Dedicated to all the personnel that comprised the company known as Ammunition Company, 1st Ord. Bn., 2nd and 1st Marine Divisions, 1950, as well as all supply unit personnel who have served and provided the vital support for all Marine ground forces throughout the World theater of operations.

That group of rear echelon commandos, the R&R area technicians, the free ride group, and many other counted titles that have provided all the needed materials for all the military operations the Corps has undertaken in history. The groups who make or break sustained military engagements, yet are never noticed or acknowledged as even being present, let alone a contributing factor to any battle success.

The nature of these Marines, where they come from, their trials and tribulations, their outlook and sentiments, their dedication to duty ... and their contributions to operations are a complete story in itself. This story touches one of these things, only to make the reader a little more enlightened about just what it takes to be called a rear echelon Marine.

The story starts in Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, and ends at Hamhung, Korea, 1950. As a fresh "boot" from Parris Island, S.C., arriving at Ammunition Company in April, 1950, until the final chapter of the Chosin epic, December 10, 1950, this story relates to only one year of record. The author spent three more years with Ammunition Company contributing a method of ammunition deployment in monsoon areas, which was added to the USMC Manual, and might still be used today, but that is another story. Here is one year, to which extreme challenges were presented and ultimate response and efforts were returned to the last measure.

Expressions, political and personal, are those related to the 1950 era of time and circumstance. Any misinterpretations the reader might conclude, I relinquish to time and aging memory cells. Those who were there will remember the right context!

In 1950, there was still a little bit of service rivalry in existence. To put it in perspective, one would have to understand that, if it was not part of the Corps, it was automatically decreed as inferior. Marine Corps rivalry seemed to start at Division level, crossed battalion, regimental, company, platoon, and finally squad lines, to the individual Marine, and he was normally ready to outdo the other guy! Every "jarhead" in the Corps enjoyed it that way too! Hopefully, it is still being preserved -- a little bit anyway.

To a Marine, rivalry was just a wimp's word for Pride, and despite the equipment they had to utilize, every Marine used a capital "P" when spelling Pride.

May the families and friends of these Marines, deceased and survivors, obtain a better understanding of their lifestyle, comradeship, devotion, honor, and contribution to the Marine Corps history and Pride.

CAMP LEJUENE

SETTLING IN:

Fresh out of Parris Island, and two weeks leave at home, Flint, Michigan, the main gate of Camp Lejuene looked impressive and challenging. As the Trailways bus passed throught the gate and continued on to Main Side, I noticed the narrow blacktop road was neatly trimmed with nice green grass that seemed well cut, and was impressed at how orderly and sharp this base appeared. First impression being the strongest impression, I thought this was really great and I was going to be a part of it.

Arriving at the bus depot, Main Side, I received directions to Ammo Company, Ord Bn., as being in the "fourth area", which meant the barracks were numbered 400 through 440; the ammo barrack was number 410, right behind the fourth area "slop chute". Of course, at this point, I did not know just what a "slop chute" was, but I "couldn't miss it".

With a sea bag over my shoulder and my orders in the other hand, I asked directions as I made my way to the fourth area. Found the fourth area "slop chute" across from the hostess house (where visitors could put up for the night) and wondered why they called it a "slop chute"; it looked very trim -- clean brown brick -- and no different than these other barrack buildings.

Finally, finding the administration building and checking in with my duty officer, I was informed that my barracks would be #410, and was escorted to the upper squad bay of that barracks and assigned a sack (bed). The barracks were laid out like an expanded "H" -- two stories high with a double squad bay at each end. One at each end "topside" and one at each end ground level, with outside fire escapes between the floors. Some squad bays had sacks doubled up, one atop the other; however, my squad bay had single sacks neatly spaced along both sides of the squad bay.

Unpacking the sea bag and trying to make use of every inch of that "foot locker", I began settling in. A couple other "boots" were settling in also and, as the conversation progressed, I learned one of them, a red-head from New York, called himself Wolfgang Anding. He had just reported in from ol' Parris Island and was equally excited about being a bonafide, full- fledged Marine, Private First Class, fresh from "boot camp", and ready for whatever duty they threw at him.

Class discrimination being an accepted mode of life in the Corps, we "boots" kept close to each other when in the company of the older and wiser ol' salts' -- whose socks must've been bleached a bit because of all that "salt" they claimed to have in them! All that Marine Corps history we learned about at Parris Island, and here were guys from WW2, talking about Pacific area battles and still picking shrapnel from their legs! Some of these old salts had been on the Med Cruise (six months sea duty), and a couple had been twice, and we heard of all those fantastic liberty ports many times over.

We had two six-year Corporals. I swore they should have been Master Sergeants, but the Corps was in that period of time when promotions were few and far between.

Our Technical Sergeants (Gunny's) were of the WW2 variety -- hard, wiry, combat seasoned, confident, and had an answer for any question. Charles Arndt, from down in Mississippi, still felt strongly emotional about Guadalcanal and, to this day, attends every reunion for that battle.

We 17 and 18 year-old "boots" were awe-struck and filled with admiration for these old legends still plugging along while in their 20's and even 30's! They were the Marine professionals, and we were persoanlly charged to try and obtain that lofty distinction.

Then there was Gunny Thompson, who hailed from Georgia, and had served with Gunny Arndt in the Pacific. They were, without a doubt, the very essence of a professional Marine. They could handle the troops, the beer, the complaints, and the officers with equal dispatch, displayed composure and calm, yet expected and received compliance with their wishes from subordinates. Before this year was over, these two men displayed what it meant to be a Marine and applied their skills as only professional non-coms can do. Both had been experienced "line" Marines -- or infantry, or mud Marines -- from WW2, and both were justifiably proud.

There were other "line" Marines making a career of the Corps or just re-inlisting for the right "timing" to get out. A couple were up for discharge within months -- they had served their time and were ready to get out -- counting the days off until then.

One of these "nearly civilians" was Pfc. Ernest Munoz, an Indian from Oklahoma, who always seemed to be singing one-liners -- "the eyes of Texas are upon you!", which he claimed Oklahoma was! He had re-upped once and was now eager to call it quits and return to Okie where he belonged. He was all excited when he turned in his rifle, which meant it WAS all downhill to civilian life. He took a lot of teasing from some of the other ol' salts -- like "it ain't over 'til the fat gal sings and nobody hears no fat lady singing!" Or "I bought the Quartermaster a case of beer to lose that receipt for your rifle; you ain't goin' right away!"

FRIENDS AND ACQUAINTANCES:

The company had most all ethnic groups from most of the States, except Negroes, because this was 1950 and the Navy sort of segregated the Negro to mess duty and truck driving. Combat Service Group, across the company street, was all colored, and when they were doing their close order drilling, we would watch how good they were -- and were they ever good! But Truman would change all that in 1951 -- for right now, the Corps practiced segregation and I did not mind it a bit. Racism was not my preoccupation -- being a Marine was my thing. (Little did I know that, come 1951, I would be assigned to Combat Service Group, right across the street -- but that too is beyond the scope of this story.)

Since last names were used primarily, and some pet names, I'll list some of these names -- and most will reveal their ethnic nature. Anding, Benenati, Bertrand, Brown, Bunyan, Cannon, Cartledge, Cartwright, Chapman, Cox, Decker, Dyches, Eggers, Giliberto, Gray, Griffith, Hall, Hale, Hassen, Healey, Hearn, Horner, Kane, Kirkpatrick, Miller, Munoz, Peddle, Orsatti, Spatuzzi, Tallarico, Turberville, Whalen, Barno, Bonar, Hunter, Baronowski, Berry, Buckley, Burns, Carnoyer, Cater, Sgt. Clark, Sgt. Copperweight, Dye, Tuttle, Kennedy, Lopez, Lyons, Mandato, Mangus, Maynard, McCarthy, McClure, Nagy, Obregon, Pike, Pontius, Pierquit, Rosetta, Sorring, Stott, Tucker, Watts, Wetzel, Whitman, Cooney, Mason, Picardo, Capt. Gagner, Lt. Crocker, Major Williams, Gunny Thompson, and Gunny Arndt.

The following names are from the 1st Division, Ammo Co from California:

Aikens, Lt. Alexander, Lt. Freudenberger, Jenson, Kilthau, Cpl. Rodriguez, Selbe, JJ Tefft, Rabbitt, Rupprecht, Peterson, Roark, Pierson, and McClure. These are only a few of the combined Ammo companies during the Korean War, 1950.

THE SLOP CHUTE

When the company returned from the magazine area, our work detail, every body hit the showers, groomed, and cleaned, then either fell out for evening chow, went on liberty to the beach, or to the local "slop chute". When Anding and Picardo invited me along to the "slop chute", I was waiting at the squad bay door for them to leave. At last, I was going to find out what that darn "slop chute" was!

It was the perfect solution for a hot summer night -- there was cold beer, peanuts, beer, sandwiches, beer, pop, and pitchers of beer. One end of the slop chute had tables and chairs for passing scuttlebutt. One end had billiard tables for the more athletic types. There was a small patio in the rear with tables and chairs where one could enjoy the night air and more scuttlebutt. This made the night go by pretty fast, and the slop chute was a favorite spot for those "no other plan" nights -- everything was cheap, it was close to the barracks, and there were no women -- well, it still wasn't bad!

LIBERTY:

Weekdays after 5:00 p.m., liberty call always saw smart, rapidly planned expeditions take off for Carolina Beach, Wilmington N.C., Jacksonville, or most any place within a 100 mile radius. The barracks were very deserted in the early evenings, but would start filling up again about 10:00 p.m., get kind of loud about 12:00 midnight, then quiet reigned until Reveille. Weekends were very special because they gave everybody a larger range of operation. Of course, for short-range parties, there was Onslow Beach -- a beach with a pavilion (which also had cold beer and large paper cups) on the coast -- so one could partake of the sun, surf, and sand right on base.

Sometimes, a few of the BAMS (women Marines) would venture down and add a change of scenery. Oh yeah, there were other events available -- Judo classes, weight lifting, basketball, football, boat rentals, outdoor theaters, etc. Summing it all up, this was a well-maintained base and was a pretty good duty station!

LIFE ON BASE:

Every morning, Reveille was attended by all hands, and surprisingly, no matter what the prior night was all about, everybody always made Reveille and looked pretty much alert and ready to go for the new day.

Work details consisted of going out to the ammunition magazine area, where earthen covered magazines were dispersed all over the area -- with narrow black-topped roads connecting them all. The main entrance of the "dump" was the CP, and ammunition shipments were checked in and escorted to the proper magazine for unloading or loading for shipping out.

A strong back and weak mind was the one qualification that over-ruled all others for the job according to the troops. But there was a lot more to it than that! We were taught how to handle all ammunition with great respect and very gently! No smoking, no sparks, no matches on your person, and two men -- one at each end of a crate -- to gently raise and set it in position without allowing it to slide the least little bit. When the smoking lamp was lit, we would have to leave the magazine area for the CP area.

We all got familiar with the shape of crates denoting what they contained, how they were packed, and their weights per unit. Even the 155 mm shell, which came as a single shell with an eye hook in the nose, required two men and a bar type sling -- each shell weighing in at nearly 90 pounds (89 pounds without the fuse). A box of two 105mm shells hit 98 pounds and had a rope handle at each end.

Some days, we had classroom instruction on ammunition nomenclature, fuses, primer cord, etc. Then there were the amphibious landing procedures. We even managed to squeeze in some forced marches at 25 miles a day with full packs! The rifle range was an annual affair where, for two weeks, you cleaned your weapons and practiced for your chance to requalify your marksmanship standing.

Everybody took turns at 30 days of KP duty and, occasionally, some guard duty. Each year, the Corps would stand at I.G. Inspection -- the Inspecting General was always the current Commandant of the Corps, which means a Dress Blue review on the parade grounds.

Barracks talk has a way of perpetuating itself -- basically, unchanging -- and our barracks consisted of the same mixtures of conversations concerning women, politics, sea stories, families, personal plans, promises, and Murphy's Law. With the discussions came clearer understanding of each individual's personal character -- his likes and dislikes. Bonds of friendship were formed which eventually became small comradeships -- or "fox-hole friends".

Horner and Hassen, two big guys, would sometimes go on Liberty with a little, slight-built guy (who I think was Pettry), and their stories would run like this: They went to Wilmington N.C. where the bars had "last call" about 12:00 midnight. Pettry entered a bar right at last call and was denied service. Looking about, he noted some 82nd Airborne sitting at a table with EXTRA last call beers -- whereupon he swooped their beers off their table with one swipe of his arm, stating that "if Marines don't drink, then nobody drinks!" This naturally irritated the 82nd people to the point of wanting to kick the sh*t out of him, which is when Horner and Hassen made their appearance and instantly re-established the Marine's priority status in Wilmington. The bar closed and everybody left.

There were many famous sayings floating about too -- a Frenchman usually proclaimed to all the lovelorn that "if they didn't eat p****, he could steal their girlfriends" -- then laughed real loud and let them think about it. There was Bonar, who proclaimed to be a virgin -- had never made love to a girl -- and was instantly nicknamed "Cherry" Bonar, so as not to call him a liar. Everybody was close to each other and could get away with all kinds of puns and pranks -- only because they were Marines and in the same company. Jack Hartman, from St. Louis, Mo., was trying to write a book about life in this company, and continued writing it while in Korea.

Slang names like "honky", "wop", "wop pie" for pizza, "dago", "wet-back", "red-neck", "hillbilly", "red", "monk", "Hollywood", and a whole lot more were used frequently, but always in what seemed like the right context -- never in a derogatory or angry nature. Readers might not understand that, since over the years since then, ethnic words have been blown all out of proportion and carry stigmas of bad taste -- yet that was how it was then. It was congenial and "mother" was a whole word, "dope" was for morons, and heroes were straight and wore white hats (some had emblems on them). They were not afraid to claim belief in God nor work hard for their goals in life. Everybody kept their uniforms neat and clean; their shoes were "spit" shined and ready for inspection or liberty. They all took Pride in themselves for being Marines and for being the best of our country's military elite.

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