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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To emphasize the point, he added a postscript:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In 2012, at the start of my freshmen year of high school, I was 5 feet, 11 inches tall and I weighed about 130 pounds. For those who may not have a good idea of what that looks like, try googling giraffe or mantis and you’ll get the idea (for those of similar stature who are reading, we’re all beautiful in our own ways). Because of this, I aligned myself more with that stereotypical clique of individuals that had an inclination for book smarts and fun facts than I did those who played football and knew how to talk to strangers without fumbling over their own name.

So, during the summer before the start of high school when my mom handed me a pamphlet about JROTC and I saw the pictures of all the people who I thought were shoo-ins to be the next batch of Navy SEALs, I was intrigued, but ap­prehensive. Certainly, there wasn’t any way that a guy like me would have the personality, confidence or athleticism to be hanging around a bunch of guys and gals like that. And there certainly wasn’t a way that I’d be able to make it through something as daunting and rigorous as a program like JROTC (you could say I view things a little differently in hind­sight).

Nevertheless, for one reason or another, I decided I’d sign up and see what it was all about. I had always been interested in the military because of all my childhood hours playing video game staples like “Call of Duty” and “Battlefield,” so this seemed like a natural way for me to dip my toes in the water of such a career path I suppose you could say, even if I didn’t stay in the program for long.

I don’t remember much from those first few days of JROTC class. Or more specifically, I don’t remember much aside from one single thing: First Sergeant Leon Coleman, USA (Ret). It’s no wonder his existence occupied the entire presence of my mind, because for starters, he was massive. Compared to someone my size, he was Herculean. He would often sit in the back of class cracking open walnuts with his bare hands. At that time, I wouldn’t have been surprised if someone had told me that he had a tendency to accidentally rip doorknobs straight from their doors. He had the voice of Zeus, but deeper and more intimidating. You could regularly hear him bellowing out the word “hero,” often directed at someone who, in that present moment, happened to be doing something foolish or incorrect. One of his favorites, he would snipe students across the room by saying “cover that thing up, hero,” if they yawned without covering their mouths. His demeanor was one of confident military bearing, unphased by adversity and seemingly indifferent to struggle. During physical training sessions, he would calmly lead the pack without so much as a heavy breath or cough, and even when you were standing in formation with your eyes locked squarely at the point in front of you, you could just feel when his gaze was on you. Indeed, 1SG Coleman was quite the figure.

Despite my initial hesitation to get more involved, largely resulting from my fearful respect and intrigue surrounding 1SG Coleman, I quickly found myself participating in many of the extracur­ricular JROTC teams like drill, orienteer­ing, physical training and marksmanship for a couple of reasons. For one, a 14-year-old without a driver’s license doesn’t have much to do after school.

Second, one of my fellow classmates was quite affable and heavily involved in the pro­gram, on account of the fact that both of his older brothers had done/were doing JROTC as well. To my surprise, he and 1SG Coleman seemed to get along quite well from the get-go. I, however, was fairly new to the school after having moved to the area just a year earlier, so surely there was no way that I’d be on the same level of familiarity as the two of them, or so I thought.

With all these extra hours I spent taking part in JROTC, I ended up spending a lot of time with 1SG Coleman. In addition to instructing the freshmen class during school hours, he was at every drill practice meticulously critiquing every detail. He was at each meeting for the orienteering team, helping future privates and lieutenants become intimately famil­iar with losing track of pace counts. He was at all of the PT sessions, setting the example and building teams from the ground up. In all these extra hours with him, I—as did everyone else, it turned out—came to discover a much different 1SG Coleman than the one that was immediately perceived; the one that my fellow classmate apparently knew from day one. His immense strength became a firm, welcomed handshake and a pat on the back that somehow imbued you with a sense of confidence and pride that must’ve somehow been buried deep within you mere moments before. His rich voice transformed into the most beautiful and moving cadences you could ever dream of, even after hearing the words countless times before. His resolute demeanor revealed an intent listener with boundless compassion that made you feel like what you had to say was the only thing at all that mattered in that moment, no matter how silly it may have felt. Indeed, 1SG was quite the role model.

During the privilege of my years spent learning from him, even after his re­tirement from JROTC toward my later years in high school (he would still regularly show up to events and cere­monies), I would come to respect and admire 1SG Coleman a great deal. While many of the lessons he taught me have long been forgotten, either because of their presence among countless other lessons he imparted, or because of the second-nature part of my character that they have become, the two I have con­sciously carried with me for over the last decade are this: 1) Everything comes down to discipline and passion; to do what you know you should or must, re­gardless of the circumstances or con­sequences; and to care—to spend your­self in a cause you deem worthy. 2) There’s nothing more powerful than be­lieving in your people.

First Sergeant Coleman was a tremen­dously successful leader because he cul­tivated, maintained and developed an immense sense of discipline and passion. By doing so, he set a venerable example for all of us to emulate, one that we wanted to emulate and dreamed of emulating. There needn’t be any lessons on J.J. or buckle tying (although there certainly were as part of our standard curriculum) because he showed us day-in and day-out what it meant to be a leader.

Now, if “all” he had done was set the example for us and taught us, that would have been enough. But what made him a truly outstanding leader, what made him truly extraordinary, truly inspiring, uncommon, unforgettable—what made him truly and dearly … loved, was his ability to see the potential in us and bring out the best in us. I’ve been extremely fortunate in my life to have grown up in an unconditionally nurturing family, but never before in my life had I come across someone who believed in me as much as my own parents, yet that’s exactly what 1SG Coleman did for me and countless others. It was incredible.

Here was this remarkable man, that regardless of your background or personal beliefs or performance in school or even your care or apathy for JROTC itself, believed in you. He saw the potential in us even when we didn’t see it ourselves, and he expressed to each of us all the wonderful things he truly thought and felt we were capable of. He cultivated, maintained and developed our sense of self-worth, even as difficult as that is for a group of people as malleable yet headstrong as teenagers, and thus showed us the discipline and passion that we were all capable of—the success that each of us were capable of.

Ninth grade Aaron Ellis would have never actually expected me to end up where I am now, as a Marine Corps offi­cer, having completed and currently do­ing all of the things I never would have thought I was capable of. In many ways, I owe it to 1SG Coleman for where I am now. My trajectory from high school very likely wouldn’t have been the same as it is today if it weren’t for him. The only things we can control in life are our attitude and our effort; he taught me the importance of having the discipline to control them and the passion to make it meaningful.

As detailed by the Leatherneck solici­ta­tion for this essay, the prompt was to “describe an outstanding Marine Corps leader and what makes him or her succes­sful.” Sadly, 1SG Coleman passed away from cancer in late 2016 during my fresh­men year of college and the beginning of my path to become a Marine, an achieve­ment I really wish he could have seen. Some would say that this means it is more accurate to talk about what “made” him successful, but that couldn’t be further from reality. His legacy lives on through everyone that had the honor of knowing him. The values he instilled in us are reflected in our interactions with others, especially that large group of us that has since gone on to join the military.

My last interaction with him was at a hospital, shortly before he passed. He told me that he loved me, and although I knew it, hearing it left me speechless and is a moment I’ll never forget. Thankfully, I was fortunate enough to be able to make it to his funeral and rem­inisce with numerous others about the times we shared with him and the les­sons he imparted. It was a tangible ex­ample of the profound impact he had. Indeed, Leon Coleman was quite the leader.

We often hear about incredible leaders like Chesty Puller, John Glenn, Jim Mattis, Daniel Daly, Charlie Bolden, and many more. It can be hard to believe that people like this exist, or even yet, imagine what their day-to-day actions must be like. But then you meet someone like 1SG Coleman and you see firsthand what it means to be a truly great leader. You realize that outstanding leaders exist “down here” in real life, and not because they’re famous or have performed some grandiose feat. They embody the idea— from Dr. Suess of all people—that “to the world you may be just one person; but to one person you may just be the world.” An outstanding leader is something we can all actually be.

I hope that this essay accurately cap­tures to some small degree the humble yet larger-than-life person that he was. He was a great man, but even more than that, he was a good man. I hope that I can honor his legacy by never forgetting the value of discipline and passion or the power of believing in others. I strive to live in a way that conveys this just as he did; and while I would say I hope that he would be proud of the person I am today, I can confidently and joyfully say that I know he would be—he was proud of all of us.

Author’s bio: First Lieutenant Aaron Ellis is Deputy Director, Communication Strategy and Operations at MCAS Iwakuni, Japan. Ellis was commissioned after his 2020 graduation from the U.S. Naval Academy, where he earned a bachelor of science in aerospace en­gineering. In January 2021, Ellis reported to the Defense Information School, where he completed Public Affairs and Com­muni­cation Strategy Qualification course as a distinguished graduate. In April 2021, Ellis reported to Marine Corps Air Station Iwakuni, Japan.

Author’s note: This month marks the 20th anniversary of the battle in Najaf, Iraq, fought by the warriors of Battalion Landing Team (BLT) 1st Battalion, 4th Marines, the 11th Marine Expeditionary Unit (MEU) and the U.S. Army’s 1-5 and 2-7 Cav­alry. As more than a dozen Najaf vet­erans walked me through this epic struggle, I could not believe that I had never heard most of it before. The story of Najaf is largely overshadowed by the battle of Fallujah, coming just a few months later that tumultuous year and unfolding on a much larger scale.

For those who served in Najaf, even after 20 years the battle remains at the forefront of their minds. Today they are musicians, financial executives, FBI agents and congressmen. They are retired majors, colonels, master gunnery sergeants and chief warrant officers. An impressive number remain on active duty, looking back across decades of military service to a month in Iraq that many consider the capstone of their career.

“I think Najaf taught the Marine Corps a lot of lessons on urban warfare that we used in Fallujah,” one veteran reflected. “It was the pinnacle of what I did as a Marine.”

“It was the biggest fight I was ever part of,” stated another veteran of multiple deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. “Nothing else ever came close.”

“There has never been another time in my career where the purpose, method, and end state of our mission was so well understood,” said one Marine still on active duty, a sergeant in 2004 and now a major. “That unit was the best infantry company I’ve ever served with.”

The lessons these veterans learned changed their outlook and impacted the way they molded junior Marines through the rest of their careers. Some were only 18 or 19 years old in Najaf and struggled later, feeling like nothing else they would do in the Marines could be more significant. Through city and cemetery, in tunnels and in the air, the Marines battled a numerically superior army of militia. The entire multi-national coalition force eventually dedicated assets from every branch of service in order to secure final victory. The details sounded like something out of a movie, or like many of the extraordinary combat stories told by Vietnam veterans. For the Marines who witnessed the carnage firsthand, I pray this story will shed light on your experience and personal sacrifices, and recognize your accomplishments for what they deserve. For the rest of us, I hope we can gain a glimpse of what it must have been like to be there and survive.

First Lieutenant Michael Borneo first experienced Najaf while riding with U.S. Army soldiers. As they prepared to de­part the city, the outgoing soldiers drove the newly arrived Marines around the battlespace during their scheduled trans­fer of authority. The Army’s difference in mentality struck Borneo hard as he witnessed incongruous scenes. At some point, the soldiers settled into an agree­ment with the hostile militia based in Najaf. The Army controlled its sections of the city, and the militia controlled theirs. As Borneo toured the urban land­scape, dozens of enemy fighters lined the streets and rooftops, openly brandish­ing their AK-47s and taunting the Ameri­can convoy. He asked his driver if this was normal.

“That’s enemy territory,” the soldier replied. “That’s a ‘no-go’’ zone.”

Borneo pointed his rifle out the window and waved at each militiaman as they drove by.

“Marines are like children,” he said to the driver. “You tell us we can’t do some­thing, that’s exactly what we’re go­ing to do.”

At the Army’s Tactical Operations Center, Marines filtering through found a large map of Najaf highlighting the enemy-held sections in red. It looked like someone spilled a glass of Kool-Aid across large portions.

“I asked one of the soldiers why the map was all red, and he told me those were the ‘no-go’ zones,” remembered 1stLt Russell Thomas, the BLT’s tank platoon commander. “When I think ‘no-go’ zone, I’m thinking like a mountain that I can’t drive my tank over. I asked him what he meant, and he told me as long as they don’t go into those areas, the Mahdi Militia leave them alone.”
Someone cracked a smile and stated flatly that was not what the Marines came to do. Marines are hunters. They move toward the violence. The red areas showed them exactly where they needed to go. Once the Marines took over, the truce could not last long.

Marines from the 11th MEU ar­rived in Najaf in July 2004, less than two weeks into their deploy­ment. They sailed across two oceans and drove 350 miles north from Kuwait to reach the city. BLT 1/4 op­erated as the MEU’s ground combat element. Nearly half the battalion de­ployed together during the invasion of Iraq the previous year. They returned home and immediately began working up for the summer 2004 deploy­ment. For many of the young lieutenants and non-commissioned officers, Iraq was all they knew.

Like the rest of the war-torn country, Najaf plummeted into turmoil following the invasion and toppling of Saddam Hussein. The radical Shiite Muslim cleric Muqtada al-Sadr claimed Najaf as his hometown and established it as a base for his personal army, the Mahdi Militia. From this haven, situated 100 miles south of Baghdad, al-Sadr fomented revolt against the newly formed, American-backed government. His militia carried out assassinations and torture against government supporters and police, while reinforcing insurgents fighting in the capital and other cities around the country. A truce adopted by coalition forces in June 2004 brought a temporary lull in the nationwide fighting. Al-Sadr seized the opportunity to cement his control over Najaf and strengthen his militia for the next uprising.

“We knew something big was going to happen,” remembered John Mayer, then a lieutenant colonel and the command officer of BLT 1/4. “The whole thing was like a powder keg with sparks flying all around it. We just needed something to set it off.”

The MEU spread out across forward operating bases (FOBs) in the region. Colonel Anthony Haslam, the 11th MEU CO, concluded the relief in place with the Army on July 31. Less than 48 hours later, 1stLt Borneo set out with his Combined Anti-Armor Team (CAAT) to explore Najaf on the Marines’ first solo tour.

Borneo intended to probe the “enemy territory” within the city, but several exclusion zones remained off limits. Najaf held some of the most significant religious sites in Islam. The Wadi Al Salam cemetery, or “Valley of Peace,” is the largest cemetery in the world and dominated the northwestern quadrant of the city. It served as the final resting place of kings, sultans, and prophets, and has remained an active burial ground for 1,400 years. More importantly, the Imam Ali Shrine occupied the high ground within the “old city” of Najaf on the southern edge of the cemetery. The burial site of a cousin of the prophet Muhammad, the shrine ranked close behind Mecca on the list of Islamic holy sites, with millions of Muslim pilgrims visiting each year. Borneo’s patrol route scouted near these exclusion zones while inspecting 25 checkpoints along the way.

The CAAT platoon departed FOB Hotel, just outside the city, with eight HMMWVs and fewer than 40 Marines. They passed schools, police stations and other points of interest. The standard batches of armed militia greeted them. The Marines eventually approached a checkpoint listed as a maternity hospital complex. Unknown to them, the hospital sat adjacent to al-Sadr’s private residence and religious school. The CAAT platoon drove up to the front of the complex and stopped. Inside the walls, militia were everywhere.

“We kind of caught them with their pants down,” remembered Edward Roacho, then a private first class, now a first sergeant.

Standing behind the machine gun in his HMMWV turret, Roacho watched insurgents scramble inside the facility. They re-emerged armed with rifles, machine guns, rocket propelled grenades (RPGs), and mortar tubes, lining the walls and rooftops.

“It was like a Mexican standoff,” Roacho said. “They were looking at us and we were looking at them just wonder­ing what was going to happen. My squad leader told me to point my machine gun down the street and mow down anything that tried to cross it.”

One of the Iraqi National Guardsman accompanying the patrol approached a group of militia and argued with them as they loaded a truck full of weaponry. A single AK-47 shot rang out from some­where, and all hell broke loose.

A hail of small arms fire cracked through the air and impacted in the street. Borneo spread his vehicles out in a cordon around the complex. Their limited num­bers notwithstanding, the CAAT platoon wielded a significant amount of firepower. The Marines opened up with the full com­plement of missile launchers, gre­nade launchers and machine guns mounted to their vehicles. Enemy mortar rounds im­pacted and machine guns barked in re­sponse. Borneo radioed FOB Hotel and requested the Quick Reaction Force (QRF) to come to their aid. His CAAT platoon was on its own for the next 30 minutes.

Roacho fired his .50-caliber as targets popped up everywhere. Enemy snipers fired on his vehicle from buildings inside the hospital complex. Roacho unloaded on the windows and upper floors, punch­ing hundreds of holes through the thin concrete walls. An enemy fighter maneu­vered to flank the HMMWV while Roacho suppressed the snipers. His squad leader killed the enemy with his M16 before moving through the open street to coerce the Iraqi National Guard soldiers into the fight.

Enemy mortar teams fired from behind a wall and dirt berm, out of sight from direct fire weapons. Lance Corporal Eric Johnson climbed on top of a tractor trailer for an elevated point of view. He shot and killed two insurgents before drawing return fire. Bullets whizzed past and RPGs exploded nearby, but Johnson re­mained exposed on top of the trailer. Another Marine firing a MK-19 automatic grenade launcher arched rounds over the wall. Johnson spotted the impacts, walked the gunner onto the target, and eliminated the mortar position.

Lance Corporal Brandon Shaw stood in another HMMWV turret firing a MK-19 when he noticed two insurgents several hundred meters away. They hid in the shadows beneath a giant fuel tanker preparing to launch an RPG. Shaw ad­justed his rounds onto their position. The tanker exploded in a tremendous ball of fire, incinerating the insurgents below.

The CAAT platoon ran low on ammo as the QRF finally arrived. Borneo used the billowing cloud of black smoke from the tanker to identify their position for incoming air support. After a furious hour of fighting, the patrol withdrew behind the supporting guns of the QRF and returned to FOB Hotel.
In the wake of the patrol, LtCol Mayer radioed each portion of his dispersed battalion and ordered them to Najaf. First Lieutenant Lamar Breshears commanded the 81mm Mortar Platoon from Weapons Company, stationed an hour east in Diwaniyah.

“Colonel Mayer called on the sat phone while that first patrol was still going on and told me to get my platoon and drive to Najaf,” said Breshears. “We were so new in country that I didn’t even have maps. I didn’t even know where Najaf was. He said, ‘just get on the main road, drive 45 minutes, and you’ll see a gunfight. Link up with Borneo.’ ”

The pause in fighting lasted just over 24 hours while both sides regrouped and massed their strength. The Mahdi Militia resumed the contest in the early morning hours of Aug. 5, assaulting the city’s main police station on the eastern boundary of the cemetery. After three successive at­tacks, each increasing in size and ferocity, Mayer again dispatched a QRF. Borneo’s CAAT platoon and Breshears’ mortar platoon joined forces with the BLT’s Light Armored Vehicle (LAV) platoon and part of “Charlie” Company to secure the police station and the sur­rounding area, called “Revolutionary Circle.”

Enemy fire poured onto the Marines as they arrived. Militia occupied every window and rooftop. Breshears’ platoon arrived at the battle, the first firefight of their deployment, in open-back HMMWVs. Militia fired straight down at them as the mortarmen leaped from their vehicles, shooting and moving toward a building for cover. As soon as they dismounted, a burst of machine-gun fire tore through a Marine’s groin and thigh. Others dragged him away to cover and began clearing the buildings room by room, floor by floor.

From the Wadi Al Salam cemetery, adjacent to Revolutionary Circle, enemy fighters moved about freely. A 5-foot wall lined the graveyard’s outer edge. Marines took cover beneath it, engaging targets, but unable to pursue. A forward air con­troller called for supporting fires into the cemetery to wipe out mortar and rocket positions. Each target in the exclusion zone required permission to engage, sometimes taking 30 minutes to approve. Huey and Cobra attack helicopters at­tached to Marine Medium Helicopter Squadron (HMM) 166 (Reinforced) ar­rived overhead and launched their attack runs.

Late in the morning, Captains Stephen Mount and Andrew Turner piloted their Huey over the cemetery. Mount controlled the chopper as it flew over 100 miles per hour just above building top level. With­out warning, a wall of enemy small arms and machine-gun fire flew up in front of the Huey. Bullets tore through the metal skin and glass windshield. One round hit Mount’s face at the bridge of his nose, passed through his right eye, and exited his head near his temple. In the seat next to him, Turner felt the Huey suddenly lurch backward and point toward the sky. Mount’s head bobbled as blood poured down from inside his helmet. Turner clutched the controls. The helicopter spun toward the ground. At such a low altitude, recovery was hopeless. Turner somehow guided the careening chopper past a web of buildings and power lines before it bounced in the street and slid to a stop just outside the cemetery.

Marines along the wall watched in horror as the Huey spiraled out of sight. Some veterans served long enough to remember the Battle of Mogadishu in 1993. Even the youngest Marines had watched the film, “Black Hawk Down.” Visions of burnt out helicopters and mutilated American bodies being dragged through the streets flashed through their minds as the Huey crashed. Those nearest mounted up and sped toward the crash site. They refused to let this be their “Black Hawk Down” moment.

The four Huey crew members escaped with minor wounds, save Mount. Mirac­ulously, he survived the headshot and crash, and remained conscious throughout the entire incident. Turner extricated himself from the cockpit as Staff Sergeant Patrick Burgess and Corporal Theodora Naranjo removed Mount. The crew formed a hasty defense in front of a nearby building. With rifle at the ready, Turner scanned the surrounding streets for incoming militia. He noticed a red crescent painted on the wall of the build­ing next to him and two ambulances parked under a carport; a hospital. Still in full flight gear, helmet on and visor down, he ran inside with his M16 expect­ing to find enemy, hoping to find medical supplies. Mercifully, a friendly civilian doctor approached and went outside to care for Mount.

Borneo’s CAAT platoon arrived at the crash site within minutes. LAVs and other Marines arriving on scene secured a perimeter while the crew was evacuated. Enemy militia fought to reach the crash. A Cobra that flew alongside the downed Huey lit up the surrounding streets while Marines on the ground defended the crash site until the militia disappeared. Sporadic enemy fire continued as the Marines commandeered an Iraqi ambu­lance to evacuate Mount, Turner, and Naranjo. Burgess endured the crash, extricated Mount, and extinguished an engine fire, then still remained on scene to help dismantle the chopper and ensure nothing fell into enemy hands.

A recovery convoy formed to retrieve the Huey. As the vehicles neared the crash site, a militia soldier wildly sprayed them with his AK-47. Tragically, one round struck and killed Sgt Moses D. Rocha as he reloaded his machine gun in a HMMWV turret. The recovery team loaded the Huey under continued inter­mittent fire and transported the wreckage back to base.

Temperatures skyrocketed over 100 degrees as the battle raged through the day. Haslam and Mayer brought every heavy weapon available into the fight. Airstrikes into the cemetery continued. The BLT Artillery platoon, firing 155mm howitzers from FOB Hotel, shot dozens of rounds into the old city. The BLT’s platoon of four M1 Abrams tanks mobi­lized and pushed through the streets under heavy fire, engaging buildings with their coaxial machine guns and main guns. LAVs staged along the cemetery wall mowed down militia as they ap­peared. Lance Corporal Michael Novak manned the 25mm cannon of one LAV. Over a three-hour period, Novak single­handedly killed nearly 20 enemy fighters as they attempted to cross the road into the cemetery. No matter how many mili­tia the Marines killed, more materialized.

As the afternoon wore on, Mayer de­cided that in order to destroy the enemy resistance, he needed to assault their haven inside the cemetery. This option posed tremendous difficulty. For the average American, the idea of a large cemetery evokes images of a site like Arlington National Cemetery, with its perfectly spaced headstones and mani­cured rolling hills. The “Valley of Peace,” however, proved infinitely more vast, erratic and confounding.

The “Valley of Peace” spans over 2,200 acres, with more than 6 million Muslims interred. Arlington, by contrast, occupies 639 acres, with 400,000 graves. Anyone who has visited the graveyards of New Orleans, with their above-ground mauso­leums, can begin to picture the cemetery in Najaf. A person’s stature or religious importance in life dictated the size of their mausoleum, with some two-story structures the size of a small house. Graves of all shapes and sizes literally stacked on top of each other with no ap­parent order, in an effort to be buried as close as possible to the Imam Ali Shrine on the cemetery’s southern border. The resulting maze of ancient stone and concrete produced a terrifying city within the city that could only be cleared by Marines on foot.

Mayer forwarded his request to enter the exclusion zone up the chain. The cemetery’s sensitive nature forced the decision as high as it could go, beyond the most senior commanders in Iraq to the Pentagon and White House.

Approval finally arrived. The assault kicked off at 6 p.m., just before dusk. Marines from every company of BLT 1/4 pushed into the ceme­tery. They weaved through the mauso­leums on high alert. Adjoining units lost sight of one another and strug­gled to remain in contact. Some paths dead ended into impenetrable rows of tombs, forcing Marines to work backwards and find a way around. At times, Marines climbed over the smaller structures. The brittle concrete collapsed under their weight and Marines fell through, joining the decomposed occu­pants in their graves. Sniper fire from buildings outside the cemetery evolved into small arms and machine guns as the Marines penetrated further. Militiamen popped out from behind mausoleums only meters away to fire a burst then disappear. Their voices and gunfire echoed around the tombs in a dizzying cacophony. Sweat soaked and exhausted, the Marines made eye contact with their prey, trading curses and gunfire as they dove deeper into the chaos.

The battle flared in every direction. Marines pushed through sections of tombs, only to have militia emerge be­hind them attacking from the cleared area. They discovered that many of the doors guarding mausoleum entrances concealed not just an above ground tomb, but staircases descending into a web of underground catacombs. Ghastly walls of skeleton feet hung out into tunnels connecting with some other unknown door above ground elsewhere in the cemetery. From then on, Marines depleted their supply of grenades, fragging every tunnel entrance they found.

Breshears’ mortar platoon, on foot in the cemetery as provisional infantry, engaged a 40-man enemy force at dusk in one of the fiercest battles of the day.

“We were on line and could hear them talking, but we couldn’t tell where they were,” he remembered. “We came over a little hill and there were guys like right there, several squad sized elements. We started trading fire at about 10 meters. We were close enough that one of my Marines caught a grenade and threw it back. There wasn’t any maneuvering, it was just like how fast can you pull the trigger. Even as a lieutenant, I went through nine magazines in my M16, in a space of maybe 20 minutes. They had defensive positions prepared with sandbags and interlocking fields of fire. Between them and us, almost 100 people all opened up right there at close range.”

Mayer ordered the assault force to halt their advance and fall back. Coordinating the fight in daylight proved difficult enough. Continuing after dark presented exceedingly greater risk. Breshears received the order to pull back in the wake of his pitched fight with the concentrated enemy force. His Marines served as the connecting link between Alpha Co and Charlie Co on either flank. The surrounding units fell back as Breshears relayed the order. The combat grew so loud that at one point, Breshears pulled out a note pad and wrote down the order for a Marine who could directly in his ear.

As his mortarmen pulled back, Breshears searched through the sur­rounding tombs for his last remaining section still heavily engaged with the enemy. Sergeant Yadir Reynoso directed his squad in their battle. Militia filled the void left on three sides of the squad after other units withdrew, not realizing his squad remained forward and ex­posed. An enemy machine-gun­ner pinned the Marines down with a steady rate of fire. Reynoso ordered his squad to withdraw while he re­mained in place. He repeatedly ex­posed himself from behind a tomb to suppress the enemy machine gun. In doing so, the rest of his squad suc­cessfully pulled back. Reynoso was finally shot from two directions at the same time, mortally wounding him.

Lance Corporal Justin Vaughn observed Reynoso fall. He didn’t hesitate as he turned back to recover his squad leader’s body. With total disregard for his own safety, Vaughn climbed on top of the mausoleum in front of him and leaped from tomb to tomb. Head to toe in full view of the enemy, he sprinted under fire across the tops of the graves until he reached Reynoso. He stripped some of Reynoso’s gear, then carried him 150 meters back. Astoundingly, Vaughn braved the jour­ney a second time, retrieving all of Reynoso’s gear except his kevlar helmet, then collapsed from heat exhaustion.

With the Marines pulled back to the edge of the cemetery, Mayer brought out the biggest of his big guns. A U.S. Air Force AC-130 gunship arrived overhead under the cover of darkness. Only a handful of these vicious death dealers operated across the entire country. The aircraft’s arrival over Najaf on the night of Aug. 5 marked the first of nearly 20 continuous nights of dedicated support, highlighting the significance of the battle to the coalition effort in Iraq.

The menacing rumble of the airplane filtered down through the night sky to the Marines along the wall. Basher was her name, and she had a voice. Not just the voice of her many weapons raining death to the enemy below, but the calming voice of an angel. A female airman aboard the plane operated the radio, calling out enemy movement spotted through the aircraft’s superior optics. Any Marine lucky enough to be near a radio tuned in to listen as the forward air controllers (FACs) talked to her.

“25 targets moving northwest of your position, permission to engage?” she might say. Suddenly, the 105mm howitzer aboard the aircraft, or one of the other cannons or grenade launchers, would open up. Her calm voice inevitably followed. “25 targets eliminated.”

With each successful strike, the voice of Basher tallied the head count over the radio. The Marines stood by as the AC-130 remained on station through the night.

“On that first night, I bet you we killed hundreds of militia,” reflected Mayer, who held the responsibility of approving all AC-130 strikes in the cemetery. “We had never seen what an AC-130 could do, and neither had the enemy. It was incredible.”

Despite suffering heavy losses, the Mahdi militia resumed the battle at dawn on Aug. 6 with a barrage of mortars. They fired on the Marines from positions in the cemetery, as well as from within the walls of the Imam Ali Shrine. FACs brought air support in to deal with mortars in the cemetery, but the Shrine remained an untouchable exclusion zone where the militia could operate with impunity.

The four tanks from 1stLt Thomas’ tank platoon proved indispensable, and the only weapon in the Marines’ arsenal practically impervious to anything the enemy could throw at it. Throughout the previous day, the tankers engaged the enemy in the buildings lining the streets along the cemetery. The Marines buttoned up inside while rifle and machine-gun bullets ricocheted off their armor and mortar shrapnel rained down. On their initial push into the city, Thomas watched a mortar round detonate on top of the tank in front of him. The violence increased throughout the first day of the cemetery fight, climaxing the following morning as the tanks pushed down the main road along the south side of the cemetery heading towards the shrine.

“There was so much enemy fire and munitions exploding around us that I could barely see the tank in front of me,” Thomas recalled. “I don’t think anybody realized yet what we were getting into. I watched radio antennas and other pieces of gear get blown off our tanks, meanwhile, we’re sending main gun round after main gun round into all these buildings. A big wall followed the road, separating us from the cemetery and the Marines we were supporting. I couldn’t see them and I was just wondering how in the hell they were even surviving.”

At one point during the day, a group of enemy continually harassed Marines from a hotel situated at a prominent corner overlooking the cemetery. The grunts took cover behind the tanks and communicated with the tankers through a telephone attached to the outside. They directed several main gun rounds at various locations in the building before finally identifying enemy fighters located on the roof. Gunnery Sergeant Michael Philley, the tank platoon sergeant, trav­ersed his main gun as high as it could reach and fired.

The round exploded on an air conditioning unit, erupting a massive fireball high into the sky. Exhilarated Marines across the cemetery whooped and cursed at the motivating sight. Thomas feared the gigantic explosion might somehow mean the end of his career, but soon relaxed when the CO came over the radio; “Good shot!”

The tankers worked to the brink of their endurance. With outside air tem­pera­tures holding well over 100 degrees, the Marines baked inside their tanks. Fumes from the over­worked vehicles caused them to vomit, further exac­er­­bating their dehydration. Thomas devised a rotation, with two tanks remaining at the front, while the other two temporarily returned to the FOB to rest, rehydrate, and con­duct emer­gency maintenance. The platoon corps­man worked aggres­sive­­ly to hydrate the exhausted Ma­rines, start­ing IVs in each arm with multiple fluid bags drip­ping at the same time. They pushed be­yond their limits to continue supporting the grunts. In some cases, Marines re­turned to the city with IV bags still hang­ing inside their tank. Though Thomas’ rotation cut the number of avail­able tanks in half, it kept his platoon in the fight.
Marine casualties increased in pro­por­­tion to militia casualties. Charlie Com­pany suffered its first KIA on Aug. 6, when a sniper shot and killed LCpl Larry Wells as he moved between the tombs.

Late that afternoon, Breshears’ platoon came under mortar fire. The Marines identified the source and made visual contact with the insurgents operating the mortar. Breshears radioed for artillery to wipe them out, but the mission was denied due to the enemy’s close proximity to the shrine. Tragically, more mortar rounds detonated around the platoon, instantly killing Cpl Roberto Abad and wounding others. In less than 48 hours since his platoon arrived in Najaf, Breshears suf­fered two killed and nine wounded. The MEU lost nearly 70 wounded or killed in the cemetery.

Hospital Corpsman Third Class Matt Schmahl served as one of the few Navy “docs” attached to the 11th MEU ded­icated to flying casualty evacuation missions. His role made him part of an exceedingly rare breed of corps­men in the Fleet Marine Force to earn the Marine Corps designation as combat aircrew qualified. Schmahl operated out of a CH-46 helicopter. Unlike his counterparts in the army, flying in Blackhawks specifi­cally designed and outfitted as air am­bulances, Schmahl worked with nothing but his personally purchased medical bag.

One of Schmahl’s first missions iden­ti­fied an “urgent surgical” patient, sig­nifying the wounded Marine would likely die if he did not make it to a hospital within one hour. The trauma center in Baghdad lay roughly 40 minutes away, leaving medevac crews an extremely tight window.

The CH-46 dropped in near the ceme­tery over the grunts’ casualty collection point. As soon as they came within range, enemy machine-gun tracers arched through the sky. Mortar rounds impacted in the dirt, bracketing the Marine posi­tion. The pilot told Schmahl and the air­craft’s crew chief the landing zone was too hot to keep the bird on the ground. They would have to get off, package the patient, and let him know once they were ready for pick up. Schmahl heaved his medical bag on his back. The crew chief, a former infantryman, grabbed a shotgun. The aircraft touched down and the pair sprinted down the open tail ramp. Enemy machine guns kept the bird under fire. The crew chief shouted at Schmahl as they hauled ass toward the casualty collection point.

“Well, I guess I’m a grunt again!”

They made it to the Marine po­sition where HMMWVs circled around the casualty and the grunt corpsman treating him. Schmahl found a young Marine with his entire lower jaw missing. The Marine was in shock, fighting for his life and fighting those who attempted to care for him. With nothing to do but get the patient to the trauma center, Schmahl requested the helicopter return immediately.

Tracers and RPGs targeted the heli­cop­ter again as it lifted off with the patient. Schmahl struggled with the com­bative Marine for the duration of the flight to Baghdad, keeping his air­way se­cure and clear of blood. Finally, they reached the hospital. The Marine survived.
Schmahl evacuated multiple urgent surgical casualties and walking wounded from Breshears’ platoon following the mortar strike that killed Cpl Abad. Several flights evacuated “Angels” along­side the wounded; the medevac term for KIA.

Casualty evacuations soared following the assault into the cemetery. Every corpsman who volunteered to fly was soon overworked. Even the flight surgeon, a Naval officer and doctor, went forward to help on medevac missions.

“That would be like having your battal­ion commander on the front lines as a point man,” Schmahl reflected. “We quick­ly realized if this was going to be sustainable, we were going to need help.”

Haslam and Mayer arrived at the same conclusion. Despite the massive amount of firepower available to the Marines, they were sorely outnumbered. BLT 1/4 possessed roughly 800 Marines to com­bat the Mahdi Militia. This total included all attached assets, including tanks, artil­lery and support personnel. Estimates on enemy strength in Najaf ranged as high as 4,000 strong. Additionally, the militia brought an impressive arsenal to the fight, with various size mor­tars, an abundance of RPGs, recoil­less rocket launchers, man-packed surface-to-air missiles, and several Russian-made twin or quad-barreled antiaircraft guns.

The Marines halted the advance and withdrew to the FOB on the morning of Aug. 7. They inflicted enemy casualties around the ceme­tery many times greater than their own. Haslam requested up the chain of command for reinforcements while the Marines rested, cleaned their weapons, and prepared to get back into the fight. Their battle with Muqtada al-Sadr and his Mahdi militia had only just begun.

Executive Editor’s note: “The Battle for Najaf, Part 2” will be published in the September issue of Leatherneck.

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.

Executive Editor’s note: This article is based on interviews and research done for the author’s book “Black Dragon: The Experience of a Marine Rifle Company in the Central Pacific.

Private First Class Bob Funk struggled to clear his head as he lay in the roadside ditch, peering into the blackness of the night. His buddy, PFC George Michalet, was next in line behind him. They and four other Marines had already lain there for hours, soaked with rain and sweat, taking turns trying to stay awake.

They had only finished mopping up Saipan a week before. Only half of “Fox” Company, 2nd Battalion, 23rd Marines remained. The rest of those who had sur­vived Saipan were in hospitals around the Pacific, 59 of them in Naval Hospital No. 10 at Aiea Heights on Oahu. The 129 who remained were in poor shape. Even Easy Company’s commander, Major Lester Fought, was out of action with dengue, and it seemed that most had at least a touch of it. But for Funk and Michalet, this outpost job had sounded easy enough, even if they had been in the Marine Corps long enough to know better than to volunteer.

They had been sure that, after a month on Saipan and being saddled with the unsavory week-long job of mopping up and clearing caves on the northern part of the island, they would be allowed to sit out the Tinian operation. They had taken some solace in being made the reserve. But there they lay on outpost the first night, waiting for the enemy response to the landing and awaiting the arrival of some 37mm guns to join them. So much for being in reserve.
The 4th Marine Division had made the unlikely landing that morning across two tiny beaches near the northern tip of Tinian while 2ndMarDiv held the main Japanese force in place with a feint landing 5 miles south at Tinian Town. As July 24 turned into July 25, 2nd Bn, 23rd Marines formed the far right section of the division beachhead.

Funk and Michalet lay astride a narrow coral road that ran back to the company line, some 200 yards behind them. It also led straight ahead, all the way south to Tinian Town, where the bulk of the 9,000 Japanese defenders were believed to be. They peered out into the darkness, knowing the enemy was out there. And still they waited for the 37s to arrive.

Three hundred yards back toward the beach, Eddie Davis settled into his hole near Fox Co’s command post. A 20-year-old field music, Davis had covered a lot of ground on Saipan as one of the company’s runners. It was after midnight when he got the call from company commander Captain Jack Padley.
“I’m in a nice comfy foxhole,” Davis recalled. “Padley said, ‘Davis come over here.’ And I knew exactly what he was asking me to do. He said, ‘Do you know where the regimental CP is? Well you go get the 37s and put them there up on the line.’ ”

The 2nd Bn, 23rd Marines had already placed its attached platoon of 37mm guns on the line, facing an open cane field to the southwest, the battalion’s front and the division’s far right flank. Ready with canister rounds, those four weapons stood ready to repulse the expected in­fantry attack. But the little coral road from Tinian Town pierced Fox Co’s position from the left. That was the likely approach for enemy tanks, and Colonel Ogata had a company of them. To cover the road, Padley borrowed the four guns normally attached to 3rd Bn, which was the division reserve.

Davis set off into the darkness and was challenged for the password three times along the way by his fellow Marines. Some 500 yards later, he was directed to 3rd Bn’s reserve area and eventually led to platoon Sergeant James Tillis, commanding the 3rd antitank platoon in the absence of First Lieutenant Charles H. Taylor, who had been evacuated from Saipan. Davis led Tillis back to Capt Padley, who sent them forward to 1stLt Charlie Ahern, who was on the line with 1st Plt, under Japanese infantry attack. Joined by corpsman Owen H. Bahnken, the trio set out across a field now illuminated by flares.

“I was informed by Lt C.J. Ahern,” Tillis wrote later, “that I was to take up a position astride the main road running north and south almost the entire length of the island.”

By the time Davis and Tillis reached the designated area, the enemy attack hundreds of yards behind them had apparently dwindled and, with it, the light of flares. “The night was pitch black,” Tillis explained, “making reconnaissance very difficult. Although after a time I was able to pick out positions for the four 37mms of my platoon.”

Davis and Tillis returned to 3rd Bn for the order to move up the gun sections. Then, using two jeeps, the Marines pulled the four guns to the line, two at a time. “The platoon was in position and dug in at about 0220,” Tillis reported.
Davis’ mission accomplished, he left the guns to set up and headed back to his hole.

Tillis placed one gun to the left of the road and three to the right, one of them commanded by Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Kohler. “I was just right next to the road, barely off to the right,” Kohler explained later. “And from my position, I could fire almost straight down that road. We were all about 25 or 30 yards apart.”

Kohler had no idea that, ahead of him, at the crest of the gradual slope, six Marines lay beside the coral-topped road. And 100 yards ahead, Funk, Michalet and the others lay in the ditches, trying to stay awake and still awaiting the arrival of a single 37mm. They had no idea Kohler was behind them.

Funk peered into the darkness ahead, listening to a bizarre mix of sounds. He kicked Michalet’s helmet to wake him.

“Mitch, I hear enemy tanks,” whispered Funk.

“Aw, you’re nuts,” Michalet replied. “Those are just some Marine trucks or something.”

“Bullshit, those are Japanese tanks,” Funk said.

A hundred yards back, Kohler heard them too. “We heard ’em coming,” he recalled. “My god, you could hear ’em coming, 9 miles away.”

Funk and Michalet were stunned as a tank suddenly whizzed past them on the road, 3 feet from their heads. Worse yet, Michalet looked around and found that the other Marines had pulled back without them. The two of them were alone.

Back near the company CP, Eddie Davis was just settling into his hole when he heard the squeaking sounds of tanks. “Oh boy, we got ’em,” he said. “Those 37s are up there and they’ll knock ’em out.”

But evidence indicates that, in the darkness, the lead tank crested the hill and was past the gunners before they could react. It came to a halt just before reaching Fox Co’s line and sat idling in the quiet. Indications are that the infantry attack on the right had hit a lull at this time. Sergeant Bill Wyckoff was one of the Marines who had pulled back. “We were in a drainage ditch, right next to the road,” he recalled. “And they stopped right by us. And I think, ‘Oh God, don’t let a flare go up.’”

Fox Co Marines Leonard Ash and Don Milleson were horrified to see the tank in their midst. They huddled in their hole, wondering why the 37s had not fired. By all accounts, no flares were up and not a shot had yet been fired. Everyone was caught in a state of disbelief. Third Plt’s bazooka team, Walter Fritz and Bill Myers, was with Ash and Milleson. “Fritz was so close to the road,” recalled Ash, “that when the Japanese tank stopped by him, he couldn’t swing the bazooka around because it would hit the side of the tank.”

The Marines held silent. Finally, the little tank began to roll again, down into 3rd Plt, where it stopped once more. Sergeant Sam Haddad was nearby. “The tank was so close that we couldn’t depress the guns we had. The treads were right here.”

Just as a flare went up, the tank com­mander opened the hatch for a look. Im­mediately the silence was broken by the thunder of a Browning Automatic Rifle, killing the commander. The tank’s driver gunned the engine, racing farther into Fox Company’s position. “When the tank got past the end of the cane field and the railroad tracks,” recalled 3rd platoon’s Private First Class Don Swindle, “it ran through the Company F foxholes, but the guys were able to roll out and I don’t think anyone was hurt.” First platoon’s bazooka man, Corporal Leroy Surface, chased it down and destroyed it with two shots.

Fire erupted all along the line as flares now illuminated the battlefield. Back up front, Funk and Michalet lay in the ditch ahead of Fox Company’s line. “We did not dare breathe or move,” recalled Funk. “We stayed put because we were in their line of fire.”

The two Marines had no idea what was coming at them. Some 300 yards across the cane field to their left front was an old friend from the company’s early days in North Carolina, Captain Henry Van Joslin, now commanding Fox Company of the 25th Marines. Joslin later recalled, “As the flares from the ships dropped over our position, we could see five tanks coming down the road unbuttoned and a group of foot soldiers following close behind all in a bunch.”

“Just then,” recalled Funk, “here comes tank number two and, of all the dumb things to do, he stops right next to us, inches away.”

The tank was swarming with enemy troops holding tree branches for camouflage in the middle of a dark night. “That’s just stupid,” thought Funk.

The two Marines kept their heads down. “The whole Marine Corps must have opened up on this tank,” Funk recalled, “and the Japanese were jumping off over us and running for their lives. Something hit the tank and it started to burn.”

The hit came from Charlie Kohler’s 37mm, 100 yards back, now firing anti­tank and canister rounds, scattering the Japanese infantry. “I was able to shoot the first tank,” he explained. “And he spun around, and we started knocking the hell out of them. They jumped off the tank, you know. We stopped it right there and blocked the road.”

“It was stopped in the middle of my position,” wrote Tillis, “where it exploded and began burning. This gave us suf­ficient illumination to sight in on the rest of the column.”

“The first burning tank was right next to us,” explained Funk, “the machine-gun and rifle fire had us pinned down in the ditch that wasn’t deep enough to carry water, and about that time here comes number three, full speed down the road toward us. As I looked up, this driver was coming right at us with one track in the ditch. If we move, we’re shot. If we roll out, a [Japanese soldier] might get us. Just at the last he pulled back up onto the road and pulled up right behind the burning tank, and they began yelling at each other. They decided to back up, only to be hit and start burning.”

Kohler was certain that his gun also scored this hit. “We could see pretty damn good with those big flares that the Navy was able to shoot up there in the sky. We could see all the [enemy troops] moving around—just black shadows, but we could see them. They made a real easy target. We blocked the road. So they had to spread out. And when they spread out, they were getting into the other Marines who were on the line.”

Behind them, Fox Company’s line had unleashed its firepower in the light of the burning tanks. “They burned brightly enough to illuminate the open field,” recalled machine-gunner PFC Jules Hallum. “At least they gave silhouettes to the attackers. We opened up with everything we had.”

“We had to lay there in the ditch next to those burning tanks while the line was trying to shoot everyone who was in front of them, including the two of us,” recalled Funk.

Japanese troops leapt onto them from the tanks, some wounded, some ablaze, others decimated by canister and ma­chine-gun fire. Funk and Michalet began to push forward over the crest of the hill to get out of the line of fire. “We crawled over bodies, gear, and anything that was in our way. Rifle and machine-gun fire continued over us like were on a training course. Another tank sped by without stopping, so not to worry about him.”

The fifth and sixth tanks broke off the attack momentarily, until the fifth returned and raced through at high speed. A 37mm gun crew managed to get off a single armor-piercing round that went completely through the tank with no apparent effect. It broke into Fox Co’s lines, where Cpl Surface and Sergeant Arthur Metras again chased it down and destroyed it. Both men were recipients of the Silver Star for their action.

The sixth tank apparently veered close enough to Fox 2/25, that PFC Bascom Jordan destroyed it with his bazooka. So dark was it that, according to their Gunny Sergeant Keith Renstrom, Jordan bumped into the tank with his bazooka before seeing it.

“And it stopped,” explained Renstrom. “Then he backed off and shot his bazooka into it and got wounded by his own shell. And then the Japanese officer came out of it, and I shot him. After I shot him, he stumbled and fell, then we rolled his body back up against the tank.”

Jordan and Renstrom were also original Fox 2/23 men back in North Carolina until the regiment split to form the 25th Marines.

For the next couple of hours, 2nd Bn’s position was attacked from front and left by infantry from the Japanese 50th Infantry Regiment and the attached 1st Battalion, 135th Regiment. Fox and Easy Company’s line fired as they never had before during the war, all under light of flares. “The sky was full of them,” recalled Swindle. “You could look right out there just like broad daylight, and you could see [the Japanese] all over. And all down the line there, machine guns were hammering the hell out of them.”

“The fight was over before dawn,” recalled Hallum. “I went to sleep to a background chorus of groans of dying [enemies]. Maybe some of our guys too.”

Funk and Michalet managed to survive by crawling forward, out of the line of fire. And there they remained until light, when they were confronted with the dilemma of how to return safely to the line.
Hallum was perplexed to see his old schoolmates marching down the hill from enemy territory, and he could see from the look on their faces that they were not pleased.

“Bob came back to our area cursing at us for leaving him up there. He came over the next morning and just chewed the shit out of us. Our gun was firing right across, and he was in that ditch. He says, ‘you were hitting 4 inches over us.’ ”

Post-action attempts to make sense of the action in the 2nd Bn zone that night concluded that the tanks had fought through an artillery barrage to break through the lines. But the Marines on the ground were very clear. Not a shot had been fired, nor a flare sent into the air when the barely discernible shape of the first tank appeared in their midst.

Fox Co men heard that the gunners initially had canister rounds loaded and could not fire. The gunners say that is not the case. But consideration of the conditions and an understanding of the ground on which the action occurred can offer clues.

Funk and Michalet had been positioned at the crest of the gradually sloping hill. The tank had overtaken them suddenly. With any light, it would have appeared suddenly over the crest to Kohler’s gun crew, just a short distance back, set up on the reverse slope looking uphill. But the “pitch black” darkness noted by Tillis prevailed at that time. “Not having any night firing attachments for the anti-tank weapons,” he wrote, “the crews held their fire until the tanks were at point blank range.”

In that darkness, the gunners never saw the tank until it was upon them as suddenly as it had been with Funk and Michalet just moments before. As soon as the flares went up, they were in business, and it seems clear that Kohler’s gun crew knocked out the next two tanks by Funk and Michalet. After that, hits came from all directions.

The 23rd Marines incurred 241 casual­ties on Tinian, wounded and evacuated, killed, or missing. Another 256 Marines were evacuated due to sickness. One of them was Funk, who was flown to Saipan for six days in the Army field hospital with dengue.

Author’s bio: Steven D. McCloud, is a leadership consultant, coach and speak­er, founder of TridentLeadership.com, and author of “Black Dragon: The Experience of a Marine Rifle Company in the Central Pacific.” He conducts PMEs and battlefield staff rides for corporate and government agencies. He also leads small-group expeditions to battlefields in the Pacific and Normandy.

In 1961, in the sleepy town of Marshalls Creek, Pa., everybody knew the Huffmans.

Unfortunately for Joel Huffman, the town was also familiar with his driving record. After wrecking two of his father’s vehicles and dropping out of college, the 19-year-old was figuring out his future while working at nearby Mountain Lake House — his family’s resort.

“The insurance company said to [my dad], ‘Harvey, we will continue to give you your insurance, but we will not cover you if Joel is driving,” Huffman laughed. “I didn’t lose my driver’s license, but I lost my insurance, so therefore I didn’t drive.”

His days as a bellhop at the resort soon came to an end when he decided to heed the advice of a coworker and Marine vet­eran and enlist in the Corps. Unbeknownst to him at the time, Huffman’s three years serving his nation would provide him with a bird’s-eye view of some of the most significant events in U.S. presidential history.

After a brief stint at Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton, Calif., Huffman was transferred to the Marine Corps Institute (MCI) in Washington, D.C. During his two years there, he was assigned to security duty for the 22nd Commandant of the Marine Corps, David M. Shoup, during the Cuban Missile Crisis and made several trips with Gen Shoup to Camp David. He also was part of the security detail at Bethesda Naval Hospital during President John F. Kennedy’s autopsy and at the Capitol Rotunda with President Kennedy’s body lying in State.

“It wasn’t until years later I realized how close to different parts of history I was,” Huffman said. “I was standing right next to history. That was kind of stunning to me when I look back now.”

Notable Assignments
When Huffman arrived at Marine Barracks Washington, he was assigned mail duty, which ironically required him to drive to a Wash­ing­ton, D.C., post office to pick up letters for the base. During the summer silent drill team performances on Friday nights, he worked parking detail. In October of 1962, he was pressed into a more serious role during the standoff between the U.S. and the Soviet Union known as the Cuban Missile Crisis.

“I remember walking around the Com­mandant’s place to see if anybody was going to attack,” Huffman said. “We had weapons, but we didn’t have any ammunition. It was an unusual event, patrolling and walking around the barracks.”

Huffman was also sent to Camp David on several oc­casions to work perimeter security. You never knew when you were going to have that assignment, said Huffman, so the goal was always to get out of town on Fridays as quickly as you could before you received your orders. When he was selected, his trips were memorable as much for what he didn’t see as what he saw.

“They used to put curtains over the bus windows so we couldn’t see out,” Huffman said of the trips to the presiden­tial hideaway. “… They didn’t want you to get back in your car and go up there.”

On the evening of Nov. 22, 1963, Huffman was one of a handful of Ma­rines at Bethesda Naval Hospital. As­signed to the waiting room next to where Kennedy’s autopsy was being conducted, Huffman recalls then First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy coming into the room briefly, blood from her husband still evident on her pink suit.

“… We didn’t have to do anything spe­cial other than just being alert,” Huffman said of that assignment.
Two days later, Huffman was standing on the Capitol steps as Kennedy’s coffin was being brought up to the rotunda. He still has his paperwork from MCI’s com­manding officer, E.B. Wheeler, thank­ing him for representing the Corps honorably that day.

“Your individual response in conduct­ing this difficult but dis­tinguished duty was in keeping with the highest ideals and traditions of our Corps and our Barracks and will be a timeless re­minder to your successors of exceptional service during a pe­­riod of profound national grief,” read the letter dated Jan. 16, 1964.

Once a Marine…
While Lance Corporal Huffman was an expert shot [he was invited to be a member of the USMC rifle team] and a well-thought of Marine for his perfor­mance in the mail room, he decided to trade in his uniform for civilian clothes in 1964. Huffman worked at several banks before spending more than two decades as the treasurer for the Desert Southwest Annual Conference for the United Methodist Church.

While brief, Huffman said his time serving his country 60 years ago prepared him well for a life in the civilian world. In addition to learning discipline and teamwork, he also became a father while serving in the Corps.

“I grew up in the Marine Corps,” Huffman said. “That’s when I became a man. I realized I had to take care of myself … for something larger than me. And if I didn’t learn anything, I learned that … together you can do more.”
Keep reading for more tales from the Marine Barracks in Washington, D.C., during the early 1960s.

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

A highly selective and unique niche fills the ranks of the Marine Corps’ Silent Drill Platoon. Throughout the unit’s history, the platoon has proven unparalleled among the services at their craft and represented the Marine Corps on the grandest scale. To earn a spot with this elite group, a young Marine must begin proving himself from the moment he steps on the yellow footprints.

When a new infantry Marine graduates from Infantry Training Battalion, a select few receive assignment to Marine Barracks Washington, D.C. Selections are based on multiple characteristics, but character and performance trump all. Once finished with Ceremonial Drill School, the basic training for all new marching Marines at “8th and I,” fewer still receive the opportunity to compete for a spot with the Silent Drill Platoon.

Silent Drill School commences every December. Prospective candidates volun­teer to showcase their skills and attention to detail. Some years, more than half of the platoon’s requirement of 39 Marines is vacated when some move into the fleet or civilian life. As the candidate pool is whittled down, instructors finalize the list of selectees. The platoon veterans then pack up and take off with the new selects for their culminating annual training event at Marine Corps Air Station Yuma, Ariz.

Spring training in Yuma lasts one month. The Marines work 12 or more hours a day, seven days a week, memoriz­ing every muscle movement in the routine.
“In Yuma we learn the new sequence for the year and work to get the new guys in the platoon up to par,” said Corporal Alexander A. Rojas, 2nd Squad Leader in the platoon. “Training days are very long, every day.”

“It’s a grind, waking up at 0600 every morning and working until 10 o’clock at night,” added Cpl Jack N. Conner, 3rd Squad Leader. “But it’s a great way to get away from everything here at the barracks and just focus on ourselves, perfecting everything and preparing for the parade season.”

The platoon’s Drill Master, a senior corporal in his third or fourth year with the unit, creates the routine. He envisions the flow and tempo of each Marine and invents the paths they take, orchestrating their movements into a single, purposeful design. The platoon Rifle Inspector serves as the subject matter expert in rifle manual and spins. He and the Assistant Rifle In­spector take the lead in polishing the re­flexes and hand-eye-coordination of each Marine to ensure a flawless performance.

While the Drill Master and Rifle In­spec­tor work together to create a unique performance, flavored with their personal brand of experience and style, several major portions of the routine endure as Silent Drill Platoon traditions. Anyone familiar with the platoon recognizes the iconic “bursting bomb” formation, or “long line” rifle inspection sequence. Like all Marines, Silent Drill Platoon members idolize their forerunners, em­brace their unit history, and pass their creed onto a new generation each year.

The legacy of the Silent Drill Platoon originated in 1948. Though intended as a one-time performance, the first version of the team received an overwhelming and enthusiastic response. The public demanded repeat performances. As a result, the platoon eventually became a permanent part of Marine Barracks Washington. Throughout its history, newly minted infantrymen, prior to their first tour in the fleet, filled out the platoon. The Marines today celebrate one notable exception to this standard, memorializing a unique point in time on their barracks wall. A black and white photograph displayed in the passageway depicts the platoon during the Vietnam War, when even the Marines of the Silent Drill Platoon deployed to combat. The photo looks much like any other taken of the platoon in formation, except that each Marine wears sergeant or staff sergeant chevrons and a chest full of medals.

The Marines proudly differentiate them­selves through numerous traditions passed down over the years. From tattoos to unique uniform details, some traditions are held sacred and recognized only by veterans of the platoon. The coveted silver buttons worn by the number one Rifle Inspector represent one of the more widely known rituals. Since the 1970s, the Rifle Inspector has removed the brass buttons from his dress blues and entrusted them to his successor. Over time and through constant polishing, the buttons turned silver and became a trademark feature. The original buttons are pre­served today in a glass case, still handed down to each new Rifle Inspector for safe keeping, while he sews another set of silver buttons to his blouse to keep the tradition alive. As a far lesser known or visible tradition, when practicing drill out of uniform, the Marines adopt the style of their predecessors, drilling in Converse hightop shoes. A keen observer might notice the iconic shoes tied dif­ferently from Marine to Marine, laced one eyelet farther down to signify the number of years a Marine has served with the platoon.

The summer parade season is the pla­toon’s primary tradition and premier event, and is the most widely anticipated engagement every year. Most spectators familiar with the Silent Drill Platoon recognize the unit from one of their classic performances at a Friday Evening Parade or Tuesday Sunset Parade. Running June through August, these two performances every week represent the minimum of the platoon’s time commitment. The Ma­rines travel all over the country, and sometimes internationally, performing at a variety of venues. One day, the platoon might execute their routine in a local high school gymnasium for a group of students and their parents. The next night, the Marines could be standing on the 50-yard line during the halftime show of a National Football League game in front of thousands of cheering fans. Often, the Marines land back in Washington, D.C., within an hour or two of their next performance at an Evening Parade. They don their dress blues, proceed directly onto the parade field, then fly out once again the following morning for their next performance.

In addition to performing, traveling, and remaining the best in the business at slide drill and rifle spinning, platoon members must maintain proficiency in the basic skills as an infantry Marine.

“It’s a tight window, but we throw in infantry classes, land nav classes, and practical application on our annex field here in D.C. whenever we can,” Corporal Christopher I. Houck stated, who serves as 1st Squad Leader. “Sometimes it’s tough to get in training here in the city, but we use whatever resources we can.”

Houck and the other squad leaders prepare the Professional Military Edu­ca­tion to be covered during their days abroad. Several times a year, the platoon travels to Marine Corps Base Quantico, Va., to practice infantry tactics in the field and complete their basic set of re­quirements. They spend time on the range for rifle qualification and complete their annual Physical Fitness and Combat Fitness Tests.

While extremely demanding and chal­lenging, Silent Drill Platoon Marines take immense pride in their role. Not only because of the unique opportunity they possess to be one of the very few who have ever earned a spot with the platoon, but also because of what the unit rep­resents about the Corps and our beloved history. When the elevator door opens onto the Silent Drill Platoon’s deck at 8th and I, a large wooden sign is immediately visible to anyone visiting, and to Marines returning home. “Remember what you represent.” There’s nothing ambiguous about the meaning behind those words for the Marines of the Silent Drill Pla­toon—they are part of something greater than themselves.

Plaques, memorials, and photographs evenly spaced down each passageway contrast against the black-painted walls in distinguished prominence. Each tells a proud story of platoon history, remem­bers an extraordinary example of bearing and fortitude, or recognizes individual Marines for their performance.

One stun­ning memorial just beyond the elevator door remembers Lance Corporal Davis M. Mosqueda. While on holiday leave in his hometown of Boise, Idaho, Mosqueda joined a party on Dec. 30, 2020. When gunshots rang out from the apartment parking lot, Mosqueda realized one of his friends was outside and in danger. He ignored the threat and moved outside in order to protect his friend. In the proc­ess, the assailant shot and killed Mosqueda. To recognize his off-duty example of honor, courage, and commitment, a pen­cil sketch of Mosqueda performing with the platoon stands alongside his M1 Garand bayonet and several other items in his memory.

Other memorials along the wall pay tribute to Marines who displayed exem­plary demeanor during a performance as a reminder that no matter what occurs, you must maintain your bearing. On April 28, 2004, LCpl Jamar C. Bailey executed his part on the rifle inspection team during a performance at 8th and I. According to his Certificate of Com­menda­tion, “At the moment when two rifles are exchanged between three Ma­rines, the rifle that was thrown to Lance Corporal Bailey was not in the proper position … and struck him in the face. The front sight post caught him in the cheek and opened a 2-inch long cut.”

A photograph next to Bailey’s certifi­cate shows him standing at attention as he continued on to flawlessly finish out the remainder of the performance. Blood pours down his chin and covers his blouse. It took 14 stitches to sew his face back together. His bloodstained blouse hangs in the display case with his photo as a testament to his outstanding example of commitment to his profession.

Another plaque on display serves as a persistent reminder to all Marines in the platoon that their role is constantly under evaluation and up for grabs. Dedicated by the outgoing platoon leadership in 2022, the “Old Dogs and New Dogs” plaque recognizes both the top performing pla­toon veteran and rookie each year.

The Marines named here earn their spot in the marching 24. The remaining 22 spots are highly coveted and must be earned throughout the year. Character and discipline play a primary function in securing a role in the platoon. To achieve the highest honor of marching with the 24, each Marine must be constantly ready for Challenge Day.

The first Challenge Day of the year comes at the end of spring training when the initial marching 24 are finalized. Every Marines understands, however, that his spot in the 24 remains secure only through demonstrating the highest level of proficiency and character. The number of Challenge Days in a year varies at the discretion of the platoon leadership. They come as a surprise, un­announced until the morning of, forcing each Marine to remain constantly pre­pared. Every Ma­rine in the platoon per­forms the routine from start to finish, individually and under close scrutiny of the Drill Master. They receive a com­posite score at the end, and the highest scores fill out the marching 24. The intense level of preparation re­quired for competition against their peers enables those who achieve the marching 24 to perform under any circumstances, in front of any audience.

Silent Drill Platoon Marines consider their bearing as a leadership trait held in the highest regard. They revere examples such as Jamar Bailey and others who, under extraordinary circumstances, main­tained their bearing, performed their drill routine, and demonstrated exactly the type of character the Marine Corps wants to embody. On rare occasions, mistakes are made. Hats cock to the side and fall off, or rifles are dropped. In cases such as this, the Marines remain stoic on the outside while the Rifle Inspector corrects the problem as he moves down the line.

Performing on the grandest stage, at the highest level of visibility, appears not to unnerve the Marines. Representing the heart and soul of what the public envisions about the Marine Corps drives the pla­toon to perform flawlessly, regardless of the circumstances surrounding the oc­casion. In March 2023, the Silent Drill Pla­toon travelled to Anchorage, Alaska, to perform at the opening ceremony of the 51st annual Iditarod sled dog race. Before dawn, with temperatures hovering below zero, the platoon donned hoodies and beanies to practice their routine a final time in the quiet, empty street near the starting line. Several hours later, they marched out once more in full uniform before the cheering crowd. The Marines executed the drill on a slippery and snow-covered street, while the temperature rose barely above zero. Their incredible dis­cipline and professionalism marked an awesome first-time appearance for the platoon at the event.

Fleet Week in New York City arrived two months later. In front of an audience of civilians, allied nation military rep­resen­tatives, and members of each branch of the U.S. Armed Forces, the Silent Drill Platoon shone. They performed their solemn and respectful routine in the cen­ter of Times Square with fluorescent flashing lights all around, traffic and car horns blaring, police whistles signaling, and people shouting. A nearly torrential downpour elevated the impact of the per­formance, as the Marines flowed together unfazed by the rain, spinning, flipping, and tossing their soaked rifles with soaked gloves.

One annual opportunity offers the Ma­rines a chance to prove they truly are the masters of their craft. Drill teams from each branch of service compete head-to-head at the Joint Service Drill Exhibition every spring near the National Mall in Washington, D.C. On April 15, the Silent Drill Platoon wowed the crowd once again, outperforming teams from the Navy, Coast Guard, Army, and Air Force to win the competition for the third year in a row.

The character traits Marines perfect during their time with the Silent Drill Platoon serve them well over the rest of their career.

“None of us have been to the fleet yet, but a lot of friends who have gone on from here have become very successful,” said Cpl Conner. “They have a lot of unique skills; the attention to detail, the discipline, ability to teach, ability to learn quickly; and take them with them. We’ve had guys go to MARSOC, we’ve had guys go to Recon. Others lateral move and find success in a different MOS.”

“The intangibles these Marines take with them from being part of the platoon sets them up for success,” said Captain Gregory Jones, the Silent Drill Platoon Commander. “It pays dividends wherever they decide to go from here.”
Regardless of their next duty station, a Marine’s time with the Silent Drill Platoon remains a cherished time in their career. The pride they take reflects what other Marine veterans feel when we watch them perform. Throughout our lives, the title of “Marine” endures as the proudest we have earned. With each performance, the Silent Drill Platoon offers outsiders a glimpse of why.

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

 

Editor’s note: This article was re-published in honor of Women Veterans Appreciation Day on June 12. It was originally published in the August 2022 issue of Leatherneck Magazine.

After a recent visit to the Military Women’s Memorial and its edu­cation center, located at the cere­monial entrance to Arlington National Cemetery, a group of young women in uniform seemed to stand up a little taller and straighter than when they walked in mere hours earlier. At least that’s how the memorial foundation’s president, retired Chief Warrant Officer 5 Phyllis Wilson, USA, describes the visible boost in morale she observed as the noncommissioned of­ficers absorbed the stories of the trail­blazing women who came before them and paved the way.

“Many of them had no idea on whose shoulders they stand and what these women endured to make it easier for the next generation,” said Wilson, who as­sumed her current position in 2019 after 37 years of service in the Army intelligence community. “It’s a great educational op­por­tunity, and it’s empowering […] under­standing the lineage, the collective lineage: not just by your branch of service, but what all these women have collectively done for us.”

Officially named the Women in Military Service for America Memorial, the unique landmark, which recently reopened to the public on Memorial Day after a six-month closure for partial renovation, celebrates its 25th anniversary this year. It’s the only major national memorial of its kind, honoring the efforts of the more than 3 million American women who have served in defense of the nation since the Revolutionary War. And while it’s cer­tainly a mecca of sorts for women who have worn the uniform, the small, dedicated group of staff members who oversee its daily operations emphasize that it’s important for all servicemembers and all Americans—regardless of gender—to understand the complete history of women’s military service and the barriers that women in uniform continue to break today.

That’s precisely what the memorial’s 33,000 square-foot education center strives to achieve by featuring artifacts from its extensive collection of memorabilia, uniforms, diaries, photographs and more in a chronological array of exhibits that detail women’s contributions to national defense which began even before women were legally permitted to serve—or even to vote.

From Deborah Sampson, who dis­guised herself as a man and joined the Continental Army during the American Revolution, and Dr. Mary Edwards Walker, who served as a civilian surgeon for the Union Army during the Civil War and is the only female Medal of Honor recipient in history; to the female yeomen or “yeomanettes” and the first Woman Marines who joined through the U.S. Navy Reserve and Marine Corps Reserve due to a loophole in the Naval Act of 1916, visitors to the education center learn about the women whose bravery and patriotism set the conditions for the progress that would slowly but surely follow.

Another exhibit entitled “Sweet Victory” educates visitors on the Women’s Armed Services Integration Act of 1948, which came on the heels of the Second World War, during which women served in separate and distinct branches of the services: the U.S. Marine Corps Women’s Reserve, the Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps (WACs), the Women Air Force Service Pilots (WASPs), the Women Accepted for Volunteer Military Services (WAVES), and the Coast Guard Women Reserve who were known as SPARs – Semper Paratus Always Ready. The act allowed women to integrate into the regular and reserve Army, Navy, Marine Corps and Air Force as full members and to serve during peacetime, albeit with significant restrictions: women had limited benefits, could only make up 2 percent of the total force, could not have children, and could not achieve a grade above O-5 unless they were chief of one of the women’s components.

According to retired Army Lieutenant Colonel Marilla Cushman, who has been on the staff of the Military Women’s Memorial since shortly before its 1997 dedication and now serves as Wilson’s senior advisor, it’s vital that young women serving in uniform today gain an understanding of their collective history and recognize that it wasn’t long ago that they were granted many of the opportunities and entitlements they are afforded today. When speaking with these servicewomen, Cushman often uses the Supreme Court’s 1973 landmark decision in Frontiero v. Richardson, which allowed military women to secure equal benefits like housing allowances and healthcare for their spouses and dependents, as an example. They’re often surprised to learn, she said, that when Cushman was commissioned in 1972, she was not yet entitled to the same benefits as her male counterparts.

Among the education center’s other displays are a case detailing the instru­mental efforts of the Defense Advisory Committee on Women in the Services (DACOWITS), established in 1951, as well as a look at the various capacities in which women have served, ranging from Ameri­can Women’s Voluntary Service on the homefront during World War II, to nurses in the Vietnam and women who served in combat roles during the Global War on Terror. A sobering display of 177 yellow ribbons pays tribute by name to each woman who has died in service since 9/11, and the newest exhibit, “The Color of Freedom,” honors the diversity of Ameri­ca’s servicewomen throughout history.

“The Women’s Memorial is a living tribute to all who have worn the uniform,” said veteran Marine Dr. Betty Moseley Brown, who, while serving as the 19th national president of the Women Marines Association, was an honored guest at the memorial for the unveiling of an exhibit that honored the 100th anniversary of women in the Marine Corps in 2018. “The Women’s Memorial opened their doors so we could commemorate our history and weave their stories of those in uniform today and for our future. We are honored to have this living memorial,” she added.

The memorial’s recent renovation in­cludes an update to its office spaces, rest­rooms and, most notably, the transfor­mation of its 196-seat theater into a state-of-the-art multipurpose event space known as the Vaught Center, a tribute to retired Air Force Brigadier General Wilma L. Vaught, the memorial’s founder and a pioneer of her time who was in­ducted into the National Women’s Hall of Fame in 2000. After her 1985 retirement as one of the most decorated military women in U.S. history to that point, Brig Gen Vaught dedicated the following three decades to serving as the memorial foun­da­tion’s president. Wilson, her successor, often refers to the memorial as “the house that Wilma built,” and lauds the tireless efforts of the general who, now in her 90s, continues to serve as the memorial foun­dation’s president emeritus.

After the Women in Military Service for America Memorial Foundation was founded in 1985, Congress approved the story of women’s service to the nation, at its heart—literally and figuratively—is its “Register,” a central alcove of the memorial that houses its digital repository of stories of individual women’s service, to include their memorable experiences and awards and decorations. To date, they’ve collected just over 300,000—nearly two-thirds of which were gathered before the memorial even opened in 1997—and Wilson, Cushman and their team are on a mission to raise that number significantly by getting the word out to women who have served or are currently serving, or their surviving family members. Reg­istration is simple and can be done by creating an account on the memorial’s website, uploading a photo and submitting the requested information.

It’s an effort that retired Marine Lieu­tenant General Loretta “Lori” Reynolds, who served as the Corps’ deputy com­mandant for information and has been a stalwart supporter of the Military Women’s Memorial, believes in wholeheartedly.

“So much of our history is the big stories. It’s the big stories of courage and those are important. But it’s the little stories of courage and service that don’t always get noticed. I think the memorial does a fabulous job of collecting those,” said LtGen Reynolds.

Not only are the stories collected by the Military Women’s Memorial accessible online at its website, where they are fre­quently accessed by family members and researchers alike, but they also come to life in the Register room, where visitors can search their own names, or the names of family members or friends who served, which are then displayed on a screen. Often, veterans visit the memorial as part of an Honor Flight, and Wilson, Cushman and the rest of the memorial staff relish the opportunity to recognize the women veterans among the tour group by pulling up their “stories” from the register, calling them up front and center and reading their accolades and memorable experiences to the group.

“Firsthand accounts are so critical to our database, to our researchers, to us,” said Wilson. “It’s so amazing what they tell us. It’s just stunning what these women are willing to entrust to us.”

At the foundation offices just down the road from the cemetery, a “book room” is home to wall-to-wall shelving filled with binders that catalog all of the registrations that were received by mail in the years leading up to the memorial’s opening. Within them are handwritten stories, original photographs and letters from women across the nation who answered the call when their country needed them most.

“Often we’ll have folks that say, ‘Well, I didn’t do anything.’ But you did,” said Cushman, to which Wilson added, “You served in the capacity that the nation permitted you to serve. Women couldn’t graduate from service academies until 1980. We didn’t have the first woman general until 1970 […] so there are a lot of things in very recent history that have changed and freed us up.”

Frequently, family members come to the memorial after their loved one has been buried at Arlington and want to look up the deceased’s individual story of service. Other times, it’s the women themselves, many of whom earned the title “Marine.”

Last summer, veteran Marine and form­er Private First Class Patricia Morlock Sanderson, who served in the Corps from 1954 to 1955, visited the memorial with her granddaughter. When a staff member pulled up her profile on the screen, Sanderson, in her late 80s, raised her sleeve to show off her recent USMC tattoo, which she got at the age of 85, and took a photo with her personal story “card.”

In another instance, during an Honor Flight visit, Wilson had the opportunity to present a Marine veteran, Evelyn Kandel, who also served during the 1950s, with a complete uniform that she never received during her time in the Corps. The emotion on her face, said Wilson, was priceless.

“It just illustrates the pride, and the enduring pride in service, of these women. What it meant to be able to say, ‘I’m a Marine,’” said Cushman.

“Individually we can all say, ‘Well, what I did wasn’t much. If I had never served, the Army or Marine Corps would have driven on,’” said Wilson. “But when you see as a collective these different eras of women and the transformation over time, what has transpired, and you realize, ‘I was part of that!’ That’s what causes these women to suddenly sit up straighter, whether they’re in their wheelchairs or they’re 100 years old or they’re a young woman coming in and they’re at the front of their military career […] I think it just gives them a better sense of the lineage of which they are now part of.”

It’s important to Wilson and her staff that even those who can’t physically visit the memorial are still able to benefit from its treasure trove of women’s military history. Artifacts from the foundation’s collection are on loan at numerous museums and the memorial also has traveling exhibits that make their way to universities, libraries and other institutions. In recent years, they’ve expanded their website with a 360-degree virtual tour of the website and launched a YouTube channel with an extensive collection of videos called “HERstory Spotlights” that feature various topics and individuals related to women’s military history.

In late 2023, the memorial will close again for a second phase renovation, this time to its exhibits, which will be overhauled to include more interactive and technology-based displays. But despite current and future changes, the mission remains unchanged.

“To embrace that legacy is so important to who you are, and to know that you’ve been part of this journey, and that you have been entrusted to carry that legacy forward,” Cushman said.

At first glance, with their dis­similar camouflage and a red star on the tail, the F-5 Tigers on the flight­line don’t appear to be American aircraft. A closer look will reveal “Ma­rines” emblazoned boldly on the fuse­lages. These F-5s belong to Marine Fighter Training Squadron 401, currently the only adversary squadron in the Ma­rine Corps. Stationed aboard Marine Corps Air Station Yuma, VMFT-401, the “Lucky Snipers,” are an expert team of pilots and support personnel who play an integral role in honing Marine Corps readiness through their use of dissimilar air combat training (DACT). In other words, they play the “bad guys,” and they are very good at it.
Squadron History

VMFT-401 was activated in 1986 in response to a growing need for DACT for Marine Corps aircrews. DACT places aircraft of different types against each other in simulated combat with the goal of providing realistic training and sharp­­ening the ability of American aircrews to counter peer or near-peer threats. For this training to be successful, the ad­versary needs to present an authentic opponent, and adversary pilots need to be expert in the employment of “red” tactics as well as their own.

Beginning in the 1960s, following losses in the skies over Vietnam, the Air Force and Navy began to develop and implement more intentional air combat training as they stood up their adversary squadrons. In the 1980s, as the Marine Corps adopted the F-18 Hornet, a fourth- generation fighter, the need arose for those Marine aircrews to train against a peer or near-peer adversary, and VMFT-401 was created. The first aircraft to come to the squadron were F-21 Kfirs from Israel. The Israeli pilots worked closely with the Marines of the squadron to integrate the aircraft, and the pilots trained with Navy and Air Force adver­sary units. In 1989, the squadron tran­sitioned to the F-5 Tiger, a simple but robust aircraft capable of Mach 2 with a service ceiling of 50,000 feet.

Lucky Sniper Pilots
Today, VMFT-401 flies many types of missions with the F-5, all in support of the Fleet Marine Force. Though they focus heavily on air-to-air combat train­ing, the Lucky Snipers also fly sorties to train ground defense units to hone their aircraft detection and neutralization skills, help train rotary-wing aircrew to counter air-to-air threats, and aid in the develop­ment of training programs. “Our job is to keep the Marine Corps from fight­ing the last war,” said Lieutenant Colonel Eric Scherrer, commanding officer of VMFT-401. “We don’t know exactly the enemy that we’re going to fight next, and we don’t know exactly what they’re going to do. That’s where I come in. I study that enemy.

And so when I go, when I provide fleet support to squadrons across the Marine Corps, I’m going to fight them in a way that one of our peer or near-peer adversaries will fight.” As the Marine Corps’ only squadron dedicated to acting as the opposing force in simulated air combat, VMFT-401 most often provides support for Marine fighter/attack squad­rons, fleet replacement squadrons, and for large scale exercises, like Weapons and Tactics Instructor Course and Marine Division Tactics Course.

A defining feature of the unit is their wealth of experience, which greatly en­hances their ability to carry out this mis­sion. Each of the pilots is seasoned, hav­ing already flown multiple tours in the fleet. “There are so many deployments in the squadron. I don’t know how many combat tours or real-world tours that we all have,” said Major Joel Adolphson, a pilot with VMFT-401. “And the goal is to use our experience, our knowledge, to better train the fleet. There are thousands of hours of experience between everybody that flies here, so we use our experience and expertise not only to accomplish their training, but also to increase the quality of their training.”

Pilots come to the squad­ron from all over the Marine Corps, including from the active-duty and Reserve components, integrating the individual skills and specialties they’ve developed over the course of their careers into the mission here. Major Benjamin VanWingerden, a pilot currently assigned to VMFT-401, flew the F/A-18 in Iwakuni, Japan, before coming to the Lucky Snipers. “China was one of the threats, and it definitely ramped up while I was there,” Maj VanWingerden said, “so we had quite a few briefs when I was there. I leveraged that when I got here to try to push to the local squadrons to up their training. Because we don’t want you to go out trained to a minimal threat. That’s the mentality I bring to the Snipers—give the hardest threat available even though sometimes they don’t like it. I’d rather have them survive than get shot because they’re not upping their training.”

The squadron is also unique in its manpower. Assigned to the 4th Marine Air Wing, VMFT-401 is a reserve squad­ron with a roughly even mix of active duty and reserve pilots. “All of my Reserve aircrew are also airline pilots. They’re very, very good aviators,” said LtCol Scherrer. “They add a lot of safety and a lot of maturity to the squadron, and experience that you wouldn’t always have. So, I see it as a great gift.”

Knowledge of Tactics
Adversary squadrons, and VMFT-401 in particular, are characterized by a deep knowledge of the tactics of peer and near-peer threats. This knowledge is acquired through study and experience. The pilots not only need to know red tactics, they need to be able to employ them in order to provide formative training. “I’m very fortunate because all of our pilots are very experienced. They’ve done at least one full fleet tour before they come to us. So, they’re very well versed in blue tactics, and they’re very experienced in the airplane.” said Scherrer. “They have to learn how to fly the F-5, but they already know blue tactics, and they already have a basic understanding of what red tactics are. Then it’s just a matter of taking them from the blue side and indoctrinating them into the red.”

To become expert in red tactics, every pilot goes through further advanced train­ing to hone their adversary abilities, usual­ly including either the adversary course at the Navy Fighter Weapons School, more commonly known as TOPGUN, or through Marine Corps Weapons and Tactics Instructors Course, where they’ll serve as adversary mission commanders. Each of the pilots also be­comes a subject matter expert in a relevant field. “We’re very closely tied in with the 64th Aggres­sor Squadron out of Nellis Air Force Base,” said Scherrer. “They’re really the red adversary subject matter experts. Every one of our pilots goes up there to be a subject matter expert in every­thing from doctrine, to aircraft and missiles, to tactics. So, everyone that’s here, including myself, goes to train in that capacity.”

After becoming a subject matter expert in a particular area, whether it’s a specific aircraft or weapons system, each of 401’s pilots can pass that knowledge on to others in the squadron and share it with other squadrons. They provide presenta­tions on their area of expertise to pilots in the fleet and use this expertise to en­hance the realism of their training scenarios. “Rarely do we have a vanilla problem for them to solve. Most of them are very difficult, especially for the weapons course,” said Maj Adolphson. “It’s extremely difficult sometimes, so that they’re better prepared when they actually go do the real thing, if that does happen.”

The scenarios themselves are not difficult just for the sake of being challenging. It’s all directed toward the formation of top-of-the-line combat aviators. The squadron’s pilots use their knowledge to hone the abilities of air­crews and provide them with training experiences to call back to in the future.

“Sometimes people say ‘red punishes blue mistakes.’ If blue wins every time, no questions asked, what will be masked by that overall win are execution errors or things that they could have done better. If somebody is always telling you you’re doing a great job, naturally you’re going to think you’re doing a great job, and you might get a little lax in your execution,” said LtCol Michael Webb, VMFT-401 executive officer. “Maybe we’re going to go to combat someday and that’s going to bite you. So, I see us as the best way to not critique blue verbally, but to give them critiques of themselves. And to build confidence in their airframe, con­fidence in their weapons systems, and an understanding of what they can and can’t do well. It’s our job to kind of pick at that perspective that they have, figure out ways to beat them so they eventually fix that gap and then they’re unbeatable.”

Maintainers
The pilots aren’t the only ones at VMFT-401 with a wealth of experience and expertise. The squadron’s maintainers are civilian contractors, many of whom have been working with the squadron’s F-5s for well over 20 years. “We’ve still got maybe 12 or 15 guys that have been here since 1989,” said Marcel Gaud, who has been a maintainer with VMFT-401 since July 1987. He and the other main­tainers credit much of their success to this longevity. They’re experts with the airframe, and they work well as a team, drawing on each other’s strengths to keep the squadron flying. Like many of the other maintainers, Gaud is a veteran Marine, having served with VMAT-102 from 1983-1986 in the same hangar he works in today. “It’s longevity … most of us are Marines here. I really think that that has something to do with it. Most of us are former jarheads, and we have the bar pretty high.” Many of the maintainers are also able to cross-train in positions besides their own and qualify to operate in positions besides their reg­ular spe­cialty. Their work ex­ceeds expectations, and it allows the squad­ron to keep up an incredible mission capable rate for their aircraft. This isn’t taken for granted by the Marines of the squadron, and the pilots acknowledge the maintainers’ skill as integral to their success. “Our aircraft health is very good,” said LtCol Webb. “We can have a pretty robust flight schedule because we have such a good maintenance foot­print.” VMFT-401 hasn’t had a mishap since 1995, in part because of the dedica­tion and expertise of the maintainers. “I’ve seen some amazing things done by just a group of six or seven of us,” said Gaud. “I’m very proud of the work we do here.”

F-5 Tiger
Though the F-5 Tiger isn’t a fifth-gen­eration fighter, it lends itself incredibly well to an adversary role for fifth-genera­tion fighters like the F-35. In addition to the exceptional skill the pilots have for mimicking adversaries, the Tiger is a platform for a handful of technologies that contribute to effective and safe train­ing. One of these, the Tactical Combat Training System, or TCTS, allows pilots to track other aircraft in the training exercise through a TCTS pod mounted on each aircraft. The pilots also have access to “RedNet,” which is tied in to the TCTS system. RedNet allows for the real time tracking of any aircraft carrying a TCTS pod, increasing situational aware­ness and precision during training scenarios, but it also allows for playback. This is a valuable tool because it gives pilots an opportunity to debrief where and how they made their good shots on “blue” aircraft, enhancing the depth of understanding pilots have of their tactics, and helping them to refine their training scenarios. The enhanced situational aware­ness also creates a safer training environment in what can become very dynamic and crowded airspace.

And the Lucky Snipers love what they do. “It’s almost like this finishing school for not just red air, but for being a proficient aviator,” said Webb. “VMFT-401 is everything I ever wanted in a fight­er squadron. And we don’t have a gun, we don’t have any missiles, we don’t drop any bombs, but we get to do the fun stuff. All we do is dogfight; fight other people, fight each other, plan these large force exercises and go out and execute, and we have such a good enlisted component here. This is an awesome place to be.”

Adversary units have an increased relevance as the Marine Corps looks toward the future. Later this year, VMFT-402 will be activated at MCAS Beaufort in South Carolina, increasing the avail­ability of adversary training to squadrons across the fleet. The aircraft will also continue to develop with new tech­nologies being integrated to provide the most realistic training available. And the Marines of VMFT-401 will continue to study, train, and perfect their role as red air, all with one goal in mind. “Just trying to polish the diamond, right?” Webb said. “That’s what we’re trying to do—to make them that much better so that the first time they see something in combat, they’ll realize they’ve seen it before. We’re just here to make the fleet better combat aviators in any way we can.”

Author’s note: Special thank you to LtCol Eric Scherrer and the Marines and civilians of VMFT-401 and MCAS Yuma for their assistance with this article.
Author’s bio: Patrick Reed is a historian and graduate of Abilene Christian Uni­versity. He has a particular interest in the Marine Corps and Marine Corps history and travels to speak with World War II veterans about their experiences.

By June 15, 1944, the Central Pacific drive of the United States had inexorably pushed the Japanese back toward their homeland. Throughout the methodical island-hopping campaign, the Japanese had put up stiff resistance, fighting furiously on the sea, on land, and in the air. Unlike the Marines, who had developed a combined arms team that included infantry weapons, artillery, and tanks as well as naval gunfire and close air support, the Japanese failed to integrate all their available weapons. Noticeably absent was any significant use of tanks or armor. That would all change with the invasion of the Mariana Islands.

The 2nd and 4th Marine Divisions landed on Saipan on June 15. Japanese artillery and mortars were hidden on the heights overlooking the beaches. Small, local counterattacks attempted to push back the invaders. But the Marines’ com­bined arms teams dealt with each piecemeal attack. Despite more than 3,000 casualties and gains of less than a mile inland, in some places less than three hundred yards, the Marines had a solid foothold on the island. By evening, the Army’s 27th Infantry Division was landing.

On D-day, the men of Lieutenant Colonel William K. Jones’ 1st Battalion, 6th Marines, came ashore on the extreme left flank of the invasion force. Known as “Willie K” by Marines, Jones led his men inland beyond the beaches, where the bulk of enemy forces were entrenched, passing a radio station with its tall tower a few hundred yards from the beach.

The Japanese use of tanks on the first day was disjointed and uncoordinated. At about noon, four unsupported light tanks attacked the boundary between 1st and 2nd Battalions, 6th Marines. “Amtanks,” Marine amphibious infantry support vehicles mounted with a cannon, destroyed three of the Japanese tanks.

During that first night, Japanese sail­ors attempted a small landing with a few amphibious tanks on the left flank of 2ndMarDiv. It was defeated by the combined arms of the Marines, in part due to a new weapon, the 2.36-inch rocket launcher, which would later be nicknamed the bazooka. The Japanese also carried out frequent infantry attacks that night, probing and pushing for weaknesses to exploit. Artill­ery, naval gunfire, tanks and 75mm guns mounted on halftracks supported the Marine infantry, and by morning there were over 700 Japanese dead near 2ndMarDiv and hundreds more in 4thMarDiv’s sector.

The next day, Jones’ battalion continued to carve out the island’s terrain, flanked by 2/2 under Major Howard Rice. The men of 1/6 made way for the remainder of the 2nd Marine Regiment to land.

That night, both Marine divisions formed tight perimeters and prepared for a Japanese counterattack. Lieutenant General Yoshitsugu Saito, the commander of the Japanese army on Saipan, issued an order for the 136th Infantry Regiment and the 9th Tank Regiment to “attack the enemy in the direction of Oreal (Charon Kanoa Airfield) with its full force.” In “Saipan: The Beginning of the End” by Carl W. Hoffman, Saito described the plan: “The tank unit will advance SW of Hill 164.6 after the attack unit [the infantry] has commenced the attack. The tank unit will charge the transmitting station and throw the enemy into disorder before the penetration of the attack unit into this sector.” Then, the Japanese 1st Yokosuka Special Naval Landing Force would attack from the north, parallel to the beach, to capture the Charon Kanoa Airfield, which was well behind Marine lines. One Japanese NCO noted, “Our plan would seem to be to annihilate the enemy by morning.”

This time, the Japanese had between thirty and forty tanks. Most were medium Type 97 Kai Shinhoto Chi-Ha vehicles armed with a 47mm main gun and a couple of machine guns. A few were the smaller Type 95 Ha-Go armed with a 37mm main gun and two machine guns.

The tanks gave away their presence moving into their attack positions. The Marines heard the sounds of their en­gines, as well as the chanting and shout­ing of Japanese infantry, early in the evening. Due to poor coordination, the Japanese attack didn’t begin until 3:30 a.m. and the Marines were ready.

Captain C.G. Rollen called for armored support as the enemy tanks approached the front line of Company B, 1/6. A pla­toon of M4A2 tanks from Company A, Second Tank Bn, and a section of the halftracks were dispatched to support the infantrymen. Rollen called for artillery and naval gunfire support. The Navy provided an almost constant supply of star shells, turning the night into an eerie bright daylight.

Correspondent Robert Sherrod, in his book “On to Westward,” quoted one Marine who said: “The [Japanese] would halt, then jump out of their tanks. Then they would sing songs and wave swords. Finally, one of them would blow a bugle, jump back into the tanks, if they hadn’t been hit already. Then we would let them have it with a bazooka.”

Major James A. Donovan Jr. executive officer of 1/6, noted: “Many of the tanks were ‘unbuttoned,’ [with their turrets open,] the crew chief directing from the top of his open turret. Some were being led by a crew member afoot. They seemed to come in two waves, carrying foot troops on the long engine compartment or clustered around the turret, holding on to the handrail. Some even had machine guns or grenade throwers set up on the tank.” Marine artillery and machine guns stripped away their infantry support. Then the infantry Marines took over.

The armor of the Japanese light and medium tanks was so thin that, in many cases, Marine antitank rounds went com­pletely through them. Several Japanese tankers became disoriented as star shells and tracers lit up the darkness. They strayed into nearby swamps and were immobilized, making them easy targets for the Marines.

Donovan recalled, “The battle evolved itself into a madhouse of noise, tracers, and flashing lights. As tanks were hit and set afire, they silhouetted other tanks coming out of the flickering shadows to the front or already on top of the squads.” Marine infantrymen hunkered down in their foxholes as some of the enemy tanks managed to reach the front-line positions.

Jones related in a June 1988 Leatherneck article, “One tank, leaking oil heavily, soaked a Marine as it passed over his foxhole. Another Marine, also lying low in his foxhole until a tank passed over him, jumped out and stuck a coconut log in its bogey wheels. The tank spun in circles. And when the bewildered tank commander opened his turret top to see what was going on, the Marine jumped on top and hurled a thermite grenade into the open turret. The tank blew up like a volcano.”

As the battle grew in ferocity, Rollen was injured by the concussion of a near miss. Jones ordered Captain Norman K. Thomas, the Headquarters Company com­mander, to take over the command. Oddly enough, Thomas had earned a Silver Star on Tarawa in relief of Rollen there. Now, as Thomas advanced, he was struck and killed by fire from a Japanese tank. Sergeant Dean Squires saw the captain fall. He shot the Japanese vehicle commander and placed a demolition charge on its back deck—the resulting explosion disabled the tank.

Corporal Donald Watson threw two phosphorous grenades on the back deck of a tank passing by his foxhole, then shot the crew as they exited the burning vehicle. Despite machine-gun fire from another tank, he retrieved a wounded comrade who was stranded in the midst of the enemy tanks. He would be awarded the Navy Cross.

Two other Marines were awarded Navy Crosses by knocking out seven tanks with seven rockets. Private First Class Charles D. Merritt and PFC Herbert J. Hodges moved into the open, dodging from left to right and back again. Both were untouched by enemy tank and in­fantry fire.

Private Robert S. Reed used his rocket launcher to hit four Japanese tanks. After he ran out of rockets, he mounted a Japa­nese tank and put it out of action with a grenade down the hatch. PFCs John Kounk and Horace Narveson stalked the enemy tanks. Ultimately, they scored hits on three tanks with four rockets.

Machine-gun squad leader, Sergeant Alex Smith, frustrated that the bullets of his guns bounced off the tanks’ armor, left his Marines and moved into the open. Using the grenade launcher mounted on his carbine, he disabled three tanks in quick succession.

Japanese artillery attempted to silence the Marine artillery instead of concen­trating on the Marine front-line positions. This let the infantry Marines concentrate on the enemy assault. Marine artillerymen suffered many casualties but continued firing.

During the action, Donovan noted, “The Japanese tanks … appeared con­fused. As their guides and crew chiefs were hit by Marine rifle and machine gun fire, what little control they had was lost. They ambled in the general direction of the beach, getting hit again and again until each one burst into flame or turned aimless circles only to stop when hit.”

As daylight spread across the battle­field, Marine tanks and halftracks ad­vanced into the area, finishing off many of the derelict enemy vehicles. By 7 a.m., the attack was over. Only one Japanese tank remained in action, but it rolled away into the hills. A call for naval gun­fire brought down a barrage of 5-inch gunfire from a destroyer, which turned the tank into a smoking pyre. Despite the long night, Jones’ Marines began the day’s attack at 7:30 a.m.

If all the claims of destroyed tanks were added up, including those of the infantry, antitank guns, tanks, and half­tracks, they would have equaled over 50 tanks. After the battle, 2ndMarDiv ob­servers counted 31 metal carcasses. Perhaps a thousand Japanese men were dead. Jones was circumspect, stating that if the Japanese attack on June 17 had been successful, it “would have been fatal to the division’s fighting efficiency.”

For the rest of the campaign, Japanese tanks were used only in small numbers, the largest armored attack occurred on June 24, when tanks of Co C, 2nd Tank Bn, destroyed seven Japanese tanks near the town of Garapan.

Slowly, relentlessly, the Marines and soldiers conquered the island. Airfields were secured, allowing B-29s to bomb Japan. The only major counterattack was a banzai charge on July 7, the largest in the Pacific Island campaigns, of 4,000 bedraggled Japanese soldiers, sailors, and civilians without armored support. They smashed through front-line positions but were ultimately killed. The campaign for Saipan ended with the island declared secure on July 9.

In Oscar Gilbert’s book “Marine Tank Battles in the Pacific,” the commander of the Marine tanks, Captain Ed Bale, talked about credit for the destruction: “The argument has never been settled who destroyed the Japanese tanks, whether B Company [2nd] Tank Battal­ion or whether Weapons Company, 6th Marines did.” Sherrod gave credit to the infantrymen in an article for Leatherneck: “But most of the [Japanese] tanks were knocked out by infantrymen … who declined to get panicky. They waited in their foxholes until the moment was right, then they let go with bazookas or with antitank grenades. Some of them sat in their holes until the tanks rolled over and past them. Then they aimed at the weaker rear armor.” Ultimately it was the individual Marine, acting as part of the combined arms team, that defeated the Japanese in the Pacific.

General Thomas Watson, commanding general of 2ndMarDiv, surveyed the destruction around 1/6 and pronounced, “I don’t think we have to fear [Japanese] tanks anymore. We’ve got their number.” The general was right; the Japanese never tried a large-scale tank assault in the Pacific.

Author’s bio: MSgt Jeff Dacus, USMCR (Ret) is a retired Marine tanker. He is the 2020 recipient of the Marine Corps Heritage Foundation General Roy S. Geiger award. He is the author of the books, The Fighting Corsairs: The Men of Marine Fighting Squadron 215, Desert Storm Marines: A Marine Tank Company at War in the Gulf, and Perceptions of Battle: George Washington’s Victory at Monmouth.

A shuttle van rolled to a stop across the street from the Belleau Town Hall. Out of the side door emerged an elderly gentleman, hunched over, his physical frame sharply contrasted by the fierce resolve propelling him forward. Protruding from his bowed head was a red hat emblazoned with a vibrant yellow USMC.

His eyes rose to meet mine as I introduced myself and he waved his hand for me to follow him. The 82-year-old man was named James, and he told me he had been a recruit at Parris Island in 1959. He had dreamed of coming to Belleau Wood for over six decades. With his health in decline, it was now or never. Earlier in the day, James and his wife walked through Belleau Wood with the intent of “walking in the footsteps of those heroes from 1918.” James was adamant that their day end with a visit to the “devil dog” fountain.

It was clear there was a lot riding on this moment, and he wanted it to unfold exactly as he envisioned. We walked to the iron gate, and after a woman from the local museum had unlocked it, James slowly pushed it open with his cane. He beckoned his wife to join us, and the three of us walked into the old farmyard. When he saw the fountain, James whispered, “It all makes sense.

This is why we are the devil dogs. I knew we earned this title from the Germans in World War I, but now it all makes sense. I’m here because I’m a Marine.”

James hobbled toward the fountain. His wife held his right arm, stabilizing him as he leaned forward to position his head near the water trickling out of the dog’s mouth. He removed his hat, closed his eyes, and craned his neck to drink from the fountain. He paused with his eyes closed, then turned to his wife and said, “I’m done. It’s complete.” His face was splashed with water droplets. He shuffled back to the van and climbed into his seat. After a few minutes, his wife joined him and we waved goodbye as the van drove up the hill. I was left to ponder what I had witnessed—and to reflect on James’ words, which seemed to imbue a profound sense of meaning. He hinted at a lifetime of reasons that motivated him to make a pilgrimage to Belleau Wood and the bulldog fountain.

The fountain positioned him in a line of continuity existing within a sacred landscape. It reaffirmed an overarching narrative that as an individual Marine, James existed inside the collective. He and the Corps were one.
I’m here because I’m a Marine.

History of the Fountain
The Marine Corps has long understood the power of place and the importance of inculcating a sense of connection to hallowed ground. Servicemembers of all branches are tied to particular places, but Marines are collectively tied to the same places: Belleau Wood, Iwo Jima, Chosin Reservoir, Khe Sanh, Fallujah. This list of sacred places includes the devil dog fountain, which has become synonymous with Belleau Wood. However, because Marines were never in this exact location in 1918, the site’s prominence is not grounded in historical events. Rather, it emerged from the confluence of geo­graphic proximity to Belleau Wood, in­dividual and group identity, rituals and rites of passage, personal relationships, devotion, and collective memory. The site is an exemplar of how once-insignifi­cant places can evolve into pilgrimage sites—and of the symbiotic relationship that emerges between sacred sites and pilgrims.

The fountain is located inside the vil­lage of Belleau on private property, formerly the 16th century chateau built for the Graimberg family. The current owners are descendants of Alphonse Paillet, who, in 1842, purchased the chateau, along with most of the hunting preserve known as Belleau Wood. Paillet sold Belleau Wood to the Belleau Wood Memorial Association in 1923, and it was dedicated as a shrine to the American Expeditionary Force. The family retained the chateau ruins and have been an in­tegral part of the growth of pilgrimages to the site. The fountain is sourced by a spring-fed aquifer that supplies water to the entire area.

The sculpted bronze bull­dog head is more accurately a Dogue of Bordeaux, a hunting breed that gained popularity in France in the mid-to-late 19th century. This particular fountain was used inside the farm area of the chateau grounds and is an unlikely struc­ture to emerge as a sacred site. However, its proximity to the battlefield and the significance of the bulldog coalesced into the birth of a Marine Corps shrine. Visits to this shrine are a relatively recent phe­nom­e­non, as Marines were not in the village of Belleau during WW I. There is a possibility that a Marine may have been held as a prisoner of war or treated in the German first aid station under the chateau. But, despite this, there are no accounts of Marines drinking from the fountain during the war.

The historic silence on the topic of the bulldog fountain is conspicuous given its current prominence. It is particularly noteworthy because of the number of fountains established by Americans as living memorials after WW I, such as the fountain on Belleau’s main road that is dedicated to the memory of soldiers from Pennsylvania who died in Belleau Wood. There is no mention of our foun­tain in the writings about Belleau visits to in­clude the 1920 Knights of Columbus pil­grimage, the dedication of Belleau Wood in 1923, or the 1929 reconstruction of the church that also serves as the U.S. Army 26th “Yankee” Division memorial.

Brigadier General James Harbord, USA was incensed by the location of this memorial and released a number of press statements asserting that Belleau Wood belonged to the Marines. Had the fountain been important to the Marines, this would have been a perfect time to emphasize their connection not only to Belleau Wood but to the village of Belleau. Gold Star Mothers also visited the area as part of the U.S. government funded pilgrimages of 1930-1933, and there are no written or photographic rec­ords of them visiting this particular fountain.

After World War II, veterans of both wars continued visiting the area, and the Yankee Division veterans again paid for repairs to the church, which was rededicated in 1953. Also visiting during this time was 20th Commandant of the Marine Corps, General Lemuel Shepherd. He was concerned that people were for­getting the contributions of Marines in Belleau Wood and initiated a plan to erect a monument, which was dedicated in 1955. It seems likely that Shepherd, along with other dignitaries, would have paid a visit to the fountain had there been an established Marine Corps connection to the site. The following decades reflect a similar lack of attention.

Based on testimonies from Belleau res­idents and press pieces from the 1980s, it was sometime during this decade that Marines began to visit the village of Belleau and the fountain as an extension to Belleau Wood itineraries. In the November 1988 issue of Marine Corps Gazette, author Agostino von Hassell described Marines visiting the devil dog fountain and proposed an interesting rationale for why Marines were connected to the village of Belleau. He referenced an account wherein the Germans oc­cupied Belleau in 1914 and encountered the “Hounds of Belleau” inside the cha­teau. During the subsequent fighting in June 1918, the Germans recalled their first skirmish in Belleau, which resulted in the devil dogs moniker. On July 15, 1990, Boston Globe sportswriter Bud Collins asserted that the Marines had bivouacked in the former farmyard of the chateau during the war. This is par­ticularly interesting given the fact that the date of Collins’ visit to the location corresponded to the dates in 1918 when the Yankee Division liberated the village.

Despite the historical inaccuracy of the Marines’ connection to Belleau, both authors linked fragmented pieces into one integrated framework. From this point, the village of Belleau was sub­sumed into the Belleau Wood narrative and fused together as one place within the collective memory of the area. This is illustrated by a conversation I had with a veteran Marine visiting Belleau Wood, who stopped me to inquire about the location of the fountain inside the woods. This man had actually been at the foun­tain and inside Belleau Wood in the early 1990s with a group from The Basic School but had forgotten the sites were geo­graphically separated. At some point in the decades following his visit, his in­dividual memory of the fountain’s lo­cation had merged with the collective memory of Belleau Wood.

While Belleau Wood had been hallowed ground since 1918, the subsummation of Belleau into Belleau Wood was cemented by 31st Commandant General Charles Krulak during his 1997 and 1998 visits. Gen Krulak’s personal connections to the area ran deep—he grew up hearing about the battle from his godfather, General Holland Smith, who had seen action at Belleau Wood—and these visits sacralized the oneness of the landscape in four significant ways. First, he chose the battlefield as the setting for the 222nd Marine Corps Birthday film. Like a prophet standing in the wheatfield, with one arm seemingly reaching back to WW I-era Marines and the other arm extended to future generations, Gen Krulak passionately spoke of continuity, identity, and shared vision. He also ef­fectively used water as a connective motif by saying Belleau Wood was “like a river that runs through all Marines and all Frenchmen … rippling through our souls, renewing us, sustaining us and fortifying us for the trials to come.”

Sec­ondly, Gen Krulak was photographed drinking directly from the devil dog fountain, giving a visual template for how future Marines would engage with the site. Third, he referenced his visit to Belleau Wood as a “pilgrimage of great personal meaning” and emphasized the importance of reenacting the journey of the 1918 Marines. Lastly, Gen Krulak acknowledged the local residents by presenting the fountain landowners with a Certificate of Appreciation, a powerful indicator of the importance the Corps placed on the site.

Current Practices at the Fountain
The devil dog fountain’s emergence as a sacred site is concurrent to the growth of pilgrimages worldwide. The practices there mirror those at other sacred sites involving wells or fountains. These places are often associated with healing properties, miracles, or divine connections, which makes them focal points for spiritual practices and pil­grimages. Pilgrims and visitors come to these wells seeking physical, emotional, or spiritual well-being and either ingest the water or immerse themselves in it. Over time, stories and legends associated with such fountains get passed down through generations.

Like other sacred wells, the bulldog fountain is a center point of gathering for those who share a common identity and has become an important site for rituals and rites of passage, including reenlistments, promotions, and retire­ments. Moreover, the fountain shares another characteristic with other pilgrim­age sites: an element of challenge or dif­ficulty to access. The courtyard gate is locked and knowing how to access the key becomes part of the experience and affirms a sense of exclusivity.

I spoke to a Marine sergeant who told me she had waited her entire life to be at the fountain. The fact that she was sta­tioned in Europe was a dream come true, and being at the fountain was her sign that she was in the right place at the right time. She attributed her good fortune and life trajectory to the Marine Corps and was eager to send photos to her family and friends to show them how she made it to the fountain, knowing how proud they would be.
Another Marine I spoke to, a captain who was a prior enlisted Marine, told me being at the fountain reminded him of the yellow footsteps at PI and how he was walking in the footsteps of Marines from 1918 and taking his place among all Marines. He said that he felt a great deal of responsibility to honor the Marines of the past.

It is customary for Marines to drink directly from the fountain rather than filling a canteen or bottle to drink from. Either during the initial drink or the subsequent one, most Marines are photo­graphed in the same pose as Krulak in 1998. If they are part of a group, they will often flank the fountain for a photo. These photos are subsequently posted on social media with the hashtag #BelleauWood, further cementing the oneness of the two places.

The water’s meaning has evolved over time, too. Marines drinking from the fountain in the 1990s focused on the power of the water to extend one’s pro­fessional life in the Corps. Now, it is said that the water extends one’s physical life for 20 years. It is also considered the ele­ment that links all Marines to one another. Marines drink the water for those at Belleau Wood, for the current Marines, and for future Marines. Many Marines report taking home bottles of water from the bulldog fountain in the same man­ner as pilgrims do from other sacred wells. These bottles are treasured arti­facts that form part of a collection that may include sand from Iwo Jima or one of the Normandy beaches.

Not all visitors coming to the fountain are Marines; others such as civilians and non-USMC servicemembers frequent the site. U.S. Army and National Guard personnel visiting the fountain often recount contested battle histories and the evolving collective memory of the war. In many ways, this reinforces the foun­tain’s status as a pilgrimage site—con­tested narratives always characterize such places. The long-standing inter­service rivalry between the Marine Corps and the Army is also a point of dialogue, with a particular emphasis on WW I. Soldiers often remark that the Marines were never in that location and jest that they will post photos in front of the foun­tain on social media with messages re­lated to historical accuracy.

There is also a sense that the Marine Corps has system­atically removed the Army’s presence in the Belleau Wood narrative, and one soldier told me that the Corps was “doing what Marines do and making everything about themselves.” Soldiers visiting the fountain who know about the Yankee Division’s liberation of the village of Belleau also recount the actions of July 1918. In addition, they point out the weather­ vane on top of the nearby barn, which depicts a Yankee Division soldier with his boot permanently kicking east, symbolizing pushing the Germans out of Belleau.

There is also a local impact resulting from the prominence of the site. The museum across the street, opened in 2008, retains the key for gate access and now has vessels for the water, similar to other holy wells like Lourdes. Local guides have incorporated a stop at the fountain as part of battlefield itineraries in the area. The fountain landowners re­main central to the site and fund ongoing maintenance and access for ceremonies and cultivate personal connections with the diplomatic and military communities in France.

Memorial Day
The steady stream of Marines visiting the Belleau area rises to a groundswell during the Memorial Day weekend. There is a growing list of ceremonies for the weekend occurring across multiple sites, to include the German cemetery and the village church where a Catholic mass is held on Saturday evening. The recent inclusion of Marine Corps participation in this service is conspicuous due to its overtly religious nature, indicative of the evolution of pilgrimages in Belleau.

During the 2023 service, there were con­tributions by French clergy members, local residents, and American military dignitaries. During the sermon, the priest referenced “martyr Marines” who died in Belleau Wood, which is interesting given the fact that the church itself is a memorial for the Yankee Division. During this service, Marines inhabit a space that was paid for by the sacrifices of their brothers-in-arms in the Yankee Division. For the locals, though, these Marines seem to personify the names of the war dead flanking the church walls. The Yankee Division soldiers, who lib­erated the village of Belleau, seem to have been reborn as Marines, a nod to the Corps’ powerful influence on the collective memory of the area in WW I.

On Sunday, the culminating ceremony, infused with grand military pageantry, occurs at the Aisne-Marne American Cemetery. Similar ceremonies take place at all American Battle Monuments Com­mission cemeteries in France and all of them include military representation. However, the ceremony at Aisne-Marne is palpably “Marine Corps” in choreog­raphy, presence, and tenor. The list of distinguished guests continues to grow and is evidence of the increasing impor­tance ascribed to the ceremony by French military and government officials. More­over, the German Army has a burgeoning presence, and several German soldiers I spoke to shared that they were there to honor the war dead of “our allies” and focus on reconciliation.

The Marine Corps understands the power of place, and the Memorial Day ceremony demonstrates a superior grasp of symbolism, ritual and narrative. Cere­mony attendees from many countries fill the parade ground, and their gazes are initially fixed on the Memorial Chapel, ascending as a stark reminder of the human costs of war. Behind the chapel is Belleau Wood. Prior to the start of last year’s ceremony, visitors watched the Commandant and Sergeant Major of the Marine Corps descending from Belleau Wood, shoulder to shoulder with the Chief of Staff of the French Army and a German Brigadier General. Not only was this a powerful symbol of reconciliation between former enemies, it was also a reminder that the Marine Corps, which had been untested in the conflicts of WW I, matured inside the primordial darkness of Belleau Wood and emerged victorious.

The speeches given by dignitaries men­tioned the sacrifice and loss of life in WW I. This reality was made more poig­nant by the setting, which includes over 2,200 graves of servicemembers who died during the war. Death and burial are tangible at places like this, and the proximity of the cemetery to the battlefield creates an immediate sense of the gravitas of the toll of war. The entire Memorial Day ceremony was a well-choreographed display of order, dis­cipline, and precision that sharply con­trasted the chaos and carnage of 1918.

As the ceremony ended, hundreds of attendees made a procession through the town, down the main street, and into the courtyard for a reception at the devil dog fountain. Like other pilgrimage processions, an amalgam of people moved together toward the sacred site. It was even more remarkable given the blending of military ranks within close proximity, which would not occur in any other set­ting. The climactic event was Gen David H. Berger’s arrival at the fountain, where he gave a speech thanking the local hosts, allies, and partners and mentioning the “sacrifices of those who fought here at Belleau Wood.” He posed for a photo with the other generals, who represented the military alliance amongst the United States, France and Germany. He re­enlisted a Marine during the reception as well.

Memorial Day weekend is also about the local inhabitants, often silent stake­holders in the pilgrimage saga of Belleau Wood and Belleau. During this weekend, the Belleau locals are co-creators of the experience; they renew personal relation­ships with Marines and other visitors and have a sense of agency in decision-mak­ing about the ceremonies. This agency is increasingly important as the Aisne-Marne American Cemetery has been designated as a UNESCO World Heritage site. The added notoriety and people visiting these sites impacts the locals and, like other pilgrimage sites around the world, their voices are often marginalized. Many of the families have lived in the area since before WW I, and they have their own strong attachments to the sites. These attachments often reflect a dif­ferent type of priority, function, and meaning than for American pilgrims and visitors. During the Memorial Day week­end, the locals also host Marines in their homes, and the relationships forged over decades are treasured by all involved. Finally, the fountain landowners have the opportunity to remind visitors of their benevolence and hospitality, while also ensuring a seat at the table regarding the future of the fountain.

The Hero’s Journey
The Marines fighting in Belleau Wood in 1918 engaged in a hero’s journey mir­rored by an archetypal psychological process. They left their ordinary world for a call to adventure and reached a place known as “Hellwood.” After fighting with the enemy inside this Hell, they were bruised and battered; many were dead. The survivors emerged and returned home with the elixir of victory. Their reality set the stage for a new type of journey: walking in their footsteps through reenactment. Such reenactments began as early as 1919 as pilgrims flocked to Belleau Wood to follow in the footsteps of the heroes. And it was important for them to retrace the steps exactly as the events unfolded in June of 1918. However, the reenactments could only reach the resurrection stage of the archetypal Hero’s Journey through the practice of calling to memory the Marines and their actions—they could not return with the elixir of victory as their forebears had.

Gen Krulak tapped into this need for the completion of the quest in his 1997 video. He provided a pilgrimage template as he moved from the wheatfield into the Aisne-Marne American Cemetery, while recalling the people and events of the battle. He was then photographed at the devil dog fountain drinking direct­ly from the source of the water. This imagery sent a powerful message that pilgrimages were a sanctioned part of the Marine Corps experience and further cultivated the idea that places connected to the Corps could be spoken of in overt­ly spiritual terms. His use of the water motif provided further language to de­scribe how Marines are connected to hallowed ground and that there is a life force that fuses all Marines together. The fact that the water originates from the same source as it did in 1918 carries deep spiritual significance. And Krulak’s language around renewal and rebirth set the stage for a shrine that could be visited and revisited by future generations of Marines seeking exactly that.

For James, the 82-year-old Marine vet­eran, his visit to the devil dog fountain was a moment of completion to the nar­rative of his life that opened at Parris Island. He was looking to reaffirm his place within the collective, and it must have been reassuring to know that the memory of past generations of Marines lives on at sites like Belleau Wood. In knowing this, there is the comfort that he will not be forgotten. He had walked the battlefield and communed with the Marines of 1918—and the last step was that he needed to ingest the water from the sacred fountain. Within the fusion of the individual with the collective, I am here because we were here is inter­changeable with we are here because I am here. “Here” is Belleau Wood, which now includes Belleau—their oneness understood through how average places evolve into sacred spaces through their relationship with pilgrims.

James was a pilgrim reenacting the Hero’s Journey, and his final quest was to return home with the elixir from the devil dog fountain. He found completion, belonging, and continuity with the Ma­rines of the past and the Marines of the future. He became fused with a landscape that emerged as hallowed ground. It is quite appropriate that Belleau means “beautiful water”—and the elixir pil­grims seek is the essence of the place.

Author’s bio: Heather A. Warfield is a professor, researcher, author, and con­sultant with subject matter expertise on pilgrimages to the Western Front of World War I. She was a 2022-2023 Fulbright France Research Scholar at the University of Lille where her research focused on post-war pilgrimages to Belleau and Belleau Wood. While in France, she contributed to a number of staff rides and educational experiences for U.S. military groups. In addition, she is the series editor of Pilgrimage Studies and is the co-editor of the book “Pil­grimages to the Western Front of World War I: Historical Exemplars & Con­temporary Practices,” to be pub­lished in 2024. Her book on pilgrimages to Belleau and Belleau Wood is forth­coming in 2025.