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As Americans read their morning newspapers on Sept. 15, 1950, headlines such as “Seoul Port Isle Falls to Marines in Brief Battle” in Washington D.C.’s The Evening Star caught them by surprise. Across the country, this is the way almost every citizen learned of Inchon, which had been seized by the 1st Marine Division. The articles featured on the front page of that day’s Evening Star described the amphib­ious assault, including naval bombard­ment, napalm strikes and Ma­rine land­ings.

Reading the column, one might assume the operation was easy for the Navy and Marine Corps. However, the articles failed to convey the truly Herc­ulean task involved in executing the landings at Inchon, called Operation Chromite. The Navy and Marine Corps faced an almost impossible challenge: They were expected to call up their re­serves, sail across the globe and plan an invasion within three months—a feat that directly contradicted the doctrine de­veloped during the Pacific campaigns of World War II.

Just a few months earlier, on June 25, the North Koreans poured across the 38th Parallel. In just over 30 days of fighting, the North Koreans had the Republic of Korea and U.S. forces with their backs to the wall in the southeast corner of the Korean peninsula, the Pusan Perimeter. The theater commander, General Douglas MacArthur, USA, conceived the idea to relieve the Pusan Perimeter with an amphibious assault during the first week of July. This assault, which would have used the 1st Cavalry Division and an airborne regimental combat team drop, never came to fruition as the 1st Cavalry was needed at Pusan. The idea was then reluctantly agreed to by the Joint Chiefs of Staff, who looked to the Navy and Marine Corps to carry it out.

The Buildup
Due to budgetary restrictions in the massive post-WW II drawdowns, the Marines were just 74,279 active-duty Marines, with only 7,779 Marines in 1stMarDiv. With the agreement of Gen Clifton Cates, the 19th Commandant of the Marine Corps, the Joint Chiefs of Staff had slated 1stMarDiv and the 1st Marine Air Wing (MAW) to conduct MacArthur’s amphibious operation. First, the division had to reach war-time strength, and it was woefully short. Second Marine Division and the security forces were cannibalized, with thousands of Marines sent from Marine Corps Base Camp Lejeune to Camp Pendleton by August 1950.

To achieve a full-strength division, the Marine Corps turned to the Reserve force created after WW II. Many combat veterans from the Pacific campaigns had gone to the reserve, but a portion of the force still consisted of Marines who had never seen active duty or even boot camp. The call went out for thousands of these reservists to report to 1st and 2nd MarDivs for active service. These reservists made the bulk of the manpower behind 1stMarDiv and 1st MAW, preparing to meet the North Korean enemy.

Logistically, the buildup of the Marine forces for Korea was a near impossible feat on its own. Thousands of Marines needed to be equipped and trained for war with mere weeks left before shipping out. Seventh Marines Commander Colonel Lewis B. “Chesty” Puller remembered order­ing company commanders to pull mothballed gear and cosmoline-caked weapons from WW II to be issued to arriving Marines. After being equipped, the Marines received rudimentary in­struction on weapons, which continued while they sailed to Korea in late August 1950. Despite the hardships of forming a division in only two months, 1stMarDiv and 1st MAW were all en route to or in Korea by the end of August, following the timeline to conduct an amphibious operation in September 1950. With the 1st, 5th and 7th Marine Regiments being shipped out at different times, there was no opportunity for the entire division to make preparations or practice assaults prior to the scheduled invasion.

Operation Chromite
The Navy and Marine Corps, drawing on their vast experiences in WW II, be­gan formulating ideas of landing beaches suitable for amphibious operations. It was noted that the east coast beaches presented many more acceptable land­ing sites than the west coast beaches. GEN MacArthur, Commander of Far East Forces, was presented multiple locations with acceptable conditions for an amphib­ious assault. However, MacArthur was dead set on a place called Inchon.

Navy and Marine planners noted that the port of Inchon was the worst possible location for an amphibious assault. The approach to the harbor was bottlenecked by two peninsulas, perfect for underwater mines. In the harbor, the tidal range was one of the most volatile in the world, leaving Sept. 15 as the only day with enough water clearance for landing craft. Further, the tides restricted landing to just two windows: a few hours in the morning and late afternoon. If that wasn’t enough, offshore islands dominated the approaches to the landing beaches. Once on the beaches, Marines would have to contend with a concrete seawall or a mud flat, leaving virtually no beach exit for vehicles.

Defending Inchon was the 226th In­dependent Marine Regiment of the North Korean People’s Army’s (NKPA), supported by the 918th Artillery Re­giment. Nearby in Seoul was the 18th Infantry Division and the 42nd Mech­anized Regiment, equipped with Soviet T-34s. The only redeeming factor for the selection of Inchon was that it was the closest harbor to Seoul. MacArthur’s entire strategy revolved around capturing Seoul by an arbitrarily picked date at the end of September. Despite almost unan­imous objections to Inchon, MacArthur pressed his decision, again receiving a begrudging approval from the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Joint Task Force 7, comprised of 1stMarDiv under Major General O.P. Smith; 7th Infantry Regiment, 1st MAW; and a multinational array of naval vessels, approached Inchon on Sept. 10. Navy and Marine planners continued meeting day in and day out to finalize the plans for the Inchon invasion, even while sailing toward their ultimate objective.

Opening the invasion were Marine F4U-4B Corsairs from Marine Fighter Squadrons 214 and 323, which began softening up the landing area with bombs and napalm. Looking toward shore, observers saw the gull-winged fighters delivering their deadly payloads. Moving cautiously into the harbor, the Navy detected multiple mines guarding the narrow approach. For the next few days, minesweepers, covered by destroyers, made the harbor safe for the landing craft to proceed. This task was made increasingly difficult as shore batteries opened on the ships. The ships responded in turn, leveling the positions. With the mines and approaches clear, the way was paved for the Marines to go ashore. The final day loomed before them—Sept. 15, 1950, was their day to pull off the impossible.

Green Beach
Before the Marines could proceed to Inchon, they first had to take Wolmi-do, the offshore island. On the morning of the 15th, the calm darkness was shattered by the whine of Corsairs and the pounding of their bombs. Around 6:30 a.m., the racket suddenly ceased, replaced by the humming of landing craft. The Marines of 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines, stormed ashore and swarmed the island.

They encountered little resistance, finding only small pockets of North Koreans holed up in caves. When hand grenades proved ineffective, enterprising Marines flagged down an M26 Pershing tank rumbling off a landing craft. The tank, specially equipped with a bulldozer blade, approached a cave. Withstanding a flurry of last-ditch resistance, the tank lowered its blade and shoved a wall of debris into the cave mouth, sealing the defenders’ fate.

The Marines continued their advance, crushing what little resistance they en­countered. At 8 a.m., Colonel Robert Taplett, commander of 3/5, reported Wolmi-do secure with only 17 casualties. Soon, the tide receded, leaving only sticky muck in the harbor. Across the island, Marines settled into defensive positions to wait out the next few hours until the rest of the division arrived. Only an hour and a half of daylight was expected after the afternoon landings took place; if anything went wrong, 3/5 would be isolated on Wolmi-do.

Blue Beach
The naval bombardment picked up again at 2:30 p.m., softening up the re­maining beaches. At 5:30, the Marines started for shore. Chesty Puller’s 1st Marines piled out of their landing craft onto Blue Beach, which was inundated with smoke and fog. Once again, the Marines encountered little resistance. What held them up was the deep quag­mire that made up most of Blue Beach. The landing craft got stuck across the beach, forcing Marines to trudge ashore through the mud. Compounding the problems, some follow-on troops landed in the wrong location and had to march across the peninsula to rejoin the rest of the regiment.

Despite the mud and confusion, Ma­rines streamed ashore and swiftly over­whelmed any resistance they encountered. Most of the enemy consisted of isolated bunkers, like on Wolmi-do, which were reduced with tanks, flamethrowers, grenades and tenacity. By nightfall, the 1st Marines paused their advance on the hills overlooking the beach. Despite the setbacks of the confused landing, the 1st Marines were ready to push on through Inchon the following day. Across the peninsula, Marines in the 5th Marine Regiment were facing a much different landing.

Red Beach
On Red Beach, Lieutenant Colonel Raymond Murray’s 5th Marines broke through the smoke in landing craft, revealing the looming concrete seawall. The de­ceptively named Red Beach had no beach at all. The water lapped directly against the wall, which in some places towered 4 feet above the landing craft. Simple ingenuity got the Marines ashore: Navy coxswains maneuvered their craft against the seawall, gunning the engines to keep the ramps pressed tight against the concrete. Marines hurled grenades over the top before bracing wooden lad­ders up the ramp and wall. One by one, they clambered up and over, enemy bullets snapping overhead.

Once ashore, the Marines faced the fiercest resistance yet. Bunkers and fighting positions dotted the landscape. Unlike previous amphibious assaults, Inchon’s buildings and warehouses ex­tended right to the water’s edge. Marines fought through streets and warehouses, battling to clear out defenders and achieve their objectives.

The fighting on Red Beach resembled the brutal, close-quarters combat of the Central Pacific, nearly a decade earlier. The Marines systematically neutralized NKPA positions, one by one, with gre­nades and flamethrowers. Close air support, honed to a fine edge by the Navy and Marine Corps, roared in low over the beaches, dropping bombs on targets designated by the battalion forward air controller.

The battle for Red Beach culminated on Observation Hill. This commanding height dominated the surrounding terrain but teemed with NKPA defenders. Night had fallen by the time mixed units from 2nd Bn, 5th Marines, were ready to as­sault the hill. Eerie light emanated from burning buildings, while muzzle flashes punctuated the darkness. Marines charged up the northern and southern slopes, locked in furious grenade battles with the enemy. Despite taking casualties, they seized the hilltop and dug in to repel counterattacks.

As the fighting subsided and the sounds of battle faded, the smoke and fire from naval shells and napalm illuminated the midnight sky. The 1st and 5th Marines consolidated their positions, reorganizing their units after the chaotic landings. Meanwhile, the Marines on Wolmi-do crossed the causeway to Inchon proper, completing the now-continuous defensive line spanning the peninsula.

One Day Down, Many More to Go
The Sailors and Marines at Inchon had achieved the impossible, successfully executing an amphibious assault on one of the most inhospitable landing sites imaginable. Even more impressively, they had planned, organized and executed the entire operation in less than three months, with half of the planning occurring while the division was at sea. Such a feat would have been unthinkable just a few years earlier. But under the expert leadership of seasoned veterans, from Smith down to platoon and squad leaders, the oper­ation unfolded with minimal casualties. Marines, both veteran and recruit, dis­played the courage, tenacity and fighting spirit that have defined the Corps since its inception.

As the sun rose above Observation Hill on the morning of Sept. 16, the Marines beheld a smoldering city before them. Beyond Inchon lay the Han River, which they would need to cross, again relying on their beloved amtracs. And beyond the Han River sprawled Seoul, the capital city, full of twisting alleyways and formidable barricades. Though they didn’t know it then, these Marines were bound for the frozen peaks of the Chosin Reservoir and the most desperate fight of their lives. But for now, they focused on the task at hand, for Inchon was theirs.

Author’s bio: Chris Kuhns, a veteran Marine infantryman, separated from the Corps to pursue his passion for military history, specializing in the history of the United States Marine Corps. He serves as the deputy director of the USMC His­torical Company, a 501(c) organization, while also working as a historian for the U.S. Air Force. He calls Gettysburg, Pa., home.

Bill Beach could always shoot a rifle.

As a Depression-era child, the Kentucky native could light a matchstick from 100 yards out with his .22. He would often take out wild boar that were roaming the tobacco farm where he and his family worked, and his shooting prowess made him an Expert marksman while serving in the Marine Corps a few years later.

But Beach could also play a mean guitar, an instrument that brought him local fame and a lifetime filled with songwriting. More than five decades after releasing his signature single “Peg Pants” on the Cincinnati-based King Records label, Beach was inducted into the Rockabilly Hall of Fame. On Oct. 28, 2024, Beach died at the age of 92 in Hamilton, Ohio, leaving behind wonderful memories for his family and friends and a love for the Marine Corps.

“He often told young people that were considering service to not waste time with the green uniforms, you want to go into the Marines,” said daughter Bonnie McDaniel. “[He said] it will prepare you for what life is like outside of the service.”

Born in 1932 in rural Gallatin County, Beach was far from privileged. As a youngster, he made himself a valuable member of the community thanks to his skill with a rifle and his trapping ability.

In addition to shooting wild pigs that encroached on the farm, he was also tasked with trapping mink and selling the furs to make ends meet for his family. But by age 14, another instrument caught his attention. He began to spend his free time plucking away on a guitar.

“My cousin would carry around his guitar in a burlap bag,” Beach said in a 2010 radio interview with WVXU in Cincinnati. “So, I got fascinated with him singing a little bluegrass music and a little country music. He let me borrow it, and I got real interested in it. He showed me three or four chords, and I went on from there.”

Eventually, he and his childhood friend Jimmy Shelton started busing the 40 miles to Cincinnati Wurlitzer Studio and used the money they had saved to record—just to see what they sounded like. One day, a friend of Beach’s, whose relative was stationed in the Army in Pennsylvania, invited them up to play for a local radio show and perform locally at fairs during a break from school. Thanks to that connection, Beach wound up warming up for country legend Hank Williams and some of the future cast members of the hit TV show “Hee Haw.”

By 1952, Beach was living with his mother in Cincinnati when he joined the Marine Corps, figuring he would be drafted for the Korean War eventually. According to McDaniel, Beach missed serving in combat by one day—the armistice was signed before his scheduled deployment in 1953.
During his time in the Corps, he was a supply Marine stationed in Bakersfield, Calif. Beach wrote a number of songs while in the Marine Corps and happened to meet the late great country singer and actor Gene Autry, who was looking to acquire a jeep from his department.

“He [Autry] brought a couple of his other friends to buy jeeps,” McDaniel said. “My dad had his guitar in the Marine Corps that he would play. He and Gene Autry put on an impromptu concert in Bakersfield.”

After his honorable discharge from the Corps, Beach married his first wife Mildred and the couple had a daughter, Debbie. He continued to write and play music, and in 1956, he recorded “Peg Pants” in Cincinnati, a song he penned while serving in the Marine Corps. A two-minute track about the new fashionable guy in town, the part rock, part hillbilly [rockabilly] ditty received some air play on the local radio stations. Beach soon became a regular studio musician who toured on occasion.

Six years after he and Mildred got divorced, his second wife Barbara con­tracted multiple sclerosis when McDaniel was just a year old. Forced to make a de­cision on devoting his career to music or being a caretaker of his loved one, he unplugged his guitar from a gig in Alabama and returned home to Kentucky.

“A lot of people in the music industry said, ‘oh you are giving up everything to care for your wife,’ ” said Bonnie. “And true to Marine form, his response was, ‘no I am gaining everything. I am gaining my family. I am doing what I am supposed to do. ’ ”

Beach soon started a sewing company in northern Kentucky to provide for his family. Repairing sewing machines was a skill he learned when he was a Marine. His technical know-how, affable personality and business acumen helped him become well-known in the area. At one point, he ran three locations of his business in Northern Kentucky and was doing suit alterations for the Cincinnati Reds baseball players.

“Back then, I didn’t know if this rockabilly thing would catch on, so I thought I better get a real paying job,” Beach said in the radio interview.

In 1985, his wife passed away and Beach eventually returned to his musical roots, playing well into his 80s. For much of his golden years, Beach lived in Naples, Fla., with his third wife, Joan. While there, he was commissioned by the Rookery Bay Estuary in 2009 to write a song about the new species of fish just discovered in the area. Beach penned the song “Batfish Boogie,” a humorous tune played every year at the Bash for the Bay at the Estuary Visitor’s Center in Naples.

According to McDaniel, Beach continued to strum his guitar even after moving into a retirement home in Ohio at the age of 88.

Today, McDaniel is working with Xavier University in Cincinnati to showcase the history of Cincinnati music. With her father’s 1946 Martin D-28 guitar in hand, McDaniel is hoping to visit elementary schools in the city this fall to talk about the influence of local musicians like Beach. The Rockabilly Hall of Fame that Beach is a part of also includes the likes of Sonny Burgess of Memphis Sun Studios fame and Bo Diddley and his iconic cigar box guitar.
“Bill Beach’s contributions were not just significant; they were foundational,” said Jeffrey L. Cole, executive director of the Rockabilly Hall of Fame Museum. “His raw energy, distinct sound, and unrelenting passion helped shape the early pulse of rockabilly and, in turn, gave rise to a new musical movement that changed culture forever.”

The Northern Kentucky Historical Society also recently contacted McDaniel regarding dedicating a spot in their museum to Beach’s Sewing Centers. The attention she has recently received about her father has been a bit overwhelming, she conceded. However, the legacy he left as a father and Marine was one McDaniel won’t forget.

“Dad was my best nursing instructor because of how he cared for [my mother],” Bonnie said. “He attributed his ability to do so from the instruction he received in the USMC. I learned the value of empathy and never giving up early on, and it carried me through an amazing nursing career.”
To listen to an interview with Beach and learn about his upbringing and musical career, visit https://www.exhibit.xavier.edu/wvxu_king/1/.

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

The 1st Battalion, 27th Marine Reg­iment was one of nine infantry bat­talions of the 5th Marine Di­vision activated in early January 1944 at Camp Pendleton, Calif. Salted with dis­banded Raiders, ParaMarines, and other combat veterans from earlier Pacific battles, the battalion was destined to play a crucial role in the Battle of Iwo Jima.

Among the veteran NCOs reporting to 1/27 was Gunnery Sergeant John Basilone, the Guadalcanal national hero, who requested relief from a national bond tour so he could get back in the war. The quality of training and battle leadership provided by the presence of these veterans was invaluable.

Assigned to command the battalion was Lieutenant Colonel John A. Butler, a native of New Orleans, La., and a career Marine who had graduated from the U.S. Naval Academy in 1934. Butler had early sea duty in the Caribbean, where his linguistic skills led him to work in naval intelligence and as an attaché in the Dominican Republic. He also had duty with 1st Bn, 5th Marines from 1938 to 1940. Fresh out of Command and Staff Course, though not yet having experienced Pacific combat, this seasoned Marine officer was eager and prepared for command.

With the arrival of new men and veterans, training progressed from individual combat training to unit training. The battalion, and the entire division, trained for serious amphibious assault combat and selected “The Spearhead” as their nickname and di­vision shoulder patch.

On Aug. 12, 1944, the 27th Marines left San Diego for Camp Tarawa in Hawaii. There in the high windswept volcanic desert, the battalion completed its final phase of training before combat. On Dec. 31, the battalion deployed for rehearsal landings at Maui, followed by a final liberty in Pearl Harbor before sailing westward aboard the USS Hansford (APA-106). Two days out of Pearl, LtCol Butler announced to his battalion that they were destined for Iwo Jima, a Japanese island objective closer to Japan than any other to date. He also told his men they were a designated assault team for the D-day landing. A sober silence fell over the battalion.

After stopping at Eniwetok for some swimming and mail call, Hansford pro­ceeded to Saipan, where a final rehearsal was held, and the assault elements of the battalion transferred to three tank landing ships, which carried the amtracs assigned to transport 1/27 to Red Beach 2.

On D-day, Feb. 19, 1945, the assault elements of 1/27, on the heels of the first wave of armored amtracs, began coming ashore at exactly 9:02 a.m. Landing on their left was 2/27 on Red 1, and on their right, 1/23 from 4thMarDiv on Yellow 1. 1/27, as the right-flank battalion of 5thMarDiv, was tasked with the D-day mission of securing the southern end of Motoyama Airfield just inland from Red Beach 2 and advancing on order to the 0-1 Line, drawn on a map, representing the final D-day objective. Their secondary mission was to maintain contact with the 4th Marine Division. The 28th Marines, landing on Green Beach, were tasked with cutting off the head of Iwo Jima, Mount Suribachi.

On the extreme right, landing on Blue Beach, the 25th Marines of 4thMarDiv were assigned to secure the high ground overlooking the landing beaches. Enfilade fire from the high ground on the right and plunging fire from Mount Suribachi on the left pum­meled the landing beaches and follow-on reserve units as the assault battalions struggled up the sand-studded terraces to reach their objectives.

LtCol Butler, who had landed on Red 2 in the fourth wave, with his assault ele­ments, established his initial command post on a sand-covered blockhouse that still housed enemy troops, some of whom were attempting to escape from the onrushing assault. Initially, resistance was light, but that soon changed.

General Kuribayashi’s gunners un­leashed their mortars and artillery. Com­pany B of 1/27 landed out of position and soon became disorganized and ridden with casualties. GySgt Basilone, who led the machine-gun platoon of Co C, wasted no time. He immediately took control of a lost machine-gun squad from Co B and directed them toward a blockhouse that was causing serious trouble. Private First Class Chuck Tatum described that action in his book “Red Blood, Black Sand.” This was the first of several heroic actions Basilone performed in those first hours ashore as the battalion fought to gain their objective. Two hours after landing, Basilone, one of the Marine Corps’ legendary fighters of World War II, lay bleeding and dying from multiple fragment wounds caused by mortars. For his actions on D-day, John Basilone was posthumously awarded a Navy Cross.

LtCol Butler, accompanied by his radio operator, moved up to the top of the air­strip for better observation. From there, he could clearly see the disorganization of Co B, so he directed Co A to replace them on the right.
Returning across the fire-swept area under observation of snipers in wrecked aircraft, he led Co A forward on a sweep that, along with Co C’s advance on the left, gained the southern end of Motoyama Airfield No. 1 by midafternoon.

Though the battalion was far short of its D-day objective, 1/27 was the only Marine unit to secure any part of Motoyama Airfield No. 1 by the end of D-day. Their first night on Iwo Jima was uneventful except for some infiltration attempts and inter­mittent enemy mortar fire. The enemy shifted their main fire to the now-crowded landing beaches, turning it into a junk­yard of wrecked landing craft tanks and vehicles. D-day was costly, and on the morning of D+1, 1/27 was ordered into regimental reserve.

However, they did not rest but instead followed 3/27 in trace, mopping up bypassed positions as the drive for the O-1 Line continued. Despite its reserve position, 1/27 continued to suffer casualties from enemy mortar fire, snipers and firefights at bypassed posi­tions. Despite sizeable gains by 3/27 and 4thMarDiv securing a good portion of the airstrip, the O-1 Line was still not reached by day’s end. That night the battalion established a defensive position in depth behind 3/27.

On D+2, the 27th Marines went into reserve as the 26th Marines made a passage of lines and continued the drive toward the O-1 Line just north of the airstrip. Meanwhile, the 28th Marines remained fully occupied with Mount Suribachi. However, by midafternoon, a gap between 5th and 4thMarDiv had developed, and 1/27 was directed to fill it. Moving into this gap, the battalion prepared hasty defensive positions before darkness set in. That night, Japanese aircraft, including kamikazes, launched an air raid against the fleet offshore. The attack sank the escort carrier Bismarck Sea (CVE-95) and heavily damaged the Saratoga (CV-3), taking her out of the war. At midnight, the Japanese conducted a ground counterattack, concentrated against 1/27.

The attack was stopped cold by the battalion’s 81 mm mortar platoon, int­er­locked machine guns, and on-call artillery from the 13th Marines. This was one of very few Japanese counterattacks during the entire campaign, and one can speculate it was planned to take advantage of the gap in the lines or the distraction of the off-shore air raids.

Daybreak on D+3 found 1/27 dug in across open ground. A cold rain added to the general misery of three days of combat. Once again, the 26th Marines affected a passage of lines and 1/27 reverted to division reserve and moved to an assembly area just northwest of Motoyama Airfield No. 1, where the Ma­rines rested and replenished. For the first time in days, the exhausted 1/27 Marines changed socks, ate hot rations and wrote letters. They slept on the ground under ponchos or blankets. It was not an R&R center as the war thundered around them and patrols went out to hunt snipers and secure bypassed positions. No place on Iwo Jima was secure and comfortable, but for the Marines of 1/27, this was a break from the front lines.

On D+8, the 27th Marines were re­leased from division reserve. 1/27 went into an assault along with 2/27 on the left and 3/27 on the right. The objective was Hill 362A and the ridge complex extending to the western beaches. These heavily fortified positions were the western anchor of Kuribayashi’s main defense line, and they chewed up 1/27 and its sister battalions. Two days of brutal combat gained a foothold but did not secure the objective. Fighting in this area was some of the most vicious of the Pacific war. Before the complex finally fell to the 28th Marines, who had rejoined the fight after resting from the capture of Suribachi, much Marine blood was shed.

2/28, commanded by LtCol Chandler Johnson, relieved 1/27 and passed through their lines to continue the attack on 362A and the adjoining ridges. In the next few days, 2/28 lost three of their six flag raisers and their battalion commander. 1/27 licked their wounds in division re­serve but not for long. On D+13, March 4, 1/27 was attached to the 26th Marines and back in the attack on the right flank, adjacent to the 3rd Division zone of action just northeast of unfinished Motoyama Airfield No. 3. The battalion advanced in a column of companies along a narrow front led by Co C, which soon became casualty ridden. LtCol Butler replaced Co C with Co B, which managed to gain a difficult additional 100 yards against stiff resistance.

D+14, March 5, was a day of no offen­sive operations for the entire Amphibious Force, somewhat like a called time out to reorganize, rest and refit. The battalion was detached from the 26th Marines and directed to rejoin its parent regiment. As 1/27 moved to an assembly area just north of Road Junction 338, LtCol Butler asked for his jeep and driver so he could make a visit to the regimental supply dump and the 27th Marines command post. As the jeep passed through RJ 338, it was hit by a Japanese 47 mm round that had targeted the area. LtCol Butler was killed instantly. The runner and radio operator who were with him were wounded.

Word of LtCol Butler’s death swept through the battalion and was felt deeply by the men, who had appreciated his upfront leadership style and his honest personal care and respect for them, a sentiment often expressed in letters to his wife. In his last hastily penned letter from “Tojo’s Cave,” after the bloody fighting on 362A, he wrote of the men’s splendid courage. For his action on D-day and his leadership throughout the battle, he was awarded a Navy Cross.

Replacing LtCol Butler was LtCol Justin Duryea, the 27th Marines oper­ations officer, who had been the interim commander at Pendleton in January 1944 before LtCol Butler arrived.

After a few more days in reserve, the battalion was back in the front-line action. On D+18, with Co C in the lead, Platoon Sergeant Joseph Julian became a one-man wrecking crew. Julian destroyed a number of Japanese positions in a series of furious assaults before he was mortally wounded. He was awarded a Medal of Honor posthumously.

That afternoon Duryea was severely wounded when his runner detonated a mine. The battalion command passed to Major William Tumbelston, the orig­inal battalion executive officer. With Tumbelston in command, the battalion continued in the attack for five days of hard-gained yards in the rocky terrain of northwest Iwo Jima until he also was badly wounded and evacuated on D+23. Command of the battalion then passed to Maj William Kennedy, who had been the operations officer for 3/27.

Killed in action on D+23 was First Lieutenant William Van Beest, who had taken command of Co C when the original company commander, Captain John Casey, was shot in the foot on D+1. Van Beest, who had been fighting since D-day, was a diligent and heroic company commander. He was awarded a posthumous Navy Cross.

On D+24, 1/27 advanced 350 yards to the top of a ridge from which they could see Iwo’s northern shore. The end was in sight. In fact this was the last day of fighting for the shot-up battalion that had lost three commanders and the majority of its original officers and NCOs. The ranks had become replacements and a few very exhausted originals who had somehow survived.

Ordered to a rear assembly area, the battalion reorganized into two companies (A and B) and a headquarters company. For Co B and Headquarters, there was no more fighting. Those assigned to Co A were detailed to a composite battalion formed from the remnants of 2nd and 3rd Bns, commanded by LtCol Donn Robertson, the original commander of 3/27 and the only original battalion commander in the 27th Marines still on his feet. This composite battalion, along with the 28th Marines and elements of the 26th Marines, fought in the Gorge, a brutal piece of ground that protected Kuribayashi’s headquarters. For his heroics during the fighting with the composite battalion, Private First Class Daniel Albaugh of Co A was the last of six 1/27 Marines posthumously awarded a Navy Cross.

On D+31, Co A was released from the composite battalion and rejoined 1/27. After saying farewell to their buddies at rest in the large 5thMarDiv cemetery, the remnants of 1/27 boarded a troop transport and departed the island of Iwo Jima. In 29 days of brutal combat, including Co A’s six days with the composite battalion, 1/27 lost 233 KIA or DOW and 557 WIA, for a total of 790 casualties.

This was one of the highest for the 24 battalions which fought on Iwo Jima. Only 1/26, with a total of 1,025, and 2/25, with 804, had higher casualties. Among the officers, no battalion suffered more than 1/27, which lost 11 officers KIA or DOW and another 27 WIA. Among the entire battalion staff, including two sur­geons, only the S-2 and the communi­cations officer were unscathed. Only one of the three original line company com­manders, Captain John Hogan in Co A, was not a casualty. Co C had no original officers left after the loss of 1stLt Van Beest on D+23. Among the 34 officers and NCOs listed as boat team leaders for each of the amtracs with the 1/27 assault element, 31 were killed or wounded.

1/27 lost the cream of its officers, NCOs and experienced men, yet continued to fight and carry out its mission until the bitter end. Like all the units of the 3rd, 4th and 5th Marine Divisions that fought on Iwo Jima, 1/27 established forever the legacy of Marine courage and “uncommon valor,” represented by the Marine Corps War Memorial. Its short and valiant history belongs alongside other storied Marine battalions which have so nobly served our Corps and nation.

Author’s bio: John A. Butler III was born July 30, 1939, in Quantico, Va. He enlisted in the Marine Corps Reserve in 1957. He was appointed to the U.S. Naval Academy that same year and upon graduation was commissioned a second lieutenant. He served on active duty from 1961-1966 as an infantry and counter­intelligence/human source intelli­gence officer. He served in the reserve with the 4th Reconnaissance Battalion in San Antonio from 1966-1967 and worked in the maritime industry before retiring.

Executive Editor’s note: June 27 is PTSD awareness day. We bring you this article to reinforce the importance of speaking openly about PTSD and other mental health issues. For more information about resources available to veterans, visit: https://www.mca-marines
.org/resource/resources-for-veteran
-marines/

The transition back into civilian life can pose significant mental, emo­tion­al, and physical challenges for our nation’s heroes. Coming home after a tour of duty can mean losing one’s sense of purpose and identity; cycling through feelings of guilt, anger and de­pression; experiencing flashbacks of traumatic events and—sometimes worst of all—losing the close-knit community once shared with comrades. Drug or alcohol addiction is common, and relationships with family and friends at home suffer as a result. And while it’s a common stereo­type that veterans often experience post-traumatic stress disorder, support isn’t nearly as abundant as the diagnoses.

These struggles take a toll. The Na­tional Veteran Suicide Prevention Annual Report estimates that over 6,000 veterans die by suicide annually—nearly 20 per day. Our country loses more warriors each year to suicide than in the field. These sobering statistics highlight a painful point: our nation’s “sheep dogs” deserve better.

Enter Sheep Dog Impact Assistance (SDIA), a nonprofit organization that helps veterans and first responders find strength, purpose, community and heal­ing after trauma. “Our whole purpose is to save lives,” said Lance Nutt, CEO and Founder of SDIA. After all, a Sheep Dog doesn’t stop being one when they finish their tour of duty. It’s much more than something they do; it’s something they are.

Lieutenant Colonel Dave Grossman USA (Ret), author of “On Combat,” ex­plains, on the SDIA website, “After the attacks on September 11, 2001, most of the sheep, that is, most citizens in Ameri­ca said, ‘Thank God I wasn’t on one of those planes.’ The Sheep Dogs, the war­riors, said, ‘Dear God, I wish I could have been on one of those planes. Maybe I could have made a difference.’”
Lance Nutt radiates an undeniable passion for veterans, their struggles and their potential. After all, he is one of them.

His father was a longtime Marine Corps aviator, and his family moved around frequently during his childhood. He grew up living and breathing the Marine Corps, so when it came time to choose a path for himself, becoming a Marine was a natural choice. In a profound mo­ment for parent and child, Nutt’s own father swore him into the Marine Corps in 1988.

Nutt was soon deployed to the Persian Gulf and served during Operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm. After returning to the States and completing college, he spent several years as a Ma­rine recruiter. He took a break from the service to accept a civilian position in corporate sales management, but the Ma­rine Corps was never far from his mind. Nutt knew he wanted to make a difference with his life beyond profit meetings and sales targets, so he quit sales and rejoined the Marines in 2003.

It was 2005 when Nutt formed the idea for Sheep Dog Impact Assistance. Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans while Nutt was stateside, so he organized an independent relief trip to help those affected by the disaster. The purpose and camaraderie he experienced during this trip made him realize this was a perfect way for Sheep Dogs to “get off the couch” and find meaning and community in serving others.

In 2010 he officially launched Sheep Dog Impact Assistance, and their disaster response missions quickly began to at­tract interest from veterans around the country. He led groups of comrades to various states and cities; whenever a natural disaster showed up, so did they.

Eventually, however, Nutt realized that while emergencies were a great oppor­tunity for service, simply sitting around waiting for another disaster to strike wasn’t a healthy mindset—for himself or for the veterans he rallied for the mis­sions. So, he added another pro­gram called Outdoor Adventures. In this arm of SDIA, veterans and first re­spond­ers gathered together to participate in activi­ties such as hunting, fishing, snow­mobil­ing, hiking, skydiving and more. These adventures created a powerful experience for Sheep Dogs, who were connecting with each other and being challenged in new ways, both physically and mentally.

Nutt retired from the Marine Corps in 2018 with 30 years of service under his belt and the title of Sergeant Major of the 23rd Marine Regiment. By this time, SDIA had been active for eight years. After his Marine Corps retirement, however, he realized his organization could—and should—do more. SDIA was filling an important niche—it was providing an outlet for veterans to “get off the couch” and experience purpose and community again. But those same people were still struggling profoundly when they went back home. The emotions, the traumas, the pain and the memories were all still there.

Nutt vividly remembered how difficult military retirement was for his dad—the questioning, the anger, the relationship crises—and now he was experiencing similar struggles himself. He needed a solution that wasn’t just a temporary fix but a new way of operating that would help him and those he served truly heal and move forward in life.

During this time, Nutt connected with John Boozman, one of his U.S. senators from Arkansas. Boozman told Nutt about an organization called Boulder Crest Foundation and a program they were running in Arizona and Virginia called Warrior PATHH. He suggested that Nutt check out the program with the hope of bringing it to Arkansas for their state’s military veterans and families. So, Nutt flew to Arizona to attend the program. What he learned there would be nothing short of life-changing.

Warrior PATHH, an acronym for Pro­gressive & Alternative Training for Help­ing Heroes, is a transformational mental wellness program created by Boulder Crest Foundation, and it involves a seven-day, on-site intensive course followed by three months of wellness training, sup­port and mentorship by peers who know firsthand the challenges veterans face. During this program, participants learn about the science of post-traumatic growth, empowering them to find pur­pose and hope after trauma. Participants aren’t just given “tools” or “tips”; Warrior PATHH helps vet­erans and first respond­ers form new habits, transform their struggles into strength and learn how to thrive again.

“I was going to look into it for [SDIA],” Nutt said, “but [eventually] I realized it was helping me, too.” He learned that there is always more healing to be had, even—or perhaps especially—for a lifetime Marine such as himself. He finished the program inspired to incorporate its principles into his organization.

Chris Jackson would be the next one to experience the transformative benefits of Warrior PATHH. Chris describes his transition out of the Marine Corps as a profoundly lonely season of life. After 27 years of service, including several tours in Iraq, the retired Marine was exhausted and directionless. Like many before him, he turned to alcohol for sol­ace. At first, it was just a beer here and there, but eventually, it turned into more until he was drinking just to numb the pain. “I was in fight or flight mode all the time,” he said. He was worried and confused. Jackson didn’t know what was happening to him, and he didn’t know where to turn. He often prayed alone, through tears, for help and answers.

He had been drinking one day, as had become his habit, when his daughter asked him a gut-wrenching question. “Why do you drink so much?” It was an acute flash of realization. “That was the moment,” Jackson said, “that I knew something needed to change.”

A miracle meeting was the turning point that allowed Jackson to step into that change. During his early years in the Marine Corps, he served with and befriended Nutt. They hadn’t kept in touch, but one day Jackson decided to attend a Carry the Load event in Dallas, Texas. Strolling by the SDIA booth, Jackson couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw his old comrade behind the table.

As the two Marines caught up, Nutt told Jackson about his work with Sheep Dogs and encouraged him to come check it out. With nothing to lose, Jackson signed up for a disaster response mission with SDIA. Those few days of service and community with other veterans sparked something inside him, so next he joined an SDIA Outdoor Adventure. These two events began to shift Jackson’s mindset. He realized how much he still struggled to find direction and purpose in his daily life. Eventually, he decided to follow Nutt’s footsteps into the Warrior PATHH program at Boulder Crest Foundation, and that’s when the true transformation began.

“[The program] helped me build mental fitness,” Jackson said. “They showed me how to give myself grace, that there were layers of stress from everything, which caused me to react. Now, I can respond to stress instead of just reacting. I’m able to be others-centered again like I was in the Marines.”
Nearly tearing up, Jackson revealed that his oldest daughter (the same one who asked why he was drinking so much) told him that “she could tell something was different, and that she was proud of [him].”

Jackson joined the SDIA staff in 2020 and is now the program director for Warrior PATHH. Running this life-changing program is just one of the ways he keeps serving his community and country even after the Marine Corps.
Jackson’s story joins many other ex­amples of how SDIA and Warrior PATHH help Sheep Dogs heal and continue to live heroic lives. Some of the names in the following examples have been changed to protect individuals’ identities.

“Robert” (not his real name) had battled daily suicidal ideation for 13 years after retiring from the U.S. Army. The only thing keeping him alive was his young son. After years of struggle, Robert heard about Warrior PATHH and decided to attend. He couldn’t be more grateful that he did. By day five of the program, Robert’s continual nightmares and suicidal ideations disappeared. A short six months later, he became a peer-to-peer mentor with the Wounded War­rior Project and has found a new reason to live.

“Laura” (not her real name) was sexually assaulted at a young age and developed OCD as a result. As a teen, she was on 12 different medications. Searching for a way to resolve her own pain, Laura chose a career in law enforcement with a focus on child exploitation. Still, she often felt as though she were spiraling. At her lowest point, she would shower up to 40 times a day and throw away her clothes each night. In desperation, Laura found herself at Warrior PATHH. By day five of the program, she no longer felt the need to constantly shower. She bought new clothes and didn’t throw them away. Laura found a new way forward in life and now serves as a trained Warrior PATHH Guide.

Many more stories of transformation continue to be written today. As a reg­istered 501(c)(3) organization, SDIA is run primarily by volunteers, many of them veterans and veteran spouses. Sheep Dogs possess an innate drive to help others, even after retirement. After par­ticipating in SDIA programs, a number of veterans and first responders have gone on to become staff or peer-to-peer men­tors for the organization. Staying involved as a staff member at SDIA often furthers the staff member’s own healing journey as well as that of those they serve. “Guides get as much out of the courses as the students do,” said Jackson.

Bridgette West is one of four veteran spouses on staff at SDIA. She began volunteering at SDIA in 2017 and joined the full-time staff in 2019. Her husband, Scott, an Army veteran who serves as the Outdoor Adventures program director, lost both legs from an improvised explo­sive device in Iraq in 2005. He was in recovery at Walter Reed for an entire year. “He struggled more after coming home than he did when he was in the hospital,” Bridgette shared. “At Walter Reed, you’re still surrounded by people who know exactly what you’re going through. But when you go home, you lose all of that comradery.”

During Scott’s transition home, he became addicted to painkillers and even­tually lost his first marriage as well as custody of his oldest son. Fortunately, his story didn’t continue in that direction. Scott found out about SDIA and joined a skydiving Outdoor Adventure, which began a profound healing journey for him. He eventually met and married Bridgette, and they have a son together who turns 7 years old this year. Bridgette is proud of how far Scott has come and feels very thankful for the role that SDIA played in his story. “Scott tells people that his life was saved twice—once at [Walter Reed], and once at SDIA.”

Bridgette’s role as the director of de­velop­ment and communications for SDIA means she is responsible for much of th organization’s fundraising activity. As a nonprofit, SDIA receives most of its funding through grants from private foundations. These grants, as well as do­nations from busi­nesses and individuals, are the lifeline to continue helping the nation’s warriors heal and thrive after their service.

Countless lives have been changed through the SDIA programs, and the organization is committed to making their services available to whoever needs them. Warrior PATHH is always free of charge for military members and first responders, and Outdoor Adventures is free for sponsored military and first re­sponders (those injured in the line of duty).

Since their inception in 2010, SDIA has led more than 360 disaster response missions, more than 235 Outdoor Adven­tures, and 50 Warrior PATHH courses. Outdoor Adventures and Warrior PATHH take place at the beautiful Heroes Ranch Training Facility, situated on 50-plus acres in Northwest Arkansas.
Sheep Dogs live a lifestyle of always putting others first, but they also deserve the opportunity to heal and grow so they can continue to lead lives that make a difference in their family, community and country.

Lance Nutt, Chris Jackson and Scott and Bridgette West have all personally experienced this. While it might sound counterintuitive, it has proved to be true: veterans can help more people in the long run if they come and heal first.

“Often, people hear about these pro­grams and think, ‘Someone else needs that more than I do. I don’t want to take someone else’s spot,’’’ said Jackson. “But it’s OK to take time for yourself—you have to in order to fill up, so you can pour out.”

More information about the programs available through Sheep Dog Impact Assistance and how to apply can be found by visiting their website at www
.sheepdogia.org.

Author’s bio: Abigail Grysban is a freelance copywriter based in Kansas City, Mo. She writes on a wide range of topics, helping small businesses and nonprofit organizations to connect with and inspire their communities.

Editor’s note: This article was originally published in the September 2016 issue of Leatherneck Magazine.

“Due to all the rains, the river is so high that our boats have to go along close to the bank, wending their way between and under trees. It is a common thing to have to cut one’s way through the limbs. The result is that all day one is busy brushing off ants—worms—and bugs of all disciplines, most of whom bite.”
—Capt Merritt A. Edson, USMC, Nicaragua, August 1928

As early as the mid-nineteenth century, the Central American country of Nicaragua had been constantly torn between two political factions, Conservatives and Liberals, each striving for national supremacy. Conservatives could be described as de­vout Roman Catholics who believed in traditional Hispanic forms of family and society, while Liberals practiced an almost anti-clerical secularism and an increasingly aggressive form of Euro-socialism. Their conflicts at the ballot box frequently erupted into armed confrontation.

The year 1928 was an election year in Nicaragua, and Nicaraguan elections were not passive affairs. The election of 1928 promised to be even more explosive than most, which were explosive enough in their own right. Into the volatile mix of Conservatives and Liberals was thrown the human incendiary device of Augusto Nicolas Calderon Sandino. A complex blend of ardent Nicaraguan patriot and fire-breathing Marxist revolutionary dedicated to the armed overthrow of the government, Augusto Sandino had openly declared his intention to disrupt the elections and seize power by force.

As a countermove, Nicaragua’s interim president, Adolfo Diaz, requested that the elections be monitored by United States Marines. U.S. President Calvin Coolidge was less than enthusiastic at the prospects of such an involvement, but under the terms of an agreement negotiated between Conservatives and Liberals by Special Envoy Henry L. Stimson, the President consented. The stage was set for a collision between Ma­rines and Sandino’s followers, “Sandi­nistas.” That collision would take place in eastern Nicaragua, for centuries the home of the Miskito Indians.

The Miskito
The Miskito prided themselves in never having been subjugated by early Spanish adventurers. Neither had they been assimilated into Nicaraguan culture, being more than determined to remain in their dense jungle domain, a nation within a nation, viewing Nicaraguans as Spaniards. They were the absolute masters of a vast region of rainforest, second in its immensity only to the Amazon, with almost no roads and few trails. In their extremely remote area known as “The Frontier,” the Miskito, expert boatmen without peer, roamed freely along waterways that would have defeated anyone else. Even the Rio Coco, a raging torrent all year, but especially during the rainy season, gave them no fears. From its source in the province of Nueva Segovia, Augusto Sandino’s stronghold in Nicaragua’s Northern Highlands, the Rio Coco flowed almost 500 miles, its lower reaches forming part of the international boundary between Nicaragua and Honduras, before reaching the sea north of Puerto Cabezas.

It wasn’t the Rio Coco’s length that made it such a formidable barrier. It was the river’s very nature that made it so daunting. There was nothing gentle and meandering about the Rio Coco. Every foot along the way the constantly decreas­ing elevation of the region forced the Rio Coco along at an ever faster rate of flow. Going upstream against that current was extremely difficult at best. During the summer rainy season, when the eastern region of Nicaragua endured as much as 300 inches of rain, the Rio Coco was capable of rising 1 foot each hour. Taking the Rio Coco head-on was a job for only the most skilled watermen.

Taking the Rio Coco head-on at the height of the rainy season, with the river at flood stage, was exactly what Captain Merritt A. Edson, USMC, intended to do. As commander of the Marine De­tach­ment, USS Denver (CL-16), Edson had brought his entire detachment ashore at Puerto Cabezas in January 1928. As directed by Major Harold Utley, USMC, the officer in command of Nicaragua’s Eastern District, Edson and Denver’s Marines began conducting local security patrols in response to intelligence re­ports indicating possible infiltration by advance elements of Sandino’s forces. In June, Edson’s small command was increased with the addition of the Marine Detachment, USS Rochester (CA-2).

Why wait for Sandino to bring major elements from the north, Edson reasoned. Why allow Sandino to exercise the in­iti­ative? Why not hit Sandino from the blind side, what he thought was his s­ecure eastern flank, before he was able to make good his intention to carry the conflict to the Eastern District? How? By driving some 370 miles directly up the Rio Coco to the town of Poteca, Sandino’s best potential staging base, checkmating Sandino’s move before he could make it.

Edson’s Proposal
Confident that he could beat Sandino to the punch, even faced with the racing waters of the Rio Coco, Edson approached Maj Utley with the proposal. During the months they had been associated, Maj Utley had become so impressed by Merritt Edson’s aggressiveness, determination and intelligence that he approached Brigadier General Logan Feland, USMC, who was in overall command of Marine operations in Nicaragua, with the idea. The next day, BGen Feland, Maj Utley and Capt Edson sat down to discuss it.

“Major Utley tells me that you would like to go to Poteca. Can you get there from this coast?” BGen Feland began. No stranger to combat, Kentucky-born Logan Feland brought with him an im­pressive record as commander of the 5th Marines in France in World War I.

“Yes, sir; it can be done,” Edson replied.

A fighting man himself, BGen Feland needed nothing more in the way of an answer.

“Well, I’m going to give you the chance to do it.” BGen Feland went on to relate that aerial reconnaissance and human sources all confirmed evidence of San­dino’s forces in and around Poteca. Ma­rines from the Northern District could not reach Poteca from the west soon enough to make a difference. If Sandino’s attempt to extend his territory into the Eastern District was to be stopped before it could start, it would be Edson who would have to do the stopping. In doing that stopping, Edson would need help, and he knew it.

Edson’s objective of Poteca could not be reached overland in time to do any good, not faced with the near impenetrable jungle that covered everything from the coast to the Highlands. For Edson’s Ma­rines to hack and chop their way through the green wall of jungle that blanketed the entire area between Puerto Cabezas and Poteca would have consumed months. Only the Rio Coco existed as a realistic approach route to Poteca. In all of Nicaragua, only one group of people was capable of tackling the Rio Coco—the Miskito Indians.

From the very beginning, Edson had set about creating cordial relations with the Miskito, treating them with dignity and courtesy, always as equals, never as servants or menials. He knew that if he were to succeed in moving into the interior by way of the Rio Coco, it could be done only by gaining the trust of the Miskito. If the Miskito were to willingly join Edson’s force as boatmen, men accepted as equals, that trust would have to be earned through fair and honorable actions.

In his instructions to his Marines, Edson made it clear that fair and honor­able actions must be sincere, not matters of convenience. “The Miskito are a proud people with a long history. Our success depends upon their assistance. They are far better at navigating this river than any of us. Only by dealing with them man-to-man, honestly, can we have any hope of succeeding. I expect each of you to conduct yourselves in such a fashion. l believe that if we offer the Miskito our hand in true friendship, they will accept it.” In a torrential downpour, Edson and 61 handpicked Marines started up the Rio Coco on July 26, 1928. Writing of it later to the girl he would one day marry, Private Edward Holston recorded: “It rains hard enough to knock you down. I’ve never seen anything like it. I haven’t been here very long, but if this is what life in Nicaragua is like, I’ll take Chillicothe [Ohio] any day.”

Fighting the Elements
Rain, constant and everlasting rain, day after day, was to be the trademark of the Rio Coco Patrol. The rain that fell for the entire period that Edson and his men made their way upriver was not of the gentle variety. Rather, it was a thunderous downpour that easily defeated any attempts to stay dry. For the Marines of the patrol, being soaking wet was an inescapable fact of daily life. All too soon that water-soaked existence would begin to exert an adverse effect on clothing, footwear and personal health as well.

Ferried along in pitpans (dugout canoes) by volunteer Miskito boatmen and guides, fighting the furious force of the river, Edson’s patrol advanced little more than 12 miles upriver that day. Wise to the ways of the river, the Miskito avoided any attempt to battle the river in midstream.

Out in the middle of that raging torrent, the force of the current was too over­poweringly strong to be overcome by simple muscle power. Full-grown trees of 60 to 100 feet in height, uprooted by the raging water of the Rio Coco, could be hurled downstream like toothpicks, carrying everything before them, oblit­erat­ing anything in their path.

The experience of generations on the water had taught the Miskito that the prudent way to venture upstream against the Rio Coco in flood was to hug the riverbank where the current was considerably less strong. That did not mean that the job was easier. With the river out of its banks, the trees that grew to the water’s edge were now half in the water. The multitude of low-hanging limbs that normally were just overhead had become obstacles to be cleared.
While the Miskito provided the motive power with poles and paddles, Edson’s Marines provided the muscle power using axes and handsaws, cutting a path through the overhanging greenery. In addition to a shower of leaves, this activ­ity also pro­duced a shower of biting, stinging insects and occasionally a snake that had sought to escape the rising waters of the Rio Coco.

The relief system Edson had worked out to clear a path through the river im­proved their progress. While not easy, the undertaking was at least less daunting. As planned before departure, the lead pitpan tended to tree clearance for 30 minutes, then fell back to the tail of the flotilla, while the next pitpan in line assumed the lead role. Strenuous? Yes, extremely strenuous, but progress was being made. After a day of such exertions, all hands were more than ready for a night’s rest, which didn’t necessarily mean they would get it.

Each night camp was made ashore on such relatively dry land that could be found. Night also brought hordes of mosquitoes. The members of the patrol had been equipped with material that would make a crude shelter, as well as netting to keep the blood-thirsty mos­quitoes at bay. Sometimes these field expedients were successful; most times they were not. Even if the netting suc­ceeded in blocking out the mosquitoes, it failed to halt the nightly onslaught of sand fleas. Small enough to pass easily through the mosquito netting, the hun­dreds of biting sand fleas made sleep all but impossible, and life utterly miserable. Smudge fires were attempted once, but the coughing, nose-running, eye­burning results set most to enduring the hostile insects.

Insect life aside, the Rio Coco con­tinued to be the Rio Coco. On the night of July 29, with the rain coming down harder than ever, Edson was forced to relocate his shelter to higher ground three times as the river rose 20 feet overnight. No one else did any better. All things considered; Edson felt that the wisest course of action for the following day was to give the day over to what rest could be had before battling the river again.

“Bandits”
That day brought the first evidence that Edson’s efforts to gain the trust of the Miskito were showing results. At mid-day, two Indians came into the patrol’s camp to report seeing what they described as four “bandits” less than 2 miles upstream on the north bank. There was a scarcely used trail that led to the location. If Edson wished, the Indians would lead his men there. Edson dispatched an eight-man combat patrol led by Corporal Elwyn Richards to investigate the area. Guided by the Indians, Cpl Richards’ small patrol caught the intruders completely by surprise. There was no resistance. Not a shot was fired. As soon as the in­truders (undoubtedly Sandinistas) saw the Marines, they fled. The relatively small size of the Sandinista element, and their precipitate flight, led Edson to conclude that they were scouts on a reconnaissance mission who expected no resistance. Sandino now would be alerted to the presence of Edson’s force and its probable mission.

Could Sandino do anything about it? Not if Edson continued to have the trust and cooperation of the Miskito. As Edson moved deliberately but con­stantly upstream, the Indians of the widely scattered villages along the route proved to be ever more helpful, offering their services as advance scouts. On two more occasions, small groups of three or four “bandits” turned and fled upon encountering Edson’s rather unusual screening force. Sandino’s attempts to gain information of Edson’s force were turned back by the Indians who had accepted Edson as trustworthy. No shots were exchanged in these encounters.

The weather continued to be miserable and the river a monster, but thus far, Sandino’s every move had been pre-empted before Sandino could make it. The non-resistance of Sandino’s elements encountered and their small size both indicated that Sandino had in fact been caught flat-footed, with little manpower in an area he had considered safe from attack. The contest increasingly became a matter of which side could reach Poteca first, Edson or Sandino.

More than a week into the upstream fight with the Rio Coco, only the Ma­rines of Cpl Richards’ small patrol had seen a Sandinista. The weather was some­thing else entirely; all hands saw that all day every day. The combination of thunderous rainfall, soaring temperatures and suffocating humidity was not long in exacting a toll on both men and equip­ment. Even the most elementary forms of personal hygiene became monumental undertakings. Many completely aban­doned any attempt at shaving. Edson himself soon sported a face full of bright red bristles that earned him a nickname that would last for the rest of his life: “Red Mike.”

As the month of July drew to a close, more than half of the members of the patrol were gulping quinine tablets twice daily to hold the effects of malaria at bay. Skin ulcers and fungus infections that turned armpits, groins and feet raw and painful were becoming increasingly prominent. The upstream fight against the Rio Coco was becoming less of a fight with Sandinistas and more a battle with the elements.

As fully as nature’s ravages affected the men, no less so did nature debilitate their equipment. Each morning revealed a thick coating of green mold on web equipment, footwear and leather. Cloth­ing literally was disintegrating on men’s backs under the combined assaults of rain, heat and humidity. Very few members of the patrol were wearing socks; they had long since turned to grey pulp. On Aug. 3, Edson dispatched a trusted Indian guide to Puerto Cabezas with a message for Maj Utley requesting a complete resupply of clothing, shoes and “240 pairs of socks, woolen.” It was requested that as soon as the weather allowed, these materials be air dropped.

A break in the incessant rain on Aug. 5 brought a welcome relief from nature’s onslaught and an equally welcome resupply of clothing. At midday a pair of Fokker tri-motor transports from Managua delivered the clothing, shoes and socks Edson had requested. The beards remained, but the members of the patrol would no longer look like so many down-at-the-heels and out-at-the-seat ragamuffins.

Despite nature’s best attempts and the constant onslaught of biting, stinging insects, steady progress was being made. In the next three days, Indian scouts reported only one contact with “bandits” who fled without offering resistance. This sole confrontation with Sandinistas strengthened Edson’s growing confidence that the patrol had truly caught Sandino off guard with little in the line of combat power to contest Edson’s advance. The river and the jungle may have continued to be formidable opponents, but thus far Edson was winning every encounter with Sandino’s elements without having to fire a shot.

Contact with the Enemy
That would change on Aug. 7 when friendly Indians reported Sandinistas preparing an ambush site no more than 3 miles upstream. Unseen by the Sandi­nistas, the Indians carefully recorded their numbers at a total of no more than 20 men, equally distributed between each bank of the river.

As potentially dangerous as the situa­tion was, there also was the danger to the Sandinistas themselves, who could have fired into each other. Also in Edson’s favor was the fact that the Sandinistas were unaware they had been detected. Edson was quick to see that the ambushers could well be ambushed themselves if he played his cards right. Merritt Edson set about doing just that.

Within minutes of being alerted to the danger ahead, Edson, with one platoon of 20 Marines and two Miskito scouts, surprised the Sandinista element on the north bank and in a brief but intense firefight, shot the Sandinistas to pieces. With Edson in the lead, the patrol charged headlong into the unsuspecting Sandinistas. Leaving four dead behind them, the Sandinistas fled. Edson then laid down a concentrated fire on the suspected site across the river. There was no return fire. There were no casualties among the Marines or Indians.

Three days later, the Marines cautious­ly entered Poteca. They were not opposed. Villagers reported to Edson that an estimated 15 “bandits” had left two days before. Sandino’s attempt to carry the conflict into the Eastern District had been stopped before it could start. Sandino’s plan to disrupt the elections was stillborn. By doing the unexpected, doing what “couldn’t be done” and confronting Sandino with a situation for which he was unable to respond, Edson had completely altered conditions in Nicaragua. With no outside interference, the election of 1928 was conducted without incident. Liberal Jose Maria Moncada was elected president in balloting that both sides agreed had been fairly conducted.

For his leadership and determination throughout the entire period of the Rio Coco Patrol and for his complete disregard for his personal safety during the engagement of Aug. 7, 1928, Merritt Edson received the Navy Cross. In August 1942, he received a second award of the Navy Cross for his courageous leadership of the 1st Raider Battalion during the seizure of Tulagi Island in the opening stages of the campaign for Guadalcanal. Later, on Guadalcanal itself, Merritt Edson received the Medal of Honor for his defense of “Edson’s Ridge,” which safeguarded the all-important Henderson Field.

The Rio Coco Patrol, as little-known as it is today, serves as a classic example of the principle of surprise. By doing exactly what Sandino least expected, from the direction Sandino had not expected at all, Merritt Edson, with 61 Marines and one U.S. Navy pharmacist mate, completely altered events in Nicaragua in the important year of 1928.

Forty years later, in another war on the other side of the world, Edson’s manner of establishing an association of trust and respect with the Miskito would serve as a foundation block for the Marine Corps’ successful Civic Action Program in Vietnam. In Nicaragua in 1928, Edson knew that you could not expect a man to stand beside you if you treated him as an inferior.

 

Since 1998, the USMC Scout Sniper Association (SSA) has fervently supported the proud brotherhood of Marine Corps scout snipers.

Tom Ferran, a scout sniper and Viet­nam War veteran, founded the organiza­tion and began the work connecting the community. Membership grew through the global war on terror, presently peak­ing around 2,000, including veterans from post-World War II through Marines still on active duty. Today, the organiza­tion exists as a 501(c)(3) nonprofit support­ing the community, “through programs that inspire brotherhood, encourage pro­fessionalism, and foster resiliency,” a­ccording to the website.

Now, in partnership with their sister organization, the Marine Scout Sniper Heritage Foundation, this proud commu­nity is planning its most ambitious under­taking yet: creating a multi-faceted trib­ute to the now-defunct military occu­pa­tional specialty (MOS).

Throughout the existence of the scout sniper MOS, the Corps maintained only 300 to 400 of these long-range gunmen at any given time. Their comparatively small numbers belie the significance these Marines played on the battlefield since their inception during World War I. Origins of the MOS can be traced directly to the spring of 1918 at the Overseas De­pot on Marine Barracks Quantico, Va., where 75 noncommissioned officers and 375 privates graduated the Corps’ first official course for scout snipers. The enemy felt their presence on the battlefield in France within months.

Corporal John H. Pruitt earned his spot in history as the first Marine sniper awarded the Medal of Honor, one of only 19 people in history to receive two Medals of Honor. On Oct. 3, 1918, at Blanc Mont, Pruitt attacked two machine-gun nests, capturing both guns and killing two German soldiers. He then located 40 enemy soldiers trapped below ground in a bunker, all of whom surrendered to the 22-year-old Marine armed with a long-scoped Winchester. According to his award citation, Pruitt was killed the following day by shellfire, “while sniping at the enemy.”

The scout sniper program shut down following the armistice that November, beginning an unfortunate cycle destined to repeat numerous times over the next century. The program would not resume until the beginning of the next world war. A select group of enlisted Marines pre­paring for combat attended an informal scout sniper school at Camp Elliot in San Diego, Calif., until December 1942 when a new program was formally estab­lished. William D. Hawkins was one of these Marines trained as a scout sniper. He deployed as a private first class in June 1942 and was promoted rapidly. He re­ceived a battlefield commission that November during the Battle of Guadal­canal.

One year later, Hawkins was still on the front lines serving as a scout sniper platoon commander attached to the 2nd Marine Regiment. During the first two days of the assault on Tarawa, Nov. 20-21, 1943, Hawkins repeatedly performed staggering feats of heroism to lead his men and support the assault force until he was mortally wounded. For his hero­ism, he posthumously re­ceived a Medal of Honor.

Hawkins’ platoon suffered dearly dur­ing the battle and would receive numerous medals for valor. Later, during the Battle of Iwo Jima, another scout sniper platoon from the 24th Marine Regiment would endure 80% casualties by the end of the battle. Despite their sacrifices and con­tribu­tions, Scout Snipers were again dis­banded following WW II. They returned during Vietnam, where ultra-famous names such as Carlos Hathcock and Chuck Mawhinney emerged, propelling the deadly lore of scout snipers. Dis­banded temporarily once again, a per­manent school was established in 1977 and operated until 2023, marking the longest uninterrupted stint of scout sniper history. By the time Marines de­ployed to combat in Iraq and Afghanistan, scout snipers primarily found a home within the Surveillance and Target Ac­qui­sition (STA) platoons organic to each rifle battalion. Sniper teams operating inde­pendently at that level of command of­fered each battalion commander a val­uable intelligence asset, in addition to their long-range precision fires striking fear into the heart of the enemy.

As a secondary MOS code (either 8541 or 0317), the structure, administration and implementation of the scout sniper program has changed over its history. Officers have never existed within the MOS, thereby limiting the weight of the community’s voice. The scout sniper MOS was disbanded in 2023, in accord­ance with Force Design. Currently, the 0322 reconnaissance sniper serves the Recon community in limited quantities with their long-range fires, and within each infantry battalion intelligence-gathering, sniping capabilities and spe­cialized weapons are spread among the scout platoon and squad-level designated marksmen. The elimination of their MOS marked the foreseeable bookend of scout snipers’ 105-year history within the Corps.

In response to this abrupt conclusion, the SSA embarked on a mission to me­mo­ri­al­ize the MOS’s contributions to USMC history, physically embodied and represented through a statue erected outside the National Museum of the Ma­rine Corps. To accomplish this task, a monumental feat of fundraising and de­sign work on its own, the SSA in­cor­porated the Marine Scout Sniper Heritage Foundation, linked legally to the associa­tion but operating as a separate entity.

The foundation has been in operation since March of 2024. MSgt Tim Parkhurst, USMC (Ret) serves as the founding pres­ident. Previously, Parkhurst served on the board of directors and as the president of the SSA for four years before stepping down to lead the new foundation. He served on active duty for 25 years, several of which were spent as a young scout sniper noncommissioned officer, before retiring in 2014.

“We decided we wanted our memorial to be a classical, figurative, bronze sculp­ture of a two-man sniper team, a shooter and an observer,” Parkhurst said. “As Marines, all of us are familiar with the cake cutting ceremony at the Birthday Ball. The oldest Marine present takes a bite, then passes it to the youngest Ma­rine present and he takes a bite, symbolizing the passing of knowledge and experience from one generation to the next. We wanted to somehow portray that visually through our sculpture, so we decided to make the observer a sniper from a pre­vious era and the shooter from Afghani­stan, our latest era. All scout snipers are proud of being Marines first, and we have provided one of the many legacies of valor that many communities have pro­vided over the years that has helped earn the laurels of the Marine Corps.”

The foundation’s team initiated the fundraising enterprise associated with such an endeavor. Simultaneously, they dove headlong into the equally daunting task of research. For the memorial to ap­propriately honor the community’s war dead and the contribution of scout snipers to Marine Corps history, Parkhurst b­lieves the foundation should be able to put names with the Marines they are memorializing. The complex history of scout snipers makes this task exceedingly difficult.

“Most communities within the military serve in a primary MOS and have a home unit with muster rolls and things like that,” Parkhurst said. “But if you’re a scout sniper, you’re part of a larger infantry battalion, and throughout our history there was not always any official way to track who those Marines were.”

Additionally, insights into the origins of the MOS and other revelations about their beloved history were revealed as research proceeded.

“None of us anticipated the new things we were going to find,” Parkhurst con­tinued. “Most grunts don’t know Marine Corps history. We like to think we know it because we went to boot camp. We started researching and decided to learn how far back the MOS went. We found things we never knew about, like a formal scout sniper program in Quantico dating back to 1918. That was the first time any­one in the American military called them scout snipers and we have ever since. All of the sudden our mission just got a whole lot broader trying to figure out all this history.”

Today, the foundation pursues four mission sets. The first and primary goal is to build the memorial along the Semper Fidelis Memorial Park outside the Marine Corps Museum. Second is to identify the names of fallen scout snipers across the history of the MOS to include in the memorial. Third is to continue uncovering the lost history of the MOS and eventually write comprehensive vol­ume, along with a corresponding online database of ref­erence material.

Lastly, the foundation hopes to educate Americans and Marines on the contributions scout snipers have made to our national defense across their 105 years of existence.

In light of the history already un­covered, the foundation is planning the memorial to encompass the entirety of their history. The observer, standing be­hind the shooter and calling out a target, represents a scout sniper from WW I, identified by his vintage uniform and iconic M1903 A5 Winchester sniper rifle slung across his back. The shooter, seated behind his weapon on its tripod, is modeled after the last generation of scout snipers to witness combat at Hamid Karzai International Airport in August 2021.

Concept drawings portray a finely detailed, engaging sculpture standing 11 feet tall. To produce such a magnificent work of art, the foundation has partnered with master sculptor Sabin Howard. Howard’s phenomenal work most re­cently achieved national prominence in September 2024 when his sculpture called “A Soldier’s Journey” was dedicated in Washington, D.C., as the National World War I Memorial. This 25-ton colossus of bronze is far more than just a statue. In fact, it contains 38 separate men and women, sculpted together across a 60-foot base, capturing the triumph and sacrifice of those who endured that conflict.

Now, the community of scout snipers plans to bring Howard’s extraordinary vision and passion to bear in memorializing their history. Once completed, the statue will be a stunning and attractive addition to the pathway outside the National Museum of the Marine Corps. The memorial will be situated just outside Marine Corps Base Quantico, where the first scout snipers were created in 1918, and will stand as the only memorial to this small, disbanded group of grunts in the nation.

Many challenges lay ahead to complete such an ambitious, world-class project. Its funding proves the most immediate hurdle.

“In our first nine months of operation, we organically raised around $150,000,” Parkhurst said. “That sounds like a lot of money, but when you need to raise $3 million, it’s not. We know we really need to ramp things up. If we’re only able to raise $150,000 per year, I’m going to be a really, really, old man by the time this thing is complete. It’s going to take a lot of people to get involved and help. To get the word out and have people advocate for this project is going to take a real marketing effort to reach an audience that we don’t currently reach.”

Equally important to the Marines tasked with the monument’s creation is the challenge of discovering the names of every scout sniper killed in action. The foundation’s website hosts an “In Memoriam” page listing 147 Marine scout sniper KIAs currently known. 59 of these come from the Global War on Terror between March 2003 and March 2020. As more research is conducted, more names from earlier generations will inevitably be added to the list.

“A lot of Marines talk about standing on the shoulders of giants,” Parkhurst reflected. “As scout snipers, over the last few decades we’ve always talked about guys like Chuck Mawhinney and Carlos Hathcock and guys like that from Vietnam. They are the shoulders on whom we stand. But what we know now is that we’ve got a ton more giants to stand on. We didn’t know that we have this incredible legacy, but now we do, and we’re finding more and more every day. We have hundreds of killed in action. It’s heartbreaking that we’ve paid such a high price from such a tiny community. If we are going to build a memorial to honor our war dead, it stands to reason that we would want to know their names. We feel like we are honor-bound to identify our fallen and we are going to exhaust every effort to do so.”

For those of us outside the community, the monument will serve as an immediate and telling representation of the immense pride held by scout snipers. For Marines who belong, the memorial will be a phys­ical, lasting representation of the courage and sacrifice their members have displayed throughout their existence. Marine scout snipers served their units, their Corps and their country for more than 100 years, leaving a lasting impact. This memorial will indefinitely serve as a fitting and lasting tribute.

To help the community of scout snipers and their families, and to learn more about the USMC Scout Sniper Associa­tion, visit their website at https://scout
sniper.org/. To learn more about the Marine Corps Scout Sniper Heritage Foundation and contribute to their memorial, visit https://scoutsniperheritage.org/.

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 2009-13. 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: The following is a Leatherneck archives story from May of 2018. We are re-publishing it in recognition of Asian-American and Pacific Islander Heritage Month.

Few people know what it’s really like to cheat death, but many Marines and Navy corpsmen posted to combat zones certainly do. Sir Winston Churchill put it best when he wrote, “Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result.” Combat veterans probably would say, “amen” to that.

First Lieutenant Earl Masaji “Pineapple” Miyamoto, from Kaneohe, Hawaii, is an example of a Marine with multiple “exhilarating moments” in Vietnam during which he cheated death. He flew Sea Knight helicopters for HMM-364, the “Purple Foxes,” from July 1970 to February 1971.

Pineapple was what other pilots called “a good stick”-a competent pilot with whom it was enjoyable to fly. But first he had to build up his confidence as a copilot under fire. In his early training, he was paired with experienced pilots like First Lieutenant Jerry “Weasel” White, 1stLt Art Blades and Major Neil R. Van Leeuwin, who flew with Pineapple on an early medevac run on Charlie Ridge, where they took roughly 24 to 28 hits to their aircraft.

“Van Leeuwin asked me as we approached the LZ [landing zone], ‘OK, I think we’ll go in high speed, low level. What do you think?’ And I’m like, ‘What are you asking me for? I’m brand new in country. I don’t know anything about anything. I’m scared to death.’ The major says, ‘I think it’s just over this ridge. What do you think?’ I’m supposed to be the navigator but I was so awed at the time.”

Maj Van Leeuwin did a button hook and popped up over the ridgeline. He put the helicopter in a 30- to 40-foot hover as the crew chief talked them down into the LZ. Suddenly Pineapple heard this

“THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!” sound over the roar of the engines. He asked, “What’s that? What’s that?”

“We’re taking fire,” the major said calmly.

“I tried to get as small as I could in my seat,” chuckled Pineapple. “It sounded like bamboo whacking a carpet. The rounds went right through the thin skin of the helicopter.

“Understand this was the first time I had gone out and taken fire. One gunner got shot in the back and our crew chief took a round off the top of his helmet. We took out some treetops with our front and back blades to take a Marine casualty out of the zone.”

As a newbie copilot, then-lstLt Miyamoto seemed to attract bad luck, drawing fire every time he went out on a medevac or reconnaissance team extract. He was given the nickname “Magnet Ass.”

“I think that’s why they made me a pilot, as no one wanted to fly with me as a copilot,” Miyamoto said.

He would finish his flying career with 22 Air Medals, 20 air missions equaled one Air Medal and if they were shot at, two Air Medals were awarded. The events of Sept. 20, 1970, represented a typical day in Vietnam running medevac flights.

Pineapple was the copilot on a mission to pick up two Marine casualties 25 miles southwest of DaNang in a mountainous area. Marines on the ground were heavily engaged with the enemy and using a hoist was not an option; it would make their two casualties easy targets for the enemy. Pineapple and his aircraft commander worked as a team to coordinate the approach to a suitable LZ under the cover fire of a UH-1NHueygunship. They successfully took on the two wounded Marines and flew them to Da Nang. Pine­apple received an Air Medal and a Bronze Star with the citation noting that the Sea Knight crew flew two more emergency medevacs that same day.

When asked how he got the nickname “Pineapple,” Miyamoto explained, “Some people called me ‘Pineapple’ and others called me ‘Samurai’ due to my Japanese heritage. ‘The   Go For Broke’ 442nd Army Combat Team won a number of honors in World War II and were called ‘Pineapples,’ so it was a distinction to be called that for those Japanese-American troops primarily from Hawaii. I had a little pine­ apple painted on the back of my helmet for luck.”

 He admitted that as an Asian-American, he feared the “special attention” the enemy might give to him should he ever be captured. Ancestors from both sides of his family came from the samurai warrior class in Japan. A namesake ancestor, Miyamoto Musashi, was a famous “sword saint” and philosopher revered in the Japanese culture for his use of two swords in duels, winning 60 sword fights before the age of 29. Pineapple’s wife, Wendy Takagawa, also is descended from the samurais.

It only seems natural that the descendant of samurai warriors and the namesake of a famous expert two-sword fighter would end up flying a Sea Knight with its two sets of three 30-foot rotor blades atop of the helicopter in the front and back. Like Musashi, Pineapple’s philosophy in the combat zone was to “conquer his fear,” “do his job” and “accept dying, as it went with the territory.”

Just 13 days before his squadron was to stand down from the war, Pineapple’s aircraft was shot down by the enemy on Feb. 5, 1971. This was the third time he was shot down in Vietnam. He flew the lead aircraft on a medevac call to pick up a Korean Marine who had lost his legs to a 105 mm artillery shell on a road sweep on Highway 4 near Ha Nong Trung. Due to a low cloud ceiling of about 60 feet, he instructed his chase Sea Knight, flown by lstLt Larry J. “Harvey Wallbanger” Thompson, to execute a “turn and burn” at LZ Baldy as he flew on with the two AH-lW Super Cobra gunships. After picking up the casualty, another medevac call came into assist a Vietnamese woman peppered with shrapnel from a Bouncing Betty mine four clicks away near Nhi Kinh. He decided to pick her up as well, as it was on the way back to Da Nang and Charlie Med.

En route to the Vietnamese casualty, Pineapple flew along a river that came back on itself in a “C” shape and took fire from a large enemy element. The rounds severed a hydraulic line and damaged an aft transmission and mix box. Hospitalman John V. “Flyin’ Doc” Kickham Jr., 21, from Berea, Ohio, was leaning over his patient plugging up his wounds as the rounds went right over his head. He was covered with hydraulic fluid and would have likely been killed if he raised his head.

Pineapple put out a distress call to Thompson and headed to the nearest friendly camp. He flew at about 125 knots (175-180 miles per hour) and 15-20 feet off the ground, riding his air cushion, with one engine knocked out and the other losing its hydraulics and about to seize up. He wrestled the sluggish controls. When he got to the Republic of Korea Marine Corps (ROKMC) compound at an old French fort, he flared to land. His controls froze up, sending the Sea Knight into the clouds. Then, after losing lift, the aircraft dropped like a rock. He told his crew to brace themselves for a crash landing as he continued to fight the controls.

“I remember thinking this time I had bought it. I’m not going to get out of this one. My life didn’t flash before my eyes. The only thing I remember thinking was that I hadn’t told Wendy I loved her the last time we talked. I closed my eyes and braced for it and made one of the nicest landings I’d ever done.”

The Sea Knight pancaked mostly in a large pond with a portion of the helo on shore. The blades hit the water then the helicopter flipped onto its starboard side. Pineapple helped to unstrap his copilot, lstLt Tom Dewitt, and looked back into the helicopter, as his crew began to crawl out of the aircraft. Miraculously, they all had survived the crash.

Up on the side of the Sea Knight, Pine­apple was joined by one of the gunners, and Corporal J.R. Jones, a Marine photographer and correspondent from Marine Air Base Squadron-16 (MABS-16) who had left Thompson’s chase helicopter at LZ Baldy to join Pineapple’s crew thinking the lead helicopter would get more action. He got his wish and more. Cpl Charlie W. Hansen, the crew chief, emerged from the wreckage and was in shock as he sloshed ashore.

Flyin’ Doc Kickham, soaked in hydraulic fluid, stayed inside with his Korean patient and saw the three men waving for him to come out of the large square escape window. Kickham handed the Korean to Pineapple who grabbed him by his arm when the fuel tanks exploded and a ball of fire set Doc Kickham on fire. Pineapple and the other two men were thrown off the helicopter by the force of the blast.

Though Pineapple had his visor down on his helmet, his eyebrows were still singed. Doc Kickham lost his hold on the Korean and staggered back toward the cockpit area, waving his flaming arms. He fell through a window under the water and decided to swim out, only to get entangled by barbed wire underwater. He managed to extricate himself from the barbed wire and swim away from the helicopter. Three ROK Marines jumped in the water to help Doc Kickham. Unfortunately, Kickham’s patient did not survive the blast and ensuing flames.

For Doc’s attempt to save his patient, Pineapple recommended him for the Navy Cross; he was awarded a Silver Star. He sustained second-degree burns to his face, hands, back and leg, as well as various other minor injuries. Pineapple did not receive a medal for his actions, nor did he seek one, as he felt he had put his crew at risk and therefore was not worthy of a medal. Pineapple was impressed to see Thompson arriving without gun cover shortly after the explosion. He took Pine­apple and his crew out to the hospital ship USS Sanctuary (AH-17).

Back at Marble Mountain Air Facility the next morning, Pineapple was so sore that he felt as though he had been beaten in an alley. He gazed out at the South China Sea as the sun rose outside his hooch, simply taking a breath, letting it out, taking a breath and letting it out again.

“You know, I never realized how nice it was just to breathe. Life is so short and precious. You never know what’s coming around the corner. I gained such an appreciation for life and being able to just breathe.”

The “samurai” pilot with nine lives flew two more missions on Feb. 7 and 10. The squadron flew its last combat mission on Feb. 15, 1971. HMM-364’s commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Henry W. “Hank” Steadman, sent Pineapple for temporary duty to Japan to continue flying by ferrying repaired Sea Knights to the base at Kyoto, Japan.

Miyamoto and his flight crew earned a unique place in the Purple Fox squadron’s combat history in Vietnam, as their aircraft was the last HMM-364 Sea Knight to be shot down during the Vietnam War. After returning from Vietnam, he and Wendy made their home in Kaneohe, Hawaii. He was no longer able to fly due to complications with his vision and was forced to take an administrative position. He retired and became involved in the civilian aviation industry briefly before going back to the Marine Corps as deputy chief of staff, Marine Corps Forces Pacific, and later as a civilian.

His job was to visit Marine bases on the West Coast, assess their needs and see that they got the support they needed. He proudly noted he was the first Japanese­-American to hold such a post. He thought that would have made his father proud.

Author’s bio: Michael Dan Kellum is the author of Books I and II, American Heroes: Grunts, Pilots & “Docs.” This story comes from Book I and is condensed from two chapters on retired Major Miyamoto. Kellum and Miyamoto became friends as enlisted Marines at Camp Pendleton in 1968 and both were commissioned officers through the Enlisted Commissioning Program in the TBS class of C-69.

 

 

Executive Editor’s note: We fully realize that it’s a risky maneuver to create a list of the “best of” anything. Not every­thing could make the list; we’d love to hear from our readers about which aircraft would make your list.

Marine Corps aviation dates from 1912 when First Lieutenant Alfred Cunningham, the fifth Naval Aviator, was designated the Corps’ first pilot. Since then, “flying Leathernecks” have logged 113 years of service to the nation in a remarkable variety of aircraft.

Historically, Marine aviators have focused on supporting “the ground,” most notably in World War II, Korea and Vietnam. The symbiotic nature of that relationship probably was best illustrated at Guadalcanal where infantry protected Henderson Field while fighter and bomber squadrons countered the enemy at sea and ashore.

This subjective list of aircraft is based on historic sig­nificance to Marine Aviation, combat record and longevity of service. Most of the selections have passed into history, but the primary list and an honorable mention category include current aircraft such as the CH-53, F/A-18 Hornet, AV-8 Harrier and C-130 Hercules. For a look at which aircraft made our Honorable Mention list, check out page 67 in the May issue of Leatherneck.

Vought O2U Corsair

For 75 years, Vought Aircraft in its many iterations provided naval aviation with everything from 90-knot biplanes to supersonic jets. Among the first was the O2U observation plane of 1927. Its wheels were removable for floats, enhancing the type’s versatility.

First Lieutenant Christian Schilt flew an O2U in his 1928 Medal of Honor actions in Nicaragua, though the aircraft’s public exposure peaked in the 1933 “King Kong” movie. Some 460 were built for U.S. plus export models, and the biplane was still in service at the time of the attack on Pearl Harbor.

Wingspan: 34 ft. 6 in.
Length: 24 ft. 8 in.
Height: 10 ft.
Wing Area: 337 sq. ft.
Engine: Pratt & Whitney R1340
425 hp radial
Maximum Weight: 3,600 lbs.
Maximum Speed: 151 mph
Service Ceiling: 22,500 ft.
Range: 580 statute miles

Douglas SBD Dauntless

Though considered obsolescent by 1942, the Dauntless carried the offensive load at Guadalcanal and points north. In fact, the Pacific War could not have been prosecuted with another scout-bomber, as the limited-production Vought SB2U proved inadequate and the Curtiss SB2C only arrived at the end of 1943.

Captain Richard Fleming was the only Marine dive bomber pilot awarded the Medal of Honor, as he perished at Midway.

The Corps continued flying SBDs until VJ Day, notably in the Central Pacific, plus the unique record of guarding the Sixth Army’s flank during the advance on Manila in 1945.

Wingspan: 41 ft. 6 in.
Length: 33 ft.
Height: 13 ft. 7 in.
Wing Area: 325 sq. ft.
Engine: Wright R-1820 radial, 1,200 hp
Maximum Weight: 10,700 lbs.
Maximum Speed: 255 mph
Service Ceiling: 22,500 ft.
Range: 1,400 statute miles

Grumman F4F Wildcat

From Wake Island onward, the Wildcat monopolized Marine fighter squadrons for the first 21 months of the Pacific War. Corsairs only began arriving in February 1943 and did not fully replace Wildcats until that summer.

When Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox famously said, “Grumman saved Guadalcanal,” he was referring to the F4F, though the TBF Avenger also contributed to that effort.

Seven Marines earned Medals of Honor in F4Fs: Henry Elrod, John L. Smith, Bob Galer, “Joe” Bauer, Joe Foss, Jeff DeBlanc and Jim Swett. Elrod died at Wake Island and Bauer disappeared near Guadalcanal.

Wingspan: 38 ft.
Length: 28 ft. 9 in.
Height: 11 ft. 10 in.
Wing area: 260 sq. ft.
Engine: Pratt & Whitney
R-1830 Twin Wasp
Maximum weight: 7,065 lbs.
Maximum speed: 330 mph
Service ceiling: 31,000 ft.
Range: 770 statute miles

Vought F4F-4 Corsair

If any aircraft personifies Marine aviation, it remains Vought’s crank-winged F4U Corsair. Its iconic status remains due to VMF-214’s notoriety with Major Gregory Boyington. But from 1943 to 1945, the “U bird” flew with 35 other VMFs.
Contrary to legend, the Corsair was not kept off aircraft carriers because it was unsafe. The reason had more to do with sustaining two fighters in the fleet. However, in late 1944, the Kamikaze crisis brought Marines aboard carriers, augmenting Grumman F6F Hellcats.

At the start of the Korean War in June 1950, at least eight Marine squadrons flew F4U-4s plus two with F4U-5N night fighters. The last Reserve squadrons retired Corsairs in 1967.

Wingspan: 41 ft.
Length: 33 ft. 8 in.
Height: 14 ft. 9 in.
Wing area: 314 sq. ft.
Engine: 2,300 hp Pratt & Whitney R2800 radial
Maximum weight: 14,500 lbs.
Maximum speed: 446 mph
Service ceiling: 41,500 ft.
Range: 1,000 statute miles clean

Sikorsky UH-34 Seahorse

The widely used UH-34 was variously called the Choctaw (Army), Seabat (Navy) and Seahorse (Marines). Usually leatherneck aircrews just said, “The 34” or referred to the ubiquitous D model as “The Dog.”

Powered by the same basic engine as the SBD, Sikorsky’s UH-34 personified Marine “in country” aviation during the Vietnam War. It was the Corps’ last piston-powered helicopter but remained in combat alongside Bell UH-1s and CH-46 Sea Knights until 1969. In his book “Dispatches,” correspondent Michael Herr wrote “The 34 had a lot of heart.” It remained in service until 1973.

Main rotor diameter: 56 ft.
Length: 45 ft. 9 in.
Height: 15 ft. 11 in.
Main rotor area: 2,463 sq. ft.
Engine: Wright R-1820 1,525 hp radial
Maximum Weight: 14,000 lbs.
Maximum Speed: 122 mph
Service Ceiling: 12,000 ft.
Range: 190 statute miles

Boeing Vertol CH-46 Sea Knight

Originally the Sea Knight was designed by Vertol, then produced by Boeing. The first flight of the commercial version was in 1958, entering service in 1964 as a rare twin-turbine design. The twin rotors provided greater hover and lift capability.

The “Phrog” became a common sight in Vietnam, as it could carry 25 troops. But 109 were lost, more than any other Marine aircraft.
Production ended in 1971 with 524 for U.S. and foreign clients. It was best known to the public for evacuation of the embassy in Saigon, Vietnam, in 1975.

The CH-46 was used in Iraq and Afghanistan. The Marines retired it in 2015.

Rotor diameters: 55 ft.
Length: 44 ft. 10 in.
Height: 16 ft. 9 in.
Rotor Area: 3,900 sq. ft.
Engine: Two GE T58 turboshafts, 1,870 hp each
Maximum Weight: 24,300 lbs.
Maximum Speed: 166 mph
Service Ceiling: 17,000 ft.
Range: 690 statute miles

McDonnell Douglas A-4 Skyhawk

Designed as a subsonic attack jet, the long-lived A-4 was produced as single- and two-seaters. Originally cast as a nuclear delivery “platform,” the Skyhawk carved a niche for itself in Marine attack squadrons throughout the Vietnam War. About 80 were lost in Southeast Asia.

Douglas’ A-4 airframe proved rugged and durable, surviving battle damage in thousands of close air support sorties.

In all, more than 30 Marine operational, reserve and training squadrons flew the “Scooter.” The last Marine Skyhawks retired in 1998.

Wingspan: 27 ft. 6 in.
Length: 40 ft. 5 in.
Height: 15 ft. 2 in.
Wing Area: 260 sq. ft.
Engine: Pratt & Whitney
J51, 8,500 lbs. thrust
Maximum Weight: 16,200 lbs.
Maximum Speed: 673 statute mph
Service Ceiling: 40,000 ft.
Range: 1,100 statute miles

McDonnell Douglas F-4B Phantom II

Big, angular and imposing just sitting on the ramp, the Phantom exuded power and lethality. Its twin J79 afterburning engines drove the two-seater past Mach 2 in both fighter-bomber and reconnaissance versions.

With extraordinary ordnance capacity, the Phantom could loiter over forward air controllers “in contact” with enemy forces. Marine squadrons lost nearly 100 Phantoms in the Vietnam War.

The last Marine F-4s were retired in 1992, concluding a 30-year career. They were replaced by the same firm’s F/A-18 Hornets, which continue operating today.

Wingspan: 38 ft. 5 in.
Length: 63 ft.
Height: 16 ft. 5 in
Wing Area: 530 sq. ft.
Engines: Two General Electric J79s, 17,800 lbs. thrust
Maximum Weight: 41,500 lbs.
Maximum Speed: 1,470 mph (Mach 2.2)
Service Ceiling: 60,000 ft.
Range: 370 statute miles combat

McDonnell Douglas AV-8 Harrier

Intended for expeditionary air support, the subsonic AV-8 Harrier was inspired by a British prototype from 1960. The Harrier’s single engine with thrust nozzles permits unmatched agility including vertical takeoffs and landings on ships as well as confined spaces ashore.

Marines obtained AV-8As in 1971, and the B model in 1985.

AV-8s have been flown by eight operational squadrons and a dedicated training unit. In 2024, two squadrons retained Harriers, and earlier this year, “AV-8-tors” were shooting down Houthi drones threatening shipping in the Red Sea.

Wingspan: 30 ft. 4 in.
Length: 46 ft. 4 in.
Height: 11 ft. 1 in.
Wing Area: 243 sq. ft.
Engine: Rolls-Royce Pegasus turbofan, 23,500 lbs. thrust
Maximum Weight: 22,900 lbs.
Maximum Speed: 673 mph
Service Ceiling: 50,000 ft. plus
Range: 1,400 statute miles

McDonnell Douglas FA-18 Hornet

The Hornet arose from a Navy requirement for a lower cost replacement for the F-14 Tomcat. Designated F/A-18 for fighter-attack, it first flew in 1978 and entered service in 1983-1984 with the larger, more capable FA-18E/F Super Hornet debuting in 2001.

Two-seat Hornets with a naval flight officer are better able to perform strike missions than single-seaters, with enhanced night capability.

As of 2024, six squadrons still flew Hornets during transition to the F-35B vertical takeoff and F-35C conventional carrier versions.

Wingspan: 40 ft. 4 in.
Length: 56 ft. 1 in.
Height: 15 ft. 5 in.
Wing Area: 410 sq. ft.
Engines: Two GE F404 turbofans, 17,750 lbs. thrust
Maximum Weight: 36,900 lbs.
Maximum Speed: 1,190 mph (Mach 1.8)
Service Ceiling: 50,000 ft. plus
Range: 1,250 statute miles clean

 

Alfred Austell Cunningham is rightly celebrated as the “Father of Marine Corps Aviation.”

His arrival at the Navy’s aviation training camp is the birth date of Marine aviation, and in fact, his own lobbying for aviation in the Marine Corps led to his assignment in aviation training. He is well known for his nearly 10 years of de facto leadership in the field of aviation, but what is less well known is the lasting impact that he has had on the fundamental nature of Marine Corps aviation, specifically, his maxim that the only reason for Marine aviation is to support the Marine on the ground—an idea that remains part of the organizational identity today. Though Cunningham did not express this idea explicitly until 1920, there is evidence that it was a driving idea, albeit perhaps unconsciously, of his vision for Marine aviation from the very beginning.

Not much is known about Alfred Cunningham before he became a Marine in 1909. He was born in Atlanta, Ga., in 1882, the sixth child (and fourth son) of John Daniel and Cornelia Cunningham. The one incident from his life before the Marine Corps, and the one most often mentioned, is his ascension in a balloon in 1903, which reportedly engendered his interest in flight.

Nothing in the documents found in­d­i­cates why Cunningham applied for a Marine commission in 1908, but his ap­plication was successful, and he took his oath of office on Jan. 25, 1909. After at­tending the Marine Officer’s School at Port Royal, S.C., he was as­signed to various ships’ Marine detach­ments. In July 1911, Cunningham was “stashed” on the receiving ship in Phila­delphia, awaiting his next assignment to the newly established Advanced Base Force, where he reported on Nov. 11, 1911.

In Philadelphia, Cunningham was finally able to pursue his aviation in­terests. Soon after checking in aboard the receiving ship, he quickly found an airplane he could borrow to try to teach himself to fly. He nicknamed it “Noisy Nan.” He secured permission from the Navy Yard CO to use a field on the base, and he made his first attempts to pilot the plane less than a month after reporting to Philadelphia, though Nan was too under­powered to fly.

Cunningham also connected with the Aero Club of Pennsylvania, a group that included prominent Philadelphia busi­ness­men interested in promoting aviation. According to at least one history, he per­suaded members of the club to lobby Congress for a Marine flying field at the Navy Yard. Reportedly, Major General Commandant William Biddle, found out Cunningham was behind the campaign and agreed to send him for flight training if he got the club to stop badgering Congress.

The ABF had developed from lessons learned by the Navy in the Pacific during the Spanish-American War. Its purpose was to protect an advanced base (a pro­tected anchorage) where the Navy could repair and refuel after crossing the Pacific before going into battle. The Marines, however, had only been given responsi­bility for defending such a base against landward attack in 1910. The newly estab­lished ABF school was as much about deciding what the ABF should be as it was about teaching that doctrine to Ma­rines. Thus, it was not untoward for Cunningham to make a recommendation about the force.

On Feb. 12, 1912, Cunningham wrote a letter to the ABF School’s commanding officer recommending the purchase of airplanes for the ABF, arguing that “the necessity for an aeroplane is constantly and emphatically evident” and that air­planes for reconnaissance were “neces­sary to the proper efficiency of the Ma­rine Corps.” The letter worked its way up to Biddle, who agreed that aircraft would be useful to the ABF.

Though Cunningham did not explicitly describe aviation as he would in 1920—with its purpose being only to help the Marine on the ground—this supporting relationship was inherent in the proposal. He did not say that the airplane could or would act independently. He was describ­ing it, in modern terms, as a force multi­plier: something that would make the ground Marines more effective. Admit­tedly, the technology of the airplane at this time meant that it was incapable of independent action. On the other hand, that did not stop some flight enthusiasts from anticipating that that would soon change. However, Cunningham never ad­vocated for independent aerial missions.

Biddle consulted with the Navy De­part­ment, which agreed that airplanes would be useful to the Marine Corps and suggested that Marine officers be sent to the Navy’s aviation camp for training and experience. Cunningham got his orders, reporting to Annapolis, Md., on May 22, 1912. The second Marine aviator, Bernard Smith, also got orders to aviation at this time but did not report until September.

While Cunningham had envisioned a particular mission for Marine aviation, neither he nor Smith had much oppor­tunity to practice a uniquely “Marine” form of flight. All of the naval aviators needed to gain experience in the air and transition from simply learning to fly safely toward learning to navigate and become useful in the air. At the same time, the small naval aviation camp needed to do its own experiments with aircraft. Flying time with the limited number of aircraft was a scarce commodity.

In August 1913, Cunningham had to leave flying behind. His fiancée, Josephine, refused to marry Alfred if he was actively flying. Though he was out of the pilot’s seat, he remained connected to Marine aviation, serving as the Corps’ representative on the Navy’s Board on Aeronautics. The “Chambers Board” as it was known (after its chair, Navy Captain Washington I. Chambers), was intended to create a comprehensive plan for naval aviation. Its final report on Nov. 25, 1913, among other recommendations, proposed purchasing six aircraft for the ABF along with all necessary equipment and even suggested designating auxiliary vessels to carry all of it for expeditionary service. Such considerations likely reflected Cunningham’s presence on the board. On the other hand, he missed out on the one pre-war opportunity for Marine Corps aviation to operate independently: as part of the ABF maneuvers at Culebra, Puerto Rico, in early 1914.

By 1915, he was apparently able to change Josephine’s mind, as he returned to aviation, with the stipulation that he would have to go through the training curriculum as it then existed. He finished the Navy’s new schooling in September, and in the spring of 1916, he requested to be sent to the Army’s flight school in San Diego. Landplane and seaplane flying were considered very different skills at the time, with landplanes exclusive to the Army. Cunningham, recognizing that an effective aviation section for the ABF would need both types of planes, wanted to be trained in both. He received the requested orders and reported to San Diego at the end of June.

While he was traveling to San Diego, the Navy officer at the “aviation desk” in Washington proposed that the Navy establish the aeronautic section of the First ABF in Philadelphia as soon as possible. He recommended that the unit consist of two airplanes, two seaplanes, two ob­servation balloons, and the equipment and personnel to operate and maintain them in the field. The suggested table of organization and equipment closely matched the ideas of Bernard Smith following the 1914 Culebra maneuvers. Commandant George Barnett, who had replaced Biddle in 1914, agreed with the proposal, issuing orders on Aug. 24 to establish the aeronautic unit in Philadelphia.

While Cunningham had missed out on the Culebra exercises, he returned to aviation intent on establishing a distinct Marine aviation identity. He responded to the Aug. 24 order as though he were going to be in charge. He wrote to Barnett on Aug. 29 giving preliminary recommen­dations for the aeronautical unit, promis­ing to send an itemized list of equipment, machinery, and tools needed at the new airfield along with his own wooden hangar design. He likely finished Army flight training before October 1916, but other duties kept him on the West Coast for several more months. At the end of January, Barnett ordered Cunningham to Philadelphia, on temporary duty, to inspect the proposed flying field and make recommendations for the physical organization of what was soon to be known as the Marine Aeronautic Com­pany. While Cunningham had put con­siderable work into planning and or­ganizing the aeronautic company, he was not formally named its CO until Feb. 26. However, he was still wrapping up work for another Navy board (examining sites for new bases and airfields) and did not officially arrive in Philadelphia until March 3.

As soon as the United States declared war against Germany on April 6, 1917, Barnett began advocating for the Marines to have a combat role alongside the Army. This would eventually take the form of the 4th Marine Brigade of the 2d Division, American Expeditionary Forces (AEF). Headquarters Marine Corps proceeded on the assumption that the Corps would provide its own aviation assets for the brigade as called for by the Army’s tables of organization and equipment. On July 27, Barnett proposed that the Marine Corps organize a squad­ron of landplanes “for service with the Marines in France.” Navy Secretary Josephus Daniels approved this plan on Aug. 20 and directed Barnett to contact the Army’s Signal Corps, in charge of Army aviation, to discuss equipping and training the squadron.

On Sept. 17, Barnett wrote to the Army’s Chief Signal Officer proposing that the Army train one balloon company and one landplane aviation squadron of Marines for service in France. On Oct. 10, Cunningham re­ported to Barnett that the Army would train the Marine Aviation Squadron in both basic and advanced flight training in landplanes. He wrote that once the training was complete, “the Squadron [would] then be ready for service in France and the Army [would] completely equip it with the same technical equip­ment furnished their squadrons.” At the same time, eight Marine officers and six enlisted Marines would be sent through the Army’s Balloon School to learn bal­loon ground crew duties. The Marines would then have flyers and balloonists ready to support the Marines on the front lines in France.

Though the Army had agreed to train the Marine flyers, the nature of that service had not been specified. Sometime in October, the Army told Cunningham that it would not let Marine aviation pro­vide air support for the Marine brigade. This was not simply Army aviation want­ing to keep all the glory for itself: The Army at this time was recycling most of its own newly fledged aviators as well as Marine aviators back into the training pipeline as instructors. Even in France, the Army never had enough squadrons to permanently assign a squadron to divisions or even corps, much less brigades!

Not happy with a non-combat role, Cunningham arranged orders for a trip to Europe. Ostensibly, his purpose was to investigate French and British training methods. He later admitted, though, that he had made the trip hoping he could get the AEF staff to give Marine aviation a combat role. He arrived in France on Nov. 18, 1917. He packed a lot into his in­spection tour, but he was no more successful in talking the AEF into giving Marine aviation a combat role than he had been with Army officials in Washington. All was not lost, however, as he did come back from Europe with an idea for how Marine aviation could contribute in a combat role.

During his tour, he had learned of British attempts to bomb German sub­marines as they transited in and out of captured Belgian ports. The subs were particularly vulnerable here as extensive shallows forced them to remain on the surface for miles and limited their ability to evade attacks. German counter­measures included heavy coastal artillery guns to keep ships out of the area and land-based fighter squadrons to prevent aerial attacks. Cunningham believed that a few squadrons of land-based Marine Corps fighters could provide the neces­sary escort for Navy seaplanes to bomb the submarines. He returned to the United States in January 1918, presented his proposal to the Navy’s General Board on Feb. 5, and on March 11 received orders to proceed to Miami to begin assembling four Marine fighter squadrons as the First Marine Aviation Force (FMAF).

Cunningham’s idea did not get Marine aviation to France to support the Marine brigade, but it did get his aviators into combat. As it happened, the nature of what became the Northern Bombing Group (NBG), and the FMAF’s role in it, changed significantly even before the first FMAF personnel reached France. On April 30, the Navy authorized what would eventually be known as the NBG—the name changed several times as the plan was developed—for a round-the-clock bombing campaign against the U-boat bases in occupied Belgium. The four Marine squadrons Cunningham was training up would become the Day Bombing Wing of the NBG.

Cunningham and three of the squadrons arrived in France on July 30. But because of supply problems, they did not yet have any airplanes. Cunningham arranged with the British Royal Air Force (RAF) to have small numbers of his aircrew rotate through the nearby RAF No. 217 and No. 218 Squadrons, which flew very similar aircraft to what the Marines were expecting. The arrangement gave the Marines an introduction to combat alongside veteran aviators and the RAF a solution to their personnel shortages.

Both RAF squadrons were dedicated entirely to what today would be called air support and interdiction missions in support of the Allied armies in Flanders. Even once the Marine Day Wing began getting its own aircraft, it continued to work closely with the two RAF squad­rons. In doing so, the Marine squadrons had drifted considerably from both Cunningham’s original plan and the Navy’s intent for them as part of the NBG. However, they were getting ex­perience in the kind of warfare that Cunningham originally sought: they were supporting troops on the ground.

When the armistice appeared immi­nent, Cunningham began angling to have the Marine aviators sent home as soon as possible. The Marine Day Wing arrived back in Miami in January and February of 1919, where the unit was disbanded and most of the personnel demobilized. The same happened to the First Marine Aviation Company (which had been flying anti-submarine patrols in the Azores) in March.

Back in the United States, Cunningham resumed his efforts to establish an in­de­pendent Marine aviation. Barnett formally named him head of the Ma­rine Section of Naval Aviation, and Cunningham was quick off the mark with a “Proposed Program for Marine Section, Naval Aviation.” This three-page doc­ument, dated Jan. 13, 1919, proposed a “definite program and mission for the Marine Aviation Section.” Cunningham reiterated that the Marine aviators with advanced base and expeditionary oper­ations would need to be trained in both land and seaplanes. Despite his antag­onism toward the Navy in some of his letters both at the time and later on, he insisted in this document that the Marine Section should continue to be closely associated with the Navy by continuing to train and operate alongside Navy pilots. Perhaps he recognized the political necessity of remaining on good terms with the Navy, which, after all, was—and remains—responsible for providing air­planes and necessary supplies and equip­ment to the Marine aviation program.

Cunningham urgently wanted to get aviation into the field too. In Miami, those personnel who had not been demobilized were redistributed among the five extant Marine squadrons (four from the Day Wing and one, Squadron E, from the Azores). The 1st Division, Squadron D, left Miami to work with the Second Provisional Brigade in the Dominican Republic in February 1919. Squadron E left the following month to work with the 1st Provisional Brigade in Haiti. Other squadrons established new Marine airfields at Quantico and Parris Island.

During this reshuffling, the Navy General Board’s hearings on naval avi­ation policy in early 1919 also considered a Marine aviation policy. Cunningham appeared before the Board on April 7 to speak for Marine aviation, telling the Board, “I believe there is an important logical and well-defined mission for the Marine section and that is to furnish the air force required for operating with the advanced base and expeditionary forces.” When the Board asked whether Marines really needed their own airfields—whether they could not continue using existing Navy fields—Cunningham ex­plained his belief that Marine airfields should be established near the ground forces they were to work with so that air and ground units could practice together. The General Board’s final report recom­mended that the Navy Department ac­quire kite balloons, landplanes, and sea­planes for use with Marine Corps ad­vanced base units. The Board also sug­gested that each ABF unit should have an aerodrome nearby to improve air-ground cooperation. This relationship was something Cunningham had wanted from the very beginning, and this was his first chance since 1912 to clearly reiterate it.

Cunningham had another chance to influence official doctrine around that time. In a letter to the Navy Bureaus and the Commandant describing the plans for Naval Aviation in the 1920 fiscal year, Chief of Naval Operations William Benson stated (or at least signed off on the statement) that, “The most important work ahead of [M]arine aviators is to prove to the ground troops that they can be of real service to them in carrying out their war duties. This can only be done by actually operating with them.” Following this was a long list of specific duties for coordination with infantry and artillery, which Marine aviators would be expected to train for. While the letter appeared over Benson’s signature, Cunningham more than likely contributed the original draft of this portion of the plan.

Cunningham’s article in the September 1920 Marine Corps Gazette, “Value of Aviation to the Marine Corps,” likely drafted about the same time as the in­put to Benson’s report, is more open about some Marines having a poor opinion of aviation. Early in the article, Cunningham cites the need for Marine aviation to “overcome a combination of doubt as to usefulness, lack of sympathy, and a feeling on the part of some line officers that aviators and aviation enlisted men are not real Marines.” A bit later, Cunningham states, “Having in mind their experience with aviation activities in France, a great many Marine officers have expressed themselves as being un­friendly to aviation and doubting its full value.”

He explained the issues that prevented the FMAF from serving with the 4th but went on to say that, with the conclusion of postwar reorganization in the States, “we are looking forward with enthusiasm to our real work of cooperating helpfully with the remainder of the Corps.” Cunningham tried to re­assure the doubters, stating that “the only excuse for aviation in any service is its usefulness in assisting the troops on the ground”—an assertion he had also made to the General Board in 1919. The declaration may also have been a clear position against Army aviator William “Billy” Mitchell, who was just beginning to agitate for a unified and independent air service.

The first half of Cunningham’s article is a brief history of Marine aviation to date, emphasizing its small size prior to 1917 and detailing how it came to staff the aerial patrol bases in the Azores and Miami and become part of the NBG. He gave plenty of detail on what the Marine Day Wing did accomplish during the war and went on to note the detachments sent to Haiti and the Dominican Republic in 1919—and that the brigade commanders in both places have been “very compli­men­tary” of the aviators’ work. He sug­gested various ways in which aviation could assist troops in the future, a list that is copied almost verbatim from the list of duties in the CNO’s July 1 letter. He expressed confidence that, by working with the ground forces, aviation would begin to show the ground forces “that we can contribute in a surprising degree to the success of all their operations.” This, however, would be Cunningham’s last direct influence on Marine Corps aviation.

In December 1920, Cunningham was relieved as Director of Marine Aviation and sent to command the squadron in the Dominican Republic. Then, in July 1922, Cunningham turned over command of the First Air Squadron and left Marine Aviation in accordance with a policy he himself had promoted to ensure that aviators did not become too isolated from the rest of the Corps. In 1928, Cunning­ham wanted to return to aviation duty. He was told there were no administrative positions open. If he wanted back into aviation, he would have to do so as a flyer: pass the physical and take some refresher training.

Unfortunately, before he could formally request new orders, he was sent to Nicaragua, where the Marine Corps was sending as many Marines as it could to help control the political violence ahead of contentious national elections. While there, Cunningham con­tracted a tropical disease that saw him medically evacuated back to D.C. on a hospital ship. Health problems dogged him for the rest of his life, preventing him from taking up flying again. Cunningham retired from the Corps in 1935 without ever returning to aviation and died in 1939.

Cunningham’s influence, however, would remain with Marine aviation well past his leadership assignment, partic­ularly in his desire for the close coordina­tion of Marine aviators and ground forces and his assertion that aviation only existed to help the troops. Cunningham’s influence is reflected to this day in the six functions of Marine aviation as taught at The Basic School: Offensive Air Sup­port, Anti-Air Warfare, Assault Support, Air Reconnaissance, Electronic Warfare and Control of Aircraft and Missiles. Each of these functions has a greater or lesser coordination be­tween air and ground forces, but all are aimed at en­suring that the aviators’ efforts make the troops’ tasks easier, whether that is of­fense, defense or force sustainment. De­spite having vacated the senior leader­ship role for aviation in 1921, Cunning­ham’s belief in the raison d’etre for Marine aviation remains foundational more than a century later in the notion of the Marine air-ground team. It is this, rather than merely being the first Marine to report to aviation, for which he de­serves the appellation “the Father of Marine Aviation.”

Author’s bio: Dr. Laurence M. Burke II is the aviation curator at the National Museum of the Marine Corps and author of “At the Dawn of Airpower: The U.S. Army, Navy, and Marine Corps’ Ap­proach to the Airplane, 1907-1917.”
He earned his Ph.D. from Carnegie Mellon University. After grad­uating, he held a postdoc position in the history department at the U.S. Naval Academy followed by several years as the curator of U.S. Naval Aviation at the National Air and Space Museum before joining the NMMC.

Author’s note: To the Marines of MAP 7, thank you for entrusting me with your experiences and allowing me to share them. I hope what follows may appropriately honor the memory of your fallen and elevate your service toward the level of recognition it deserves. Semper Fidelis.

In late 2004, Sergeant Randall Watkins faced the most unusual task of his Marine Corps career. An active-duty infantry squad leader turned prospective officer candidate, now Watkins found himself in a POG (Person Other than Grunt) reserve unit with orders to create an infantry platoon out of the cooks, clerks and mechanics surrounding him.

Watkins left active duty earlier that year to finish college and achieve his goal of becoming a Marine officer. Tumul­tuous events in Iraq, however, swayed his decisions elsewhere. The war would end soon, he believed. If he wanted in on the action, he had to get back in uniform and over there now. Watkins dropped out of school in his home state of Texas and joined the nearest reserve unit, 4th Reconnaissance Battalion, out of San Antonio. Despite his infantry background and active-duty experience, 4th Recon did not have a place for him. The battalion shipped Watkins and numerous others like him to Twentynine Palms, Calif., to fill out another reserve unit preparing for war.

The 3rd Battalion, 25th Marine Reg­iment, 4th Marine Division, gathered there for predeployment training and time was running short. Based in Ohio, the battalion was activated to fight in Iraq and called up Marines sprinkled across the country. Even now gathered at full strength, 3/25 came up short-handed. Officers planning the deployment faced another problem. Their future area of operation spanned a huge swath of Anbar province, the Wild West of Iraq. To ad­equately cover the zone, they needed high­ly mobile, heavily armed small units capable of speeding throughout the area at a moment’s notice. The battalion’s lead­ers devised the Mobile Assault Platoons (MAPs) to fill the gap.

When Watkins showed up, 3/25 assim­ilated him into Headquarters and Service (H&S) Company. He loathed the prospect of an Iraq deployment trapped inside the wire with headquarters, until one day when everything changed. Battalion command tapped Staff Sergeant Michael Brady, another former infantryman and longtime 3/25 member, to be the new platoon commander for MAP 7. Watkins, by coincidence in the company office as the conversation took place, was named platoon sergeant. In addition to its “mo­bile assault” function, an ambiguous role still being defined, MAP 7 would act as the battalion’s personal security detail for the officers and senior enlisted leaders traveling around Iraq. Whatever its role might turn out to be became the primary problem for Brady. Watkins’ responsibility was to create the platoon from scratch.

The available pool from which to select proved woefully limited. Infantrymen were not available. Instead, the battalion offered mechanics, truck drivers, cooks or any other Marine Watkins wanted from H&S Company. He began with the highest scores on the rifle range and physical fitness test. Beyond those basic qualifications, he scrutinized civilian jobs, looking for any Marine employed or trained in anything remotely “Marine.”

The candidates’ lack of face value be­lied the prior service or civilian roots of numerous H&S Marines that distin­guished them as immediate choices. Like Watkins, most joined the Marines how­ever they could to get into the fight. Many selectees came from the batch of Texans pawned off from 4th Recon. Corporal Zane Childress very nearly earned him­self Non-Judicial Punishment for the hell he raised over being assigned as a radio operator with H&S rather than an infan­try platoon. The comm shop gladly gave him away. Sgt Aaron Cepeda, a cook by trade, was also a double major in chem­istry and biology, well on his way to medical school, and one of the smartest people Watkins ever met. Sergeant Michael Marzano was a former active-duty mortarman who rejoined in the Marine Corps Reserve and wound up a bulk fuel specialist.

Lance Corporal Lance Graham towered over the Marines around him, standing nearly 6 1/2-feet tall and weighing almost 250 pounds without his gear. He filled a slot in the supply section but could shoot as good as any Marine Watkins knew.

“Whoever that reserve recruiter was for 4th Recon, he deserves an award be­cause he got some rockstars into some shitty billets,” Watkins mused recently. “People got labeled with their bullshit reserve titles, but I had some real studs.”

Ohio natives volunteered as well. Four mechanics out of the motor pool and fast friends from Cleveland interviewed with Watkins. LCpl Todd Corbin stood out as a no-brainer for selection. In his early 30s, nearly a decade older than most others, Corbin served as a deputy sheriff and SWAT Team member. Watkins also brought on LCpl Mark Kalinowski, the brightest and hardest working mechanic in the motor pool, and Cpl Jeff Schuller, a high school and college wrestler. To set himself apart from the bulk of Ohioans volunteering, Schuller fabricated part of his personal history, adding a background in military police, banking that Watkins would not check into it. The ploy worked and Schuller was accepted. Corporal Stan Mayer volunteered once he learned Schuller and the rest of his friends had left H&S to join MAP 7. Watkins ac­cepted Mayer based on his training, hav­ing completed the first half of Platoon Leader’s Course on his way to becoming a Marine officer, and having trained extensively with the U.S. Army National Guard’s 19th Special Forces Group in Columbus.

For the next few months, Watkins worked the platoon day and night.

“Mobile Assault Platoon 7 was not infantrymen, it was ‘every Marine a rifleman,’ ” remembered Mayer. “Watkins was not happy that he didn’t have in­fantrymen, and he would be damned if he didn’t make us into the infantrymen he wanted. He treated that work up like a deployment. He would not let us sleep. There was not one minute he let go by that we weren’t learning. What that really did was it made the platoon have a special chemistry.”

The battalion arrived in Iraq on March 6, 2005, and proceeded to Haditha, 150 miles northwest of Baghdad. The Marines occupied the Haditha Dam, a massive, multi-level concrete structure situated across the Euphrates River.

Other towns in Anbar Province such as Fallujah or Ramadi already gained notoriety since the 2003 invasion. Haditha had yet to cement its place in the history of the Iraq War.

MAP 7 fell into a repeating cycle. The platoon spent most days on the road conducting route reconnaissance, setting up observation posts or ferrying the bat­talion commander around the AO. Peri­od­ically, the platoon received a scheduled day of rest. Despite the size of the dam, living space was cramped. Marines piled into dormitory-style rooms, some with balconies overlooking the river and the urban center of Haditha several miles south. They filled their off days cleaning weapons, tinkering with their trucks and chain-smoking cigarettes on the balcony while heckling sister platoons doing the same.

When not on rest or a planned mission, MAPs took turns as the battalion Quick Reaction Force (QRF). The duty platoon stuck close to the dam, ready to deploy at a moment’s notice. If nothing bad happened, QRF days became another day of rest. Platoons could never relax, however, in the presence of the phone. Marine communicators strung telephone wire down the MAP hallway inside the dam, ending at a single, red telephone. Like the ubiquitous “bat phone,” the QRF phone existed for one purpose.

“It’s not like it was ever your mom calling,” said Jeff Schuller, today a major and active-duty infantry officer. “It’s never good news. You’re just sitting there reading, watching stupid movies, trying to think about anything other than what you’re doing. That thing would ring and hearts would just drop. I don’t think I’ve ever hated an inanimate object in my life as much as I hated that phone.”

The phone rang a lot. Any time the battalion had troops in contact, the QRF deployed to assist. Any time a mortar round struck the dam, the QRF inves­tigated the point of origin. Any time another platoon struck an Improvised Explosive Device (IED), the QRF de­ployed to recover the vehicle. By the time a tour of duty ended, platoons coming off QRF gleefully passed the phone to the next in line like a hot potato.

MAP 7 had its first casualty less than two weeks into the deployment when a humvee in the column hit a landmine. The explosion severed the leg of LCpl Aaron Rice seated inside the vehicle. The vehicle was destroyed, but thankfully, Rice survived. At the motor pool in Al Asad, the platoon sought another humvee as a replacement. The Motor Transport chief offered instead an up-armored, heavily modified 7-ton. The truck pre­viously served as a command vehicle. The gutted cargo area had new seating and tables installed.

Marines welded pintle mounts around the exterior of the bed, enabling the addition of several machine guns. When fully outfitted, the truck bristled with gun barrels like an old WW II bomber. A 7-ton was a poor plat­form for casualty evacuations and the antithesis of “mobile” or “assault,” but the platoon would have to make it work. As one of the only Marines with a license to operate the vehicle, Todd Corbin volunteered to drive.

By the beginning of May, MAP 7 covered hundreds of miles around Anbar province. The platoon encountered IEDs and traded fire with the enemy in numerous encounters. Despite several close calls, Rice remained the only casualty. MAP 7 returned to the dam on May 6 to rest and refit once again following another 24-hour patrol. As the sun rose on May 7, the exhausted Marines sipped coffee and tried to relax, waiting out the daylight hours. Again that night already, MAP 7 was scheduled to depart after dark to an overnight observation post. To make matters worse, QRF duty fell to them once again for the day. A significant portion of the battalion de­ployed west toward the Syrian border in preparation for Operation Matador, a major offensive scheduled to begin the next day. MAP 7 remained in the rear with a skeleton crew at the dam.

In the morning, Mark Kalinowski lo­cated Schuller in his room and hounded him to get their truck down to the motor pool. Earlier that week, Schuller spotted brand new humvee turrets, boxed up and waiting to be installed. Kalinowski ada­mantly wanted the upgrade. As the vehicle gunner standing exposed above the roof, his life depended on it. A cylin­drical metal shield formed his current turret, like a large barrel cut in half, offer­ing meager protection. The upgraded turrets were constructed of true armor plating, spaced and angled for maximum protection. Schuller chafed at the idea, wanting instead to relax for the remainder of his day at the dam, but eventually he capitulated. The two spent the next four hours constructing and installing the upgrade. Kalinowski mounted his M240G machine gun and tested the turret’s operation. When traversing the gun left or right, only a small 3-inch gap opened on either side of the armor plate in front of him. The surrounding armor felt sig­nificantly better than his previous ac­commodations. The true level of protec­tion, however, would only be revealed in combat.

The Marines prepared for their over­night mission as the sun dipped in the western sky. Watkins sat with Cepeda in an internet cafe penning digital Mother’s Day cards to send home. A dull “boom” suddenly thudded outside. Watkins im­mediately recognized it as an enemy mortar striking the dam. He ordered Cepeda down to the rest of the platoon to start getting ready to roll out. Watkins made his way to the Combat Operations Center (COC) to find out what they knew. Deep inside the dam, the QRF phone rang to life.

The platoon assembled with their vehicles at the gate leading out the east side of the dam. Insurgents routinely fired mortars from the eastern side of the Euphrates then fled into the open desert. Tonight, however, the COC instructed Watkins to turn his column around and stage at the west gate. This mortar attack originated in Haditha on the western bank. Watkins sensed something off. This was a new tactic. The COC ordered Watkins to stand by and wait for a pair of tanks to support his column.

While MAP 7 waited, machine-gun fire echoed to the south. Word spread of a sister platoon several miles downriver on the eastern bank taking fire from a palm grove in Haditha on the western bank. Marines in riverine patrol boats sped downriver from the dam and blasted the palm grove with machine guns and automatic grenade launchers. Each time the enemy fire ceased and the boats de­parted, mortars soon resumed firing toward the dam and insurgents shot at the MAP on the eastern side.

“We heard the radio traffic start coming through and I was thinking why would someone with an AK-47 start shooting at a gun truck with a machine gun on top?” Watkins said. “It’s suicide. This was obviously something we had never seen before.”

The platoon waited nearly two hours for the tank support to arrive. Despite their frustration over the delay, the Ma­rines’ spirits remained high. Mayer was certain tonight would finally be their opportunity to actively take the fight to the enemy. The sentiment spread. Two Marines from outside the platoon joined at the last minute, a staff sergeant from the armory and a cook eager for his first chance to leave the wire.

Darkness enveloped the dam by the time the tanks arrived. Mayer fired up his humvee. Watkins sat in the vehicle commander seat next to him. One by one, the three humvees of MAP 7 fell in behind the first tank and surged out the gate. Corbin drove his 7-ton in the middle of the line with the last tank bringing up the rear. The palm grove was only 15 minutes away in the heart of Haditha.

The column drove south paralleling the river. Mayer followed the tank ahead through his night vision goggles. He passed a single vehicle on the side of the road with hazard lights flashing at the city line, but no one else appeared anywhere in sight. On the radio, their sister MAP reported the enemy broke contact and disappeared. Haditha fell silent.

Watkins tracked the column’s position on his global positioning system. It lagged and failed to provide him a real-time position as they crossed into the city. By the time it finally updated, Watkins realized they passed their objective in the darkness. He halted the column. Their only option now was to turn around, and to do it as quickly as possible. Six-foot walls line the street on either side of the road. Street lamps dimly illuminated the Haditha hospital rising above the wall on their left, with narrow alleyways dis­appearing into the darkness down either side of the compound. It was a bad spot, and everyone seemed to know it. Chatter over the internal radios ceased.

“It was night so no one really should have been around, but I mean no one was around,” Mayer remembered. “Like in an old western, the rocking chair is rocking but no one is in it. You knew something was going to go down.”

The tanks covered the road to the south as Marines dismounted and the convoy reversed direction. Even the smaller humvees required multi-point turns to spin in the street and point north once again.
Watkins dismounted to provide se­curity and guide his humvee through the dark. He glanced at Mayer before exiting the vehicle.

“I’m gonna go run the rabbit and draw some fire.”

An ambush felt imminent. Watkins figured he would trigger it by exiting the vehicle. With Graham in the turret above watching over him, he remained confident. He reached back and elbowed Graham’s shin standing behind him.

“Let’s go get some.”

Mayer weaved his way around and back through the rest of the vehicles. He parked near the intersection at the corner of the hospital, covering the rear of the column. Behind him, the rest of the platoon began turning around.

“I wanted to get into a good spot for Graham to cover us with his machine gun,” Mayer said. “I was asking him, ‘Is this good? How about this Lance?’ All of the sudden, I heard Lance screaming, ‘Stop motherf–ker! Stop!’ I thought he was screaming at me so I stopped. I thought we had somehow rolled onto an IED he saw that I didn’t. The last thing I heard was Lance spinning the turret, racking his machine gun, and just beginning to open fire when an eruption occurred that was just like a hard reset.”

Unseen by Mayer, a suicide bomber in a van packed with explosives emerged from the darkness, careening down the alley. The van plowed into a wall near Mayer’s humvee and detonated. The awful blast leveled walls and buildings around the intersection. An impenetrable dust cloud covered the area, and a ball of fire exploded upward like the sun rising over the Euphrates.

In his humvee a few dozen meters away, Schuller had just completed his turn. He found an unmolested patch of concrete and drove off the road on top of it. No insurgent, he thought, would go through the effort of pouring fresh concrete over a planted IED. When the suicide bomber detonated, all four wheels of Schuller’s vehicle lifted off the ground. Schuller was dumbfounded and angry, believing he had in fact parked directly over an IED. Behind him, Kalinowski slumped down beneath the turret. A chunk of shrapnel flew through the gap beside his machine gun and obliterated his wrist. Schuller crawled through the cab, closing all the doors that hung open. Gunfire and screaming filled the air. Schuller took Kalinowski’s place in the turret. Outside, dead or wounded Marines littered the street. The remaining hulk of Mayer and Watkins’ humvee glowed a fiery orange through the dust cloud. Muzzle flashes illuminated the hazy outlines of sandbagged positions across the roof line of the hospital. Without hesitation, Schuller spun the turret and opened fire. He poured an unending stream of lead into the building as rounds pinged off the metal around him. The upgraded turret might now save his life rather than Kalinowski’s.

When the blast pressure passed over, Mayer convinced himself that he was not dead. He couldn’t hear. He could barely see or feel. He reached out from inside himself, working through a mental checklist of body parts to rediscover and determine if they were working. He felt pain. His entire body felt flash-fried, like the worst sunburn one could possibly endure. He found his door blown open and lifted himself out of the vehicle. He turned back toward his seat. The ruined humvee sat low on four flat tires with the roof line at chest height. Ricocheting bullets sparkled brightly off the metal top without a sound.

Confounded, Mayer gazed upward toward the hospital. The building disappeared, veiled in dust. Hovering muzzle flashes twinkled in the air, bedazzling the dirty sky.

Amid the sparkling rounds, a per­fectly flat surface stretched out in front of Mayer where the armored turret had once sat. Fire licked up through the hole where the gunner once stood. Where was Graham? The question zapped Mayer back to reality.

“I dropped to the ground and scrambled around on my knees until I found my rifle which had been blown out of the truck,” he said. “I racked a round into the chamber then sat there and took cover. I guess I was waiting for somebody in charge to tell me it’s OK to shoot my rifle because I’d never shot it without a Marine telling me to. I just sat there listening to the rounds slap against the humvee until I realized this was not the rifle range. So I stood up, aimed at the muzzle flash, and pulled the trigger until it went away. After that moment, everything became less ethereal. Everything was all just like a dream state until I had that realization that this was combat.”

Dismounted and standing nearby, Watkins absorbed shrapnel across his body. Enemy gunfire followed the explo­sion. Two rounds struck the plate in Watkins’ body armor and one punched through his shoulder in the same area where a large piece of metal tore through moments before. The resulting wounds looked like someone dug out his left breast with an ice cream scoop.

“I went down and I couldn’t move,” Watkins recalled. “There was rubble every­where. I could hear people scream­ing. I couldn’t feel my left arm or my left leg, but I still had my rifle in my hand. I emptied the magazine but couldn’t reload another. Rounds were impacting in the street all around and I could see muzzle flashes on both sides of the street. I basically just laid there waiting for a bullet to hit me in the head. I tried to yell, but nothing was coming out. Across the street, I watched Childress go down but get right back up and go to a Marine who was screaming in pain.”

Todd Corbin materialized through the dust cloud, standing over Watkins. He heaved the grievously wounded sergeant over his shoulder and ran back to the 7-ton. As he loaded Watkins in the bed, a tank next to them fired a main gun round into another vehicle approaching the ambush site. Concussion waves swept over the Marines in the back as they dragged Watkins to the front of the bed. Outside, Corbin found Childress leaning over a Marine with the muscles shorn from the back of both legs and femurs exposed. In the darkness and rubble-strewn chaos, Childress inadvertently looped a downed power line inside a tourniquet placed on the Marine’s leg. The line snagged and went taught as Childress and Corbin dragged him away. They freed the line, replaced the tourni­quet, then placed the Marine in the 7-ton with Watkins.

The cook who joined the mission at the last minute stumbled out of the back seat of Mayer and Watkins’ humvee. He found Graham lying motionless nearby beneath a pile of building rubble and twisted turret armor. Mayer tried to move Graham’s body but was unable to pick him up. Mayer told the cook to stay put and set out in search of the remainder of the platoon. He ran through a cloud of smoke and dust to where the other vehicles sat mixed together on the street.

“The scene that I saw in front of me was so stunning,” he remembered. “All the humvees were destroyed, the 7-ton was billowing smoke, pools of oil on the ground had caught fire, power lines were on the ground, there were bodies and casualties lying around, there was Jeff on the turret in the background just yanking back on the trigger of his 240; it was like a scene from a movie. It was total apocalyptic chaos.”

Mayer came across a Marine leaning over Hospital Corpsman 3rd Class Jeffery Wiener, the Navy corpsman assigned to MAP 7. Mayer prepared a tourniquet and checked the doc for wounds but found no external bleeding. The blast pressure alone produced significant internal damage. Wiener passed away as Mayer swept across his backside checking for injuries.

Mayer continued on, finding Corbin standing outside his 7-ton.

“When I got up to Todd, I must have been screaming at him,” Mayer said. “I couldn’t hear shit, my eardrums were melted, I had just found Lance’s body, Doc just died in my arms, I ran past another body that I couldn’t even tell who it was. I ran up to Todd and grabbed him and just started screaming some sort of gibberish at him. He was just like, ‘you need to calm down son.’ He’s a lance corporal, 30-something-year-old sheriff deputy, just lawless. You could not get him to do anything he didn’t want to do. I love him, he’s my brother for life, but when he told me to calm down, I wanted to f–king kill him.”

The pair set out together collecting more casualties. Mayer fired at muzzle flashes in the dark while Corbin focused on moving the dead and wounded. They first returned to the body Mayer earlier passed, later identified as Sgt Marzano. They brought him to the 7-ton and went back for Doc Wiener. At one point, Mayer passed close by the humvee where Schuller stood protecting the entire column with his machine gun.

“I was completely black, charred and covered in dirt,” Mayer remembered. “I looked like I just stuck my finger in an electrical socket powered by an atom bomb. When Jeff saw me, he yelled, ‘what are you doing here?’ I shouted back, ‘what the hell do you mean?’ He says, ‘where is the chaplain at?’ The whole time we’re having this conversation he is continuously firing the 240 into the hospital. I realized he didn’t recognize me. I was like, ‘what the f–k are you talking about? It’s me! Stan!’ After a second, he giggles and goes, ‘oh shit! I thought you were dead! Awesome buddy!’ We had a Marine who was the assistant to the battalion chaplain and he was black. Jeff saw me and thought that the chaplain came out and I was his assistant. He thought I was dead. He knew I was dead. It made more sense to him that I was the black Religious Program specialist than his best friend Stan.”

Schuller stood exposed continuously in the turret. Beyond the rifle fire from Mayer, Childress, and a few others still standing, Schuller’s machine gun stood alone as the sole weapon keeping the enemy ambush at bay. He burned through several hundred rounds in rapid succes­sion. Every time an ammo can ran dry, Kalinowski readied and passed up another from inside the humvee.

Whenever they paused to reload, Kalinowski handed him an M16 to keep up the return fire. The muzzle flashes morphed into visible insurgents on the street.

“I shot one guy with the 240 standing in the front doorway of the hospital only 20 or 30 meters away,” Schuller said. “It was very obvious that guy was dead in this life and the next. I vividly remember thinking, ‘oh wow, this machine-gun works,’ like it was an epiphany. Kind of like the first time I ever jumped out of an airplane and the chute opened, I remember yelling out, ‘wow! I can’t be­lieve it worked!’ ”

The gun kept working. Enemy fire broke under Schuller’s relentless barrage. Still, rounds struck the humvee all around Schuller and kicked up dirt in the street around Corbin and Mayer as they re­covered casualties. At one point as Mayer worked on a casualty next Schuller’s humvee, an insurgent appeared in the window directly behind him.

“Get down!” Schuller screamed.

He opened fire just a few feet over Mayer’s head, cutting down the enemy soldier.

For nearly 45 minutes, Corbin and Mayer sprinted around the ambush site filling the 7-ton with dead and wounded. Childress assisted while zeroing out the radios and sensitive equipment in each vehicle and recovering weapons and gear. Schuller burned through more than 1,500 rounds. When the machine gun ammo ran dry, he resorted solely to his M16. When that ammo ran out, he pulled his pistol, dropping at least one insurgent on the street.

Throughout the engagement, Mayer remained focused on getting back to Graham. The humvee burned and ex­ploded over and over again with rounds cooking off inside as Mayer worked with Corbin to rescue other Marines. At one point, a tanker told Mayer to get one of the humvees out of his way so the tank could move into position and lead them out of the area. The destroyed vehicle was barely operational, but Mayer lurched it forward against a wall.

When he stepped out of the driver’s seat, he found Aaron Cepeda’s body lying next to the humvee. Childress arrived and helped recover Cepeda’s body. Like Mayer, at some point through the ambush, Childress attempted to pull Graham from his location near the burning humvee. Already wounded with shrapnel across his face, neck, and right side, a bullet tore through his left leg as Childress leaned over Graham. By the time all remaining dead or wounded were loaded into the 7-ton, recovering Graham seemed nearly impossible.
Schuller and Kalinowski finally abandoned their humvee and loaded into the 7-ton. Corbin hopped back in the driver’s seat. He activated an emergency air compressor to keep the ties inflated enough to limp the 7-ton out of the kill zone.

Another quick reaction force speed­ing south from the dam entered Haditha less than 1,000 meters away. Mayer begged Corbin to stop for one final at­tempt to recover Graham. With numerous wounded aboard, including one Marine with tourniquets on both legs and Watkins bleeding out through a gaping hole in his chest, the Marines pressed on. They passed their rescue column on the way out of Haditha and pinpointed Graham’s location at the ambush site. The relief force fought their way into the ambush site and recovered his body. The three destroyed humvees remained.

When the 7-ton stopped inside the dam, a sea of Marines enveloped the bed. Out of 16 Marines on the patrol, 11 were wounded or killed. Rescuers threw Mayer and Kalinowski onto the same medevac chopper. A zipped body bag lay near their feet. Neither knew who it contained, or who else may have died. Until that mo­ment, both believed each other perished in the ambush. They arrived at Charlie Surgical in Al Asad where staff members efficiently stripped the Marines and checked them for holes. With additional wounded already arrived and more in­coming, all hands stood on deck. They lined the hallways, heads swiveling and mouths agape as Mayer and Kalinowski rolled past. Mayer noticed two nurses weeping in each other’s arms. He looked toward Kalinowski.

“What the hell are they crying about?”

“I think us buddy.”

Childress flew out on the same chopper as Watkins. Despite shrapnel wounds across his face, neck and legs, and a gun­shot wound, Childress remained un­fazed. Now, he continued minimizing his injuries in the presence of his gravely wounded platoon sergeant.

“I don’t know how Watkins didn’t die,” he remembered. “I mean somebody blew him up and shot him at the same time, then he sat in the back of that 7-ton stuff­ing gauze into his own open-cavity wound. How did he live and breathe through that? He’s a machine. When our Blackhawk got to the hospital and they took us inside, I could see him starting to fade. When we got into the same room, I heard his monitor flatline. I freaked out. They shocked him and brought him back, but he died for a split second there in the hospital.”

Corbin’s swift actions in scooping Watkins off the ground and returning him to the relative safety of the 7-ton played a key role in Watkins’ survival. Indeed, Corbin made more than five trips back and forth through the ambush site carrying, dragging, or assisting casualties back to his vehicle. Miraculously, he remained uninjured.

Mayer stuck by Corbin’s side for the re­mainder of the ambush once they met up, surviving the hail of gunfire in addition to walking away from the initial blast. He spent two weeks at the hospital in Al Asad before returning to Corbin, Schuller, and the few other Marines remaining from the original MAP 7 group.

“When I got back to the dam, the pla­toon was all gone,” Mayer said. “They had already gotten a shipment of combat replacements, a batch of 19-year-olds straight out of God knows where, and they were already out there patrolling again with Jeff and Todd. My little cu­bicle of a room at the dam was Mike Marzano, Aaron Cepeda, me and Sgt Watkins. I got back and they were all gone. I was staring at two empty racks, those guys were dead. The one above mine, that guy was hit a bunch of times and he’s gone. I spent like a week in the dark smoking cigarettes with their ghosts until the platoon finally got back and Jeff came and found me.”

SSgt Brady named Mayer as Watkins’ replacement for platoon sergeant. He and Schuller took the lead for the remainder of the deployment conducting operations and raising their new replacements. Their experience on May 7 dictated their every decision for the remaining five months of the deployment.

The ambush served as a catalyst for a marked turn toward chaos in Haditha. Violence escalated through the summer and on Aug. 1, six Marine Scout Snipers were overrun and killed in their hide on the outskirts of the city. Operation Quick Strike was launched by 3/25 in response. Two days later at the outset of the oper­ation, an AAV struck an IED just outside the city, killing 14 Marines and an Iraqi interpreter loaded inside. The tragedy marked the start of a three-day period in which the battalion suffered 19 KIA. By the time Mayer, Schuller and Corbin rotated out of Iraq with the rest of the battalion in September, 3/25 suffered 48 total killed and more than 150 wounded.

The ambush on May 7 endures today as a defining event for the Marines who experienced it, though it can hardly be found as more than a footnote in broader histories of the war. The personal awards that emerged reinforce its significance. Mayer received a Navy Commendation Medal with combat “V” for his actions, while Childress received a Bronze Star with “V.” For his outstanding courage and dedication remaining in the turret and suppressing the ambush, Schuller received a Silver Star. For his actions mov­ing repeatedly around the kill zone and rescuing his fellow Marines, Corbin received the Navy Cross. Today, the sur­vivors serve their families, communities, and some still the Corps on active duty, guided by the lasting impressions de­veloped in the wake of the attack.

“That incident has kept the reality of what we do as Marines at the front of my mind,” Schuller reflected. Today, he serves on the training staff of Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center, Twenty­nine Palms, Calif., preparing Ma­rines for deployment. “All I think about every day while we’re training Marines is ‘are we getting mentally and physically prepared to win wars.’ In my mind, that should be our priority; to win wars and bring our brothers and sisters home.”

“This thing has completely changed us,” Mayer reflected. “Jeff and I used to say, ‘don’t let this thing define us. If we’re still talking about this 10 years from now, I want you to punch me.’ Yet here we are 20 years later. No matter what we do, these 45 minutes in May back when we were kids defined us and always will. Everything we do now is on behalf of those guys who didn’t make it. That’s the driving force. Lance Graham is dead, and so is Mike Marzano, Aaron Cepeda, and Jeff Wiener. So are 44 other of our buddies in the battalion, not to mention everyone else in that war. Those four guys I knew personally, and they were so much better than us. Far be it from me to waste my bonus life feeling bad for myself or being an asshole. They don’t get that choice.

“We are much older men in a much dif­ferent place in our lives, but a lot of us have not processed our shit in the right way. A lot of us are still struggling, and that breaks my heart. You can’t just bring everyone to the right place, you have to seek it out yourself. I’ve found different ways to process my shit by exposing it, talking about it, and working through it, but I still don’t exactly know what my shit is. This story, weaving together dis­jointed strands into a solitary rope, illu­minates the truth of what actually hap­pened to us, maybe for the first time, because those of us who were there will ta­lk about anything but, and the truth is the last gate between us and the peace we all seek.”

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.

The month-long battle for Belleau Wood in June 1918 during World War I rightly commands a prom­inent place in Marine Corps history. After all, the fighting there on the first day alone claimed more Marines than in all of America’s previous wars and conflicts involving Marines combined. Among its many accomplishments at Belleau Wood, the Marine Corps broke new ground, organizationally, when for the first time in its 143-year existence it fielded a bri­gade to fight alongside the U.S. Army in a protracted ground campaign. What makes this fact particularly significant is that the Marine Corps’ chief role two decades earlier was providing nothing more than small detachments to guard naval ships and stations.

In a message commemorating its 80th anniversary, the 31st Commandant Gen­eral Charles C. Krulak anointed Belleau Wood the transitional event in the Marine Corps history, placing it above Tarawa, Iwo Jima, and Inchon. He was not alone in assigning Belleau Wood the honor of being “the birthplace of the modern-day Marine Corps.” Military historian Agostino von Hassell called the battle “the foundation” of today’s Marine Corps, as did renown Marine Corps historian Joseph Alexander, who added, “the mod­ern Marine Corps… may have been “born” in Philadelphia’s Tun Tavern in 1775, but it was bred in the wheat fields and underbrush of Belleau Wood in 1918.”

While Belleau Wood was indeed a bench­mark event in every respect, does it best exemplify the modern Marine Corps? Or are there other battles in the service’s nearly 250-year history that might be more reflective of today’s Ma­rines? Although this article neither ques­tions Belleau Wood’s rightful place in Marine Corps history nor seeks to dimin­ish the unparalleled heroism or the many lessons learned, it does, however, argue the Marines’ role in the 1898 naval cam­paign against Cuba during the Spanish-American War is arguably more rep­resentative of the modern Marine Corps.

Origins
The modern Marine Corps’ birth has its origins in America’s rise to western regional hegemony beginning in 1823, necessitating a more active U.S. Navy and, eventually, a renewed purpose for its Marines. The primary policy guiding U.S. national interests and security at that time was the Monroe Doctrine aimed at blocking European powers from interfering in the western hemisphere. Speaking before Congress, President James Monroe declared “any attempt on their part to extend their system to any portions of this Hemisphere as dangerous to our peace and safety.”

Concurrent with America’s new­found regional dominance was its growing industrial might. Following decades of neglect and civil war, the Navy entered into an era of intellectual and operational reform. American sea power doctrine manifested itself in a ‘new’ Navy and a transition from wooden wind-driven ships to armored coal-fueled battleships and cruisers. Coal and steel gave way to ships capable of displacing greater dis­tances at faster speeds. This challenge, however, was keeping large quantities of coal accessible to the fleet while at sea.

The Navy’s brightest junior- and mid-grade officers at the Naval War Col­lege, established in 1884 to study the service’s new mission and role in America’s ex­panding national interests, recommended acquiring and even seizing territory in the Caribbean, the Hawaiian Islands and the Philippine Islands and creating coal­ing stations for the squadrons escorting U.S. commerce ships. This ad­vanced base concept coincided with Navy Command­ers Theodorus B.M. Mason’s and Bowman H. McCalla’s earlier notion that the Navy’s future lay in landing tactics and oper­ations. Long-time Marine Corps historian Jack S. Shulimson noted in “The Marine Corps Search for a Mis­sion, 1880-1989” that the Navy’s core intellectuals at the college “ex­plored avenues of naval strategy that would obviously require landing forces, in all probability Marine landing forces.” One such intellectual was Captain Alfred Thayer Mahan, who offered that Marines serve as the “backbone of any force landing on the enemy’s coast.”

Dress Rehearsal
Simultaneous to ongoing naval reforms was a separatist uprising in Panama (then part of Columbia) in 1885, threatening the 40-mile long cross-isthmus railway connecting the Caribbean Sea and Pacific Ocean and American efforts to construct the Panama Canal. The potential impact on the American economy and regional stability prompted U.S. President Grover Cleveland to order a naval expeditionary force from North Atlantic Squadron to proceed to the Caribbean and, if neces­sary, land Marines to secure the railway and restore order. Commander McCalla assumed command of the naval force assembling at the Navy Yard in Brooklyn, N.Y.

Upon his initial inspection, McCalla sent a request for additional Marines to Navy Secretary William Whitney. The request centered on his desire to avoid assigning sailors to shore tasks. Landing parties dating from the American Revolu­tion were often a mix of sailors and Ma­rines. During both the Mexican-Ameri­can War and the American Civil War, however, the Marine Corps augmented its sea-going detachments with additional Marines from other naval stations to prevent this practice. In the case of Panama, McCalla, like the Marine Corps, wanted few, if any, Sailors ashore and to maintain naval readiness and each ship’s at-sea functions. Pulling from the Marine Barracks at Boston, Brooklyn and Philadelphia, Ma­rine Corps Commandant Colonel Charles G. McCawley ordered Major Charles Heywood to organize a 549-man brigade.

On April 27, the Marine brigade landed in Panama. In addition to serving as a quick reaction force, the Marines patrolled the hills and small towns scattered along the railway and canal routes and per­formed various policing duties. Following the expedition, McCalla was critical of the Marines in his report to the Secretary Whitney titled “Report of Commander McCalla upon the Naval Expedition to the Isthmus of Panama, April 1885.” In his report, McCalla assessed the Marines lacked training in basic infantry tactics and handling of machine guns and artil­lery. To remedy these shortfalls, he rec­ommended Colonel McCawley mandate training in both areas.

Most notable was his recommendation that the Marine Corps form, equip and train permanent expeditionary units for use “in future naval operations.” The Navy could then ferry these units in transports traveling alongside its battleships and use in naval expeditions. McCawley, however, declined McCalla’s advice for fear that refocusing the Marine Corps would leave it vulnerable to an Army obsessed with absorbing the smaller naval service. The idea nonetheless garnered attention within the Navy Department. Regardless, the Panama expedition was a clear indication that Marines would serve a vastly different role in future naval expeditions.

War with Spain
While the Panama expedition dem­onstrated America’s intent to carry out the Monroe Doctrine, it first real test came in 1895 after Spanish atrocities against Cuban revolutionaries pushed U.S. President William McKinley to con­template an all-out invasion to liberate the island. He decided instead to anchor USS Maine in Havana Harbor as a show of force. On the evening of Feb. 15, 1898, an explosion sank Maine, killing 253 officers and enlisted men, including dozens of Marines. After the U.S. de­clared war on Spain, the Navy Department responded by recommending to McKinley a series of naval actions primarily to cripple the Spanish fleet, but also to buy the U.S. Army time to mobilize an in­vasion and occupation force. In the in­terim, the Navy would oversee the block­ade of Cuban ports and bombard en­trapped Spanish naval and ground forces.

“The greatest necessity” to prosecuting this plan was the availability of coal.
Secretary of the Navy John D. Long and Major General Charles Heywood, now the Commandant of the Marine Corps testified be­fore the Committee on Naval Affairs on March 11 for an end-strength increase in anticipation of a war. Although the increase, at least originally, was for ad­ditional seagoing detachments, attention shifted to providing Marines for the ad­vanced base concept under review by the Navy Department. On April 16, Long ordered Heywood to organize and equip a battalion for immediate duty with Admiral William T. Sampson’s North Atlantic Fleet and action against Spain. Like the Panama expedition, Heywood sourced 623 Marines from East Coast naval stations to form the First Marine Battalion’s five infantry companies and an artillery battery under Lieutenant Colonel Robert W. Huntington, the Ma­rine Barracks Brooklyn’s commanding officer.

Huntington embarked the preponder­ance of his battalion on the transport ship USS Panther on April 22 pre-loaded with food, water, pioneering equipment, search­lights, medical supplies and am­munition. A second transport, USS Resolute arrived to take on the remaining Marines, but required structural modifi­ca­tions. While Resolute underwent mod­ification, Panther joined Sampson’s fleet off Virginia before sailing to the naval station at Key West, Fla., where he off­loaded the Marines and their provisions. The Marines underwent marksmanship training and a tactical field exercise until Resolute arrived.

On the morning of June 7, the Key West naval station commander received a telegram from Washington, D.C., order­ing him to “Send the Marine Battalion at once to [Admiral] Sampson without waiting for the Army.” The battalion, at least initially, would be the American main effort in a war plan involving a blockade of the Spanish naval fleet anchored at Santiago de Cuba on the island’s southeastern coast. The purpose of the blockade was to prevent the Spanish fleet’s interference with the 5th Army Corps’ movement to Cuba and subsequent operations. Located 90 miles from Cuba, Key West housed the closet coaling station. To prevent providing too visible a naval target for the Spanish fleet arriv­ing from Europe, planners suggested an advanced base on the island’s eastern-most tip roughly 50 miles east of Santiago at Guantanamo Bay. Planners assigned the 1st Marine Battalion the mission of establishing the advanced base. Assigned the mission to oversee the landing at Guantanamo Bay by Sampson was none other than Commander McCalla.

An Advanced Base Blueprint
The 1st Marine Battalion’s actions in Cuba are a matter of official record. Jerry Roberts’ “Marines in Battle: Guantanamo Bay, 10 June–9 August 1898” and Jack Shulimson and David E. Kelly’s “Marines in the Spanish-American War: 1895-1899: Anthology and Annotated Bibliog­ra­phy” are two invaluable sources re­counting the Marine landing and sub­sequent operations in Cuba. Suffice to say, Sampson’s prosecution of the naval campaign against Spanish forces would not have been possible without Marines.

For two months, the Marines not only defended their advanced base, aptly named Camp McCalla, against successive Spanish ground attacks, but they ex­panded the base’s perimeter by seizing the high ground at Cuzco Well with the assistance of naval gunfire. The Marines’ presence along with nearly 1,000 Cuban fighters held a Spanish force of up to 7,000 soldiers in place in anticipation of continued counterattacks, possibly chang­ing the outcome of the fighting at Santiago and the campaign.

During the blockade and a dozen other actions in and around Cuba, Sampson’s fleet of more than 100 ships participated in the naval campaign against the Spanish Navy, of which many used Guantanamo Bay to refuel, as an assembly area or for safe refuge. The advanced base played a major role in the subsequent land cam­paign to secure the island and other Span­ish territories, as well. A week after the Spanish surrender of Santiago, more than 16,000 soldiers under U.S. Army General Nelson A. Miles used Guantanamo Bay as the staging area and jumping-off point for the invasion of Puerto Rico some 500 miles to the east of Cuba on July 21.

Before the fighting in Puerto Rico was over and the Spain-American War ended, the 1st Battalion were back in America less six Marines who paid the ultimate sacrifice. Another nine endured wounds from enemy fire. Sergeant John Quick would earn the Medal of Honor for his actions at Cuzco Well. Two offi­cers, Captain George F. Elliott and First Lieutenant Wendell C. Neville, rose to become Commandant of the Marine Corps and were instrumental in keeping Ma­rines on board ships and engaged in naval warfare. Their experiences at Guantanamo Bay certainly influenced them.

A mere two years later, in 1900, the Navy Department commissioned the General Board of the Navy to keep the Navy, and the Marine Corps, looking forward. One of its inaugural acts was assigning the Marine Corps the official responsibility of further developing the advanced base concept. In summary, the board directed the Marines to stand up a coastal and naval base defense force for the purposes of establishing both mobile and fixed bases in the event of major naval or landing operations. Relying only upon the Navy, the mission was the first recognized U.S. joint-service task force and gave the Marine Corps near-complete autonomy and operational independence.

Between 1903 and 1921, the Marine Corps introduced sweeping innovations to the concept. The advanced base force would evolve into the Fleet Marine Force, while the concept and mission itself would become the basis for the amphibious doctrine developed throughout the 1920s and 1930s and which the Marines ex­ecuted throughout the Pacific theater of World War II from 1942 to 1945. Al­though there was a need for Marines in Europe during World War I and the 4th Marine Brigade’s performance brought about a positive change in how most viewed the service, it does not diminish the fact that Belleau Wood diverted the Marine Corps away from its primary mission. Worse yet was that employing Marines in a protracted land campaign gave the Army a stronger platform to argue for a smaller Marine Corps, a limited function and, in 1946, its outright abolishment.

Conclusion
The aforementioned argument is not a new one. Accomplished Ma­rine Corps historian Robert D. Heinl reasoned in his 1962 “Soldiers of the Sea: The U.S. Marine Corps, 1775-1962” that “by action and not by theory, Colonel Huntington’s fleet landing force had set a pattern for employment of U.S. Marines, which would still stand more than a half century and three wars later.” Similarly, historian Trevor K. Plante contends the Marines at Guantanamo Bay “… dis­played some­thing future [M]arines would take pride in—the ability to be called and respond at a moment’s notice.

That the Marines organized a battal­ion-size force and conducted an amphib­ious landing on a foreign shore with little-to-no notice is an exceptional ac­complishment in and of itself. Doing this without an amphibious doctrine or having practiced the tactics and techniques further validates the significance of the Guantanamo Bay landing and seizure. What is more is the Marines accomplished this nearly 20 years to the day that their successors charged into German ma­chine-gun fire traversing the wheatfields outside Belleau Wood. Yet, to some, the mission of seizing an advanced base is somehow less reflective of the modern Marine Corps and its mission, which unequivocal­ly requires seizing expe­ditionary advanced bases for naval operations. Belleau Wood’s rightful prom­inence aside, per­haps it is time to put the Marines’ actions at Guantanamo Bay in the proper per­spective and as the modern Marine Corps birth as a naval expeditionary force in readiness.

Author’s bio: Dr. Nevgloski is the former director of the Marine Corps History Division. Before becoming the Marine Corps’ history chief in 2019, he was the History Division’s Edwin N. McClellan Research Fellow from 2017 to 2019, and a U.S. Marine from 1989 to 2017.