Nowhere Else in the World

Forty years ago this week, the Colonel (then a newly-minted second lieutenant) checked in to his first duty station as a Marine. The next nine months provided a foundation and set the tone for the rest of his career.

For the past 70 years or better, with a few exceptions, every newly commissioned Marine officer has touched base at The Basic School (TBS) in Quantico, Virginia for extensive basic officer training prior to attending a follow-on school for his or her military occupational specialty (MOS) and eventual operational assignment to, in the parlance of members of the naval service, "the fleet."  

Roughly six months long, TBS instruction indoctrinates, inculcates, and educates Marine second lieutenants in what it means and what it takes to be a leader of Marines.  An extensive infantry tactics package insures that every Marine officer, regardless of future MOS, has the requisite knowledge and skill to lead a rifle platoon in combat.  The battle history of the Marine Corps is replete with examples of non-infantry officers called upon to step in and lead infantry units in extremis.      

The Colonel arrived at TBS with a so-called "Air Guarantee" in his hot little hand.  He wanted to fly and had scored well enough on flight aptitude tests to be guaranteed a slot at flight school following graduation from TBS.  But, there was a hitch -- the Colonel's eyesight was deteriorating ever-so slightly and he no longer had the requisite "uncorrected 20/20" to be a pilot.  He could still qualify to be a naval flight officer -- a flier, but not the pilot.  From the moment he arrived at TBS, the Colonel began to have doubts about that line of work.

For one thing, the role of non-pilot naval aviators was rapidly diminishing in the Marine Corps as the service was fielding less and less "two-seat" aircraft types.  And, more importantly to the brash young second lieutenant with a budding Napoleon complex, naval flight officers rarely had opportunity to command anything.  

So, within the first couple of weeks at TBS, the Colonel requested an audience with the captain in charge of his platoon...

"Whaddaya want lieutenant?"  Captain Troy Duncan's tired Texas drawl told the Colonel that it had better be good as he was busy with matters of far greater importance than dealing with whatever obviously trivial issue (we weren't in combat, after all) had prompted this diminutive lieutenant to request a one-on-one.

"Sir," the Colonel began,"this lieutenant has always wanted to fly, but..."

Captain Duncan raised a tired hand. "Stawp!  I'm gonna ask you ta do two thangs -- cut ta the chase, and quit using the thard person.  This ain't OCS."

"Aye, aye, Sir!" The Colonel stood silent momentarily as he mentally revised his carefully rehearsed speech, removing third person references and any material Captain Duncan might consider extraneous.

"Lieutenant! Why are ya crossin' yore eyes and movin' yore lips?  You 'bout to have an epileptic fit or sumthin'?"

"No, sir.  The lieu... uh... I mean, I want to drop my air guarantee."

"You wanna do whut!?!"

"I want to drop my air guar..."   

"I heard ya the first time lieutenant," Duncan cut the Colonel off.  "Why in the hell do you wanna do that?"

"Sir, I don't want to be the guy in the back seat.  I want to be in charge."

"Okay, I get that." Duncan leaned back in his chair.  "So, what MOS are you thinking about, instead?"

"Sir, I want to go infantry."

"Infantry!?!" The Captain's face convulsed, "Har, har, har! Infantry?!?  Lieutenant, you ain't big enough to block the breeze out of a gnat's backside! You wanna go infantry?"

The Colonel drew himself up to his full indignant five feet, six and three quarter inches (don't ever forget the three quarters) and glared back at the captain.  Well..., it was the Colonel's best impression of a glare...

"Wut's wrong with yore eyes, lieutenant?  You 'bout to have another epileptic fit?"  It was clear Duncan wasn't necessarily concerned with the Colonel's health and welfare -- he was just not keen to waste the time that it would take to call 911 and report the incident up the chain of command.

"Tell you wut, Lieutenant Gregory.  I'm gonna forward your request up the chain of command.  It'll have to be approved by the Commanding Officer of The Basic School.  Jus' know this -- competition for infantry slots is keen.  Last class had 75 applicants for 40 seats at IOC (Infantry Officer's Course).  You might wanna consider sumthin' like Motor T or Supply..."

"I'm not dropping my air guarantee to be a pogue, sir."  

"Heh, heh.. I like your spunk, lieutenant.  Good luck.  Yore dismissed."  

Nine months later, the Colonel was in charge of an infantry platoon -- 3rd Platoon, Company G, 2d Battalion, 2d Marines -- at Camp Lejeune.  On a field exercise, practicing to be miserable, in the pine barrens of coastal North Carolina that late winter of 1979, the Colonel heard a roar and looked up to see a two-ship formation of F-4s streak overhead -- headed back to base and happy hour at the Officers' Club, where the pilots and their back-seaters would no doubt regale each other with their "right stuff" and toast their good fortune and outstanding judgment to have chosen to be naval aviators.  The Colonel looked down at his muddy boots and then up to see his platoon sergeant grinning at him, 

"Feels like a kick in the nuts, don't it lieutenant?"

The Colonel shook his head, honestly.  "Wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world, sergeant."