To all Marines in the world.
I would like to extend my sincerest wishes for a most happy 225th birthday which will be upon us Nov. 10. As a former Marine, I served 13 months in Korea and Japan during the Korean War. My tour of duty overseas was split between Dog Company, Second Battalion, Fifth Marines and Able Company, First Shore Party Battalion, First Marine Division and included a two-month stint at the U.S. Naval Hospital in Yokosuka, Japan.
In January 1952, I had the honor of participating in a regimental formation of the Fifth Marine Regiment at Camp Tripoli in the Soy-Yang-Gang Valley. This was the first time the regiment was together since the regrouping of the First Marine Division down in the Pusan-Masan area after the division came out of the Chosin Reservoir.
It was a cold, gray overcast wintry day with the feel of snow in the air. The parade ground was frozen solid to a depth of at least 6 inches and was blanketed with a light coating of snow. The formation consisted of three Marine Battalions and a Korean Marine Corps Battalion. We had straggled by platoons to the parade ground and formed up into our respective companies and battalions. Once the regiment had assembled, the ceremonies opened with a March in Review parade led by the First Marine Division Band.
Returning to our original positions facing the make-shift grandstand, the regimental commander and his honored guests paid their respect, then a Roll Call of Honor of our fallen comrades was read. I was shocked to hear the names of several Marines from my replacement draft were called. Three weeks in Korea and now three Marines I knew and served with at Camp Pendleton were dead. Three Marines were dead, and I had not even pulled one minute of duty on line facing the enemy.
As I pondered these revelations, a bugler began playing Taps. As those clear, heart-wrenching notes floated about on the slight breeze, their echoes rebounding off the mountains across the river and reechoing from the many loud speakers, the music of these echoes seemed to go on forever. I listened to that soulful sound and it seared my soul.
I stood among great men that day. Yes, I stood among Marines that day. The bonding that was forged in boot camp and Pendleton was never stronger, and I was proud to be a part of that formation. I knew I belonged.
In the following months, I served with the brave and the strong. Some did not live up to my expectations and perhaps, I too, had come up short in the eyes of a few. There was the PFC carrying extra ammunition up to the machine guns on Hill 67. He seemed so oblivious to the enemy bullets that beat the air around him, and it was as though he was taking a Sunday stroll through the park. Or the Buck Sergeant who saw action in both the Inchon and Chosin Reservoir campaigns, slinging his disabled M-1 rifle at the Chinese trench line in frustration after the weapon had jammed for the umpteenth time. Then turning back to the enemy, he walked slowly down and off the hill. I saw the anger (or disgust) on his face as he walked toward me while I silently screamed for him to get the hell out of my line of fire. And the wounded PFC, who lay crying under a bouncing Betty flare whose parachute was entangled on a tree limb while its flaming residue fell down on his back, and we had to watch helplessly and wait for the flare to burn out.
Courage or stupidity? Poor judgment? You decide. As for me, I picked courage, for each Marine had done all he could do.
Yes, I have served with Marines.
Over the years we all have become masters of disguise. What you may perceive as fat, balding, wrinkled old seniors, you are not seeing the real, the young, the proud and patriotic man hidden inside. But if you are clever enough, you might yet get a glimpse of that inner man. Mention Okinawa, Pelilieu, Inchon, Chosin, Bunker Hill, Reno, Vegas and Carson, Khe Sanh, Hue, Kuwait City and then watch the eyes. The eyes will give him away every time. The fires of long ago will flicker bright as he unconsciously dredges up faces, events and remembrances. Within, he will hear the whiz-bangs falling, the popping of rifles and machine guns in the night, the arc of tracers burning bright in the dark sky, the acrid smell of cordite and the stench of white phosphorous. And colors mean his life. There is only the Red, White and Blue and the Oath of Allegiance explains his whole being.
Yes, I knew Marines.
The camaraderie among close buddies is where trust and reliance is always foremost. Especially during the early morning hours of a tiring 50 percent watch and your Marine buddy in the fighting hole turns to you and says, "Take five, Mac, I'll finish the watch." Then, as an apologetic afterthought, he adds, "Hell, I can't sleep anyway!" You know he's lying, or else he saw or felt something in you that begged for rest.
To all those Marines pulling duty all over the world today and to those former Marines, living and dead, I just want to simply say to all, "Thanks, Mac, for the five!"
WILLIAM T. MOORE
Carson City