thedrifter
12-08-02, 04:29 PM
The Essence of a Marine:
Somewhere between the security of childhood and the insecurity of the second childhood, we find the Marine..
Marines are found everywhere; in bars, in cars, behind barns, in holes, in fights, in trouble, running on the double. You will find them in battle, on streets, overseas, in love, on leave, but mostly in debt.
Marines come in assorted sizes, colors, weights and stages of sobriety, anger, misery and confusion. They come in cammi green, brown, black, muddy, and sporting the native flora on their helmets.
A Marine is laziness with a deck of cards, misery with a grin on his face. Exhausted, sleeping in the mud, a penniless millionaire, bravery with a beer in his hand, courage with a grain of sense, he is the protector of the Federation with a Playboy in his back pocket.
A Marine is a composite. He is air cooled, alcohol operated, foot propelled. He is cocky, conceited, high-strung and self-centered, overbearing and considers himself underpaid. He is shy as a fox, has the nerve of a dope addict, the energy of a turtle, the brain of a rock, the stories of an old sailor, and the sincerity of a liar. He has the appetite of a horse, the table manners of a chimpanzee, and the aspirations of Casanova.
When a Marine wants something it is usually a three-day pass, a light for his cigarette, his OWN field jacket, an extra poncho liner (or anything else he can appropriate from supply), a ten dollar loan, or someone to stand his duty.
He likes girls, women, females, ladies and members of the opposite sex. He likes sex, beer, liquor, liberty, leave and sixteen-thirty.
He dislikes answering letters, wearing his Alphas, standing inspections, second lieutenants, getting up for reveille, Marine Corps chow, close order drill, training, war, work, the day before payday, and the curfew set by the parents of the girls he takes out.
No woman can tame him, no man can beat him. He is unwilling, unreliable, irresponsible, impossible, and indestructible.
A Marine is a magical creature. You can shut him out of your home, but not out of your heart. You can take him off of your mailing list, but not out of your mind. You may as well give in; he is yours. He is your brother, lover, friend or son. He is a bright-eyed, good-for-nothing bundle of worries....
But he is a Marine
My Kind Of Marine:
Marines are about the most peculiar breed of human beings I have ever witnessed. They treat their service as if it was some kind of cult, plastering their emblem on almost everything they own, making themselves up to look like insane fanatics with haircuts to ungentlemanly lengths, worshipping their Commandant almost as if he was a god, and making weird animal noises like a band of savages. They’ll fight like rabid dogs at the drop of a hat just for the sake of a little action, and are the cockiest SOB’s I have ever known. Most have the foulest mouths and drink well beyond man’s normal limits, but their high spirits and sense of brotherhood set them apart and , generally speaking, of the Marines I’ve come in contact with, are the most professional soldiers and the finest men I have had the pleasure to meet.
Semper Fi:
There is a story, told for many years, many times over, of a moment so touching, it brought the toughest of Marines to tears. It was some time ago, when the war was all but lost, and it seemed that there was no hope remaining. The Commandant visted the base hospital, to personally present Purple Hearts to those Marines who had given so much. One particular Marine, a Lance Corporal if memory serves correctly, was one of those recipiants. Hooked up to all sorts of gadgets and gizmoes, just to stay alive, the young man could barely see, and was fighting to simply stay alive. He didn't know who had entered the room until he felt the four stars, and immediatly tried to say something. Mumbled and jarbled by weakness and medical machines, a nurse quickly passed him a padd. With weak hands, that Lance Corporal wrote simply, "Semper Fi." Nothing else needed to be said.
Sempers,
Roger
Somewhere between the security of childhood and the insecurity of the second childhood, we find the Marine..
Marines are found everywhere; in bars, in cars, behind barns, in holes, in fights, in trouble, running on the double. You will find them in battle, on streets, overseas, in love, on leave, but mostly in debt.
Marines come in assorted sizes, colors, weights and stages of sobriety, anger, misery and confusion. They come in cammi green, brown, black, muddy, and sporting the native flora on their helmets.
A Marine is laziness with a deck of cards, misery with a grin on his face. Exhausted, sleeping in the mud, a penniless millionaire, bravery with a beer in his hand, courage with a grain of sense, he is the protector of the Federation with a Playboy in his back pocket.
A Marine is a composite. He is air cooled, alcohol operated, foot propelled. He is cocky, conceited, high-strung and self-centered, overbearing and considers himself underpaid. He is shy as a fox, has the nerve of a dope addict, the energy of a turtle, the brain of a rock, the stories of an old sailor, and the sincerity of a liar. He has the appetite of a horse, the table manners of a chimpanzee, and the aspirations of Casanova.
When a Marine wants something it is usually a three-day pass, a light for his cigarette, his OWN field jacket, an extra poncho liner (or anything else he can appropriate from supply), a ten dollar loan, or someone to stand his duty.
He likes girls, women, females, ladies and members of the opposite sex. He likes sex, beer, liquor, liberty, leave and sixteen-thirty.
He dislikes answering letters, wearing his Alphas, standing inspections, second lieutenants, getting up for reveille, Marine Corps chow, close order drill, training, war, work, the day before payday, and the curfew set by the parents of the girls he takes out.
No woman can tame him, no man can beat him. He is unwilling, unreliable, irresponsible, impossible, and indestructible.
A Marine is a magical creature. You can shut him out of your home, but not out of your heart. You can take him off of your mailing list, but not out of your mind. You may as well give in; he is yours. He is your brother, lover, friend or son. He is a bright-eyed, good-for-nothing bundle of worries....
But he is a Marine
My Kind Of Marine:
Marines are about the most peculiar breed of human beings I have ever witnessed. They treat their service as if it was some kind of cult, plastering their emblem on almost everything they own, making themselves up to look like insane fanatics with haircuts to ungentlemanly lengths, worshipping their Commandant almost as if he was a god, and making weird animal noises like a band of savages. They’ll fight like rabid dogs at the drop of a hat just for the sake of a little action, and are the cockiest SOB’s I have ever known. Most have the foulest mouths and drink well beyond man’s normal limits, but their high spirits and sense of brotherhood set them apart and , generally speaking, of the Marines I’ve come in contact with, are the most professional soldiers and the finest men I have had the pleasure to meet.
Semper Fi:
There is a story, told for many years, many times over, of a moment so touching, it brought the toughest of Marines to tears. It was some time ago, when the war was all but lost, and it seemed that there was no hope remaining. The Commandant visted the base hospital, to personally present Purple Hearts to those Marines who had given so much. One particular Marine, a Lance Corporal if memory serves correctly, was one of those recipiants. Hooked up to all sorts of gadgets and gizmoes, just to stay alive, the young man could barely see, and was fighting to simply stay alive. He didn't know who had entered the room until he felt the four stars, and immediatly tried to say something. Mumbled and jarbled by weakness and medical machines, a nurse quickly passed him a padd. With weak hands, that Lance Corporal wrote simply, "Semper Fi." Nothing else needed to be said.
Sempers,
Roger