With all the Scott Olson (Fuck the Marine Corps) and Shamar Thomas (1 man, 2 cups 30 cops) talk around here, it was a mild sense of enjoyment that I read the following at lunch today:
On June 6, the Germans marched out of Belleau Wood. Their perfect formation, coal-scuttle helmets, and rifles at the ready gave them an air of terrible efficiency. Their eyes were on the Americans some 800 yards away. At the time, opposing forces in open areas usually engaged at 400 yards, so it would be a few moments before they were close enough to fire.
The Marines gave a few clicks of elevation to their rifle sights, waited a moment, and began firing. Almost every shot dropped a German. Hitting a target from 700 yards was not difficult for a Marine. At 600 yards, 500 yards, or 400 yards it was downright easy.
The Germans were astonished. This was the first indication that they were up against a new kind of opponent. The effectiveness of the rifle fire broke up the German attack.
Now it was time for Marines to do what they had come to France to do: attack. Now it was their turn to march across the wheat field. The most chilling of military orders was given: fix bayonets! This meant hand-to-hand combat with no quarter asked. It would be a fight to the death.
The Marines marched in line abreast across the open field, their officers waving walking canes to emphasize their orders. Maxim machine guns with interlocking fields of fire began stuttering at five hundred rounds per minute — taka-taka-taka-taka — and Marines fell as if cut down by a scythe. Hugging the ground provided no safety, as some Maxims had been sighted to fire almost at ground level. The First Marine attack in World War I was faltering. Then rose Gunnery Sergeant Dan Daly, rifle high in the air, and he thundered, “Come on you sons of bitches! Do you want to live forever?”
Daly charged through the wheat, into the dark hell of Belleau Wood and the deadly chatter of the Maxims. The Marines followed, shouting, screaming, intent only on their orders: “Occupy Belleau Wood.”
The Marines suffered 1,087 casualties on June 6, 1918, more than in any other day in the preceding 143 of Marine Corps history.
I’ve refrained from discussing SGT Thomas and LCPL Olsen for the simple reason that I truly don’t give a shit about those two. I really don’t. My level of caring about Olsen’s busted up grape is infinitesmal. I bear no great love of the Marine Corps, but when I read stuff like in the preceding, any man with half a bag of nuts gets goosebumps and thinks: There be men, giants here!
This punk ass bitch, Olsen, spits on that history. “Fuck the Marine Corps”? No, fuck you for ever thinking you could be a part of them. Gunnery Sergeant Dan Daly was more of a man on June 6, 1918 than you will ever pack into a lifetime Olsen. When you were in, you bitched nonstop and violated the rules. Now that it is convenient you want to use the hallowed names of those who tread the path 80 years before your birth to give legitamacy to your little protest.
Had you been in the wheat field that day amongst these demigods, I have no doubt that the Germans would have been washed away in a flood of your urine. And I’m sure that there are many generations of Marines out there who would love the opportunity to set you straight.
Preceding passage is from the book “Brute: The Life of Victor Krulak, U.S. Marine” by Robert Coram. It was given to me by my boss as a goof because (presumably) he thought I wouldn’t read a book about Marines. Well, joke is on him, I’d read a book about necrofiliac clowns if someone put it in front of me and I wasn’t reading something else already.
