OH why Not!? ‘Lance! Lance! LANCE!!! Take a Fuckin’ Break! Get Over Yourself! Added More Navy SEAL SHIT! “Part Two of a Sailor’s Scholarly Series on U.S. Naval History in The South Pacific”

When last we left our Boys they had arrived at Viva Young not unlike victorious Roman Legionaries returning from Gaul—The Conquering Heroes—welcomed with gleeful squeals of joy and happiness by the Girls.

A little more detail on Viva Young The Establishment, and more than a little more detail on ‘Mama-San’ is in order here.

Upon first entering, immediately on the left was ‘Mama San’s ‘Office,’ which was simply an enclosed counter with an ancient cash register, a small table lamp, a perpetually over-flowing ashtray, and a counter sign which read: “No Credit.” Every bar or club had a ‘Mama San’—‘Manager’ to put it into Western Parlance. I had a bit of a history with this Mama San.

(Yes we were ‘Fuck Buddies’)

We were roughly the same age and found each other mutually attractive. She was tall for a Filipina, just a little bit chunky with shoulder length reddish brown hair which she kept in a semi-perm. Or perhaps it kept her; maybe that was its natural state. Dark brown eyes and the ‘Ornamental’ version of The ‘Shonnie’ Voice—semi-coarse and gruff.

She did volunteer work for the mayor of Olongapo and was quite well-read, savvy, and politically astute. She wanted a career in government. But first she had a bar to run and girls to manage. In this regard she was all cold business.

When on liberty in Olongapo I generally spent the night with Mama San. She lived with her mother and a sister and a brother and a few children in a fairly decent (though small) house about a mile from Viva Young. She was supporting the entire family and was never ‘hesitate’ to hit me up for contributions to her domicile.

“You gonna pay my bar fine?” Were some of the first ‘personal’ words she said to me on the night I ‘proposed’ to her, which was what seemed like eons before this particular port visit.

Some clarification: Subic Bay is a ‘working port’ not a ‘liberty port’. It is just like being in San Dog, only ‘with benefits.’

But still a working port.

Hence, during this particular Westpac deployment, we would find ourselves in Subic Bay every month or so ostensibly for resupply, but mainly because we were schlepping about six hundred US Marines around the South Pacific.

The Frederick LST 1184 is what is known as a ‘Gator Freighter.’ The ‘LST’ stands for ‘Tank Landing Ship.’ And yes I know the acronym is ass-backwards—‘Landing Ship, Tank’—My Navy is kind of Dyslexic.

Anyway, our primary purpose, our only purpose, our whole raison d’être is to ferry Marines about, dropping them and their AAV’s ‘Amphibious Assault Vehicles’ off at various beaches throughout the region.

“You call. We haul.”

That is the mantra of the Amphib Navy.

So we’d drop off the kids, head back out to sea and return a few days later to pick up all the ones who had not drown in the surf-zone. And sadly, I am not joking. We lost a half-dozen or so during that deployment.

Marines really cannot swim for shit and are not benefitted by the ‘Drown-Proofing’ training they teach at BUD/s (SEAL Boot-Camp, which if you recall, your humble author had been through.)

Twice.

“Drown Proofing”

It’s Great Fun!

HELL WEEK!

HELL YEAH

HOOYAH!!

I Did All this Shit!

Twice!

No Brag!

Just Fact!

“The Only Easy Day Was Yesterday”

–SEAL saying

***

Back to Mama:

Upon our first meeting, we were working on our mutual attraction. Using all my debonair wily Texan/Sailor charms, I broached the subject of “Let me take you away from all this.” (After closing time of course)

“You pay my bar fine. OK?”

“But you’re Mama-San. How can you have a bar fine?”

“You pay bar fine.”

I paid.

For the uninitiated, if one wishes the solitary company and undivided attention of a working bar girl, one must make payment to the Mama-San: the girl’s ‘bar fine.’ Call it a ‘handling fee’ if you must be so callous.

And while I am on THAT subject, allow me to inform you, I never paid any bar fines of any young girls for sex. I did not believe in it. There is much I will explain in future installments regarding this, but for now, suffice it to say that this sailor is an Honorable Man.

Fancy

Bobbie Gentry – (1969)

Street Cred for Vid: kelly heisler

***

But Mama-San is a different matter because she was a woman, not a girl.

I knew ‘the score’ and she kept the score. I happily donated to her cause to keep her score card to the positive and in the black.

What did I need money for anyway? We had a convenient relationship and we were genuinely fond of each other as far as it went. And to my mind, she was doing good work. She was ‘Mother’ to her girls and sincerely looked out for their wellbeing. She could spot a potentially abusive sailor or marine in an instant and would never allow same to leave the bar with one of her girls.

Ever.

And if by some chance she needed help with showing some asshole the door, there were the three of us Fast Freddy Sailors and the regular marines to provide assistance, not that Mama-San ever really needed it.

***

Running the length of the bar was the ‘stage’ or ‘cat walk’. Or picture a runway, similar to what one might find in a very low-rent fashion show.

***

Bordering this runway on three sides was a narrow counter top: narrow-minded and horse-shoe-shaped. The open end faced the door and Mama San’s watchful eye. Strings of lights hung precariously from the ceiling. Bar stools (ancient and uncomfortable) finished the Spartan scene.

The bar girls would line up on the runway and dance to the music from the equally ancient jukebox. Yes, this was best unflatteringly described as a ‘Meat Market’. But then, that was Olongapo in ‘89.

Matt, Rogers, and I knew all the girls. (Just not in the Biblical Sense). I suspect knew some were under age. If you’d ask one hundred bar girls in Olongapo where they were from, you’d get one hundred same pat answers:

“I from da Pra’bince (Province). I make money so go to college.”

I never met a single lil gal (see how easily I throw in some Texan Bullshit Vernacular to gloss over the horrible reality?) who told me she wasn’t actually from Olongapo. Nope, these were all ‘country gals’ with aspirations for higher education brought from ‘The Province’. Their true aspiration was to marry a U.S. Serviceman and get the hell out of the Philippines.

And who could blame them? Many a young Sailor or Marine, after having his first sexual encounter fell in love with a Filipina and did fulfill her dream. They would marry and the new bride would move to San Diego. Within a few months the rest of the family would be sent for: Mama, Daddy, Baby Sis, Baby Bro, Big Sis, Big Bro, real cousins, faux cousins, best friends, et cetera. This was known as the ‘Filipino Pipeline’.

Sadly, more often than not, once secured with U.S. Citizenship and the rescue of her family, the new bride would divorce her Sailor or Marine and make her way headlong into The American Dream, never once looking back and leaving the husband wondering what the hell had gone wrong.

I never felt sorry for the cuckolds. I was a cruel son of a bitch back then and secretly, as a perpetual con and huckster, I was always for the Filipinas anyway.

Actually everything always went wrong with such arrangements.

Well wrong for the sailor/marine.

But right for the ‘Girl-from-da-Pra’bince.’

The Girl from Ipanema

Artists: Astrud Gilberto, João Gilberto and Stan Getz

Street Cred for Vid: catman916

“If you hold sand too tightly in your hand it will run through your fingers.”

–Joni Mitchell (Telegram she sent from Crete to Graham Nash in CA, 1970)

***

Part One Here:

Part Three coming soon.

Yeah! I am Re-Posting Up-Beat Shit Becuz I am Trying To Re-Enter My ‘Happy-Place” and Stop Being Deee-Pressed! “Part Three of a Sailor’s Scholarly Series on U.S. Naval History in The South Pacific” “HAPPY TALK!”

The Thunder-Bolt:

“You can’t hide the thunderbolt. When it hits you, everybody can see it. Christ Man! Don’t be ashamed of it, some men pray for the thunderbolt. You’re a very lucky fellow.”

 – Calo (‘The Godfather’)

***

Matt, Rogers, and I settled into the bar–after I had paid my respects to Mama-San.

“Mama! Where you been all my life?” I yelled, pulling her up from her chair and kissing her hard on the lips.

She managed to untangle herself from my affections and pushed me away. “You go to sit down and spend some money Sailor-Man,” she said gruffly, trying to conceal the smile that was betraying her true feeling.

Since it was still relatively early and the joint pretty much dead, Rog and I decided to shoot some pool.

Now I must tell you, gentle readers, I am a pool hustler, and Rog was a gambler.

Good for me.

Bad for him.

After about an hour of eight ball, Rog owned me all the beer in Olongapo and his First Born. Wasn’t really interested in the First Born (I had seen the baby pictures and the baby dipped snuff just like his daddy)

So I told him to keep the First Born, but get busy with the beers. We sat back down at the bar next to Matt who was in some kind of deep philosophical discussion with a very petite young bar girl who appeared to have a glass eye.

Matt is a gentleman and this girl had warmed up to him.

Rog and I were not gentlemen so we interrupted their conversation.

“Hey Matt! Rog here’s buyin’ the beer for the next ten years. Name your poison.”

“I’d like a glass of wine,” Matt said softly.

“What?!” Rog and I both exclaimed in unison.

Matt was The Artist. So I suppose this was to be expected: This Un-Naval-Like Bullshit Talk would come out the side of his neck from time to time.

“Mama-San!” I yelled over my shoulder. “Ya got any Pinto Greegee-oh?”

“Goddamn chew!” she yelled back. “Go to fuck you!”
I turned to Matt, “Sorry Buddy. Fresh out. How ‘bout a beer? On Rog here. He be buyin’”.

“Sure,” he said softly, not even looking at us.

“Oh shit Rog,” I said. “Matt here done gone off into ‘That Place’ again.”

“Doan worry none,” Rog replied. “He’ll snap outta it.”

I glanced over at Matt, now busily drawing on a cocktail napkin what appeared to be a rather flattering portrait of the girl. She had placed her head on his shoulder and her arm around his waist.

“Yeah, Rog. I suppose yer right.”

Rogers and I traded wolf tickets for an hour or so, and then aimed our affections at some Marines who had recently shown up. Things were about to grow unpleasant when the regular shift of girls came strolling in. This stopped the impending war between the Navy and the Marine Corps as the music got loud and the girls took to the runway.

I knew all the girls on the evening shift. They were my friends. But I spotted a girl I did not know. ‘Spotted’ is probably not the right word. ‘Witnessed’ (Think ‘Baptist Revival’ here) might be more appropriate. She was the spitting image of my high school sweetheart. (No, I wasn’t really that drunk).

OK, not exactly the spitting image but let us say the Ornamental Version of a spitting image.

Thunderbolt!

Boom!

I just had to have some ‘chat’ with her.

And By God, I would.

Or die.

I became useless for the rest of the evening.

***

I have spent far too much time in the Far East.

This will be continued…

Right here: Scroll to the Below:

A girl walks into a bar.

***

I went over to Mama-San, “Hey who’s the new girl?”

“What new girl?”

“The one with the long brown hair,” I said.

“Goddam-chew! They all have long brown hair. Where you think you are Sailor-Boy, Malibu?”

“No. I mean that girl,” I said, pointing.

“Oh ‘That Girl’” she said. “She’s new, and don’t bother her.”

“Yes, I know she’s new. That’s my point, for fuck sake.”

“Leave her alone. She off-you-limits.”

“Bullshit off-limits. She reminds me of someone,” I said.

“Don’t we all? That’s what we do here. We sell the memories. We in the ‘She-reminds-me-of-someone’ sellin’ memory business. But she, that one, she off-you-limits. No for sale.”

“I don’t want to buy her; I just wanna talk to her.”

“Go-to-Fuk-Chew! You want talk? Talk me! You butterfly.” She huffed back toward her desk.

“Butterfly?” I yelled at her back.

She turned on her heel, “You butterfly. You float from flower to flower.”

I stared at ‘New Girl’ while wondering how I was going to get around Mama-San… So I could have my

Happy Talk

From the 1958 film version of SOUTH PACIFIC

***

Previously:

More Shit That is Pissing Me Off Regarding: ‘Broken America’, Or… More ‘CNN Bashing’ & Still Laughing!

Watching Day Two of the Senate Hearings on Afghanistan.

The Gloves have come off today from the Republicans.

They are tearing these ‘Generals’ some new assholes.

They (and Sleepy Uncle Joe) really ‘screwed-the-pooch’ on this one

I am enjoying myself in the watching of them squirm while tryin’ to ‘spin’ the ‘un-spinable’

THESE ASSHOLES LEFT AMERICANS BEHIND!

They Should Be Drawn & Quartered. And Then Set on FIRE!

***

On a Slightly Lighter Note:

Monsieur Le Mark Dice Skewering CNN!

(And a few other of God’s Monumental Creation Fuck Ups)

P.S., I am still in a ‘heated battle’ with The WuFlu. Could go either way…

This may help to explain some of my ‘foul demeanor’–but I doubt it.

“The Future’s Uncertain and The End is Always Near”

–Jim Morrison

“Roadhouse Blues”

Vid Share Cred: JimJohnRayRobby

Have a Happy Day Y’all!

Just for Clarification:

I am an ‘Old-School’ Liberal

But…

These Lib-Assholes Today

WEAR ME THE FUCK OUT!

Woody: One of the Best Ever Amongst Us

Should I Go For It? Naw. Screw it.

Wad’yall Say?

ShouldI go for it?

‘Could’ I go for it?

(I ‘could’ and ‘would’ really use the ten bucks!)

Enthusiastic Homer Says

“Hell-To-The-Hell Yeah!

Will definitely require some strong, mighty resolve and determination. Not to mention uncommon valor and courage…

And…

Some

REINFORCEMENTS!

So I sent out an urgent ‘Mayday! Mayday!’ to Three-Star General Woodbridge requesting he Muster his Marines:

Through a secure internet line I was able to listen in ‘real-time’ as The General briefed his men:

“Men, I’m not gonna Bullshit you, nor sugar-coat this. We are tasked with a very dangerous mission, fraught with peril. But I know you are up to the job. Many Men will die; not return alive, but remember this: No man left behind.”

Our mission is simple in concept, but will be difficult in execution. We have received a recon film from our man on the ground. He bravely risked his life in obtaining this intelligence, so pay close attention.”

Additionally, Sergeant Ihrke will be passing out a complete ‘Mission Objectives Packet’ containing still photographs and the most up-to-date intelligence available regarding the current situation on the ground.”

“Sergeant, you may proceed.”

Sergeant Shannon Ihrke USMC

Study all these items carefully, closely, and completely, with nothing but ‘attention to detail’ and the successful completion of the Mission Objective in the forefront of your minds.”

Succinctly put, our sole Mission is to Clean-Up This Shithole, taking as few casualties as Our Almighty General ‘Chesty’ Puller, will allow.”

(“RIP, Oh Great One”)

“Wheels up at zero five hundred hours.”

“OK. That’s it then!”

Now, let’s go Get Some!

“Fall Out!”  

Recon Film:

MUST STUDY THIS ONE FIRST MEN

Street Cred for Vid: Lance Marcom

***

Items Contained in the Mission Objectives Packet For Your Perusal Below.

But Be Thee Forewarned, The ‘Packet’ Was Compiled By a Moron: Possessing Not Much ‘Intelligence’ for an ‘Intelligence Officer.”

Not Sure If Any Value To The Marines

Oh My Goodness! We Got Ourselves a Natural Disaster!

Yep! A Natural Disaster!

Heavy casualties taken

But we were not yet done

We stacked them up as cordwood

‘Til the Battle could be Won!

A Brief Interlude To Take You From The Carnage,

If Only For A Moment:

A War Poem”

By Lance A. Marcom

I Knocked a beer off my chair

It spilt everywhere

I wept

I cried

I did not die

(Just opened a new one)

And Carried On!

And Was Happy Again.   

We Captured A Spy Who Had Stealthily Penetrated In Behind Our Lines.

We Executed Him On The Spot

Having Been Thusly Compromised, General Woodbridge Ordered We Fortify Our Defenses.

We Did So

With A Bigger Wall

Coming Under Heavy Artillery Fire

We Were Forced To Hunker-In-Our-Bunker

The Enemy Was Amassing Large Numbers of Troops For A ‘Tet Offensive’

When It Finally Came

We Doggedly Held Our Ground.

And Punished Them All Around

Thusly They Ended Their

‘Gallipolian Endeavor in Shame

***

The War Dragged On For Months and Months

The Men Were Growing More and More

Fatigued and Morose

“How Long Will This Bullshit Go On?”

Could Often Be Heard About The Mess Tent At Night

Morale Was Low

***

Then One Day Word Came Down That ‘Peace’ Talks Were On-Going Somewhere In Europe.

“Paris, France” Was The Scuttlebutt

Made ‘Parfait’ Sense To ‘Moi

Those ‘Frogs’ Sucked At War, But They Were Damn Talented When It Came Time To Sue For Peace.

At Any Rate, Morale Was Lifted By The News.

This War Had Become Not Unlike ‘The Korea’, or Perhaps ‘The Nam‘, Or Perhaps ‘Le Deux’.

A ‘See-Saw’ War of Attrition

It Simply No Longer Made No Sense

Nor Showed No Sign of Contrition

We Had Gained A Little Ground, But Nowhere Near Enough To Justify All The Lives Lost Or Destroyed

***

Late One Evening Some of the Men Were Rummaging Around in the Galley Looking For a ‘Late-Night Snack’

Don’t Despair About The Frigidaire,

‘Cuz Now It’s Clean In There

Just Take My Word. You’ll Have To:

I’m Outta Film

Suddenly The Communications Officer Appeared, Running And Screaming Throughout The Camp:

“The War is OVER! The War is OVER!

‘Cease-Fire’ Effective in Twenty-Four Hours!”

Joyous Pandemonium Quickly Ensued

Whoa! Not-So-Fast Hot-Rod!

Twenty-Four Hours Can Be a

Very, Very Long Time

Beaucoup Bullshit Can Go Down in Twenty-Four Hours

After That Initial Orgasmic Spurt of Elation The Men Grew Nervous and Paranoid

Never A Great State Of Mind For A Fighting Man

No One, it Seemed, Wished to be The Last Man To Die in ‘Marcom’s Hooch War’

****

With The War ‘Over’

(For The Time-Being)

Things Settled Into ‘Détente Lite’

Nothing Left To Fight

The ‘Cold War’ Did Commence

And Stuck Us On The Fence

And Even More Stressing

The Bills Kept A-Coming

Never ‘Paid’ Them Much Attention Before

Way Too Busy, So… Ignore

But No Way Now To Relieve That Stress Somehow

Nor The Boredom

I Suppose I Could Work On Cleaning My Hooch Some More…

My Depravity Knows No Boundary

I have stocked up on Honourable Food & Beverage.

Brain-Food, Health-Food, Writer’s-Food & Liquid Propulsion.

Should be able to ‘Honourably’ Write Now.

I splurged and purchased a surprise ‘treat’ for the Gnats

*Evil Grin*

Yeah. Gonna give them the night off, so that they may binge–watch

“Alien”

Can you spot the ‘Surprise’ out of the

‘Many Other Myriad’ Goodies?

Parting Shots:

  1. If You have read this far, seek counsel.
  2. If you have read this far I ‘for-real’ love you.
  3. If you have read this far, I leave you with a little ‘touch of Joni.’

Far Too Many of Her Songs Make Up My Life’s Soundtrack.

Cheers My Friends!

Vid Cred: JoniJourney

The Marine

I still love her

Unlike…

Not too pretty

I still love

August 26, 2021

From my recent posts on facefuck:

I have been asleep for the past eight hours. I am scrambling to catch up. Marines are dead? WTF has happened?

Marines are dead? What happened? Sailors (Me) and Marines (them) oil and water. But Gd’damn it! Brothers/ sisters in arms. Fuck happened? I am struggling to catch up.

Transcribed from a Facebook IM Chat session I recently had with my best (perhaps only) Friend:

Talking to you about Great Mistakes Naval Training Center reminded of a pleasant memory…

Of A Woman—I know—difficult to fathom while listening to all my other ‘Sea-Stories’, but this one is a ‘no-shitter.’ Just trust me.

There were no less than two-thousand sailors stationed at Great Mistakes… but only one Marine: a beautiful young She-Marine.

She stood out!

Far From The Madding Crowd!

Easy to spot from half a clik away—she wore camouflaged fatigues.

Now, you can only begin to understand the fascination this young She-Marine held for the rest of us…

(I may need to write more on her Odyssey. She was the quintessential elusive butterfly—two thousand sailors just wanted to get close enough to speak to her—during the six months she was there—I hope she landed well)

To my knowledge, no one ever got close enough to discover her name; we just always called her “The Marine.”

No one, and I mean no ONE, ever accosted her.

For if someone ever had, that moment would have been his last.

For you see, we were all very protective of her.

And she was protected.

Very well protected, even if she didn’t know it.

(Turns out, she finally did–come to know it–thanks to a moron.

Which moron?

I’ll give you three guesses, but you’re only gonna need one)

None of us harbored any vain fantasies regarding her.

She had become everyone’s…

To respect and keep safe & sound & sheltered…

From an always respectful distance.

****

On my very last morning at Great Lakes Naval Training Center, before I was to muster out and ship off to San Diego/Coronado for BUD/s – SEAL training, I found myself in the Chow Hall for one last ‘delicious’ Navy Breakfast.

If memory serves it was about 0630 hrs.

I went through the cow, er.. Chow- Line, grabbed a cuppa Joe, or Fred, or Jane—don’t matter—it all tasted the same.

Walking about, looking for a table, I spied MS Marine, seated all alone, laconically, rather absent mindedly, stirring her scrambled, powdered eggs (a Navy delicacy).

I Thought, ‘What the hell?’

Walked over to her table and asked, “May I join you?”

She looked up and said, “Yes. Yes, of course.”

*****

Now, please allow me to explain something.

At this point in my life, I had already been around the world.

I had seen, loved, and un-loved more women than it may be prudent for me to admit.

But this one, this Lady Marine—actually not much more than a girl—full of hope and promise, was not terribly beautiful, but she had that ‘certain charme’ –en Francais.

Kinda semi-short blonde locks, ‘bout five foot nothin’, wonderful blue eyes, and she smiled at me.

She smiled at me!

****

I took a seat across from her, set my tray down, extended my hand and said,

“My name’s Lance.”

She took my hand, smiled again and said, “My name’s Mandy.”

(Of course it is, I thought—fits my ‘Mandy’ Profile—see my ‘Mandy Post’ for read –more-about-it-info)

“Nice to meet Y’all Mandy”

Yeah, I like to dazzle ‘em with my Texan-ness—My only claim to fame.

I continued, “Mandy, pardon me for being so bold, but I am compelled to ask you something, if I may.”

She picked up her coffee and said, “Sure. Go ahead.”

“First of all, you do realize you are unique here, yes?”

“Not sure I get your meaning,” she replied.  “I am not the only female stationed here.”

“This is true Mandy, but you are the only Female Marine stationed here.”

“You said you had a question?”

“Uh, yes…” (I could tell ‘The Corps’ had already installed into her a very good, state-of-the-art, ‘Bullshit Detector’—and little patience for doe-eyed Sailors)

“Uh…yeah. I… just, it seems… uh, it seems you are a bit ‘down’. Why?”

She looked me dead in my eyes, and as any good, steely-eyed Marine would, with nothing to fear said,

“You said I was unique here. I concur. I am. I am ‘unique’ in the fact that none of the men ever talk to me here—for six months—I am a normal girl. Nothing wrong with me. I see the sailors talking to all the female Navy Corpsmen Students. Laughing, carrying on. Yet I am left alone. Why?”

This is when I realized that by worshiping this young girl from the distances, we had done her an unkindness, or worse.

I tried, poorly, to explain how all that had happened.

She glared at me, briefly. Then I caught a trace of tears in her eyes.

She picked up her coffee once again, took a sip, set it down, abruptly stood up, grabbed her tray and said,

“Thank you for telling me Lance, but you should’ve told me months ago. Good luck with your Naval career. Oh, and by the way, I noticed you many times. You seemed to be a leader, with some maturity. I often wondered if you would ever come and speak to me. Guess you were never in a hurry to do so.”

I stared at her back as she was walking away.

And I was suddenly saddened.

We, all of us, had done this wonderful young woman a horrible disservice.

To this day, I still remember her lovely face and her brief smile at me.

And the way she carried herself so well.

And her piercing parting words as she disappeared forever,

Except from my memory.

*****

There must be a lesson somewhere to be learned here.

******

This could’ve been my fulfilled vain fantasy.

With Mandy-the-Marine

If I had just opened my eyes.

For a moment.

***********

Doesn’t really fit my narrative.

But it could.

If we had hooked up.

****

Flash forward ten years:

She still young at heart and still a Marine.

Me, older, not still a Sailor. And boring to her.

**********************

Addendum, final thoughts,

and…

Bonus ‘Added Value’:

First, I love MY Country.

Second, I was honored to Serve My Country

Third, Even though Marines & Sailors mix like oil and water, there is a mutual respect shared there.

Fourth, I never let any Marine I ever met forget that the USMC ‘works’ for the U.S. Navy.

(Got my ass kicked more than a few times for relating that paralyzed fact)

Go Navy!

Beat Army!

“Hey Jarhead! Fetch me a water!

With true Marine efficiency, I got three, count ’em, three bottles of water immediately bounced off my dome ever’ time I said that.

(And from three different directions!)

But, I’d keep sayin’ that!

The Marine

August 26, 2021

From my recent posts on facefuck:

I have been asleep for the past eight hours. I am scrambling to catch up. Marines are dead? WTF has happened?

Marines are dead? What happened? Sailors (Me) and Marines (them) oil and water. But Gd’damn it! Brothers/ sisters in arms. Fuck happened? I am struggling to catch up.

Transcribed from a Facebook IM Chat session I recently had with my best (perhaps only) Friend:

Talking to you about Great Mistakes Naval Training Center reminded of a pleasant memory…

Of A Woman—I know—difficult to fathom while listening to all my other ‘Sea-Stories’, but this one is a ‘no-shitter.’ Just trust me.

There were no less than two-thousand sailors stationed at Great Mistakes… but only one Marine: a beautiful young She-Marine.

She stood out!

Far From The Madding Crowd!

Easy to spot from half a clik away—she wore camouflaged fatigues.

Now, you can only begin to understand the fascination this young She-Marine held for the rest of us…

(I may need to write more on her Odyssey. She was the quintessential elusive butterfly—two thousand sailors just wanted to get close enough to speak to her—during the six months she was there—I hope she landed well)

To my knowledge, no one ever got close enough to discover her name; we just always called her “The Marine.”

No one, and I mean no ONE, ever accosted her.

For if someone ever had, that moment would have been his last.

For you see, we were all very protective of her.

And she was protected.

Very well protected, even if she didn’t know it.

(Turns out, she finally did–come to know it–thanks to a moron.

Which moron?

I’ll give you three guesses, but you’re only gonna need one)

None of us harbored any vain fantasies regarding her.

She had become everyone’s…

To respect and keep safe & sound & sheltered…

From an always respectful distance.

****

On my very last morning at Great Lakes Naval Training Center, before I was to muster out and ship off to San Diego/Coronado for BUD/s – SEAL training, I found myself in the Chow Hall for one last ‘delicious’ Navy Breakfast.

If memory serves it was about 0630 hrs.

I went through the cow, er.. Chow- Line, grabbed a cuppa Joe, or Fred, or Jane—don’t matter—it all tasted the same.

Walking about, looking for a table, I spied MS Marine, seated all alone, laconically, rather absent mindedly, stirring her scrambled, powdered eggs (a Navy delicacy).

I Thought, ‘What the hell?’

Walked over to her table and asked, “May I join you?”

She looked up and said, “Yes. Yes, of course.”

*****

Now, please allow me to explain something.

At this point in my life, I had already been around the world.

I had seen, loved, and un-loved more women than it may be prudent for me to admit.

But this one, this Lady Marine—actually not much more than a girl—full of hope and promise, was not terribly beautiful, but she had that ‘certain charme’ –en Francais.

Kinda semi-short blonde locks, ‘bout five foot nothin’, wonderful blue eyes, and she smiled at me.

She smiled at me!

****

I took a seat across from her, set my tray down, extended my hand and said,

“My name’s Lance.”

She took my hand, smiled again and said, “My name’s Mandy.”

(Of course it is, I thought—fits my ‘Mandy’ Profile—see my ‘Mandy Post’ for read –more-about-it-info)

“Nice to meet Y’all Mandy”

Yeah, I like to dazzle ‘em with my Texan-ness—My only claim to fame.

I continued, “Mandy, pardon me for being so bold, but I am compelled to ask you something, if I may.”

She picked up her coffee and said, “Sure. Go ahead.”

“First of all, you do realize you are unique here, yes?”

“Not sure I get your meaning,” she replied.  “I am not the only female stationed here.”

“This is true Mandy, but you are the only Female Marine stationed here.”

“You said you had a question?”

“Uh, yes…” (I could tell ‘The Corps’ had already installed into her a very good, state-of-the-art, ‘Bullshit Detector’—and little patience for doe-eyed Sailors)

“Uh…yeah. I… just, it seems… uh, it seems you are a bit ‘down’. Why?”

She looked me dead in my eyes, and as any good, steely-eyed Marine would, with nothing to fear said,

“You said I was unique here. I concur. I am. I am ‘unique’ in the fact that none of the men ever talk to me here—for six months—I am a normal girl. Nothing wrong with me. I see the sailors talking to all the female Navy Corpsmen Students. Laughing, carrying on. Yet I am left alone. Why?”

This is when I realized that by worshiping this young girl from the distances, we had done her an unkindness, or worse.

I tried, poorly, to explain how all that had happened.

She glared at me, briefly. Then I caught a trace of tears in her eyes.

She picked up her coffee once again, took a sip, set it down, abruptly stood up, grabbed her tray and said,

“Thank you for telling me Lance, but you should’ve told me months ago. Good luck with your Naval career. Oh, and by the way, I noticed you many times. You seemed to be a leader, with some maturity. I often wondered if you would ever come and speak to me. Guess you were never in a hurry to do so.”

I stared at her back as she was walking away.

And I was suddenly saddened.

We, all of us, had done this wonderful young woman a horrible disservice.

To this day, I still remember her lovely face and her brief smile at me.

And the way she carried herself so well.

And her piercing parting words as she disappeared forever,

Except from my memory.

*****

There must be a lesson somewhere to be learned here.

******

This could’ve been my fulfilled vain fantasy.

With Mandy-the-Marine

If I had just opened my eyes.

For a moment.

***********

Doesn’t really fit my narrative.

But it could.

If we had hooked up.

****

Flash forward ten years:

She still young at heart and still a Marine.

Me, older, not still a Sailor. And boring to her.

**********************

Addendum, final thoughts,

and…

Bonus ‘Added Value’:

First, I love MY Country.

Second, I was honored to Serve My Country

Third, Even though Marines & Sailors mix like oil and water, there is a mutual respect shared there.

Fourth, I never let any Marine I ever met forget that the USMC ‘works’ for the U.S. Navy.

(Got my ass kicked more than a few times for relating that paralyzed fact)

Go Navy!

Beat Army!

“Hey Jarhead! Fetch me a water!

With true Marine efficiency, I got three, count ’em, three bottles of water immediately bounced off my dome ever’ time I said that.

(And from three different directions!)

But, I’d keep sayin’ that!