Charles R. "Chuck" Dowling

As new Lieutenants, the courses we took at basic school, back in the “Old Corps” days, included an introduction to hand-to-hand combat. As expected we went through all the “trip and flip,” use your opponent’s weight against him techniques, inspired by what was known then as jiu-jitsu. We also received instruction on killing with bare hands, knives and axes. Where we would get an axe in combat was not made clear to us. The instructor was a Marine Captain named Parker and he was the most glorious specimen of mankind I had ever seen. At six feet four inches and about two hundred and thirty pounds of compact muscle, he was the epitome of the perfect man. A modern sport fan would say he had the build of the ideal outside linebacker.

As I remember the course, it was quite graphic and gruesome. We learned how to strangle someone with our hands and how to use a garrote to cut into or even to slice off a head. He showed us how to disembowel an enemy with a knife or bayonet, to crush heads with a rifle, and how to kill a man by hitting him in the back, on angle, with an axe, in order to sever the spinal chord.

We also learned that Captain Parker was a humorless and focused individual. His pale blue eyes were clear and menacing. His face, although handsome, and even boyish looking, was hard and unforgiving. We came away from the course understanding that we had just met some one who was, to use a cliché, one of a kind and also “one mean dude.”

Time passed and a few years later, I bumped into some Lieutenants I had gone through basic school with. They had recently returned from participating in some landing operation exercises in the Philippines. Over a few cold ones at the “O” club, we celebrated our reunion and exchanged a number of “sea” stories. One of them was about Captain Parker.

Earlier that year, as part of a large scale training exercise in the Philippines, Captain Parker “jumped” onto a small island at the edge of the area of operations with a small Force Recon team. The jungle island, some ten miles off the coast, was uninhabited. For the purposes of the exercise, the island represented an “aggressor” radar site. Their mission was to neutralize the facility and to set up their own communication system. They were also to provide early warning of any “aggressor” activity on the flank of the operation.

The great God Murphy, of Murphy’s law fame, brought his evil brothers with him for this exercise. The main landings were a mass of confusion. Many units landed in the wrong places and missions had to be changed or scrapped. (This why we practice, was the face saving wisdom). A few real life accidents occurred, where a some Marines were injured, stopping parts of the exercise completely, and as if that wasn’t enough, on the third day, a totally unpredictable (so the weather people said) tropical storm swept into area. The storm forced a number of the attack and support vessels to move to open water to gain maneuver room.

After the storm passed, the exercise was continued, with little additional trouble. At the end of ten days, the exercise completed, the Navy and the Marines packed up and left for home. The original time period for the exercise was to have been five days. The mishaps and the storm added the extra five days.

Meanwhile Captain Parker and his team had supplies for three days. They were to have been picked up or re-supplied at the end of the three days. As with the main “invasion” one of Murphy’s minions spread his largesse on Parker and his men too. Their radio went down on the second day and was not fixable. Due to the problems the main effort was going through, the required twice-daily reports from Parker were not missed. As a matter of fact, Parker was completely forgotten about.

The retreating armada was two days at sea when someone realized Parker and his team had been left behind. An LST was sent back and three days later they were picked up, alive, hungry and not a little angry. Force Recon people know that there will times when they have to eat snakes and bugs, but they weren’t anticipating it happening this way.

As the story goes, Captain Parker took his men to the galley and demanded that they be fed immediately. The mess crew fell all over themselves to be accommodating. Parker then went to the officer’s wardroom, slammed the door open, shouted for food and sat down at a table set with a white tablecloth, white linen, monogrammed silverware, crystal and bone china.

. He had lived on the ground and in the mud for more than two weeks. He had worn the same clothes for more than two weeks. He had not bathed or shaved for fifteen days. He had drunk polluted water, which caused mild dysentery, for almost two weeks and had not eaten food for twelve days. At that moment he was not the most rational or squared away Marine you will ever see. He was also not attired appropriately for the wardroom.

The stewards jumped to his command however. Dinner was about to be served to the first shift of officers, my friends among them, so they were ready. One of the stewards grabbed a full plate and put it in front of Parker. At that moment the officer in charge of the mess, a Naval Lieutenant entered the wardroom, took one look at Parker, his filth and the dirt he had trailed in, and ordered him out of the wardroom.

Parker took some of the meat off the plate with his filthy hands, rolled it up into a piece of bread he had taken from the breadbasket and took a big bite, not even looking at the lieutenant.

The Lieutenant ordered him to leave again, this time at a little higher pitch. Parker did not even acknowledge his existence. He made himself another sandwich and continued to eat. The Lieutenant’s face was reddening. By then some of the other officers, mostly Marines, were attempting to get the Lieutenant to calm down. He refused, ranting about Marines with no decorum and dignity and flaunting inappropriate behavior for an officer etc. He didn’t care what the situation was etc. etc. No one comes into the wardroom etc etc,

Breaking free from those attempting to calm him, he leaned over the table, facing Parker. He lowered himself so he was right in his face, he had both hands splayed in front of him and resting in the table. “Get out!” he ordered as loudly as he could.

Those that were there said they had never seen hands move as fast as Parker’s hands moved. Within what appeared to be split seconds, Parker had pulled his combat knife, and slashed down at the table in a lightening burst of quick jabs. When he finished, barely moments from when he pulled the knife, there were slices in the tablecloth and down into the wood between each of the Lieutenant ten fingers and the knife was stuck in the table in front of the grubby Marine, still quivering. He had, with great skill missed every one of the Lieutenants fingers by the smallest of margins. He made himself another sandwich, licking a small spill of gravy off his dirty fingers.

“Good meat.” He said and smiled up at the Lieutenant. The Lieutenant had not moved. He just looked at Parker in ashen-faced horror.

The Captain of the LST, a senior Lieutenant, was a reasonable man. Parker agreed to pay the officers mess for a new tablecloth. And the issue was settled.

My buddies, the Lieutenants telling me the story, said they saw Parker off and on for the next few days as he strolled around the vessel, but they did not see the Naval Lieutenant the rest of the trip.

The story of 41 Commando RM and their “cousins” the US Marines

By Charles R. “Chuck” Dowling, Captain USMCR

Under the leaden glow of an ashy gray sky, amidst a swirling icy mist, Task Force Drysdale left the friendly but crowded garrison at Koto-ri and headed toward their objective. In addition to the chilling fog, wind blown snow tossed and twisted around the long line of olive drab vehicles.

It would not be an easy trip. The road in front of them had been interdicted in a number of places by the Chinese Communist forces, but the troops at Hagaru-ri, some ten miles distant needed help. The time was 1400. The date was November 29. The task force included 17 tanks, 140 soft-sided vehicles and 950 troops. Among the troops were the 235 Royal Marines of 41 Commando, Company “G” of the 1st Marine Regiment, Company “B” 31 st Regiment, 7 th Division US Army and a large contingent of 1st Marine Division headquarters staff personnel. Lieutenant Colonel Douglas B. Drysdale, Commanding officer of 41 Commando, an independent unit of the Royal Marines was in overall command.

Earlier, after shaking off the effects of a sleepless night in below zero temperatures, the Royal Marines had attacked a small hill to the right of the road to the north. Against light resistance, they secured the objective quickly. “G” Company passed through the Commandos and attacked the next hill, experiencing heavier resistance than the 41 Commando had, but they were still able to secure the position with a minimum of casualties. “B” Company, the Army infantry unit, acted as the task force reserve.

Continuing on, the foot soldiers moved slowly forward for about two miles, when they came under heavy automatic weapons fire. Colonel Drysdale took stock. The next section of the road passed through a narrow valley. Their vehicles, which hadn’t left Koto-ri at that point, were lightly armored supply trucks. The seventeen tanks had not arrived yet, but even they would be somewhat vulnerable in the narrow canyon. The terrain would not allow for flank protection. To continue would be to run a fiery gauntlet.

On a cold balky radio, Colonel Drysdale called ahead to Hagaru and outlined the situation. The 2000 Marines and engineers, both Marine and Army, were carving an airstrip from the frozen tundra at the advanced base. They had already experienced one night of brutal combat in sub-zero weather, having been attacked by at least a division of Chinese infantry, and he was advised that the supplies and reinforcements were vital to their ability to continue to hold on. The experienced and courageous Commando made his decision. Comrades in arms need help.

From the time the North Koreans had invaded South Korea, June 25, 1950, to the time the UN forces spearheaded by the U.S. Army and Marines had driven the North Koreans out of South Korea, had been a little over three months.

During October and November, as they moved to consolidate the victory, invading North Korea to do so, both of the United Nations units --X Corps operating in the east and the Eighth Army moving along in the western part of the peninsula -- felt the sting of The Chinese Communists for the first time.

In an impressive military coup, and a massive intelligence failure by the UN Forces, the CCF had managed to move almost a half million troops into North Korea before their presence was recognized. In late November they launched overwhelming attacks against the Eighth Army in their sector and X Corps in theirs. In addition to the overwhelming assaults, the UN Forces had to contend with the coldest weather ever recorded in the area. For two straight weeks at the end of November and the beginning of December, the temperature did not rise above zero degrees Fahrenheit.

In the west, the Eighth Army was almost completely over run and had to fall back many miles to regroup. In the X Corps area, Marines units were isolated and surrounded in a number of places along the 78 miles of mountain road from Hamhung on the coast to Yudam-ni at the northern end of the Chosin reservoir.

Three Chinese divisions surrounded two regiments of Marines at Yudam-ni. A reinforced Marine rifle company held the pass at Toktong against one division of Chinese Forces and the two thousand troops at Hagaru were hemmed in by three more divisions. To the west of Hagaru, a truncated Army battalion was facing more than a regiment of enemy troops.

Koto-ri, to the south of Hagaru, felt the enemy’s sting last, but by the time Task Force Drysdale was on its way; they too were being encircled and besieged.

41 Independent Commando RM, had a short but illustrious career. The plucky group only existed eighteen months overall, but during that short time the Royal Marine unit delivered a number of painful blows to both the North Koreans and then later to the Chinese Communist forces in Korea. The unit, which ultimately numbered 235 talented and versatile Commandos, was re-commissioned in England on August 16, 1950. The unit had participated six years before in the D-Day invasions at Normandy, but had been deactivated following the German surrender.

After commissioning, 41 Commando was then assembled piecemeal over the next few months until its reached its final strength in November of that year. During the days between their formation and November 15, sections of the 41 Commando operated as independent combat teams.

One small element, launching from a submarine in rubber boats raided up and down the coast near Inchon, creating diversionary attacks before the big invasion in September.

All during the month of October sub units of 41 Commando blew up bridges and railroad crossings, mostly behind enemy lines the eastern part of North Korea.

On November 15, at their request, 41 Independent Commando was assigned to the 1 st Marine Division. The Division, as part of X Corps, the easternmost force in the drive to the Yalu, had already embarked on their far-ranging mission. The UN forces were pushing north to the Yalu to consolidate the whole of Korea into one again. The Eighth Army was matching their advance in the western part of the peninsula.

Lieutenant Colonel Drysdale and the Royal Marines reached the 1st Marine Regiment headquarters at Koto-ri on November 28. The Division headquarters was further north at Hagaru-ri.

Colonel Lewis B. “Chesty” Puller, Commanding Officer of the 1st Marines, welcomed the spit and polish commandos, but then had to dispatch them almost immediately to the north. Hagaru was under siege and short on supplies and fighting men.

Drysdale, after allowing the iron monsters time to refuel, stepped off into the gauntlet with 13 of the tanks in the lead. Four tanks brought up the rear. The time was 1615 and night was falling.

Once into the gauntlet, dubbed “Hell Fire Alley,” by Colonel Drysdale, the column was brutally assaulted by small arms fire and rockets on all sides. For the most part the Chinese let the tanks pass and concentrated on the “softer targets”. They did manage to cripple one of the lead tanks with satchel charges, however.

The long file of troops and vehicles in the valley was split into a number of small groups, each fighting desperately and ferociously in the deepening dark and skin cracking cold. Records show that at the garrison at Hagaru, just a few miles ahead, the actual recorded temperature had dropped to –24 degrees that night.

The fighting was almost constant from late in the afternoon to sunrise and became particularly violent in the middle of the column. Some of the tanks at the head of the convoy made it through to Hagaru, but the large numbers of crashed and burning vehicles in the gorge blocked the road, rendering the tanks in the rear almost totally ineffective. By the time the next morning dawned, it was evident that Task Force Drysdale had taken a bad beating.

During the night fighting, a few of the vehicles and 25 members of the Commando unit had worked their way back to Koto-ri, most with serious cases of frostbite by the time they came through the lines. Back in the valley, a large number of US Marines and Soldiers were taken prisoner after running out of ammunition. Fortunately many escaped within the next few weeks. There were some 321 combat casualties overall and 75 lost vehicles.

Three hundred members of the total force, about a hundred Royal Marines, most of “G” Company of the 1st Marines, a platoon of tanks and a number of vehicles did run the gauntlet successfully however. They became instrumental later in helping to secure the base and the airstrip at Hagaru. Colonel Drysdale himself was wounded in the action, as were a large number of his officers.

The official US Marine history contains these words in describing the situation: “To the slender garrison of Hagaru was added a tank company and some 300 seasoned infantry.” The Royal Marines were placed in reserve, but before they could “lick their wounds” they where almost immediately utilized the next night to successfully reinforce the area known as east Hill, when the Communists launched a series of human wave attacks.

Less than 100 of 41 Commando emerged from “Hell Fire Alley” and 61 became battle casualties during subsequent fighting. Along with over 4000 US casualties, 25 members of 41 Commando were flown out, thanks to the air strip they had all fought so hard to secure.

At the time of this action, in the western part of North Korea, the Eighth Army had fallen back significantly and the decision had been made to pull X Corps out of its untenable position by the Chosin Reservoir.

The two Marine Regiments, the 5 th and the 7 th Marines, who had been out on a limb at Yudam-ni fought their way back to Hagaru. Then reuniting with the division headquarters and the units of the 1st Marine Regiment in Hagaru and Koto-ri, the entire division fought its way back to the sea. 41 Commando, finally able to gather its members again, had 150 effectives. They provided flank security for portions of the division train as it moved down the mountain road toward Hungnam.

Despite the dirt and filth and the below zero temperatures Colonel Drysdale insisted his men shave before they began the attack to the sea. The US Marines, spit and polish soldiers themselves, were impressed.

The last joint function of 41 Commando and the 1st Marine Division was to celebrate Christmas together. Due to some misguided sentiments in the US, (The Women’s Christian temperance Union et al) the Marines were prevented from receiving a million cases of donated beer. Somehow, if you were below age 21 it was okay to die for your country, but you couldn’t drink beer. To the everlasting gratitude of the US Marines, 41 Commando managed to provide a large shipment of “medical supplies” from their embassy in Tokyo. Later Colonel Drysdale made the following statement about 41 Commando’s time with the Marines.

“This was the first time the Marines of the two nations had fought side by side since the defense of the Peking Legation in 1900. Let it be said that the admiration of all ranks of 41 Commando for their brothers in arms was and is unbounded. They fought like tigers and their morale and esprit de corps is second to none.”

After the Chosin Reservoir campaign, 41 Commando, who had been badly depleted of specialists during the action, went into a bit of a hiatus. In April 1951 however, they led some teams of engineers and demolition people to blow up the port of Sorye Dong, again behind enemy lines. Shortly after, now at full strength, they occupied a number of islands in Wonsan harbor and harassed Chinese Communist shipping and shore activities. The intent of all their raids was to disrupt the chain of supplies from China to the Korean Peninsula. In true Commando fashion, most of their work was done at night, some times coming ashore in mechanized vehicles, but often using rubber boats, canoes and occasionally swimming long distances.

The Royal Marines fought on in Korea until late December of 1951, when they were withdrawn to Japan. They were officially disbanded on February 22, 1952.

During their time in Korea, in addition to the courageous battles they fought along side the US Marines, 41 Commando also had made 18 amphibious landings on the enemy coasts. Eleven of these attacks resulted in enemy forces being pulled from front line action to protect vital railroads, bridges and marshalling areas.

They had done much with little and with such elan, that they earned the gratitude and respect of all the United Nations forces. But most of all they earned the enormous appreciation and regard of their cousins, The US Marines.

Article first appeared in The Florida Palm, Summer 2003

For the New Writer…

A short primer on writing novels, speaking not from years of writing experience, but from one who has been recently published, yet is still close enough to those not yet published, to be able to relate to them.

The six most important things to do to become a successful writer are read, read, read and write, write, write. Cliché, perhaps, but true.

For someone who wants to be an author, I don’t think I can stress enough, the importance of reading, in the development of their writing skills. Read, read, and read some more. Learn how others have done things. Don’t re-invent the wheel. Whatever you want to do, more than likely someone has done the same thing or something like it before. Read fiction, non-fiction, novels, short stories, newspapers, magazines, heck, read labels, and advertising copy. Read everything. Read it all. Read with an eye to how writers accomplish their goals, how they develop their themes. Read and learn. Unless you are into writing screenplays or TV scripts, turn the idiot box off. Use the time to read

Not long ago, at a meetings of the Florida Writers Association, I met a man, in his mid twenties, who, like most of us, was an aspiring writer. He wanted to write about motorcycles. As we talked, it became evident that the only reading he did was magazine articles about motorcycles. Apparently there were two such magazines that he read religiously. He wanted to write articles like he saw in the periodicals. I suggested that if he wanted to be able to write, he should read other material and not just motorcycle stories. I suggested that he would write better motorcycle articles if he learned more about writing skills by reading other work. From the look on his face, it was apparent that he did not understand what I was saying to him. He expected to hear some magic formula at our meetings, which would make a writer out of him. I had given it to him, but he did not seem to accept it. I don’t remember seeing him again.

The next thing I would say to a new writer is to write. As obvious as that sentence sounds, I am continually surprised at the “writers” who don’t write or only do it haphazardly. There are always excuses, but never reasons. We all know “writers” who are going to write, but don’t seem to get around to it. When younger, I too fell into that trap. I had the same pressures that we all do, my job, my family and so forth. There just wasn’t the time or the energy. I also had a fear. I felt if that someone would read my writing before I was able to “polish” it, I would look like a jerk, so I didn’t write. I have since discovered that many of us have had this fear. I too made excuses. Looking back today, however, I wish I had forgotten all those “monsters of indecision and inertia” and I had just sat down and wrote, wrote almost anything on some sort of a consistent basis at a much earlier age.

When I was in my first year of high school, I had an English teacher who, for one semester forced us to write about something three times a week. This was homework, by the way, not classroom work. He felt the classroom was a place to present information. Homework was the way to practice and reinforce what we had learned. He passed out 3x5 index cards. All we had to do was fill up the card. At most we were talking about 150 to 200 words. We could write about anything. I wrote about my families’ new TV set, my tropical fish tank, a snowstorm, a baseball game I had played in, some pictures on the wall in my room. There was nothing very consequential in the writings. It was just practice. We also had to come up with a new topic for each piece, which forced us to think ahead and to think creatively. We hated it, but we did it. Now I look back and wish I had continued the habit, because that was what the exercises were all about. You can develop good habits, as well as bad ones, but you need to do it. I say to you as a new writer, develop the habit of writing. Write something every day, no matter how small or inconsequential, and of course read something besides the newspaper.

I have been asked from time to time about my writing style and my goals, what motivates me and so forth. Let me first and foremost say that, when I write novels, I try to write a book that I would like to read. That is my goal, my motivation. There are those who have a burning desire to get their thoughts and their emotions down on paper. That’s fine. Me? I want to write a good story. I try to follow a pattern without being formulaic. I want the plot to be interesting, to flow easily and to keep readers turning pages. I believe a book should be easy to read, varied enough to be interesting, but not so obscure and convoluted that most readers would lose track of the story. Some authors thrive on the creation of multi-threaded plot lines, Robert Ludlum comes to mind, and, although I love Ludlum’s books, I can’t write that way.

In my books, each chapter should end with a mini climax. Many of my chapters come close to being a short story in and of themselves, with a beginning, middle and an end. I often try to provide a hook for continued reading. Again, I want to write a page-turner. I once had a friend take me to task because I kept him up all night. I had asked him to read one of my manuscripts and critique it for me. He said the book drove him crazy. Each time he told himself he would go to bed when he finished a chapter, he looked at the first few words of the next chapter, and then had to continue reading. He couldn’t put the book down. I received his complaint with mixed emotions. Although I almost lost a friend, (not really), he provided me with an extremely uplifting critique and a validation of my intentions.

I also try to create images and emotions by the proper use of words. I want the reader to see the stage on which the characters are playing out the drama. I try to describe a scene as if I was looking at it through a movie camera. Is it daytime? If so, is it a gray day, a sunlit day, a hot day, a cold day. Make the reader feel it. Is it nighttime? Is it a starry night, a cloudless night, a black night or a scary night? Think “Snoopy” and “the dark and stormy night.”
When writing about Soldiers or Marines, which I do often, I try to explore what it feels like to be on a rocking, lurching landing craft as it churns through the gray/green water toward some unknown fate. What emotions will a soldier have running onto a beach raked by enemy fire? What does a battlefield feel like at night? How much can the soldier see? What can’t he see? What are the sounds a soldier will hear? Is that a rifle bolt sliding home? Is that rustling in the bush an enemy crawling closer or some indigenous wildlife? What will the soldier smell? What will he taste? Is bile rising in his mouth? Think about what your characters will be feeling as they move through their actions.

I will vary the pace between serious sections and light sections. The reader needs a break from tension. Too much tension and the reader’s mind shuts down. Shakespeare, even in his darkest dramas, included humorous scenes, thereby providing comedic relief. In addition, depending on the place and time, I use personal letters, memos, news clippings, radio and TV broadcasts and other devices to break up the flow, to introduce other voices, to create interest and to carry certain parts of the story forward, without involving one of the characters

If you read my work, you will often be reading about, honor, courage, self sacrifice, duty…a high moral tone. In one of my books, I actually wanted one of the main characters to not be a person, but to be a virtue, the virtue of honor.

Emotion is important to me. I want readers to stand up and cheer at certain times and to break down and cry at others. People with deep-seated problems will sometimes appear in my work, but only peripherally, and usually as villains or an instigator. My books don’t plumb these depths to any great degree. I don’t use the Hannibal Lehcters of the world as protagonists.

For the most part, my characters are average people who become heroic. They will have warts and wens of course, but overall they will be people to be admired. In many cases I want to show their growth from young, opinionated or naïve people, to mature balanced citizens.
I write about relationships, but only as they further the plot. My stories are not primarily studies in relationships. I also try to use plot and action to define the relationships.

I try to create characters that are interesting of themselves. Often they are composites of people I know, or have known in the past. On occasion the character will be an exact copy of a person. On still other occasions, they will be totally fictional people, at least as far as any author can create a totally fictional character.

Most of my works will have some historical or geographical base and as such I endeavor to make these portions of the story as accurate as possible. I look for heroic times in man’s history in which to place my characters.

For the most part, my books will have a great deal of action and adventure in them and will be of interest to people seeking those genres. I also feel however that once tempted to pick up one of my books, almost anyone will enjoy them. I also believe my interests are broad enough that if I find a subject interesting, then most other people will also find it interesting; not all of course, but most.

I don’t mean to suggest that anyone should write the way I do. I lay these concepts out, so you can see the way one person approaches what we all must face. Adapt the concepts to your psyche.

Which brings me to another point i.e. the subject of Genre. I understand that most people, who read, have a favorite type of book. So do I. But to limit one’s reading to only, or even mostly, that genre, is very narrowing or channeling, especially for a writer. People who read only, romance novels, or science fiction or westerns, or mysteries are losing so much. I talked to a young man not too long ago who told me that he only read the types of science fiction that involved space travel. Other subjects like time travel, alien cultures, future worlds, fantasy etc, were of no interest to him. He looked for a genre within a genre. Read in other fields. Just trying something else can be enlightening. It can open up new worlds. Isaac Asimov had a Ph.D. in Physics. He was one of the giants of science fiction writing, but he was also a philosopher, a bio-scientist, a mathematician and a historian of note. He read and wrote in many fields, including a world history and histories of different groups of people. One of his classics is The History of the Celtic People. Try new things, new venues, grow and expand. To quote an old TV cereal commercial, “Try it, you’ll like it” (Remember Mikey?)

When I was in college, I had a professor who felt that Moby Dick was the greatest novel ever written by an American author. I wasn’t sure at the time, but now I couldn’t agree more. The reason it deserves the accolade is all the dimensions it presents. First it is an excellent allegory, demonstrating the wrong way to fight evil. It has unforgettable characters, Captain Ahab, Queequeg, Starbuck, Father Mapple et al. I have long envied the author’s characterization skills.

The images Melville creates are also wonderful, especially the descriptions of the New England villages, the whaling ship The Pequod, the longboat attacks on the great white whale and many smaller details. Who can forget the church pulpit made from the prow of a boat, with a swinging rope ladder for the preacher to climb? Moby Dick is also an excellent manual on whaling, doing much to preserve the techniques of the day for posterity. Although the writing style, is little peculiar to out 21st century eye and ear, it was written with near perfect use of the English language. Perhaps most important of all however, is that Moby Dick is one heck of a good story.

When people read my books, my greatest reward would be if they told me, “You wrote one heck of a good story”.

Author biography:
Chuck is the author of To Keep Our Honor Clean, grand prize winner Gardenia Press novel competition 2001, The Snow of Far Off Northern Lands an upcoming release and The First to Fight, all Novels about the Marines. He is a member of the Florida Writers Association, where he directs a monthly Palm Group for new and beginning writers, and the Space Coast Writers Guild. Chuck also conducted a workshop at the SCWG conference in January.

He has had an excerpt from one of his novels published in Treasures: celebrating Florida Writers and also a number of stories and essays in other anthologies.

Article first appeared in The Florida Palm, October 2004.

A book signing to remember:

It was slow at the bookstore. I had been doing a number of these signings recently with Borders Books and some had been reasonably successful, but for some reason this store on this Saturday afternoon was not working out. Although I had a good location near the front door, I think the traffic was too light to provide the necessary customers.

I had been sitting there for about an hour and a half, greeting the occasional shopper, when an older woman and a boy came in. The woman was perhaps sixty and the boy about nine or ten. They exchanged pleasantries with me for a moment. The boy was there to buy a science project he had been saving for. His Grandmother told me he loved doing these projects and worked many odd jobs and provided all his own money in order to be able to buy them. While we had been talking, I noticed that the boy was also looking at my books. He actually picked one up and looked closely at the cover. Then they left to get his science project.

After a short time, the boy came back to my table by himself. He had a bulky Borders bag. He had bought his science project. He stood there, as before, looking at the books I had displayed on the table.

My book To Keep Our Honor Clean is about a patriotic American family that becomes caught up in the Korean War. The cover is bright blue with a gold Globe and Anchor, the symbol of the Marine Corps. The four brothers in my novel are all Marines.

The boy looked at the cover and then held his hand out and began to trace the outline around the Globe and anchor with his finger. He seemed to be thinking about something. I took the opportunity to ask him if his Daddy was Marine. He told me no. He also told me he didn’t see his daddy or his mommy much anymore. I wondered about that, but didn’t ask. He said his Grandpa was the Marine. I asked if he was still in the Marine Corps and he told me was retired. Apparently he had been wounded -- it was hard for him to walk, so he couldn’t get out much.

As part of my display, I have a picture of Master Sergeant’s chevrons. The boy pointed to them and told me that his grandpa had stripes like those. He then asked me how much the book cost. I told him $16.95. He asked me if I had written it. I told him I had. He told me it must be hard to write a book. I told him it was. He asked me if I signed the books when people bought them. I said yes. We talked for a few moments. He showed me what he had bought. Then he left.

A few minutes later he came back with his grandmother and he pointed the book out to her. He asked his grandmother how much money he had left. I think she told him he had about four or five dollars. The boy’s face fell, then, apparently he had an idea. He whispered something to her. I saw tears come into his grandmother’s eyes. She looked at me with a smile only grandmas can project and she told me what he wanted to do.

He wanted to buy the book for his grandpa. It was about Marines and that would be special for him. Unfortunately, he had spent most of his money on his science project. He loved doing them and looked forward to going out with grandma, buying them, bringing them home and taking them to school.

What he had asked his grandmother in the little boy whisper was, if he could get his money back if he returned the project so he could buy the book. He really wanted to get it for his grandpa. And it was important to him that I sign it. She told him she thought the store would take back the project, but then he wouldn’t have a project to do. He told her it didn’t matter. He wanted to do something for his grandfather and he thought book would be a special gift.

Tears now came to my eyes. I was about to give him one of the books free, when his grandmother told him she would buy the science project for him so he could buy the book. Maybe she could find some work for him to do so he could pay her back. Fighting back my tears of admiration for this child, I told her I would give him the book so he could give it to his Grandpa, but she said no. She felt it was important that the boy bought the book himself. The boy agreed. He wanted to pay for it.

They left with the book and the science project. I wrote a long salutation to “Grandpa Marine” on the title page before I signed it and told him what I thought of the boy. I only sold two books at that signing, but I don’t think I will ever have a more successful event.

Way back in the misty mid- regions of yore, I saw a poster on the wall of a supply facility in Quantico. It was a picture of a medieval knight, his body, from head to feet, decked out in full, glistening body armor and chain mail. He was holding an axe. The legend below said “Unless your 782 gear* looks like this, don’t talk to me about The Old Corps.”

The Old Corps was that mystical place, from which all Marines sprung, but for me, a new Marine, it seemed to be some place I would never attain. It also was a place no one could define. We heard about the old Corps from our DI’s, from the veterans in our units, and from those just a little ahead of us in service time. We read about it in publications like Leatherneck Magazine and even some training manuals and saw it in cartoons. It was Nirvana, Valhalla, Stoblecor (Klingon heaven for the Star Trek fans) and the third level of Paradise, (from the Divine Comedy by Dante, for the intellectuals), much desired but seemingly unattainable.

But buck up Marines. It took me many years but, after exhaustive study, diligent research, and many sleepless nights, I found the way. There is a way to define The Old Corps and more important, a way to enter it. After much time and effort, a definition was developed and from it springs the paths to the legend.

The Old Corps is that nebulous thing that ended the day you joined the Marine Corps. It’s a simple as that. Everything that went before that time, for you, is The Old Corps. Paradoxically, to the next guy after you, you are Old Corps. The further away new Marines get from your date of service, the more hallowed a member of The Old Corps you become. It is your way to enter the hoary halls of Heaven.

So lift your heads, new Marines. As soon as some one raises the right hand after you have raised yours, you are officially a member of the Old Corps

*782 Gear: For the uninitiated, 782 gear is the field equipment issued to Marines, including the helmet, pack, bayonet, various ammunition belts, canteens etc. The name derives from the form number listing the equipment.

(My apologies to the left field wall in Fenway Park)

In 1958, as a newly minted Second Lieutenant, I checked into my first Duty station in Twenty-nine Palms, California. I was assigned to one of the 105-mm artillery batteries in the First Field Artillery Group. The 1 st FAG, a name many were leery of owning up to, was part of Force Troops. Force Troops was composed of the heavy artillery group, i.e. The 1 st FAG, The 1 st MAAM battalion, (the first ground to air missile systems in the Corps), some twin-forty units and a few other air defense units.

The artillery batteries in the Field artillery group were constructed a little differently that the division artillery Regiments, like the Tenth, Eleventh and Twelfth Marines. Each FAG battery was structured to be able to operate independently of support elements. As a consequence, In addition to our artillery pieces, we also had our own motor transport section with our own trucks and repair capabilities, our own supply section and our own communication section. In personal and equipment, our batteries were nearly double the size of a traditional artillery battery.

As a result, of this size, and the number of artillery pieces and vehicles involved, the FAG gun and motor parks spread out over a large area. The number of guards needed to provide security for the unit was substantial. Posting and inspecting guards around the perimeters of the FAG complex was a big operation. One Marine standing Guard may walk four or five miles in a four hour shift, just making sure he was able to cover his post properly. Changing and supervising the guard required a vehicle.

Shortly after I arrived, I, and a couple of other newly arrived Lieutenants, were placed on the 1 st FAG duty roster. Within two weeks, I was serving my first duty as Officer of the Day.

When we posted the guard, I rode with the Sergeant of the guard to learn the lay of the land. We would then alternate inspection tours during the night, ensuring that we each could get at least a few hours of unbroken sleep. There was also a Corporal of the guard and a duty driver. For the Corporal, his job was to remain awake all night, to take calls, check in new arrivals etc. The duty driver also remained awake all night, his job, to transport the Sergeant of the guard or the OD to wherever they had to go. They would usually be allowed to sleep the next day. The Sergeant of the guard and the Officer of the Day had to return to their regular duties however. No rest for the weary.

When the Sergeant and I returned from posting the guard, we set up our inspection rotation. I don’t remember the exact times, but one of the tours I was to take, was about 0200 or 0300, (two or three a.m.). The Corporal of the guard woke me up at the correct time and off I went, with the duty driver.

About the halfway mark though our rounds, we heard a rifle shot. It came from the most eastern part of our gun park. This part of the parking area was at the extreme edge of 1st FAG’s gun parks. From this point on, the terrain was wild desert; gently sloping up to some craggy and rocky, sun scorched hills.

Needless to say, I was startled. This was peacetime. No wars were going on (except for the Cold War). Who was doing the shooting? I was imagining the worst. I told the driver to load his weapon. I loaded mine, and then we raced to the spot where we thought we had heard the shot.

When we arrived all was quiet. We looked for the guard. We finally found him lying under one of the trucks, peering out into the desert. He yelled at us to cut the lights of the jeep. We complied. Then I crab-walked over to him. He was in a prone position; his rifle tucked into his shoulder. He was watching the desert area beyond the park boundary intently. His face glistened with sweat.

“Sir, there’s something out there. It came at me. It was green …I shot it. It went away.” Many words bubbled out, but that was the gist of it. I didn’t know what to make of the story or of the Marine. I looked to where he was looking but saw nothing. I vaguely remember now, that although it was nighttime, the landscape could be seen quite well. We waited for awhile and then the three of us gingerly approached the area where the Marine had said he saw the green thing. We found nothing.

In the Marine Corps, firing a weapon other than on the weapons range and at the appropriate time has to be explained. I’m sure the other services have the same or similar requirements. Thus an investigation was launched.

The investigation went on for some time, but turned up nothing of interest. The Marine was removed from duty for awhile and underwent some interrogation, but then was released back to active status. The incident was forgotten. Then it happened again, about four or five months later.

From this point on the story of the mysterious incident comes to me third hand. I had no personal involvement.

This time it was another Marine who fired the weapon, but it was in the same area where the first incident took place and the Marine was in the same platoon as the first Marine. This Marine identified the intruder as a “Green Monster.” He said it glowed and moved slowly and smoothly toward him. He said he called out for it stop and then fired. Immediately the green glow disappeared. He ran back to the headquarters to report the happening.

Obviously another investigation ensued, again finding nothing. This Marine was sent to “Office Hours” for leaving his post. He received some extra duty as punishment. He also received a thorough interrogation and was eventually returned to normal status.

The third incident took place about a month later. This time it involved the first Marine again, a man I will call Private Mahon.

Mahon, I don’t have a first name, was, in the vernacular of the day, “ a piece of work.” He had kind of a fire plug build, square head, big neck and a short blocky body. His hair, what their was of it, was a dirty blonde. He had already built a legend of sorts for himself at the time of the “Green Monster” incidents.

A few months back, for some reason, known only to the Gods of the Marine Corps, an order had come down from on high, to inventory all the light poles on the base. Each pole had a number. The number was embossed on a metal plate about the size of a dog tag and nailed to the pole. A six-man work party was formed including Mahon, and they were dispatched around the base to “get the numbers off the light poles.”

Now that order could be interpreted in a number of different ways. Five of the members of the work party came back with a list of the numbers in their assigned areas. Mahon came back, long after the others, with a pile of numbered plates that he had pried off the light poles in his assigned area. Needless to say, there was a great deal of irritation over this among the supply people.

In another incident, during a live fire exercise, Mahon’s 105-mm howitzer section received an order to break off from their indirect fire mission and turn in a different direction and then fire their howitzer as a direct fire weapon. The exercise was to simulate a combat situation, whereby an enemy may get close to an artillery battery and attack its position with infantry. The end result would be like some of the Civil War battles where cannons fired directly into charging troops.

For the “Cannon Cockers,” the mission involved a great deal of physical effort. They would literally have to manhandle the howitzer to a new firing position. Well all hands turned to, except Mahon. He just watched. At the point where the struggling Marines were lifting the weapon’s trails to swing it around, the section chief, a grizzled Staff Sergeant, muscles bulging as he helped his men, looked up and saw Mahon, simply standing there. He roared at him. “ Mahon, you m----- ----ing ----bird, get on that ----ing trail.” (Expletives deleted).

Mahon immediately, ran over to the gun and jumped up onto the trail, his weight knocking it out of the hands of the struggling gun crew, forcing some to their knees. Needless to say, the Section Chief, aided by a few members of the gun crew, immediately administered some “field” discipline to Private Mahon.

The incident made it to “Office Hours” too, but went no further. What Mahon did, was not a legally punishable incident. What the Section Chief and the others did, could have been. In any event, Mahon’s reputation was established.

The way the third “Green Monster” incident seems to have unfolded was little different than the other two. There was no shooting. In the middle of a clear starry night, the guard walking the post just disappeared. Mahon was the guard. His post, this time, had been near the place of the first two incidents, but not at exactly the same spot.

When it was discovered that one of the guards was missing, the remainder of the guard was turned out and a search ensued. Then the base provost martial and the MPs pitched in. The next day more troops joined the search. Mahon was not found, but the searches did discover a cartridge belt in an area about a half-mile into the desert where, a number of desert shrubs had been dug up or broken. There were no cartridges in the cartridge belt. The ground itself showed signs of what appeared to be a struggle. There were no footprints or tire tracks, but the gravelly sand had been trampled and actually dug up in a few places.

There was no way to tell if the cartridge belt was Mahon’s or not, but he would have been wearing a similar belt while on guard duty.

I left the base to go to a school around this time, so I lost track of the incident. I know an even more extensive search had been made, with no results. When I returned, for the most part it seemed to have been forgotten. Once in awhile, someone would talk about “The Green Monster,” but no one could add anything new. The story just drifted off into legend.

About fifteen years ago, I heard through the grapevine that Mahon had been found. I don’t have a lot of confidence in the source of this information, but the story seems to be that he was found someplace back east, but then disappeared again. It now appears that the whole “Green Monster” thing could have been a hoax in order to cover up an attempt to go AWOL.

I suppose it could be true, but knowing a little about Mahon, he didn’t seem to have been the brightest bulb in the chandelier, so the question is, could he have been smart enough to develop this plan? Or, on the other hand, was he really very bright, and the whole dumb act just a ploy to accomplish a goal? My guess is, we will never know.