stress

pain as gain

Friends, I call you that because it comforts me. I should more accurately open with

Strangers, I see the past very clear, it’s the present that is so much harder to fathom.

I wince remembering some of the assaults, insults, and abuse the service threw at me, in a most casual manner, for my entire four year tour. Such that resistance appeared useless.

Here’s a list of the more memorable affronts:

I went into USMC boot camp at the end of 1973. I was 17 and a few weeks old. Immediately, I got singled out to go to Physical Conditioning Platoon for a week. Not allowed to rejoin my original group, I go to a new platoon with the stigma of ‘pick-up‘. Which, is a blame this recruit card if a drill instructor needs one. Apparently it came in handy, often enough that a few of the ‘platoon‘ minded fellas began to think it might be blanket party time for the pick-up. For those unfamiliar, that’s bars of soap in socks swung to deliver a message at midnight. However, that particular plot failed as I was ever alert, I heard them massing. And I, reader, was far madder than all of them combined. Such that when they thought me surrounded and asleep, I popped up; only to knees on the upper bunk, to be close to eye level. Quietly, but in my most commanding voice I say “OK, idiots! You’re too stupid to see that DI’s blame the pick-up-’cause they’re too stupid to remember your names. So let’s go!“ They mumbled, shuffled, then went to their racks. I guess they thought it may make too much noise since I was not asleep, and the DI could wake up and catch them pounding on me (they might have thought). Inward trauma aside, that threat got met. But it was indicative of the experiences to come. Shortly after the first attempt a second occurred when about four of them were directly behind me, during a run without my being aware. A swift poke at my back tumbled me off my feet. Upon looking, I see them all shrug shoulders in unison as if in uniform denial. Recognizing one I thought less than the toughest, I set about scheming. Watching, without being obvious, one evening I saw the target go to the restroom (we call it Head) alone. Sans his homies. That’s not smart, I thought. I gave him about 30 seconds before I quietly tell my bunkmate “Watch my foot locker“. I took the lock, a knob dial Yale. My finger felt like it was made to slide under the steel lock, like one brass knuckle. Lucky me, there is no one else in the head except my tormenter. I knew he wasn’t the ‘tough‘ guy, but he could be an example. So I fired him up against the sink mirror working the knuckle to ribs as opposed to face. I did go face to face 6 inches apart whispering how happy I’d be to fuck him up! All done in near total silence, again. But this time this fella tried to half heartedly apologize. Was one less tormentor, maybe.

As a pick up to the platoon the ‘othering‘ treatment takes over weak minds. This is the ugly truth of Americans. They haven’t the gumption to form personal opinions; everything is received wisdom (or folly). And to obscure that fact, they pose as if in a rage. Any questioning is a threat. No new information can replace old until a trusted leader assures us. Sheeple masquerading as wolves. Except wolves don’t bleat.

So, to further the cause of othering, the DIs sought to make an example of me, by getting me a good beating in front of the platoon. That opportunity came soon enough, we were scheduled to learn ‘martial arts‘- fighting with puggal sticks. They were rifle size brass sticks with padding at the glove handles and either end. They weighed 15-20 lbs. “…So, recruits, you may face two assailants at once.” The instructor said. “You simply jump quickly to one side, thereby facing only one enemy. You make a slashing neck blow, and we count that recruit out. You are then one on one with the remaining enemy.” That constituted the entire ‘lecture‘. We’re to begin… “Marmy, you’re first.” But heaven forbid it be a random two recruits. Nope. It’s two of the biggest and, no offense, two of the darkest would-be green Marines. They were our guide and a squad leader, squared up against the pick up in that first ‘match‘. In 10 seconds to half a minute they had the stick pounded out of my arms. Continuing, as no whistle to stop had sounded, they pounded me. Down, into fetal pose for several dozen more blows. Efficiently, like churning white boy to butter, another half minute or so. Next morning at physical inspection the series (2nd) lieutenant gasped at the sight of the skin that saw that othering. He was new, but he was smart enough keep his comments to a minimum. Can’t be seen helping an ‘othered‘ if you don’t want that sort of attention for yourself.

Marines are nothing, if not persistent. Since the beating didn’t break my morale, and self esteem they went for a more effective method of instilling fear; the near drowning event of the water survival portion of our ‘training‘. At the side of an Olympic size swimming pool the instructor explains the task: You go in on this side, you come out on the other side. First you put on the weights; over sized weighted galoshes, a weighted ‘diaper‘, and our friend, the weighted brass rifle (this time without the padding). “If you don’t make it to the other side,” the instructor assured, “We’ll send a Navy diver down for you in five minutes.” And…”Marmy, your first “ (of course). All this over our clothing, a total of about fifty pounds. The impulse, if not to turn and flee, is to take a running jump from our side to try to get as much momentum as possible. But the pool was 8-10’ deep and fifty feet to the other side’s ladder. My little sense told me there is no jumping far enough to make it to the other side on that trajectory. The moment the start whistle touched the instructors lip, the way to do it snapped into my head: No jumping at all. In fact the only way to make it across was to slide down my side of the pool, when I reached the bottom I lifted both feet to quickly put them on the wall and then push off, with both feet. That was the secret to making momentum that does not get dissipated while plunging thru the pool. I rose from this challenge triumphant. That doesn’t stop the ‘othering‘ treatment. Once you are othered, undoing that isn’t easy. Marines rarely are mature enough to admit a mistake, or apologize. So, even though I did have the right stuff, they were not going to relent from the ‘othering‘. They got another chance to make me want to quit. Near the end of boot camp you take a very long march with all your gear on you back. The Force march to Elliot’s beach is eight miles. The entire series (4 platoons), form two rows; one on either side of the road. Off we go, the troops gear clanging as we go, sounding like the jalopys on Grapes of Wrath. The drill instructor have a tiny day pack with a pillow in it to make it look full. Real heros, them. As we go mile after mile the lines grow very long, as it is hot, and hard to keep tight ranks when there is no cadence being called. You march as fast as you can, and try to keep up. Series Master Sargent called for the scribe of our platoon to come to him, Private Woods. He said “Woods, get up here!“. We are to repeat what is said so that the message repeats down the line of recruits until the one requested hears his name. Of course recruits are to use the rank before a name to show respect, but you are to repeat what was said. The command as uttered was what got repeated. But when I said it the nearest drill instructor with a day pillow pack, grabs me by the collar saying “Oh, you want to be a drill instructor?” (they don’t have to use rank first on lower rank personnel)“ Then follow me!“ he commands, and starts racing around the entire series as it’s marching up to Elliot’s beach. He’s light and agile. Quickly, he’s quite far ahead of me. On about the fifth circuit around the series, my senior drill instructor whispers as I pass “You catch him, you stop.“ The DI did not hear this offer. My devious mind went to work; I knew he is way faster than I, so he must be tricked to get caught by me. The march is slightly uphill, he is so far ahead that he’s nonchalantly jogging. So, the trick will be to appear normal on the way up, not closing the gap much at all. Then, once he turned to go the other way ( essentially, downhill) I will hit the afterburners and sprint-downhill, while he was unaware and still jogging, to reach him. And, it almost worked. I was within a very few steps of reaching him, but he reached the end of the series and turning to go up hill, he saw how close I was. Shock on his face, he bolted off like a gazelle. In one or two step I reached the same spot and turned to go up hill, but I suddenly fell out. While running. Full flat on my face. In a moment the medic jeep was there, I was hoisted by arms and legs and tossed into the back of the jeep. The ride was ten seconds! I fell out literally feet from the end. Apparently the effort was good enough to allow me to continue with them. Elliots beach is where you test for real world Marine Corps knowledge and skills. I was very good at the technical. Rifle disassembly, identifying hazards et c. The Scribe may have had the highest score but I was close to the top.

Later that night my feet were blood blistered bad. Painful to stand on them. While standing for the inspection before light’s out, the senior drill instructor saw tears streaming down my face. The senior was truly a thoughtful man. Not a brute, like the other DIs. He said “Marmy go wait in the DI office for me”. Seeing my wet cheeks, he possibly thought I was crying ‘cause I can’t get accepted in the Marine Corps. He said in a paternal voice,” The regular Marine Corps won’t be like this. You will get a good tour.” I was touched by this unexpected kindness, but the tears were from painful blood blisters on both feet. When he saw them he sent me to sick bay. At sick bay they lanced the blisters, and I was able to put on boots. Soon the pain ended, and I could march, in step with the platoon. I think about him, from time to time. Saying in my mind to him,” Senior, it didn’t work out. They never did give me a shot at a good tour. I never was out from under the eight ball.” Even today, while typing this my little dogs cry a bit, in sympathy with me as I relive the horrors of alienation.

Not every event was tragic. Sometimes I excelled. Sometimes to the surprise of all.

Came the time for gas mask training. And by now, you probably understand training to be a euphemism for ordeal. The deal was; our platoon gets marched into a small quanset hut. No furnishings, bars over the door’s window. Drill instructor drops two cs gas pellets in a metal coffee can and begins to tell us our task as wisps of the evaporating gas waft up and thru the air. All are wearing our gas masks. The instructions are simple: when the DI leaves and closes the door, you are to stand, at attention, and sing the Marine Corps anthem. All the verses at attention. Oh, yeah you’ll have to remove your masks to sing loud enough to be heard thru the door." And a final bit of advice; try to breathe shallowly. No big gulps of air, or you will be sorry.” Gas training is like water survival: you can’t tell in advance how it will go. Here’s what happened when the DI left. One recruit was overcome very early in our recitation. He felt the gas sting face and eyes and nose all at once. So, reflexively he gasped. A big mistake. Taking a full lung of the now thick gas sent him over the edge; he broke rank and ran for the door. The rest of us stopped singing, two closest to the door (I one of them) went to him; his hands tightly clasped the iron over the door’s window. Each man using the least movements as possible, in silence, pried one hand off the window. Quickly done, as neither of us were in a negotiable mood. We returned him, now silent, to his place, then we to ours. At which, the singing resumed. And, thankfully concluded without further incident. Here’s where I was able to surprise the senior Drill Instructor: When they opened the door thick gas clouds rolled out. The recruits had every drop of mucus in their body expelled on to their chests. Staggering and gasping for breathable air, they were predictably disheveled. As the line of us exiting got close to me, the pick up, the last in line, the gas was quite a bit thinner. Vaguely I saw our Senior DI near the door ushering the boots out to fresh air. So when I got near to the door I was able to command myself and march out like ‘normal‘ (notwithstanding the lung full of boogers on my chest). That virtually shocked the Senior; such that he exclaimed my name. At the sound of which I came to a stand still, at attention, waiting for orders. He gasped, gesturing wildly a bit, saying “ No. Go get it off you. Go on.” I trotted off with the guys, laughing inside that I got his goat. There may be a small handful that I would willingly be in combat with. Senior is definitely one. But when that boot bolted for the door, my heart sank. Fear became dread as I was unable to show sympathy while prying at someone’s death grip.

Regular Marine Corps was no better in seeking to other a scapegoat. At any time. The civilian world had the same impulses. After boot camp I go to aviation training in Memphis Tenn. Pretty far for a kid from New York. Week ends and we have liberty ‘til Monday morning. I and a few other marines don our dress uniform. Short sleeves, ribbons, shined buckles and shoes. piss cutter hat rakishly tilted. We were movie quality sharp. Off to Memphis on the bus go four Marines. When we arrived in town I said “ I’m hungry. I see a bakery, let’s go get some. Outside a short line, we wait. When I get to the counter I don’t see any bagels or rye bread. They sold only pastries. In vain I asked “ Do you sell bagels??” Woman behind the counter said “ I know what that is, hon. It like a donut, idn’t it?” I backed slowly out of the store. When my co-travelers came out we set about to walk around Memphis together. When we had walked a block we waited to cross the street. Suddenly about four high school age girls hopped down off the curb directly across the street from us. But, before traffic started they unfurled some stashed eggs and began hurling and shouting baby killer at us. Their accuracy was quite good, hardly any missed us. I said “ This is as far from home as I have ever been. No one has given me a baby to kill.” Now, today, people belch up “ Thank you for your service.” The eggs were a more genuinely felt expression in my opinion.

Back at the dude ranch, Memphis Millington, Tenn. was also good for the favored, not so much for the ‘other‘. At the Avionics program a student will attend: A fund P school- Aviation fundamentals preparatory school, then Basic electricity and electronics- B E&E. Upon completion the student is slotted for the next Avionics ‘A’ school. The first two schools take less than a month. The final school takes six months. You grade will determine wear they send you, so we think. By the time ‘A’ school began I was familiar with many of they who were to be my classmates. Save one marine who they mistakenly slotted for ‘A’ school, when he hadn’t been to any pre-requisite classes, A fund P or B E&E. He did not know the first thing. He should have been sent back to the beginning. But fixing problems requires admitting problems, Marine Corps don’t like that, so unprepared Private Metzig is in our class. The class will study Transmitters for a month, then receivers, then ’computers One’ for a month followed by ‘computers Two’ for a month, finishing with radar one then radar two ending with a final exam worth 10% of your grade. Each section was held at a different room location. In the first class I was next to Metzig at the lab station. Bread boards, upright, with components mounted on the student’s side and connections made ( by the instructors ) on the other. Metzig, had problems understanding the material, as he hadn’t gone to those required schools. His lab station also was a source of constant problems. Each eating up the time the rest of us would have used more effectively if he were ready for the material. I was very good at the technical. I had a buddy to study with, he too was all in, like me. We had the best scores on the written test for transmitters. At the lab stations, instructors thought some students may try to mark the components and thereby see which was replaced with a fake. Metzig’s station was always giving problem reading, not helping Metzig understand the info and slowing the flow of the lessons. Time to take the final and they announce “Everyone will not take the practical portion of this test on your own station.” Silently I prayed “ Not to the left. That station is always unreliable” Of course, to the left went everyone. I to the only known dysfunctioning station. Results were Metzig writes an 80 on written and finds the ‘bad‘ part on the lab gets a 90 on it. I write 95 on the test , my pal a 92. But the station is wacked. I don’t find the bad part. The instructor is belligerent saying something like “ You should get a zero. But I’ll give you a 60.” This the first class, I thought better than of raising a rukus by demanding a chance to test on a working station. Plus, I did understand fully the principles. I just saw it as more of the usual minor ripping off that many above me have resorted to. That was to come back and bite me. Hard. No further technical problems occured in the remaining classes and labs. My pal and I took time to mentor Metzig on the basic e&e he knew nothing of. In class I could see the instructor was time conscious more than lesson attentive. He’d hurry thru parts he felt we either knew or should have known. often I raised my hand asking questions I knew would explain the theory ( so Metzig and others with lost expressions could get caught up to the rest). That infuriated the instructor, but charmed the class. At the end; after six months of Avionics it came down to the final written exam. By virtue of that begrudged 60 on that first lab, I was just a few point behind, you guessed it, Now Private First Class Metzig( as we all had time in grade and got promoted to PFC). I need to write my usual high 90’s and Metzig no more than his usual 80. Twas the night before the final. My pal and I had regularly burned midnight oil studying lots, and quizzing each other rapid fire before finals. Now it’s three A.M. and in walks Metzig. He’s totally snockered. Stumble drunk he ambles to his bed saying he went out drinking with The Instructor! Us two sober we dumbstruck when tumbling to his bed, Metzig said that the instructor guaranteed that Marmy won’t be honor man! So, no sleep for me. All that work, for nothing. I agonized, tossing and turning for the few hours that I was going to sleep. I finally came up with an idea. The next day I show up very early at school. I find the Chief instructor. We didn’t know each other. I said “Chief I have a big problem. Can I talk with you for a moment.” “Come into my office” he said. Closing the door, he ask what it it. Painfully over the next minute or three I poured out everything that just happened and the beginning troubled station briefly. I finished with the instructor’s guarantee. The chief was a true Popeye sounding, large forearm two star chief. The thought of instructor’s fraternizing is against Navy regulations. And the cheating put the chief on edge. In a while he came up with a plan. He said “ The grading is where the cheating is going to happen” I was sure of that, too. He said “ This is how we’ll play it; you take the test like nothing is a foot. Turn in your test last. He will think he can go grade them privately. That’s when I will come back into the test room and tell him to grade them right here and now, while I watch!” I thought that may be the only way to know what grade each gets. I said yes, thank you. Please do that. Much relieved I went to the classroom and waited for the final exam. When the time was up the last few test takers brought up their tests, mine along with them. The instructor gathered the tests and was about to leave the room, when in walked Popeye chief, my hero! True to his word he made that snake of an instructor grade all the tests right in front of him. He must’ve made a mental note when he saw Metzig paper, because although I wrote my usual mid 90’s I needed to best Metzig by around ten points. All our mentoring Metzig must’ve paid off for him ‘cause he wrote in the upper 80’s. Unaware of the necessary differential for me to become honor man ( and getting a very well deserved promotion) was ten, The chief blurted out in exaltation ”You did it, Marmy! You won!“ But I had only eight more on the final than Metzig. Metzig, at least six months junior to me was going to be promoted above me and get his choice of duty station. I got screwed, yet again. Tell me if this is getting tiresome, because the hits keep coming. I guarantee it! By the way; it’s not easy to make a silk purse from a sow’s ear. When next I hear of Lance corporal Metzig he had chosen Miramar or North Island, in So. Cal. Truly, premiere destination duty stations for Marines in the Air Wing. But Metzig got caught trying to steal from the base PX and was a private the next time I saw him. Growling and mumbling, he did not even rise to greet me as I had come from one of the older, less advanced bases, El Toro in Orange County, about fifty miles away. My other class mate buddies were glad enough to see the fellow who should have been the honor man. I had a nice time with them. They showed me their work areas. Modern, brightly lit, newest equipment. I was very happy for my pals. Everyone got a great duty station. Except me. Of course. Here’s how it happened. Near the end of our school the sailors all got told where the would be going ( mostly filling the sailors request). Curious, the Marines wondered the same thing, I took it upon myself to chase that down. I went to the school office HQ and asked. The secretary took down my name and request saying she will forward it and you’ll be getting an answer before your class ends. Fine, but when the the list came to us; I alone got El Toro the F-4 squadron. Nice Poster. So, up to El Toro for me. There, the work is to plug the IFF identification friend or foe transmitter or receiver unit into the test harness. Turn it on. Wait until one of the units green light turns red. At which point you pull that board out and you plug in a replacement. Check that all lights are green. That is it. No troubleshooting techniques, no signal tracing, no math. No thinking at all. Six months of technical training to the nth degree, and I watched for a red light and swapped a card! That was the training. It’s called TME -training management element. Until you are skilled enough to take your place on the repair bench and be permanent personnel, given an RFI stamp -Ready for issue with you number. you date and stamp the outside of the gear you fix. Then after it’s time in use it comes back for other repairs and everyone can see how long the gear was in service. The longer your gear was in service, the better technician you were considered to be. Again, that’s for everyone but yours truly. When TME end you are permanent personnel. Again, not me. When my TME ended they cut me a set of orders to go permanent on Camp Pendleton. Where the aircraft are not fighter jets, but helicopters and fixed wing prop aircraft like C-130’s. Now as permanent personnel, I was expected to be able to fix the gear from those aircraft. Not possible at the first, as I’d never seen any of it yet. But, as usual, the next trouble came pronto.

Camp Pendleton in southern California is huge. Rivaling the size of nearby Orange County, Pendleton is so vast it has bison roaming the plains. When I arrived I was assigned barracks in area 14. That was about twenty miles from the flightline and air wing Marines. The area 14 housed the riflemen-grunts affectionately termed by others. An air wing Marine in the grunts barracks- more of that measurably good luck my tour was becoming famous for. I don’t fraternize at the barracks; come to the barracks to sleep and leave early and quickly to catch the bus that will drop me at the front gate of the flightline at 07:25 a.m. My shop was at the far other end of the flightline. To reach the shop by what we’re told is the start time of 07:30 I must run full speed. Typically being told I was late by the supervisor. He, gunnery sgt. Frank Wasden, I am the only nonrated personnel under him. He asked if as permanent personnel can I repair the equipment? I said they had made a mistake sending me as permanent personnel not training management element. Not a concern to him he simply wrote failing proficiency and conduct marks in my record book. Over and over he slandered my record book. Remembering all that now, is so humiliating, so infuriating, that the rage swells to interfere with other tasks. The other permanent personnel working for him took it upon themselves to welcome me, train me at the benchwork, and tell me that gunny did the same thing when they all arrived as a group, two years earlier. The harm committed to my record book was one thing, giving me mess duty for a month so as to have time to figure out what they we going to do with me, was like plotting to get the grunts to do their dirty work. Grunts hate air wing- too soft. Mess duty put us shoulder to shoulder, cheek by jowl. That worked not at all well. I was regularly fighting to do my work with some who see a white boy as downhill, easy to vent some anger on. I guess they thought we had it easy. For everyone other than me, they’d be right about that guess. But I hadn’t yet had my first good day in the Corps. I’m not a happy go lucky chap. I had rage equal to theirs. The fights typically didn’t go beyond bluster. On occasion they did. When called and notified of a fracas, immediately my supervisor would side with them, not I. He took a special joy in the insults and slights at my expense. All the while poisoning my record book. Continuously, such that while on a flight to Japan for a six month temporary additional duty-TAD, I was told by our group’s admin fellow that low proficiency & conduct below 4.0 will disqualify said named Marine from an Honourable Discharge. That is when I realized I had been systematically fucked by that supervisor. Not only would I not likely be invited to re-enlist, but I’d get no GI benefits, too. I had fled the Marines once before, for the sake of getting relief from his relentless plotting against me. I thought the punishment of $350 and being busted to e-1 was all that I was to face. I had fled to build a case for redress of these grievances. Two months and a few days. When I get back I am court martialed, at which time I present my grievances. The General was unmoved. I lose $350 and am busted to private. And not allowed back in the avionics shop by that supervisor. I work out of my field, with the maintenance analyst, a gunny sgt. Tipton. Night and day. This man is fair to me. He started by complimenting my attire saying he had never seen that squared away uniform on a private. The task was technical verifying of data inputs made at the various shops on the flightline. Driven, I excelled. He notes it. In a month, he tells me one morning, “ I’m leaving for the day, you run the show for today”. The next day when I arrive he says all is good, you take today off. Some days both of us would be off. We even went fishing once. In a few months, I got to where I was OK with things. To keep up on the electronics, I took a correspondence course in it. One day the gunny saw me tinkering and thought I wanted back in the avionics shop. Without telling me, he set that in motion. Now here comes our CO to the tiny analyst office. He pulls out the chair and says “Sit down Marmy”, I do so. "The commandant of the Marine Corps says you have to be in your MOS, or out of the Marine Corps,” he says. Our CO is what’s called a mustang. An enlisted Marine who gets a field promotion to officer. That is impressive to me. I did say if I went back to the shop, the people would see a private, and think it ok to pull rank on me, how about some stripes to make it easier for me. He appeared to consider, then declined, I didn’t press. I probably should have.

Back on the TAD flight to Oki., after an earful, this admin guy woke private Marmy up. He did say that a letter of commendation, or what’s called a Meritorious Mast entered into the record book will prevent them from giving a general or an undesirable discharge. You’d get your GI benefits. Near the end of my TAD in Okinawa, Japan I got the usual, mess duty. This was a fresh chance to get someone in a position of authority to help me with a letter, or something. I made it my business to get to know the chief messman. I took pains to show him that I am a good worker. One pre-dawn morning he mentions some names of people who should be here, but are still in their bunks. I said I can go fetch the fellas. He said which barracks and which names, and I happily went to go snatch these drunks out of their racks and deposit them, mostly unharmed, to the mess hall. When the last mess day came, I asked to speak with the chief privately. Again, I’m in despair and it’s a Navy chief I must turn to. I explain the deal, the now four year ordeal. He is sympathetic, Saying “ So, your MAC flight leaves at 8 a.m. Be here at 7 to get a letter. I was relieved. I enjoyed my last night in Japan. Next morning at 7 I’m at the mess hall and can’t find the chief. After looking for a while I realized he wasn’t there, he wasn’t going to help me. Disappointed, I took up my sea-bag and headed for the flightline. After a sullen 14 hour trip back to our squadron, we were massed upon the flightline waiting for orders to disperse or go to our shops, when the flight commander was given a notice from the admin guy who had the mailbag from Oki. The Major then read out loud to the group the Meritorious Mast! The chief did come thru. I was so surprised, so relieved, that I can’t imagine not streaking my face with tears.

At the shop the new supervisor is a younger man. Maybe I’ll get a fair shake for the last 6 months of my tour. Spoiler alert- not a chance! Othering is preserved, even when it’s authors are not. My nemesis finally got a set of orders to go overseas and depart our group. To show how heroic a figure one gunny Wasden was; just prior to his departure he came to my work station and causally admits “Marmy, you weren’t so bad, after all. All the ones that followed after you were no better.“ At least he knew better than to extend a hand to shake. That said, in private, after over two years of constant aggravation and malicious poisoning of my SRB. And he hadn’t even the nerve to march into the Captain’s office and tell the CO these revelations. Just snuck off. Left behind were sgt.s McDermott and sgt Weitzel. They different as day and night McDermott unfit as a physical example, short skilled as a technician, a suck up to authority. Mark Weitzel completely the opposite. Mark could pass the physical fitness test we should all always be able to pass, he was great on the bench. His RFI tags were among the longest in use in the field. Mark was the one person who never stepped on anyone to get promoted. He scrubbed floors with us when it was time to scrub. He was never better than us. I’d kill for him.

Back on the gear, and I am getting acquainted with the new people, the new shop main area. There is always some type of grift in every institution. Marine Corps Avionics repair facilities included. At the time I rejoined the shop the new supervisor had been trying to procure a very high dollar piece of equipment. As a badge of his prowess as an administrator, perhaps. It was equipment for a depot level shop. We were intermediate level, only. So, on any paperwork that was going to get my stamp and my name on it, I would not allow fraud by lying that a pricey tool would have helped me fix this gear. One day the supervisor was be challenged by the Analyst for these requests. The supervisor saw that I again will not check that blank space for the fraud. He was mad, saying “ Let Wolfsen do the work!” He tried to embarrass me to my friend the Analyst. “ Fine. You’ll regret you said that” I said, and went to my bench and sat in a chair. I began to read a book, not work. Wolfsen, the new worker can suffer. I’m reading a book Khalil Gibran’s The Prophet. Instantly my calm is restored. That book is therapy. But the new supervisor is enraged at me for saying he’d regret telling me to have Wolfsen do the work. He came into my work trailer and shut the door behind him. Turning, with a red face, marching toward me with arms outstretched, to push me from my chair. Saying “If you ever…” He didn’t get any further, because when he reached me, I pounced on him. I snatched him out of his stance, even though he had pushed me hard enough for the chair I was seated in to tumble back. Without me in it. By the time the chair hit the ground I had slammed my supervisors head against the counter top a few times as I swapped him for me in the falling chair. About one to two seconds. And, he was unconscious. Enraged, I stand seething. This is the thanks I get for coming back. For training the newbies. This jerk wasn’t even part of the gang that ate my Marine Corps career. In a few more seconds the door opens. It’s the two sgt’s.And all the newbies stare up at the show. At the sight of this scene Mark Weitzel erupts with laughter. So much that he must hold the side of the counter to keep from falling to his knees. All the new privates alternately look at him laughing, me seething and sgt. McDermott all anxious but too scared to get near me. Seeing the privates begin to get the bigger picture, McD is finally galvanized to action. Instead of approaching me; I had one arm outstretched for him saying only “ YOU McDERMOTT!!” He had contributed to the abuse every chance he could suck up. He reached down, grabbed up his supervisor and started to shake the sleeping man, shouting at him “ What’s going on here?” Mark Weitzel was laughing so hard he was in tears, the privates stunned. Then, they cleared out. I sat there, in my work trailer waiting for the military police to come get me for assault. They didn’t come. I went to the barracks expecting them in the night. They didn’t come. The next morning at the shop I asked Mark why hadn’t they come for me. He said “ No one saw anything. Why should they come for you?” Sure enough, no one came, because no one saw anything. Didn’t fix anything, however. Then came the Oki deployment as noted above. When we returned there was to be a new Executive Officer for Camp Pendleton. He wanted a full dress uniform inspection of all flightline personnel. About a few hundred folks lined up, in the sun, on the flightline. I tell my supervisor “ You should have me stay at the barracks for this inspection. My uniform was bought three+ years ago, I’ve grown. And the strips removed leave a mark.” No use, it’s for everybody. Needless to say the new XO is so distracted by my stripes being gone that he wants to be told all about my running away. Finally, seeing that I didn’t wish to elaborate on my personal issues during a full inspection. Those other Marines are waiting while the sun melts their uniform, and this officer wants to other the shit bird, by humiliating him in public. He was the only person unaware of Marmy’s story. Finally, frustrated, he says “You don’t want to tell me. Why don’t you want to tell me the reason you went over the hill?” Tersely I responded “ Frankly, sir. It’s none of your business.“ All the Marines swayed back when they heard that. Except the XO. He froze, went beet red in the face. Five or so seconds later he blurted “Get out! Get out of my formation!!“ I did as told. I immediately went to the Judge Advocate General’s office. After telling my Attorney the recent events at the inspection. He was thrilled “Marmy, you are going to get justice, finally! This court martial will prove you case!” It didn’t because they immediately cut new order for the new XO to go elsewhere. No XO, no Court martial. When it’s Marmy, hammer him. When it’s anyone else close ranks, protect their own.

These events; none of which individually rise to an offense redressable, are collectively a blight on the Marine Corps reputation of fairness. Of merit. Being so othered so many times so often has left me unable to form wholesome relations with family or friends. I have never married, have no children, no significant other. I haven’t been hugged in at least a decade, haven’t had sex in twice that. I probably can not tolerate any tickling on my body at all. I had a fainting spell, again, recently with heat flash sweating of my entire head to the shoulders. I dropped to my back. It was Friday the 4th of March, 2022. It took several minutes to half an hour to regain balance and full consciousness and to get myself back indoors to the bed to pass out. The mental rage is stirred up reciting these assaults. It must push up flight or flight hormones that keep me tense and not sleeping. I am always alone. My case started in the Marine Corps, it has never materially improved. My coping mechanism was to forget and not speak about the MC. It will be some time before I sleep thru the night. It doesn’t just vanish after dredging up. The gut stays clenched around anyone. Now, alone, it is tight.

This is my stress statement dated March 5th 2022. This is all true to the best of my knowledge Bruce Marmy