Sea StoriesCompiled by Patricia EverettSea Story of the MonthOdd Last Names

In 1972 I was assigned to the minefield maintenance team at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. The team was composed of an officer in charge (OIC) who was a limited duty officer captain, a gunnery sergeant, two staff sergeants and approximately 10 sergeants. All of us were Vietnam veterans and had various experience working with demolitions and conducting mine and booby trap sweeps. This was the tightest group of Marines I have ever had the privilege of working with. We worked hard and we played hard.
I was there about a month when I was instructed by our OIC to visit the Navy photo unit along with six other sergeants to have our pictures taken for the Staff Sergeant Promotion Board. It was strange but at the time, all of the sergeants had odd last names.

We donned our class “C” uniforms and boarded our assigned minefield maintenance vehicle. Arriving at the photo unit we all checked in with a female Navy petty officer second class. She told us all to get in line, then come to her desk and state our last name. I was the first in line and as I approached her, she asked, “Last name?” I sounded off and said, “Wing.” She then said, “Next” and Sergeant Coke sounded off. She paused and gave us a strange look. Next up was Sgt Silva. He sounded off, “Silva” and she gave us another look and took a deep breath. Then came Sgt Angel. He sounded off “Angel.” Her look was priceless. Next up was Sgt Marine. He stepped forward and sounded off, “Marine.” The petty officer said, “I know you are a Marine, but I want your last name.” “Marine,” Sgt Marine repeated. She responded with, “OK, all of you show me your ID cards.” She looked at our IDs, turned a couple shades of pale, and shook her head. The last sergeant’s name was Malone.

This is a true story, and we all had many laughs. The Navy WAVE is probably still talking about it.

CWO-3 Jack Wing, USMC (Ret)
Apopka, Fla
Feasting in the Field

I was in Korea assigned to F/2/12 but attached to K/3/9 as a forward observer for Operation Team Spirit in 1978. One Sunday we went to the mountains north of Pohang for an extended field exercise. We were told to take two days of C-rats since we would be resupplied by helicopter. The C-rats we had were dated from the 1950s and I rarely ate the canned meat, usually only the fruit and crackers. For some reason the only fruit in this particular lot was applesauce. I had eaten applesauce the previous weeks and now I had applesauce for this week as well.

Monday afternoon it started snowing and the clouds covered the hills, so no helicopters were coming for resupply. The bad weather continued into Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday with no food. Finally, the weather cleared, and the helicopters hovered and dropped cases of C-rats off the ramp; brand new C-rats with peaches, pears, and fruit cocktail! We had all started eating our meals when we received a call on the radio that someone had gotten sick from the new food, and we needed to turn it back in. We each tossed the unopened cans into a pile.

Throwing out such good fruit seemed like a waste to me, so I decided to take a chance. I figured that some of the meat was probably bad, but I couldn’t be sure. I collected some of the new fruit cans and put them in my pack and then asked the Marines around me if they had eaten any of the new food. I found someone who had eaten peaches, someone who had eaten pears, and someone who had eaten fruit cocktail. I watched them for a day to see if they got sick and when they didn’t, I ate the new fruit. Later we found out it had been the meat that was spoiled; meanwhile I was feasting in the field.

Capt Steve Schenk
USMC, 1976-1985
Dayton, OhioThe Last Laugh

Shortly after arriving in Japan in the spring of 1957, I learned that my battalion, 3rd Battalion, 9th Marines, had recently completed a training exercise which involved climbing Mount Fujiyama. Disappointed that I had missed out on the climb, I let it be known that I would like to take a group of Marines who, like me, had missed out. I found out that there were nine others so I requested permission to do the climb the following weekend. The battalion arranged to get us a vehicle for the trip to the launching point on Mount Fuji and gave us permission to wear utilities for the climb.
We reached the staging area for the start of the climb about 2 p.m. on Saturday. While waiting to begin the climb, we saw an old papasan who was nearly bent under the load of two cases of Nippon Beer. We were told that he was going to carry the beer to the top of Mount Fuji which had an elevation of 12,395 feet. As we walked by the papasan, I said, “We’ll wait for you at the top, papasan.” He smiled although I didn’t know if he understood what I had said.

As we began our climb, we soon discovered that there were several stations where we could get a brand burned onto our Fuji sticks indicating that we had reached each level. We also learned that we could buy refreshments (beer). Needless to say, we indulged at each station.

When we reached the summit, it was getting dark and we saw the old papasan relieved of his burden who appeared to be waiting for us. He smiled from ear to ear as he saw us arriving, suggesting that he knew what I had said to him about us beating him to the top. The last laugh was on us.

SSgt Paul E. Gill
USMC, 1954-1966
Shippensburg, Pa
Extra Training Didn’t Work

We had completed the first phase of our boot camp training and prepared to move to the rifle range for the second phase. The drill instructors (DIs) were teaching us recruits proper etiquette for passing Marines on the left by requesting, “By your leave.” I had been on the DIs’ radar since receiving and received extra training from DI Sgt Burns.

Sgt Burns was standing outside the head supervising recruits cleaning their weapons. As I came out of the head and passed by Sgt Burns, I requested, “By your sleeve, Sir.” “STOP worm!” bellowed DI Burns. “What did you say to me?” I repeated what I had said and again received extra training. The platoon heard our exchange and I committed myself to doing better in the future.

Cpl R.C. McNally Jr.
USMC, 1976-1980
Walla Walla, Wash.
Encounter With The Blue Angels

It was June 1958. My reserve rifle company out of Charleston, S.C., flew to Naval Air Station Corpus Christi, Texas for annual field training. We were flown from Charleston in two antiquated C-119s scheduled for scrapping. After we arrived, the planes were ordered to support the Marines landing in Lebanon, so they were reassembled and active-duty Marines from the air station, including those from the base guard mount, were deployed. Our company’s schedule was changed as we filled gaps left by the deployment.

Our weekend in Texas was open liberty from noon on Saturday. I planned to leave at noon but a few minutes before 12 p.m., First Sergeant Rhodes announced that I had guard duty. I had to go to an aircraft hangar and report to a major. Uniform was utilities, cartridge belt and M1.

At the hangar, the major sat alone in a jeep waiting for me. “Private Whitten?” he asked. “Yes, Sir!” I answered while offering a rifle salute. I had the M1 at sling arms. He returned the salute. “I know you were ready for liberty and I’m sorry to have to call on you for help, but my guard mount was reduced to nearly zero with the deployment. I’m corporal of the guard because there is no one else to do it. I’m guarding this hangar. The planes the Blue Angels will fly in today’s air show are housed here until show time. I have to check the other mounts, and someone has to watch these planes. You know I am desperate if I have to ask the first sergeant of the reserve company training here for help.” “Yes, Sir. I’m glad to help. What are my orders?” “Allow no one entry, no one. If President Eisenhower shows up, keep him out but call the corporal of the guard.” He handed me a World War II-era walkie talkie. “Use your judgment. Call me if you think it necessary. Got it?” “Yes, Sir!” He smiled, cranked the engine, and drove away.

I walked the hangar and studied the Blue Angel planes. I had been on guard for 40 minutes when a couple with a young Naval officer, a lieutenant junior grade, appeared at the entrance to the hangar. The wings pinned onto his shirt told me he was probably one of the Angels. “Can I help you?” I asked as I saluted. The officer returned the salute and said, “I want to show my parents my plane. Can I do that?” I replied, “I’m not allowed to let anyone into this hangar but I’m sure the major who is in charge here will open it to you. I’ll call him and he’ll be here in a few minutes.”

I stepped away and called the corporal of the guard and gave him a run down. He said he was on the way. I took that news to the family. “Is that rifle loaded?” the lady asked. “No, ma’am. The Marines would never trust an unsupervised private first class with a loaded weapon. The walkie talkie is my only weapon.” They laughed and the major arrived. I stepped away and he talked with the visitors. When they disappeared into the hangar, the major approached me. “Well done, Whitten. You handled that well. When I asked your first sergeant for help, I told him I needed a man with a brain, and he said he only had one.”

My company had a man with a brain? I wondered who it was and why Sgt Rhodes sent me rather than him.

Dr. David O. Whitten
USMCR, 1957-1963
Sullivan’s Island, S.C
I Was Determined to Get That Pot of Gold

In March of 1983, I was a month and a half away from graduation and my platoon was at the rifle range at Camp Pendleton, Calif. As we marched back from the range, it was raining and our drill instructor, Cpl Painovich, halted the platoon and yelled, “Recruit Johnson!” I immediately got out of the platoon, double-timed it in front of my drill instructor and reported, “Recruit Johnson, Sir!” Cpl Painovich then told me, “About face! Johnson, do you see the rainbow?” “Sir, yes, Sir!” I replied. “Good,” he said. “Now. Go get me the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow!”

I took off not knowing how far I was going to go or what was happening. I just ran to the rainbow. It seemed like forever and then I heard the platoon yell, “Recruit Johnson.”

I ran back to Cpl Painovich. “Sir, Recruit Johnson reporting as ordered!” “Get back in the platoon,” he said. Surely a test. I still laugh at this.

Cpl Jeffrey Johnson
Riverside, Calif.
Do you have an interesting story from your time in the Corps that will give our readers a good chuckle? We would love to hear them. Write them down (500 words or less) and send them to: Patricia Everett, Leatherneck Magazine, P.O. Box 1775, Quantico, VA 22134, or email them to p.everett@mca-marines.org. We offer $25 or a one-year MCA membership for the “Sea Story of the Month.”