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Editor’s note: This story originally appeared in the January 1939 issue of Leatherneck Magazine.

It was a hot July day in 1862. Aboard the battle-wrecked Galena, the Marine Guard stood at attention. Bugles shrilled their flourishes, and the cheers of the soldiers at Harrison’s Landing could be heard above the brazen notes. The seamen froze in rigid blue ranks.

But there were great gaps in the formation, for, less than two months ago, Rebel shore batteries had swept away nearly half of the crew. Forty percent casualties in a four-hour fight! That ordeal was indelibly stamped on the faces of the survivors lined up to welcome the visiting dignitaries aboard.
Apart from the others were three men. Corporal John Mackie, commanding the Marine guard, stood flanked by two seamen. He stiffened perceptibly, with flushed face and eyes glinting with pride. A tall, gaunt man stepped away from the visitors and extended his hand to the Marine corporal. They smiled.

The rest of the visitors were smiling too. Admiral Louis Goldsborough positively beamed. His lost gunboats had been found. He had been worried about those four ships inconceivably swallowed up in the narrow confines of the James River. No one seemed to know where they were—except the enemy.

The Battle of Drewry’s Bluff
“On to Richmond!’” was the cry of the North. And General George McClellan, to appease it, maneuvered his army like pawns on the chessboard of war. Now he was ready to strike at the Confederate capital. Goldsborough dispatched ships from Hampton Roads to assist the troops and to open the James River for the passage of supplies. In response to Secretary of the Navy Gideon Welles’ orders to “push all the boats you can spare up James River, even to Richmond,” Galena, Port Royal, Aroostook, and Naugatuck cleared Hampton Roads—and then vanished.

The disappearance of the ships caused sleepless nights. The Navy Department wanted to know where they were, and Goldsborough, replying on May 13, reported that they had been last heard from on the 11th, somewhere in James River, about 25 miles from City Point. McClellan was apprehensive too, for he depended on those warships to aid him.

On May 15, he wrote to the Secretary of War to say, “I have heard nothing of the James River gunboats.” But on the following day he added, “A contraband just in reports that he heard an officer of the Confederate Army say our gunboats had reached within 8 miles of Richmond.” So, apparently, they weren’t lost at all. The Confederates knew where they were.

It is not surprising that the Confederates did know, for the Yankee guns had blasted Rebel river fortifications into silence. Aboard Galena, Mackie and his dozen men were kept busy, engaging the Confederate sharpshooters in a moving rifle duel. Every foot of the fleet’s progress was contested. Arriving at City Point, they found the place burned and abandoned by the defenders.

On May 13, the gallant little Monitor joined the other ships, and the flotilla continued up the James. The banks began pressing in on them as the river grew narrower, and as Mackie afterwards said, “crooked as a ram’s horn, with very high banks, heavily wooded on both sides, from which the fleet was constantly being fired on by Confederate sharpshooters hidden in the underbrush.”

About 8 miles below Richmond their progress was halted abruptly by sunken ships and submerged piles. The obstructions could not be cleared, for on Drewry’s Bluff a battery of 10 guns frowned down to command the situation. There was nothing to do but fight; so the ships formed for action. They were in single line, with Galena leading and only 100 yards from the fort. The Marines were engaged in sniping at gunners even before Captain John Rodgers gave the command to fire.

Galena opened first, but her guns couldn’t be raised sufficiently. It would have required an elevation of nearly 35 degrees to reach the Rebel batteries almost above them. Then the Confederate guns went into action and the plunging fire just about blasted the ships out of the water. The fleet dropped back to an effective range and anchored.

Then the fight began in earnest. It was the final defense before Richmond, and the gray-clad gunners had been ordered to stick to the last man. All guns that could be brought to bear were in action and the battle raged in wild fury. The fire from the fort began to weaken. But Monitor had already fallen back, and the unarmored Yankee ships were badly smashed and in danger of destruction. So they moved about 1,000 yards down the river and left Galena to engage the enemy practically alone.

Suddenly, the Rebel fire increased and more riflemen ap­peared on the parapets. The crew from the Confederate ironclad Merrimac had been rushed down from Richmond to reinforce the Rebel strong point. The cannonading increased into a nightmare of violence. Galena shivered under the impact. Her six boats were smashed, and her stack resembled some strange, fantastic sieve. Great holes gaped in her sides, and her red, slippery decks were littered with broken spars and timbers. A shot struck the quarter-deck wheel, and it disappeared in an eruption of splinters.

A gunner raced up from the magazine and breathlessly reported to Rodgers that only five rounds of fixed ammunition remained. “Send it up as long as it will last,” replied the captain, “and then we will use solid shot.”
“Aye, aye, sir! snapped the gunner. He started to return below. An 8-inch shot screamed down and tore him to pieces. Four other men were killed and several wounded by the same projectile. Scarcely had its echo died away when a shell exploded on the deck in the midst of a group of men. A powder monkey in the act of passing a shell was hit and the thing went off in his hands. Long afterward, when the red horror had lifted from his memory, Mackie said: “Twelve men of the Marine Guard under my command and I were at the ports, taking care of sharpshooters on the opposite bank, and I barely escaped being struck by a 10-inch shot.”

“As soon as the smoke cleared away a terrible sight was revealed to my eyes: the entire after division was down and the deck covered with dead and dying men. Without losing a moment, however, I called out to the men that here was a chance for them, ordering them to clear away the dead and wounded and get the guns in shape. Splinters were swept from the guns, and sand thrown on the deck, which was slippery with human blood, and in an instant the heavy 100-pounder Parrot rifle and two 9-inch Dahlgren guns were ready and at work upon the fort. Our first shot blew up one of the casemates and dismounted one of the guns that had been destroying the ship.”

With Galena splintering about them, those Marines fought their guns like maniacs. A hostile shell ripped through into the boiler room. Another set fire to the ship, and the crew stamped out the blaze amid a torrent of shells. Finally, after four hours of combat, Rodgers realized he could not force past the Rebel batteries. So Galena limped out of range.

Torn from stem to stern, with 132 holes in her; with her port guns shored up to keep them from tumbling into the coal bunkers, the gallant little ironclad withdrew. Such bravery could not go unrecognized. That is why, two months later, a group of dignitaries climbed aboard and were amazed that Galena still floated. That is why Mackie stood between Quartermaster Jeremiah Regan and Fireman Charles Kenyon, outstanding heroes of the day, to receive credit for his bravery. Welles was there, and Admiral Goldsborough; Rodgers and the tall, gaunt, weary looking man who held out his hand toward Mackie.

“These, Mr. President,” said Rodgers, “are the young heroes of the battle.”
The tired eyes of President Abraham Lincoln smiled as he shook the hand of each man. Then he turned to Welles and directed that all three were to be awarded the Medal of Honor. This instance is probably the only time a president of the United States personally, and upon his own initiative, recommended the bestowal of this decoration.

A signal honor indeed! And for Mackie, it was a double honor for he became the first United States Marine ever to be awarded the Medal of Honor.

Of such threads is the web of destiny woven.

Executive Editor’s note: This article exemplifies the bravery of a small band of Marines as the U.S. was entering its most turbulent time as a nation. While technically, this fits into the time period we covered in our February issue, the raid on Harpers Ferry in 1859 served as a precursor to a bloody fight to preserve the Union less than two years later. See page 28 for more about Marines during the Civil War.

The fight was over in less than three minutes. When the gun smoke cleared, one Marine lay dead and another lay critically wounded. Standing in shock around them were 10 safe and unscathed hostages. The failed seizure of the federal armory at Harpers Ferry also left 10 insurgents dead and seven more taken as prisoners. The sudden flash of deadly violence on Oct. 18, 1859, put an end to an attempted insurrection and brought the nation one step closer to the bloodiest war in its short history. Like many monumental moments in America’s story, the outcome depended on little more than the courage and readiness of a few Marines.

Send the Marines
A cool, autumn breeze rustled through the foliage of the stately White Oaks. The old trees stood tall like sentries around the periphery of the Marine barracks. The oldest post in the then-84-year-old Marine Corps, sat perched at the corner of 8th and I Streets in Washington D.C. The Marine detachment stationed there consisted of young men whose sea service had taken them to faraway tropical scenes like Brazil, Panama and Paraguay according to Jon-Erik Gilot’s article “Private Luke Glenn: The Unlikely Celebrity of Harpers Ferry.” But on that fateful October morning, the leathernecks would be needed much closer to home.

Among the Marines at “8th and I” was First Lieutenant Israel Greene. Already a pioneer of Marine artillery, Greene was the senior officer on deck that Monday morning and was thus in charge of the roughly 100 Marines there. Greene was making his way across the Washington Navy Yard—clad in his blue uniform, complete with a ceremonial saber—when a frantic messenger came hurrying toward him.

Chief Clerk Walsh of the U.S. Navy, running and out of breath, brought the alarming news that a violent insurrection was taking root in the small river cross­roads of Harpers Ferry, Va. The insur­gents—led by abolitionist and federal fugitive John “Osawatomie” Brown, of Bleeding Kansas fame—were striving to seize the town’s federal armory.

Twenty-four hours after firing their first shot, Brown’s band of raiders were now embattled with the townspeople and members of the local militia. The local response was able to fix Brown’s raiders in a small fire engine house on the edge of the armory grounds, but a dangerous standoff devolved into a precarious hostage situation. The skirmishing be­tween Brown’s men and the armed locals had already left six citizens killed (including the town’s mayor) and eight wounded. The nation needed a rapid response of trained professionals to quash the uprising before it could escalate into a full-scale rebellion. Greene’s detachment of Marines—65 miles away—were ready to answer the call.

A Train Bound for Glory
Less than three hours after news of the turmoil arrived in Washington, D.C., 86 Marines boarded the 3 o’clock train for Harpers Ferry. Greene counted his men as they boarded, ensuring each man was properly dressed and armed for whatever might meet them in the mountains of western Virginia.

His men were clothed in sky-blue trousers and jackets and were equipped with U.S. Model 1842 smoothbore muskets. (Executive Editor’s note: See the February issue of Leatherneck to learn more about the M1842.) The design of the nearly 10-pound firearm was already two decades old, but the Marines of “8th and I” didn’t mind carrying the aged weapons. They were capable of hitting three targets a minute at distances beyond 300 yards. The leathernecks were also fond of the weapon for another reason: it came with a 17.5-inch bayonet with a thick, triangular blade. With the bayonet attached, the firearm transformed into a six-and-a-half-foot spear. It was a barbaric weapon, better suited for ancient Hoplites than 19th-century marksmen, but the Marines would soon be putting them to use in close quarters. Greene also brought two 12-pounder Howitzers to their rendezvous with history—just in case things got out of hand.

Among the Marines aboard, was a young private by the name of Luke Quinn. The train ferrying the men to the mountains was filled with that same electric anticipation that has permeated troop transports since before Myrmidons waited in the holds of their ships to hit the shores of Troy. While most of the Marines were “exhilarated with excitement” about what awaited them at the end of the line, Quinn’s thoughts were likely elsewhere.

At just 23 years old, Quinn had already squeezed a lot out of life. He immigrated to the United States from Ireland when he was 9 years old. He joined the Marines when he was eligible and served for four years. He previously served aboard the USS Perry and the USS St. Lawrence. Now, in mid-October, as the passenger train rumbled west through Maryland, Quinn was only weeks from leaving the military.

Nearing the end of his enlistment and having honorably served the country that gave him a new life, the promise of opportunity was at his fingertips. But Quinn would not live to see another dawn.

The Arsenal
Harpers Ferry sits nestled in the Appalachian Mountains, where the Potomac and Shenandoah rivers con­verge before flowing southeast toward Wash­ington. A small town existed there since the 1730s, when a ferry was first estab­lished to help travelers cross the large waterways. In 1783, Thomas Jefferson passed through the town and famously remarked at its beauty. He claimed the view alone was worth a voyage across the Atlantic.

The combination of the surrounding mountains (which created a natural defense for the site) and unlimited access to hydropower made Harpers Ferry an ideal location to forge weapons. In 1799, construction began on the United States Armory and Arsenal at Harpers Ferry. The site expanded, eventually becoming the second-largest supplier of arms to the U.S. Army. By the time the Marines were headed for Harpers Ferry, the armory employed more than 400 people and had already produced more than 600,000 firearms. But while the sur­rounding mountains protected the town, they also offered Brown’s raiders con­ceal­ment. Brown believed Harpers Ferry was the perfect place to begin his re­bellion as it could also equip an army of freed slaves and abolitionists he hoped would materialize.

Roughly an hour after departing from Washington, the Marines arrived in Sandy Point Junction, just a mile outside Harpers Ferry. There, Greene and his men rendezvoused with Robert E. Lee, who was still a colonel in the U.S. Army. Lee was on leave in Arlington when news of the raid reached Washington and was dispatched to meet Greene in the vicinity of Harpers Ferry to take charge as the ranking officer. Lee arrived at Sandy Point Junction unarmed and clad in civilian clothes. He was accompanied by his aide-de-camp, Lieutenant J.E.B. Stuart.

After a brief discussion with Lee, Greene led his men toward the armory. They arrived roughly an hour before mid­night and entered the armory grounds through the back gate under the cover of darkness. Once in position, the Marines dispersed the drunk and bloodthirsty militiamen, then quietly went about set­ting a cordon around the fire engine house. Their orders for the night were simple: no one gets in or out.

Three Minutes of Fury
As sunrise turned the peaceful waters of the Potomac a shimmering gold and illuminated the 300-foot vertical face of nearby Maryland Heights, the Marines were alert, poised, and ready for the impending violence.
During the night, none of the men in Brown’s company, nor any of their 10 hostages, attempted to escape and break through the cordon. The previous day’s casualties left no doubt in the minds of the Marines that Brown and his men were willing to spill blood for their cause. Lee tried to end the conflict peacefully and ordered Stuart to negotiate with Brown under a white flag. When parleying proved futile, the operation was turned over to the Marines.

Stuart waved his feathered cap, signal­ing to the waiting Marines that negotiations had failed. Immediately, several Marines armed with sledgehammers advanced to the barricaded doors of the small building. The double doors were bolted with steel nails, tied closed with rope, and braced by the two fire engines inside. Brown and his men opened fire through the makeshift embrasures carved out of the doors. The Marines were undeterred.

For several minutes, the hammer-wielding Marines braved Brown’s fire and attacked the doors. The effort was unsuccessful, and Greene called his men back. He reassessed the situation and directed his men to use a nearby ladder as a battering ram. A dozen Marines slung their weapons, grabbed the makeshift ram, and sprinted for the doors. The first attempt failed. Undaunted, the Marines backed up and tried again. This time, their efforts paid off. A piece of the heavy door stove in, leaving a hole just large enough for one man to squeeze through. Seizing the opportunity, Greene drew his saber and crawled into the breach. Behind him followed Quinn.
Inside the cluttered and gun smoke-filled building, Greene rose to his feet, looking for a target.

“There’s Osawatomie!” shouted one of the hostages, pointing to Brown, who was crouched beside one of the engines with his carbine in hand. Brown fired, mortally striking Quinn in the abdomen. Greene pounced before Brown could fire again. The young lieutenant slashed Brown across the neck, sending the fugitive to the ground. The aggressive lieutenant then thrust his sword into Brown’s chest, but the thin blade bent double. Greene drew the now-bent sword high into the air and slammed the hilt down onto Brown’s head. As Greene beat Brown into submission, more Marines poured through the breach and into the chaotic scene. Stepping over the wounded and still-screaming Quinn, Pvt Matthew Ruppert moved into the fray. He was immediately shot in the face. Behind him, more Marines flowed through the hole like an unstoppable blue wave.

Two Marines quickly bayoneted and killed one raider who was cowering under a fire engine. Another Marine disarmed a raider near the building’s far wall, then pinned the man against the stone with his 17.5-inch blade, killing him. Before all the leathernecks began stabbing the now-surrendering combatants, Greene ordered them to take prisoners. In less than three minutes, the fighting was over. All the surviving raiders inside were captured and the hostages were freed without further incident.

Rushing Like Tigers
In the days following the rescue, Greene and a small detachment escorted John Brown to nearby Charles Town to be handed over to law enforcement. Less than two months later, Brown was hanged, making him the first American to be executed for treason. His final words—which he penned in a letter to his wife on the day of his execution—proved prophetic.

“I, John Brown, am now quite certain that the crimes of this guilty land will never be purged away but with blood. I had, as I now think, vainly flattered myself that without very much bloodshed it might be done.”
Just a year and a half after Brown’s ominous words, the country was ripped in half by the Civil War. Among those who died to mend that fissure and preserve the Union were 148 United States Marines, leaving Quinn’s sacrifice to fade into obscurity.

Quinn’s body was left in an unmarked grave on the western heights above town, where it remained for 68 years. Then, in 1927, a few Harpers Ferry residents attempted to locate Quinn’s resting place. Relying solely on oral tradition, the residents began to exhume a section of St. Peter’s cemetery. Six feet down, they uncovered a partial skeleton; the bones were wrapped in pieces of blue wool adorned with Marine Corps’ buttons.

Quinn was given a headstone and reburied in St. Peter’s cemetery. In 2012, Marine Corps League Detachment No. 1143 erected a small stone memorial and a flagpole at Quinn’s grave. For more than 160 years, his body has remained in that remote plot in the mountains, forever hallowing the ground that overlooks the historic river crossing.

Twenty-six years after the raid, Greene wrote fondly of the way Quinn and the other Marines boldly followed him into the engine house. “My only thought was to capture, or, if necessary, kill, the insur­gents,” he wrote. “[My Marines] came rush­ing in like Tigers, as a storming assault is not a play-day sport.”

The Marines were not the only ones present that day who were satisfied with the execution of their duties. In a letter to the adjutant general, Robert E. Lee recalled the professionalism and courage of the Marine detachment as documented by Bernard C. Nulty in “United States Marines at Harper’s Ferry and in the Civil War.”

“I must also ask to express my entire commendation of the conduct of the detachment of Marines, who were at all times ready and prompt in the execution of any duty.”

Two years after the raid in Harpers Ferry, Lee traded in his blue uniform for Confederate gray to wage war against the United States.

Author’s bio: Mac Caltrider enlisted in the Marine Corps in 2009 and served with 2nd Battalion, 8th Marines until 2014. Caltrider has since written for various online and print publications, including Coffee or Die Magazine, Free Range American, and Leatherneck. He was the 2023 and 2024 recipient of the Marine Corps Heritage Foundation’s Master Sergeant Tom Bartlett Award. He is also the author of “Double Knot,” a memoir about his service in Afghanistan. Caltrider currently teaches English in Baltimore, Md.

Two men lay prone in the Maryland countryside, shouldering Spring­field rifles. Each fired a spotting round at a target 200 yards away. The younger man, wearing a Marine Corps uniform, scored a four. To his right was a distinguished gentleman clad in natty civilian attire, a derby atop his silver hair. His first shot hit the bull’s-eye for a score of five. Each man fired another five rounds—all bull’s-eyes.

The date was May 16, 1910. The uni­formed Marine was Gunnery Sergeant Peter S. Lund. Born and raised in Denmark, Lund spent most of his 21-year Marine Corps career as a rifle team member, coach and instructor. Although he was a crack shot, Lund was no straight arrow. In 1907, a general court-martial had convicted him of unauthorized absence—one of several offenses for which he was disciplined during his two decades in the Corps. The shooter in civilian clothes was Major General George F. Elliott, the 10th Commandant of the Marine Corps. The two had just placed Marine Corps Rifle Range, Winthrop, Md., into commission.

Located 30 miles south of Washington, D.C., the range was Elliott’s brainchild. The Commandant had a combat Marine’s appreciation of accurate rifle fire. As a captain, he led two companies of Marines augmented by Cuban insurrectos at the Battle of Cuzco Well—a victory that secured the Americans’ presence at Guantanamo Bay at the Spanish-Ameri­can War’s outset. Elliott was recognized for “eminent and conspicuous conduct under fire” during the operation. The following year, he distinguished himself in combat in the Philippines. Just days after becoming Commandant in 1903, he led a Marine Corps expedition to help stabilize Central America following Panama’s declaration of independence from Colombia. Elliott is the only Com­mandant since Archibald Henderson to command an expeditionary force in the field. Later in his commandancy, Elliott successfully fought off a proposal to transfer the Marine Corps to the Army.

In his 1907 annual report, Elliott ob­served that the Marine Corps “suffers from lack of rifle ranges.” He explained that most Marine posts “are in the vicinity of large cities, the surrounding territory of which is thickly settled. The long range and great penetration of the rifle now used, and the longer range and greater penetration of the rifle soon to be issued, make the location of ranges a problem of great difficulty.” Establishing a model rifle range in rural southern Maryland was part of Elliott’s solution.

The Navy’s Ordnance Department gave the Marine Corps 1,100 acres on a peninsula jutting into the Potomac River just south of the Indian Head Naval Proving Ground. In 1909, Elliott dispatched a small task force to transform the wooded parcel into a functioning rifle range. Those Marines operated under the leadership of Captain William C. Harllee.

Harllee was one of the Marine Corps’ most capable, colorful and controversial officers of the early 20th century. After being kicked out of both The Citadel and West Point for excessive disciplinary infractions, he enlisted in the Army. He quickly rose to first sergeant, winning accolades for his performance in combat during the Philippine-American War. He was commissioned as a Marine Corps second lieutenant in February 1900. Later that year, Harllee led Marines in combat during the Boxer Rebellion, including participating in the Allied assault on Beijing. But the disciplinary problems that got him expelled from The Citadel and West Point soon reemerged. While assigned in the Philippines as a first lieutenant, Harllee was convicted by a general court-martial and suspended from duty for six months for repeatedly striking a Filipino with a cane. During that same tour, he was suspended from duty for seven days for countermanding his superior’s orders, placed under arrest for 10 days for disrespect toward his com­manding officer and suspended from duty for 10 days for engaging in “ungentlemanly behavior.”

Harllee salvaged his Marine Corps career during a successful tour in Hawaii from 1904 to 1906. There, he supervised the construction of a rifle range on an abandoned cattle ranch. After assign­ments in California, South Carolina and Cuba, Harllee became the Marine Corps rifle team’s captain in 1908. The team thrived under his direction. Harllee was not an elite shooter; he could not calm his nervous energy on the firing line. But he excelled as a teacher and coach. So when Elliott decided to establish a model rifle range in southern Maryland, he tapped Harllee to lead the effort.

Harllee built the range on a shoestring budget. He, two other officers and about 40 enlisted Marines spent the winter of 1909-1910 living in tents and rough-hewn log cabins as they transformed the wooded and marshy landscape into a fully functional rifle range. Marines experienced in carpentry, plumbing and mechanics were detailed to complete the facility’s infrastructure. To save money, the Marines planted a garden and grew their own produce.

The result was a shooting complex with a variety of firing lines from 200 to 1,000 yards. A hill behind the butts provided a natural backstop. Nevertheless, in July 1910, Harllee received a complaint that a nearby resident was grazed by a stray round from the range. An investigation revealed that bullets were ricocheting off large rocks behind targets near the range’s outer edge. Harllee had the hill behind the butts bulldozed and rocks removed to abate that threat to public safety.

The installation’s original name was “U.S. Marine Corps Rifle Range, Stump Neck, Chickamuxen Post-Office, Md.” Soon after opening, the range was renamed in honor of Assistant Secretary of the Navy, Beekman Winthrop. A blue-blooded descendant of the first governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, Winthrop held a series of offices under Presidents Theodore Roosevelt and William Howard Taft. His appointment as governor of Puerto Rico at age 29 led to his nickname, “Boy Governor.” He also had served as Assistant Secretary of the Treasury before becoming Assistant Secretary of the Navy in 1909.

East Coast Marine barracks from Philadelphia to South Carolina trained at Winthrop. In 1912, roughly 1,800 Ma­rines shot at the range, in addition to 200 members of Army, Navy and National Guard rifle teams. Eventually, every Marine recruit from the Eastern Division was sent to Winthrop to learn to shoot. Winthrop also became the base of operations for the Marine Corps’ successful rifle teams. Marine Corporal George W. Farnham won the Individual Military Rifle Shooting Championship of the United States in 1910, while one of his teammates won the prestigious President’s Match at the National Rifle Association’s tournament. In 1911 and 1916, Marines also won the President’s Match. Even more significantly, the Ma­rine Corps won the National Trophy Team Match in 1911 and 1916 while finishing second in 1915.

Winthrop became the Navy’s hub for its East Coast marksmanship training. Ships undergoing overhauls were required to send detachments of two officers and 20 enlisted men to the range. The Navy also established a three-week course at Winthrop to train its small-arms shooting coaches.
Access to the installation was mainly by water. Marines built a wharf along the Potomac to facilitate the movement of personnel and supplies. The Washington Navy Yard’s tug made a five-hour round­trip to the range six days a week. Some personnel arrived at Winthrop by taking a train to Cherry Hill, Va., followed by a short ferry ride across the Potomac. The range at Winthrop operated for eight months of the year. As Marine Corps Commandant Major General William P. Biddle reported in 1913, the southern Maryland weather was considered “too severe” for shooting during winter months. The Potomac sometimes became so choked with ice that it was difficult to reach the facility.

Built beside mosquito-infested marsh­land, Winthrop suffered a malaria out­break in 1911. The Marine Corps used part of a $20,000 appropriation for range upgrades to install screens on the bar­racks’ windows and doors. The next year, no malaria cases were reported at Winthrop.

The Navy soon regretted giving the Marine Corps the tract of land that became the Winthrop range. The Bureau of Ordnance repeatedly complained that the range’s location forced the Indian Head Naval Proving Ground to curtail its gunfire due to the proximity of the range’s housing to the line of fire for Indian Head’s naval 12-inch guns. By autumn 1913, the Navy Department was considering an alternate location for its mid-Atlantic rifle range. But when a large portion of the Marine Corps deployed to Veracruz, Mexico, the following year, relocation planning stalled. Winthrop’s facilities deteriorated as needed repairs were deferred amid uncertainty over the range’s long-term future.

Winthrop annually hosted high school boys from Washington, D.C., for a day of shooting. In 1916, the Marine Corps opened the range to all civilians. They could shoot at Winthrop any day but Sunday. A roundtrip boat ride from Washington cost 25 cents. For another 15 cents, civilians could eat lunch at Winthrop’s mess hall. The Marine Corps covered all other expenses, including supplying the civilians with rifles and ammunition.

During the downriver boat ride, Marine noncommissioned officers provided instruction on shooting and scoring while a Navy doctor gave a crash course in first aid. William Harllee—Winthrop’s first commanding officer—served as the Navy Department’s As­sist­ant Director of Target Practice and Engineer Competitions from 1914 to 1918. Throughout that assignment, he championed inviting civilians to shoot at Winthrop as a military preparedness measure. He admonished visitors: “Never offer any man in the military service a tip. It is offensive, and he will not take it. He esteems it a pleasure to welcome you to Winthrop and to make the shooting game attractive to you.” During the summer of 1916, more than 6,000 civilians shot at the range. Among them was Beekman Winthrop’s successor as Assistant Sec­retary of the Navy: Franklin Delano Roose­velt. In July 1916, Roosevelt hosted a party of dignitaries including Secretary of War Newton Baker on a yacht trip to the range, where the VIPs tested their marksmanship.

The outreach to civilians soon created a controversy. Initially, women were en­couraged to participate in the training. A widely published photograph showed a smiling woman poised to fire a machine-gun at Winthrop as another woman stood beside the weapon. In early May 1916, however, Headquarters Marine Corps banned women from shooting at Winthrop and then barred them from the installation entirely. Those decisions generated considerable resentment among the shooting clubs that regularly visited the range.

The United States’ entry into World War I on April 6, 1917, precluded civilian use of the range that year. In 1914, the Marine Corps had established a “student camp” at Winthrop as a training ground for newly commissioned Marine second lieutenants with no prior military exper­ience. The program ballooned as the Marine Corps brought a huge influx of civilians—many of them prominent college athletes—into its brotherhood of officers at the start of World War I.

Karl S. Day, a future Marine Corps Reserve general officer, was typical of the second lieutenants who arrived at Winthrop in June 1917. He had recently graduated from Ohio State University, where he captained the track team. Day and his fellow lieutenants initially slept on cots in a wooden barracks. “The heat and mosquitos,” Day wrote “are something awful.” Mosquito netting was issued to protect the lieutenants from Winthrop’s ubiquitous bloodsuckers. The range was so overcrowded that in mid-July, the lieutenants’ barracks was converted into a mess hall. The lieutenants moved into four-man tents. Heavy rain followed, dampening the lieutenants’ canvas-covered belongings.

While the lieutenants were at Winthrop, first call sounded at 6 a.m. every day but Sunday, followed by reveille at 6:10 a.m. The newly commissioned officers as­sembled at 6:20 a.m. Breakfast was served from 7 a.m. to 8 a.m. Training oc­­­cupied the lieutenants until a lunch break from 12:15 p.m. to 1:30 p.m. and then resumed in the afternoon except on Saturdays. The lieutenants’ training in­cluded classroom instruction, drill, shooting and pulling butts. Dinner was served at 6 p.m. Meals cost the lieutenants $1 a day. They often supplemented their rations by purchasing ice cream cones, pies, chocolate or cakes from the instal­lation’s exchange. Entertainment at the remote facility was limited to movies shown three nights a week. Quarters sounded at 9:45 p.m. and Taps at 10 p.m.

After completing their marksmanship instruction at Winthrop, the lieutenants continued their training at the sprawling new Marine Corps base at Quantico. The Winthrop range soon followed the lieu­tenants across the Potomac. In autumn 1917, the Marine Corps shut down Win­throp, dismantling the facility’s equip­ment and moving it to a newly established range at Quantico.

The Winthrop range was in operation for only seven-and-a-half years. But in that short time, it laid the foundation for the Marine Corps’ marksmanship prowess.

Now known as the Stump Neck Annex, the former site of the Winthrop range is home to the Raymond M. Downey Sr. Responder Training Facility. That complex is named in honor of a New York City Fire Department deputy chief who died while heroically responding to the Sept. 11, 2001, attack on the World Trade Center. Before he was a firefighter, Downey was a Marine. He spent most of his four-year enlistment with 2nd Battalion, 10th Marines.

The Marine Corps’ Chemical Biological Incident Response Force—headquartered nearby at Naval Support Facility Indian Head, Md.—conducts training at the complex named for the fallen firefighter. Marines continue to hone their skills at the site that was once the Winthrop range.

Author’s bio: Colonel Dwight H. Sullivan, USMCR (Ret), is a senior coun­sel at the Air Force Appellate Defense Division, at Joint Base Andrews, Md., and an adjunct faculty member at the George Washington University Law School. He is the author of “Capturing Aguinaldo: The Daring Raid to Seize the Philippine President at the Dawn of the American Century.”

Editor’s note: This article originally appeared in the April 2005 issue of Leatherneck Magazine. In recognition of Black History Month, Leatherneck is re-publishing the story.

The splashes of bullets in the water and the cresting of puffed bodies in the surf revealed a world turned upside down for the noncombat-designated service and support black Marines thrust precipitously into the first hours of the first day on the cutting edge of the battle which would emblazon itself in military history for its ferocity, heroism and sacrifice.

On that D-day morning of 19 Feb. 1945 on Iwo Jima, Corporal Gene Doughty, a Marine squad leader, pressing his belly into the coarse black sand, swiveled his head to count noses of his 1 st Squad, 1st Platoon, 36th Marine Depot Company.

“They were all flat as rugs with the salt air above them singing with shell splinters,” recalled Doughty. A fellow Marine, Private Wardell Donaldson, his head embedded in the sand, had a bullet hole in his helmet. Surf washed the prone boondockers of many who were hardly ashore.

Into that same fury that morning came additional brother black Marines, members of the 8th Marine Ammunition Co. Both the 36th Marine Depot Co and the 8th Marine Ammo Co were part of the 8th Field Depot, which provided service support for the Third, Fourth and Fifth Marine divisions of V Amphibious Corps (VAC).

These young men were part of a distinctly select group-20,000 vigorous, patriotic Americans known today as Montford Point Marines. During World War II, black Marines were recruited and then trained at a segregated camp, Montford Point Camp, near Jacksonville, N.C. They served in two defense battalions and as combat service support Marines, such as truck drivers, security details, cargo suppliers and ammunition handlers. They were not slated for direct confrontation with the enemy. All officers in the active units were white, as were most of the noncommissioned officers in the beginning.

Doughty, celebrating his 21 st birthday on Iwo Jima with the 36th Marine Depot Co, came to the beach beside the 8th Marine Ammo Co at virtually the same time as assault troops. However, the depot and ammunition forces had to wait for space on the 3,000-yard beachhead. In a few days, the 33d and 34th Marine Depot companies and succeeding elements of 8th Marine Ammo Co entered into no less a conflagration. They’d be protecting, sorting or delivering essentials to troops within earshot.

“But on this spit of a beach, on a lone rock in the open sea,” recalled Doughty, “the enormous swells often picked up landing craft and crashed them bodily ashore.” Ammunition, water tanks, assorted military equipment, rations-all were dumped unceremoniously on the strand. With the crunch of mortars, artillery water spouts and whining shell fragments close enough to startle your ears, black troops, often standing upright, were provisioning the battle.

“They were so young-many 18 to 19 [years old], really. It took great care, and slowly, to ready it all,” added Doughty, “with thanks to those brave Army brothers with the DUKWs [‘ducks’-wheeled amphibious landing craft, all-purpose carriers], and the Pioneers and naval construction battalions [Seabees] with their armored ‘dozers’ and Weasels [small, tracked carriers]. In those first hours, supply was hand to mouth.”

An Army officer, second lieutenant Bruce Jacobs, who was attached to the Army DUKW units, expressed the wonder of how they survived it all. The Army lieutenant celebrated his 20th birthday on the island. A retired major general, he lives in Alexandria, Va.

Sergeant Thomas Hay wood McPhatter of Lumberton, N.C., who also celebrated a birthday on Iwo, plunged headlong into the pandemonium as a section chief in 1st Pit, 8th Marine Ammo Co. “Our unwieldy LST [tank landing ship] forced a keel-grip on the sand,” recalled McPhatter. “But [she] swung to the drumming of the heavy surf. Ammo Marines were soon into her gaping bow to wrestle out the munitions. Japanese big-gun rounds and machine-gun splatters took umbrage.”

Action was continuous. On the second day, 2dLt Francis J. Delapp and CpI oilman Brooks, both from 8th Marine Ammo Co, were wounded. On the third day, Private First Class Sylvester J. Cobb of the company was wounded.

The 34th Depot Co, which landed with the 33d Depot Co on Feb. 24, lost CpI Hubert E. Daverney and Pvt James M. Wilkins, killed on the fire-swept beach. A few days later, Sgt William L. Bowman, PFC Raymond Glenn, Pvt James Hawthorne, PFC William T. Bowen and PFC Henry L. Terry were out of the battle with wounds. In early March. PFC Melvin L. Thomas gave his life and Pvts “J” “B” Saunders and William L. Jackson, all 8th Marine Ammo Co leathernecks, were wounded.

“Why?” asked McPhatter. The answer was simple. There was no shelter, no defilade and no concealment; all operations on Iwo Jima were front line. “Death came from anywhere, to anywhere. Pick any Marine,” said McPhatter, “and you’ll hear high words for our Seabees. They went out of their way to bring water up to us later.”

But the gods of war momentarily turned their backs and “like a lightning stroke, a mortar round or two dropped into the ammunition dump that 8th Ammo was burgeoning,” said McPhatter. “We were in foxholes right beside the dump.” The blowup seemed a fizzle at first, then a great thunder with shrapnel flying every which way.

“We raced away and down to the beach for safety and to assemble what we could,” he explained. “It was a disaster. So much ammo was destroyed. We needed instant supply from Guam and Saipan. The planes were soon [overhead] and [the] munitions [floated down] under brightly colored parachutes [that] the Japanese could see very well. The Japanese potshot at the Marines running helter-skelter anywhere the wind blew the chutes. Things got really intense, kicking up the sand.”

McPhatter ducked momentarily into a gutted bunker, stopped beside a dead Marine “who, no doubt, died only moments before as he held the photographs of his family to his blooded chest. With my helmet I scooped a shelter for my head and promised the Almighty that if he spared me at this moment, I’d dedicate the rest of my life to Him.”

The sergeant kept his word. He entered the ministry, graduating from Johnson C. Smith University, Charlotte, N.C. Then after being a pastor, he entered the U.S. Navy Chaplain Corps, went on to serve in Vietnam, retired as a Navy captain, and holds a doctor of divinity from the Interfaith Theological Center, Atlanta. He’s now a retired Presbyterian minister.

McPhatter’s platoon leader, 2dLt John D’Angelo, now a retired schoolteacher, had high words for the coolness, drive and skill of his men. D’Angelo retired as a Marine captain.

Pvt Roland B. Durden, born in Harlem, N.Y., remembered when the dump blew, but the lump still in his throat is for the cost of the operation after only a few hours ashore. His 34th Marine Depot Co was part of the Graves Registration unit.

“We were day on, day on, day on burying them in long, bulldozed trenches, first wrapped in ponchos, then sheets, and finally nothing at all,” Durden said, “and these were the casualties of only the first days.” Durden retired as assistant general manager of the New York City Transit Authority.

Gunnery Sergeant John Basilone, who was awarded the Medal of Honor for action on Guadalcanal in 1942 while he was a sergeant, was among the dead, recalled Platoon Sergeant Stephen Robinson, later a prominent Illinois attorney, whose detail buried Basilone.

Samuel Saxton, a U.S. Navy steward, was there too, with the goods of war on an LSM, a medium landing ship. “Shell spouts meant God was with us and they were bad shots. I learned of guns concealed behind great steel sliding doors on Suribachi. But-and luckily-the snarling little carrier hornets tempered the enemy gunners’ zeal.”

Saxton joined the Marines later, rose to captain, served in Vietnam, and became a prominent Marine corrections officer, a profession he carried into civilian life with national recognition.

Actually, in early Marine Corps planning, black Marines were not slated for “direct confrontation with the enemy,” save those assigned to the 51st and 52d Defense battalions. The defense battalion role was to protect, and the Marines were combat-trained to do that. But many defense battalions were assigned remote spits in the Pacific that the Japanese didn’t care about. So neither 51 st nor 52d fired a round in anger, although some rounds were fired in frustration. As a historical footnote, the leathernecks of 51st Defense Bn did fire eleven 155 mm rounds to ward off a rumored Japanese submarine near Nanomea Island in the Pacific. However, other black Marines in the notfor-combat service support troops were again and again on the front lines and on invasion beaches to assist the assault forces.

But the Marine Corps plan for black Marines didn’t work all the time-especially around 5:15 in the morning on Iwo Jima, 26 March 1945. “We were security forces for the sleeping airmen, and we were more relaxed now that the islands had been secured for [10] days, but our perimeters were as tight as ever,” explained Doughty. “About 300 enemy, in a last-ditch incursion, slipped down the west side of the island and stormed the bivouacs of Army, Navy, Marine and Air Corps airmen.”

The Japanese were to carry out the dictum of their honored commander, Lieutenant General Tadamichi Kuribayashi, who stated, “Take 10 Americans with you!” Silent at first, the Japanese slashed the guide ropes of the tents and then slashed the sleeping aviators, many helpless and immobile under the fallen canvas that blanketed them-all in the dark before the dawn.

Hit hard was the Army’s VII Fighter Command. Bivouacked alongside them were the 5th Pioneer Bn and 8th Field Depot, where seasoned veterans were encountered. They blunted the attack in their sector with casualties and high honors.

“Oh, it was well planned,” said Doughty. “[They] came at us from three directions. They wanted maximum confusion and destruction, but because we were in foxholes, combat situated and ready, we were fast to respond. I recall James Whitlock and James Davis [36th Marine Depot Company] rapidly cranking off rounds, flashes on flashes in the dark. They [the Japanese] were bloody with their bayonets and swords. With a little later backlighting, our people could see faint wispy sword-swinging, grenade-sowing figures as they charged us.”

According to the Marine Corps historical pamphlet, “Blacks in the Marine Corps,” written by Henry I. Shaw Jr. and Ralph W. Donnelly, and reprinted by the History and Museums Division, Headquarters, U.S. Marine Corps in 1988, “The black Marines were in the thick of the fighting.”

Pvt James M. Whitlock and PFC James Davis of the 36th Marine Depot Co each were awarded the Bronze Star Medal. Pvt Miles Worth of the 36th Depot Co was wounded. PFC Harold Smith was killed and CpIs Richard M. Bowen and Warren J. McDaugherty of the 8th Marine Ammo Co were wounded. Sgt McPhatter recalled that one of his Marines, PFC Burnett, first became aware of the Japanese incursion and “began firing to alert everybody.”

The infiltrators attacked with their own as well as American weapons. Forty of the Japanese dead were armed with swords indicating a high percentage were officers or senior noncommissioned officers. LtGen Kuribayashi was not among them. He earlier had committed hara-kiri.

Later, Colonel Leland S. Swindler, who commanded 8th Field Depot during the Iwo Jima operation, lauded the performance of his men, who continued to function in labor parties while in direct contact with the enemy. Proper security prevented their being taken unaware, as they conducted themselves with marked coolness and courage.

Some of the Marine Corps’ early savants had questioned why any robust combat training for labor troops was needed. Such were not the thoughts of the crusty hard-nosed black drill instructors at Montford Point. Take the legendary Gilbert H. “Hashmark” Johnson, who said, “I’m an ogre but fair.” Johnson attained the rank of sergeant major.

Another black DI during the early days at Montford Point, Edgar R. Huff, who also retired as a sergeant major, once stated, “You’ve got to be better than any Marine in New River.”

The door was opened in June 1941 for blacks to serve in all the military forces on orders from President Franklin D. Roosevelt. A year later, the Marine Corps activated the Montford Point Camp, and the Marines were quick to put in charge some shake-hands-with-the-devil black drill instructors such as Johnson and Huff.

Doughty recalled Johnson bellowing at the Montford Point training center. (The camp was later renamed Camp Gilbert H. Johnson in honor of SgtMaj Hashmark Johnson.) “Looking back at my early recruit training, I am ever grateful to its instructors and training personnel,” said Doughty.

Doughty was promoted to sergeant for leadership shortly after the Iwo Jima campaign. He served with occupation forces at Sasebo Naval Base, Japan, was honorably discharged in May 1946 and returned to New York, where he resumed his college education at City College. His career included work as a physical education instructor for the New York City Police Athletic League and as a social investigator for the Department of Social Services. He retired from Sears, Roebuck and Co. as a communication division manager.

Doughty remains close to Marine Corps service organizations. He has been a member of the Marine Corps Scholarship Foundation for 25 years and served with its board for four years. He also is a life member of the Marine Corps League, 1 st District. He was national president of the Montford Point Marine Associationelected to two separate terms-and currently serves as its national scholarship program director.

General Carl E. Mundy Jr., 30th Commandant of the Marine Corps, addressing a reunion of Montford Point veterans, cited their “guts, determination and boundless drive to succeed and excel.”

Brigadier General Edwin H. Simmons, USMC (Ret), Director Emeritus, Marine Corps History and Museums, added, “Their role on Iwo Jima as well as Saipan, Okinawa and other battlefields made the simple statement: They were Marines and fought as Marines. Their spirit, combat skills, courage and devotion left no question of that.”

Authors note: For their actions as part of the supporting forces of VAC on Iwo Jima, the black Marines earned the Navy Unit Commendation ribbon. The “Navv and Marine Corps Awards Manual, secNAVINST 1650.1″ reads, “To justify this award, the unit must have performed service of a character comparable to that which would merit the award of a Silver Star Medal for heroism or a Legion of Merit for meritorious service to an individual.”

Editor s note: Cy O ‘Brien served as an infantryman in a rifle company in the Third Marine Regiment on Bougainville. He was later a combat correspondent on Guam and Iwo Jima. Following WW II he spent 12 years in the Marine Corps Reserve, retiring as a captain. Cy was first published in Leatherneck in August 1944 and remains a valued contributor.

Editor’s note: This story originally ran in the April 2017 issue of Leatherneck Magazine. 

On Jan. 20, 2017, Supreme Court Chief Justice John Roberts ad­ministered the oath of office to President-elect Donald J. Trump, making him the 45th President of the United States. During this culminating moment of the Inauguration ceremony, cheers and applause filled the air as “Hail to the Chief” greeted President Trump for the first time in his new role. Every four years, this occasion results in in a variety of uniquely American experiences—there is the morning worship service with following procession to the U.S. Capitol, the new President’s inaugural address and later, the parade and evening balls. One tradition pervading the entire day, and enhancing all others, is music.

Music has played a central role in the traditions of Inauguration ceremonies for more than 200 years. Many organizations combine to create the atmosphere, but only one has been doing it from the be­ginning. “The President’s Own” United States Marine Band, is the oldest active professional music organization in our nation’s history and has played a key role in Inaugurations since the 1800s.

Congress ordered the formation of The United States Marine Band in 1798. Shortly after, the band began performing at White House functions during the ad­ministration of John Adams. The band’s Inauguration debut, however, would not come until 1801, when Thomas Jefferson was sworn in as the country’s third Pres­ident. This being only the fourth ceremony of its type in our nation’s history, many of the current traditions had yet to be developed. There was no parade or ball following the event.

Instead, Jefferson simply took the oath of office inside the Capitol building in front of a crowd that was limited by the size of the room. Jefferson’s inaugural speech marked the end of the occasion. “Hail to the Chief” had not yet been composed, let alone associated with the President. To honor Jefferson as the new Commander in Chief, the Marine Band performed an original piece called “Jefferson’s March,” com­posed specifically for the ceremony.

As the years passed, the Inauguration ceremony traditions developed and the support provided by the Marine Band evolved. The band quickly became a White House staple, and President Jeffer­son is credited with christening the band as “The President’s Own.” Jefferson’s second inauguration in 1805 included the first inaugural parade, and following President James Madison’s swearing-in ceremony, the Marine Band performed at the first inaugural ball in March of 1809. The Marine Band adapted and expanded its role supporting the President through every change and each new precedent included in the ceremony. It has faithfully continued that support on every Inaugura­tion Day since 1801.

The band’s most fundamental inaugural piece, “Hail to the Chief,” did not appear in the ceremony until President Martin Van Buren’s 1837 Inauguration. At the time, the song had existed for more than 20 years, but it had only been directly connected with the President since 1829. At a ceremony celebrating the laying of the cornerstone of the first lock of the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, the Marine Band had performed the piece to honor President Andrew Jackson as he departed.

Two first ladies, Julia Tyler and Sarah Childress Polk, are primarily responsible for establishing the tradition of honoring the Commander in Chief with this song. They repeatedly requested that the Marine Band perform the song to announce their husbands’ entrances or as a sign of honor during departures. Over time, the music and the title became inseparable, and the Department of Defense established the song as the official musical tribute to the President in 1954.

Outside of Inauguration ceremonies and White House performances, the Ma­rine Band often supports the President around the nation. “The President’s Own” pe­formed at the consecration of Gettys­burg National Cemetery in advance of Abraham Lincoln’s famous Gettysburg Address. The band led President Grover Cleveland and a parade of 20,000 people through Manhattan to New York harbor for the unveiling of the Statue of Liberty. On Sept. 11, 2002, the Marine Band supported President George W. Bush as he traveled to the Pentagon and ground zero in honor of the first anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks.

Presidential support by the band in­cludes performing in state funerals as well. In 1963 “The President’s Own” led the funeral procession for John F. Kennedy and more recently, the band marched in the procession for Ronald Reagan’s state funeral in 2004.

Musical requirements around the White House take on many different forms. Holiday events such as the annual Easter egg roll, Fourth of July celebrations, and Christmas tree arrival all include perfor­mances by the Marine Band. A large, fully staffed detachment of the band performs each time the President officially wel­comes a foreign head of state. Garden tours, parties, receptions and many other events all feature music from some varying size element of the band. In all, “The President’s Own” performs upwards of 200 times annually.
Even when not performing in direct support of the President, the band always maintains a full schedule. One of the band’s hallmark traditions is their annual National Concert Tour.

Legendary Marine Band Director John Philip Sousa or­ganized the first concert tour in 1891. As director of the band for more than a decade, Sousa performed with the band in most major cities around the Washing­ton, D.C., area and had previously at­tempted to organize concert tours that would take them across the nation, but was denied because of the band’s already full schedule supporting the White House. Finally given an audience with President Benjamin Harrison, Sousa later quoted the President as saying, “I have thought it over, and believe the country would rather hear you than see me; so you have my permission to go.”

The 1891 tour took the band to 32 dif­ferent cities throughout the Northeast and Midwest. The following year, Sousa extended the tour all the way to the West Coast. In the years following 1892, the band conducted their National Concert Tours, with several multi-year gaps. Many successive events factored into this. Sousa’s own departure from the band, and World War I, the Great Depression and World War II all impacted the band’s ability to perform outside the capital. In 1946, the Marine Band resumed the con­cert tours on an annual basis, and it has held one every year since.

Today, the band’s performances are in such high demand that it cannot tour the entire nation each year. The country is divided into five touring areas, and the band selects a different one each year to visit. The tours last for a month each fall, and concert tickets are free to the public. In 2016, the band went to 30 different cities in 30 days throughout October, traveling through Maryland, Virginia, the Carolinas, Georgia, Alabama and Florida.

Performances at Evening Parades are another central tradition of the Marine Band. Held every Friday night during the summer at Marine Barracks Washington, these are, “a showcase for the ceremonial prowess of Marines and the musical eminence of the U.S. Marine Band.” The band, along with the United States Marine Drum and Bugle Corps and the Silent Drill Platoon, put on an awe-inspiring display in this highly visible and important demonstration of Corps identity.

Despite their busy schedule and wide variety of events, Inauguration Day re­mains one of the most important events for the Marine Band. It is one of very few performances in which the entire 99-piece band is assembled to march and perform together.

Shortly after the election last November, the band began working with the pres­iden­tial transition team and the Joint Congressional Committee on Inaugural Ceremonies to determine how the events of inauguration day would proceed. As details gradually were locked in, the band began its marching and music re­hearsals. Many parts of the ceremony were known from tradition and precedents set by pre­vious Inauguration ceremonies, but much of the ceremony was specific to this day.

The playing members of the band worked together to perfect the variety of musical pieces being played. Rehearsals were conducted with other musicians or groups participating in the ceremony. Drum Major Master Sergeant Duane King conducted marching drills, perfecting the art of synchronizing all 99 members without verbal commands. The non-playing members had much work to do as well—every musician needed a folder containing copies of the different music being performed, and the music needed to be printed on something that would not blow away in the wind or allow the ink to run in the rain. Every tiny detail of execution needed to be thought through in order to enable the band to perform at its required level.

“We have very high expectations for this organization. I expect them to perform at their highest level regardless of the event,” said MSgt King. “There will always be eyes on us, and for many, this is their first glimpse of the Marine Corps and the Marine Band, and we want that to be a great experience.”

A full dress rehearsal was conducted the Sunday before the ceremony. All 152 Marines of the unit had prepared diligently and were ready for the main event to come. “The Inauguration always requires a certain amount of pacing and stamina on the part of the members of the band,” explained Master Gunnery Sergeant Susan Rider, a trumpet player and 20-year veteran of the Marine Band. “I am always so impressed by how the band is able to do its work at the very highest levels no matter what circumstances are presented.” The unit would play a role spanning almost an entire 24-hour period.

Prior to the swearing-in, the Marine Band provided music as a prelude to the ceremony as well as to honor the entrance of dignitaries. The music for this portion of the day was selected by Lieutenant Colonel Jason Fettig, the Marine Band’s director.

“For the entrance of the VIPs, including former Presidents, we try to select titles that have some sort of connection to their background or career,” he said. “Since this is a great American ceremony, I want to try to mirror that in the music that we play.”

Appropriately selected for this prelude were a wide variety of pieces by John Philip Sousa in addition to other classic American tunes such as “National Emblem” by Edwin Eugene Bagley and “Liberty Fanfare” by John Williams.

After the opening remarks and invoca­tion, the ceremony drew to its height at the swearing-in. Vice President-elect Mike Pence took the oath of office and was greeted for the first time with four ruffles and flourishes by the Army Herald Trumpets followed by “Hail Columbia.” The Marine Band plays this song as official honors to the vice president.

The Marine Band followed the vice president’s oath of office with a stirring performance, accompanying the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, of “America, The Beau­tiful.” This marked the seventh time these two organizations have per­formed to­gether for a presidential Inauguration. The earliest combined inaugural performance came in 1965 for President Lyndon B. Johnson.

Over the decades, they met again to perform for Ronald Reagan, Richard Nixon, George H.W. Bush, and, most recently in 2001, for George W. Bush.

Next, Chief Justice John Roberts ac­companied President-elect Trump to the podium to administer the oath of office. “Hail to the Chief” followed, again pre­ceded by the ruffles and flourishes. To close the ceremony, the Marine Band performed the national anthem, accom­pany­ing singer Jackie Evancho.

As the new President attended his inaugural luncheon and made his way to the parade review stand in front of the White House, the Marines were already on the move to the next phase of their day. Immediately following the swearing-in, the band picked up and moved to take their place in the parade.

Formed with their full complement, the band was an impressive site. At the head stood Drum Major MSgt King, adorned in his iconic bearskin headpiece, ornate sash, and Malacca cane mace to silently command the unit. The assistant drum major and five Marine Band officers, including the director, were behind the drum major and the remainder of the band followed, all 99 playing members, arranged in nine columns standing 11 rows deep. As soon as the Marines were formed and the President took his place on the review stand, the parade stepped off. The band performed two Sousa classics, “The Thunderer” and “Semper Fidelis,” on the march from the Capitol to the White House.

As they passed the review stand, “The President’s Own” demonstrated to their new Commander in Chief exactly why they have earned that title. “The parade was quite an experience,” said clarinet player Staff Sergeant Parker Gaims. “I felt the weight of the occasion when the band made its final turn onto Pennsylvania Avenue Northwest, where the presidential reviewing stand was positioned. As we marched up to the stand, I could see the new first family out of the corner of my eye.”

President Trump and the Com­mandant of the Marine Corps, General Robert B. Neller, watched as the seven non-playing members of the band simul­taneously snapped salutes on the Drum Major’s silent command. The playing members performed textbook drill, per­fectly covered, aligned and marching in unison, while playing “The Marines’ Hymn.” In this moment, with the world watching, the Marine Band exemplified the professionalism and perfection our nation expects of the Marine Corps.

The band entered part three of their inaugural support following the parade. That evening, the Marine Band performed at the Salute to the Armed Services Ball. Providing music throughout the evening, the band performed a wide variety of Sousa numbers and other popular Ameri­can pieces.

The Inaugural balls concluded the cere­monies and festivities of the day, but for the Marines, one final performance remained. The band provided musical support for the inaugural prayer service at Washington National Cathedral the next morning. A brass ensemble, conducted by Marine Band Director LtCol Fettig, provided music during the prelude and postlude of the service. During the service, the ensemble accompanied the organ and congregation during the national anthem, “Great is Thy Faithfulness” and “America, The Beautiful.”

Celebration, ceremony and tradition always fill Inauguration Day. “It is im­portant for our country to witness and experience this event together every four years,” said MGySgt Rider. Every four years, Jan. 20 marks a unique and historic experience laid out by the nation’s founders, and the United States Marine Band, occupying their place beneath the ceremony platform, is a special witness to and participant in this history.

“For me, it is a huge honor to take part in the Inauguration Ceremony,” said MSgt King. “It is American history, and to be part of the most American of democratic processes, the peaceful transfer of power, is a very special honor.”

The Marines continued their tradition of excellence on this day, honoring Pres­ident Trump, the Marine Corps and our nation. Their flawless performance and preservation of American tradition in this 58th Presidential Inauguration demonstrated to the world why they are “The President’s Own.”

 

A secret agent can’t win a war all by himself but Archibald Gillespie tried to do it. He was a Marine. The horseman knew he was being followed. An animal perception, sharpened by loneliness and fear, told the Marine Corps lieutenant that the Indians were close on his trail. Unless he could reach Fremont’s camp by nightfall, he knew that his scalp would be passed around a Modoc campfire.

Gillespie’s scalp was not expendable. In 17 years of Marine Corps action, he had risked his neck hundreds of times. This time there was more to lose than his life. He was a confidential agent of President James K. Polk. The information he carried might decide the destiny of California.

Gillespie checked his pistols, estimated the strength left in his winded horse. The sun was low over the pines. He knew that he had two hours at the most. Then something whispered at his left ear, and a slim arrow quivered in a tree beside him. Gillespie spurred his horse and thundered through the forest.

This was Spring 1846. Seven months had passed and 8,000 miles had been covered since Gillespie had sat in the White House listening to the President’s instructions. The precise, clean-shaven Polk was concerned with one thing alone—Manifest Destiny—and moral issues didn’t enter into it. Polk wanted California. At that time California was a province of Mexico and included all of Nevada, half the state of Utah and part of Arizona. Four nations were fighting a cold war for this territorial plum: Great Britain with a good chance, France and Russia with slim chances and the United States in the golden seat. Mexico, the patsy, was taking a siesta.

There was no organized spy system then. Communications were too slow. Polk was depending on two men. One, John C. Fremont of the U.S. Topographical Engineers, operated in the California territory apparently to make maps but was actually a spy and an agent provaca­teur. The other man, Thomas O. Larkin, was American consul at Monterey.

Gillespie was dealt in on the game simply because he was a fighting ad­ven­tur­er. Polk needed a messenger—someone smart enough and tough enough to travel through several thousand miles of hostile territory and get through in one piece.
Gillespie had fought all his life. His parents in Pennsylvania had christened him Archibald, and he had left a trail of skinned noses and split lips when the boys ribbed him about it. He enlisted in the Marine Corps in 1828 as a private. The pay: $6 a month. In four years, he literally fought his way up to second lieutenant, which position paid the hand­some salary of $25 a month. In those days, promotions were almost impossible; they were awarded only for extraordinary heroism. No details are available as to how Gillespie made first lieutenant. He saw action on half a dozen ships and fought in the Indian Wars.

The Marine looked like a fighter. He had enormous hands, the sloping shoulders of a hitter and a tall rangy frame. A superb horseman and excellent shot, he was as equally at home with six gun and saber as he was with his two fists.

“You’ll get through,” said Polk. “If anybody can … .”
When Gillespie left the White House, the conquest of California began. Gillespie, dressed in civvies with the secret documents pinned inside his shirt, boarded a ship for Vera Cruz, Mexico. (Of course, the Panama Canal didn’t exist in those days. Ships bound for the Pacific rounded Cape Horn.)

He traveled overland by horse to Mexico City where he nearly lost his life. The Mexican Army had overthrown the government. The officers had launched a victory celebration on an ocean of tequila. They were betting on war with the Gringos and on Great Britain’s sup­port. (The Mexican ambassador had left Washington on the day of the Texas annexation.) The Mexican officers were laying bets on the cowardice of the Yanquis. To prove it, they rioted through the streets, ripping down the signs of the American merchants, and taking pot shots at any stray American businessmen they could find. Gillespie was disguised as an American businessman.

He left Mexico City faster than he’d arrived—unwounded. As soon as he had reached comparative safety, Gillespie memorized the documents he carried and built a small fire with them. If he died, the secret would go to the grave with him.
He worked his way across Mexico in spite of bandits, soldiery and hostile civilians. At Mazatlan he boarded the USS Cyane, sailed to Honolulu, and from there back to Monterey.

The first part of his mission had taken six months. He delivered the message to Thomas Larkin and shoved off immedi­ately for Yerba Buena (San Francisco) in search of Fremont.
There were all sorts of wild rumors floating around the country. Every tattered settler gave information, about Fremont and the Indians. There was talk that the Mexicans had stirred up the Indians to make war on the Americans. Gillespie rode on.

The Indians picked up his trail in Southern Oregon and stalked him at a leisurely pace, waiting for him to relax his guard, but the wary Gillespie didn’t sleep. The war party could have fallen on him in a body at any time, but they chose to wait.
Gillespie killed his horse in the ride to escape them. Just as the sun disappeared behind the trees on his third day without sleep, Gillespie reached the shore of Big Klamath Lake. A man stepped from be­hind the trees, palm held outward. Gillespie held his fire. It was Kit Carson, famed Indian fighter and advance scout for Fremont.

Gillespie’s message must have been good because Fremont and the scouts had a celebration that night. In the excitement and hullabaloo, Fremont neglected to post a guard. Even Kit Carson went to sleep with his rifle unloaded.

While the camp slept, the Modocs crept quietly upon them and split the skulls of the two men lying beside Gillespie. It was a good fight, lasting through the night and until noon the next day. Fremont and Gillespie, now second in command, trailed the Indians, killed the Modoc chieftain and most of the raiding party.

For a month, the two secret agents were a sore spot to the Navy which was trying to remain neutral until war was officially declared. Fremont and Gillespie went through California, systematically cap­tur­ing towns, fighting guerrillas, Indians, anybody who wanted a fight. Some historians say that Gillespie and Fremont were in on the birth of the Bear Flag Republic at Sonoma. (The revolutionists took over Sonoma and established a “New Texas” in California. They needed a flag. A woman sacrificed her underwear, a would-be artist painted a bear on it “that looked like a hog,” and a petticoat waved over a new republic.) The bear flag lasted less than a month, folding when the news of war reached the West Coast.

Gillespie and Fremont were now heart­ily embraced by Commodore Robert O. Stockton. Gillespie was promoted to captain and Fremont to major. With this promotion, Gillespie became the trouble shooter for the Pacific forces. He had been in hot water for a long time but it reached the boiling point in a few weeks.

Gillespie took part in most of the land­­ing operations at San Francisco, Monte­rey, San Pedro, Santa Barbara and San Diego. In two months, California had been con­quered. All known enemy forces had either laid down their arms or had been dispersed. Mexican General Castro had taken to the hills. Even the Mexican gov­ernment admitted that California was lost.

Gillespie was left in charge of San Diego with only 48 men. Gen Castro pre­pared to take the town, but Gillespie organized the settlers into a militia and showed so much strength that Castro took to his heels. This feat of holding a town in hostile territory with a handful of men snowed everybody. A week later Gillespie was in charge of Los Angeles as military commander of all Southern California while Fremont and Stockton shoved off for San Francisco where the Walla Walla Indians were reported to be on the warpath. He was allowed more men for this venture, 59 in all.

Los Angeles was a center of the Spanish population, with a proud citizenry who resented Gillespie. They had buried their silver in the hills and expected the usual treatment accorded a conquered people.

Some historians accuse Gillespie of being a petty tyrant. He established cur­fews and ordinances that irritated the people. His men, untrained roughnecks, mustered into the Navy for a short term, increased resentment. They promptly tried to drink up all the wine and aguardiente in the area—and there was plenty of it.

But the real cause of the revolt against Gillespie was the $20,000 that he had drawn from the U.S. Congress for mil­itary expenditures. As soon as the natives learned of this hunk of dough, they be­came fiery patriots. A group of adventur­ers led by Cervula Varela plotted to seize the garrison and the money.

Then Gillespie cracked down. He promptly arrested everyone who looked suspicious. He made his men snap-to. But when he looked at the proud American flag flying over his compound, he grew uneasy. The water supply was low. Provi­sions were depleted. Ammunition was short. Before Gillespie could alleviate the situation, the first attack came.

Gillespie’s men drove them back easily, and that merely increased the bitterness against him. The natives dreamed about the $20,000. Jose Maria Flores, the big shot in that area since Castro had retired from the neighborhood, heard about it and took charge. A force of 400 gathered around Flores; they unearthed the cannon which Castro had hidden in the hills and laid systematic siege to Gillespie’s command.

There was no hope for Gillespie but he wouldn’t give up. He had a few aban­doned guns which had been spiked. He drilled out the spikes, mounted them on ox carts, and improvised ammunition for them. He had never run away from a fight, and he’d be damned if he’d run away from this one.

Flores’ force grew by the hour as more patriotic Mexicans heard of the money in Gillespie’s hands. Flores met Gillespie under a flag of truce and demanded un­conditional surrender on the 25th of August. The terms of surrender were no good. Flores wanted Gillespie to lay down his arms and walk out where he could easily be shot down. Gillespie told him what he could do with his offer and warned Flores that he’d fight to the death. The Mexicans hesitated. Gillespie sent a messenger to Stockton, but there was no hope that reinforcements would arrive in time to save him.

Meanwhile Captain Watson, with 25 volunteers, rode down from the north to break the siege. He was immediately cap­tured. Gillespie’s officers and men per­suaded him to make terms. Finally with the greatest bitterness he would ever know, Gillespie exchanged prisoners, agreed to a surrender with “full honors of war” and hauled down the American flag.
That flag never left his possession in the months that followed.

It was his responsibility. He felt that he had brought dishonor to himself and to his country. He marched to San Pedro with his men, and when he learned that the Mexicans were planning to violate their agreement, he set his men aboard the Vandalia at San Pedro where they would be safe.

There was an immediate attempt to recapture Los Angeles after Captain Mervine of the Savannah arrived at San Pedro. Gillespie and his men took part in it, but the Mexicans with artillery and horses hammered away at the foot soldiers. When the Americans retired, Gillespie offered to stay in San Pedro, but Capt Mervine refused. Enough lives had been lost.

Meanwhile San Diego had been be­sieged. Gillespie was transferred there and was successful in breaking the siege. Stockton was making plans for the re­capture of Los Angeles but at this point, word was received that Colonel Stephen W. Kearney and his so-called “Army of the West” had arrived at Warner’s Pass about 50 miles east of San Diego. Some­one had to reach him in time to prevent an ambush.

Gillespie, of course, drew the assign­ment. With 26 of his ragged volunteers, he met Kearney at Warner’s Hot Springs on Dec. 5. The “Army,” consisting of less than 100 dragoons and eight officers and scouts, had marched overland from Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. It included the rugged Kit Carson, who got around about as much as Gillespie.

An ambush had been laid for Kearney, forming at San Pasqual, later taking posi­tions in a narrow valley behind a stream. The Mexicans were superbly mounted, armed with muskets, sabers and vicious willow lances. Their leader Dolores Higuera, “El Guero,” drew Kearney’s dra­goons into a disastrous charge by a clever fake retreat. Kearney’s horses were in no shape for a sustained gallop, and after they had strung out over several hundred yards, the Mexicans wheeled and swept back toward them. The en­gage­ment was short and bloody. In five minutes, 18 of Kearney’s men were killed, and many more were wounded.
Gillespie arrived as the Mexicans attacked. He drew his saber, spurred his horse, and drove into the thick of it. “Hold men,” he bellowed. “For God’s sake rally. Show a front. Face them.” El Guero, attracted by the loud cries, attacked Gillespie from the side and drove his bloodstained willow lance through the Marine’s cheek.

Gillespie hit the ground, fully con­scious, his face a mass of blood. He lay still, feigning death, while El Guero took his horse, saddle and even the beautiful serape lying beside the Marine. The Army of the West, now reduced to one third of its original strength was probably the most tattered, ill-fed detachment that the United States has ever mustered under her colors.
Gillespie bore a charmed life. He took part later in the overland march to Los Angeles. He led repeated charges in the battle of San Gabriel and was wounded again. He tied rags around his wounded legs and rode on to fight heroically in the Battle of La Mesa.

In January 1848, the Marine limped to the center of the plaza in Los Angeles. He carried a flag, now spotted with his own blood, but the same Stars and Stripes he had been forced to haul down four months before. He attached it to the hal­yards, gave a command, and watched Old Glory ride to the top of the mast.
That moment was his reward.

Three weeks later James W. Marshall discovered gold at Sutter’s Mill. In the stampede that followed, Gillespie was forgotten. He earned no fame; only two history books mention his name. He stayed in the Corps until 1854, earned the title of brevet major and remained in the West until his death in San Francisco in 1871.

Executive Editor’s note: We bring you this article to mark the 80th anniversary of the Battle of Iwo Jima, considered one of the Marine Corps’ touchstone battles. See page 44 to read about Harlon Block, one of the Marines who helped raise the second flag on Iwo Jima.

Robert Floyd Pounders was not the type to shrink from a chal­lenge. The self-described “scrawny country boy” refused to stay on the family farm in Pinson, Ala., while his friends went into military service. In February 1943, he presented himself at a Birmingham recruiting office, desperate to join any service that would take him—but only the Marine Corps would accept this colorblind, underweight and under­age recruit. Floyd was only 16 years old when he enlisted, but boot camp at San Diego, machine gun school at Camp Elliott and infantry training at Camp Pendleton had a transformative effect. “Aided by good food and a strict sche­dule, I gained 42 pounds, and I don’t think you could have called me fat,” he recalled. “I felt I could whip my weight in wildcats.”

As a member of the 1st Battalion, 24th Marines, Private Pounders crewed a heavy machine gun at the battle of Roi-Namur and carried a Browning Automatic Rifle on Saipan and Tinian. He completed three campaigns in just seven months, coming through virtually unscathed with a combat meritorious promotion to corporal and a letter of commendation for brave and efficient service. In the fall of 1944, at the ripe old age of 18, Floyd Pounders was leading a four-man fire team in a rifle platoon, training at Camp Maui and speculating about what lay ahead. Some of his buddies thought their next stop would be Japan itself—a most unwelcome prospect after facing die-hard Japanese fighters and desperate civilians in the Mariana Islands.

One morning in November, Floyd learned that his regiment was seeking volunteers for a new “Scouts and Snipers” platoon. “I don’t remember how anxious I was to volunteer, but I did anyway,” he said. “I knew that the training had to be different from the training we were doing in the rifle company.” There was another attraction for a veteran line infantryman: “I knew from experience that considering the type of fighting the Marines did, the scouting part would be minimal.” Perhaps he could pick up some new, interesting skills—and increase his chances of surviving the war. Corporal Pounders put in his name and became one of the first volunteers accepted for the platoon.

Marine Corps training for specialist “scouts and snipers” had a rough start in the World War II era. Despite the dem­onstrated value of highly trained sharpshooters in the Great War, oppor­tunities to improve on these advantages were subject to “the ebb and flow of the general pre-war indecision with regard to adopting new equipment and training personnel,” and proper evaluations of equipment and training did not begin until late 1940. The result, notes historian Peter Senich, was that on Dec. 7, 1941, “the Marine Corps was not prepared to field or equip snipers.” Nearly a year passed before dedicated training facilities could accept significant numbers of students.

Combat experiences shaped the train­ing regimen. Dismayed at the poor qual­ity of Marine patrolling on Guadalcanal, Lieutenant Colonel William J. “Wild Bill” Whaling established an on-island training program. Hand-picked volun­teers spent a few weeks with the “Whal­ing Unit” learning marksmanship and fieldcraft, stalking, laying ambushes and gathering intelligence. They were most effective when operating semi-auto­nomously in teams of two or three, de­ploying as needed to solve tricky tactical problems. Tarawa provided another stark lesson: a scout-sniper platoon could be used as shock troops, but not without prohibitively high casualties among highly trained, hard-to-replace special­ists.

On Saipan, the 4th Marine Division’s recon company had to parcel out its scout-snipers as replacements for other units, negating their combat effectiveness. The division’s report on the operation recom­mended adding a scout-sniper platoon to every infantry regiment.

First Lieutenant William T. Holder of Carbondale, Ill., took charge of the 24th Marines’ scout snipers. Described as “a little man who looked almost too young to be an officer,” the 22-year-old Bill Holder knew how to fight with every inch of his 5’6” frame.

As a junior platoon leader at Roi-Namur, he helped rally his company (F/2/24) when an exploding ammunition dump caused heavy casualties and stalled the advance. He was slammed to the ground by an artillery shell shortly after landing on Saipan, but “although painfully wounded … brilliantly led his platoon during the entire operation.” Holder’s performance earned him the Silver Star and the Purple Heart, and Fox Co was sorry to lose such “a darn good, fair, and courageous leader.”

Enthusiasm for the project was low. “They didn’t get all that many volunteers,” admitted Pounders. At the first roll call on Nov. 19, 1944, the scout-sniper platoon mustered Holder and eight enlisted men. Floyd Pounders was there with a buddy from “Baker” Company: Private First Class Charles C. DeCelles, a Gros Ventre youth from Montana commended for service on Saipan. Cpl Ben Bernal served through three battles with K/3/24; Cpl Loren T. Doerner had the same pedigree with the 4th Tank Battalion. Both wore the Purple Heart. Sergeant Ralph L. Jones was the recipient of a Silver Star for manning a mounted machine gun at Roi-Namur, and the corpsman, Hospital Apprentice 1st Class Charles “Pills” Littlefield, earned the Navy and Marine Corps Medal for treating wounded men under fire.

While lacking combat exper­ience, the other two volunteers at least had some advanced in­fantry training. Private Frederick J. McCarthy of South Portland, Maine, was a skilled BARman despite having only a few months in uniform. The other, PFC Frank Hatch, was coming up on two years in the Ma­rines. As the third-best shot in his recruit platoon, Hatch qualified for the “Expert” medal—“less than a dozen of us made it”—and a promotion to PFC immediately after graduation. He became a coach at the Parris Island rifle range, but the job wasn’t to his liking. “Didn’t study, didn’t advance, didn’t stay,” he said. “It was off to the Pacific to be a replacement in the 4th Marine Division.” Hatch landed in the machine-gun platoon of C/1/24 but “never did like the idea of a machine gun. I would rather connect with one bullet than spray an area with many.”

Volunteering for a sniper outfit was a no-brainer. With no more volunteers coming from the regiment, Holder turned to the 17th Replacement Draft. PFC Jack Stearn recalled sitting in an outdoor auditorium when “a lieutenant jumped on stage and said he was looking for volunteer scouts.” He received a mixture of volunteers and “voluntolds” from the group of mostly spring 1944 inductees. Stearn, one of the Marines “recommended” by a company commander, was the only one with com­bat experience. A pre-war Army enlistee, he earned a commission and served as a shore party officer on the beaches of Sicily. After multiple run-ins with a cer­tain major, First Lieutenant Stearn re­signed his commission and returned to civilian life, only to enlist in the Marine Corps one week later. He was impressed by the “higher standard, tough agenda, higher expectations [and] stern dis­cipline,” and “felt 10 feet tall the day I graduated from boot camp.”

With the platoon up to strength, Holder assigned roles to his 30 Marines. Ser­geants James D. Huff and Harry F. McFall Jr., former drill instructors, were ap­pointed platoon sergeant and platoon guide, respectively. PFC Stearn was good with maps, so Holder tapped him as a runner and radioman. Sergeant Jones took charge of 1 Squad, while the senior corporal, 18-year-old Floyd Pounders, led 2 Squad. Each squad had two groups of five men: a leader, a sniper, a rifleman/spotter, and a BAR gunner and assistant. Snipers like PFC Hatch were promised M1903 rifles with telescopic sights—as soon as any were available. They would have to make do with the M1 Garand for now.

The platoon trained separately from the rest of their regiment, practicing everything from the basics of scouting, patrolling and reconnaissance to the more complicated tasks of counter-sniping and mopping up bypassed fortifications. Holder scheduled a week-long field exer­cise, which doubled as an enjoyable goat-hunting trip through the Maui backcountry. Unfortunately, the hunt resulted in the platoon’s first casualty when a Marine was accidentally shot in the face. “I remember us carrying him on a stretcher, a bandage wound around his cheeks and head, and his eyes looking up at us,” said Hatch. A few weeks later, most of the platoon would have given anything to trade places with their injured friend.

Two last-minute additions joined the scout snipers at the very end of December—PFC Anthony J. Ranfos and Sergeant Elmer G. Smith, both combat veterans—and in mid-January, the entire 4th Marine Division embarked for Operation Detachment. The long trip was mostly unremarkable, except for the red-letter day when the snipers finally received their scoped rifles. “This was a hell of a time to get them,” Hatch said.“They needed sighting in. [I would] toss something overboard, let it float off, and shoot at it, someone beside me telling me where the bullet hit, and adjust the sights accordingly.” He couldn’t dial the weapon in precisely but figured “when we landed, I would get more practice.”

Pounders was far less flippant: when he saw topographic maps of Iwo Jima and realized it was only 600 miles from Japan, “the fear really set in and I realized that this would probably be one of the toughest battles that we had experienced. Until now the trip had been training, schooling, lounging, and eating well, but now all of a sudden things had to get serious and for real.”

As reserves, the platoon spent the better part of Feb. 19, 1945, watching the battle from the decks of USS Bayfield (APA-33). Hatch, new to combat, thought the whole spectacle “a pretty good show” until Bayfield began receiving badly wounded Marines. The less-experienced men kept up their confidence on the boat ride to the beach. PFC Stearn played “The Marines’ Hymn” on an ocarina, and Private Robert F. Ragland declared, “We’ll go through ’em like sugar through a tin horn.” Cpl Pounders thought differently. “Sgt Jones, myself, and Sgt McFall were the first ones off the landing craft,” he remembered. “I had been this route before, so I knew we must get away from the boat as soon as possible. I had no trouble getting my squad to follow me … but some of the guys who were last to get off said one of the [LCVP] gunners was hit.”

The first look at Iwo was grim. “My first sight as I climbed the beach was a vehicle like an open tank [an LVT], someone hanging half in, half out—dead,” said Hatch. Pounders noticed “more than the usual number of bodies and parts of bodies laying around … We ran past an amphibious tank with one of its tracks blown off. The vehicle was on its side. With so many bodies around, we couldn’t tell if any of them were killed when the amphib was hit.” The scout-snipers quickly dug in on a beach “white hot with artillery and mortar fire. The air was a spray of sand and jagged, mur­derous chunks of shattered shell frag­ments.” To PFC Stearn, “it seemed as if I was in a madhouse.”

At first, the scout sniper platoon functioned as intended: “running er­rands, locating lost units, and filling in gaps in the lines,” according to Pounders. They posted security around the CP at night, carried stretchers and collected identification tags from fallen Marines. Sergeant McFall led the platoon’s first successful reconnaissance patrol to caves overlooking the airfield. On their way to draw rations, Corporal Bernal and Private Carl F. Rothrock spotted two enemy soldiers in a cave and dispatched both in less than a minute. They also suffered their first combat casualties: corpsman “Pills” Littlefield on D+1, and Sgt Elmer Smith on D+2.

On one memorable night, a lone Japa­nese airplane dropped two bombs on the platoon. The first bomb, a dud, landed 4 feet from Hatch—a nasty shock when he awoke in the morning—but the other exploded near PFC Stearn’s group, caving in their foxhole. Stearn and Ranfos dug their way out, then checked on the third occupant, PFC LaRue L. Stevenson. “We saw his feet sticking out of the sand,” Stearn recalled. When we finally got him out, we laughed like crazy. Stevens was just sputtering and raising hell.” Hanging around the CP felt like sitting on a bull’s-eye. The platoon’s “restlessness and nervousness” increased, and a teenaged BARman was evacuated due to “war neurosis.”

Orders to move up toward the line felt almost like a blessing. The route led through “a broken area of death traps, blasted holes, undermined with winding labyrinths of caves,” in the words of SP3c Bryce Walton, a correspondent covering the platoon for Leatherneck magazine. At night, the island itself worked on their nerves. “They came to know the meaning of fear,” Walton continued, “fear of the unknown. The nightmare terrain, the bent dwarf trees and jumbles of rock seemed to take on life.” The Japanese were always watching. “We were hunting for snipers, and the mortars were following us,” Cpl Bernal said. “One of the mortars got me.” His long combat career was over. The same blast nicked Pvt Ragland’s leg. “Just a scratch,” he declared and continued his patrol.

Toward evening on Feb. 24, the platoon received orders to plug a dangerously wide gap between K/3/24 and E/2/25. As they moved up in a skirmish line, Japanese fire erupted all around.
“It seemed as if they were shooting from everywhere,” PFC Stearn recalled. “I zigged but didn’t zag, and seconds later felt as if I had been hit with a sledge­hammer. I grabbed my shoulder trying to stop the blood that was pouring out.” Sergeant Huff bandaged Stearn and ordered him back to the aid station—which meant running the gauntlet the other way. A sword-wielding Japanese offi­cer tried to slash at Stearn, but a quick-shooting PFC William S. North knocked Stearn to the ground, finished off the officer, then picked up his wounded buddy and ran like hell as mortars began dropping around them. Stearn survived, but his misfortune was a preview of what lay ahead.

Filling holes in the line was expected of the scout-snipers—but intended as a temporary assignment, terminating when another infantry unit took over. On the morning of Feb. 25, however, no reinforcements arrived. Instead, Holder learned that his platoon was expected to attack alongside the rifle companies. The men were tired from hours of night fighting, and although heavily armed, frontal attacks against fortifications were not part of their training. Orders were orders, and at 9:30 a.m., Holder led his platoon toward a sharp cliff a few hundred yards away.

They walked into a perfect killing field. “There was no more vegetation for cover because planes and artillery had already destroyed it,” remembered Pounders. “As we broke out into the open, all hell broke loose.” Lieutenant Holder was first to fall, blood streaming from a severe head wound. Sergeant Huff suddenly found himself in command. Ragland and Rothrock were dangerously exposed, gamely firing back at invisible enemies. Huff motioned them to a nearby crater as Sgt Ralph Jones withstood the withering crossfire to cover his buddies.

“After the three were down out of imminent danger, Jones sent a last round at the side of the cliff,” reported Walton. “Then he spun around as a return hail of machine gun fire found him.” The 1 Squad leader was dead before he hit the ground.

Huff knew at least three scout-snipers were down, but had nothing on the others. Ragland leaped into the next shell hole, landing beside Bill North and Private Edward Rindfleish Jr. North was already dead, and Rindfleish’s right arm hung useless, the bones shattered. Sgt McFall tumbled in, dragging a stunned Private John E. Sessinger. After getting the wounded men out of harm’s way, McFall and Ragland sprinted back to Huff with the casualty report. McFall brought some good news: 2 squad was taking cover in a large shell hole, mostly intact. The attack was clearly failing, and the rifle companies on the flanks were falling back to reorganize. Huff decided to follow suit—but first he had to extricate his pinned platoon.

PFC Hatch was sniping at firing ports when he got the word to withdraw. He tumbled into a hole with three other Ma­rines, almost impaling himself on their fixed bayonets. One man, nerves strained to the breaking point, urged everyone to jump and run at once. “Guess he hoped the others, not him, would be the ones to be shot at,” Hatch commented sourly. When nobody moved, the frightened Marine began repeating Hail Marys. “I countered with ‘yea, though I walk through the valley in the shadow of death.’ ” Somehow, the group made it back to relative safety.

Over in 2 Squad’s hole, Pounders was using a combat veteran’s common sense: “As far as I was concerned, we had to wait for a break or some help.” He was unmoved by McFall’s mutterings of “some­one ought to DO something,” or the sergeant’s decision to leave the hole, firing a Tommy gun at invisible enemies hundreds of yards away. When McFall’s SMG stopped, Pounders assumed he was dead. The corporal scouted a route back to their starting point, waited for the fire to die down, and led his men back with only one additional casualty. As he tried spotting positions for Sgt Huff, Pounders evidently missed seeing McFall—still alive and busy with the radio, delivering unwelcome news. The attack would resume at 1:30 p.m.

Huff did his best to even the odds, helping reestablish a machine-gun posi­tion and coordinating with the nearest company CP. An enemy bullet grazed his side as “the Japanese seemed to know another advance was gathering and were intensifying their fire.” Then a Japanese machine gun stitched across the position, and Huff cried “I’m hit!” McFall went to his aid, but the enemy was waiting. “Ragland tried to yell as he saw little puffs of dust and splintered rock run along the ground toward McFall,” wrote Walton. “Then the path of bullets traveled across the small of McFall’s back. The sergeant raised up, mumbling something towards the Japanese lines, and fell backward, firing his Tommy gun blindly.” Huff’s poncho and field glasses blunted the bullet; he was not hurt but felt sick to his stomach that McFall “died trying to save him because of a wound he didn’t even have.”

The second attack angled to the right, avoiding the open ground. Huff’s men crept cautiously through the scarred, blasted area, finding the bodies of friends along the way. One man in Pounders’ platoon stumbled into a shell hole with a dead Marine. “His mind snapped,” said Pounders, “he was crying and hanging on to me with a death grip. I can still hear him saying, ‘Floyd, you’ll be killed if you go back.’ He also kept saying he had killed the dead Marine, but he couldn’t have—he was dead long before we came up to the shell hole.” Pounders guided the broken man back to the aid station.

Finally, the scout snipers found a few deep holes in which to spend the night. “The first night up here, they had occupied 10 foxholes,” wrote Walton. “Now they did well to fill up three.” Only nine of the 32 men who landed on Iwo were left to hold the line. The dead included Sergeants Jones and McFall, PFC North, and Private Arling F. Derhammer; PFC Ranfos died of wounds three days later. Seven were evacuated with bloody wounds; five more suffered the effects of blast concussion or “war neurosis.” Frank Hatch maintained his composure all day but lost it when he realized how many friends were gone. “Boy, did I cry and cry,” he recalled. “They thought I was going to crack up.”

After Feb. 25, the ruined platoon “was used in perimeter defense of the CP until near the end of the operation.” All of the survivors were suffering shock to some degree; their recollections of the follow­ing weeks are somewhat jumbled and contradictory, a blur of mop-up missions, filling holes in the line, helping wounded Marines and searching Japanese bodies. On March 15, a front-line outfit actually requested a counter-sniper mission. Pounders collected Hatch, who was thrilled to have live targets in his sights at last, and Private Marion W. “Buddy” Saucerman with a BAR for protection. The trio crept up a small hill overlooking Japanese territory and watched their foes moving supplies into a cave. One un­for­tunate soldier carried his heavy buckets into Hatch’s crosshairs. “Hatch fired,” Pounders said.

“The [enemy] threw up both arms, his buckets went tumbling, and he grabbed the cheeks of his buttocks and ran into the cave.” Hatch chambered another round and Pounders cheered, “You hit him in the ass!”

As the scouts climbed down to check their handiwork, a Japanese machine gun opened fire on Saucerman. “I heard the snapping of bullets, and he went down in a heap, a bullet across the back of one hand opening a furrow half and inch or more deep, and one leg busted up so the foot was facing the opposite direction it should,” said Hatch. “I was in shock, and others had to grab me and pull me down.” Saucerman and the redoubtable Private Ragland were evacuated, becoming the platoon’s last casualties.

Floyd Pounders had one more sorrow­ful task to complete before leaving the island. Graves Registration accounted for every fallen scout sniper save one: Sergeant Harry McFall. “It seemed I was the only person who knew where McFall was killed and could remember how to get back to that point,” Pounders said. He led a collection party back to the battlefield of Feb. 25 and quickly found the fallen Marine. “He was on his back. Someone had cut all his pockets and removed his watch, dog tags, and all the identification he had on him. Scavenger hunters! They had taken everything ex­cept his clothes.” After lying unburied for 20 days, McFall’s body hardly looked human.

“The only way I could be sure it was Sgt McFall was by the type of clothes he was wearing and that he was in the same place he had fallen earlier,” Pounders said. “His clothes also had laundry marks to identify him.”

In their first and only campaign, the Scout Sniper Platoon, 24th Marines, suffered nearly 80% casualties. They received little recognition, individually or as a unit, for their sacrifices: a few Bronze Stars, many Purple Hearts, and the May 1945 Leatherneck article “To­ward the Ridge” by Bryce Walton. The survivors, though, never forgot their role at Iwo Jima.

“Sometimes I felt that we were real workhorses, and then at others, I felt that we were just a few to add to the total number necessary to take a place like Iwo,” Pounders wrote. “Every man there was a hero as far as I’m concerned. No matter what his job was, he helped secure the island, and that was what we were sent to do. If you lived to write about it, well … that was something else.”

Author’s note: Frank Charles Hatch died on March 16, 1989, followed by Robert Floyd Pounders Jr., on March 18, 2020. The last surviving 24th Marines Scout Sniper, Marion Wayne Saucerman, passed away on May 2, 2023, at the age of 97.
The author wishes to thank Joseph Hatch for providing the memoirs of Frank Hatch and Floyd Pounders and for his invaluable assistance with this article.

Author’s bio: Geoffrey W. Roecker is a researcher and writer based in upstate New York. His extensive writings on the World War II history of 1st Battalion, 24th Marines, is available online at www.1-24thmarines.com. Roecker is the author of “Leaving Mac Behind: The Lost Marines of Guadal­canal” and advocates for the return of missing personnel at www.missingmarines.com.

With the outbreak of World War II in the Pacific and the growth of the San Francisco Bay area military infrastructure, the United States Marine Corps expanded its presence along with the Navy. In addition to the service at the Mare Island Naval Shipyard, the Marines eventually operated a large logistics center in Oakland, training facilities such as Camp Parks in Dublin, Calif., and U.S. Naval Magazine Port Chicago (later the Naval Weapons Station), Concord, Calif.

As a result of the large Marine presence in the Bay area and emerging out of ne­ces­sity in 1946, the Marine Corps decided it needed to provide a place to commem­orate the exploits of Marines in the Pacific and provide a place for leather­necks and their families to visit.

So, in 1946, after Marine Corps Com­mandant General Alexander A. Vandegrift pro­posed establishing a memorial to the Marine Corps sacrifice during the war that he directed the purchase of the Ma­rines’ Memorial as “A tribute to those Marines who have gone before; and a service to those who carry on.” With the blessings of the Secretary of the Navy, assisted by a very motivated group of Ma­rines, a building to suit the purpose was purchased in San Francisco in 1946 and, with the grand opening on Nov. 10, 1947, the Marines’ Memorial Club & Hotel (MMC&H) was established.

Built in 1926 on the corner of Sutter and Mason Streets, at 609 Sutter Street, the Beaux Arts-style building originally served as the Western Women’s Club and was later leased to the Navy for service as a Women Accepted for Volunteer Emer­gency Service (WAVES) barracks in 1942. With the Japanese surrender on Sept. 2, 1945, the United States embarked on an aggressive demobilization plan that saw the Marine Corps reduced from a wartime high of six divisions, five air wings, and supporting troops and many of these returning Marines—those not on occupation duty in Japan or China—passed under the Golden Gate Bridge and arrived in the Bay Area for demobilization.

Initially opened as a memorial to Ma­rines who fought and died in the Pacific, the Marines’ Memorial served as a way­station for Marines and their families as they processed out of the Corps and provided them with an affordable place to stay in a busy and relatively expensive San Francisco. For its 78 years in service to members and veterans of the Navy, Marine Corps, Army, Air Force, Coast Guard, and the Space Force, the Marines’ Memorial has become a fixture to Bay Area visitors and veterans .The MMC&H still stands out as both a veteran landmark and a hospitality hot spot.

“San Francisco was their last stop be­fore war, and a lot of them came back here and made their fortunes,” said Lieu­tenant General Mike Rocco, USMC (Ret), President and CEO of Marines’ Memorial Association & Foundation, about World War II Marine veterans. “It is just an in­credibly historic city.”

The military history of the San Fran­cisco Bay Area dates back to the mid-19th century when the United States occupied the Presidio in 1846 during the Mexican-American War, which ended with the American conquest of California. (Ex­ecu­tive Editor’s note: see page 18 for more about the Mexican-American War.) Following the Mexican-American War (1846-1848) and during the California Gold Rush (1848-1855), California was granted statehood in 1850. In that year, the U.S. military establishment of the U.S. Army garrison at Fort Point (at the Golden Gate), on Alcatraz and the Pre­sidio ensured the security of San Fran­cisco Bay. In 1854, the Naval Shipyard Mare Island (NSYMI) in Vallejo was established, followed by construction of the Marine Barracks in 1862 under the command of Major Addison Garland.

At Mare Island (and later Hunters’ Point), the Marines were responsible for guarding critical infrastructure and normal shipboard duties as Marines did then. In 1912, the Marine presence at Mare Island—after the closing of a similar facility in Puget Sound—became the sole Marine Corps western recruit depot until it was replaced by Marine Base San Diego and later renamed MCRD San Diego in 1921. In the meantime, the Marine Barracks at Mare Island remained a mainstay of the Marines’ enduring pres­ence in the Bay Area and boasted one of the best Bay area football teams. During WW II and later during the Korean and Vietnam Wars, the Bay area became a major arrival and departure point for Marines heading to and from the Pacific theater.

After the MMC&H was opened, senior Marine leaders acknowledged they needed to hand over the hotel and hos­pitality business and the Marines’ Memo­rial Association was established to run the club and hotel. As it happened, the Marines’ Memorial Association, now a 501(c) (19) veteran nonprofit organization, was established and took over running the Marines’ Memorial Club & Hotel was the first of its kind “Living Memorial” in the United States, offering historic exhibits featuring American military history from all eras, and a library and museum with artifacts and books donated by grateful members, veterans and their families. Over the years, the Marines Memorial Association evolved into a vibrant social and hospitality destination for members of the Armed Services and civilians alike.

In 2015, the Marines’ Memorial Foun­da­tion, a 501(c)(3) charitable organization, was founded by the Marines’ Memorial Association Board, driven by the As­so­ci­ation’s success and the desire of mem­bers and patriots to provide additional support.

The foundation offers giving programs and direct support to the Ma­rines’ Memorial Association, enhancing its efforts to honor the sacrifices of vet­erans and their families. Through the foundation, supporters and donors can contribute to and engage in the Associa­tion’s enduring mission to educate, com­memorate, and serve active-duty service­members, veterans and their families, en­suring that their sacrifices are rec­ognized and remembered. There are cur­rently 20,000 primary and associate (family) members.

Replete with Marine Corps and other Services’ memorabilia, the Marines’ Memorial celebrates servicemembers of all eras, and each floor is adorned with military memorabilia from past and recent conflicts.

The historic exhibits are widespread throughout the facility and include a Memorial Wall on the 10th floor mezzanine that recognizes servicemembers from all service branches that paid the ultimate price for their country since 9/11.

Lieutenant General David A. Ottignon, USMC (Ret) was particularly impressed with the wall. The recently retired Com­manding General of II Marine Expedi­tionary Force first stayed at the hotel in 2008 after participating in combat oper­ations in Operation Iraqi Freedom a few years earlier.

“When the war [on terror] really got going, the [Tribute Memorial Wall] was really moving,” said Ottignon. “… The Marines that have fallen that we served with, to see them on the wall, it’s a very moving experience.”

The Ames Library—LtGen Rocco’s favorite room in the hotel—houses an attractive collection of books and artifacts donated by servicemembers of all eras and serves as a quiet place for members and guests to settle in with a daily news­paper or one of the many books from the stacks.

According to LtGen Rocco, the hotel will be spending the next several years dedicating specific floors to each service branch. A groundbreaking was held in November in which they unveiled the yellow footprints on the Marine Corps floor, symbolizing the first steps recruits make as they walk onto Parris Island for the first time.

With 136 guest rooms, two spacious ballrooms, and professional meeting rooms, the MMC&H is more than simply a hotel or living memorial. The MMC&H offers a restaurant, a business center, a three-lane 25-yard lap pool, a contempo­rary fitness center, a 500-plus person theatre, and routinely offers events such as its “Leading from the Front” and “Meet the Author Series” that feature current military and civilian leaders and authors.

The MMC&H also hosts annual events throughout the year, including Marine Corps Birthday Balls that feature senior Marine leaders as guests of honor like Ottignon.
In addition to Club events, the MMC&H routinely hosts retirements, conferences, weddings and the annual San Francisco Fleet Week.

“They really go to the nines right around our birthday,” Ottignon said. “The community gets to see the Marines in blues, and [the hotel] has tie-ins to Fleet Week. They see [the Marines] congregate around the hotel and the light bulb goes on [for the public].”

The Marines Memorial Association and Foundation also hosts an annual Gold Star Parents event to honor those who have given the ultimate sacrifice and an annual scholarship program for members, their children, grandchildren and active and veteran servicemembers, all provided by generous donations from members and the public.

The MMC&H is renowned for its unique hospitality which is highlighted by free breakfast and happy hour at Chesty’s Bar and Grill on the 12th Floor where hotel guests enjoy complimentary drinks while catching up with old brothers-in-arms, all while enjoying the gorgeous views of downtown San Francisco. Two years ago, some of the last Marines to have fought at Guadalcanal took home a bottle of 1917 French cognac that was being stored at the hotel bar since World War II.

“Sergeant Major [Troy] Black was our guest of honor, so we took [the bottle] down and gave it to the members of the 1st Marine Division and they took it down to Camp Pendleton,” LtGen Rocco said.

Membership is available to all cur­rent­ly serving, active-duty and reserve, vet­eran, and retired members and fam­ilies of all the uniformed services, the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Ad­mini­­stration (NOAA), the U.S. Na­tion­al Health Service (USPHS) Commis­sioned Corps, the Air and Army National Guard, ROTC/Military Academy cadets and midshipmen and all ranks are eligible to join. Annual membership for active-duty servicemembers is free when they sign up on site.

Joining the Marines’ Memorial As­socia­tion has advantages even for those who cannot visit the Bay Area. Member­ship dues are tax deductible and help support the Marines’ Memorial Associa­tion services and programs for service­members and their families. Additional membership benefits include exceptional rates on over-night accommodations, a home-away-from-home in downtown San Francisco and the opportunity to meet and socialize with their fellow veterans and retirees, they also have access to more than 240 reciprocal clubs throughout the world where they enjoy the same high-quality accommodations at deeply discounted room rates. Some of the reciprocal clubs included are: The Army and Navy Club and the Georgetown Club in Washington, D.C.; the New York Athletic Club in New York City; the Coronado Cays Yacht Club near San Diego; and London’s Victory Services Club. In addition, members’ dues and guests’ fees also help to support the MMC&H’s outreach efforts including scholarships, professional and commem­ora­tive events, the Ames’ library and Living Memorial displays throughout the club and hotel.

From its original inception of serving Marines and their families as a place to recover from grueling Pacific duty to providing an exceptional living me­mo­rial to those who have gone before, the Ma­rines’ Memorial Club & Hotel continues to serve and to hold a special place in the hearts of all armed servicemembers everywhere. For more information, visit www
.mmaf1946.org.

Author’s bio: Kipp Hanley is the deputy editor for Leatherneck Magazine and resident of Woodbridge, Va. The award-winning journalist has covered a variety of topics in his writing career including the military, government, education, business and sports.

Executive Editor’s note: Fifty years ago, Leatherneck began looking ahead to the Marine Corps’ 200th Birthday, and started a series in the magazine called Giants of the Corps. As we are poised to celebrate another milestone birthday, we thought it fitting to revisit this article about the 5th Commandant of the Marine Corps, Brevet Brigadier General Archibald Henderson. In this month’s magazine, we are focusing on the years 1820-1840. Henderson, known as the “Grand Old Man of the Marine Corps,” was appointed Commandant in 1820 and served in that role for 38 years, shaping the legacy and traditions of the Marine Corps for years to come.

As Marines prepare to step into the third century of service to their country, it is well that we pause, reflecting on the actions, words and lives of some of the great Americans who gave so much to our Corps.

When President James Monroe appointed Brevet Major Archibald Henderson a lieutenant colonel and Commandant of the Marine Corps on Jan. 2, 1821, with date of commission of Oct. 17, 1820, he christened what has come to be known as “The Henderson Era.”

It is difficult to imagine Archibald Henderson as anything but the Commandant. It was as though he were destined for the awesome responsibilities of the office. His tenure of office was to last for 38 years of growth, tradition, respect and new glory.
There are many legends concerning the service, determination and “spirit” of General Henderson. “Spirit” defined in this case as “mind and temperament” and as an “apparition.”

Born in January 1783, he was appointed a second lieutenant in the Marine Corps in June 1806. As a captain during the War of 1812, he served aboard the frigate Constitution and participated in the engagements against the Java, Cyane and Levant. With less than 15 years of service as a Marine, he was appointed Commandant!

He took over at a poor time. He had inherited a Corps weakened in morale. A private received between 6 and 10 dollars a month, and chances are, he didn’t draw even that amount. It was believed at that time that desertion could be discouraged by withholding a small percentage of a man’s pay until the individual’s enlistment had expired.

NCO’s pay started at $8, and climbed to $17, the pay of a sergeant major. Second lieutenants received $25. The Commandant was paid $75 a month.

Henderson lost no time in building what he envisioned to be “the finest military organization in the world.” He personally led an extensive inspection tour of men, gear and stations. He found his men serving with the attitude that nobody cared.
He reasoned that his Corps would be no better than its officers, and therefore stationed all newly appointed officers at his own headquarters, Marine Barracks, Washington. There they would receive his personal supervision before being assigned to sea duty.

Morale began to climb as the men realized that the Commandant himself was personally supervising all matters pertaining to their pay and allowances.

How was his morale about this time? A 39-year-old bachelor, he married 19-year-old Anne Maria Casenove in October 1822. The couple moved directly into the Home of the Commandants.
While preparing for a reception the young wife asked: “What are those tables for?”

“Why, for playing cards,” a servant told her. “Gentlemen always play cards after supper.”

“Well,” said the new mistress of the Home of the Commandant, “you may just put them away. No cards will ever be played in my house!”

Anne Maria Henderson’s first directive in the house on “G” Street was upheld for the 36 years she lived there. Six children were born to the Hendersons while they occupied the house. Archibald Henderson’s first decade as Commandant provided him time to achieve the efficiency in both the ranks and administration that he sought.

In 1824, during the Boston Fire, his Marines were called out for rescue work and additional police duties to prevent looting following the holocaust.

Not long after, one officer and 30 Marines quelled a riot of 238 prisoners in the Massachusetts State Prison when the situation became too desperate for local authorities to handle.
These incidents and others like them, although unfortunate, were exactly what Henderson needed to bring his Corps into sharp focus with the American public, for the Commandant had long recognized the political advantages which would follow—if the Marines gained outstanding popularity with the public.
His “community relations” program was to pay off on Feb. 20, 1829, when the Center Building was destroyed by fire. The Commandant reported in a letter to the Secretary of the Navy, Samuel T. Southard:

“The fire is supposed to have been caused by burning the chimneys in the forenoon, and to have communicated itself to the interior of the third story by some imperfection in them. The two wings were saved by the preserving and arduous exertions of the different fire companies, and the citizens generally. …”
Indians in Florida massacred an Army column in December 1835. Florida slaves had, for a long while, been making their escapes permanent by joining the Seminole Indians, often intermarrying.

Southern landowners complained to the government, and finally, a treaty was made with the Seminoles. Under the terms, the Indians would be taken under federal protection and assigned to reservations. The Indians, however, rebelled when they discovered that the reservations were situated in the territory that is now the state of Arizona.

“Snow covers the ground,” they reported, “and frost chills the bodies of men.” The bronzed Seminoles, who had for centuries lived in the balmy, breezes of Florida, were not to freeze in Arizona.

During early 1836, the Army had borne the combat load, playing a frustrating game of chase with the elusive Indians in the Everglades. Marines of the frigate Constellation, the sloop St. Louis and the sloop Vandalia had participated in the fighting.
Early in spring, Commandant Henderson wrote a letter to President Andrew Jackson, volunteering a regiment of Marines to support the Army. On May 21, the President accepted, ordering all available Marines to report to the Army.

Henderson, then 53, chose to lead his men in the swamps of the Everglades in pursuit of the Seminoles. Gathering together nearly all his officers, he reduced shore station detachments to a mere sergeant’s guard, and leaving behind only those unfit for duty, he managed to muster almost half the entire strength of his Corps.

On June 1, 1836, he placed LtCol R. D. Wainwright in charge of the Marine Barracks, “8th and I.”
“I leave you a most valuable soldier in the sergeant major,” Henderson wrote Wainwright, “whose health entirely incapacitates him from going on the expedition. He is anxious to go, but as a matter of duty, I have ordered him to remain, as I cannot take any other than able-bodied men on such arduous Service.”

In spite of the letter to Wainwright placing him in command, the legend persists that the Commandant closed up Headquarters Marine Corps, locked his door and tacked up a sign which read: “Have gone to Florida to fight the Indians. Will be back when the war is over. A. Henderson, Col., Commandant.”
While Henderson and his force of 38 officers and 424 enlisted were in Florida, his losses were heavy. He returned to Washington in the summer of 1837. He had lost 61 Marines in combat, but in addition, he had “lost” two companies totaling 189 men and officers who had remained behind. These men were stationed along the Florida coast, around the Keys, and with the Mosquito Fleet.

With his entire Corps numbering less than 1,000 men, the Commandant was having difficulty fulfilling his commitments without the loss of two companies serving where he considered their presence unnecessary.

He spent the next five years battling to get them back, stating that he no longer had “men sufficient even for an ordinary morning parade, or for a company drill.” Henderson was also fighting a battle with the Treasury Department.
While he was absent on the Seminole Campaign, the Commandant’s Quartermaster “requisitioned” a Nott stove for use in the Henderson home.

The Commandant, upon his return, was informed that the stove was apparently a luxury item, and therefore, not something for which the U.S. government would pay. He received a bill in May. Another bill arrived in June. The letter he received dated July 14, 1838, read in part:

“For Nott Stove, $98.80. … To the liquidation of which I have to call your attention, otherwise the Pay Master will be instructed to Check the amount from your pay.” Could the Commandant’s pay be “docked” for a “luxury” item …. a stove?
Evidently approval by the Secretary of the Navy for payment of the stove came later, since no further correspondence ensued. … Unless, of course, Henderson paid for the stove himself, which is doubtful.

“The Henderson Era” brought continued changes. On July 4, 1840, Commandant Henderson issued orders that the Marine uniform would be changed from green to blue with scarlet trim. In 1842, he requisitioned artillery for training purposes at Headquarters, New York, Boston, Norfolk, Philadelphia, Portsmouth and Pensacola.

The Commandant noted that various Navy Yards had begun to develop libraries, and in September 1843, he addressed the Secretary of the Navy, requesting books.
There are 54 titles on the list he submitted, but not one of them appears to have been intended for off-duty, pleasure reading. “Maury’s Navigation” and Gibbon’s “Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire” were included, as well as “An Encyclopedia (Cheap Edition).”

During the next three years, unrest began to grow in a vast piece of real estate, called by the Mexicans, “Tejas.” Here, in this sparsely settled land, Americans had built homes and formed the Republic of Texas. The “republic” had been admitted to the Union, but a controversy over the designation of the Rio Grande as a boundary rekindled old Mexican contentions for ownership.
Battles had already begun to rage when, on May 12, 1846, the United States formally declared war on Mexico.

By this time, Archibald Henderson was 63 years of age. He decided to remain at home, directing the destinies of the Corps from the Marine Barracks. A Marine regiment under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Samuel Watson was assigned to support the Army under the command of Lieutenant General Winfield Scott.

The newly formed regiment of Fort Hamilton, N.Y., was joined by 63 Marines of the Washington Barracks, and they sailed for Vera Cruz. The Marines were first a brigade with the 2nd Pennsylvania Volunteers, in reserve. When Scott attacked the approaches to the Citadel of Chapultepec, he found Mexican resistance furious and formidable. He called the Marines.

Two assault parties of more than 500 Marines, along with Army volunteers, were formed to spearhead the attack. A pioneer force of 70 Marines was equipped with scaling ladders, crowbars and pickaxes. At dawn, following a heavy shelling, the Marines ramrodded through. The general attack was a bloody hand-to-hand battle of bayonets, swords and rifle butts.

In his report to Henderson, General Scott said of the Marines, “I placed them where the hardest work was to be accomplished, and I never once found my confidence in them misplaced.”
The decade following the close of the Mexican War was an interlude of uneasy peace for Henderson’s Corps. On Oct. 31, 1850, its strength was 70 officers and 1,210 enlisted. While about half the Corps was engaged in training and shore duty, Marines serving as ship’s detachments were going ashore to protect American lives and property in Latin America.
In 1833, Marines played an important role in peaceful missions to persuade Japan to open her trade to the world.

In 1856, U.S. ships were in Chinese waters, landing Marines to protect American property. At Canton, 181 Marines and Sailors went ashore, where they manned fortifications around the American compound. On their return to their ships, a Chinese fort opened fire on the men.

In answer to the unprovoked act, the American ships began a series of attacks on Chinese forts until Nov. 16, 1856, when an emissary of the Imperial Commissioner of Canton came aboard the American flagship to apologize. That ended the hostilities.

A few blocks from his own doorstep, Commandant Henderson could hear the rumblings of trouble in 1857, when election issues were being bitterly contested. In a desperate attempt to control the election, the “Know Nothing” Party had brought in gangs of hired thugs, known as the “Plug Uglies,” from Baltimore to threaten physical harm to the voters and eventually seize the polling places throughout the Capital to halt the elections.

Civil authorities, unable to quell the rioting, asked the President for help. He went to Henderson, who was directed to send the entire force from the Marine Barracks to prevent bloodshed at the polls.

“The force,” the Commandant wrote in a report, “was prepared with all possible dispatch and the cartridge boxes filled with ball cartridges. … It was formed in line, and I addressed a few words to the troops.”
Henderson, now 74, did not attempt to lead them, but he did stroll in civilian clothes, toward City Hall. He arrived as the Marines were deploying in front of the building.

“I repaired to the office of the Mayor,” Henderson’s report stated, “and offered my services to him, as a citizen to aid him in the performance of his duty. He accepted my offer very cordially.”

Henderson followed the mayor into the streets, where they heard rumors that a cannon had been set up near the market. Determining that the rumors were true, Henderson instructed one of his companies to capture it.
Henderson himself strolled through the crowd and to the rear of the gun. Advancing toward the muzzle (placing himself between the gun and advancing Marines) the Commandant instructed: “Now is the time to order the capture!”

He then directed Maj Zeilin, “the soldiers, quick, quick,” and with a rapid charge, the rioters were driven from the gun.
After the capture of the cannon, the Plug Uglies continued to fire pistols. Marines returned the fire. Believing that the skirmish was over, Henderson ordered the Marines to hold their fire.

“A man came rapidly through one of the openings in the Market House,” Henderson wrote, “discharging a pistol in the direction of a sergeant and myself, then turned to save himself by flight … I jumped forward and seized him by the collar and made him my prisoner. …”

In 1858, the strength of the Corps was at a new high of 63 officers and 1,789 enlisted and its reputation as a dependable force in readiness had reached an unprecedented stature.
It was on this excellent plane of efficiency that Archibald Henderson left his beloved Corps, when on Jan. 6, 1859, he returned from a walk to Alexandria, laid down on a sofa before supper and died quietly in his sleep.

Funeral services for Brevet Brigadier General Henderson were conducted at the Marine Barracks. President James Buchanan, his Cabinet and many high-ranking officers of other services attended. The President is said to have walked behind the hearse from the Barracks to the old Congressional Cemetery where the Commandant was interred. His wife followed him in death 13 days later.

One son, Charles A. Henderson, a second lieutenant in the Corps, had fought in the Mexican War and served his father as an aide. With the approach of the Civil War, he resigned his commission to join the Confederate States Marine Corps, remaining loyal to Virginia, his father’s native state.
There is a legend that he willed the house on “G” Street to his wife. The legend is easily disproved.

But there are other Henderson legends that are more difficult to explain. The wife of a much later Commandant awoke during her first night in the house and found an elderly man with a white fringed beard and wearing a historic Marine dress uniform, sitting quietly in a chair before the smoldering embers of her bedroom fireplace. Aware that his presence had been observed, the man arose, bowed politely and vanished.

The following morning, she described her visitor of the previous night. When the Commandant returned home that evening, he brought with him a portrait of General Henderson.
“That,” said his wife, looking intently at the painting, “is the gray-bearded gentleman who was in my room last night!”
Many years later, Feb. 13, 1945, General Thomas Holcomb was entertaining dinner guests. He mentioned that, among other affairs that day, he had signed an order establishing the Women’s Reserve.

“Old Archibald,” he said, “would turn over in his grave if he ever found out that females could become commissioned officers in his beloved Marine Corps!” Scarcely had the words been said when Henderson’s portrait crashed to the floor.

If, indeed, these legends of Henderson’s metaphysical visitations are true, it may also be true that he reserves his manifestations for the old house, knowing that his spirit with which the young Marine Corps was so thoroughly imbued, still remains strong in the Marine of today, who needs no reminder from the past to help him uphold the glory of his Corps.

In this digital age, video games have become a more common pastime for many people. With newer technology, better graphics, game variety, as well as top-notch game development teams that constantly strive to improve and in­novate new ways to enhance a player’s in-
game experience, it’s no surprise that “competitive gaming” has become some­thing of a sport. Electronic sports, or “esports,” is a form of competition that uses video games as the playing field.

Esports include much of the same structure as traditional sports. There are leagues, professional teams and coaches. During tournaments teams can win trophies and cash prizes. In fact, some esports players can even gain spon­sorships on streaming platforms like Twitch. Though not all of them are con­sidered professionals, you can find “gamers” in nearly every community or organization you could think of, including the Armed Forces.

In May 2022, the military gaming community’s competitive drive was put to the test when the U.S. Air Force, in tandem with the Armed Forces Sports program, hosted the first ever Armed Forces Esports Championship in San Antonio, Texas. This tournament was marked as the first federally sanctioned esports competition, and the first gaming program officially adopted by the Armed Forces Sports program. The competition was held during FORCECON, a massive military gaming and technology event that celebrates the intersection of video games, technology and innovation. Ma­rine Corps Gaming (MCG), an esports organization created by Marines, put together a team of Halo players along with a professional Halo coach to represent the Corps as they faced off against players from the Army, Air Force, Navy, Space Force and Coast Guard.

The game used as the playing field was Halo: Infinite, a team-based, science fiction first-person shooter (FPS) game that offers both single and multi-player experiences for its users. The tournament utilized Halo’s game modes “King-of-the-hill,” where each team’s goal was to maintain control of the objective at any cost, and “Team Slayer,” where the first team to reach 50 eliminations won the round. Scores were based on the number of rounds won or lost within a match, making teamwork and communication vital to move forward and compete against the next team.

MCG placed third in the tournament overall after defeating the Space Force, Navy, and Coast Guard gaming teams. And though FORCECON’s all-service esports competition was the first time a group of Marines had participated in a large-scale gaming event officially sanctioned by the government, competing against peers, other services and allied forces is nothing new for Marines. But as gaming continues to grow, so does the need to create a space for the community of Ma­rine gamers within the Corps. MCG works to build that community for its members, giving them a platform of their own, created by their own, with a mission to connect all Marines who share the Corps’ “fighting spirit” and have a passion for esports and video games.

After being founded conceptually in 2020, MCG officially hit the ground run­ning in 2021, when they built a community platform utilizing Discord—a voice, video and text chat program that allows its users to create community servers that its members can use regularly. But having a community space didn’t serve much of a purpose without any Marines to occupy it. The next step was to broad­cast MCG’s existence to any Marines who may be interested in joining.

“After that [the Discord] was established, we launched the website and reached out to every Single Marine Program across the service to spread the word. Additionally, we leveraged social media, word of mouth and in-person activations to share the community with Marines,” said Staff Sergeant Ian Mills, an imagery analysis specialist stationed at Marine Corps Base Quantico and current director of MCG.

After launching the organization’s official website later that same year, MCG has also established itself on other social platforms like Facebook, X (formerly known as Twitter), Instagram and LinkedIn, where they have amassed over 3,000 followers across all four sites. As their organization gains more traction, MCG hopes to continue building a more consistent presence on streaming and video platforms like Twitch and YouTube as they continue competing against other services and allied military esports teams. To do that, MCG develops teams that specialize in a specific game to represent the Corps at events. But in most cases, their selection system differs from that of esports organizations outside of the Armed Forces.

Professional esports organizations have a different team building structure than that of military esports groups like MCG. In most cases, esports organiza­tions can choose to officially play as many games as they want, but each game played only has a small set of designated players called a “standing team” that specializes in one game. And much like in traditional sports, when a player is selected to play on a team, they sign a contract and join the organization as a “pro.” Similarly, these teams have sub­stitute and alternate players who can take the spot of a standing team member if they were unable to play. In either case, those predetermined teams go on to participate in the annual tournaments for their specialty game. Tenure for members of these teams can last for long periods of time, especially if contracts are re­newed, making the available spots for new players rare. But due to the volume of individuals associated with MCG and the organization’s purpose as a com­munity hub, team selection requires a different approach.

“Marine Corps Gaming really doesn’t have a standing team. We build teams as the requirement comes about,” said SSgt Mills. As a free-to-join, interest-based organization, any group of Marines who have formed or are interested in forming a team have a chance to compete at larger scale events. Marines meet, form teams and communicate with each other through the organization’s official server on Dis­cord.

From there, MCG leadership posts announcements for events and gaming tournaments. Marines who have a team and are interested in competing can apply to play. If there is a large interest in one game, MCG holds a “qualifier” tourna­ment, and the team that wins represents the Marine Corps as the current standing team for that event. “Marines also under­stand that they have to be in good stand­ing. So, you can’t have any administrative issues, legal issues, any type of BCP or RCP. You have to be physically fit and mentally fit to participate. We still hold the same standards and want Marines to be at their best while competing at the highest level,” said Mills.

There are multiple national and inter­national events that MCG attends like the Call of Duty (CoD) Endowment Bowl, presented by USAA, which raises funds to help veterans secure quality jobs after their service. MCG also regularly attends the United Service Organization’s (USO) Commanders Cup, which features teams from different services that specialize in Rocket League, an arcade-style ve­hicular soccer game. But gaming events and championship tournaments don’t exclusively determine what games Ma­rines at MCG play. Though games like Rocket League, Call of Duty and Halo have a larger group of players, MCG still has Marines who play games like Overwatch, World of Warcraft and much more. Even Marines who are interested in competing individually through fighting games like Mortal Kombat and Street Fighter, or sports games like Madden or the NBA2k video game series, can compete if the need arises.

“We had two Marines competing in the USO Salute to the Service Madden tournament,” Mills said. “Those Marines got the opportunity to travel to Las Vegas to compete in the grand finals and won their respective brackets. With those winnings they won all expense paid tickets to bring a plus one to the Super Bowl. One of those Marines got PTAD during his deployment to go to the Super Bowl. So he was on ship, and his CO signed a letter to get him off ship to go.”
Marines at MCG are stepping up to the challenge and competing to win, not just during the tournament but also in the moments leading up to it. They are constantly preparing for the next event by running practice drills with fellow Marines and participating in scrimmages with civilian teams and sister services.

“They also have meetings; they go through field review. They’re treating this like a real-deal job,” said Mills. With guidance from the team captain and in­structional support from the team coach, Marine esports gamers are learning how to improve positions, work as a team and be more aware of themselves and others to become an intimidating force that can put any opposing team’s skill to the test.

Though connecting through a shared interest in video games is at the heart of MCG, the organization offers more to its Marines than just the opportunity to compete. It also gives Marines the chance to lead. Staff Sergeant Zachariah Shanahan sets the example of discipline, commitment and leadership for his teammates as the captain of MCG’s Call of Duty team. After completing his duties as a formal school’s instructor during the day, SSgt Shanahan dedicates his free time to pursuing his passion for competitive gaming.

“I’ve been a fan of competitive Call of Duty for a very long time, and I’ve been playing games since I was a kid,” he said. “As a family, we would play ‘Pac-Man World 2’ on the PlayStation 2. We played it in the living room all the time. And so, I kind of started liking games from there.”

Shortly after the release of the “Cold War” game season of Call of Duty Warzone in 2021, SSgt Shanahan began searching for gaming groups within the Corps, hoping to find others in the service who shared a similar passion.

“I wanted to know if the Marine Corps had anything … so, I just Googled Marine Corps esports and Marine Corps Gam­ing’s website popped up,” SSgt Shanahan said. “I went to the Discord, got in contact with Ian [SSgt Mills] about competitive Call of Duty and now, after two years we have a good relationship with each other … I’m more or less his right-hand man through all things MCG and spe­cifically CoD.”

As team captain, SSgt Shanahan leads from within the game, maintaining a positive mindset and competitive drive, not only for himself, but for other Marines on the team. When practicing against rival teams in scrimmages, it’s easy to feel the need to come out on top. SSgt Shanahan reminds his teammates that, while winning is the goal, it doesn’t always help the group play better as a team.

“A lot of people view scrimming as ‘You need to slam every team you play’… when in reality it doesn’t really matter,” he said. “If we win every map, but we’re not learning from anything, the practice was pointless. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t like losing, but those are the practices we learn a lot from. We always try, at least when we’re scrimmaging now and we’re booking scrims, to find a team that’s just maybe one or two steps ahead of us so we can learn from them.”

In esports, players also utilize a gamer­tag, similar to a “call sign,” to identify themselves and others on different teams. These players often have a personal con­­nection to these names. Like other Marines at MCG, SSgt Shanahan uses a gamertag when he competes. SSgt Shanahan’s gamertag symbolizes his connection to the “Origins” map in Call of Duty Black Ops II’s “zombies” mode. “When I first really started streaming [on Twitch], I played zombies a lot. My favorite map was Origins, and I was really good at it,” he said. “I called myself a God at the map, so my gamertag became ‘Zach_theOG’, Zack the Origins God.” While there is no official rule in creating a gamertag, typically the goal is for the name to be concise, and intimidating. “We recently played the Royal Air Force and one of their player’s names was … Fluffy Hippo, and that name doesn’t scare anybody,” SSgt Shanahan said. “One of our players just changed his gamertag last year. It used to be ‘IconicXLegends,’ which also doesn’t scare anybody. He changed it to ‘Mills.’ Short, sweet, and way more intimidating.”

In addition to his work as a team captain, SSgt Shanahan has taken on coaching responsibilities within the MCG Call of Duty community. In May 2023, a team of Marines traveled to Toronto, Canada, to participate in the Call of Duty League tournament hosted by Toronto Ultra, a professional Canadian Call of Duty esports team. SSgt Shanahan rep­resented the Corps as a coach, in­structing a team of four other Marines on the stand­ing team roster. But coaching is more than just knowing the game. The job of the coach extends outside of the in-game role of the team captain.

“Coaches have to not only be exper­ienced in the game but be able to manage a team inside and outside of a video game,” said SSgt Mills. “It takes an ex­ceptional level of maturity to be able to coach because not only are you managing a team inside a game, understanding how the game functions, and how the team functions inside of a game, but you’re also expected to manage personnel … that requires a level of tact and expertise that I would expect a senior NCO or a staff NCO to have.”

At times, esports coaches end up managing more than coaching, and this is also true for coaches at MCG, especial­ly when organizing and clearing Marines to attend events. Ensuring that team mem­bers have approval from their command, have adequate leave, and have no admin­­istrative issues are just a few of the things coaches do to support their standing team members.

Aside from virtual community spaces like Discord, MCG also encourages its members to meet their fellow Marine gamers off-screen, in places like the USO Quantico Gaming Center, which opened Feb. 17, 2022. The gaming center acts as a community hub for Marines to relax and game with fellow servicemembers. Present at the grand opening ceremony was Sergeant Major Troy E. Black, 19th Sergeant Major of the Marine Corps, who spoke to Marines about the evolution of gaming and its importance in connecting Marines with their brothers and sisters in arms. The center houses multiple com­puters built to run high resolution games, virtual reality machines, tabletop arcade games and more.

The organization is also in the process of becoming officially endorsed by the Marine Corps, which could open oppor­tunities for Marines to be evaluated and improve upon their Marine Corps com­petencies while participating in an activity that they have a deep-seated passion for. Marine Corps Gaming en­visions a future where gaming enabled training tools can be utilized to increase force readiness and lethality while supporting Marines and their quality of life by utilizing re­sources like the Morale, Welfare and Recreation (MWR) program, the Single Marine Program (SMP) and Marine Corps Community Services (MCCS). But despite the potential training and resource benefits that an endorsement could provide, MCG is and has always been a community space for Marine gamers to share their love for video games, not to replicate combat in any way.

“We’re not using video games to re­place the war fighting function that Ma­rines do,” SSgt Mills said. “It’s an entertainment medium. At best it can be a training medium, but it will never replace the realism of warfare, and we’ll never aim to do that in this community.”

Instead, MCG looks to innovate ways to incorporate new players with seasoned competitive gamers. One of those avenues involves the creation of “game academies” for high traffic games. These academies are designed to help new players build the skills they need to compete while working toward a spot on one of the competitive rosters that represent the Corps at tournaments and other gaming-related events.

“Anybody can join the organization, it’s welcome to all. If you want to play, you’ll get your shot to play,” said SSgt Shanahan.

MCG’s goal is to build a community and foster camaraderie among fellow Marine gamers. Whether Marines join to play casually or on a competitive roster, MCG is an organization that encourages its Marines to communicate and work together. It’s also an organization that challenges Marines to push themselves and to constantly strive for improvement.

But most importantly, MCG works to break down barriers and create an even playing field for all Marines who call themselves gamers. At MCG, it doesn’t matter who you are, where you’re sta­tioned or why you decided to join. It’s the work you put in and the connections you make that count. In the years since its inception, MCG has solidified itself as a platform for Marines to expand upon what the Corps has taught them and show the best versions of themselves to each other and any opposing team they face.

Author’s bio: Briesa Koch currently works as an information professional at the Richmond Public Library and is earning her MLIS at Old Dominion University with a concentration in archives and special collections. Koch is a former editorial assistant for Leatherneck.

In May 2024, a group of Marine officers rallied together for a final time in Las Vegas. The event marked the eighth official reunion these veterans have held over the last 26 years. A trag­ically dwindling number of attendees, now all in their 80s or 90s, faithfully journeyed to the gatherings, recognizing the opportunities to embrace and re­con­nect with their brothers are coming to an end. Like Marines of any age who have earned the eagle, globe and anchor, these veterans have felt the immense pride and impact that accomplishment brings. Unlike many of us, however, they have had a lifetime of experience and reflection to understand how the bonds they formed long ago would affect them so deeply. Many of the group remained in the Marine Corps for their entire career, retiring as general officers or colonels. Still more left the Corps as soon as their initial contract ended, finding success in the civilian world. For all, the bond they share reaches back to the early 1960s on the island of Oahu.

Fresh from The Basic School, the newly minted lieutenants arrived at their first duty station with the “Pineapple Marines” in Hawaii. It was a unique time and place for them to serve together. The nation prepared for large-scale conflict in Vietnam. Meanwhile, the individuals stationed with the 1st Marine Brigade in Kaneohe Bay were isolated from events happening around the world. The single Marines living in the Bachelor Officer Quarters spent every day with each other, some of them for several years. The married Marines settled their families into the cramped base housing and watched their children play all weekend while their wives formed friendships as lasting as their own. Simply being on the island, away from anyone else they knew and insulated from outside communi­cation, forced the Marines and their fam­ilies to establish a tight-knit community.

“I think the reason we’ve stayed to­gether is because we knew each other before we ever went to combat,” said Edwin Nash, a platoon commander with 3rd Reconnaissance Battalion attached to the brigade. “We trained together, our families knew each other, and that was true for the officers and the enlisted. I knew my NCOs and their families, and they knew mine. That was a tie that I don’t think was found in a lot of other units.”

Everything changed in March 1965. With little notice, the brigade received orders to embark on ships bound for Cal­ifor­nia. Operation Silver Lance, the largest amphibious landing exercise since World War II, was taking place at Camp Pendleton. The generals in charge wanted the Pineapple Marines there for support. Across the island, Marines rushed to settle their families and put their affairs in order, not knowing when they were leav­ing or how long they would be gone. Wayne Henderson had just joined the brigade as a new artillery forward observer in late February. His wife gave birth to their first child shortly after they arrived.

“They put me on leave so I could take care of my wife and the baby and get them home,” Henderson remembered. “We were still on a waiting list for base housing when I got a call from one of the sergeants in our battery and he said, ‘Hey lieutenant, grab your 782 gear. We’re having a recall.’ I told my wife we were having some sort of drill, and I’d give her a call later to let her know what was going on. That was the last time I got to speak with her before we left. We loaded the ships that night. I left her in a motel with our firstborn, and since we weren’t on base, she had no idea where I went or what was happening.”

The ships departed Pearl Harbor from the south side of Oahu. A few Marines aboard noted their immediate right turn out of Mamala Bay with confusion. For most, reality struck home the following morning.

“I remember waking up on ship and realizing the sun was coming up behind me,” said Nash. “It was supposed to be coming up in front of me! And that’s when I knew we weren’t going to California.”

“Everything started to get filled in that we were going to Okinawa to stage before heading into Vietnam, wherever that was,” said Brian Fagan, a young infantry officer in 1965 who eventually retired as a col­onel. “It was all just Southeast Asia or French Indochina to us. But we were so tight that I really think it didn’t matter where the Marine Corps was going to send us. We were going to go, we were prepared to go. We worked hard and were very proud of that. We didn’t know much, but the theme was, ‘Home Alive in ’65.’ We didn’t know how long it would take, but we figured we’d put a couple reg­iments online, sweep through South Viet­nam, and come home.”

The green lieutenants followed the ex­amples set by their leadership once they arrived in the combat zone. Nearly all the senior enlisted and officers were vet­erans of World War II or the Korean War. At that time, they were not yet called “the greatest generation.” Still, the young Marines stood in awe of them and rec­ognized the place they earned in Marine Corps history.

Starting at the top, Marion E. Carl commanded the brigade. Carl achieved renown as the Marine Corps’ first fighter pilot ace, flying at Midway and Guadalcanal and earning two Navy Crosses and five Distinguished Flying Crosses. Closer to the grunts, battalion commanders such as Joseph R. “Bull” Fisher, a Navy Cross recipient from the Chosin Reservoir, commanded 2nd Bat­talion, 4th Marines. Alfred I. “A.I.” Thomas commanded the 1st Battalion, 4th Marines leading up to their deploy­ment to Vietnam. A recipient of his first Silver Star from the landing on Iwo Jima, and his next two from the battle at Chosin Reservoir, Thomas played a critical role in preparing his Marines for combat. His successor, Harold D. “Bud” Fredericks, another hero of the Korean War, took the battalion into Vietnam.

“I remember our first night out there in country,” said Kent Valley, a platoon commander serving under Fredericks in 1/4. “We got the troops all dug in, we got the command post all set up, perimeter security was out, and everybody was feel­­ing jumpy. All of the sudden, I heard this, ‘BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!’ Two or three fighting holes around the perim­eter just opened up. I don’t know what the hell they were shooting at. I got a call down to the command post, so I ran down there. I reported in and Bud Fredericks looked at me with those steel blue eyes and said, ‘Lieutenant, I haven’t heard this much shooting since the Chosin Reser­voir! There’s nobody out there, damnit!’ So, I ran back out and yelled at everybody to cease fire.”

They did not know it at the time, but the brigade’s deployment as a whole unit also proved a unique combat experience. These Marines who lived together and trained together for so long in Hawaii went to war together, where the bonds they had already forged were tested and cemented in the ultimate high-stakes setting. Before their deployment ended, the Marine Corps adjusted its methods of sending fresh troops into combat.

“There was a big change when the Ma­rine Corps suddenly realized that if they didn’t do some personnel changes, the units who went over initially were all going to leave at the same time,” stated Gary Brown, a platoon commander with 2/4 who received two Silver Stars and a Purple Heart, eventually retiring as a brigadier general in 1993. “In my bat­talion, we had to put together a company and send it off to another battalion. In turn, we received another company of Marines with much later rotation dates. We absorbed them and they became part of the battalion, but it wasn’t like working with the men we had trained with, de­ployed with, and fought with for five or six months. It made me really appreciate my time with all the Marines I worked with in Hawaii before we deployed.”

Throughout their time in combat, the quality of the Pineapple Marines was put to the test time and time again. Many highly decorated individuals emerged. The list of men like Gary Brown, who received one or multiple Silver Stars, is impressive in length. Martin Brandtner, then an infantry officer in 1/4, on a later deployment became one of only two Marines from the Vietnam War to earn two Navy Crosses. In 2005, more than a decade after retiring as a lieutenant general, Brandtner wrote a letter to A.I. Thomas, his first commanding officer in Hawaii, crediting Thomas’s leadership as the foundation of his distinguished career.

“For the record, sir, I want you to know that serving under your command in that magnificent battalion was one of the truly great experiences of my life. You provided me and every Marine in that battalion with the greatest example of outstanding leadership that any of us had ever seen—or were ever to see.”
The veterans solemnly remember their brothers who did not return home. They proudly tell stories of men such as Frank Reasoner, a Recon lieutenant who deployed with them. In July 1965, Reasoner led a Recon patrol deep be­hind enemy lines where the Marines encountered nearly 100 Viet Cong. The lieutenant courageously fought to protect his men as several fell wounded until he was cut down by an enemy machine gun. For his heroic actions and sacrifice, Reasoner posthumously received the Medal of Honor.

The officer group of Pineapple Marines dispersed after their Vietnam deployment ended in 1966. Some like Gary Brown and Martin Brandtner remained on active duty and returned to combat. Others, like Edwin Nash or Kent Valley, moved on to civilian life. Their paths would not converge as a whole again for more than 30 years.

Some of the Pineapple Marines main­tained their relationships in small groups. On his first day in the Marine Corps at TBS, Kent Valley met another brand new lieutenant named Ed Roski. The two immediately bonded. They went through training together, arrived in Hawaii to­gether, deployed to Vietnam together and left active duty together. During Oper­ation Starlight in August 1965, Roski was wounded multiple times, re­ceiving two Purple Hearts and a Bronze Star. In the civilian world, Roski joined his father’s real estate company in Cal­ifornia in 1966 and brought Valley on as part of the team. Roski eventually took over the company and, over the last 60 years, transformed it into one of the largest, privately held business park de­velopment companies in the nation. He is also co-owner of the Los Angeles Lakers and the Los Angeles Kings.

Valley remembers the first Gulf War as his initial motivation for reconnecting with more veterans from their original Hawaiian group. Images from the con­flict played on TV, featuring senior Marines such as Robert B. Johnston, then a major general serving as Norman Schwarzkopf’s Chief of Staff, and Michael Myatt, the brigadier general in command of the 1st Marine Division and a Silver Star recipient during his time as a lieutenant in Vietnam. Valley recognized the faces as two young offi­cers who were with him in Hawaii.

“Desert Storm was the first time after I got out of the Marine Corps that I really thought about it,” Valley said. “Seeing General Myatt with his Marines, watch­ing Bob Johnston debrief the nation. I called Ed up and said, ‘oh my gosh, we’ve got a bunch of our guys who are running this thing right now.’”

Another small group of Pineapple Marines, Pete Paffrath, John Martin, and Lynn Terry, reminisced about their Marine Corps experiences over the years during an annual backpacking trip in the High Sierra. In the late 1990s, they decided to call some men with whom they had served about a reunion. Paffrath, then an IBM executive, called Roski, who was intrigued by the idea and said, “I own a hotel and casino in Las Vegas. Let’s have it there, and I’ll host the event.”

The Pineapple Marines finally gathered for the first time in 1998. Forty-five vet­erans attended the inaugural reunion, many with their wives, hosted and funded by Roski. All young men the last time they saw each other, the veterans were shocked by the outstanding levels of success their peers had found in every walk of life. Six became Marine Corps general officers, with many more retiring as colonels. Others, like Roski, found success in the business world; with one be­coming CEO of two fortune 500 com­panies and another founding a multi-billion dollar medical supply company. One became the deputy director of the CIA, while another served as the chief legal counsel for a global pharmaceutical and medical device company. They were teachers, authors, physicians, psychothera­­­pists, lawyers, ranchers; their live­s after the Marines as varied as their origins be­fore the Corps assembled them all in H­awaii.

“The number of guys and their wives who are giving back to society, doing something beyond themselves, is over the top,” said Father John Martin, an in­fantry officer who now serves as a Jesuit priest in California. “That speaks to the basic goodness of these men. I am always energized seeing that goodness.”

Many of the veterans entered the re­union hesitantly, having kept their demons from Vietnam locked away for 30­ years. If ever a place could exist where those memories might be safely unearthed, the reunion seemed hopeful. Everyone dis­covered the decades-long interruption in their friendships meant little.
“There’s something about going to war together that is unlike anything else,” reflected Nash. “You spent time doing something together when you were at the top of your game. You got to know these people in a way that you don’t get to know anybody else. You put more emphasis on what you shared together than you do on your differences, and that’s not normal. Everyone always wants to get all upset about differences. So, when you get back together with these folks, it’s like you were there yesterday. It’s like you can almost finish a sentence you started years ago.”

“For a long time, there were no re­unions,” stated Henderson. “We just sort of ducked and covered and didn’t talk about Vietnam because you never knew what you were going to encounter. So, at first, the reunions were a little tentative, but ever since they have been so uplifting and life-affirming. Marines have very low-maintenance relationships. We may not see each other for a couple years, but we always pick up right where we left off. It goes unspoken, but we know how deeply we love and care for each other.”

The Marines attending the first reunion found their rekindled relationships just as important and perhaps even more im­pactful now in retirement than the friendships they formed in Hawaii and Vietnam in the 1960s. In the years since, the Pineapple Marines have held a total of eight reunions, seven graciously hosted in Las Vegas by Roski, and one at the Marines’ Memorial Club in San Francisco, Calif.

“The Pineapple Marines is the only reunion group I have ever attended,” said Lloyd Brinson, a former artillery officer and retired teacher and school administrator. “I lived in denial about Viet­nam for nearly 30 years. These reunions have helped me finally settle the beasts that have been running around in my life for so long.”

“There is a lot of storytelling at the reunions, stories of what people lived through in Vietnam,” said Paffrath. “Things that people had questions about that they just wanted to talk to someone else about. I think that has been very therapeutic.”
The Pineapple Marines revere their time together in Hawaii for bringing them all together. Their bond, however, stems not from the island. Their connection, exponentially more important as the decades have passed, comes from the title they earned as Marines. Whether they spent their entire career wearing the uniform, or left active duty after coming home from Vietnam, all find their sense of identity equally tied to the Corps.

“My Marine Corps experience took a guy who was less than outstanding, and probably ended up not outstanding, but at least I could walk among people who were outstanding without looking totally out of place,” said Bob Morrison, a Silver Star recipient who is the retired CEO of Quaker and Kraft Foods. “It gave me a great deal of confidence. It was the most important four years of my development. I really grew up, learned to trust people, and hopefully learned to be trustworthy.”
“The Marine Corps imbues something inside of you that changes you, and any time you meet another Marine, even if you didn’t serve with them, there’s some kind of simpatico thing going on,” said Paffrath. “You can call it a fraternity if you want, but it’s more like a religion.”

Today, the Pineapple Marines support active-duty servicemembers and veterans younger than themselves through numer­ous nonprofit organizations or events in their local areas. To them, they can never give back enough to account for every­thing they have gained from their time in the service and the brotherhood they have perpetuated. The Pineapple Marines have dedicated their lives to fulfilling the oath they took when accepting their commission so long ago.
“It’s a commitment to integrity,” re­flected Father Martin. “That is a com­mit­ment not fulfilled in any four-year contract. It is something you work on your entire life.”

Author’s bio: Kyle Watts is the staff writer for Leatherneck. He served on active duty in the Marine Corps as a communications officer from 2009-13. He is the 2019 winner of the Colonel Robert Debs Heinl Jr. Award for Marine Corps History. He lives in Richmond, Va., with his wife and three children.