WHAT
IT MEANS TO BE A MARINE – by Marshall Trimble
Recently,
a newspaper editor asked me to write a guest commentary for Veteran’s Day.
He posed the following question:
As an
ex-serviceman, how do you feel about the effects of the military service on the
way young people handle themselves after service?
The following is my response:
A few years ago, a reporter
asked what was the greatest influence when I was young and callow.
Expecting me to name one of my college professors, she was somewhat taken
back when I replied, “It was the U.S. Marine Corps, and my boot camp drill
instructor, Staff Sergeant O. D. Fuller.”
“Could you elaborate on that for me,” she asked.
That was easy. My dream had
always been to become a Marine officer but I flunked the eye exam.
Even though I had perfect vision in one eye the Marines were requiring
20/20 in both eyes. I could have
been an officer in some other branch of service, but I’d always wanted to be a
Marine officer. Ten years later,
when things were hot and heavy in
On December 7, 1956, at the age of seventeen, I joined the Marines. A few
weeks later I climbed aboard my first airplane at
“Oh, Lord,” I said to myself, “what have I gone and done now?”
A few minutes later we arrived at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot, picked
up our famous buckets and filled them with incidentals such as tooth paste and
shaving cream. We were issued
dungarees or utilities and had our first “Marine Corps” haircuts.
We were told that we had moved from the top of the chain of command i.e.,
tax-paying citizens of the United States to Marine recruits, something lower
than whale manure on the bottom of the ocean—all in one day.
For the next fourteen weeks we weren’t allowed to use the words
“me,” or “I” when addressing Marines, and we were required to refer to
ourselves always in the third person. Also,
we couldn’t address one without first requesting permission.
For example, while standing at attention I would have to say, “Sir,
Private Trimble requests permission to speak to the drill instructor, Sir.”
The idea was to forge us into a cohesive unit that would go into combat,
as one, not a bunch of individuals.
That was how I came to be associated with Staff Sergeant Oliver. D.
Fuller. Little did I know he would
have such a great influence on my life. He
stood only about 5’8” and had piercing black eyes.
He was an extraordinarily handsome man but, he never smiled, at least not
in front of the troops. He had a
chest full of ribbons but never spoke of his bravery on the battlefield, but one
of the other drill instructors told us later that he had been the lone survivor
from a large patrol in
He lined us up on that first day, tallest to shortest, the “little
people” were at the end of the line. I
was 5’10” but was down at the short end of the line.
He looked me up and down, and said, “Trimble, you’re squad leader of
the 9th squad, the little people.
Before you graduate in 14 weeks you’ll be getting the dregs of
replacements, including brig rats. Are
you up to it?”
“Aye, aye Sir,” I replied, thinking I’d gotten myself in deeper
than before. There wouldn’t be any
fading into anonymity now.
Over the next few weeks the call, “Private Trimble to the duty hut,”
was frequently passed down through the row of Quonset huts.
That usually meant that one of my charges had messed up again and I was
going to get an old fashioned butt-chewing.
At first it shook me a little but after a while I came to understand.
One doesn’t make excuses or pass the buck.
It was an, “Aye aye Sir,” or a “No excuse Sir.”
“There’s a right way, a wrong way,” Staff Sergeant Fuller would
say, “and the Marine Corps way.”
Each morning we were told what was on the schedule for that day.
“No way,” we muttered in unison, “that’s impossible, we can’t
do all that.”
But everyday we accomplished everything they said we would.
Soon, we began to believe that everything is possible if you set your
mind to it.
One day, early in training, we were marching by some racks where other
recruits were assembling and disassembling their M1 rifles.
“You’ll be doing that next week, lads” one of our drill instructors
said.
I had serious doubts about that. I
couldn’t even change the tire on a bicycle, but in a week I was field
stripping an M1 and naming all the parts while blindfolded.
In short, we learned to believe everything is possible, not the right
way, or the wrong way, but the Marine Corps way.
There were times during those first few days when I seriously questioned
the wisdom of what I’d done but there wasn’t much time to dwell upon things
one couldn’t do anything about. I’d
joined the Marines because of the pride, rich heritage and tradition.
I was the kind of kid that if someone inspired me or gained my respect,
I’d charge hell with a bucket of water for them.
The Corps likes those kinds of kids.
Fourteen weeks later I graduated with my platoon and was one of three to
earn a meritorious promotion. After
we were dismissed for the last time, Staff Sergeant Fuller walked up to me an
shook my hand.
“You’ll do well,” he said, “not just in the Corps but whatever
else you do with your life. Never
forget what you learned here.”
Had those words come from someone else, I probably would have blown them
off but they came from a man I respected like no one before or since.
A tattoo parlor couldn’t have done a better job of leaving an indelible
reminder of what it means to be a Marine.
Even now, when I face difficulty, the first thing that always comes to
mind are his final parting words of advice.
Oh, I forgot to mention. I think I saw the faint trace of a smile on his
face as he wished me luck.