Tell Your Story
The Marines of 1/7 have had unique experiences that should be preserved and shared.
Rules:
1. All submissions must be absolutely true, on your honor as a Marine
2. Be respectful of other Marines mentioned in your story and
Remember that the statute of limitations may not have run on activity you describe.
3. No commenting on religion or politics (a universal rule).
Email your story to: Terry Kirkland
terrylk@charter.net to be considered by a story committee. Put the word "story" in the subject line.
The Marines of 1/7 have had unique experiences that should be preserved and shared.
Rules:
1. All submissions must be absolutely true, on your honor as a Marine
2. Be respectful of other Marines mentioned in your story and
Remember that the statute of limitations may not have run on activity you describe.
3. No commenting on religion or politics (a universal rule).
Email your story to: Terry Kirkland
terrylk@charter.net to be considered by a story committee. Put the word "story" in the subject line.
Video Stories of 1/7 in Vietnam
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Cpl. Larry Eugene Smedley was a squad leader with Delta Company 1/7. He was awarded the Medal of Honor posthumously. This is his story. |
Text Stories of 1/7 in Vietnam
Carling Black Label
OK, here’s a story. Not going to talk about shooting my brother with bow and arrow, or shooting Mike in the tongue with bb gun, or even falling out of the car door going around a corner. But a good ole fishing story that took place the year pop top cans came on the market (important info later on) , if I remember right about 1964, I was 13 years old. Billy and I always had a fishing date on most Saturday mornings. This one particular trip set us on course for one of our favored trout streams. It was probably a 5 or 6 mile bike ride to get there. Finally arrived at the stream, ready to fish, after a half hour or so we had worked our way down the stream several hundred feet. Not even a bite yet. I started to see this strange rock formation and red coloring in the stream ahead of us. We became curious, because we had never seen this before. Approaching the site I spotted another formation across the stream and a few feet further down the stream. As I go closer I started to make out a bit more of the red color, almost hidden under the rocks. “CARLING BLACK LABEL”!
Yup, turned out to be 4 cases of pop top beer, Carling. So what if it was Carling. We proceeded to pop and drink, we were in heaven, we would take a few swallows and pop a new one. It was ice cold and what a treat it was. After a few minutes of doing this we decided that we needed a plan to get all the rest of it to safe place for our satisfaction later on and as it turned out – our fishing trips became a lot more fun for several more weeks to come. Damn we got slammed that Saturday. I remember trying to bike home that day, it was very sobering. I often wonder what high school guys had put that beer there for a Saturday night bash that didn’t happen, they must have been pissed, I imagine those guys are still looking for the beer they misplaced in that stream.
PS: I don’t recall ever catching any fish in that stream that year.
Al Furbush
OK, here’s a story. Not going to talk about shooting my brother with bow and arrow, or shooting Mike in the tongue with bb gun, or even falling out of the car door going around a corner. But a good ole fishing story that took place the year pop top cans came on the market (important info later on) , if I remember right about 1964, I was 13 years old. Billy and I always had a fishing date on most Saturday mornings. This one particular trip set us on course for one of our favored trout streams. It was probably a 5 or 6 mile bike ride to get there. Finally arrived at the stream, ready to fish, after a half hour or so we had worked our way down the stream several hundred feet. Not even a bite yet. I started to see this strange rock formation and red coloring in the stream ahead of us. We became curious, because we had never seen this before. Approaching the site I spotted another formation across the stream and a few feet further down the stream. As I go closer I started to make out a bit more of the red color, almost hidden under the rocks. “CARLING BLACK LABEL”!
Yup, turned out to be 4 cases of pop top beer, Carling. So what if it was Carling. We proceeded to pop and drink, we were in heaven, we would take a few swallows and pop a new one. It was ice cold and what a treat it was. After a few minutes of doing this we decided that we needed a plan to get all the rest of it to safe place for our satisfaction later on and as it turned out – our fishing trips became a lot more fun for several more weeks to come. Damn we got slammed that Saturday. I remember trying to bike home that day, it was very sobering. I often wonder what high school guys had put that beer there for a Saturday night bash that didn’t happen, they must have been pissed, I imagine those guys are still looking for the beer they misplaced in that stream.
PS: I don’t recall ever catching any fish in that stream that year.
Al Furbush
Eberhart
Prior to calling it a night I radioed a Trooper buddy to meet me. We met at a major intersection in Jacksonville, Florida to chat a bit. A few minutes after meeting we heard the roar of an engine. A Harley Davidson motorcycle, with his headlights off, tore down the road past our location. He had the throttle wide open and within seconds the chase was on. Fred (the Trooper) knew to instantly ask for my assistance on the radio to get me involved. Fred was driving a high performance Plymouth Fury with a powerful 440c.i. engine. I on the other hand was driving my police vehicle, a plain cumbersome Chevrolet, 1 Ton Pickup with a 454 engine.
Our chase only last a few miles down Atlantic Blvd., which was major 4 lane street (with a center paved turn lane), with speeds up to 110 miles an hour. Thank goodness it was midnight and there was very little traffic. Suddenly, the bike made a right turn down a narrow residential street.
The street was very curvy and I was falling behind, unable to make the tight curves in the 1 ton. I then lost sight of Fred’s taillights. His dispatcher knew we were in a chase and was closely monitoring the frequency. Suddenly Fred shouted on the radio, “He’s coming at you, he’s coming at you”. The residential street lights were dim, but enough for me to see the bike headed in my direction, yep!, he had made a u-turn. I slammed on the brakes, snatched the steering wheel a few times and blocked the road with my truck.
Damn, the bike went around me thru someone’s front yard. I knew I could not turn that big truck around in time so I hit reverse and floored it. I passed the bike doing about 35 or 40. I jerked the wheel again a few times and blocked the road once more. Again the biker went around me in someone’s front yard. I tried to pin him against a chain link fence with the front of my truck but he got around me again. Only this time they had a chain link fence on both sides of the yard and he got caught inside.
I bailed out, drew my 4” stainless S&W .357 revolver and ordered him to show me his hands. At this point he was 50 to 60 feet away. He got off his bike, took off his helmet, turned to face me and charged at me in a full run. It was real dark and I brought the hammer back and began applying pressure to the trigger to shoot him when suddenly I realized he had nothing in either hand. He had both arms raised to grab or hit me as he charged and got closer. Unknown to me, Fred had spun out in an attempt not to run over the bike when he made the u-turn. His engine had stalled, but he was now headed in my direction. As the biker, outlaw biker Edward Keith Eberhart reached me, I lowered the hammer, quickly side stepped him to the left, and hit him across the face with the revolver as hard as I could. Fred saw this part, picked up his microphone and later told me he shouted “He’s attacking us, he’s attacking us” then dropped his microphone. The impact of my cold steel revolver to his face knocked Eberhart out instantly. Unfortunately, for Eberhardt, was the fact that the paved street was one of those very, very rough streets with small granite rocks sticking up everywhere out of the asphalt. Still at a full run, the first thing to hit the street was Eberhart’s face. It seemed to me that he slid about 10 feet (actually only about 2 or so) on his face before stopping. I holstered my weapon and began to hand cuff him as Fred arrived. Suddenly the entire Jacksonville sky turned blue as every police officer for miles responded. They came in droves from all around us. Eberhart was still out and we rolled him over. A Jacksonville Sheriff’s deputy that knew Fred well and had worked with him before, said out of concern for us that we were probably going to be in big trouble about the incident. Confused, Fred asked why and the deputy friend said “because you two beat the guys face off”. Fred just laughed and said he saw the whole thing and that I had only hit him once. To this day none of the officers believe I had hit the guy only once, which is true.
Eberhart was transported to the hospital emergency room where a doctor examined him. The doctor first looked at him from the foot of the bed and asked “Lord what happened to you”, Eberhart’s only words to the doctor were “I lost”. Fred wrote an entire ticket book of tickets on him (I think about 15 or 20 tickets). We took him to jail and I headed home. The jail had to take him back to the hospital because his injuries were so severe and he remained there for two more days.
Fast forward about 9 or 10 years.
A Naval Criminal Investigator (NCIS) came to see me in my office. He had with him a Navy Petty Officer he had arrested on base for possession of Marijuana. The investigator told me that the dope supplier to the Petty Officer was none other than my good buddy Edward Keith Eberhart and he had read Fred’s report of the incident. He told me that the Petty Officer would cooperate with any investigation I needed to do. I informed the investigator that because of the Posse Comitatus Act (a Federal Law that prevented me from using active duty members of the military) I could not use his Petty Officer, but I quickly thought of a plan.
I made a phone call and had another man come to my office. I introduced a seasoned informant of mine to the NCIS Investigator. My informant was a full time auto mechanic. He had a heart of gold, but looked and smelled the part, he was nasty. The investigators Petty Officer was to introduce my informant to Eberhart later that night. I was not there and could not by law get involved, but the next day I learned my informant was in.
As instructed, I had my informant tell Eberhart he worked as a civilian on the Navy base and in of all places the ARMORY. He made a deal to slip out 10 .45 caliber pistols from the armory that he would take to Eberhart three days later. He arranged to trade the pistols in exchange for 2 pounds of dope.
Eberhart jumped at the offer and the deal was set.
The deal was to occur at Eberhart’s house and I had to come up with a plan. I knew Eberhart would fight us and moreover he would be at home where he probably had other firearms. I called the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office Special Operations Unit (S.O.U.) and we met. I told them of the deal with the outlaw biker and the fact that Eberhart would no doubt fight us. I obtained 10 .45 caliber Colt 1911 pistols from a Marine Corps unit in Georgia and gave the informant the pistols from the base (firing pins were in a plastic bag). I also gave my informant a machine gun (firing pin removed) and a big white Ford Bronco. The plan was to trade the .45’s for the dope at Eberhart’s house. After the deal was complete the informant would tell him about a machingun he had just traded for and asked Eberhart to take a look at it. The informant (wearing a wire) walked out with Eberhart and straight to the driver’s side of the vehicle that was parked as instructed on the street. He opened the rear passenger door and let Eberhart see the machinegun lying on the floor. It was dark and on cue an undercover S.O.U. deputy, drove an old Mercury station wagon slowly up the street. When he got beside Eberhart and my informant he lightly tapped on the brakes and I, along with two other S.O.U. deputies dropped off the back rear bumper where we were hunkered down holding on to the roof rack. We instantly grabbed Eberhart before he could even turn around and slammed him into the Bronco cuffing him. I then turned him around and looked at him eye to eye, saying “Remember Me?”
Even in his situation, and without hesitation Eberhart instantly smiled ear to ear and said “yes sir, Mr. $%#&^, yes sir, you got me again didn’t ya”.
This incident occurred decades ago, but if I ever see Eberhart again I feel sure he will remember me.
Prior to calling it a night I radioed a Trooper buddy to meet me. We met at a major intersection in Jacksonville, Florida to chat a bit. A few minutes after meeting we heard the roar of an engine. A Harley Davidson motorcycle, with his headlights off, tore down the road past our location. He had the throttle wide open and within seconds the chase was on. Fred (the Trooper) knew to instantly ask for my assistance on the radio to get me involved. Fred was driving a high performance Plymouth Fury with a powerful 440c.i. engine. I on the other hand was driving my police vehicle, a plain cumbersome Chevrolet, 1 Ton Pickup with a 454 engine.
Our chase only last a few miles down Atlantic Blvd., which was major 4 lane street (with a center paved turn lane), with speeds up to 110 miles an hour. Thank goodness it was midnight and there was very little traffic. Suddenly, the bike made a right turn down a narrow residential street.
The street was very curvy and I was falling behind, unable to make the tight curves in the 1 ton. I then lost sight of Fred’s taillights. His dispatcher knew we were in a chase and was closely monitoring the frequency. Suddenly Fred shouted on the radio, “He’s coming at you, he’s coming at you”. The residential street lights were dim, but enough for me to see the bike headed in my direction, yep!, he had made a u-turn. I slammed on the brakes, snatched the steering wheel a few times and blocked the road with my truck.
Damn, the bike went around me thru someone’s front yard. I knew I could not turn that big truck around in time so I hit reverse and floored it. I passed the bike doing about 35 or 40. I jerked the wheel again a few times and blocked the road once more. Again the biker went around me in someone’s front yard. I tried to pin him against a chain link fence with the front of my truck but he got around me again. Only this time they had a chain link fence on both sides of the yard and he got caught inside.
I bailed out, drew my 4” stainless S&W .357 revolver and ordered him to show me his hands. At this point he was 50 to 60 feet away. He got off his bike, took off his helmet, turned to face me and charged at me in a full run. It was real dark and I brought the hammer back and began applying pressure to the trigger to shoot him when suddenly I realized he had nothing in either hand. He had both arms raised to grab or hit me as he charged and got closer. Unknown to me, Fred had spun out in an attempt not to run over the bike when he made the u-turn. His engine had stalled, but he was now headed in my direction. As the biker, outlaw biker Edward Keith Eberhart reached me, I lowered the hammer, quickly side stepped him to the left, and hit him across the face with the revolver as hard as I could. Fred saw this part, picked up his microphone and later told me he shouted “He’s attacking us, he’s attacking us” then dropped his microphone. The impact of my cold steel revolver to his face knocked Eberhart out instantly. Unfortunately, for Eberhardt, was the fact that the paved street was one of those very, very rough streets with small granite rocks sticking up everywhere out of the asphalt. Still at a full run, the first thing to hit the street was Eberhart’s face. It seemed to me that he slid about 10 feet (actually only about 2 or so) on his face before stopping. I holstered my weapon and began to hand cuff him as Fred arrived. Suddenly the entire Jacksonville sky turned blue as every police officer for miles responded. They came in droves from all around us. Eberhart was still out and we rolled him over. A Jacksonville Sheriff’s deputy that knew Fred well and had worked with him before, said out of concern for us that we were probably going to be in big trouble about the incident. Confused, Fred asked why and the deputy friend said “because you two beat the guys face off”. Fred just laughed and said he saw the whole thing and that I had only hit him once. To this day none of the officers believe I had hit the guy only once, which is true.
Eberhart was transported to the hospital emergency room where a doctor examined him. The doctor first looked at him from the foot of the bed and asked “Lord what happened to you”, Eberhart’s only words to the doctor were “I lost”. Fred wrote an entire ticket book of tickets on him (I think about 15 or 20 tickets). We took him to jail and I headed home. The jail had to take him back to the hospital because his injuries were so severe and he remained there for two more days.
Fast forward about 9 or 10 years.
A Naval Criminal Investigator (NCIS) came to see me in my office. He had with him a Navy Petty Officer he had arrested on base for possession of Marijuana. The investigator told me that the dope supplier to the Petty Officer was none other than my good buddy Edward Keith Eberhart and he had read Fred’s report of the incident. He told me that the Petty Officer would cooperate with any investigation I needed to do. I informed the investigator that because of the Posse Comitatus Act (a Federal Law that prevented me from using active duty members of the military) I could not use his Petty Officer, but I quickly thought of a plan.
I made a phone call and had another man come to my office. I introduced a seasoned informant of mine to the NCIS Investigator. My informant was a full time auto mechanic. He had a heart of gold, but looked and smelled the part, he was nasty. The investigators Petty Officer was to introduce my informant to Eberhart later that night. I was not there and could not by law get involved, but the next day I learned my informant was in.
As instructed, I had my informant tell Eberhart he worked as a civilian on the Navy base and in of all places the ARMORY. He made a deal to slip out 10 .45 caliber pistols from the armory that he would take to Eberhart three days later. He arranged to trade the pistols in exchange for 2 pounds of dope.
Eberhart jumped at the offer and the deal was set.
The deal was to occur at Eberhart’s house and I had to come up with a plan. I knew Eberhart would fight us and moreover he would be at home where he probably had other firearms. I called the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office Special Operations Unit (S.O.U.) and we met. I told them of the deal with the outlaw biker and the fact that Eberhart would no doubt fight us. I obtained 10 .45 caliber Colt 1911 pistols from a Marine Corps unit in Georgia and gave the informant the pistols from the base (firing pins were in a plastic bag). I also gave my informant a machine gun (firing pin removed) and a big white Ford Bronco. The plan was to trade the .45’s for the dope at Eberhart’s house. After the deal was complete the informant would tell him about a machingun he had just traded for and asked Eberhart to take a look at it. The informant (wearing a wire) walked out with Eberhart and straight to the driver’s side of the vehicle that was parked as instructed on the street. He opened the rear passenger door and let Eberhart see the machinegun lying on the floor. It was dark and on cue an undercover S.O.U. deputy, drove an old Mercury station wagon slowly up the street. When he got beside Eberhart and my informant he lightly tapped on the brakes and I, along with two other S.O.U. deputies dropped off the back rear bumper where we were hunkered down holding on to the roof rack. We instantly grabbed Eberhart before he could even turn around and slammed him into the Bronco cuffing him. I then turned him around and looked at him eye to eye, saying “Remember Me?”
Even in his situation, and without hesitation Eberhart instantly smiled ear to ear and said “yes sir, Mr. $%#&^, yes sir, you got me again didn’t ya”.
This incident occurred decades ago, but if I ever see Eberhart again I feel sure he will remember me.
The Wives Who Wait- by Marie U`Ren
Stories of Interest - non Vietnam
The Mummy - Al Furbush
I was stationed at Camp Margarita, @(Camp Pendleton) CA. during the summer and fall of 1967, awaiting my 18th birthday and a set of orders to RVN. I was in Golf Company 2nd Bn, 27th Marines, 5th MarDiv. I was still a boot private making $26 every 2 weeks, so my social life off base was pretty limited. So one Friday night a couple of the corpsmen that were practicing their first aid skills on my foot got carried away and wrapped me up from head to toe like a mummy. I was pretty much incapacitated from making any movements. The only thing showing was my nose. Doc Marabito yelled out to the other guys in the barracks to come take a look, that’s all it took for several others to come and check it out. From that point on it was crazy. Pfc Ron Bonanno made the suggestion to get me up and outside, at the time the bus to Oceanside was starting to make the rounds around the 2 Bn area to pick up passengers. All I could hear was them plotting to get me on that bus. Within a few minutes the bus had landed in our company area and these guys tried their best to get me on it. The bus driver would not cooperate with them at all, closed the door and left the area. Those guys were all cranked up to do something else with me I am sure. Except for the fact that the bus driver stopped at the officer of the day building and reported a bunch of guys trying to put a mummy on the bus. The sight of that caused the guys to scramble, taking me back into the barracks and putting me back in the bunk with a couple blankets thrown over me. No telling where they took off to. Next thing I knew I could hear the OD, and Sgt of the guard coming around looking for the mummy. I stayed quiet and still until they left. Soon things settled down and the guys came back and rescued me. Fun was had by all. Did I mention there were several bottles of Thunderbird involved.
I was stationed at Camp Margarita, @(Camp Pendleton) CA. during the summer and fall of 1967, awaiting my 18th birthday and a set of orders to RVN. I was in Golf Company 2nd Bn, 27th Marines, 5th MarDiv. I was still a boot private making $26 every 2 weeks, so my social life off base was pretty limited. So one Friday night a couple of the corpsmen that were practicing their first aid skills on my foot got carried away and wrapped me up from head to toe like a mummy. I was pretty much incapacitated from making any movements. The only thing showing was my nose. Doc Marabito yelled out to the other guys in the barracks to come take a look, that’s all it took for several others to come and check it out. From that point on it was crazy. Pfc Ron Bonanno made the suggestion to get me up and outside, at the time the bus to Oceanside was starting to make the rounds around the 2 Bn area to pick up passengers. All I could hear was them plotting to get me on that bus. Within a few minutes the bus had landed in our company area and these guys tried their best to get me on it. The bus driver would not cooperate with them at all, closed the door and left the area. Those guys were all cranked up to do something else with me I am sure. Except for the fact that the bus driver stopped at the officer of the day building and reported a bunch of guys trying to put a mummy on the bus. The sight of that caused the guys to scramble, taking me back into the barracks and putting me back in the bunk with a couple blankets thrown over me. No telling where they took off to. Next thing I knew I could hear the OD, and Sgt of the guard coming around looking for the mummy. I stayed quiet and still until they left. Soon things settled down and the guys came back and rescued me. Fun was had by all. Did I mention there were several bottles of Thunderbird involved.
"The First Time I had To Shoot Someone" - Anonymous
We lived out in the country for a few years and on one Saturday morning, while both my parents were at work, I had a little incident. I had just turned 13 and my sister was about 10. The night before she had a friend stay over and they were both outside playing.
Suddenly they both came tearing into the house. My sister told me that a man was walking up our long dirt driveway. I knew this was possibly a bad, very bad, sign. I put both of them into a closet and hurried to my room where I had a few guns. My dad was a WWII veteran and had taught me well. I only had one round for the 1903A3 30.06 rifle, but had plenty of 12 gauge bird shot for the shotgun. I knew the 12ga birdshot was not meant to stop a man so I quickly loaded both.
I slipped out the back door with both weapons and eased around the corner of the house, then I slipped behind a detached storage building. As I eased around the building I could see the man walking towards our home. Again, I knew this was a bad, a very bad sign. As he passed the storage building I eased all the way around the building which put me behind him and a bit to his right. He walked up onto the porch and just stood there for a few moments. He appeared to be listening and finally knocked on the door.
The door was made of wood and had a series of rollout glass panes in the middle. He knocked again a few more times. After stopping and knocking 4 or 5 times, I guess he figured no one was at home. Both my parents cars were gone and the tracks up the driveway would show we had a couple of vehicles.
That's when my ass puckered. He grabbed a pane of the glass and started to break in. Well my sister and her friend were inside and he was not going to get in if left up to me. We had a very large sycamore tree next to the front porch. It was large enough so a grown person could not reach around it. I realized that from my angle that if I shot him the round would enter the house near where the girls were hidden. I placed the shotgun against the building and shouldered the 30.06. I then cranked off a round through the center of the tree and past his head. I dropped the rifle and had the shotgun shouldered by the time he spun around.
I think he shit his pants then, because he was looking down the barrel of a 12 gauge. I screamed for him to get out of there or I would kill him. His eyes swelled to the size of silver dollars. Now the fun started.
Because I had fired the 30.06 my big boxer dog came running up from behind me. With him was my 60 pound Billy Goat. When the guy ran off the front porch the Billy Goat busted his ass and knocked him to the ground. The Billy Goat was not playing, but the dog was. As he tried to get up and run the dog grabbed his pants and pulled him down again.
He got up and as soon as he did the Billy Goat busted his ass again. The entire time I am screaming for him to get away or I was going to kill him. At one point I almost started laughing as the Billy Goat busted his ass again. Well this went on until he reached the road. He finally broke away and started running down the road.
Well I knew I had to send him a message, not to come back, so I let him run about 120 feet when I shot him in the back with the shotgun. I knew this was not going to kill him, but it was going to hurt like hell. I screamed don't come back here again and shot him again. I screamed don't come back here again 5 times and I shot him 5 times. In the meantime my sister had gotten to the phone and called the Sheriff's Office.
A few minutes later (5 or 10) a Sheriff's car with 2 deputies came rolling up. They asked what had happened and I calmly told them a man had tried to break into our house. They asked "Where did he go!" I said that the "last time I saw him he was running down the middle of the road after I shot him". The deputy exclaimed "What, you shot him". I said "Yep, I shot him five times.
The deputies went tearing down the road and I casually walked back to the house and put the guns up. I don't know if they ever found him and I never did smell anyone's decaying body. We moved into town about a year later and I have always wondered what happened to that guy. I never had to shoot anyone else again until I was 16, but that is another story.
We lived out in the country for a few years and on one Saturday morning, while both my parents were at work, I had a little incident. I had just turned 13 and my sister was about 10. The night before she had a friend stay over and they were both outside playing.
Suddenly they both came tearing into the house. My sister told me that a man was walking up our long dirt driveway. I knew this was possibly a bad, very bad, sign. I put both of them into a closet and hurried to my room where I had a few guns. My dad was a WWII veteran and had taught me well. I only had one round for the 1903A3 30.06 rifle, but had plenty of 12 gauge bird shot for the shotgun. I knew the 12ga birdshot was not meant to stop a man so I quickly loaded both.
I slipped out the back door with both weapons and eased around the corner of the house, then I slipped behind a detached storage building. As I eased around the building I could see the man walking towards our home. Again, I knew this was a bad, a very bad sign. As he passed the storage building I eased all the way around the building which put me behind him and a bit to his right. He walked up onto the porch and just stood there for a few moments. He appeared to be listening and finally knocked on the door.
The door was made of wood and had a series of rollout glass panes in the middle. He knocked again a few more times. After stopping and knocking 4 or 5 times, I guess he figured no one was at home. Both my parents cars were gone and the tracks up the driveway would show we had a couple of vehicles.
That's when my ass puckered. He grabbed a pane of the glass and started to break in. Well my sister and her friend were inside and he was not going to get in if left up to me. We had a very large sycamore tree next to the front porch. It was large enough so a grown person could not reach around it. I realized that from my angle that if I shot him the round would enter the house near where the girls were hidden. I placed the shotgun against the building and shouldered the 30.06. I then cranked off a round through the center of the tree and past his head. I dropped the rifle and had the shotgun shouldered by the time he spun around.
I think he shit his pants then, because he was looking down the barrel of a 12 gauge. I screamed for him to get out of there or I would kill him. His eyes swelled to the size of silver dollars. Now the fun started.
Because I had fired the 30.06 my big boxer dog came running up from behind me. With him was my 60 pound Billy Goat. When the guy ran off the front porch the Billy Goat busted his ass and knocked him to the ground. The Billy Goat was not playing, but the dog was. As he tried to get up and run the dog grabbed his pants and pulled him down again.
He got up and as soon as he did the Billy Goat busted his ass again. The entire time I am screaming for him to get away or I was going to kill him. At one point I almost started laughing as the Billy Goat busted his ass again. Well this went on until he reached the road. He finally broke away and started running down the road.
Well I knew I had to send him a message, not to come back, so I let him run about 120 feet when I shot him in the back with the shotgun. I knew this was not going to kill him, but it was going to hurt like hell. I screamed don't come back here again and shot him again. I screamed don't come back here again 5 times and I shot him 5 times. In the meantime my sister had gotten to the phone and called the Sheriff's Office.
A few minutes later (5 or 10) a Sheriff's car with 2 deputies came rolling up. They asked what had happened and I calmly told them a man had tried to break into our house. They asked "Where did he go!" I said that the "last time I saw him he was running down the middle of the road after I shot him". The deputy exclaimed "What, you shot him". I said "Yep, I shot him five times.
The deputies went tearing down the road and I casually walked back to the house and put the guns up. I don't know if they ever found him and I never did smell anyone's decaying body. We moved into town about a year later and I have always wondered what happened to that guy. I never had to shoot anyone else again until I was 16, but that is another story.
“Night Hunting at Camp Lejeune” - Anonymous
After returning from Vietnam and a 2 month hospital stay at NAS Pensacola, I was briefly transferred to Camp Lejeune. Once there I was assigned to the MP and Corrections Company and worked at the Red Line Brig (a Marine Corps prison that was declared inhumane by Congress and closed).
On one particular night I had duty in the “Tower”. We had three or four towers (about 50 or 60 ft. tall) that were about 75 feet from the exterior wall that surrounded the Brig. I think it was the 12 midnight to 6 am shift, I am not sure, but I do remember it was friggin cold, really, really, really cold (December 68 –January 69). It felt like 10 below and was snowing heavily. I made it up the stairs and into the unheated shack. It wasn’t any warmer in there but at least the wind wasn’t blowing inside. The shack had glass windows all around it and it was a winter wonderland to see. Something out of a story book movie.
I would periodically exit the shack and walk around the deck on the outside. I didn’t go outside very much, it was too darn cold. Sometime around 3 am something made me go out and for some reason I went out slowly and carefully. I don’t remember if it was something I heard or saw but I knew I had to be quiet.
As I looked through the heavy snow falling I saw a herd of deer working their way towards the tower. They would stop and paw the snow, eat a bit, and move forward a bit more. They were headed straight towards me and there were a couple of huge bucks in the herd. “
“Well, well, well, I thought, here is my chance”.
I must have had 4 or 5 layers of clothes on. I slowly and carefully set my shotgun against the shack and ever so slowly began to take off some of the layers of clothes. Once I had removed enough clothes, so I could move more freely, I carefully and slowly drew a bayonet from my scabbard.
“Yep, I was gonna get me a deer!”As the herd got closer I watched one of the big bucks as he turned a bit and got near the tower. That is when the lights came on.
No, no, not electric lights, the light in my head!
I asked myself “What are you going to do with that big damn deer if you kill him”, “You can’t drag him back to the barracks”, “What if you hurt yourself really bad and have to lay there in the snow until they find you” , “They find you laying in the snow and if you are still alive you are going to be in deep chit with that mean ass 1st Sgt.”
Damn, I hated to but I ever so slowly put that bayonet back in the scabbard. I slowly put all my clothes back on, picked up my shotgun, and stood there for probably 30 minutes watching those beautiful animals, until they slowly disappeared into the snowy darkness. The adrenalin rush had made me warm and I never felt the bitter cold while I stood there.
After returning from Vietnam and a 2 month hospital stay at NAS Pensacola, I was briefly transferred to Camp Lejeune. Once there I was assigned to the MP and Corrections Company and worked at the Red Line Brig (a Marine Corps prison that was declared inhumane by Congress and closed).
On one particular night I had duty in the “Tower”. We had three or four towers (about 50 or 60 ft. tall) that were about 75 feet from the exterior wall that surrounded the Brig. I think it was the 12 midnight to 6 am shift, I am not sure, but I do remember it was friggin cold, really, really, really cold (December 68 –January 69). It felt like 10 below and was snowing heavily. I made it up the stairs and into the unheated shack. It wasn’t any warmer in there but at least the wind wasn’t blowing inside. The shack had glass windows all around it and it was a winter wonderland to see. Something out of a story book movie.
I would periodically exit the shack and walk around the deck on the outside. I didn’t go outside very much, it was too darn cold. Sometime around 3 am something made me go out and for some reason I went out slowly and carefully. I don’t remember if it was something I heard or saw but I knew I had to be quiet.
As I looked through the heavy snow falling I saw a herd of deer working their way towards the tower. They would stop and paw the snow, eat a bit, and move forward a bit more. They were headed straight towards me and there were a couple of huge bucks in the herd. “
“Well, well, well, I thought, here is my chance”.
I must have had 4 or 5 layers of clothes on. I slowly and carefully set my shotgun against the shack and ever so slowly began to take off some of the layers of clothes. Once I had removed enough clothes, so I could move more freely, I carefully and slowly drew a bayonet from my scabbard.
“Yep, I was gonna get me a deer!”As the herd got closer I watched one of the big bucks as he turned a bit and got near the tower. That is when the lights came on.
No, no, not electric lights, the light in my head!
I asked myself “What are you going to do with that big damn deer if you kill him”, “You can’t drag him back to the barracks”, “What if you hurt yourself really bad and have to lay there in the snow until they find you” , “They find you laying in the snow and if you are still alive you are going to be in deep chit with that mean ass 1st Sgt.”
Damn, I hated to but I ever so slowly put that bayonet back in the scabbard. I slowly put all my clothes back on, picked up my shotgun, and stood there for probably 30 minutes watching those beautiful animals, until they slowly disappeared into the snowy darkness. The adrenalin rush had made me warm and I never felt the bitter cold while I stood there.
Two Soldiers and One Small Marine - Anonymous
Near the end of boot camp a fellow boot (not yet a Marine), William Bedford Pangle, and myself were summoned by the Drill Instructor. We reported in as ordered and were informed that both he and I had been selected out of 5,000 Marines (Don’t know if this was true or not, but that is what we were told) for a duty assignment. The Drill Instructor told us we would not be going to Vietnam, but were being sent to Marine Barracks, National Security Agency. We were then dispatched to a particular building for the morning where personnel would initiate a Top Secret Clearance on both of us.
A few days before graduation from P.I., Pangle and I were again summoned by our Drill Instructor. We were informed that our orders were being changed and that we would in fact be going to Vietnam. The Drill Instructor further stated that if we survived Vietnam we would then go to the Marine Barracks. Yeah right! I thought. I returned from Vietnam on a stretcher. William Bedford Pangle was KIA with Mike 3/5 on April 23, 1968.
After 2 months in the hospital I was sent to Camp Lejeune where I worked in the Red Line Brig (a military style prison which was later ruled by Congress to be inhumane and closed). I can assure you that place was absolutely inhumane for anyone.
Again I figured “So much for that Marine Barracks B.S.”After a few months at Lejeune I received orders for Marine Barracks, Fort George G. Meade, Maryland, National Security Agency. Damn, it was the truth after all.As another Marine from 1/7 in Vietnam can attest, Marine Barracks was by far the finest job in the entire Marine Corps. It was much better for the single guys than those who were married. It was an Army Base (Fort Meade) with about 5,000 to 6,000 Army soldiers. The barracks and the National Security Agency were located on the west side edge of the base. When liberty was permitted (anytime you were not on duty) we could go get a cold beer. We worked in modified dress blues (White cover, white pistol belt, Colt .45, and a lot of shiny brass) and it was estimated that more than 1500 single women worked at NSA. While the pickings were good, neither the civilian employees nor the Marines were permitted to speak with each other (except work related). The ladies of course knew this and as they passed us they would slip us a note. Gosh that was great duty. Life was great!!! The ladies really loved the Marine Corps uniform.Many a weekend we lost our liberty and were put on full alert due to the Hippie War Protestors in Washington D.C. Our only salvation was that we were later to be awarded a Navy Unit Citation for our efforts.This put a bad taste in our mouths for the hippies.
Just west of the base stood a dreary old bar (the 602 Club) with a dirt parking lot and an old juke box. On the other side of the base was a big beautiful night club which had a live band on the weekends. The Marines staked claim to the 602 Club, while the Army guys went to the night club.
On one particular evening I was sitting at the old 602 bar, with two other Marines, quickly drinking cold bottles of beer. The Marine next to me nudged me and said look over there. Sitting in a booth were two Army guys. I knew they were Army because I knew all the Marines at the barracks, and I did not know these two guys. The bad part was they had lit a candle, Friggin hippie wanna be’s.
A little drunk, I calmly got up, walked to the table, and depressed the lit candle with my hand into the table. I did not let them know it, but it burned the shit out of my hand. I calmly said “this is a Marine bar, you two need to leave”, they acknowledged, and I turned and went back to my beer at the bar. A few minutes later the same Marine nudged me again and glanced over his shoulder. I looked back and sure as hell those two dumb ass soldiers had relit the candle and were still sitting there. I got down off my stool and quickly approached them. In a loud voice I shouted “I told you to get the f..k out of here”. I was smarter this time and just knocked the candle over rather that burn the crap out of my hand again with hot molten wax.
It was a small bar and the owner came running over to me. He asked that I not tear up his place and to take it outside. I motioned to the two soldiers and said let’s go outside. When they got up I realized for the first time I might have a problem, but knew the two Marines with me would have my back. One was my size, a bit heavier, and the other was a really big guy. They headed out the door with me right behind.
Once we went out the door I said to myself “Oh shit”. The other two Marines were still sitting at the bar. I had to think quick.The two soldiers walked about 10 to 15 feet, they stopped, and both moved to the side of the walkway, the big one to the left and the other one to the right. They turned facing each other as I approached.I said to myself, “Yep, I’m gonna get my ass beat”. Thinking quickly I walked between them (they were about 8 feet apart) and turned to face the big one. I only hesitated a moment when I spun around and knocked the smaller one completely out instantly. Without slowing I spun again and decked the big one. He went down like a rock, but suddenly he began to rise. I remember saying to myself “if he gets up he’s gonna whip my ass”.
As the big one rose I grabbed him in a head lock and flipped him over on the ground. I held on for dear life knowing if he got loose he would kick my butt. As we flopped around on the ground, rolling over and over, I kept him in a head lock and beat his face. He wouldn’t quit. I continued to beat his face until I was actually tired of hitting him. I got so tired of hitting him that I used both hands for the head lock, curled up, and started kicking him in the face with my right knee. This sucker would not quit. We continued to flop around on the ground with me kicking him in the head with my knee and I finally thought “his buddy is gonna wake up and together they are going to kick my ass”. Finally, finally the big guy just quit. I made him say they would never come back there and got up. Just as I stood and turned I saw his buddy was getting up off the ground. Standing next to his buddy were the two Marines I was with. I don’t know exactly how long they had been standing there, but both had stood there watching some of the fun. In the beginning I had worn a very nice pair of dress shoes, dress slacks (jeans were not permitted anywhere), a dress shirt and a beautiful pull over sweater. Now my clothes were all in rags, covered head to toe in mud from the dirt muddy parking lot. We walked back inside and sat at the bar. My buddies started buying me drinks and in about 30 minutes my knee began to swell from kicking the guy in the head (I don’t know what ever happened to his head). When we started to leave the bar I knew something was bad wrong, I could not hardly walk. My knee had swollen to the size of a football and my buddies had to take me to the Army Hospital emergency room on base.
There they drained fluid from my knee with multiple large syringes. When they asked what had happened, I told them:Being the intelligent Marine I had been trained to be, I said that upon our return to the base from liberty the passenger door had opened on a curve in the road and I had fallen out. Muddy, clothes torn to rags, knee all messed up, they believed every word. When we returned to the barracks I encountered a number of Marines who exclaimed “What the hell happened to you”. I said nothing.
The next morning I was summoned by my Commanding Officer. In uniform, I hobbled into his office and came smartly to attention in front of his desk and reported in.
Silence
Finally the Captain spoke “I understand you had an accident last night, what happened”?
I said “well sir, on the way back to the base the car door came open and I fell out…… screwed up my knee just a bit”.
Dead Silence
Finally the Captain spoke “Well since you whipped both of them, I am going to let you go, get out of here”. I snapped to a more rigid position of attention, shouted “Eye, Eye, Sir”, stepped back, painfully spun to my right and walked out. Somebody snitched me out, but the Captain (Capt. William Terry, a great Marine officer, not just for that) let me go. I have always wondered………. what healed first…………my knee………….or those two soldiers. The word probably spread all over the base quickly. If you are in the Army don’t go to the 602 Club………… there are some mean ass crazy Marines there.
The Army Nightclub - Anonymous
In an earlier short story I had mentioned the Marines had a small bar with a jukebox west of the barracks/base and the Army had a huge nightclub with a live band east of Fort Meade.
Well one Saturday night three of us Marines from the barracks had dates. We sure as hell didn’t want to take them to that rundown Marine bar so we took them to the Army nightclub. There were probably 100 people inside when we arrived and they were all Army (again I knew all the Marines and knew none of these people). We got a table and were just drinking a bit and having fun.
I looked up and about 10 feet from our table stood a Marine I recognized and an Army guy I did not know, arguing. It was obvious to me the Marine was sloppy drunk and I saw the Army guy slowly pulling a beer bottle from his jacket pocket. Now I did not care if the Marine got his ass beat because I had a date and did not want to get involved with anything. I just did not want the Army guy to hit him with that bottle.
I quickly got up and stepped between them and politely asked the Army guy to take him outside and whip his ass if he wanted to but not to hit him with that bottle. He took my advice and did not hit him with the bottle, because as soon as I said that he hit me right between the eyes with that friggin bottle. Glass flew everywhere and I grabbed his throat with my left hand. I did not grasp any meat but realized later he had a turtleneck sweater on and I had grabbed hold of that. I began to beat his face with my right hand and took him back over a table.
That is when it happened ……………… BLAM! I got hit by people from both sides of me. I hit the floor flat on my back. Suddenly I realized I still had a hold on that damn turtleneck sweater and I began thumping the guys face again. Well in an effort to get away from me the guy backed away and in doing so brought me back up on my feet. Blam! I got hit from people on both sides of me again and this time went back across a table before hitting the floor. Yep! I still had a hold on that damn sweater.
Unknown to me was that the whole club had broken into a fight. The girl I was with later told me it looked like an old western saloon movie where the whole saloon was in a fist fight.
Well, I went up and down a couple of more times until the fight broke up. I had hurt the guy with a turtleneck pretty good and he left with some of his friends. I made my way into the men’s room where I picked a couple of small pieces of glass out of my forehead. One of the other Marines, who also had a date, was already in there patching a cut above his eye. We laughed a bit, washed up and rejoined our dates.
Another night on liberty with some very beautiful ladies, and a couple of Grunt Marines, life was good in the United States Marine Corps.
In an earlier short story I had mentioned the Marines had a small bar with a jukebox west of the barracks/base and the Army had a huge nightclub with a live band east of Fort Meade.
Well one Saturday night three of us Marines from the barracks had dates. We sure as hell didn’t want to take them to that rundown Marine bar so we took them to the Army nightclub. There were probably 100 people inside when we arrived and they were all Army (again I knew all the Marines and knew none of these people). We got a table and were just drinking a bit and having fun.
I looked up and about 10 feet from our table stood a Marine I recognized and an Army guy I did not know, arguing. It was obvious to me the Marine was sloppy drunk and I saw the Army guy slowly pulling a beer bottle from his jacket pocket. Now I did not care if the Marine got his ass beat because I had a date and did not want to get involved with anything. I just did not want the Army guy to hit him with that bottle.
I quickly got up and stepped between them and politely asked the Army guy to take him outside and whip his ass if he wanted to but not to hit him with that bottle. He took my advice and did not hit him with the bottle, because as soon as I said that he hit me right between the eyes with that friggin bottle. Glass flew everywhere and I grabbed his throat with my left hand. I did not grasp any meat but realized later he had a turtleneck sweater on and I had grabbed hold of that. I began to beat his face with my right hand and took him back over a table.
That is when it happened ……………… BLAM! I got hit by people from both sides of me. I hit the floor flat on my back. Suddenly I realized I still had a hold on that damn turtleneck sweater and I began thumping the guys face again. Well in an effort to get away from me the guy backed away and in doing so brought me back up on my feet. Blam! I got hit from people on both sides of me again and this time went back across a table before hitting the floor. Yep! I still had a hold on that damn sweater.
Unknown to me was that the whole club had broken into a fight. The girl I was with later told me it looked like an old western saloon movie where the whole saloon was in a fist fight.
Well, I went up and down a couple of more times until the fight broke up. I had hurt the guy with a turtleneck pretty good and he left with some of his friends. I made my way into the men’s room where I picked a couple of small pieces of glass out of my forehead. One of the other Marines, who also had a date, was already in there patching a cut above his eye. We laughed a bit, washed up and rejoined our dates.
Another night on liberty with some very beautiful ladies, and a couple of Grunt Marines, life was good in the United States Marine Corps.
Honoring the Warriors - submitted by Terry Kirkland
.
It started last Christmas (2008), when Bennett and Vivian Levin were overwhelmed by sadness while listening to radio reports of injured American troops.
"We have to let them know we care," Vivian told Bennett.
So they organized a trip to bring soldiers from Walter Reed Army Medical Center and Bethesda Naval Hospital to the annual Army-Navy football game in Philly, on Dec. 3. The cool part is, they created their own train line to do it.
Yes, there are people in this country who actually own real trains. Bennett Levin - native Philly guy, self-made millionaire and irascible former L&I commish - is one of them.
He has three luxury rail cars. Think mahogany paneling, plush seating and white-linen dining areas. He also has two locomotives, which he stores at his Juniata Park train yard.
One car, the elegant Pennsylvania, carried John F. Kennedy to the Army-Navy game in 1961 and '62. Later, it carried his brother Bobby's body to D.C. for burial. "That's a lot of history for one car," says Bennett.
He and Vivian wanted to revive a tradition that endured from 1936 to 1975, during which trains carried Army-Navy spectators from around the country directly to the stadium where the annual game is played.
The Levins could think of no better passengers to reinstate the ceremonial ride than the wounded men and women recovering at Walter Reed in D.C. and Bethesda, in Maryland.
"We wanted to give them a first-class experience," says Bennett. "Gourmet meals on board, private transportation from the train to the stadium, perfect seats - real hero treatment. "
Through the Army War College Foundation, of which he is a trustee, Bennett met with Walter Reed's commanding general, who loved the idea.
But Bennett had some ground rules first, all designed to keep the focus on the troops alone:
No press on the trip, lest the soldiers' day of pampering devolve into a media circus.
No politicians either, because, says Bennett, "I didn't want some idiot making this trip into a campaign photo op. "And no Pentagon suits on board, otherwise the soldiers would be too busy saluting superiors to relax.
The general agreed to the conditions, and Bennett realized he had a problem on his hands.
"I had to actually make this thing happen," he laughs.
Over the next months, he recruited owners of 15 other sumptuous rail cars from around the country - these people tend to know each other - into lending their vehicles for the day. The name of their temporary train? The Liberty Limited .
Amtrak volunteered to transport the cars to D.C. - where they'd be coupled together for the round-trip ride to Philly - then back to their owners later. Conrail offered to service the Liberty while it was in Philly. And SEPTA drivers would bus the disabled soldiers 200 yards from the train to Lincoln Financial Field, for the game.
A benefactor from the War College ponied up 100 seats to the game - on the 50-yard line - and lunch in a hospitality suite. And corporate donors filled, for free and without asking for publicity, goodie bags for attendees: From Woolrich, stadium blankets. From Wal-Mart, digital cameras. From Nikon, field glasses. From GEAR, down jackets.There was booty not just for the soldiers, but for their guests, too, since each was allowed to bring a friend or family member.
The Marines, though, declined the offer. "They voted not to take guests with them, so they could take more Marines," says Levin, choking up at the memory. Bennett's an emotional guy, so he was worried about how he'd react to meeting the 88 troops and guests at D.C.'s Union Station, where the trip originated. Some GIs were missing limbs. Others were wheelchair-bound or accompanied by medical personnel for the day.
"They made it easy to be with them," he says. "They were all smiles on the ride to Philly. Not an ounce of self-pity from any of them. They're so full of life and determination. "At the stadium, the troops reveled in the game, recalls Bennett. Not even Army's lopsided loss to Navy could deflate the group's rollicking mood.
Afterward, it was back to the train and yet another gourmet meal - heroes get hungry, says Levin - before returning to Walter Reed and Bethesda."The day was spectacular," says Levin. "It was all about these kids. It was awesome to be part of it. "
The most poignant moment for the Levins was when 11 Marines hugged them goodbye, then sang them the Marine Hymn on the platform at Union Station.
"One of the guys was blind, but he said, 'I can't see you, but man, you must be f---ing beautiful!' " says Bennett. "I got a lump so big in my throat, I couldn't even answer him. "
It's been three weeks, but the Levins and their guests are still feeling the day's love.
"My Christmas came early," says Levin, who is Jewish and who loves the Christmas season. "I can't describe the feeling in the air. "
Maybe it was hope.
As one guest wrote in a thank-you note to Bennett and Vivian, "The fond memories generated last Saturday will sustain us all - whatever the future may bring. "
God bless the Levins.
And bless the troops, every one. *
It started last Christmas (2008), when Bennett and Vivian Levin were overwhelmed by sadness while listening to radio reports of injured American troops.
"We have to let them know we care," Vivian told Bennett.
So they organized a trip to bring soldiers from Walter Reed Army Medical Center and Bethesda Naval Hospital to the annual Army-Navy football game in Philly, on Dec. 3. The cool part is, they created their own train line to do it.
Yes, there are people in this country who actually own real trains. Bennett Levin - native Philly guy, self-made millionaire and irascible former L&I commish - is one of them.
He has three luxury rail cars. Think mahogany paneling, plush seating and white-linen dining areas. He also has two locomotives, which he stores at his Juniata Park train yard.
One car, the elegant Pennsylvania, carried John F. Kennedy to the Army-Navy game in 1961 and '62. Later, it carried his brother Bobby's body to D.C. for burial. "That's a lot of history for one car," says Bennett.
He and Vivian wanted to revive a tradition that endured from 1936 to 1975, during which trains carried Army-Navy spectators from around the country directly to the stadium where the annual game is played.
The Levins could think of no better passengers to reinstate the ceremonial ride than the wounded men and women recovering at Walter Reed in D.C. and Bethesda, in Maryland.
"We wanted to give them a first-class experience," says Bennett. "Gourmet meals on board, private transportation from the train to the stadium, perfect seats - real hero treatment. "
Through the Army War College Foundation, of which he is a trustee, Bennett met with Walter Reed's commanding general, who loved the idea.
But Bennett had some ground rules first, all designed to keep the focus on the troops alone:
No press on the trip, lest the soldiers' day of pampering devolve into a media circus.
No politicians either, because, says Bennett, "I didn't want some idiot making this trip into a campaign photo op. "And no Pentagon suits on board, otherwise the soldiers would be too busy saluting superiors to relax.
The general agreed to the conditions, and Bennett realized he had a problem on his hands.
"I had to actually make this thing happen," he laughs.
Over the next months, he recruited owners of 15 other sumptuous rail cars from around the country - these people tend to know each other - into lending their vehicles for the day. The name of their temporary train? The Liberty Limited .
Amtrak volunteered to transport the cars to D.C. - where they'd be coupled together for the round-trip ride to Philly - then back to their owners later. Conrail offered to service the Liberty while it was in Philly. And SEPTA drivers would bus the disabled soldiers 200 yards from the train to Lincoln Financial Field, for the game.
A benefactor from the War College ponied up 100 seats to the game - on the 50-yard line - and lunch in a hospitality suite. And corporate donors filled, for free and without asking for publicity, goodie bags for attendees: From Woolrich, stadium blankets. From Wal-Mart, digital cameras. From Nikon, field glasses. From GEAR, down jackets.There was booty not just for the soldiers, but for their guests, too, since each was allowed to bring a friend or family member.
The Marines, though, declined the offer. "They voted not to take guests with them, so they could take more Marines," says Levin, choking up at the memory. Bennett's an emotional guy, so he was worried about how he'd react to meeting the 88 troops and guests at D.C.'s Union Station, where the trip originated. Some GIs were missing limbs. Others were wheelchair-bound or accompanied by medical personnel for the day.
"They made it easy to be with them," he says. "They were all smiles on the ride to Philly. Not an ounce of self-pity from any of them. They're so full of life and determination. "At the stadium, the troops reveled in the game, recalls Bennett. Not even Army's lopsided loss to Navy could deflate the group's rollicking mood.
Afterward, it was back to the train and yet another gourmet meal - heroes get hungry, says Levin - before returning to Walter Reed and Bethesda."The day was spectacular," says Levin. "It was all about these kids. It was awesome to be part of it. "
The most poignant moment for the Levins was when 11 Marines hugged them goodbye, then sang them the Marine Hymn on the platform at Union Station.
"One of the guys was blind, but he said, 'I can't see you, but man, you must be f---ing beautiful!' " says Bennett. "I got a lump so big in my throat, I couldn't even answer him. "
It's been three weeks, but the Levins and their guests are still feeling the day's love.
"My Christmas came early," says Levin, who is Jewish and who loves the Christmas season. "I can't describe the feeling in the air. "
Maybe it was hope.
As one guest wrote in a thank-you note to Bennett and Vivian, "The fond memories generated last Saturday will sustain us all - whatever the future may bring. "
God bless the Levins.
And bless the troops, every one. *