- Kipling –
I
arrived at the airport in Naha, Okinawa in August of 1991, 6,900 miles away
from home. It had been a year since my commissioning ceremony in Chapel Hill. I
had completed TBS and DSO course and my orders were to join the Fleet Marine
Force (FMF) for a one-year tour. My assigned unit was the Headquarters of the
3rd Marine Division which was the ground combat element of III MEF. A duty van
from the HQ picked me up at the airport for the 45-minute trip to Camp
Courtney. The first thing I noticed was the air, it was thick and had the pungent
odor that seemed like a mix of farms, outhouses, fresh rain, and decaying
forest. The winding streets were outlined by narrow concrete trenches known as
benjo ditches (formerly open sewers), and rice paddies or other crops typically
on either side. There were oxen in the fields, accompanied by farmers with
broad brimmed straw hats. The buildings were all concrete, sturdy block
structures designed to survive the frequent destructive storms known as
Typhoons. Businesses were small, with repair shops, grocery stores, and a few restaurants
crammed in to commercial districts.
It
was late when the van finally pulled up to the main gate at Camp Courtney. We
showed our ID cards to the well-armed, no nonsense Military Policeman (MP) at
the gate and passed onto the base. The driver let me off at a rectangular
one-story concrete block office building where the Officer of the Day (OOD)
resided. Being the OOD (also known as the Duty Officer), is one of the
additional duties officers have on a rotating basis. Each junior officer in the
command served a 24-hour shift as the OOD when it was his turn. In addition to
making sure that Lieutenants arriving after hours got checked in correctly, the
OOD made regular rounds of the base in search of anything out of the ordinary. He
would check fences, locks, and doors, visit barracks, and ride through the
residential areas. He would inspect the mess hall and check the cleanliness and
the quality of the food. (One of my proudest accomplishments as an inspecting
OOD was finding a worm in the lettuce of the salad bar)
I
reported in formally as was customary, and the Lieutenant drove me to a
temporary room in the bachelor’s Officer’s Quarters (BOQ). The next day I was
up early and walked the HQ building. The scenery was incredible. The squat buildings
of the base weren’t much to see, but the view of the Pacific was breathtaking.
For all their trouble in the Pacific, the Marines ended up with a choice piece
of real estate for a base. Camp Courtney overlooked the deep blue waters of
Kinbu Bay on the eastern edge of the island. The base HQ sat atop a prominent hill with the
best view of the bay on base. I made the rounds in the oppressive heat,
completing my check-in worksheet and visiting all the required sections. In
addition to administrative, training, and medical check-in, I was issued a
weapon and field equipment.
I
found my permanent room in the BOQ, walked in, and dropped my sea bag on the
single sized bed known in naval terminology as a rack. The BOQ was a long
one-story concrete building, much like the one where I had found the OOD the
night before. Officers’ rooms were organized in a two-room suite, with two
Lieutenants to a room.
I
was introduced to my assigned section, which was the “G-6”. Marine Headquarters
elements are organized into sections of shops, each having a specific
responsibility with the Division. The G-1 section handled administrative issues
such as pay, promotions, and orders. The G-2 was for intelligence, processing
reports and information to provide briefings on such things as enemy
activities, weather, locations of civilians. The G-3 was operations, developing
plans for current operations, while G-5 evaluated courses of action for future
operations. The G-6 was responsible for communications systems, ensuring that
all units within the division could communicate and operate leveraging
available resources, including radio, telephone, and computers. They also
coordinated communication requirements passed down from the higher MEF HQ. At
the top of the food chain of the Division was the Commanding General, Major
General Michael Byron. General Byron was a veteran of the Vietnam war, and
among the rows of ribbons on his chest were ones denoting a Silver Star, Legion
of Merit, two awards of the Bronze Star with Combat V, and a Purple Heart. Byron
had been a Lieutenant with the Division in Vietnam in 1965, when the patrol he
was leading came under heavy enemy fire. Half of his force was killed or
injured. Even though he was seriously wounded, he refused treatment and
directed defensive operations, calling for reinforcements and holding out until
they arrived. (8) He was a giant of a man in spirit and in courage. He could be
gruff and intimidating, but under his leadership the Division was in capable
hands.
The
G-3, Colonel Raymond Hord, also wore the ribbon of a Silver Star earned in
Vietnam. When he was a Lieutenant, his unit had taken fire from an enemy on the
other side of a rice paddy. Instead of taking cover, he charged towards the
machine guns, leading his Marines in a headlong assault that devolved into hand
to hand combat. He pressed the attack, calling up additional Marine units, and
calling in artillery and air strikes on remaining entrenched positions.
The
Division was the sharp tip of the nation’s spear, a warrior culture with a
legacy of valor that went back centuries. The men there were the real deal. Most
were too young to have been in Vietnam, but they had been trained by men like General
Byron who had been there. General Byron’s generation had been brought up and led
by Marines who had fought their way out of the frozen wasteland of Korea. The
Korean vets had known and been trained by those who conquered the Pacific in
WWII, who had themselves learned from the Marines the Germans had nicknamed
Devil Dogs because of their tenacity in places like Belleau Wood during WWI.
The line was unbroken back to the founding of the Corps in 1775 as generation
after generation of Marines ensured those who followed would be prepared when
the nation called.
The
officer I was replacing stayed around for a week after I arrived before he
returned to the US, and he briefed me on all the critical information I needed
to know. The division didn’t have any deployments scheduled for a few months,
so I settled in to work at the HQ and learned my responsibilities.
Camp
Courtney was a Marine’s paradise. It featured a weight room, a movie theater,
library, and an officer’s club that served dinner most nights. The Morale,
Welfare, and Recreation (MWR) office had sailboats and wind surfing boards that
could be checked out. I signed up for Scuba classes, enrolled in a night time
Japanese language course, and studied for the Okinawan driver’s license exam. I
was thrilled to find that there was a Scout troop on base, and I started
attending meetings the week after I arrived, serving as the assistant
Scoutmaster.
The
first month on the island was a whirlwind of cultural experiences. We hunkered
down and weathered a “Super Typhoon”, with its devastating winds and torrents
of rain that lasted for days. I explored the surrounding area, navigated
through mazes of narrow paths in bustling shopping districts, and toured
historic castles and battle sites. I got to know the other officers in the BOQ,
most of whom were “salty”, meaning they had been in the FMF for longer than I
had and knew their way around.
In
addition to being our home, the BOQ was also the workplace for an older
Japanese woman we called “Mamasan”. For a very reasonable monthly fee, Mamasan
would keep your room squared away and clean. She would also handle all of your
laundry, returning bags of soiled clothes freshly cleaned in neat, organized
stacks. She had her own room in the BOQ, and seemed to work tirelessly, night
and day. Her location in the building was announced by her small dog, who wore
a collar that jingled when he ran along beside her. She had long ago told the
residents his name, but they couldn’t pronounce it and the best approximation they
could come up with was “Skivvy Honcho”. Mamasan and her sidekick Skivvy Honcho
ruled the BOQ. An officer’s room that was too untidy from a night of drinking
or recent return from the field would result in a stern lecture from Mamasan in
a broken mix of Japanese and English. Sometimes dark humor among the
lieutenants would call for Skivvy Honcho to be being barbequed in the Korean
fashion, as we had heard dog meat was a favorite dish on the peninsula. I was
frugal, and had never had someone clean up after me, but my peers convinced me
to subscribe to her services. It didn’t take long to realize what a blessing
she was. The drudgery of cleaning and laundry was replaced by more time doing
things I wanted to do on the island. I kept some hotdogs in my room and would
sometimes slip a piece to Skivvy as they made the rounds, teasing Mamasan that
I was fattening him up for a feast.
In
the evenings we would often go out in town to local restaurants for dinner. I
was introduced to the chefs and staff, and found our Okinawan hosts to be
cordial, friendly, and extremely polite. I learned to use chopsticks correctly
and found out there was a difference between sushi and sashimi. Contrary to
popular belief, sushi is actually a specifically prepared rice made with
vinegar wine. The rice is clumped together and used to make rolls containing
uncooked seafood or vegetables. Sashimi is thinly sliced cuts of raw fish or
other seafood eaten plain or with a small bit of soy sauce. Any additional
sauce was considered a grave insult to the chef, as the flavor of the meat he
had carefully selected and prepared would be hidden. Tuna, salmon, and squid
were the most popular. I was additionally warned that leaving one’s chopsticks
standing vertically in a clump of rice was a serious breach of etiquette. The
local joints in town became a welcome change from the mess hall and officer’s
club. There, we were masters of our own empire, steadily devouring all that lay
in our path without remorse. Sushi and sashimi, fish and “not fish”, all were
consumed.
Readiness
training was constant. Runs, hikes, and range training were standard parts of
the schedule. The hikes seemed excruciatingly slow compared to what we had done
at TBS. It dawned on me that was by design. TBS had pushed us beyond what was
normally expected, so when we got out into the real world it would seem easy. You
couldn’t be a leader and use your brain if you couldn’t keep up on humps or had
to stop beside the road to throw up while the formation passed you by. On my
first hike on the island, an ancient (to me at the time) Master Gunnery
Sergeant commented cheerfully with only a hint of sarcasm as we started moving
into the Okinawan bush, “This is what I went over 24 years in the Marine Corps
for.” The entire formation broke out in cheers and hoots. Runs were equally
entertaining as the Jodies reflected life in the exclusive club. Leading the
now familiar call and response song as we ran, a Staff Sergeant called out the
starting melody to the steady cadence of shuffling feet hitting the pavement in
unison, “Left,____, left, lefty, right, lay-yuft….. We’re gonna run our selves
to death.” This also generated laughter and loud grunts of approval. These
Marines appreciated life and lived every day to the fullest, having as much fun
as they could along the way. The often-quoted Marine philosophy that, “Every
day is a holiday, every meal a banquet” typified the attitude. It was commonly
accepted that events completely out of their control could quickly change their
lives, so enjoyment was to be seized wherever possible. These Marines were my
family. I was bound to them by duty, honor, and the legacy of brotherhood that
had been alive since Marines had first gathered in a Philadelphia tavern in
1775.
The
division staff was an exciting place to be. As the resident computer expert on
the staff, I often got to attend the General’s staff meetings. I was usually
the only officer under the rank of major present, so I got to hear information
on operations that younger officers normally wouldn’t know about. The division
contained officers of many ranks, but I realized that younger officers were the
ones who did the bulk of the grunt work that made the unit function. More
senior officers provided wisdom, guidance, and direction, but when it came to
the actual business of getting something done, the first two of ranks made it
happen. Marine officers started out as second lieutenants, then usually progressed
to the rank of first lieutenant two years from their commissioning date. If
they received good fitness reports (a report card for officers), they would
pick up the rank of captain a couple of years later. Lieutenants tried to look
out for each other, as we all typically made mistakes and found ourselves in
situations we couldn’t resolve on our own. There was even an informal
understanding that we were bound in a “Lieutenants Protective Association”, or
LPA for short. The LPA network would provide information deemed to be helpful
and would work on your behalf depending on your merit. If you were a jerk, no
help would be expected or given, but a solid officer could count on his peers
when needed.
Asia was a busy place, the staff watched
events closely and planned contingencies in several countries in case we were
needed. My section worked on planning
for several operations over the coming year, with the closest one being an
exercise in mainland Japan after the New Year. A large part of the division was
going to the area around Mt. Fuji. Planning was intense and detailed, and I was
tapped to go with the detachment. I was excited about my first deployment off
the island and threw myself into the planning and training for the adventure. Weeks
flew by as I became familiar with the operations and confident in my role
within the division.
Phone
calls from Japan were expensive, so Elizabeth and I mainly communicated through
the mail. We maintained an ongoing exchange of letters and would speak on a
quick phone call once every two weeks. When I had received my assignment to
Okinawa I knew the year apart would be tough. One weekend after leaving her
apartment, I went to campus instead of going directly back to Quantico. In the
Undergraduate Library where we had studied together, I hid notes for her in the
most obscure, unused books I could find. Notes were hidden in books such as
“The History of History” that didn’t appear to have been opened in years. The
less chance someone would look at the book, the better. My notes would wait
patiently in the library until she found them. I made a key to the location of
each note I left behind, indicating the page and location of the book. Once I
was in Okinawa, that key became my map as I would write to Elizabeth and give
her the location where she could find the next note. I spaced them out over the
year. I also hid notes in her apartment for her to find after I was gone. Her
box of cold medicine hid a small note that said, “I hope you feel better
soon!”, and her makeup case had one that said, “You don’t need makeup, you’re
already beautiful!” Her shower cap held a note that said, “Hey! I bet you look
real pretty with this thing on.” Her dictionary held a note with a new entry –
Mark: Noun – Good boyfriend, loves Elizabeth, real sweet.
I
often slept in my sleeping bag in the barracks. It was comfortable and there
wasn’t much need for sheets and a blanket when the bag was fine. We had
recently spent several nights in the field on the rugged northern end of the
island, and when I returned I rolled my sleeping bag out on my rack. I slept
well the next night until I felt a sharp, stinging pain on the inside of my
upper left thigh. I jumped out of my bag and realized what had happened, I had
been bitten by a spider that had found its way into my bag. Over the next few
days, my entire thigh swelled up around the center of the bite. It looked worse
than it felt, but it felt pretty bad. It was a few days before Christmas, and
on Christmas Eve it was still hot and swollen. Several of the Lieutenants
headed out for town, but I decided to rest and went to sleep. When I woke up, I
was starving. The Officer’s club was closed, but I usually kept stash of
hotdogs in a small refrigerator. On top of the refrigerator was a microwave I
used to heat them. I figured that would hold me over until morning when I could
go to the mess hall. I opened the refrigerator to find it empty, I must have
eaten the last one and forgot to move the next pack out of the freezer to thaw.
I pulled out the pack out of the freezer and inspected my holiday meal. The
only utensil in the room was K-Bar, which I meticulously kept razor sharp.
There wasn’t a table in the room, so against all of my Boy Scout training, I
held the frozen pack in my left hand, and pried at them with the K-Bar in my
right to try and dislodge one. I was surprised at how hard it was to get one
loose, and I pressed with increasing force as my hunger fueled impatience. In
an instant, my tool completed its intended work, but I had pushed too hard. As
the knife separated the hotdog from the pack, it continued its path down,
slicing through the pack and into the middle finger of my left hand. I felt the
sick burn of a deep cut and scrape of the knife on bone and watched in horror
as a pulse of blood spurted in an arc into the air and onto the floor. Scared
to look at my finger, I wrapped it in a towel and ran through the BOQ banging
on doors. Luckily, another Lieutenant was home, and drove me to the hospital on
the Air Force base at Kadena. Since it was Christmas eve, there was a minimal
staff. The attending doc did some basic clean up, stitched up the wound, put my
arm in a splint, and told me to come back in a few days. My finger swelled up
until it seemed the stitches would burst. It was completely numb and wouldn’t
move, and didn’t seem to be getting any better. The next week, I returned to
the hospital. The wound was reopened and examined, and I was given the bad
news. The blade had cut all the way to the bone, and had sliced through nerves,
blood vessels, and the main tendon of the finger. The tendon had retracted down
into my wrist. It was a mess of a wound. They would try surgery, but I would
probably never regain full use of my finger, and I wouldn’t be able to make a
fist. The wound was stitched back up, and surgery was scheduled for the next
week. I returned on schedule and watched as the surgeon again reopened the
wound, peeling back the loosened flaps of skin and exposing the bone below.
Expertly, he fished the tendon from my wrist and stitched the severed ends back
together. He worked for an agonizingly long time to bring order to the
intricate mess. One complete, the gash was stitched closed the best he could. I
was sent home with a wrist brace that kept my finger curled down so the tendons
could heal.
The
surgeon told me I most likely would never regain full feeling and use of that
finger, and he repeated that it was unlikely that I would ever be able to make
a fist. For a Marine, this was bad news, and possibly career ending. If that turned
out to be true, the required PFT that included pullups was going to be very
difficult. A Marine that can’t pass the PFT isn’t a Marine for long. After a month of healing, it was time to
begin therapy to try and regain use of my finger, now frozen in place. I missed
the long-planned deployment to Mt. Fuji that I had looked forward to. The
surgeon put me on two weeks medical leave (no work), but the morning after
surgery I reported back to HQ. I knew the staff was counting on me, and there
was no way I’d leave them in a bad spot. I may have been one handed, but I did
my job even though some things took longer. I took some serious ribbing for the
incident, but I agreed it was a boneheaded mistake, and I owned it.
Remembering
my uncle Steve and his experience with therapy, I religiously stuck to my
therapy schedule. The sessions and exercises were uncomfortable and always
painful. My finger had been left with a jagged diagonal scar running across the
grasping surface. The scar was thick and heavy, and the joint stubbornly
wouldn’t flex. The thought crossed my mind that it might have been better if
the finger had been completely cut off and could be kept out of the way in a
jar on a corner cupboard shelf at the farm like the story my grandmother had
told me so long ago. I persisted with therapy though, and over the following
weeks I managed to regain some use. In time, pullups and weight training
resumed, and by the end of my tour I had mostly full use of it and was very
close to being able to make a fist. The thick scar still serves as a sickening
and ever-present reminder of the price of carelessness.
