyte, and do so two months early; cancel the entire Palaus operation; redeploy the Army’s XXIV Corps (scheduled to seize Yap and Ulithi) to MacArthur for Leyte.”

The joint chiefs responded to Halsey’s recommendations with unusual alacrity and unanimity. MacArthur was author­ized to bypass Mindanao and go directly to Leyte, but they left to Nimitz the de­cision to execute the original plan and take Peleliu as scheduled or cancel it. Nimitz chose to stick with the original plan. Unfortunately, the reason for tak­ing Peleliu—to guard MacArthur’s right flank as he attacked Mindanao—was no longer necessary. As retired Marine Col­onel Dick Camp wrote in his book “Last Man Standing: The 1st Marine Regiment on Peleliu, September 15-21, 1944,” “Pele­liu was a battle that should not have happened. Initially planned to support MacArthur’s return to the Philippines, the bloody assault on this small seven-square-mile coral island was declared to be unnecessary by ADM William F. ‘Bull’ Halsey, Jr., after his fast carrier strike force found the Philippines ripe for the picking. He recommended can­celing the operation but was overruled by Fleet Adm. Chester Nimitz—a con­troversial decision that signed the death warrant for thousands of Americans and Japanese.”

Why did Nimitz choose to execute the landing on Peleliu as scheduled? He didn’t record the reasons why in a diary, so his motives are open to conjecture. Likely there were several reasons which could’ve justified his decision. First of all, advanced operations were already in progress for the scheduled Sept. 15 as­sault when Halsey’s message was re­ceived on Sept. 13. Nimitz was concerned that if he called off Peleliu, the Japanese would claim they had defeated an Ameri­can amphibious assault and thrown the Ma­rines back into the sea. Second, as Alexander states, CINCPAC had worked hard to get Peleliu and adjoining islands forces under way; reversing that momen­tum would be costly and bad for morale. Lastly, according to author Jim Moran’s “The Battle of Peleliu: Three Days that Turned into Three Months,” Nimitz stated that “the invasion forces were already at sea and the commitment made, making it too late to call off the invasion.”

Nimitz should have been more con­cerned about the reality of heavy losses than about the Japanese scoring a propa­ganda victory. The Japanese claimed numerous outlandish victories and suc­cesses throughout World War II, includ­ing claiming to sink multiple carriers of TF 38 when in fact TF 38 suffered little or no damage. Canceling an operation the size of Peleliu would be difficult but not impossible.

While Nimitz’s failure to cancel the Peleliu operation was wrong, the senior leadership of 1stMarDiv would make a bad situation much worse. There were also new Japanese tactics that confounded MajGen Rupertus and his senior subordinates.

A Change of Japanese Tactics: “Fukkaku Positions”
The original Japanese doctrine for defending against American amphibious assaults was to defeat the assault at the water’s edge.

In the book “Utmost Savagery: The Three Days of Tarawa,” by Col Joseph Alexander, “The Japanese planned to defend Betio [the island of the Tarawa atoll that 2ndMarDiv assaulted] at the water’s edge, a static vice mobile tactical philosophy that would characterize the defenses of some of the subsequent, larger islands in the Central Pacific. … [Japanese] ‘Battle Dispositions’ of October 1942 contained the directive, ‘Knock out the landing boats with moun­tain gun fire, tank guns and infantry guns, then concentrate all fires on the enemy’s landing point and destroy him at the water’s edge.’ Employment of this water’s-edge defense by Navy units was so prevalent in 1943-1944 that one can assume a central directive of this nature emanating from the Navy Division, IGHQ [Imperial General Headquarters].”

Dying for the emperor was considered a privilege for those Japanese who were immersed in the bushido culture and revered their emperor as a living deity. With an emphasis on the offensive, such as banzai charges, this defensive doctrine played to the strengths of Japan’s army. But after failing to stop the Marines at the water’s edge at Tarawa, Roi-Namur, Saipan, Guam and Tinian, the Japanese fundamentally changed their tactics at Peleliu.

Acknowledging the reality that they couldn’t defeat an American amphibious landing at the water’s edge, they chose to conduct a prolonged cam­paign of attrition designed to bleed the landing force as much as possible in hopes that the American people would be demoralized by the heavy casualties and agree to a negotiated peace.

What were these specific tactical changes? Alexander in “Storm Landings” explains:

“Imperial General Headquarters in August 1944 published “Defense Guid­ance on Islands,” which reflected the bitter lessons of the Marianas, recommended defense in depth, and advised against ‘reflex, rash counterattacks.’ Army field commanders noted the transition from seeking the elusive ‘decisive engage­ment’—ludicrous in the absence of air or naval superiority—to a much more realistic policy of ‘endurance engage­ment.’ Policy statements began to include the phrase ‘Fukkaku positions,’ defined as underground, honeycombed defensive positions.”

These new defensive tactics imple­mented by the Japanese leadership on Peleliu were greatly enhanced by the island’s forbidding terrain. According to “Storm Landings” by Alexander,

“Peleliu is barely 6 miles long by 2 miles wide and shaped like a lobster claw. The airfields—the main complex in the south and the fighter strip under con­struction on Ngesebus in the north—lay fully exposed in flat ground. But along the northern edge lay the badlands—a jumble of upthrust coral and limestone ridges, box canyons, natural caves, and sheer cliffs. The natives called this for­bid­ding terrain the Umurbrogal; the Japa­nese named it Momoji. The Americans would call it Bloody Nose Ridge. But here was a critical intelligence failure. Dense scrub vegetation covered and disguised the Umurbrogal before the bombardment began. Overhead aerial photographs failed to reveal this critical topography to U.S. analysts. That’s why General Geiger [the commander of the III Amphibious Corps,] was so astonished on D-day to see such dominant terrain overlooking the airfield and beaches. [IGHQ sent] mining and tunnel engineers to Peleliu to help build the defenses. Within months the forbidding hills and cliffs were honeycombed with more than five hundred caves. Some were five or six stories deep. Some had sliding steel doors to protect heavy weapons. All had alternate exits. All were mutually sup­port­ing by observed fire. Here was a classic Fukkaku position defense.”

Alexander points out a particularly imaginative tactic the Japanese used. After the Underwater Demolition Teams (UDTs) removed the mines and obstacles leading to the beach, the Japanese had swimmers plant antiboat mines and had, in effect, underwater kamikazes:

“UDT frogmen removed hundreds of antiboat obstacles from the approaches to the landing beaches during dangerous daylight operations. But [Colonel] Nak­gawa [the main architect of the Japanese defenses on Peleliu,] had his own stealth swimmers. These he sent out the night before D-Day to plant rows of horned antiboat mines 150 yards from the beach. This was a stroke of brilliance, but it failed in execution because Nakagawa’s swimmers in their haste neglected to pull the safety pins from most of the mines. Otherwise, the results could have been disastrous for the landing force. Postland­ing sweeps found a large number of these powerful mines with their contact horns crushed by American LVTs, intact but harmless.

“Nakagawa, alerted to the American’s intended beaches by the UDT activity, endeavored to further disrupt the assault by stationing suicide teams in the water along the reef prepared to serve as ‘human bullets’ against tanks and armored am­phibians. He also tried to pre-position drums of fuel along the reef with which to ignite a wall of ‘fire along the seawater.’ None of these innovations worked, but Nakagawa’s other plans for sacrificing one battalion to ‘bleed’ the landing suc­ceeded. Aircraft bombs planted vertically in the sand with special contact fuses served as awesome mines. His camou­flaged positions of ‘passive defense’ main­tained their cover until the initial Marines had stormed inland—then emerged to shoot the next echelons in the back. All this—while Nakagawa’s main force lay in deep shelter in the Umurbrogal.”
Peleliu was going to be a tough nut to crack, no matter who was taking it.

1stMarDiv on the Eve of Peleliu
Fitting for “soldiers of the sea,” 1stMarDiv was “born at sea” on Feb. 1, 1941. As author Camp explains, “The date of its designation made it the first division in Marine Corps history and earned it bragging rights among those divisions that followed,” hence its nickname, “The Old Breed.”

“If I had had an option—and there was none, of course—as to which of the five Marine divisions I served with, it would have been the 1st Marine Division,” writes Private First Class Eugene B. Sledge in his “With the Old Breed: At Peleliu and Okinawa.”

“Ultimately, the Marine Corps had six divisions that fought with distinction in the Pacific. But the 1st Marine Division was, in many ways, unique. It had par­tici­pated in the opening American offensive against the Japanese at Guadalcanal and already had fought a second major battle at Cape Gloucester, north of the Solomon Islands. Now its troops were resting, preparing for a third campaign in the Palau Islands. …
“Other Marines I knew in other divi­sions were proud of their units and of being Marines, as well they should have been. But … the 1st Marine Division car­ried not only the traditions of the Corps but had traditions and a heritage of their own, a link through time with the ‘Old Corps.’ ”

As Alexander says in “Storm Land­ings,” “The 1st Marine Division had fully earned its spurs and its Presidential Unit Citation at Guadalcanal.”
1stMarDiv had proved itself from the early days of the war and was justifiably proud of its combat record. But what about its Commanding General? For Peleliu, the “Old Breed” would be led by MajGen William H. “Bill” Rupertus. Rupertus’ distinguished career included service in Haiti and China during the 1937 Sino-Japanese hostilities. A member of the Marine Corps shooting team, he was a strong advocate for marksmanship training.

In “Commanding the Pacific: Marine Corps Generals in World War II,” Stephen R. Taaffe states:

“Rupertus was perhaps the Marine Corps’ most controversial World War II division commander … Rupertus’ pettiness, selfishness, and mercurial temperament made his ambition seem cloying and vindictive. His harsh opin­ions, tendency to play favorites, and ob­vious moodiness, and ostentatious living while in the field also alienated many. … Geiger eventually questioned Rupertus’ basic competence.”

Following the Cape Gloucester cam­paign, 1stMarDiv was supposed to re­cuperate on the island of Pavuvu from the rigors of the previous campaign. Pavuvu proved to a be less than idyllic place to rest. The island had been the site of coconut plantations owned by Lever Brothers; the soap company used coconut oil in their products. When the war began, the plantations were quickly abandoned, leaving behind untended groves of coconut palms which continued to produce fruit. Not only did the rotting mess of coconuts smell terrible, they attracted enormous rats.

While Rupertus was not responsible for the choice of Pavuvu as their R&R camp, he lived better then his Marines did. Taaffe wrote that “there [at Pavuvu] the leathernecks established a squalid camp amid rotten coconuts, omnipresent rats and crabs, and plenty of mud. Rupertus did not share his men’s discomfort. For one thing, his quarters were so noticeably luxurious by Pavuvu standards that people commented on it.”

Personality aside, Rupertus’ major failing as a division commander prior to Peleliu was his failure to realize the “storm landings” of the Central Pacific required new tactics and a fresh way of thinking. Failure to learn from others and prepare the division adequately for the Peleliu campaign falls upon Rupertus’ shoulders.

According to Jeter A. Isely and Dr. Philip A. Crowl, authors of the seminal “The U.S. Marines And Amphibious War: Its Theory, And Its Practice In The Pacific,” “The division had had ample experience in jungle warfare … but it needed to be reoriented toward a new type of fighting which the terrain of Peleliu would demand.”

Alexander agrees; the veteran Marines of 1stMarDiv “were likely the best jungle fighters in the world. But the division also had some shortcomings. While their collective fighting spirit would forever sustain them in combat, the Old Breed would need more than jungle fighting skills to prevail in the cave and mountain warfare waiting [for] them at Peleliu. Also, this would be the division’s first major storm landing. For all the sub­sequent savagery of the fighting for Guadalcanal and Cape Gloucester, the Old Breed had never executed a landing against major opposition in prepared defenses. Rupertus did little to close the gap. While the rest of Fleet Marine Forces Pacific leapt at the opportunity after Tarawa to convert their LVTs into tactical assault vehicles, Rupertus demurred. He preferred their original employment as logistic support vehicles. Nor did Ruper­tus put much stock in naval gunfire planning. Geiger was shocked to discover that the division went into combat at Peleliu without a designated naval gunfire officer on its general staff. Nor was Geiger impressed with the division’s proposed landing plan: three regiments abreast, only one battalion in division reserve, no interest in asking to earmark one of the Wildcat regiments [the 81st Infantry Division] for backup.”

Having just come from the Guam campaign where nearly two weeks of shelling proceeded the landing, Lieu­tenant General Geiger was aghast at Rupertus’ decision to have only two days of preinvasion naval gunfire and arranged for a third day. The division’s landing plan also made little provision for main­taining the momentum of an amphibious assault—an important aspect of landings within the Central Pacific. With only a single battalion in reserve and Rupertus’ refusal to utilize a regiment from the 81st Infantry Division that was offered for assistance, his Marines would be hard pressed to maintain their momentum after they landed.

If there was any doubt that Rupertus’ thinking was not grounded in reality, his comments prior to Peleliu concerning his estimate of the duration of the battle settle all doubt. Sledge has this to say:

“As for the upcoming operation, Ruper­tus was openly optimistic that it would be quick. He wrote to Vandegrift, ‘There is no doubt in my mind as to the outcome—short and swift, without too many casualties.’ He was wrong.”

Alexander in “Storm Landings” has this to say: “‘Rough but fast,’ he predicted to his subordinates and the handful of combat correspondents gathered on his flagship. ‘We’ll be through in three days. It might take only two.’ Throughout the landing and the battle ashore Rupertus would exert unholy pressure on his conquest. He expected a hot fight but assumed a steady offensive would crack the enemy’s resolve, leading shortly to the traditional mass banzai charge and ‘open season’ slaughter. Then it would be a simple matter of mopping up. The Army could do that.”

Rupertus’ optimism spread among the men. And to make matters worse, he had broken his ankle during rehearsal for the battle, which limited his mobility. During the fighting, he was never able to observe his Marines up close.
“Geiger was … very unhappy to learn the true extent of his injury,” Taaffe writes in “Commanding the Pacific.” “During late August rehearsals at Cape Esperance, [Brigadier General] Oliver Smith [, the Assistant Division Com­mand­er,] led the leathernecks ashore and established the division’s command post because Rupertus could not get out of his boat. Geiger arrived and asked Smith for Rupertus’ whereabouts. When Smith told him, Geiger said, ‘If I had known I’d have relieved him.’ ”

To recap, prior to assaulting Peleliu, 1stMarDiv was a very effective combat unit that had proved itself in one of the Marine Corps’ epic battles and had done a yeoman’s service since. But the Marines of the division were headed into a battle unlike anything they had experienced in the South Pacific—and with a Command­ing General that did not comprehend the type of battle in which they were about to engage.

1stMarDiv (Almost) Takes Peleliu
Taaffe’s description of Peleliu in “Com­manding the Pacific” gives a very good and succinct view of the Peleliu campaign for Rupertus and the 1stMarDiv:
“On the morning of 15 September, the Marines encountered punishing fire when they came ashore on Peleliu’s southwestern coast. Despite these losses, the veteran leathernecks pushed inland against increasingly stiff opposition that included tanks. On the northernmost beaches, Col Lewis “Chesty” Puller’s 1st Marine Regiment suffered especially high casualties …
“From that point Peleliu degenerated into a prolonged and gruesome battle of attrition for the Marines. They made some initial progress but suffered heavy casualties. The 5th Marine Regiment overran the airfield while … [the] 7th Marine Regiment secured the southern portion of the island.”

The problem was twofold: failing to adapt to the new Japanese tactics, and the Umurbrogol. As Alexander in “Storm Landings” explains:

“The real tragedy of Peleliu occurred during the first week, when General Rupertus and Colonel Puller believed they faced a linear defense along the perimeter of the nearest high ground, the kind of positions they could surely penetrate with just one more offensive push. As a result, for all their undeniable bravery, the 1st Marines sustained appalling casualties and had to be relieved by a regiment of Wildcats (at Geiger’s insistence) six days after the landing. Maj Ray Davis’s 1st Battalion, 1st Marines, suffered most griev­ously, losing 70 percent of their number, their line companies reduced to a corporal’s guard.”

Concerning the Umurbrogol, Taaffe writes, “The problem was rooting the Japanese out of their stronghold in the Umurbrogol ridges in the north. These deep, wooded, and coral-covered ridges were tailor-made for defense. It was almost impossible to spot the snipers and infiltrators making life miserable for the leathernecks. The terrain offered no secure footing and no place to dig in. Exploding artillery and mortar shells turned the omnipresent coral into deadly shrapnel.”

As Taaffe says, “Peleliu was hard on everyone.” But how was Rupertus hold­ing up? He wasn’t.

“He had believed, and promised, that his Marines would secure Peleliu quickly. As September turned into October and the Marines continued battering the Umurbrogol ridges, without much suc­cess, Rupertus began to unravel psycho­logically. He remained publicly optimis­tic, but privately he had no idea how to win the battle anytime soon … At one point Rupertus put his head in his hands and said to a staff officer, ‘This thing just about got me beat.’ When Harris, com­mander of the 5th Marine Regiment, visited division headquarters on 5 Octo­ber, he found Rupertus in tears. ‘Harris,’ said Rupertus, ‘I’m at the end of my rope. Two of my fine regiments are in ruins.’ ”

How was the iconic Puller doing? Not much better. Taaffe writes:

“Unlike Rupertus, Geiger toured the front frequently to assess the battle and keep his subordinates on their toes. Al­though he became increasingly concerned with the 1st Marine Division’s casualties and lack of progress, he hesitated to interfere with Rupertus’ prerogatives as commander. On 21 September, Geiger visited Puller at the 1st Marine Regiment’s rudimentary command post. No one doubted Puller’s fearlessness and aggres­siveness, but he often simply threw his leathernecks at the Japanese defenses without much tactical finesse or fire support. Moreover, he suffered from ob­vious exhaustion and struggled to explain the current situation coherently. Puller was, however, adamant that he did not need any assistance to achieve his ob­jectives. A skeptical Geiger then drove to the 1st Marine Division’s headquarters and examined Puller’s casualty reports. He learned that the regiment had sus­tained 1,672 dead and wounded on Peleliu. Indeed, one of its battalions had lost 71 percent of its strength. Geiger in­formed Rupertus that Puller’s outfit was finished and insisted on its relief and replacement by one of the regiments from the Army’s 81st Division, which had re­cently overrun Angaur. Rupertus strongly disagreed. Given his distaste for the Army, he abhorred the thought of its sol­diers ending a job that the Marines had started. He insisted that the Marines could wrap up the operation in a day or two. Not persuaded, Geiger issued the necessary orders. On 23 September, what was left of the 1st Marine Regiment pulled out and made way in the line for the Army’s 321st Regiment.”

It’s no surprise that Geiger ordered Rupertus to turn the battle over to the Army’s 81st Infantry Division and have them complete the operation.

One Bright Spot: Close Air Support
Since Marine ground forces had left the South Pacific theater, they had not been supported by their brethren in the air, as Marine Corps doctrine and desire wanted. Since the Marine Corps lacked the heavy artillery that the Army had, they were more dependent upon air sup­port. The problem was that prior to Peleliu, islands were out of range of Marine air. But Peleliu changed that:

“General Geiger made sure that MAG-11 [Marine Air Group 11 with F4U Cor­sairs] provided the kind of ‘flying artil­lery’ that amphibious planners had en­visioned before the war,” writes Alexan­der. “This was close air support at its finest. Marine Corsairs would take off from Peleliu’s airstrip and not even raise their landing wheels. In 15 seconds they would be over the target, dropping their belly ordnance, then circling to land and re-arm. Indeed, the first bomb delivered sprayed steel shrapnel onto the airfield, a mere thousand yards behind the point of impact.”

Conclusion
Peleliu was an island that did not need to be taken. The original purpose of tak­ing Peleliu—to guard MacArthur’s right flank as he took Mindanao, the southern­most island of the Philippines—evapo­rated when the decision was made to go directly for the island of Leyte in the middle of the archipelago.
In “Commanding the Pacific,” Taaffe asserts, “Although high-ranking Marine officers could not be held accountable for Peleliu’s selection, they bore considerable responsibility for the battle conducted. As 1st Marine Division commander, Rupertus deserved censure for underestimating the operation’s difficulties, undertaking an assignment for which he was not phys­ically fit, and using and tolerating Puller’s unimaginative tactics. …

“The price for this Pyrrhic victory was steep. The battle cost the 1st Marine Division 1,124 dead, 5,024 wounded, and 117 missing, for a total of 6,265 casual­ties. The division suffered so much damage that it took months to rebuild it. Small wonder that one Marine officer said, ‘[S]omebody forgot to give the orders to call off Peleliu. That’s one place no­body wants to remember.’”

Indeed it was.

Author’s bio: Maj Skip Crawley, USMCR (Ret) was an Infantry Officer who was assigned to 1st Battalion, 7th Marines during Operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm. He is a frequent con­tributor to Marine Corps Gazette.

 

On Aug. 7, 2004, the Marines and Mahdi Militia brawling over Najaf steeled themselves for the battle’s next phase. After two days of harrowing conflict in Najaf’s cemetery, the Marines realized how sorely out­numbered they were. Colonel Anthony Haslam, the 11th Marine Ex­peditionary Unit (MEU) Com­mand­ing Officer, radioed for reinforce­ments to swiftly de­feat the militia and their lead­er, Muqtada al-Sadr. The U.S. Army’s 1st Battalion, 5th Cavalry and 2nd Battalion, 7th Cavalry rolled into Najaf on Aug. 8 with dozens of tanks, Bradley Fighting Ve­hicles and Armored Personnel Carriers.

Haslam retained overall command of the coalition force. He accelerated the original timetable for eradicating al-Sadr from his fortress inside the Imam Ali Shrine. Fire restrictions in the city slackened following the cemetery assault, but the shrine re­mained an untouchable exclusion zone. The militia exploited this fact, using the mosque as a de facto headquarters and staging ground, in violation of the international laws of armed conflict. Iraqi National Guard com­panies were the only force under Haslam’s command allowed to enter the holy site. Over the next few weeks, American forces would degrade the militia’s capacity to fight, while preparing the Iraqis for the final assault to kill or capture al-Sadr.

Haslam assigned the Army units to carry on the battle’s main effort in the cemetery. The following morning, tanks and Bradleys squeezed down the narrow dirt streets crisscrossing the mausoleums. Dismounted soldiers endured the fighting just as Marines had several days earlier. They slowly and methodically cleared tomb after tomb, tunnel after tunnel.

Marines, meanwhile, executed a series of raids targeting militia strong­holds throughout the city. On Aug. 12, they returned to the site where the powder keg first ignited 10 days earlier; al-Sadr’s private residence. Lieutenant Colonel John Mayer, the commanding officer of Battalion Land­­ing Team (BLT) 1st Bat­tal­ion, 4th Marines, ordered a combined force of Marines and Iraqi National Guard to seize the complex, consisting of mul­tiple houses, a hospital and a school.

Charlie Company, 1/4, forced their way through the hospital and into al-Sadr’s house. The cleric and his men bolted before the Marines arrived, offering no resistance. As the grunts cleared room after room, a firefight erupted across the complex at the school building, the targeted structure of the Iraqi National Guard. The Marines exited al-Sadr’s house and ran toward the gunfire.

Iraqi soldiers fled the militia’s on­slaught. U.S. Army Captain Michael Tarlowski, the Special Forces commander over the Iraqi unit, charged into the build­ing rallying his troops. He personally led the attack up a staircase, sprinting direct­ly into a militia machine gun. Bullets tore through Tarlowski, killing him in­stantly. He tumbled down the stairs as Marines fought their way into the bottom floor.

The scene inside was a bloody, chaotic mess. More than a dozen Iraqis and two Americans lay wounded or dead. The insurgents on the second floor fortified their position at the top of the stairs. They fired out the windows at Marines on the street as they entered or exited the front door.

A grenade bounced down the stairs and detonated next to Lance Corporal Ryan Borgstrom. Shrapnel tore across his abdomen, knocking him back in a pool of his own blood. A corpsman patched the holes but could not stop the bleeding. He called for an immediate medevac.

A narrow street jutted out from the front of the school. Nearly 100 yards separated the building from an inter­section where additional Marines took cover. The platoon pinned down inside the school had no option but to get Borgstrom to the intersection, where a stretcher team waited. Lucian Read, a photographer embedded with 1/4, cap­tured the surreal mo­ment when LCpl James Hassell wiped the sweat from his eyes, stepped forward, and told the others to put Borgstrom on his back.

Hassell’s decision came without hesita­tion but was not considered lightly. His platoon endured signifi­cant enemy fire bounding toward the school. Marines at the intersection re­mained under fire from the buildings lining the street. Insurgents waited at the windows above to cut down anyone leav­ing the building. Borgstrom’s body weight, plus full combat gear, totaled more than 200 pounds. Even so, Hassell heaved the wounded Marine up piggyback style. The 100-plus degree heat zapped his energy reserve. Adrenaline would have to push him through.

The platoon circled around Hassell and exploded out the front door. Grenades detonated and enemy bullets kicked up dirt around Hassell’s feet as he zig zagged toward the intersection. A Marine in a HMMWV recorded the heart-stopping sprint on video. Machine-gun fire erupts from somewhere off camera. Marines at the intersection take cover as sniper rounds strike nearby, then open fire down the street. Hassell finally emerges around the corner with Borgstrom bouncing on his back. He continues running past the stretcher bearers, who slow Hassell down and rush Borgstrom to a waiting medevac vehicle. The video failed to capture how Hassell, seemingly unfazed by his epic exertion, returned to his platoon to finish the fight in the school. Borgstrom reached the medical care he needed and survived.

Insurgents remained stubbornly lodged in the second floor inflicting additional Marine casualties. Mayer pulled everyone out of the building and ordered an air­strike. A U.S. Air Force jet leveled the school with a Maverick missile, burying the militia inside.

Despite aircraft from multiple services flying over Najaf, Marine Medium Hel­icop­ter squadron 166 (Reinforced) main­­tained a grueling flight schedule support­ing the MEU’s daily raids and the Army’s push through the cemetery. At the begin­ning of the deployment, the squadron operated four AH-1W Cobras and three UH-1N Hueys, in addition to AV-8B Harriers, CH-46s and CH-53s. The loss of Captain Steve Mount and Capt Andrew Turner’s Huey on Aug. 5 placed ad­ditional strain on the re­maining pilots. After getting shot down, Mount left the city to undergo sur­gery on his shattered right eye. Turner returned a few days later with both enlisted crew members who survived the crash, Staff Sergeant Patrick Burgess and Corporal Theodora Naranjo.

Turner, Burgess and Naranjo teamed up once more for their first mission back in action. Major Glen Butler joined as the Huey’s pilot in command. They lifted off heading toward the city. Capt Jason Grogan piloted his Cobra alongside them, with his copilot Vernice Armour, to accompany the mission. A two-Cobra flight ahead circled near a group of enemy occupied buildings. The four helicopters joined forces and stacked up in the sky to strafe enemy positions. Butler maneuvered the Huey down behind Grogan’s Cobra on an attack run.

“All I remember, I’d never seen it be­­fore, were these puffs of smoke in the air,” said Turner. “Probably a mix of antiaircraft fire and RPGs they had rigged to detonate in the air. It was pretty surreal. In the moment you’re not really thinking about it, but at some point you realize this is not good.”

Butler pulled out through the flak and climbed over the cemetery. On the radio, soldiers requested an airstrike on an enemy mortar hiding in a large mauso­leum. Grogan lined up his Cobra on the target. He streaked in less than 100 feet off the deck, then popped up in the air. He nosed over, put the mortar in his sights and fired a TOW missile and 2.75-inch rockets.

Butler followed closely supporting Grogan’s attack run. He passed the con­trols to Turner, then dug in his pocket for a handheld digital camera he happened to bring on the flight. As Burgess and Naranjo blazed away firing both door guns behind him, he thrust the camera out the window and quickly snapped a photo. He didn’t have time to look through the viewfinder and frame the shot. Later that evening, Butler discovered the gem he had taken. The photo caught Grogan and Armour’s rockets impacting the target, with smoke trails still hanging in the air. The awe­some photograph, of course, did not deter the other pilots in the ready room from giving Butler a hard time for taking “tourist photos” in the middle of a close air support mission.

Aircrews flew day and night. Every mission encountered a multi­tude of threats. On Butler’s first mis­sion over Najaf, four RPGs targeted his chopper, and a seemingly endless stream of ma­chine gun tracers.

“There was always a lot of gunfire, but one thing that was unique to the rest of my time in combat was the heavy weapons they had. We could see it, flying through flak bursts, and at the end of the battle the Marines found several antiaircraft artillery pieces. They also had several SA-7 man-portable air defense weapons.”

Helicopters routinely sustained battle damage. Grogan returned from one mission with a bullet in his seat armor. Another time, ground crews pulled rounds out of his Cobra’s fuel cell. In a third instance, an enemy bullet punched through the canopy next to Grogan’s head, ricocheted off the barrel of his rifle and slammed into his helmet. The round smashed his visor but exited the cockpit through the opposite side. Grogan was miraculously unscathed. Ground crewmen sutured the plexiglass canopy with wire. Grogan found another helmet and was back in the air shortly.

Support elements at Forward Operating Base Duke worked tirelessly to keep the aircraft flying. Beyond simple fixes like patching Grogan’s canopy, Marines performed complex maintenance in the open desert, 24 hours a day, seven days a week.

“The ingenuity and bravery of every­body there, whether flying or on the ground, was really pretty amazing,” Butler reflected. “There was so much work going on behind the scenes that gets forgotten. We didn’t have a hangar, so these Marines were out there in this austere environment on the desert floor swapping Cobra engines at night, know­ing that aircraft had to fly in the morning.”

Ordnance personnel worked equally hard to keep the aircraft loaded and ready for battle. MEU aircraft fired thou­­sands upon thousands of machine gun rounds, rockets and missiles. Several days into the battle, the MEU ran so low on ammo that flight operations paused. CH-53E Super Stallions scattered to other Marine airfields and rushed back loads of ordnance. Tragically, one of these re­supply choppers crashed in the desert on an overnight flight back to Najaf. Two Marines died and three were wounded.

Hospital Corpsman Matt Schmahl and the other Navy “docs” flying medevac missions in Najaf sustained an exhausting pace, even after the initial assault into the cemetery. The flying corpsmen needed help. At FOB Duke, they reached out to any corpsman available, looking for volunteers.

“We got around 10 volunteers to fly with us,” Schmahl remembered. “They were corpsmen assigned to supply units at the FOB. These people had no flight training, had maybe been in a helicopter, but never landed under fire. I give them tons of credit. They had no idea what they were getting into. They weren’t getting flight pay or anything else, they just wanted to get in the fight and help. As far as I know, our squadron commander told us that every patient who left that battle alive on one of our aircraft survived.”

This success rate could not have been accomplished without the tremendous effort and partnership of the corpsmen and Army medics serving on the ground.

“The guys on the ground did their very best to get patients packaged under fire, waiting on us to pick them up,” said Schmahl. “They were the ones, in my opinion, that saved their Marines. If they hadn’t prepared the patients the way they did, we would not have been able to get them to the hospital in time.”

Iraqi officials negotiated with Muqtada al-Sadr while the violence escalated. The Mahdi Milita refused to back down. On Aug. 15, U.S. Army Second Lieutenant James “Michael” Goins directed his tank down a narrow cemetery lane. As he sighted in the tank’s main gun on a target, an insurgent crept out from behind a mausoleum and scrambled on top the tank. He emptied an AK-47 magazine into the open tank commander’s hatch at point blank range killing Goins and his loader, Specialist Mark Zapata. The driver threw the tank in reverse as the enemy fighter leaped down and dis­appeared into the tombs. The tank veered off the slender pathway and backed into a two-story mausoleum. The structure collapsed, immobilizing the tank beneath a mound of concrete.

In the wake of the disaster, additional Marines and dismounted soldiers were tasked to provide security for tracked vehicles. Bravo Company’s 2nd Platoon returned to the cemetery on the night of Aug. 18-19 attached to the Army. After midnight, a mortar round landed on their position, wounding one Marine. Soldiers in a nearby Bradley spotted the enemy mortar tube and called for an air strike. Once again, the mission was denied due to the mortar’s proximity to the Imam Ali Shrine. Another round impacted, killing the Marines’ assault section leader Sergeant Harvey E. Parkerson III.

Al-Sadr’s militia paid dearly in blood that same night. Intelligence pinpointed an insurgent stronghold at a technical college on the west bank of the Euphrates River in the neighboring town of Kufa. Several hundred militia occupied the campus. The Marines planned a destruc­tion raid that would bring the entire facility under a torrent of fire from the opposite bank. Anyone trying to flee would run directly into the teeth of more Marines lying in wait on the other side of the campus.

Two platoons from Company B, LAVs, mortars and a sniper team crossed the river around 2 a.m. More Marines se­cured escape routes out of the campus. Militia spotted the Marines across the river and opened fire. The raid force re­sponded in kind. Huey and Cobra gun­ships tore through the night sky, un­leashing their mini guns and rockets. A forward air controller brought in the crown jewel of firepower; a U.S. Air Force AC-130 gun­ship. The aircraft circled the campus spewing 25mm cannon and 105mm howitzer shells throughout the target area.

Fire and explosions inundated the col­lege for the next hour. When it stopped, the night fell uncannily quiet. The militia were obliterated. The final butcher’s bill tallied 73 enemy killed and 102 wounded. Only one Marine sustained a minor wound.

Alpha Company executed another large-scale raid in Kufa two nights later, attacking a former police station com­mandeered by the militia. Tanks led the way, followed by Amphibious Assault Vehicles (AAVs) laden with infantry. The AC-130 gunship kept watch overhead. Intense fire greeted the Marines, with RPGs and 120mm mortars exploding and disabling one tank. Air support proved invaluable once again, destroying enemy fighters as they appeared. The AAVs opened up with .50-caliber machine guns and MK-19 automatic grenade launchers as the tail ramps dropped and Marines rushed out into the firefight. Company A secured the police station, adding more than 40 enemy to the battle’s body count and capturing 29.

Ten days of raiding, combined with the Army’s sweep through the cemetery, took a toll on the Mahdi Militia. Al-Sadr and his men retreated to the Imam Ali Shrine. A small square around the mosque’s im­mediate vicinity endured as the last hard line Americans could not cross. Even so, Iraqi officials were willing to risk a fight within the mosque itself to bring down al-Sadr. Four battalions of Iraqi soldiers trained for the final assault. Combined with the 11th MEU and Army units, a force nearly 6,000 strong prepared for the battle’s conclusion.

Planners of the final assault, dubbed “Thunder Road,” expected the worst was yet to come. Like an ancient fortress, the mosque lay at the very center of an urban web, encircled by “old city” Najaf.

“When you think ‘old’ being an Ameri­can, you’re not thinking old like Iraqi old,” said Mayer. “The old city was just buildings upon buildings and buildings added to buildings. It was the craziest nonsensical place. The roads and alley­ways didn’t flow like a modern city, more suited for goats than people. It was easy to punch holes in walls and move between structures without coming down to the street.”

Rising in stark contrast, a string of modern hotels and parking garages lined a pair of parallel roads along the western approach to the mosque. A street known as “Ring Road” ran around the circumference of the old city, separating the mosque and surrounding urban moat from the rest of Najaf.
By Aug. 21, commanders devised an assault plan. The main force would utilize the western approach through the modern hotels. Haslam ordered a probing raid that night along the intended route to gauge enemy resistance inside Ring Road. Led by the U.S. Army, an armored column set out at 1 a.m.

Enemy machine guns, RPGs and mor­tars engulfed the convoy as it crossed Ring Road. Attack helicopters and the AC-130 wiped out enemy positions on call. Details from the Army’s official history of the raid paint a terrifying pic­ture. In just 30 minutes, the soldiers expended 68 tank main gun rounds, 1,200 rounds from the Bradleys’ 25mm chain guns, and 8 TOW missiles, along with an unknown number of rifle and machine-gun ammo. The tanks reached a suspected weapons cache inside a park­ing garage, fired a barrage of main gun rounds into the structure, then fought their way back to Ring Road.

The probing raid confirmed the omi­nous feelings. Even the terrifying conflict in the cemetery paled in comparison to fury experienced in the old city. Haslam and Mayer worked with Army leaders to solidify the battle plan. During a final “rehearsal of combat” drill on Aug. 22, senior leaders attended in person to weigh in, including Lieutenant General Thomas F. Metz, Commanding General of Multinational Forces Central Iraq, and LtGen James T. Conway, Commanding General of I Marine Expeditionary Force.

Three different attack forces would cross Ring Road and advance toward the mosque from the north, south and west. Mayer’s BLT would form the main assault force on the western approach. Mayer decided to insert his Marines into the hotels and garages near the outskirts and clear the structures leading up to the objective. Targets inside Ring Road were pre-approved for destruction to minimize delays in supporting fires, but the ulti­mate goal, entering the shrine to kill or capture al-Sadr, remained in limbo. The operation was set to commence the fol­lowing night.

After dark on Aug. 23, Marine mortar­men dug in along a gun line in the desert west of Najaf and commenced the initial barrage of supporting fires. At FOB Hotel, the BLT artillery battery fired over 500 rounds into the old city, leveling pre­planned targets and blanketing the area in shrapnel. They continued firing dangerously close even after the attack commenced.

Companies A and C loaded into AAVs as the primary assault force. A platoon of Bradleys reinforced 1stLt Russell Thomas’ tank platoon to lead the thrust beyond Ring Road. Like a scene out of World War II, when the Japanese emerged from tunnels following an intense bom­bard­ment, the Mahdi Militia met the armored column at Ring Road with de­termined ferocity.

“We were supposed to have around 15 minutes to secure the area before the grunts arrived,” said Thomas. “It sure didn’t feel like 15 minutes. Just imagine four Bradleys and four tanks constantly engaging. Constant main gun rounds, coaxial guns, 25 mm, TOW missiles; for me, it was the most intense part of the en­tire month.”

The grunts anticipating their part in the assault listened to the tanks’ progress on the battalion tactical channel. Squawk boxes broadcast the play-by-play, with Marines seated around listening, like it was a 1950s radio show. Thomas called out targets. The tank’s turbine engine whined in the back­ground. The slow staccato of heavy ma­chine-gun bursts drowned out his voice, intermixed with the faster rattle of the tank’s coaxial gun, and dramatically punc­tuated by explo­sions from the main gun. The Marines listening in could bare­ly make out a word Thomas said. Nervous laughter mixed with awe as the Marines cheered on the tankers. Their turn came next.

Fifteen minutes was up. Thomas learned that AAVs were en route.

“I told them the area was still extremely hot and requested five or ten more minutes to lay down suppressive fire, but, the AAVs came up. They got under cover from one of the buildings there on the corner and dropped their tail ramps. That was a lot to ask of those Marines inside to get out under fire like that.”

Sergeant Landon Gant served as a Charlie Company machine gunner during the final assault.

“They turned off the AAVs while we were waiting and we could hear the ex­plosions in the distance,” he recalled. “We were just like, ‘holy shit, they are getting it.’”

The AAV fired up. Gant triple checked his machine gun as they dashed toward the battle. The roar of gunfire grew loud­er than the engine’s whine inside the AAV. The smell of cordite penetrated the hull. A gunner in the turret above Gant opened fire. It wouldn’t be long now. The vehicle finally slowed and the tail ramp dropped.

Gant sprinted out the back. A hazy yellow glow from artillery illumination filtered down to the open street. Multi-story buildings towered above on either side of the road with muzzle flashes spur­­ing from the windows. The AAVs stopped just meters away from the hotel entrance that was the objective. Despite their close proximity, four Marines sustained wounds from grenade shrapnel as they exited the vehicles. Gant followed after the others. A mortar round detonated close by. The shock blew him off his feet and knocked him unconscious. Less than a minute later, Gant came to, concussed and dis­oriented. He regained his footing and stumbled toward the hotel where Marines stacked up outside the front door.

“I remember one of my young machine gunners, a lance corporal, was in front of me as we were about to make entry. We looked across the street and there is an LAV just freaking hammering away, I mean nonstop, ‘POP POP POP POP POP!’ He looked back at me and yelled, ‘Sgt Gant, this is like a video game!’ I was just like, ‘Yeah, well this is f—king real dude! Now, GO!’ ”

“I felt like we were landing on the beach at Iwo Jima,” said Chris Schickling, the platoon commander of the Marines entering the hotel. “We didn’t initially know there was a basement. My first fire team went in and found the stairwell while I was trying to get the rest of the Marines inside.”

Gant entered the hotel with the first group of Marines. Every trace of light vanished, leaving the Ma­rines in black­ness. The stench of sulfur overwhelmed them. The ter­rific noise of the battle out­side echoed off the concrete walls. Voices from insurgents on the upper floors streamed down an open stairwell. The Marines stumbled over rubble flung across the floor. As Gant searched through the dark, his prescription glasses fell off his face. He cursed aloud as he dropped to his knees and swept back and forth across the deck.

“By the grace of God, I found them,” Gant said. “All of this, of course, was happening while other actions were going on. It’s not like anyone stopped the assault just because Gant’s portholes popped off.”

He caught up with a squad as they proceeded down to the basement. He fumbled around in his pocket for his flashlight.

“We didn’t have a lot of the gear on our rifles back then that we have now. No one had light. The only reason I had a flashlight that night was because I bought it, and it wasn’t even attached to my weapon.”

Private First Class Ryan Cullenward led down the stairwell on point. He reached a landing and turned down the next flight of stairs. He collided face to face with an insurgent on the landing preparing to fire an RPG. Both men fell to the ground and dropped their weapons. Gant clicked on his flashlight.

Momentary spurts of light reached the landing as others moved in and out of the beam. Cullenward fell on the enemy soldier, punching him with bare hands. He drew his Ka-Bar fighting knife, then stabbed the insurgent to death. The man’s screams resounded up the staircase, the only in­dication for Marines on the first floor of the ultimate struggle happening below them.

“That insurgent Ryan killed was get­ting ready to fire his RPG into the room up the stairs and it would have killed all of us,” Schickling said. “He’s a hero.”

Cullenward rose in a state approaching shock and moved back up the stairs. Others pushed past him into the basement. A grenade exploded, striking four Ma­rines with shrapnel. The wounded were dragged back up the stairs. Recon Ma­rines on the first floor descended for a third attempt to take the basement. They threw two grenades before pushing down the last flight of stairs. Two insurgents hid in an opening under the stairs behind them with another RPG. The Recon Ma­rines killed both before they could fire. They secured the rest of the basement, locating a cache of a dozen more rockets.

Marines advanced up the stairs to clear the remaining floors.

“Imagine an elevator shaft in the middle of the hotel with the ladder well wrapped around it going up,” Gant said. “At some point in time, these were probably pretty nice hotels, but we had blown them all to hell. We had a guy making his way back down the stairs from the upper floors and he fell down the elevator shaft. We just heard this bloodcurdling yell and were like, ‘what the f—k was that?’ I thought he got impaled or something. The only thing that saved him was his gear got hung on some exposed rebar, and other Marines were able to pull him out of the elevator shaft.”

Schickling’s platoon cleared the rest of the building, killing several more enemy fighters on the upper floors. Ten Marines were wounded taking the hotel. Company A fought into the old city on Company C’s left flank. By the end of the day on Aug. 24, the Marines secured the foothold needed to anchor the advance towards the mosque.

For the next two days, Marines and soldiers shrank the cordon. Marine, Navy SEAL, and Special Forces snipers flooded into the old city to combat the well-trained and accurate insurgent snipers hiding throughout the urban labyrinth. According to the USMC History Division publication on the battle, coalition snipers racked up 60 confirmed kills in a single 24-hour period. Militia snipers drew blood as well. Company A suffered its first KIAs of the battle when a sniper killed LCpl Alexander Arredondo on Aug. 25, and PFC Nick Skinner a day later.

Armored vehicles played a critical role in the fighting. During the day, tanks and Bradleys advanced down streets, drawing enemy out of their hiding spots for slaughter. At night, the same tactics were used to locate targets for the AC-130 circling above. Enemy fire remained so intense that lighter vehicles like AAVs offered inadequate protection from the volleys of RPGs being hurled at them. The Army loaned several M113 armored personnel carriers to the Marines for med­evacs, enabling the corpsmen in­ side to roll in as close as possible to the casualties and extract them under fire.

During one daylight push, a call for help reached 1stLt Thomas inside his tank. Several Marine snipers were trapped inside a building by militia occupy­ing the structure next door. The tanks were cleared to engage the enemy-held build­ing with main gun rounds. Thomas moved down the tight street until the target came into view. The structure shared an adjoin­ing wall with the building occupied by the snipers, like two townhomes in the middle of a row. The snipers waved a white sheet from a window, identifying their position. Sitting less than 20 feet away from the target building, point blank range for the tank, Thomas hesitated.

“I had to make sure they wanted me to fire. There’s a lot of over pres­surization from the main gun and we thought it was a bad idea. They came back and authorized the shot, so I told them to stand by.”

Thomas fired a single round into the enemy building. A blinding dust cloud enveloped the tank.

“I couldn’t see what happened. Every­one in the tank was asking me what was going on, but I couldn’t see anything. I radioed the snipers and asked their situa­tion. They came back and said they were still alive. A minute or two later, the dust settled. We looked up and the building the snipers were in was still there. The building we shot at, there was nothing left. The entire building just collapsed.”

Marine and Army units tied into each other’s flanks. By the afternoon of Aug. 26, the cordon locked in less than 100 meters from the mosque in any direction. Aircraft continued pummeling enemy occupied buildings. In one devastating strike, a jet streaked in over the mosque and dropped a 2,000-pound bomb in the city on the other side. Iraqi National Guard companies staged outside waiting for approval to assault the complex and finish off the militia. Instead, the Grand Ayatollah al-Sistani, the senior Shi’a cleric in Iraq, entered the mosque to negotiate. Shortly afterward, radios around the cordon delivered the order opposite of what they anticipated; cease fire. Facing complete destruction or surrender, Muq­tada al-Sadr chose the latter. The battle for Najaf suddenly ended.

Marines around the mosque bit their tongues as surviving militia filtered out. According to the peace terms, al-Sadr and his men were free to lay down their arms and leave the city. The same insurgents who earlier that day were fighting and killing Americans in the streets now walked freely out to waiting vehicles. For the Marines who spent the previous 24 days sweating, bleeding and watching the Mahdi Militia maim or kill their brothers, the truce felt like a bitter disappointment. They wanted to finish the job.

Their feelings notwithstanding, the outcome of the battle proved successful. The Coalition Force won a tactical vic­tory over the Mahdi Militia, despite turn­ing the surviving faction loose to fight Americans again in Najaf, Fallujah and elsewhere. They delivered a political vic­tory to the Iraqi government by ousting al-Sadr and restoring the government’s influence over the region, helping set the stage for the first free elections in the history of the country in January 2005. The city remained largely peaceful for the rest of the MEU’s time there. Marines assisted police in restoring order, helped rebuild schools and other buildings destroyed by the fighting, and dispersed almost $45 million in damage compen­sation to the civilian population of Najaf. Even so, the MEU executed numerous direct-action missions in the following weeks as die-hard militia sites were identified, detaining several high-value targets and sizable weapons caches.

The battle for Najaf took place in the first month of the 11th MEU’s deployment. Six months in country remained. The second battle of Fallujah loomed in the near future. Some Marines traveled north and took part in the urban fighting there. They brought with them their ex­perience from Najaf.

“Almost immediately, the lessons we learned in Najaf played out in Fallujah,” said Mayer. “I think a lot of the tactics, techniques and procedures we used for fighting in an urban environment were transferred over and used during that battle.”

Just as quickly, the fighting in Fallujah ballooned into a wide scale, ferocious urban conflict that over­shadowed the hard-fought victory in Najaf. Marines recommended for pe­r­sonal awards in Najaf were submitted through the same consideration process as those streaming out of Fallujah. Many wound up with downgraded medals. LCpl Justin Vaughn, who leaped under fire across the tops of mausoleums to retrieve his fallen squad leader in the cemetery, received a Navy Achievement Medal, as did LCpl James Hassell for his incredible sprint evacuat­ing a wounded Marine carried on his back. PFC Ryan Cullenward was recom­mended for a Silver Star after his hand-to-hand fight during the final assault, which saved the lives of every Marine standing in the room above him. Cullenward received a Navy Commen­dation Medal. Sgt Yadir Reynoso was also recommended for the Silver Star post­humously for his cou­rageous sacri­fice covering the withdrawal of his squad in the cemetery. Reynoso’s award was initially downgraded to a Bronze Star, then later re-upgraded to the Silver Star.

Today, 20 years distant from the cem­etery, the old city and the scorching Iraqi summer, veterans of Najaf recount their experiences in vivid detail with a mix of pride and sorrow. They suffered seven Marines killed and nearly 100 wounded in less than a month. Most are retired or left the Corps over the intervening years, but an impressive number remain on active duty. Landon Gant is now a commissioned engineer officer.

“As a drill instructor, a Company Com­mander, and throughout my career, I cared most about discipline,” Gant said. “Everything starts with individual dis­cipline, and for me, that lesson was forged in Najaf. I remember walking by my company First Sergeant Justin LeHew, a Navy Cross recipient. He was taking every round out of his magazines and cleaning them individually, taking his magazines apart and cleaning the pieces, then putting everything back together and loading the magazines again, making sure those rounds would feed into his weapon when he needed them to. As a young NCO, when you see your first ser­geant modeling that level of individual discipline, that leaves a lasting impact. Those are the small things that matter.”

Kevin Smith served with Charlie Com­pany in Najaf as a radio operator. A teen­age lance corporal in 2004, he retired last year as a chief warrant officer. Pre­scient words from Justin LeHew stuck with him just as powerfully for the last two decades.

“After the battle, I remember 1stSgt LeHew told all of us, ‘Don’t let this be the best thing you ever do in your life.’ At the time, I thought there is no way being here will be the best thing I ever do. But now, looking back, it’s like how can you beat that? I think a lot of us have struggled with that. It definitely made me look at my career differently. Late in my career, I was doing nothing but inspections. I had developed this mentality that if people weren’t dying and no one was in harm’s way, then it didn’t matter. I really had to convince myself to be the best staff offi­cer that I could be.”

Muqtada al-Sadr is alive and politically active today in Iraq, a fact that still causes the Marines who fought him to grit their teeth. Most people, even veterans, know little of the things that transpired in Najaf in 2004. Despite the battle’s frustrating end, the Marines and soldiers accomplished something great, facing the staggering difficulties of a large urban conflict not seen since the Vietnam War. Many of the battle’s veterans thrived later in the Marines or in civilian life, using the lessons and experience from combat to propel them towards success. By any outsider’s standard, the part they played in the battle 20 years ago could never be the best thing they have ever done. For the warriors who fought there, though, the struggle over Najaf is, and will always remain, near the top of their list.

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

Editor’s note: This story originally appeared in the September 2020 issue of Leatherneck Magazine. It is being re-published in honor of Victory Over Japan Day on Thursday, Aug. 15.

On Sept. 2, 1945, the final day of World War II, very few Marines were present in the crowd that gathered on the quarterdeck of the battleship USS Missouri (BB-63) when the official Japanese instrument of surrender was signed in Tokyo Bay. One of those lucky few was my grandfather, Corporal Eugene E. Parker Jr. of Detroit, Mich. who was serving as orderly to Admiral William F. Halsey Jr., commander of the U.S. Third Fleet.

Parker, then 25 years old and a near-four-year veteran of the Marine Corps, appeared in many official and unofficial photographs of the surrender ceremony helping to cement in history the role of Marines serving aboard Navy warships during World War II and the presence of Marines during the conflict’s final chapter.

Though my grandfather died before I was born, I grew up hearing stories about his service in the Pacific and his presence at the Japanese surrender. Tales of his combat experiences were peppered with the names of places such as Midway, Guadalcanal, Leyte and Okinawa, all of which quickly became immortalized in my memory. My mother had held onto her father’s olive green wool service uniform, adorned with five service ribbons and 11 battle stars. My family kept a box of my grandfather’s war memorabilia that included autographed portraits of legendary naval commanders and correspondence from Admiral William “Bill” Halsey himself.

Coming from a Marine Corps family deeply proud of its heritage, my grandfather’s role in such a significant chapter in history was a big deal indeed. When I began training as a military historian a decade ago, his story was never far from my mind. Eugene Parker was a wartime enlistee. He had volunteered to serve only for the duration of hostilities, enlisting five weeks after Pearl Harbor and accepting an honorable discharge nine weeks after the Japanese surrender. How was it that a young man from Depression-era Detroit with little formal education and no prior military experience found himself at the center of what is today remembered as one of the most monumental moments of the 20th century?

Entering the Pacific War

Eugene E. Parker Jr. was born on Oct. 24, 1919, in Detroit, the sixth of 11 children raised in a poor family of Irish and English Americans. He came of age during the difficult Depression years, which instilled in him a great deal of independence and a strong sense of pride. By the age of 16, he had left school and secured a full-time job as a grocery store clerk at Fox Creek Market on the east side of Detroit.

On Dec. 7, 1941, 22-year-old Parker was working at Fox Creek Market when he learned that the Japanese Imperial Navy had attacked the U.S. Pacific Fleet at Pearl Harbor, and his country was going to war. He made up his mind almost immediately that he was going to join the Marine Corps—the only branch of service he and his buddies considered worth its salt.

Within five weeks of the U.S. declaration of war, he was in uniform. After completing recruit training in San Diego, Parker was selected to attend a specialized sea school program to become a seagoing Marine, fulfilling the oldest and most traditional role of the Corps. While many of his contemporaries would go on to serve as assault troops during the island-hopping campaigns of the Pacific, Parker was trained as an antiaircraft gunner aboard ship and sent to Pearl Harbor in April 1942 to join the U.S. Pacific Fleet.

Parker served at Pearl while awaiting orders to join a Marine ship detachment. When Vice Admiral Bill Halsey’s Task Force 16, which included the aircraft carriers USS Enterprise (CV-6) and USS Hornet (CV-8) and their escorts, returned to Hawaii after launching the famed Doolittle Raid over Tokyo, USS Hornet requested four enlisted leathernecks to augment its Marine detachment. Parker was issued the coveted assignment, reporting aboard the renowned flattop on May 27 and joining the Marine gun crew of one of the vessel’s 1.1-inch antiaircraft cannons.

The next day, Task Force 16 pulled out of Pearl Harbor to ambush the Japanese fleet at Midway. During the ensuing battle, airplanes of the U.S. carriers USS Yorktown (CV-5), USS Enterprise (CV-6) and USS Hornet (CV-8) sank four enemy flattops and a cruiser at the cost of just the Yorktown and a destroyer. Though USS Hornet itself was not attacked by Japanese aircraft during the battle, an incident of accidental friendly fire on the carrier’s flight deck killed several Marines in Parker’s detachment and nearly made him a casualty, too.

The Battle of Midway proved a significant U.S. victory in the Pacific War with Japan. With less than two weeks’ experience aboard ship, Parker had become a combat veteran of one of the most famous battles of World War II.

Tales From the South Pacific

The summer of 1942 saw the Allies go on the offensive in the Pacific. In August, the First Marine Division landed at Guadalcanal and Tulagi in the Solomon Islands, kicking off a string of island assaults in the South Pacific. The Guadalcanal campaign would be remembered as one of the bitterest campaigns in American military history—and USS Hornet was to play a major role.

Between August and October, Hornet operated in the Lower Solomons alongside USS Saratoga (CV-3), USS Wasp (CV-7), and Enterprise carrier groups, supporting the Marines on Guadalcanal and engaging elements of the Japanese fleet wherever they appeared. Hornet frequently sailed alone through the dangerous area known as “The Slot through the Solomons, especially as the Japanese scored hit after hit on the other U.S. carriers and disabled or sank them one by one. It was a draining campaign for even Hornet met its tragic end during the October 1942 Battle of the Santa Cruz Islands. Parker and his crewmates were subjected to the horror of successive all-out Japanese aerial strikes during which Hornet was struck by three bombs, two torpedoes and two suicide planes. Everywhere throughout the ship, there was chaos—fires raged, compartments flooded, men lay dead and wounded and planes and munitions exploded. The carrier’s 85-man Marine detachment suffered 14 killed and 28 wounded, a shocking 49 percent casualty rate.

Miraculously, Parker survived with only minor injuries. When Hornet was ordered abandoned, he went over the side and into the Solomon Sea, avoiding circling sharks and enemy bombs alike for roughly an hour before being rescued by the escorting destroyer USS Mustin (DDG-89). Hornet may have sunk beneath the waves at Santa Cruz, but the Marine from Detroit was still very much alive, which meant his war was far from over.

The surviving Marines of Hornet returned to San Diego in December to serve as guards and be retrained as infantrymen to participate in upcoming island assaults at Tarawa, Bougainville or New Britain. In the fall of 1943, Parker, now a trained antitank gunner, redeployed to the South Pacific as an individual infantry replacement.

When Parker arrived at New Caledonia, Noumea, to be assigned to an active infantry regiment, fate intervened. ADM Halsey, commanding the theater, was in search of several additional Marines to join his headquarters. By little more than luck alone, Parker and 11 other men were singled out from their battalion of more than 1,800 and ordered to remain at Noumea while their fellow Marines joined infantry outfits bound for battle.

Parker joined Halsey’s South Pacific headquarters at Noumea in October 1943. He would not separate from the admiral’s command for more than two years. After the Allies neutralized the Japanese bastion at Rabaul on New Britain, achieving the chief objective of the Solomon Islands campaign, new questions arose: with the war moving out of the South Pacific, what was to be done with ADM Halsey, and what would become of the men serving under him?

 Parker saved an autographed portrait of ADM William F. Halsey Jr., that was given to him when he served as the admiral’s orderly. Parker also kept this note from ADM Halsey that was written after their first tour together at sea in the Western Pacific. (Courtesy of Christopher N. Blaker)

Western Pacific Drive

The answer soon became clear. In June 1944, Halsey was given command of the U.S. Third Fleet, the predominant striking force of the U.S. Pacific Fleet. He would alternate command with Admiral Raymond A. Spruance, under whom the fleet was called the U.S. Fifth Fleet. When amassing his flag allowance, 14 enlisted leathernecks from the his existing 114-man Marine detachment in the South Pacific were requested to serve as orderlies aboard the flagship. Incredibly, Parker was among those selected, and so he bid farewell to Noumea and prepared to return to sea for the first time in nearly two years.

Halsey and his flag allowance boarded their new flagship, the battleship USS New Jersey (BB-62), at Pearl Harbor in August 1944 and met the enormous Third Fleet near the Admiralty Islands in the Bismarck Sea. Parker, now a corporal, set to work serving as orderly to Halsey, Chief of Staff Rear Admiral Robert B. “Mick” Carney and other ranking staff officers.

The Third Fleet’s first order of business was to support General Douglas MacArthur’s campaign to invade and liberate the Philippines. In October 1944, Allied troops landed at Leyte, kicking off the biggest and bloodiest campaign in the Southwest Pacific. Though U.S. leaders did not believe the enemy would contest the landings, the Japanese Imperial Navy decided to risk battle at Leyte Gulf, setting the stage for the largest naval contest of World War II.

The October 1944, the Battle of Leyte Gulf saw the Japanese navy gamble its remaining ships against the U.S. Third and Seventh Fleets in Philippine waters. The enemy employed several clever surprises, deceiving Halsey into leading his entire Third Fleet north after a decoy carrier force and catching an unaware Seventh Fleet U.S. escort carrier-destroyer group defending the landing area  off Samar, risking the success of the entire Allied invasion.

Parker was on USS New Jersey’s flag bridge when the now-famous dispatch from Admiral Chester W. Nimitz, commanding the U.S. Pacific Fleet, was delivered to Halsey: “Where is Task Force 34? The World Wonders.” The last phrase had been added to confuse enemy decoders but had not been removed on USS New Jersey, and Halsey saw it as a rebuke from his boss. Enraged, he threw his hat onto the deck and began swearing and storming about the bridge, stopping only when Carney intervened and demanded that he pull himself together.

Fortunately, Allied naval forces managed to turn back the Japanese fleet, and MacArthur’s campaign to liberate the Philippines continued in earnest. But while the Battle of Leyte Gulf ended in an overwhelming victory for the Allies, Halsey’s reputation as an infallible naval commander was dampened considerably and the mighty USS New Jersey, on which Parker and the rest of the Third Fleet’s flag allowance sailed, had not fired a single shot.

The Japanese had been defeated at Leyte Gulf, but the Third Fleet wasn’t out of the woods. During the following weeks, the fleet was subjected to two new dangers—Japanese kamikaze planes aiming to sink Allied ships one by one and a tropical typhoon that proved more menacing than any enemy surface action could. When ADM Halsey turned over command of the fleet to Spruance in January 1945, Parker and the rest of the Third Fleet flag allowance were elated to return to the United States for a well-deserved period of rest and recuperation.

Anchoring in Tokyo Bay

That period of rest passed quickly. After visiting Detroit on furlough, Parker returned to sea in May 1945 onboard the Third Fleet’s new flagship, the battleship USS Missouri (BB-63). Halsey took command of the fleet from Spruance during the final stages of the Okinawa campaign, the naval battle that had become the most costly sea operation of the entire war. After the Third Fleet fought off Japanese kamikazes for several weeks and rode out another tropical storm, Okinawa was finally declared secure in June. The Allies then turned their attention to the one target left of the Pacific War—the Japanese home islands themselves.

The campaign to invade Japan, codenamed Operation Downfall, was expected to be the bloodiest of World War II, with projected Allied casualties of more than a million. To soften the islands up for assault, the Third Fleet conducted countless airstrikes and naval bombardments on Japan that summer. It was abundantly clear by mid-1945 that the Japanese could not hope to defeat the Allies and win the war, but they were prepared to die trying, and they were determined to take as many Allied lives with them as they could.

To the great relief of Parker and every other soldier, Sailor, airman and Marine, the invasion of Japan never materialized. After two atomic bombs were dropped on the cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and the Soviet Union entered the Pacific War in early August, the Japanese finally offered their unconditional surrender. Three years, eight months, and 20 days after the Imperial Japanese Navy attacked the U.S. Pacific Fleet at Pearl Harbor and drew the United States into World War II, the Third Fleet entered Tokyo Bay to formally accept the surrender of Japan.

The surrender ceremony took place on the quarterdeck of Missouri on the morning of Sept. 2, 1945. Sailors, Marines, newspaper reporters and photographers crowded the upper decks to get a good look at the many famous Allied military commanders invited aboard the battleship as guests of honor. Senior U.S. officers of all services also gathered on the quarterdeck to observe the proceedings. In their ranks were fewer than two dozen Marines who had received the honor of attending the event. Parker was among them, standing several rows behind Halsey and armed with a pistol in case the Japanese tried anything treacherous.

Fortunately, the ceremony proceeded without incident, and Parker observed a peaceful transition from a time of war to a time of peace. After Allied and Japanese representatives signed the instrument of surrender, it was finished. World War II, for which Parker had given almost four years of his life and during which he had nearly been killed numerous times, was finally over.

When the U.S. military began demobilizing, Parker was honorably discharged from the Marine Corps in November 1945, and he returned to Detroit with plans to begin a career and start a family. He worked as a security patrolman at the Chrysler Corporation for 34 years and lived in metropolitan Detroit for much of the rest of his life, passing away on Aug. 12, 1981.

Looking back on my grandfather’s service record and exploits during the Pacific War, it is impressive to imagine that one Marine could have seen and experienced so much in just four short years. What is even more remarkable is that Eugene Parker was not a special exception. He was just one of the 16 million Americans who answered their country’s call to duty during World War II and helped protect it in its hour of need.

Author’s bio: Christopher N. Blaker is a historian and editor who works for the Marine Corps History Division and Marine Corps University Press. A native of Michigan, he now resides in metropolitan Washington, D.C., where he is currently completing a book about his grandfather’s experiences in the Marine Corps during World War II.

Editor’s note: The following article received an honorable mention in the 2022 Leatherneck Writing Contest. It is being re-published in honor of National Purple Heart Day on Wednesday, Aug. 7.

I served as a Marine infantryman for twenty-five years. During that time, I walked with legends and served with heroes. Some are recorded in our shared history, such as Medal of Honor recipient Corporal Jason Dunham. Others are less well-known, but no less great. The most influential leader in my profes­sional life was a peer with whom I served as a young staff noncomissioned officer. His name was Staff Sergeant Enrique “Henry” Hernandez. I served with both of these fine men in “Kilo” Company, 3rd Battalion, 7th Marines.

My first assignment had been on the East Coast with 2nd Battalion, 6th Ma­rines where I served for five years and went on three deployments. I was a fire team leader on the winning squad of the 1996 Annual Rifle Squad Competition (Super Squad) and had been fortunate to have outstanding leadership. My first two battalion commanders were Lieutenant Colonel John Allen and Lieutenant Col­onel Joseph Dunford. Both would go on to became four-star generals who had a tremendous impact on Corps and country.

I later checked into 3/7 in the summer of 2002 after a tour on recruiting duty in Asheville, N.C. Recruiting duty was challenging, but I finished well as a mer­itorious staff sergeant. As a new father I examined the demands of balancing career and family and considered leaving active duty. Like many who watched the towers fall on Sept. 11, 2001, I knew that a fight was coming, and I should be there. I requested orders to an infantry battalion in the 2nd Marine Division at Camp Lejeune. The enlisted assignments monitor told me, “You can go to 1/7, 2/7, or 3/7.” I responded “Uh … aren’t they all in Twentynine Palms?” He said, “That’s right … and that’s where you’re going.” I considered countering with men­tion of “a duty station preference following a Special Duty Assignment,” but thought that the coming fight would be in a desert. Why not train in the desert? I then requested orders to 3/7.

I pulled into the high desert that sum­mer while the battalion was away in Victorville, Calif., for a month-long train­ing package. By the time they returned to Twentynine Palms, I had completed the check-in process but was trying to figure out how to put together my gear. While I was on recruiting duty, the Marine Corps had transitioned from the ALICE packs (All-purpose Lightweight Individual Carrying Equipment) to MOLLE gear (Modular Lightweight Load-carrying Equipment), issuing an instructional video on a VHS cassette with it. SSgt Hernandez grinned and said “I got you, bro.” He taught me how to put my gear together which began the first of many lessons I would learn from him. I knew early on that I wanted to be a platoon sergeant like Hernandez.

Hernandez had two tours in security forces and was a close quarters combat instructor. He’d been to more than a dozen schools and had assignments in 2/7 and 3/7 with several deployments, including Somalia. We may have held the same rank and billet, but Hernandez had more experience than I did.

The experience I gained in 2/6 pro­vided a firm foundation upon which to grow. I had a high level of confidence in my experience and abilities, however, I recognized there was much to learn. In addition to new “deuce gear,” an entire family of radios emerged in the Fleet Marine Force while I had been away. Hernandez possessed the knowledge and experience I needed to “re-green” myself back in the grunts.

At that time a rifle company would typically have six SNCOs. The first ser­geant, the company gunny, and four platoon sergeants. When I checked into the unit, Kilo Company had only two: the first sergeant and SSgt Hernandez. Hernandez was simultaneously filling roles as company gunny, platoon com­man­der, and platoon sergeant while men­toring the young NCOs who were filling in as the other platoon sergeants. A week later he and the first sergeant went on leave saying, “You got it, ‘Walkie.’ ”

On Monday morning the battalion ser­geant major yelled at me, “SSgt, why did Lance Corporal Smith get a seatbelt ticket?!” I had no idea who LCpl Smith was but replied, “Because he wasn’t wear­ing a seatbelt, SgtMaj.” I was kicked out of his office with a string of profanity and instructions to “fix Kilo.” A few days later I landed in his crosshairs for my poor execution of sword manual at a retirement ceremony. I became acutely aware that being a good platoon sergeant required much more than just being a competent grunt. Being a good platoon sergeant had to start with being a good SNCO.

When Hernandez returned from leave, I watched him closely, asked a lot of questions, and most of all, I did what he did. In leadership you cannot imitate, but you can emulate. Imitation is trying to be someone else. It is an act you cannot keep up when you are tired, stressed, or when the chips are down. It takes time to develop as a leader, but you have to be yourself. You emulate the qualities possessed by effective leaders. Hernandez had those qualities. He was physically fit, assertive, knowledgeable and incred­ib­ly professional. He could interpret sit­ua­tions and senior leaders and anticipate changes and then take action accordingly. He did all of this with humility. Hernandez was also the kind of guy who could immediately transition from “smoking and joking” to stone cold serious. He was balanced.

Hernandez never gave me bad advice. A few times he gave me advice that I dis­­regarded to my own detriment. Once it was in a minor issue. I was in the bar­racks early ensuring reveille and morning clean-up were going on. I held formation and swung by the company office to give the first sergeant an update for the morn­ing report. My platoon was about to right face for a “boots and utes” run up “Cardiac” and “Sand Hill” in the back­yard of Twentynine Palms. I had a small pinhole in my T-shirt at chest level. As I passed Hernandez, he said, “Don’t let First Sergeant see that.” I balked and said, “We’re headed out to PT, it’s no big deal.” I reported to the first sergeant. He listened as I rattled off my update. In his charac­teristic fashion his eyes scanned methodi­cally from my haircut to my boots. He then said curtly, “Good to go, Staff Ser­geant. I see you again with a hole in your shirt, and I’m gonna rip it off your body”.

“Aye, First Sergeant.” I walked out to my platoon and Hernandez shook his head laughing. “I told you, bro.” I never did that again.

The next time I disregarded his advice, it was a much more serious matter. I tried to take care of a situation at my level, and I lied to the first sergeant. I count it my greatest professional failure. Hindsight provides clarity to a situation which seemed murky at the time. The event occurred during combat operations in Iraq during the time referred to as the “March Up” in 2003. We had been going for weeks on little sleep, crammed into the back of AAVs.

When the ramp dropped, we rushed out ready to engage the enemy. We never really knew where we were, but we knew Baghdad was north. Day blended into night then into another day. On one of those days, a lance corporal in my platoon lost a set of night vision goggles. The loss of serialized gear is really bad and could be an indicator of incompetent leadership. It was human error under arduous conditions, but the fact remains we lost them, and they could be used by the enemy. I told the company gunny but there was no time to search for them. We had orders to continue to push north.

A couple of weeks later as we were pulling out of Baghdad, Kilo Co was assigned a position in the desert to re-set. We got some rest and conducted ac­countability checks of our gear while waiting for follow-on orders to conduct security and stability operations. During my platoon site count, we discovered that one of the Marines lost a set of bino­culars. “Binos” were armory-issued gear, but they weren’t serialized. I did not want to report that another piece of gear had been lost. I considered my options. I could just report it, knowing that some would begin to view this as a trend, and my reputation as a leader would be di­minished. I also thought of various times where I had been taught that “SNCOs solve problems.” Another option was to temporarily hide the issue and remedy it myself. This would require me to initially lie and say we had all of our gear, then purchase a replacement commer­cially before the gear would be turned in after we returned home. It was feasible and tempting. I asked the other platoon sergeants for advice. Hernandez said, “Come clean, tell First Sergeant.”

I didn’t

After telling the first sergeant my pla­toon’s gear was all accounted for, I went back to my fighting hole. I sat there for over an hour feeling guilty. I walked back to the first sergeant. I told him I needed to speak to him, that I had lied. He looked at me and said, “I know.” I stood there in shame as he explained. One of the Marines in the platoon told the NCO who served as the armory custodian that we were missing the binos. The NCO passed on to the first sergeant who kept it to himself. He waited to see how I would handle the situation. He didn’t raise his voice but spoke sternly, full of disappointment. He then said this would remain between us, he would not tell the CO, but that trust had been broken and it would be a long road to restore it. I turned to go, but after a few steps faced him again. I said “First Sergeant, I do not take this lightly. This will never happen again. I failed, but I am committed to becoming the kind of SNCO that I should be.” He returned my gaze and said, “I hope so.”

I walked back to my position feeling dejected. An NCO from the platoon came running up smiling with something in his hand. He said “We found it! We found the binos!” My swirling emotions burst forth in a spew of anger and profanity. He left confused, wondering why I didn’t celebrate the good news. I gave the first sergeant the update. He simply said “Roger” and I walked away.

I orchestrated my own dilemma with my poor judgement. Upon learning that we actually did not lose the binos, I had the brief thought that I should have “stuck to my guns.” It would have resulted in no loss of face, but I knew inside that I would have pushed the envelope even further next time. I grew a lot from that experience. I stopped by Hernandez’s fighting hole. Unsurprisingly, he was clean­ing his weapon. I told him all that had just transpired. He looked at me with empathy and without sounding the least bit condescending simply said, “I told you, man.”

Henry Hernandez taught me so many things. His example stays with me today. I learned the lasting power of peer leader­ship. Peers do not have authority over you, but they have tremendous influence on you. They know your vulnerabilities, they know your potential, and they know the real you. They possess the ability to challenge you and hold you accountable in a way no others can.

I’ve shared these lessons with many SNCOs during my remaining years in uniform by speaking in leadership panels, mess nights, grad­uations and birthday balls. They are shared here now because I have learned that leaders are rarely born, but always built. I am grateful one of those builders was my friend, 1stSgt Enrique Hernandez Jr.

Author’s bio: Adam Walker served as a Marine infantryman for 25 years, retiring as a master gunnery sergeant with three tours in Iraq and a Purple Heart. You can read more of his work on his blog, takeitontheleftfoot.com.

.

Editor’s note: This story originally was published in June of 2018. It was re-published in recognition of National Korean War Veterans Armistice Day on July 27.

Twin siblings enjoy an intrinsic con­nection. Countless studies have been conducted on their similari­ties, brain patterns, development, even twin telepathy—yet their bond appears more spiritual than scientific. One could argue identical twins could not be more inseparable or alike. Two such brothers from the Greatest Generation found a way to forge an even stronger bond, becoming brothers in arms in the United States Marine Corps.

William and Robert Thosath were born on Dec. 7, 1925. Their father, Perry, was a first-generation American whose parents immigrated to Spokane, Wash., from Norway. He married his sweetheart, Alice, and settled into family life. By 1925, a toddler named James already roamed their small house. Alice became pregnant again and went into labor, delivering twins in their home. The birth was attended by her Norwegian mother-in-law. William was born first.

Recognizing Alice was not through with the delivery, Perry’s sur­prised mother scolded him. “My good­ness Perry, you always overdo everything!” Twenty minutes later, Robert followed. Thus, “Bill” and “Bob” entered the family.
The twins’ childhood proved typical of the day, as the family endured ongoing financial struggle through the Great Depression. Even so, it was a happy life, and the boys were inseparable. There was no William or Robert—it was always Bill and Bob. They worked on cars at their father’s auto shop and performed other odd jobs to help bring in money. When not working, they went hunting, fishing and camping in the woods around Spokane. They perfected “twin tricks” on their friends, teachers or family, with one twin posing as the other.

The only thing harder than separating them was telling them apart.
Though identical in appearance, the twins maintained their differences. Bill took after his father, serious and soft-spoken. Bob, on the other hand, was more whimsical and loved poetry and music. On one occasion at the height of the Depression, the twins had been working long hours, scraping together barely enough for their family to get by. That evening, Bob re­turned home and revealed a handful of coins to his mother. He an­nounced with a smile that he earned the extra change that day and was taking her dancing. For that night at least, any worry over the lack of milk in the house or the absence of an indoor bathroom took a back seat.

Bill and Bob entered Lewis and Clark High School in the early 1940s. On Dec. 7, 1941, as they celebrated their 16th birth­day, 3,000 miles away the Japanese Navy attacked Pearl Harbor, sparking an un­stoppable chain of events that would alter the lives of millions of Americans, in­cluding the Thosath twins.

As the fighting heated up, the brothers’ patriotic fervor burned inside. They drudged through high school, watching the men of Spokane depart for war. Their older brother James enlisted in the Army and was sent to the Pacific in 1943. Two of their uncles joined and went overseas as well. The twins yearned to fight for their country and prepared to drop out of school to enlist.

On their 18th birthday, Bill and Bob dragged their parents to the Marine recruiter’s office. Standing 5 feet 7 inches tall and weighing less than 120 pounds apiece, the recruiter discovered the twins did not meet the minimum weight re­quirements for the Corps. He sat the boys down, passed them a bunch of bananas, and told them to start eating. Several minutes and several bananas later, the twins’ full bellies tipped the scales in their favor. Their parents signed the enlistment papers and shortly the twins were off for recruit training in San Diego.

Alice and Perry Thosath returned home, without their sons, to inescapable silence. Their younger daughter Dolores (called “Dilly”) remained home with them, but all the boys were gone. Alice saw the in­creasingly common “service flags” hanging in windows throughout town representing sons at war. She hung one of her own in their window, with three stars paying mute tribute to her own sacrifice.

By the end of 1944, the twins were as­signed to the infantry serving with the 1st Battalion, 26th Marines. They set sail to join the thousands of Marines already engaged in the Pacific. Even with their late entry into the war, the Thosath boys would not be spared from the carnage. Their first experience together in combat took place at the landmark battle of Iwo Jima.

Bill and Bob hit the beach on D-day following the initial assault waves. U.S. naval bombardment cleared the entire area of any natural cover, leaving only the bomb craters as protection from Japanese fire. Advancing inland, they encountered numerous enemy pillboxes and land mines, but the battalion sustained significant casualties from the unceasing artillery and mortars raining down on top of them.

The twins had joined the Marines, the infantry, and the battle just as they had anything in life—together. Now fight­ing the Japanese side by side, they questioned this instinct. As the unit battled inland, Bill and Bob split up between two companies within the battalion. The violence surrounding them made survival uncertain. They hoped some distance between them might decrease the likelihood of getting hit at the same time.

They continued for days, arching across the north side of the island. To root out the entrenched Japanese, exposed infantry drew fire to pinpoint their location, then tanks and mortars blew them to pieces. The twins’ battalion played a critical role in the final phase of the battle, destroying the last enemy hold out at Kitano Point. They witnessed vicious, point-blank fighting, as the last remnants of the Japa­nese fought to the death.

Once Iwo Jima was secured, Bill and Bob took part in a massive “mopping up” operation, visiting numerous islands, hunting for any remaining Japanese. Nothing encountered during this period compared to their experience on Iwo. Bob wrote home to his parents:

“Dear Folks,
How are you? Bill and I are fine. I know you are really worried by now … The reason I haven’t said much about Iwo is we didn’t want to worry you. We had extra good mail service then and kept you pretty well bluffed. There isn’t anything to worry about now. I don’t like to talk much about Iwo because it was a living hell.”

The twins took part in patrols search­ing for, “[Japanese], land mines, crashed American planes, or anything in par­ticular,” Bob wrote. In the Palau Islands, Bill and Bob patrolled the island of Koror. On one occasion, they climbed down to the entrance of a cave and crept cautiously as they noticed the barrel of a Japanese machine gun sticking out. As the gun came fully into view, they saw the bare bones of two skeletal hands still clutching the grips. They entered the cave and found a Japanese skeleton sitting behind the gun, ready to fire. They pondered this morbid spectacle, making mental note of the ammunition—still in perfect lethal con­dition—and the fanatic soldier, who con­tinued his fight even from the afterlife.

The living enemy they found were cor­ralled in a stockade, then transferred back to Japan.

As they moved from island to island, Bob wrote a series of poems in addition to his letters home.

“The Army can have its khaki,
the Navy can have its whites;
but I will take the outfit
that knows how to fight.
We have fought for our country
in every foreign land,
for our liberty and freedom,
and we made a gallant stand.
Though odds were against us,
both big and small,
we never let you down
where any duty called.
Battles we have won,
none have we lost.
No matter what the danger,
no matter what the cost.
Everyone knows our motto,
everyone knows our will.
For the [Japanese] who know it best: kill, kill, kill!
We have won the battle,
the worst ever seen.
We well earned the title,
United States Marines.
In God we trust wherever he may be. Over the land, in the air, and on the sea.”

The twins eventually sailed to Japan, along with their captives, and remained there on occupation duty. With the war in its final stages, they longed to return home to Spokane. It had been 18 months since they last saw their family.

“Wish us luck, and it won’t be too long before we will see each other,” Bob wrote his parents. “Pop, you can start looking for a new car now … Mom can start digging out her recipes and get ready to cook. Dilly better get ready to be teased again. All my love, Bob.”

To emphasize the point, he added a postscript:

“P.S. You’re the best family a fellow wants and all hell can’t keep me from coming back.”
Bob squeezed a final line to his parents at the bottom of the page under the postscript:

“Please excuse the language, but I meant it.”

After nearly two years, the Thosath twins returned home as corporals in July 1946. They settled into their post-war civilian lives nicely. Both took jobs and married. Bob’s wife, Jean, soon became pregnant with a daughter, Jackie. In early 1950, the twins also gained another sister. Their mother Alice gave birth to her fifth child, a daughter named Patricia. As the family expanded and the brothers looked to the future, they remained proud of their service in the war and even prouder to call themselves Marines.

In July 1950, almost exactly four years after the twins returned home, another chain of events began that would dictate the brothers’ destiny for the second time. Half a world away, the armies of North Korea invaded South Korea, invoking the swift military response of the United Nations.

The country prepared for war, and the boys again could not contain their patriotism. “They were hell-bent on joining the Marines,” said their youngest sister, Pat, in a recent interview. “They go through the World War II experience and come home, and they aren’t done yet.” Ultimately, they reasoned if they had survived the World War, Korea would feel like a vacation. Bill and Bob took the oath of enlistment for the second time, and were returned to active duty.

Bob reassured his distraught mother and wife. He tried to convince them that Korea would be nothing compared to what they had already been through. The boys would be home before they knew it. For Bob’s wife, Jean, the news proved most untimely. She was pregnant again, and Bob would not be there for the baby’s birth.

The twins returned to the infantry with the 3rd Battalion, 7th Marines, and sailed for Korea in September. Learning from their combat experience on Iwo Jima, they again decided to split up. Bill served with “George” Company as an infantry platoon sergeant. Bob led a section of mortars in Item Co.

The Marines of 3/7 arrived at Inchon toward the end of September 1950. The twins’ first Korean combat experience came quickly while recapturing Seoul. Following this short drive inland, 3/7 and the entire 1st Marine Division began planning their next expedition. They would sail to the opposite side of the Korean peninsula and push north toward the border with China.

“Hi there everybody, how are you today?” Bob wrote in a letter to his parents as they waited to re-embark. “I have some news for you, something that will make you and dad proud of us. My [lieutenant] and I heard through the grapevine that Bill too, because of the way we acted and handled our men under fire, we are both sergeants. So address our letters re­spectively Sgt R.L. Thosath. Good news, don’t you think? Both of us are in different outfits and made it at the same time. Funny in a way.”

The scuttlebutt going around had the Marines doing all sorts of things, and Bob’s take on the upcoming mission was no exception. “We are sailing in the morn­ing for combat again. Now keep this a secret until you read it in the papers. We are landing 14 miles from Russia, then making a 114-mile dash to the North Korean capital which is our objective. From there they better send us to a rest camp. We sure need it. We are all under­weight. We just have the clothes on our backs. Shoes are about worn out. Oh well, enough of our trouble … .”

While his geography and mileage were inaccurate, there was no question about it. The Marines knew something big was coming—something important—and they were going to be at the center. As he com­mented on the physical condition of his men, he could not possibly have imagined the horror that waited for them in the hills surrounding their next objective.

“Now, don’t worry. Tell grandma hello. Also Jim and Lucy and the kids … Maybe we might, but no promises, be heading home after this mission. I miss you all and love you all … Your devoted son always with my love, Bob.”

The Marines packed their gear, boarded the ship, and set sail. Commanders finalized their plans for the mission. They would push the North Korean Army to the Yalu River border with China and capture a large man-made lake known as the Chosin Reservoir.

The twins, along with 25,000 other Marines, began their drive north from the coast. They marched up the single, unpaved road that served as the only way into or out of the reservoir. They under­stood they were marching into the moun­tains, in winter, into one of the coldest known parts of North Korea.

Neither this knowledge, nor any amount of cold-weather gear, could adequately prepare them for the harsh conditions they faced. Tempera­tures plummeted below zero, freezing water, food, weapons and Ma­rines. Stiff winds whipped exposed skin and cut through all layers of clothing. Periodic snowfall added to the misery.

Another enemy lurking around the reservoir proved far less understood or anticipated than the cold. Chinese Communist Forces (CCF) observed the 1stMarDiv moving toward their border. They were already fighting alongside the North Koreans, but this invasion precipitated the mass movement of Chinese troops south of the Yalu River against the Americans. As the Marines battled through any resistance along the road north, more than 100,000 Chinese soldiers marched south by night, hiding during the day. Their singular objective was the complete annihilation of the 1stMarDiv.

The Thosaths’ 7th Marines led the march to Chosin. On Nov. 6, the regiment fought off a significant Chinese attempt to halt the column. The Marines sustained numerous casualties but ultimately beat them back. On Nov. 15, Marines reached the southern end of the reservoir at the town of Hagaru-ri.
As they prepared for the next phase of the battle, Bob penned another note to his parents explaining his Chosin experience. “I am still with the living and feeling fair,” he wrote. “As you probably know, we are still in combat. Haven’t frozen up yet … . We haven’t hit too much organized resistance the last couple days. The main trouble now is the cold weather. It has been 14 degrees below zero here a couple times with the darndest cold wind blowing. A lot of men have been turning in with frozen hands, feet and noses … . We got boots with three pair of socks. They help a lot. We have fur-lined parkas and two pairs of gloves. Our chow is always frozen solid so we have one hell of a time thawing it out.”

“We finally got the reservoir which was our objective,” he continued. “Our 1st Division got 4,000 replacements, so you can get an idea how many casualties we have had. I haven’t heard from Bill for two weeks, so I don’t know how he is. I wish I knew. I know his outfit was hit pretty hard.”

Bob closed the letter on a familiar note. “Give my love to everyone there. I love you very much Mom and Dad. I hope to see you soon. Well, I better close as I have a mission to fire. Goodbye for now. Your ever-loving son, Bob.” The tone of the letter must indicate that Bob, like his commanders, did not anticipate that the hardships they had encountered were nothing compared to what was to come. It must also suggest that despite his thankfulness for being alive, he would not consider that this letter might be his last.

A few days later, the twins set out with the regiment again and occupied the town of Yudam-ni. They were further north and more isolated than any other unit of the Division. On the night of Nov. 27, the CCF finally revealed the full weight of their force. Tens of thousands of Chinese troops fell on the entire Division attacking points along the road, surrounding the Marines at Yudam-ni, and cutting them off from any reinforcements. The Marine aggressors quickly became the defenders as they fought to maintain a perimeter around the town. The isolated Marines beat back assault after assault from the enemy hoard. Air and artillery support provided the Marines’ only tactical ad­vantage and played a key role in preventing a collapse in the line. Finally, three days later, commanders realized Yudam-ni could not be held and ordered the Marines to fight their way 17 miles back to Hagaru-ri.

For the defenders of Yudam-ni, their withdrawal would be like bursting through a closed door. The 3rd Battalion, 5th Ma­rines would burst through any enemy on the road south. The twins’ 3/7 would be the door. Their mission was to swing out into the hills and hold off the enemy as their comrades withdrew. Once Yudam-ni had been evacuated, 3/7 would move back to the road with the rest of the column as the last of the rear guard.

Bill’s George Co and Bob’s Item Co were assigned to the same objective—Hill 1542. They prepared to launch their attack on the morning of Dec. 1, six days before the twins’ 25th birthday. An enemy force more than twice their size occupied the high ground. As vulnerable as the attack would be, it had to be done. The withdrawing column on the road proved infinitely more vulnerable to the Chinese occupying the heights on both sides of the road.

The twins began their march up the slopes. The movement was arduous as they tried to gain a foothold on the hill. For six hours, the Marines fought inch by inch. The terrain advantage and superior numbers afforded the Chinese prevented the Marine attack from gaining momentum.

Initially, Bill’s George Co was held in reserve as Bob’s Item Co led the attack. By the afternoon, George Co entered the fray, along with headquarters troops, artillerymen and any other Marine available to swell the numbers on the hill. Night fell with the Marines locked on the eastern slopes of Hill 1542, looking up toward the endless number of enemy on the crest. Between Bob’s and Bill’s two companies, and the hodgepodge of others present, fewer than 200 Marines defended the position. Officers reorganized the men into a hastily formed defense. Bill took a position with the remainder of his platoon and prepared for the inevitable CCF attack. He looked to his left, where the remnants of Item Co held the flank of the Marine position. He couldn’t make out Bob in the dark, but somewhere down the line, less than 100 yards away, Bob set up his mortars and made sure his rifle was not frozen.

Chinese soldiers crept through the darkness down the hill toward the Marine line. Sporadic shots rang out as Marines saw movement in the shadows. Around 4:30 a.m., the sound of whistles pierced the air, and the Chinese onslaught came in full. Having located the end of the Marine line, the Chinese focused their attack on Item Co. Even as Bill fired his rifle and fought to hold his own, he looked in horror toward his brother’s position.

Squad- and platoon-sized elements of Chinese attacked points of the Marine line in sequence looking for a weakness. The Marines inflicted severe casualties on their attackers but struggled to maintain their position. Parts of the line were overrun and gave way. The Marines consolidated farther down the hill. The line formed once more, and again it faltered, giving more ground. By daybreak, the Marines had dealt enough damage to ward off the Chinese assault. Marines from all over Hill 1542 staggered back to consolidated positions near the road.

Bill searched for his brother. Having witnessed the carnage on Bob’s portion of the line, Bill felt encouraged to see any remnants of Item Co. But as he looked, a realization came that Bill did not want to acknowledge, a painful reality that he already knew to be true. Bob was dead.

Bill searched for his brother. They had always been together and if anyone could find him, Bill could.

None of the survivors knew anything about Bob’s location or what happened to him. Bill grabbed a fellow Marine and ran back up the hill. The Chinese still occupied the slopes, licking their wounds from the night’s battle. As the last Marines in Yudam-ni filed south down the road, Bill sneaked across the hill looking. He reached the area where the attack had begun the night before but could find no sign of his brother. Hiding from sight of the Chinese, Bill searched until the last possible moment. It was time for the rear guard to fall in. Bill departed Hill 1542 and marched south with the rest of the regiment. Always introverted with his feelings, Bill wrestled within himself as he marched, struggling to understand what had happened to his brother, how it happened, and what it meant. Bob would later be tallied as one of 33 Marines to go missing in action that night from the Division. This classification mattered little to Bill. He already knew Bob was gone forever.

For 10 more days, the Marines made their way south back toward the coast and safety. The going was maddeningly slow, with the column starting and stopping over and over. The battle-weary Marines literally slept where they fell. Under constant harassment from the enemy and unable to pause for a night of rest, Marines snatched minutes of sleep sitting, standing and walking. Their objectives of capturing the reservoir, driving the Koreans to the Yalu River and anything else they may have desired all fell by the wayside. Only one purpose now drove them forward—survival.

As the days passed, more and more Chinese prisoners of war were taken. It was discovered the enemy suffered equally, if not more, from the conditions and combat as the Marines. The Chinese force intent on destroying the Americans had suffered near destruction themselves in the effort. In this tragedy unfolding around the Chosin Reservoir, there would be no victors—only those who made it and those who did not.

The column finally reached the port city of Hungnam. Bill, along with the rest of 3/7 in the rear guard, were some of the last Marines to enter the safe harbor. Of the 25,000 Americans who began the march toward the reservoir weeks earlier, nearly 13,000 became casualties. Of those, 7,300 fell victim to the cold with frostbite, hypo­thermia or other non-battle related in­juries. 200 Marines were missing in action.

They boarded ships and began the jour­ney back around the Korean penin­sula. Now out of danger, Bill took up the re­spon­sibility of writing his parents on Dec. 12.

“Hi you two, I know you are waiting for this letter, so I’m writing this one short,” he began. “I’m still alive and my health is still pretty good. We made it out of the traps, how I don’t know. It was more or less a living hell … . I have lost everything I had as our position was overrun by the [Chinese]. So now I am right back where I started but damn glad to be alive. Only God could have brought me or anyone else back, and I sure have been praying and thanking God for all that he has done for me. The outfit took quite a beating, and this idea of fighting both ways isn’t my idea of fun in case anyone asks.”

“They lost a lot of mail and packages which we were supposed to have gotten but rather than give them to the [Chinese] we burned them as the order of the day was just to take the beans and bullets, as we would be lucky to get out. So you see, I lost everything … .”

Curiously, the most bitter loss he suf­fered is the one ignored in his letter. Nowhere does Bill begin to address his brother or his loss. Bill’s reasoning for this is lost to history. Never one to address his feelings, it is possible the raw emotion was just too difficult to face. Still processing the events of the past days for himself, perhaps he simply could not find the words to express anything other than his own thankfulness for being alive.

How should one respond to such tragedy? In this intensely personal proc­ess, there can be no right or wrong answer. To suffer loss, violent and sudden, is a unique pain for which there is no road map of grief. For the families of those missing in action, the void of closure or assurance their loved one is even truly gone adds greater perplexity and weight to the burden.

The twins’ mother, Alice, refused to believe her Bob was lost. Within a matter of months, Alice had given birth to her fifth child, watched her boys return to war, and now was informed via telegram that one of them had vanished. It was more than she could bear. “She had quite a time mentally dealing with Bob’s death,” remembered Alice’s daughter Pat. “For about the first three years of my life I was actually taken care of by my brother James’ wife and my sister because my mother just was not able.” Alice began writing letters pleading for information. The War Department, the Red Cross, the Marine Corps, members of Congress and even the president, all received letters looking for information. She clung to the thought that Bob had survived.

Perry Thosath refused to speak of his lost son. In all the years following, until his death in 1979, Pat never heard her father speak of Bob, even during times where his alcoholism got the better of him.

Bob’s wife Jean was convinced that he had been taken prisoner. She wouldn’t accept that he had been killed. When Bill arrived back in the United States and was treated in a San Francisco hospital for his frostbite, Jean drove all the way to see him, convinced of the possibility that the twins’ identities had been mixed up and it was really Bob. She pored over photos of prisoners of war, looking for her husband’s face. In April 1951 she gave birth to a son, naming him Robert, after his father. Jean became extremely ill following Bob’s loss, and her doctors recommended a warmer climate. She packed 3-year-old Jackie, baby Robert and all her belongings into their car and drove to Fresno, Calif. She maintained little or no contact with the rest of the Thosath family. Even though she refused to discuss what happened with him, would later destroy all his letters, and eventually remarry, Jean always considered Bob the love of her life.

As others debated Bob’s fate and searched for information, ironically, one of the few people who could provide the details they sought had returned home to their front door. Bill arrived back in Washington in early 1951. After exiting the Marine Corps, he worked with his older brother, James, as a contractor and took a job as a pressman for the Spokane local newspaper. Much like his father, Bill would not discuss what had happened. It remained a place too painful to go. As his mother wrote her letters and hoped for a miracle, Bill would say, “You’re wasting your time. I was there. He could not have survived that.” This was as far as the conversation could go, and Bill was unwavering.

He threw himself into his work, oc­cupy­­ing his time and his mind. Each Thanksgiving and Christmas, Alice planned family gatherings around Bill, tucking in meal times between his mul­tiple jobs. Again like his father, Bill struggled with alcoholism, seeking a release from the burden he bore. Bill and his wife eventually adopted a daughter and tried to continue on along with the rest of the family.

Three years after Bob’s loss, in Decem­ber 1953, the Thosaths received another telegram in the mail. “Deeply regret to inform you that a finding of death has been made in the case of your son Sergeant Robert L. Thosath USMCR previously reported missing in action.” The military declared Bob dead due to lack of any evidence demonstrating otherwise. The official change in Bob’s classification had been made on Dec. 7, the twins’ 28th birthday. Until she died in 1987, Alice Thosath held out hope for her son. No funeral or memorial service for Bob has ever been held.

When Bob’s daughter Jackie turned 21, she decided it was time to meet the Thosath family again. She flew to Spokane for an anniversary celebration for her grandparents. “At first Bill didn’t come, he didn’t think he could see me,” re­membered Jackie. “But he came during the middle of the party and he burst into tears. He burst into tears, then he took me on a tour of Spokane, and every place that he and my father loved to go. He showed me where my mom had lived and told me how Bob had met my mom. From then on, he and I stayed in touch.”

In 2001, Jackie attended a Defense POW/MIA Accounting Agency (DPAA) Family Update in Los Angeles. These monthly meetings have been conducted since 1995 and are designed as a personal interaction between the families of MIA servicemembers and the U.S. government personnel whose mission it is to find them. The military personnel present wore dress uniforms and treated the families with the utmost respect. They gave presentations on the efforts going on across the globe and provided updates on servicemembers recently identified. Sitting across from Jackie and her son were the family of an American airman whose plane had been shot down during World War II. Her conversation with the other families, the amount of respect demonstrated to­ward them, and the realization of the worldwide effort going on to bring home the missing, all comforted Jackie. Seeing that there were others out there knowing, remembering, and searching provided her with some closure. When she returned home from the meeting, she called Bill to let him know she had attended and what was said. “Jackie,” Bill replied, “he’s never coming back.”

More than 7,700 U.S. servicemembers remain unaccounted for from the Korean War. Nearly 1,000 of those were lost during the Chosin Reservoir campaign. Today, the DPAA continues its operations to recover, identify and return the lost. More than 50 years passed before Americans were allowed to return to the Chosin Reservoir to search for remains. Since then, operations in North Korea have been alternately suspended and resumed as the hostilities between the U.S. and that nation ebb. As recently as March 2018, another American soldier, gone missing the same night as Bob Thosath on the opposite side of the reservoir, has been identified.

As Bill grew older, looking back on his life, his greatest source of pride remained his service as a United States Marine. “When he was very elderly, I would call him and when he answered, I would start singing the Marine Corps Hymn,” remembered his sister. “He’d just start laughing and tell his wife, ‘Oh it’s Patty again!’ I knew he loved to talk about the Corps, even though he didn’t go into his feelings, and that kind of became our thing. He knew he could talk to me, whereas some other people in the family felt that was a bad subject and didn’t want to go there.”

“I don’t know what the Marine Corps does to people,” Pat reflected. “They just get this thing where it’s a lifetime pride, and Bill was just so proud to have been part of it. And it speaks really well of the Marines for Bill to have gone through this experience, coupled with losing his brother, and when he’s 75 years old, he’s still so proud to be a Marine.”

Following his 80th birthday, Bill set out on his life’s final mission; reuniting with his brother. “I’ve had it in my mind that wherever he goes, I’m going to be there too,” Bill told a reporter for the local newspaper. With help from the local government, Bill worked it out with the Naval Mortuary Affairs Burial at Sea Program to have his remains brought back to Korea. They would return his ashes as close as they could get to Chosin. Bill died two years later, just shy of his 83rd birthday.

In June 2011, Pat opened a copy of the morning papers. A large, bold headline captured her gaze. “Decades later, service­men’s remains returning to Spokane.” She read on to learn a U.S. Army soldier, gone missing in Korea, had finally been recovered and identified. His elated family was already planning the long overdue memorial service that could provide them some measure of peace. Pat closed the paper. Hope for her family seemed a for­lorn reality, and there seemed no escape from reminders of the pain.

For the Thosath family, and all those families with loved ones still missing in action, peace remains incomplete and fleeting. “It’s not just our family,” said Pat “There are many stories, and because of what we’ve gone through, we understand it. Most people in this country, we love our soldiers.” She paused, struggling to subdue the emotion always accompanying memories of her brother. “So in a way, this is just another story about a soldier. But he was ours.”

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

After his second tour in Vietnam, Sergeant Rick Ault returned to the United States on a flight that landed in San Francisco. The soldiers and Marines on board the airplane were warned to avoid the protesting civilians assembled in the airport. That was easier said than done, according to Ault; the protesters were determined to deliver their “make love not war” message by hurling insults and spitting on Ault and his fellow servicemembers as they made their way through the terminal.

Recalling that day still makes him shake his head in bewilderment and anger 55 years later.

“The worst time we had in Vietnam doesn’t compare to walking into San Francisco airport,” said Ault, a crew chief who flew 580 combat missions with Marine Observation Squadron (VMO) 6 during two separate tours in Vietnam.
Like many other Vietnam War vet­erans, Ault rarely spoke about his Ma­rine Corps service in Vietnam after he came home. It’s not that he regretted his service—on the contrary, he was proud of the men who served alongside of him and what they had accomplished together. Because of the reception he had received in San Francisco and the anti-war mood in the country, Ault decided he would keep it all to himself and get on with his life.

Now, decades later, Ault is no longer reluctant to talk about his time in country as a crew chief for the Bell UH-1E Iroquois, more commonly known as the “Huey.” But it wasn’t his family and friends or even his fellow veterans who got him to open up. It was a group of living history enthusiasts based in southern England who got Ault talking. The amateur historians were in the process of restoring a Huey and they had some questions about the helicopter. Ault and some of the other veterans of VMO-6 connected with them to tell them as much as possible about the helicopter and what it was like to serve in Vietnam.

What began as a series of technical questions soon became a friendship. And before long, a group of British civilians became the unofficial legacy keepers of VMO-6 and the Marines who served in the squadron—even flying to the United States recently to be special guests at a squadron reunion.

MAG-36 UK
Stuart Beeney, Damon Hatcher and Martin Luscombe along with brothers Andrew and Peter Seal are a group of friends in Southern England who share a passion for military history. As part of a group called Rolling Thunder, The Vietnam Experience, they put together a Marine Corps living history diorama that represents Hue City during the Vietnam War. They display their diorama at mil­itary history shows in England. Each year, for several years running, they would change up the diorama they created, said Stuart Beeney, one of the display builders. And then in 2017, Beeney had an idea for what would become the jewel in his group’s restoration crown. Beeney saw a used Huey helicopter for sale and figured, if he and his mates all pooled their re­ources, it should be no problem to buy and restore it. Sure, why not?

“Basically, we like challenge,” Beeney said during a video call in late spring, 2021. “A challenge” is certainly one word to describe aircraft restoration. They bought the aircraft and promptly got to work.

Using their contacts in Vietnam War Facebook groups, the British history enthusiasts located several veterans of Marine Observation Squadron-6, including Ault, and with their help, they were able to begin to work out what needed to be done to make their helicopter resemble a Marine Corps UH-1E Huey. Because Ault and several others from VMO-6, including M.C. “Red” Trivette Jr. and Peter Greene, were so generous with their time answering questions about the Huey and sharing photos from their time in country, the group decided to “assign” the helicopter to VMO-6 and designate it Bird 18—Ault’s helicopter during his second tour in Vietnam.

“You could say we chose VMO-6, but you could also say VMO-6 chose us,” said Beeney. “The first three people that got back to us [were] Rick Ault, ‘Mad Dog Red’ [Trivette], and Peter Greene. Three veterans from one squadron all got back to us … no one else got back to us.”

“We [were] expecting … ‘why?’ and ‘what’s it got to do with you?” but they [came] back, full-on commitment … basically they sort of went, ‘Welcome!’ from day one.”

With the VMO-6 veterans on board and the identity of Bird 18 decided, the research began to find out how to make the Huey look authentic to the time period. They also started to learn about this group of Marines and what it was like during their service in Vietnam.

“I’ve never been so flattered in all my life, that these guys want to know what we did and how we did it,” said Ault. Adding that he’s grateful for what they’ve done to preserve the squadron’s history.

John Boden, a pilot with VMO-6 during the Vietnam War, said he appreciates the work of his British “squadron mates” for taking on the role of legacy keepers. “The best thing that’s happening [as a result of this] has nothing to do with Bird 18,” said Boden, adding that Beeney and the others are now “caring for the VMO-6 story.”

A Historical Perspective
Decommissioned Jan. 1, 1977, VMO-6, can trace its roots back to the early days of Marine Corps aviation. The squadron arrived in Vietnam in 1965. Using the call sign “Klondike,” the aircrews flew as gunship escorts for larger transport helicopters. The pilots and crews also maintained 24-hour medical evacuation alert, often serving as the lifeline for wounded soldiers and Marines on the ground.

Armed with M60 machine guns, used by the crew chief and the door gunner, the Huey crews were often called upon to support infantry Marines by delivering fire on enemy positions. “Most 19-year-olds don’t even have their own car,” said Ault. “I had my own helicopter and a bunch of bullets.” The Huey crews were also tasked with insertion and extraction of special operations teams.

“I never turned down any opportunity to fly,” said Ault, adding that those mis­sions were among his favorite. “Everything puts you a little bit closer to the razor’s edge and the razor’s edge was where we were most comfortable.”

Attention to Detail
Maintaining a Marine Corps helicopter is no easy task. It takes months of school followed by even more on-the-job training.

Restoring a Bell UH-1 Iroquois to represent a bird from a Vietnam-era Ma­­rine Corps squadron despite having no formal aviation maintenance training seems highly improbable. Yet the MAG-36 UK crew have managed to make it look easy. And there’s no cutting corners for them; they are sticklers for authenticity.

“For us, detail is key. It’s got to be right,” said Beeney, “every detail counts.”
They have spent hours studying photos to learn everything they can about how the squadron’s Hueys looked during the 1960s in Vietnam.

“I’m very, very proud of what they’ve done … they’ve put so much time and effort into it,” said retired Master Gunnery Sergeant Tom Constantine, who was a door gunner with VMO-6 in Vietnam in 1968. Constantine, an avid photographer during his tour in Vietnam, couldn’t have imagined that some of his images would help guide a complicated restoration project half a century later. Constantine said he was amazed at how many parts have been made by the MAG-36 UK crew.

Sometimes parts for the helicopter can’t be sourced, so the restoration crew fabricates replacement parts using what­ever material is available.
Often the fabricated parts look so good that even the Marines who flew and worked on the Huey cannot tell the difference. One such part was the hoist for Bird 18, which Martin Luscombe, a member of the MAG-36 UK group built by hand using basic power tools.

“I’ll give anything a go,” said Luscombe, who said he fell into living history pres­entations almost by accident. He went to help a friend drive a jeep home from a living history event, but when he got there, he realized that the vehicle didn’t have doors, so he bought a military jacket on site to wear and keep himself warm. He ended up enjoying himself and “next thing I knew I was buying a Huey,” said Luscombe, who has worked to create parts that look like the original, often using only old photographs as his guide. “Stuart will give me a job and I’ll do it,” said Luscombe.

John Boden was among the squadron veterans who connected with the Bird 18 project online and often provided feed­back and photographs to assist with the restoration project. In July 2019, his curiosity got the better of him so he went to England to have a look at the helicopter for himself. He timed his visit to coincide with the War and Peace military history show which meant he had the opportunity to see the Rolling Thunder group and Bird 18 on display. “I was flabbergasted,” Boden said. “In fact, seeing the War and Peace Show was overwhelming, the size of it, the people and the time and effort expended.”

Boden spent several days at the show where he was given VIP treatment not only by the Bird 18 crew, but by show attendees who seemed impressed that a U.S. Marine who was a Vietnam War vet­eran was in their midst. Boden fielded questions all day from those who stopped by to look at the Huey, amazed at all the interest in his firsthand experience in combat. “They treated me like I walked on water,” Boden said. “It was embarras­sing.” It was an interesting juxtaposition for Boden to have so many British cit­izens pay respect to his Vietnam veteran status after the unpleasant reception he had received from his own countrymen after his return from the war. He was also pleasantly surprised by how quickly he connected with Beeney and the rest of the Bird 18 restoration team, remarking that it was reminiscent of his Marine Corps days. “I was instantly part of the group … [we were all] giving each other a ration of crap, having a beer,” he said. “I was like part of the family right from the get-go.”

The Reunion
Marines who serve together form something akin to a tight-knit family—particularly those who have faced deadly circumstances together. And it doesn’t matter how much time has passed, when veterans gather for reunions, the years melt away and it’s just like the old days. The members of VMO-6 are no exception. “When I look at these guys, I see them as they were when they were 25, not as they are now,” said Ault at the squadron’s most recent reunion in Pensacola Beach, Fla. “I haven’t seen [some of] them in 50 some odd years and yet your mind still has this vision of a person who, when you first met, was 19, 20 years old.”

Through the restoration of an old Huey, a group of British military history enthu­si­asts have been brought into that family.

Having spent years connecting with VMO-6 Marines online, Stuart Beeney, Damon Hatcher, Martin Luscombe, Andrew Seal and Peter Seal came to the U.S. in late October to attend a VMO-6 reunion in Florida. They spent several days participating in all the planned activities along with the members of the squadron and their families. And much to their surprise, the squadron members embraced them as their own.

“It was an absolute honor and privilege to be invited over to the reunion and to spend quality time with these amazing people,” said Peter Seal of the Bird 18 team. “It’s something I shall never forget, and I shall cherish for a very long time.”

“I mean, when they refer to you as ‘brother,’ you’re saying ‘hang on a minute, I’m a Brit, never served, but you’re calling me brother?’ and then you’re given a VMO-6 stein and it is says ‘Honorary Member’ on it … hang on a minute, is this real?” Beeney said. “This is their moment, it’s not ours, it’s their moment … but we’re being included.”

At the reunion, the MAG-36 UK team took every opportunity to learn everything they could about the Huey to continue to make Bird 18 as authentic as possible. Throughout the week, they asked the Marines as many questions as they could about things they had been unable to find out through their research. They covered a range of things, from the most technical “where was the pitot tube placed” type of questions to the broader issues about what it was like to fly the missions in Vietnam.

In addition to numerous technical questions about the helicopter, the Bird 18 crew was equally interested in hearing personal accounts from the Marines they met. “The stories we can get this week from these guys help us to tell the story,” said Damon Hatcher, adding that storytelling is at the heart of what they are trying to accomplish with their living history presentations.

While in Pensacola the reunion at­tendees visited the grave of VMO-6 pilot and Medal of Honor recipient Major Stephen W. Pless, who died in a motorcycle accident shortly after his return home from Vietnam. The reunion also included a memorial ceremony for those VMO-6 Marines who were killed in action, including Corporal Rodolfo “Rudy” Gonzalez, who was killed in 1966, just a few days before he was scheduled to return home. Gonzalez’ nephews attended the Pensacola reunion in hopes of connecting with Marines who knew their uncle. “The love the [squadron] has for each other has validated and confirmed the commitment Uncle Rudy had for country and his fellow Marines,” said Gerardo “Jerry” Gonzalez. “We … know that his ultimate sacrifice has not and will not ever be forgotten.”’

Paying tribute to those who didn’t come home is another key aspect of the Bird 18 display, said Beeney, adding that he sees the helicopter as a tangible memorial to VMO-6 Marines who were KIA in Vietnam.

“So They Don’t Get Forgotten”
When MAG-36 UK sets up their display at a military history show, the bedrock of their motivation is to teach people about military history. That’s why authenticity and accuracy are so important to them. Many people only know about the Vietnam War through what they’ve seen in the movies and on TV. That’s not always an accurate reflection of how things were.

By giving visitors to the Bird 18 display an opportunity to not only view the helicopter, but to sit in the aircraft and learn about the men who flew missions in the Huey, the Vietnam War is being taught to a new generation of people. “It’s about keeping [the] story alive,” Andy Seal said.

People are drawn to the helicopter when it is on display around England and when they take a closer look at the Huey, that’s the opportunity for the Bird 18 crew to educate people and tell them not just about the aircraft, but about the men who flew and maintained them.

“Telling the story to others … and sharing that knowledge to the wider public,” is what this project is about, Andy Seal said.

The Bird 18 group take great pride in giving visitors to the display an under­standing of what it was like to be part of a Huey crew in Vietnam—not just with information from books, but through the stories they’ve heard firsthand from the Marines who were there.

“The fact that we have become heavily involved with continuing the legacy of VMO-6 is an amazing achievement, I cannot think of any other group of civilians who have been allowed to do this,” said Peter Seal.

The Huey was a great helicopter, said Boden, who flew 750 missions during his tours in Vietnam, but it was the Marine air crews and aircraft maintainers who turned the Huey into the incredible tool it was. “One without the other would never work,” Boden said. And through their interactions with the VMO-6 Marines, the British reenactors developed a keen understanding of that. “In fact, Bird 18 itself was a perfect example of [how] the machine and the men working together were what made it work,” Boden said.

“The helicopter is a symbol for the squadron’s history,” said Boden. “They started rebuilding a helicopter … they are now the keepers of the history.”

Through their dedication to educating the public about the history of Marines in Vietnam, the history presenters of MAG-36 UK have caught the spirit of Semper Fidelis, which is so deeply ingrained in every Marine. They will carry it forward for every member of VMO-6, keeping their stories alive.

Author’s note: Special thanks to John Boden, Col Ed Kufeldt, USMC (Ret), Rodolfo Gonzalez and Jerry Gonzalez. For more about Bird 18, visit: www.usmc
-huey.co.uk.

Author’s bio: Nancy Lichtman is the Executive Editor of Leatherneck. She is a member of the Aircraft Owners and Pilots Association, the Experimental Aircraft Association and the Society for Professional Obituary Writers. She is the 2023 winner of the General Roy S. Geiger Award for Marine aviation writing.