On November 10, 1775, a Corps of Marines was created by a resolution of the Continental Congress. Since that date, many thousand men have borne the name Marine. In memory of them, it is fitting that we who are Marines should commemorate the Birthday of our Corps by calling to mind the glories of its long and illustrious history.

The record of our Corps is one which will bear comparison with that of the most famous military organizations in the world’s history. During 90 of the 146 years of it’s existence the Marine Corps has been in action against the nations foes. From the battle of Trenton to the Argonne. Marines have won foremost honors in war, and in the long eras of tranquility at home. Generation after generation of Marines have grown gray in war in both hemispheres and in every corner of the seven seas that our country and its citizens might enjoy peace and security.

In every battle and skirmish since the birth of our Corps Marines have acquitted themselves with the greatest distinction, winning new honors on each occasion until the term Marine has come to signify all that is highest in military efficiency and soldierly virtue.

This high name of distinction and soldierly repute we who are Marines today have received from those who preceded us in the Corps. With it we also received from them the eternal spirit which has animated our Corps from generation to generation and has been the distinguishing mark of the Marines in every age. So long as that spirit continues to flourish Marines will be found equal to every emergency in the future as they have been in the past, and the men of our nation will regard us as worthy successors to the long line of illustrious men who have served as “Soldiers of the Sea” since the founding of the Corps.

R 021634Z NOV 10
UNCLASSIFIED//
ALMAR 041/10
MSGID/GENADMIN/CMC WASHINGTON DC DMCS//
SUBJ/UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS BIRTHDAY MESSAGE – 10 NOVEMBER 2010//
GENTEXT/REMARKS/1.  SIXTY YEARS AGO, THE UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS – AS IT HAS THROUGHOUT OUR HISTORY – DEMONSTRATED ITS VITAL ROLE AS AMERICA’S EXPEDITIONARY FORCE IN READINESS.  JUST WEEKS AFTER NORTH KOREAN COMMUNIST FORCES CROSSED THE 38TH PARALLEL, THE FIRST MARINE PROVISIONAL BRIGADE LANDED IN SOUTH KOREA, FORMING THE BACKBONE OF THE PERIMETER AROUND THE CITY OF PUSAN.  THE EFFORTS OF THE “FIRE BRIGADE” AT PUSAN ALLOWED FOR THE DARING AMPHIBIOUS LANDING AT INCHON AND SET THE STAGE FOR ONE OF THE MOST SAVAGE CAMPAIGNS IN OUR CORPS’ HISTORY – THE CHOSIN RESERVOIR.  AS WE PAUSE TO CELEBRATE OUR 235TH BIRTHDAY, WE PAY SPECIAL TRIBUTE TO THE MARINES OF THE KOREAN WAR AND RECOGNIZE THEIR CONTRIBUTIONS TO OUR ENDURING LEGACY.
2.  THIS PAST YEAR MARKED THE END OF MARINE CORPS COMBAT OPERATIONS IN IRAQ.  BEGINNING WITH THE INVASION IN MARCH 2003 AND THROUGH THE NEXT SEVEN YEARS OF FIGHTING, OUR CORPS ACQUITTED ITSELF VALIANTLY IN THE ANBAR PROVINCE AND THROUGHOUT THE COUNTRY.  LOCATIONS SUCH AS FALLUJAH AND RAMADI HAVE TAKEN THEIR PLACE IN THE ILLUSTRIOUS BATTLE HISTORY OF OUR CORPS.  OUR EFFORTS IN DEFEATING THE INSURGENCY HELPED TO BUILD A BRIGHTER FUTURE FOR ALL IRAQIS.
3.  FOR 235 YEARS, AT SEA AND ASHORE, MARINES HAVE SUCCEEDED IN EVERY CLIME AND PLACE … WHERE HARDSHIP AND ADVERSITY HAVE OFTEN BEEN THE COMMON THREAD.  TODAY, IN THE RUGGED MOUNTAINS AND VALLEYS OF AFGHANISTAN – AND RECENTLY IN EARTHQUAKE-DAMAGED HAITI … IN FLOOD-RAVAGED PAKISTAN … OR OFF THE COAST OF AFRICA – WE CONTINUE TO PROTECT OUR NATION, JUST AS WE DID 60 YEARS AGO IN KOREA.
4.  TO THE MARINES AND SAILORS DEPLOYED OVERSEAS, TO THOSE TRAINING AND PREPARING FOR THEIR NEXT DEPLOYMENT AND TO THE WARRIORS WHO NO LONGER WEAR OUR UNIFORM … WE HONOR YOUR SELFLESS SERVICE TO THE NATION.  TO OUR LOVED ONES WHO ENDURE THE MANY DIFFICULTIES THAT COME WITH BEING PART OF THE MARINE FAMILY, I WANT TO EXTEND MY SINCEREST THANKS FOR ALL YOU HAVE DONE AND ALL YOU CONTINUE TO DO.
5.  HAPPY 235TH BIRTHDAY, MARINES.  JAMES F. AMOS, GENERAL, U.S. MARINE CORPS, COMMANDANT OF THE MARINE CORPS.//

Happy Birthday Marines!  Semper Fidelis!

Tony

Woodfork

Butch

Mana and Grandfather

Mimae and Grampy

I miss you…

requiescat in pace

Phyllis Langfitt Freseman Kramer

b. August 3rd, 1927, d. May 8, 2010

It is inevitable that, as time passes, those who are our elders begin to depart to their Eternal Rest and Glory.

Unfortunately, these very same persons are the ones who filled our early years with memories.  Our grandparents, our Great Aunts and Uncles, our Cousins however many times removed, in memories from a childhood long past that hopefully contain the joys of the fellowship shared with family.

Life happens, however, and while we would like to say that we hold fast with our family, the reality is that we are a mobile people, and, especially in the Service, we are not always afforded the opportunity to stay in close proximity with all of our kith and kin, and thus, when a relative with whom we have not remained in contact passes away, we must draw upon those faint memories, and hope that we, in our own poor way, to honor our departed kin, and assure those with more recent experiences and proximity, that they who have departed are honored, and all that was the best of them celebrated.

And so do I remember well my cousin, Phyllis, from the days when I was a youth in Old Virginia, who shuffled off her mortal coil and went to God on Saturday.

As I recall, Phyllis was not what one would call “petite”…  And I do not believe such a moniker would do her justice, because the Phyllis I remember had a largeness of spirit about her, in fact, to my youthful recollection, she was more a force of nature: bold, dynamic, and expressive in her affections almost to the point of intimidation.  In extended families, there are those who are born to be matrons, and I remember that Phyllis was well suited to the role, a  veritable General of troops at social gatherings, a loud center of activities when the Clan gathered.

But there was love…  Love that swept through the gathered throng in the finest traditions of those cultures who celebrate family.  Any Italian, Russian, or Greek native would instantly recognize this love, and throw themselves bodily into the mix with nary a moment’s hesitation, fully understanding the rules of the game.

For me, used to smaller places, and quieter climes, it was a little overwhelming, and potentially frightening…

But Phyllis wouldn’t allow that, and my fondest memory of her was the time she spent making sure that I was included – nay – thrust into the mix, to fend for myself in a happy maelstrom of familial affections.  A little frightened, but knowing that I was safe.

I remember you with great fondness, cousin Phyllis, and a great presence in the world has fallen quiet, to our loss.

God speed, cousin, and His blessings upon those who mourn your passing.

25 April 1915…

ANZAC Day…

It is believed that the national identities of Australia and New Zealand awoke, and amidst the bullets, shells, and blood of Anzac Cove, Helles, and Suvla Bay during the Gallipoli Campaign.

Years later, during another world war, Australia and New Zealand would sacrifice a vast majority of their countries’ young men as they brought another evil empire to heel, and at the same time, provided aid and comfort to my own forefathers: The First Marine Division of the United States Marine Corps.  The hospitality of Australia was such that the official song of the 1st MarDiv is “Waltzing Matilda”.

As a result of the valor and courage of the Forces of the United Kingdom, which included the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps, the Turkish Commander, Mustafa Kemal (Atatürk) erected a memorial in 1934 with words that summed up the respect earned during the battle:

Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives… you are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace. There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets where they lie side by side here in this country of ours… You the mothers who sent their sons from far away countries, wipe away your tears. Your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. Having lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well.

Australia, especially, is known for the big-hearted ruggedness of her people:

When discussing the merits of our homes one day, a fellow from Texas expounded on the vast nature of his home state, calling to mind the wide ranging wilderness stereotypical of Texas.  When he finished speaking, the next man in line, an Australian, was asked about his homeland.  The digger tipped his hat back with a smile:  “Kinda like Texas,” he said in the easy manner of a native of the Outback, “Only big.”

On this day, remember those who fought at Gallipoli.  Remember their valor.  Remember their sacrifice.  Most of all, just remember, so that the veterans of that battle, and all the others, may know that they have not been forgotten.

Buy a red poppy…

Raise a glass to the ANZACs.

And Remember.

Semper Fi, mate.  Too easy.

"And his ghost may be heard when you're passing by the billabong... 'You'll come a'waltzing Matilda with me'..."

“The Navy Diver is not a fighting man, he is a salvage expert. If it is lost underwater, he finds it. If it’s sunk, he brings it up. If it’s in the way, he moves it. If he’s lucky, he will die young, 200 feet beneath the waves, for that is the closest he’ll ever get to being a hero. Hell, I don’t know why anybody would want to be a Navy diver.” – “Men of Honor” 2000

Retired Commander James Rad Nelson, 81, went to be with the Lord on Saturday, March 20, 2010.

Cmdr. James Rad Nelson was born in Waskom, Texas, on Dec. 11, 1928, to the parents of Rad Emery Nelson and Mary Lucille Rogers. He enlisted in the U.S. Navy in January 1946. Throughout his 36-year career, he was a Deep Sea Salvage Diver, a UDT  “Frogman” and was a member of the first UDT unit to see combat action during the Korean War. He was commissioned an Ensign in 1960 and had five “at sea” commands. He was commander of River Assault Division 112 in the Mekong Delta during the Vietnam War and was awarded the Navy Cross, Silver Star, two Bronze Stars with Combat “V” and two Purple Hearts. His last command before retiring in 1982 was as commanding officer of the Naval Diving and Salvage Training Center in Panama City.

At the time of his retirement, he was the oldest diver in the U.S. Navy.

Not content with retirement, he became a sworn officer with the Bay County Sheriff’s Office and served 15 years retiring as a sergeant. He was also an Apostle in the Church of Jesus Christ Lamb of God.

He is survived by his wife of 58 years, Donna Nelson; three sons, William Nelson and wife, Divina, Harry Nelson and Rad Nelson and wife, Diane; one brother, Michael Nelson; two sisters, Betty Espinola and Ann Blankenship; seven grandchildren and 10 great-grandchildren.

A funeral service will be held at 10 a.m. Thursday, March 25, 2010, in the Chapel of Kent-Forest Lawn, with Brother Don Hodges officiating. Interment will follow at Evergreen Memorial Gardens. The family will receive friends from 6 to 8 p.m. Wednesday, March 24, 2010, at the funeral home.

Rest easy, Diver.

And thank you.

Neptunus Lex brings us yet another poignant production that celebrates the WW2 P-51 Mustang fighter plane, the men who flew them, and the portal that one of these aircraft provided across generational lines: The desire for the younger to truly understand the experienced of the elder.  The short film “Gray Eagles”, by Chris Wood, is a must see, and a visit to the Gray Eagles Foundation website is a must go…

The lessons are deep…

When I lived in Corona, California, I had the privilege of living within the flight patterns of the Chino Planes of Fame museum, home of a multitude of refurbished warbirds from almost every era.  It was rare not to be able to look up every day to see some sort of WW2 fighter snarling through the skies, high above my head.

Snarling…  A WW2 fighter isn’t like your “polite” civilian prop-driven airplanes.  Each breed of plane, be it a P-51 Mustang, F4U Corsair, or FW190 has a distinctive ripping snarling sound created by its power plant, and it is easy to hear an implied threat in that sound.  These were aircraft designed for a single, deadly purpose:  To knock other similar types of aircraft from the sky.  To this day, an aircraft designed to enter into combat has a version of that threatening sound, as they are not built to succor the ears of the general public with the sweet siren song of the joys of flight; they are made to answer the demands of the human being in the cockpit, whose very life depends on the abilities of his or her steed to find victory not only over the perils of simple flight (which will kill one with obscene ease alone), but also over the determinations of a like-minded individual on the “other” side.  Any presumed beauty of the aircraft is secondary.  By happy coincidence, there are those aircraft that can join functionality with beauty, though it be a “shotgun” wedding.

One cannot, however, see only the aircraft, for without a pilot at the controls, the aircraft is simply a construct of silent metal, plastic, rubber, carbon fiber, and thousands of hours of engineering and construction work.  It is the pilot who straps this beast upon his or her back and takes to the sky, hopefully under the auspices of some noble purpose (the cause of freedom, for example) to bring the fight to the face of an evil enemy.  It is the pilot, trained in the mathematics of flight dynamics, schooled in tactics learned through the blood of too many others who came before, garnished with the responsibilities of leadership in The Service.  The best pilots combine all of these, as well as a healthy dose of Luck, and become that iconic warrior:  The Fighter Pilot.

The Fighter Pilot, however, is but a part of the whole, and each conjunction of humanity and technology creates another element within that whole.  Helicopter Pilot and Gunship, Artilleryman and Howitzer, Rifleman and Rifle, Bomber Pilot and Bomber…  Each conjunction creates a joining of man and machine, and these conjunctions enjoy relationships with other conjunctions, the teamwork of the Rifleman on the ground, and the Strike Fighter Pilot in his or her Close Air Support role for example…

Each of these conjunctions surround themselves with myths and legends, and create boundaries within which they enjoy their own, singular notoriety.  Riflemen shall not consort with Tankers.  Cobra Driver shall not sup with B-52 Driver.  C-130 crews shall not rub elbows with F-4 Wild Weasels.  Army shall not drink with Air Force.  Marines shall not hoist pints with any but their own (except when their cousins in the Other Naval Service come calling…)

Every now and again, however, a Rifleman lifts his eyes from the rifle he is cleaning, and watches as the Other Guy, in that Other Machine, carves a path across the clouds with wing man in tow, headed off to commit some violence upon the heads of some distant enemy.  The Rifleman, if he be a cerebral thinker, might wonder wistfully at the community of that Other Guy, and for a while wonders what it would be like to shed ruck, rifle, and the mud-soaked life of the Infantry, and garb himself in Nomex and Speed-jeans to experience what it is like to be That Guy.

There are those veterans of each community who have valiantly put pen to paper in an attempt to describe their own experiences to the world.  Some, like Lex, have done the world a great service in authoring magnificent essays pertaining to their own contributions to being The Other Guy, and have given the world a taste of their exploits, but even such fetes of literary gold cannot immerse the reader in the experience of getting kicked in the butt during a cat shot, or elicit the combination of terror and excitement of sliding a UH-1 into a hot Landing Zone to rescue a wounded grunt while under fire.

The members of the community of Man and Machine do not share enough commonality to understand the nuances of their respective niches, but they do share enough to appreciate each of the others Worst Day Ever.  We can share the catharsis enough to provide a comfort to one another, whether it was watching a buddy go down in flames, auto-rotate into a greasy fireball, or share the last moments of life with a squaddie in the middle of The Firefight.  Memories that we would like to forget, but that must be explored and digested to prevent too much scar tissue from warping all that is the rest of us.

It’s the Other Stories, the Good Times, the view through the gunsight when Death is not the final act, but something that provokes a snicker or wry grin. They are the most enjoyable : A pair of amorous teenagers in a quiet wooded sanctuary- unaware of the squad of TOW gunners watching them from a mile away through the thermal night sight, or the periscope recording from an Attack submarine as it watches a yacht in the middle of the ocean where the Master- Him- and Mate- Her- are on deck, “horizontal and superimposed”…

Across generations, or across technology, it is the stories of these separate – but-conjoined communities that the world must know and respect, and I am gratified to hear each and every one of them, and tell a few of my own.

The embers glowed softly, and in their dim light,
I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight.
My wife was asleep, her head on my chest,
My daughter beside me, angelic in rest.

Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white,
Transforming the yard to a winter delight.
The sparkling lights in the tree I believe,
Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve.

My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,
Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep.
In perfect contentment, or so it would seem,
So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream.

The sound wasn’t loud, and it wasn’t too near,
But I opened my eyes when it tickled my ear.
Perhaps just a cough, I didn’t quite know,
Then the sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow.

My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear,
And I crept to the door just to see who was near.
Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night,
A lone figure stood; his face weary and tight.

A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old,
Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold.
Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled,
Standing watch over me and my wife and my child.

What are you doing? I asked without fear,
Come in this moment, it’s freezing out there!
Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve,
You should be at home on a cold Christmas Eve!

For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift,
Away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts.
To the window that danced with a warm fire’s light
Then he sighed and he said Its really all right,
I’m out here by choice. I’m here every night.

It’s my duty to stand at the front of the line,
That separates you from the darkest of times.
No one had to ask or beg or implore me,
I’m proud to stand here like my fathers before me.

My Gramps died at ‘ Pearl on a day in December,
Then he sighed, That’s a Christmas ‘Gram always remembers.
My dad stood his watch in the jungles of ‘ Nam ‘,
And now it is my turn and so, here I am.

I’ve not seen my own son in more than a while,
But my wife sends me pictures, he’s sure got her smile.
Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag,
The red, white, and blue… an American flag.

I can live through the cold and the being alone,
Away from my family, my house and my home.
I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet,
I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat.

I can carry the weight of killing another,
Or lay down my life with my sister and brother
Who stand at the front against any and all
To ensure for all time that this flag will not fall.

So go back inside, he said, harbor no fright,
Your family is waiting and I’ll be all right.

But isn’t there something I can do, at the least,
Give you money, I asked, or prepare you a feast?
It seems all too little for all that you’ve done,
For being away from your wife and your son.

Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret,
Just tell us you love us, and never forget.
To fight for our rights back at home while we’re gone,
To stand your own watch, no matter how long.

For when we come home, either standing or dead,
To know you remember we fought and we bled.
Is payment enough, and with that we will trust,
That we mattered to you, as you mattered to us.

Patrick Swazye succumbed to pancreatic cancer at the age of 57.  He was surrounded by family when the time came…

Patrick Swazye made his debute at about the same time I did, only he was on the silver screen, and I was stepping onto the stage of Life.

The first film I remember him in was “Red Dawn”, and I remember (being a young man with my fire on fire) wondering how I would do were I to be dropped into the same situation of having to defend my homeland as a member of some homespun resistance group…  I think everyone in my age group wondered thew same thing…

Later, however, I saw “Dirty Dancing”, and saw that a man could carry himself with grace, style, even beauty, while still being ultimately masculine.  That epiphany carries through to this day.

It was in “Ghost”, however, that he melded his alpha-male image with a romantic performance with Demi Moore, and immersed the audience in romance of the sweetest order, re-energizing the wondrous genre of romance, which catalyzed millions of lovers to re-ignite the spark of passion in classic style.  Again, the message was clear:  Falling in love, reveling the romance was a perfectly acceptable thing to do, even for the most manly of men.

“Roadhouse” on the other hand, had the most profound impact on me. however.  Swayze, playing Dillon, a traveling “cooler”, performed the role flawlessly, combining the down and dirty aspects of the quintessential tough guy, with the contemplative persona of a philosopher.  “Be nice, until it’s time NOT to be nice…” stands out, and it was a phrase I took to heart.  Again, it was acceptable to contemplate an alternate path to violence even while in a job that promised violence a-plenty.  This, and the relationship that Swayze’s character had with Sam Elliot’s (admit it, doesn’t everyone want to have a friend like Sam Elliot – rumbling up on his Harley, laid back and full of life’s lessons, but more than able to take care of himself?) showed that you could be a tough guy, but still have those fraternal bonds.  This introduced the idea, and shaped the idea of “the Brotherhood” that was polished by my time in the Corps.

Of all of the actors I have seen over the years, Patrick Swayze seemed to be one of the few who retained his sense of self while still navigating the rocks and shoals of Hollywood.  He was in the same company as Robert Urich and Michael Landon in that respect; men who passed along the deeper lessons of life to their audience, and in doing so, validated thought over brute strength in the style of David Carradine’s Kwai Chang Caine.

So, in retrospect, I give you Patrick Swayze, who had a greater impact on society that some may realize, and I mourn the passing of a cinematic “gentle giant”.

God speed, Patrick, and may you take the angels for a spin on the dance floor of Heaven, and while you’re at it, see if you can teach the Marines who look on Heaven’s Scenes the difference between their left feet and their right!

"Remember..."

11 September 2001, 1003 EST

United Airlines Flight 93

40 souls aboard…

Shanksville, PA…

They fought back, and the terrorists failed to accomplish their mission.

"They fought, and gave the last, great measure of devotion..."

“In resquat pace…”