“Semper Fi, Marine, Semper Fi!”.
Those hallowed words will always have a profound and special place in my heart.
I joined the United States Army at the end of 1983, signing my papers and awaiting departure for Fort McClellan, Alabama the first of March, 1984 on the Delayed Entry Program..
Several years later, I was an E-5 Sergeant in the Army, assigned to the 527th Military Police Company in Mainz, Germany. Having recently graduated from the United States Army Non-Commissioned Officer’s Academy in Bad Tolz, Germany, I was afforded the opportunity to take a couple of weeks leave and return home to Wilmington, NC.
The strange thing about coming home after being away is that it doesn’t feel like “home” anymore. My high school friends were either off to college, married, or otherwise indisposed. After being home for a several days, I began to get stir crazy and restlessness set in. The urge to be around like-minded people grew harder and harder to resist. Plus, I really wanted a cold beer.
Wilmington, being a coastal town, was a hundred miles or so from Fort Bragg, NC, the closest Army post. I certainly had no aspirations of driving that far for beer with strangers, even if they were in the Army. I opted, instead, to drive 38 miles north of Wlimington to Jacksonville, NC, home of Camp Lejeune Marine Corps Base. That way, I could at least feel close to some form of military.
As with most military towns, there are countless bars along the main drag in Jacksonville. Not being familiar with the area, I stopped at a little dive (more of a biker bar than GI bar) across from the main gate at Camp Lejeune. I ordered a cold beer, then walked into the adjacent room, watching several biker type guys shooting pool.
When a table came open, I inserted my quarters and began shooting pool by myself. Within a couple of minutes, this bearded biker guy comes over and puts a five dollar bill on the table. I told him I was about finished and that he could have the table since I wasn’t really playing anyways. Bearded Guy replied that he didn’t want the table, he was challenging me to a game of pool, winner gets the $5.00. Then he baited me by adding, “Unless you’re a chickenshit…?”. His buddies snickered openly.
Not wanting any problems nor wishing to appear as a chickenshit in public, I accepted Bearded Guy’s offer and promptly won his $5.00 bill. Without hesitation nor asking first, he setup the table for another round. So, I obliged him by taking his money again.
Having grown up around truck stops and having learned to shoot pool from truck drivers when I was nine years old, I was aware of how hustlers bait you and then take everything you have. Nevertheless, I accepted and took his money a second and third time.
This went on for about forty-five minutes. I kept waiting for him to make a come-back and take me to the cleaners, but he never did. He just got madder and madder, losing more and more money to me, all the while his nostrils flaring wider and wider.
After a while, as I had been expecting, he upped his bets from $5.00 to $10.00 per game. Having been waiting for it, I immediately thought, “Aha, now he’s making his move”. But, game after game I still took his money. His buddies had stopped playing their games and were now in a semi-circle around the table watching us.
Starting to feel really uncomfortable and not knowing a soul in the place, I told the bikers that it was time for me to go and thanked them for the games. I figured I had won all the money I cared to win and should leave while I had the chance. Bearded Guy didn’t like that idea one bit. He called me an MF’er and informed me that I wasn’t going “no damned where” until he got his money back.
I, trying to diffuse the situation, offered to split the difference with him; I’d keep half and give half back to him.
He started grinning and looked back at his buddies and said, “Well ain’t that sweet? He’s going to give me half of it back. He’s just a regular nice guy, ain’t he?”
Apparently, his offer wasn’t good enough for me, either, he wanted it ALL back. I informed them I didn’t want any trouble, that I just wanted to leave, and that I was about to walk out the door and would appreciate it if nobody got in my way.
He informed me that I was already “hip deep in trouble” and called me an f’ing Jarhead.
Bearded Guy grabbed a beer bottle and broke it on the side of a pool table and informed me he was going to cut his money out of my …. well… ass. His buddies followed suit by grabbing pool sticks and taking their places between me and the door, completely blocking my exit.
As I said, I didn’t know a soul in the place, and being a Soldier in a Marine Corps town didn’t seem to tip the odds in my favor. Things….. were……. about …. to…. get… ugly.
My mind raced… scrambled… organized… who would I strike first, and which one was going to cause me the biggest problem in getting outside the door of the bar? The answer to that was simple, Bearded Guy.
Bearded Guy had the broken bottle, and was the biggest, loudest, drunkest, and most intent on getting his money back. Yep, if I had to fight him anyways, and it looked like I was gonna, I didn’t want it to be after I had the crap beat out of me by his buddies.
Before I could blink, at least seven clean cut guys with high and tight haircuts popped up around me, several on my left and several on my right. I didn’t even know them. One of them told the bikers, “You “F” with him, you’re “F’ing” with ALL OF US!!! SEMPER FI, MF’ers!!!!!!!”.
I, realizing they were Marines and that they had come to my rescue, puffed my chest out like them and exclaimed, “HELL YEAH! SEMPER FI, MF’er!!!”.
All hell broke loose. I kicked Bearded Guy in the crotch so hard I thought I had broken my ankle. It throbbed all the way up my shin to my thigh. The way Bearded Guy reacted, he was enduring some throbbing of his own. He doubled over, grabbed his affected body parts, and then started talking to God instead of me. Perhaps he got religion in the moment, I don’t know. I didn’t bother asking him or staying around long enough to find out.
The fight was ugly but short lived, with all parties participating except for Bearded Guy. He was still in the fetal position on the floor, tightly squeezing his crotch while making blubbering noises with his mouth. Sorry, dude, but I wasn’t really into getting cut, especially not with a broken beer bottle.
At any rate, we all made it outside and ran in unison across the street to the main gate of Camp Lejeune. I left my rental car parked in the parking lot adjacent to the bar, but nobody bothered it until I returned.
When we went into the main gate, I had to show my military ID. The MP on duty looked at my card and then at me with a confused expression on his face and asked if “they” knew I was Army. I told him that they did not know I was Army, but they thought they had rescued a fellow Marine, and it would be a shame to rob them of that glory in this, their finest hour.
I informed him that I was, however, a fellow MP, and asked him to keep the Army thing quiet if he could. You know… for THEIR sake and glory, not mine. He assured me my secret was safe with him. Turns out he went thru MP School at Fort McClellan, Alabama at the US Army Military Police School, where all the Marine MPs were trained at the time.
My new-found Marine buddies questioned me as to what unit I was assigned to, but I managed to avoid the question by telling them “I’m with the MP Company”. One of them even remarked, “Oh, ok, yeah, I saw you talking to that MP at the main gate”. They treated me to a great night, if going to every bar in town was a great night, and I guess it was at the time.
When I finally headed back to get my car, I, being “intelligently drunk” by then, told one of the Marines, “Bud, I gotta tell ya, I’m not even in the Marines, I’m in the Army”. He put his arm around my shoulder and said, “F-it, who cares? I already knew that, I saw your I.D. card a couple of hours ago in that bar we were in. But, you were a Marine for a little while there, that’s all that matters. Semper Fi, man”.
“Semper Fi”, I replied.
We shook hands and parted as friends and brothers. Haven’t seen or heard from any of them since that night, but have thought about those fellows many times over the years. To this day, I am proud to have been one of the Few, the Proud, the Marines. Even if only for a few hours.
It’s funny how civilians can never understand or appreciate the loyalty and comradery shared by members of the military, no matter which branch of service you’re in.
Semper Fi, buddies. Wherever you are. Semper Fi.
Dewayne Gore
SGT, US Army
1983-1988
SSG, NCARNG
1988-1990
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