On 20 May 1941, German forces launched an airborne invasion of the Island of Crete. It was the first airborne invasion in history. German casualties at the end of the first day were massive. Greek and allied forces in defense of Crete were confident they could hold off the German Luftlandeschlacht. Those defenders were wrong. On the second day, German airborne units seized the airfield at Maleme, and from that base, pushed the defenders entirely off the island. It wasn’t long after that when the Secretary of the Navy telephoned the Commandant of the Marine Corps and asked, “Dude, how cool was that?”
The Commandant of the Marine Corps (CMC), Lieutenant General Thomas Holcomb, had already announced his decision in October 1940 to designate one battalion of each infantry regiment as “air troops.” Marine Corps planners envisioned that these “air troops” would fly to their destinations. Holcomb further imagined that one company would be trained parachutists, and the remaining two companies would e “air-landed” troops. The verbiage was confusing, but this was the language used in 1940: air-troops vs. air-landed-troops. One problem that went undiscovered until well-into pre-combat training was that the United States lacked enough aircraft to accomplish vertical assaults. Another pinch of sand in the “para-Marine” concept was landing Marines in dense jungle terrain. Oops.
After 1941, the subject of glider aircraft was always associated with the Marine Corps’ concept of airborne assault forces, which originated from “high level” interest after the successful German airborne invasion of Crete. Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox was in awe of the concept. He directed General Holcomb to study the issue and determine whether it held any promise for amphibious operations. Because the German’s operation in Crete involved gliders carrying 750 troops, the Commandant was also asked to consider glider operations.
Apparently, what the Commandant meant by “air troops” in 1940 was parachutists, and what he meant by “air-landed” troops were Marines landing near the battle area in aircraft.
As for the suitability of such aircraft, it was the duty of the Navy Department’s Bureau of Aeronautics to study the feasibility of such operations and for procuring suitable vehicles to facilitate such tactics. Headquarters Marine Corps (HQMC) would only recruit men for such service once the Navy decided they were both feasible and practical for projecting naval power ashore. When the Chief of Naval Operations asked the Commandant how he intended to go about staffing a glider program, General Holcomb opined that he would find second lieutenants to volunteer for pilot training. He would select co-pilots from among the noncommissioned officer ranks. I can almost see the CNO’s eyebrows fluttering before he artfully changed the subject to another pressing issue.
Meanwhile, the Bureau of Aeronautics, which had already undertaken gliders’ study, found Secretary Knox’s suggestion underwhelming. In 1940, Naval Aviation had far more significant problems to deal with than glider feasibility. Besides, the Navy had already studied (and shelved) the possibility of using gliders as flight training vehicles. They determined that gliders did not contribute as much to flight training as engine-powered aircraft. In any event, the Chief, Bureau of Aeronautics advised the CNO that glider design studies were underway, noted that these projects incorporated both land and sea-based gliders. He had serious reservations about the practicality of gliders in any capacity.
Nevertheless, CMC issued his call for volunteers in July 1941, advising all officers (second lieutenant through captain) that he needed 50 officers and 100 NCOs during the fiscal year 1942 to undertake glider training. Initial training would occur at civilian schools, restricted to officers only until the Marine Corps could establish a glider school for enlisted men. HQMC anticipated the need for 75 gliders capable of transporting ten combat loaded troops and two pilots —judged sufficient to transport one airborne battalion. Such a project would challenge any early-war aeronautical industry but made even more perplexing because the largest glider manufactured in the United States in 1941 was a four-seat model not intended for people wearing combat gear. Europeans had developed larger gliders, however, so American builders knew that it was doable.
Seeking to provide its unwanted assistance to the Bureau of Aeronautics, HQMC identified “desirable” features of the aircraft in its design: For instance: (1) The ability to take off from land or water; (2) Capable of transporting equipment, including light vehicles, 37-mm anti-tank guns, and if possible, light tanks; (3) Configured for static line paratroop jumping; (4) Machine gun mounts for self-defense while airborne, and (5) a weight capacity of 12 men, each weighing 250 pounds in combat gear. It is difficult to keep from laughing.
The Navy’s BuAer evaluated two prototypes, both of which fulfilled the Marine Corps’ requirement. One of these was an amphibious, float-wing model available for production and open to bids. The second glider was a twin-hulled seaplane glider whose plans were still on the drawing board the day before yesterday.
Glider pilot training presented unique problems. When HQMC learned that the Army had enrolled officers in a soaring school in Elmira, New York, The Commandant directed First Lieutenant Eschol M. Mallory to evaluate this training. By the way, Mallory was a Marine Corps Aviator who had certain biases against the idea of glider aircraft. While in Elmira, Mallory learned that there was a second school in Lockport, Illinois. Taking it upon himself to investigate both facilities, Mallory wrote a report for the CMC recommending that (1) glider training be restricted to qualified naval aviators because of (a) control problems, (b) navigation issues, and (c) because night/instrument flying precluded safe flight operations with novice pilots on the stick. Additionally, in recognizing that 150 glider pilot trainees could not be pulled from existing resources, small as they were, Mallory recommended that should the CMC decide to proceed with the program, that (a) novice pilots be sent to the Lewis School outside Chicago and (b) that experienced pilots be sent to the Motorless Flight Institute at Harvey, Illinois.
The process of glider development was, from this point on, somewhat convoluted. A series of conferences in 1941 to evaluate the progress of glider adaptation to Marine Corps combat service seemed favorable. By October, the HQMC position on glider utilization had been fully developed and enunciated by the CMC. Planners actually envisioned that gliders would be outfitted with outboard motors so that they could maneuver inside lagoons and other protected areas. Of course, a few questions remained, such as the location of operating facilities where they would not interfere in regular aviation operations.
The CMC, who had earlier resisted the creation of commando battalions, was now on record as fully supporting the notion of glider operations within parachute battalions. In retrospect, the situation illustrated senior leaders’ inability to foresee all possible tactical situations and the impact of their reluctance to conduct an adequate study, feasibility assessment, or experimentation and training.
In November 1941, four Marine Corps officers, led by Lieutenant Colonel Vernon M. Guymon, enrolled in the glider pilot’s course at Motorless Flight Institute. All of these officers were qualified naval aviators. Guymon had been awarded the Navy Cross for his role in the air evacuation of sick and wounded Marines during the Nicaragua intervention in 1929. Eight additional officers reported for training at the Lewis School. All officers graduated shortly after the Japanese attack at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. But to maintain their proficiency, they had to fly —and at this early stage, there was still no glider aircraft in the Marine Corps aviation inventory.
In early January 1942, the Director of Aviation at HQMC indicated some hesitance in proceeding with the program. First, he recommended a “temporary allowance” to form a glider detachment instead of a permanent glider organization. The CMC concurred, and on 15 January, approved the temporary assignment of 14 officers and 56 enlisted men to the newly created Glider Detachment. The manufacturer delivered one and two-man gliders to the Marine Corps during mid-March; the first 12-man gliders’ delivery was promised a short time later; it was a promise unfulfilled. On 16 March 1942, the CMC requested the CNO to approve the formation of Marine Glider Group (MGG) 71, which would consist of an H&S Squadron 71, and Marine Glider Squadron (VML) 711. The CNO approved the requested table of organization.
Activation of MGG 71 took place at the Marine Corps Air Station, Parris Island, South Carolina. Initially, the group was equipped with three N3N-3 trainers, one SNJ-2, one J2F-3, one JE-1, and seven (7) two-man gliders. Two of these gliders were kept in reserve. HQMC assigned Lieutenant Colonel Guymon as Group Commander.
By the summer of 1942, Guymon believed that training in two-man gliders was a waste of time. Since all glider pilots (so far) were qualified naval aviators, the only training these pilots needed was transitional flying —best achieved in the 12-man gliders. Colonel Guymon’s point was moot, however, because the Marine Corps still did not have 12-man gliders. A search for a suitable glider base was undertaken and eventually selected at Eagle Mountain Lake, Texas. HQMC considered additional sites, but none ever developed as glider bases or training facilities.
MGG-71 departed MCAS Parris Island on 21 November 1942 and arrived at Eagle Mountain Lake two days later. Training continued even though the 12-man gliders still had not been delivered. In February 1943, HQMC ordered the glider program’s suspension until the Marine Corps could satisfy the Pacific theater’s more pressing needs. At HQMC, the Plans and Operations Division and Aviation Division jointly concluded that parachute battalions and glider squadrons were impractical in the Pacific War’s island-hopping campaigns. CMC ordered the glider program terminated on 24 June 1943. The Navy Department reassigned all USMC Glider aircraft to the U. S. Army; the Eagle Mountain Lake facility transitioned to a night fighter training base.
Updegraph, C. L. Jr., S. Marine Corps Special Units of World War II. History and Museums Division, HQMC, Washington, 1972.
Sherrod, R. History of Marine Corps Aviation in World War II. Washington: Combat Forces Press, 1952.
Grim, J. N. To Fly the Gentle Giants: The Training of US WWII Glider Pilots. Bloomington: Author House Press, 2009.
 Thomas Holcomb (1879-1965) served as the 17th Commandant of the Marine Corps (1936-1943). He was commissioned as a Second Lieutenant on 13 April 1900. Holcomb was awarded the Navy Cross medal, four awards of the Silver Star Medal, and the Purple Heart. Holcomb was a descendant of Commodore Joshua Barney of the Continental Navy.
 Proving that not every Marine officer was a genius unless one officer intended to defeat the program on the drawing board.
 Vernon Melvin Guymon (1898-1965) was a highly decorated Marine Corps mustang officer who retired as a Brigadier General in 1949. Throughout his 30 years of service, he was awarded the Navy Cross, Silver Star, Legion of Merit, and two Purple Hearts. While serving as a gunnery sergeant, Guymon was commissioned as a Second Lieutenant in December 1918. After service in the so-called Banana Wars in the early 1920s, he applied and was accepted for flight school. He was designated a naval aviator on 15 November 1926. Following the deactivation of MGG-71, Guymon was assigned to MAG-12 in the Pacific Theater, where he served as the Group Commander and later as Chief of Staff, 4th Marine Aircraft Wing. Brigadier General Guymon retired from active duty on 1 March 1949.
Soldiers of Fortune are men who have no political interest in the outcome of armed conflict but participate in it as hired infantry in exchange for lucrative payments. Most of these men received training while serving in European and American military forces. The reasons men fight as mercenaries are probably as varied as those for joining a regular military organization. Still, no matter their circumstances, they’ve probably concluded that the pay is worth the risks. One risk, but not the only one, is that mercenaries have no legal protection. If their operations fail, hired soldiers are subject to arrest, trial, and capital punishment —which is one motivation for winning their battles.
One such man was Thomas Michael Hoare (1919-2020), a British mercenary leader and adventurer in Africa and Seychelles, who passed away in February. Hoare’s parents were Irish expatriates working in Calcutta when “Mike” was born. His father sent him to Margate College in England for his education when he was 8-years old. Believing that his son was best suited for training in accountancy, Mike’s father did not allow him to attend Sandhurst; Mike instead joined the British territorial guard, an integrated reserve organization.
At the commencement of hostilities in World War II, military authorities assigned Mike to London’s Irish Rifles. He later joined the 2nd Reconnaissance Regiment of the Royal Armored Corps, received a commission to Second Lieutenant, and served in Burma and India. By 1945, Hoare was serving as a Major. After the war, he married Elizabeth Stott, with whom he had three children. Short in stature, most people regarded Hoare as a “charming fellow,” whose dress and appearance was always “dapper.”
After the war, Mike re-enrolled in an accountancy program to complete his training, and he was qualified and certified in 1948. When Hoare realized how bored he was with his sedate lifestyle in London, he relocated his family to Natal Province, South Africa. There, while working in accountancy, he organized safari operations as a part-time interest. It was then that he began to quietly advertise his availability to work as a soldier for hire. Always athletically active, Hoare kept in shape by marathon walking and long-range motorcycle races (Cairo to Cape Town).
By the early 1960s, Hoare realized that he wanted to return to a soldier’s life. Between 1961-65, Major Mike Hoare led two mercenary expeditions into the Congo. His first mercenary action occurred in 1961 in Katanga, a province attempting to break away from the newly created Republic of the Congo. His mercenary unit called itself “Four Commando.” By this time, Elizabeth had had her fill with her husband’s adventurous life, and they divorced. Hoare later married Phyllis Sims, an airline stewardess, with whom he had two additional children.
In 1964, Congolese Prime Minister Moise Tshombe (his employer in Katanga) re-hired Major Hoare to lead a unit called Five Commando, Armée Nationale Congolaise (also, 5 Commando ANC), comprised of around 300 men of mixed nationality, to help put down a revolt known in history as the Simba Rebellion. A former British officer named Alistair Wicks served as Hoare’s second-in-command. Tshombe brought in mercenaries because he distrusted his military commander, General Joseph-Désiré Motobu, who had already led two coup d’états against Tshombe and refused to commit the Congolese Army against the Simba.
Once hired, Hoare recruited his commando force by running ads in South African newspapers, asking for physically fit white men experienced in the combat arms. While in control of 5 Commando, the press began referring to Hoare as “Mad Mike,” painting him as a wild man. “Wild” was not an accurate description of Mike Hoare. He was competent, resourceful, and thorough in planning mercenary operations. Hoare was also a strict disciplinarian who demanded that his men shave, wear close-cropped hair, dress smartly, and attend church services weekly. 5 Commando was an all-white combat unit, its men representing South Africa, Rhodesia, Belgium, Germany, and the United Kingdom —all of whom previously served during the Second World War.
Mad Mike repudiated claims that 5 Commando was a mercenary unit. He instead argued that his men were volunteers who resisted a communist takeover in the Congo. In 1963 dollars, Hoare’s men earned $1,100/monthly. Mike fought the sobriquet Soldier of Fortune; he claimed the money was never an issue with either himself or his men. It may have been true for Mike Hoare, but such a claim did not describe his men, who frequently looted and misappropriated United Nations property in the Congo.
Reflecting pride in his Irish heritage, Hoare adopted a flying goose as his unit’s symbol. He called his men Wild Geese, after the Irishmen who fought for the Stuarts in exile during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Mike Hoare had an excellent reputation as a combat commander. He was calm and courageous under fire, always leading his men from the front to inspire them. As a disciplinarian, Hoare once pistol-whipped one of his men who attempted to organize a mutiny.
Initially, the officers of the Simba force included tribal leaders who were, in turn, guided by military advisors from Eastern Bloc nations seeking to establish a communist regime in the Congo. Ultimately, the Simba’s leadership devolved to the military advisors because tribal leadership was inept. At first, Simba rebels successfully captured much of eastern Congo and, in doing so, quickly proclaimed the People’s Republic of Stanleyville —perhaps thinking the war was almost over. However, poor Simba organization, lack of cohesion, and competing tribal interests defeated these initial successes.
Hoare capitalized on these failings. His use of available air support, his application of diversionary tactics, and his innovative use of reverse marches enabled him to deceive and confuse Simba rebel commanders; he was never where they thought he might be. Hoare was also known to hijack boats on the Congo River and use them for making lightning-fast water-borne raids to rescue hostages. Hoare was also ruthless in combat. Having no time for prisoners, he never took any.
Later in the rebellion, Hoare worked in concert with Belgian paratroopers, Cuban exile pilots, and CIA-hired paramilitary forces who attempted to save 1,600 European civilians and missionaries in Stanleyville. Of the Simba treatment of their captives, Hoare reported, “The mayor of Stanleyville, Sylvere Bonekwe, was a great and respected man, whom the Simba forced to stand naked in front of a frenzied crowd while one of them cut out his liver.”
In another Congolese operation, labeled Dragon Rouge, Hoare saved another 2,000 European lives when he rescued them from Simba savages. Before the rescue, the Simba tormented their captives to the point where these wretched people no longer resembled human beings. Hoare remarked, “Taking Stanleyville was the greatest achievement of the Wild Geese. There is only so much 300 men can do, but there we were, part of a very big push, and clearing the rebels out was a major victory. As a result of this one incident, Hoare became a hero in the western press. Hoare didn’t see himself as a hero, however —but he was thoroughly disgusted by the savagery of the Simba rebels and gave them no quarter in combat.
In 1964, Tshombe promoted Hoare to Lieutenant Colonel and added another battalion to Hoare’s force. Hoare commanded 5 Commando through November 1965. Reflecting his anti-Communist attitude, Hoare said, “I had wanted nothing so much as to have 5 Commando known as an integral part of the ANC, a 5 Commando destined to strike a blow to rid the Congo of the greatest cancer the world has ever known —the creeping, insidious disease of communism.”
After returning to South Africa, Hoare told the press that “killing communists is like killing vermin, killing African nationalists is as if one is killing an animal. My men and I have killed between 5,000-10,000 Congo rebels in the 20 months that I have spent in the Congo. But that’s not enough. There are 20 million Congolese, you know, and I assume that about half of them at one time or another were rebels whilst I was down here.” One of the Simba advisors was an Argentine-Cuban officer named Che Guevara, a murdering swine of such low character and regard for human life that he wantonly murdered hundreds if not thousands of people. Hoare was proud of the fact that he was the first man to have defeated Guevara.
The exploits of Hoare and 5 Commando in the Congo have been much celebrated and have contributed to veneration of the mercenary lifestyle. Many of Hoare’s exploits appeared in Soldier of Fortune Magazine and pulp novels. Fictional writers and filmmakers modeled their heroes after Colonel Hoare. One fictional film account of the Wild Geese in 1978 starred Richard Burton, Roger Moore, and Richard Harris, with Burton playing the Mike Hoare character’s role.
The Republic of Seychelles is an archipelagic island country in the Indian Ocean that consists of 115 islands. In 1978, Seychellois exiles living in South Africa approached South African officials to discuss the prospect of launching a coup d’état against usurper-President France-Albert René. René promoted himself to president from prime minister while the duly elected President James Mancham was out of the country. The United States viewed a coup d’état favorably because of the distrust certain Washington officials had of René and the proximity of Seychelles to the American base at Diego Garcia.
With a clear signal of U.S. backing, friends of Mancham contacted Colonel Hoare to see if he would be willing to lead an operation to Seychelles to reclaim Mancham’s presidency. Of course, Hoare was willing, so he raised a force of around 55 men from former South African special forces, former Rhodesian troopers, and ex-Congo mercenaries. For Hoare’s plan to work, he disguised his men as rugby players and named them Ye Ancient Order of Froth Blowers. He hid automatic weapons at the bottom of their luggage, which was then possible because South African rugby players often acquired toys and returned them to South Africa to distribute among several orphanages.
However, while going through the customs line at the Seychelles airport, one of Hoare’s men erroneously entered the “Something to Declare” line. Once in that line, customs officials insisted on searching his bag, discovered concealed weapons, and sounded an alarm.
Another of Hoare’s men then pulled out a rifle, quickly assembled it, and shot the customs office before he could escape. Despite this setback and no other option available to him, Hoare continued the operation, and fighting broke out inside the airport. In the middle of this melee, an Indian jetliner was slightly damaged upon landing when it collided with trucks on the runway. Realizing that the Indian flight passengers were in danger of finding themselves in a crossfire, whether they remained aboard the aircraft or not, Hoare quickly negotiated a ceasefire with Seychellois officials. Once these passengers safely deplaned, Hoare and his men boarded the Indian plane, hijacked it, and flew back to South Africa.
Upon returning to South Africa, the South African government charged Hoare and his men with kidnapping (the aircrew). Since kidnapping carries no minimum sentence in South Africa —and because it appeared as if Hoare and his men might “walk,” international powers pressured South Africa to recharge Hoar with aircraft hijacking, a more severe offense. A South African court convicted Hoare and 42 of his 43 men. The one-man found not guilty was an American ex-soldier, a former Vietnam War veteran wounded at the airport and placed on the aircraft while in a sedated condition.
Colonel Hoare received a sentence of ten years imprisonment for his part in the Seychelles Affair. The South African government quietly released Hoare’s mercenaries after serving only three months in jail. Hoare, on the other hand, remained in confinement. After serving 33 months in prison, South Africa’s president granted Hoare a Christmas Day pardon.
In total, Mike Hoare authored eight books about his life as a mercenary. He passed away from natural causes on 2 February 2020.
About Modern Mercenaries
Mercenaries continue their work in the world’s cesspools, but no longer as “Soldiers of Fortune.” Today they’re called Corporate Warriors. These modern men are no longer the hard-drinking quick-fisted dogs of war of years past. They wear designer clothes, use the finest after-shave, and rather than operating from their home offices, they rent spacious glass and chrome-plated offices. Corporate executives are well-read and experienced former combat officers, astute businessmen, and politically connected players in the field of regional conflict. They maintain good relations with the political movers-and-shakers of their own and other countries. They refer to combat units as “security groups.” They also no longer confine themselves to coup d’états; today, they focus their attention on mining security, engineering, transportation, finance, and of course, area and personal security for highly placed politicians. These well-connected modern corporations no longer need to smuggle arms and munitions —FedEx delivers them to corporate warehouses.
Who hires these kinds of firms? The much-celebrated Kofi Anan discussed hiring corporate warriors while serving as UN Under-Secretary for peacekeeping operations. For one thing, hiring a private security group is more cost-effective than maintaining a regular military defense force. There is even talk of replacing traditional police departments with corporate law enforcers.
A Personal note
I have known one mercenary. While serving as Adjutant, Marine Aircraft Group 46 (1979-81), one reservist served as an airfield operations officer in one of the group’s subordinate drill units. I will refer to him as Major Charles Claire (not his real name).
Claire had an average build, lean, but had a pallid face with no evidence of over-exposure to the sun. His deep blue eyes complimented his dark blond hair. A somewhat melancholy man, Claire spoke effectively but always in a quiet tone. He had immense pride in his military accomplishments and his uniformed appearance. Whether authorized by Marine Corps uniform regulations, he always displayed his French parachute wings. Occasionally he would join me for lunch at a local restaurant during scheduled training weekends, and, knowing that I found his adventure interesting, recounted several of his more exciting tales. He often spoke of operational planning (mostly how combat operations never seemed to go as planned), logistical challenges (resupply, caring for the wounded), and glitches involving rapid extraction at the operation’s conclusion.
When Claire left active duty following a Vietnam combat tour in 1967, he knew that he enjoyed the risks associated with combat service but found Marine Corps culture too restrictive. While maintaining his reserve commission, he went to France, where he enlisted in the French Foreign Legion for five years. It was after this when Charles began hiring himself out at a mercenary. Whether he ever served with Hoare, I cannot say; it never came up in our conversations. When he wasn’t fighting, he worked as a freelance writer.
“You can’t argue with the pay,” he told me, “but now I question whether the pay was worth it.” Claire’s problem was that he was dying —something he kept concealed from the Marine Corps hierarchy. In Angola, he said, he contracted intestinal parasites. Returning to the United States, he consulted with medical specialists who told him that he had a significant infestation. It was so profound, the doctors told him that an operation would probably kill him. Claire’s only recourse was to deal with it until the parasites killed him. His announcement seemed consistent with his lunch fare, which always consisted of mashed potatoes and a glass of water: no meat, no salad, no dessert.
Claire’s stories were enough to convince me that a mercenary life is not something a normally-wired person would pursue—but then, I never considered Claire normal. He had a heck of a life, just not a very long one. It might have been better were he shot to death than to die slowly. I last saw him in 1981.
Burke, K. Revolutionaries for the Right: Anticommunist Internationalism and Paramilitary Warfare in the Cold War. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2018.
Dadrian, E. Mercenaries in Africa: From Soldiers of Fortune to Corporate Warriors.org online, 2004.
Hoare, C. Mad Mike Hoare: The Legend. Partners in Publishing, 2018.
Mockler, A. The New Mercenaries.New York, Bantam Books, 1985.
Venter, A. J. War Dog: Fighting Other People’s Wars: The Modern Mercenary in Combat. New Delhi: Lance Publications, 2006.
 William Leach-Lewis established Margate College in 1873 as a secondary institution and preparatory school for boys. Lewis gave his life while in service as Mayor of Margate in 1906. Margate College High School advertised that “Boys are prepared for Oxford and Cambridge local examinations, for the College of Preceptors, also for the Army and their universities. Today, a shopping center stands at the site of the original campus.
 The Simba Rebellion (1963-65) (also, Orientale Revolt) took place within the larger context of the Congo Crisis (several simultaneous rebellions) and the Cold War. The rebellion leaders were the followers of the deceased Patrice Lumumba, ousted and killed in 1960.
 Alistair Wicks served in the RAF during World War II. After the war, while studying law at Oxford, Wicks migrated to Rhodesia. Hoare recruited Wicks to serve as his second-in-command of 4 Commando. When Wicks wasn’t engaged in mercenary work, he was employed by Rhodesian Air Services. He resigned from mercenary in 1967 following four-months imprisonment in Biafra.
American history is quite fascinating —I would say even more so than the revisionist accounts offered in our public schools and universities over the past sixty years. Two of my interests are the colonial and early founding periods of the United States. History isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, of course, but there is so much we can learn from it —lessons that would positively contribute to modern society. Ut est rerum omnium magister usus, and if true, if experience is the teacher of all things, then our learning from past mistakes can only aid us in the future.
One of the things I find interesting about the American Revolutionary War is how little attention historians have paid to the British loyalists. After all, they too were part of that story.
1763 was a banner year for the British because, in that year, England finally triumphed over France after fighting one another to a standstill since 1689. In the Treaty of Paris of 1763, England acquired Spanish Florida and French Canada. British divided Florida into two provinces: West and East Florida. West Florida included the southern half of present-day Mississippi, a rectangular region straddling the Gulf of Mexico from Lake Pontchartrain and Maurepas and the Mississippi River in the west, to the Chattahoochee and Apalachicola rivers on the east. It extended northward to an imaginary line running east from the confluence of the Mississippi and Yazoo rivers, including the old Spanish port of Pensacola and the former French settlements of Mobile, Biloxi, and Natchez.
In the late 1760s, West Florida was sparsely settled because, except for a narrow strip of land along the eastern bank of the Mississippi River, the soil was unsuitable for agriculture, which led settlers to rely on raising livestock. The British anticipated settling West Florida effortlessly and for reasons of security, they reserved the area west of the Appalachian Mountains for Indians. British policy at that time intended to avoid confrontations with the Indians by channeling white settlers either to Canada or to one of the two Florida settlements. The British also decided to offer land to members of the British court as a reward for faithful military service. As an example, 40,000 acres were set aside for the Earl of Eglinton near the Natchez and Pensacola settlements. An untended consequence of land grants to noblemen was that they almost immediately began selling these lands, and by every measure, they were quite successful in doing so.
The British accorded settlers of lesser rank, 100 acres to the head of household and 50 acres for each member of his family, including slaves. The head of a family could also purchase an additional 1,000 acres for a reasonable price —but clear title to this land was withheld until the settlers had cultivated their land for three to five years. The settlement of West Florida increased steadily, especially in the Natchez area, until in 1773 when the foreign office inexplicably canceled the governor’s authority to grant land.
In 1775, with the outbreak of the American Revolution, the situation in West Florida changed rapidly. Both Florida provinces were converted into sanctuaries for British loyalists escaping from colonial terrorists. After 1775, West Florida enjoyed its greatest period of growth, an attraction among sturdy pioneers of Englishmen and Scotsmen.
Who were the loyalists, and why weren’t they interested in freedom from Great Britain? They were generally older people, conservative by nature, well-established in the colonies with long-standing business interests in England. Older people tend to resist change and the Revolutionary War period was nothing at all if not an era of momentous changes. In the minds of British loyalists, a rebellion was not only morally wrong but also unwarranted.
Taxation without representation was a key issue at the outset of the American Revolution. Parliamentary taxation affected everyone, including loyalists. There was no overwhelming repudiation of taxes among the loyalists because, in the first instance, Parliament had the right to tax colonists. Second, the colonists had long benefitted from the security provided by the British Army. Among loyalists, it was entirely reasonable that Parliament expected colonists to help pay for the costs of maintaining these forces. The loyalists also had no objection to “quartering soldiers in private homes.” These were young men from back home who had come to America to protect British citizens from the ravages of the French and Indian attacks, why not give them a nice place to sleep? Besides, which would be cheaper (tax-wise)? Quartering soldiers in the homes of citizens, or constructing barracks for the same purpose? Since everyone benefitted from these tax levies, why object to them? Of course, the British Parliament could have addressed this issue with greater sophistication, but the British people (especially those living in England) were used to an authoritarian legislature.
When the so-called “American patriots” resorted to violence against the Crown and those who remained loyal to Great Britain, the older, conservative, well-settled colonists felt alienated —and with good reason. The patriots burned down their homes, torched their businesses, and physically and verbally assaulted them. In many ways, patriot behavior was more like that of hooligans and domestic terrorists than of good neighbors with interesting ideas about government and society.
Many loyalists, at least initially, were fence-sitters. Among those, optimists who believed that if there was to be a separation from the mother country, it should take place naturally and amicably, under circumstances mutually beneficial to both sides of the Atlantic. Some pessimists believed that the only possible result of revolutionary thought and action would be chaos, corruption, and mob rule. In either case, when patriots began terrorizing them, they either became apathetic to the cause, or they moved even further to the right. Some returned to England, others decided to stay in the colonies and fight for their King. In New York, many loyalists were part of influential families, some of these with unmistakable ties to the French Huguenot-Dutch De Lancey faction supporting the British Crown. There were also “black” loyalists —slaves who had been promised freedom from slavery by the British government. Colonial patriots made no such promises, from any quarter —north or south.
There were many prominent families among American patriots. One of these was the family of a man named James Willing … a wealthy Philadelphia family. His father Charles twice served as Philadelphia’s mayor; his mother was Anne Shippen, the granddaughter of Philadelphia’s second mayor. James’ older brother was a merchant, a business partner with Robert Morris, and a delegate to the Continental Congress from Pennsylvania. In his younger years, James sought his fortune in British West Florida operating a general store within the Natchez settlement. The folks of Natchez were happy to live in America, but they were loyalists —and intensely so. Willing, not being able to share those sentiments, and being rudely vocal about it, soon decided to return to Philadelphia.
In 1777, serving as a congressional spokesman, Willing returned to Natchez to convince the residents there to join the American independence movement. His proposals rebuffed, he returned to Philadelphia with greatly exaggerated claims that the people of West Florida posed a serious threat to the cause of American independence, although he was probably right in thinking that loyalists would interrupt trade on the Mississippi River, a major source of colonial resupply.
Oliver Pollock, meanwhile (an Irish-born colonist with many years devoted to trading with the Spaniards in the West Indies), established a close working relationship with Alejandro O’Reilly and other Spanish-Louisiana officials. Granted the privilege of free trade with New Orleans, Pollock became a successful businessman, married, and raised his family there. In 1777, Pollock was appointed Commercial Agent of the United States in New Orleans. He used his influence and wealth to help finance American operations in the west, including the campaign by Major General (militia) George Rogers Clark. In September 1778, Pollock introduced Colonel David Rogers and Captain Robert Benham to Louisiana Governor Bernardo de Gálvez. Rogers delivered a letter to Governor Gálvez from Virginia patriot Patrick Henry —a letter that led to Spain to join the war against England. In the British view, there could be no better example of treason than that.
In 1778, James Willing was calling himself a naval captain in the service of the United Independent States of America Pollock received a letter from Robert Morris stating that Willing would be leading an expedition against loyalist settlements above New Orleans. In his capacity as a naval captain, Willing led 29 men of the 13th Virginia Regiment from Fort Pitt and sailed down the Ohio River. Willing’s mission may have been more on the order of moving supplies from New Orleans to Fort Pitt than it was conquering West Florida, but the correspondence Willing carried with him to Florida could be construed as authorization to punish British loyalists. With his desire for adventure and a somewhat reckless nature, Willing boarded the gunboat Rattletrap with his Virginians, now dubbed “marines.”
Willing and his marines departed Fort Pitt early on the night of 10 January. A short distance from where the Wabash empties into the Ohio River, the Willing Expedition seized the large bateau belonging to the Becquet Brothers, which was laden with pelts. They also arrested a man named La Chance and impounded his cargo of brandy —which Willing and his crew subjected to extensive tests for impurities. Willing’s notoriety thus established, off they went into the Ohio River and southward. The commander at Fort Kaskaskia, a Frenchman named Rocheblave, suspected that the Willing Expedition was moving toward Illinois and believed that the sort of insults offered to Becquet and La Chance was the sort of thing frontier settlers could expect from colonial hoodlums should they ever achieve a foothold into the western (French) colonies.
By the time the expedition reached the Mississippi River, Willing had added two canoes and ten recruits to his entourage. One of these was a youngster named George Girty, whom Willing commissioned a second lieutenant. George was the youngest of four brothers, a family whose only claim to history was that they all became British loyalists. Historians know that Willing stopped at a Spanish post at the mouth of the Arkansas River, where, having warned the few American settlers living there that their lives were in peril from British loyalists, proceeded on his journey. The then-petrified settlers ended up petitioning Spanish officials for their protection.
Willing arrived at the Natchez plantation of Colonel Anthony Hutchins, a loyalist, on 19 February, promptly arrested him and seized his property —including his slaves. Willing then divided his force by sending two canoes on a scouting mission further south to the Natchez settlement —a farming community populated by American, English, and French settlers (all of whom lived together in harmony) —and until recent times, the home of James Willing. The scouting party, well-armed and dressed as hunters, arrested all settlement inhabitants and secured their property.
Willing and his main body arrived the following morning. According to later testimony, captive townspeople sent a delegation of four citizens to parlay with Willing. They agreed to surrender and promised their neutrality if Willing restored their property. Willing agreed, adding these stipulations: (a) that the settlers must agree to re-provision his expeditionary force, (b) that single men join the expedition, and (c) that all married persons relocate to Spanish territory within fifteen days. From among the single men who joined the expedition, Willing appointed Richard Harrison a lieutenant of marines.
South of Natchez, Willing carried out a campaign of destruction to crops, livestock, and the homes of Loyalist settlers and carried off their slaves (likely sold in New Orleans). William Dunbar and Frederick Spell, who witnessed Willing’s behavior, suggested in their later testimony that Willing was more interested in enriching himself than he was in any patriotic endeavor (which, by every account, seems to have been the case). Willing, however, did not molest any “patriotic” Americans.
By this time, the British were aware of Willing’s marauders —which given the expanse of the territory and poor communications back then, is quite amazing. In any case, the British dispatched their sloop Rebecca (well-armed with sixteen 4-pound and six swivel guns) up the Mississippi to interdict Willing’s campaign. On 23 February, 18 marines under lieutenants McIntyre and Harrison captured Rebecca, which for a time ended Great Britain’s control of the Mississippi River. McIntyre and Harrison sailed the vessel to New Orleans as a prize of war. The ship would be renamed, Morris.
Oliver Pollock established and maintained a close relationship with Governor Bernardo de Gálvez. During a future Spanish campaign against the British, Pollock would serve as Gálvez’ aide-de-camp. When Pollock received word that Willing was approaching New Orleans, he recruited an additional 40 men to join the expedition and assisted him in transporting “British” property to New Orleans. Of these 40 men, 26 men took it upon themselves to float downriver to join McIntyre and Harrison. McIntyre’s group soon came upon the British Brig Neptune and seized her. Neptune was laden with lumber and a handful of passengers bound for Jamaica. McIntyre off-loaded the passengers, retained the cargo, and sailed her to New Orleans —the expedition’s second prize.
News of Willing’s expedition quickly spread throughout British West Florida and caused some panic among the loyalists. They abandoned their large plantations, loaded their slaves, livestock, and valuables on boats and barges, and headed toward New Orleans where they petitioned Spanish officials for protection. For their part, at least initially, Spanish officials were intent on remaining neutral in the conflict between the British and Americans, so they graciously received these refugees and accorded them Spanish hospitality. Governor Gálvez similarly welcomed James Willing, which in large measure as a result of Oliver Pollock’s efforts.
Willing and his men were granted freedom of the city, provided with housing, and they were allowed to auction the property taken from loyalists, including their slaves. The precise amount of the profits gained by Willing’s auction is unknown, but some estimates ranged as high as £60,000.00. While appreciative of the courtesy and hospitality accorded to their subjects, British officials strongly protested the fact that Gálvez extended those same courtesies to James Willing, who in their view was nothing more than a pirate. Neither were the British pleased about Willing’s auctioning British property.
Gov. Gálvez ignored British protests, and the longer he did so, the louder their protests became. Within a short time, British petitions for redress were filed almost every day. Finally, Gálvez appointed a commission to consider the merits of British complaints. Until mid-March, Gálvez remained unconcerned with British protests. But then came the arrival of the British sloop Sylph under the command of Captain John Ferguson. In addressing the problem, Ferguson was simple and direct:
Having the honor to command one of His Britannic Majesty’s ships in this river, and having information that your excellency has received into your government a body of armed men, enemies to my Sovereign and that you have suffered them from the Spanish Territory to commit depredations on this River by forcibly seizing upon the vessels, property, and persons of British subjects, in violation of the Treatise of Peace, the Law of Nations, and the Rights of Men. I cannot help looking at such conduct on your part, as a tacit if not an open declaration of war against the King, my master.
Governor Gálvez answered Ferguson with equal fervor. He had no obligation (he said) to protect British citizens residing on British soil but (pending the report by his commission), Gálvez offered to return British goods and property seized by Willing. This decision came as a blow to the Willing/Pollock clique. They offered a stout defense of their activities, particularly as it related to the capture of the two British ships. Neptune, argued Willing, having been seized on open water in British territory, was a lawful prize of war. Gálvez remained inflexible; Neptune must be returned. When it appeared that Morris (formerly Rebecca) seemed more secure, Oliver Pollock proceeded to refit and man her. William Pickles was selected to serve as Morris’ Captain, and Robert Elliott was chosen to serve as Commanding Officer of Marines (Daniel Longstreet was appointed to serve as Marine First Lieutenant).
In April, Captain Ferguson and Sylph was relieved by Captain Joseph Nunn, commanding HMS Hound. Nunn continued to press Gálvez on the issues raised by Ferguson; Gálvez continued to resist all British suppositions and remained firm with the Americans. Nevertheless, believing that the British would initiate military action, Governor Gálvez requested reinforcements from the Viceroy of New Spain and began working on New Orleans defenses. He also demanded that every British/American person living in New Orleans take an oath of neutrality or leave the city. A few British departed the city, but most remained. Americans were unanimous in their acceptance.
Gov. Gálvez felt better once the American and British had offered their oaths respecting Spanish neutrality. Captain Nunn, on the other hand, did not feel better. In his view, Gálvez had openly demonstrated his support for the colonial rebellion, and this placed Spain in opposition to the British Crown. It wasn’t enough to cause Captain Nunn to initiate war with Spain, of course, but Gálvez’s cozy relationship with the colonists did prompt the British into reasserting their authority on the Mississippi River.
Before dawn on 19 April, Nunn sent a force of fifty men to recapture Fort Bute at Manchac (115 miles north of New Orleans) which had been seized by Willing’s expedition. British riflemen killed two men and a woman and wounded ten others. Fourteen Americans were taken, prisoner. Willing was, by this time, concerned about retaining control of Natchez, which led him to dispatch a force of marines under Lieutenant Harrison to observe whether Natchez loyalists were keeping their oaths of neutrality.
Meanwhile, Colonel Hutchins had violated his parole by returning to his plantation. In Natchez, Hutchins agitated among the citizens and urged them to take up arms against American colonists. We do not know what Hutchins told these people, but we do know that he alarmed them to the point of organizing a stout defense at a location known as White Cliffs.
En route to Natchez, Lieutenant Harrison was forewarned by a man named John Talley of Colonel Hutchins’ mischief. Harrison sent Talley ahead to offer assurances that his intentions were peaceful. Hutchins’ work was well done, however, and upon Harrison’s approach, loyalist gunfire inflicted a heavy toll on the marines. Harrison lost five men killed with several more wounded and captured; Harrison returned to New Orleans with only a few of his remaining force.
British West Florida Governor Peter Chester (—1799), with service between 1770-81, encouraged British settlers to return to their homes and “restore yourselves to that full allegiance and fidelity which you owe to your sovereign and country.” And, he added, that should these citizens not comply with Chester’s advice, then they would be judged guilty of criminal neglect of their solemn duty. With a British army garrison of 110 men from Pensacola guarding Fort Bute at Manchac, a British ship with a crew of 150 men, and 200 British militia protecting Natchez, loyalist settlers finally felt secure. Thus renewed, British presence also stopped the flow of goods between New Orleans and Fort Pitt.
The Willing Expedition had aroused British loyalists along the river to such extent that Willing could no longer return to Philadelphia via the Mississippi. And, the longer Willing remained in New Orleans, the less Gálvez and Pollock wanted to deal with him. Gálvez was highly incensed when Willing circumvented the governor’s prerogatives by issuing a proclamation to Americans living in New Orleans. The proclamation not only violated Willing’s oath, a condition of his being allowed to remain in New Orleans, it was also a violation of Spanish sovereignty. But if the rift between Willing and Gálvez was significant, the break with Pollock was even worse. With some justification, Willing criticized Pollock for his poor administration and questionable financial accounting. Willing’s unpaid marauders were displeased to the point of deserting in large numbers. It was only the consistent discipline and fair treatment of Lieutenant Harrison and Lieutenant George that kept most (not all) marines on duty. In any case, Pollock was anxious to be rid of Willing and did not hesitate to express his annoyance with Willing in his reports to Congress.
Hoping for James Willing’s departure from New Orleans was one thing; witnessing his departure was another. Effectively, Captain Willing had become a prisoner in New Orleans, but he had no one to blame but himself. It was his actions that caused the British to block the Mississippi. Willing had but two options for returning to Philadelphia: an overland march, or by sea. Willing had no interest in walking back to Pennsylvania.
By mid-June, Oliver Pollock decided he’d had enough of James Willing and formally petitioned Governor Gálvez to allow work to proceed on Morris so that it might carry Willing and his men back to Philadelphia. Without much consideration, Gálvez consented and the ship’s refit was soon started. Unhappily for both Gálvez and Willing, the refit project experienced several delays.
Fed up with life in New Orleans, Lieutenant George and Lieutenant Harrison requested the governor’s permission to leave New Orleans via the overland route. Governor Gálvez gave his consent conditionally: George and Harrison had to give their oath not to cause further dismay to any British subject. Having offered their oaths, the officers soon departed. After a year of overland travel, the marines finally returned to Fort Pitt. After the marine detachment was officially disbanded, George accepted an appointment as a captain of an artillery in the Continental Army.
Accompanied by Lieutenant McIntyre, James Willing finally departed New Orleans in mid-November carrying dispatches for the Continental Congress. The ship, however, was captured by a British privateer off the coast of Delaware and Willing was taken as a prisoner to New York where he remained until exchanged for British Lieutenant Governor Henry Hamilton. Some historians contend that Willing spent two years as a prisoner of war. If this is true, when one considers his many depredations imposed on Mississippi River settlements, then a reasonable man might conclude that his internment was warranted.
James Willing died at his home in Haverford Township, Pennsylvania in 1801. He was 51 years old. For additional insight into the corruption of early-American officials, see also: James Wilkinson, Image of Respectability. The amount of dishonesty during the Revolutionary and early founding periods of the United States could lead one to conclude that as despicable as James Willing was, he had much in common with more than a few of our founding fathers.
DuVal, K. Independence Lost: Lives on the Edge of the American Revolution. Random House, 2016.
Eron, R. Peter Chester, Third Governor of the Province of West Florida Under British Domination 1770-1781. Jackson: University of Mississippi Press, 1925.
Haynes, R. V. The Natchez District, and the American Revolution. Jackson: University of Mississippi Press, 2011.
James, A. J. Oliver Pollock, Financier of the Revolution in the West. Mississippi Historical Review, 1929.
Smith, C. R. Marines in the Revolution: A History of the Continental Marines in the American Revolution. Washington: History and Museums Division, Headquarters, U. S. Marine Corps, 1975.
 Attributed to Julius Caesar, De Bello Civille.
 The same thing is happening today within the so-called Progressive Movement; modern conservatives (the classic liberals of the colonial era) are being regularly attacked because of their values. Progressivism, as it turns out, is not very enlightened.
 It is impossible to say the pessimists were completely wrong about the level of political corruption in America.
 Followers of Oliver and James De Lancey. Oliver was a wealthy merchant, politician, and British Provincial soldier; James was his nephew.
 Modern leftists define “patriotism” as an anti-government “far right” movement. In 1775, it was a far-left movement.
 Robert Morris, Jr., (1734-1806) was an English-born financier who served in the Pennsylvania legislature, the Second Continental Congress, and the United States Senate. He was a signer to the Declaration of Independence, Articles of Confederation, and the U. S. Constitution.
 According to his “friends and neighbors” in Natchez, Mr. Willing drank too much, talked too much, and thought too little. This may be a fair assessment.
 O’Reilly (1723-1794) was born in Ireland became the Inspector-General of Infantry in the Spanish Empire, served as Captain-General and the second Spanish governor of Louisiana, and the first official to exercise power in Louisiana after France ceded it to Spain. He was later made a count of Spain but known to creoles as “Bloody O’Reilly.”
 The older brother of William Rogers Clark. A surveyor and militia officer who became the highest-ranking officer of the Revolution in the western frontier. Most of his accomplishments occurred before his 40th birthday; subsequently, his drinking and indebtedness destroyed his reputation. When Virginia refused to pay him for his Revolutionary war expenses, he turned his attention toward the Spanish as a source of income, but mostly through questionable land speculation schemes. His is not one of the great American stories of our founding years.
 James Willing is not listed as a commissioned officer of the Continental Navy.
 The title claimed was something Willing made up. There is an organization today with a similar title claiming to consist of ten states, five provinces of Canada, and Guam. ISA announced its independence in 2007 where its officials all wear tin foil hats.
 What the Continental Congress did not want was a sizeable expedition to West Florida to attack Pensacola and Mobile, an ambitious plan that had the support of Benedict Arnold. Congress decided instead on a more modest expedition and placed Willing in charge of it.
 I’m not sure how to respond to questions about the naming convention involve with this vessel, but Rattletrap was purchased from John Gibson for 300 pounds in Pennsylvania currency. It was a galley-type vessel with ten oars, and she/it was armed with two ¾-pound swivel guns.
 A long, light, flat bottom boat with a sharply pointed bow and stern.
 Colonel Hutchins was a retired British Army officer whose grant of land for military service was 250,000 acres. His home was located at White Apple Acres, which he occupied in 1773. He served as a representative representing the Natchez district in the provincial assembly in Pensacola in 1778. At times during the Willing Expedition, Hutchins was the de facto governor of the Natchez district. He remained active in political and military affairs in present-day Mississippi for many years.
 Despite Spanish law, which forbade commerce with foreigners.
 The British were hardly in a position of strength in West Florida. Eventually, Gálvez would seize both Pensacola and Natchez (1779).
 Both Robert Elliott and Daniel Longstreet’s names appear in the lineal list of officers of the Continental Navy and Marine Corps.
 Pollock was, as previously stated, a businessman whose every action was motivated by profit. He is not remembered as a man having an abundance of scruples.
Men have used spears in warfare for well over 3,000 years —and they continued using them even after the invention of firearms. The use of spears began as implements for hunting in pre-history. They were fashioned by burning one end of a straight stick until it had become pointed, its makers scraping the wood further to make the pointed end even sharper, which increased its lethality.
The hunting spear may have been one of mankind’s earliest technological advances, inspired by early man’s demand for food. Scientists in Germany discovered this kind of weapon embedded into the skeletal remains of an elephant. No one is quite sure when humans turned these hunting weapons upon one another; we only know that it was a long time ago. What we do know is that spears were far more efficient than clubs, and likely preferable because of their versatility. A spearman could thrust his weapon into an enemy or throw it from a distance.
Over time, hunters-gatherers became agriculturalists. With farming came the domestication of animals and less demand for hunters. One demand remained, however: the defense of small villages to protect loved ones and food stores. When men learned that more spearmen were far more efficient in self-defense than one or two uncoordinated defenders, they began to develop offensive and defensive tactics. At first, it is likely that the employment of these maneuvers more closely resembled a Chinese fire drill than a military formation, but in time someone came up with the idea that a well-drilled formation fared better in warfare than a mish-mash of stick-wielding yahoos.
The earliest formation was the phalanx, a closely packed block of spearmen. The phalanx made the spear far more deadly in close combat; even back then there was no ribbon for coming in second. The phalanx formation made ancient Greece into a military power with subsequent armies adopting similar formations over the next 2,000 years.
The Roman armies did such a good job of emulating Greek strategies that they eventually took over the known world. The Roman started with the basics of Greek tactics and improved on them. While retaining the spear (pilus) the Romans also used swords (Gladius). Initially, Roman swords were much like those used by the Greeks, but from around the third century BC, Rome adopted the Celtiberian sword; they called it Gladius Hispaniensis. This sword was shorter in length, better made, and far more manageable for close-in fighting. The Roman spear was especially adapted to Roman tactics, used as a kind of close-combat artillery, but constructed more on the order of a javelin. After throwing their pilum in a single volley, Roman legions then charged into their enemy in close formation with shield (scutum) and gladius.
Rome’s demise, after 1,100 years of military domination, produced several hundred years of political and social instability. The next innovation of the spear came in the form of the lance, a weapon used from horseback by mounted knights. Knights led infantry (foot) formations (that retained the spear as its primary weapon), but it was the mounted warrior that led to most military innovation in subsequent years—such as saddles, stirrups, a longer “cavalry” sword. Cavalry (or its earliest form) became the Middle Ages’ most important combat component. Eventually, polearms replaced spears as infantry weapons.
The polearm provided a defense against mounted assaults —an innovation that enabled the Swiss to become the most feared military force in Europe during the Middle Ages. The most widely recognized polearm of that period was called a halberd, a cross between a spear and an ax with a hook. The halberd was useful in stabbing, slashing, and pulling riders from their horses.
The pike was an exceptionally long spear fielded by large blocks of men (similar in many ways to the Greek phalanx, but without shields). Pikes enabled infantry to hold off charging cavalry. By this time, military formations had begun to field fire arms so the pike blocks also protected musketeers while they reloaded their weapons. When muskets and rifles became the primary weapon of field armies, bayonets became the primary means used by riflemen to defend themselves in close combat. When attached to the musket or rifle, the two weapons served the same purpose as the ancient spear.
Bayonets continue to function as a close-in weapon in modern military arsenals. They are primarily used while searching for the enemy in confined spaces, or whenever a field commander anticipates close combat. There are many examples of the use of the bayonet in World War II and the Korean War. The command, “Fix Bayonets” is chilling because at that point, everyone knows that a knife fight is about to take place.
When First Lieutenant Arthur E. Karell ordered “Fix Bayonets,” the hunkered down Marines of Fox Company’s 3rd Platoon began to perspire. The sound of Marines withdrawing their bayonets from scabbards and affixing them to the ends of their rifles was distinctive. Click, click, click. Lieutenant Karell’s order was precautionary because he didn’t know what to expect in the quiet darkness. All he knew was that his orders placed he and his men at that specific spot, and that Helmand Province (later known as Marineistan) is where someone high up in his chain of command had decided that U.S. Marines could do the most good. Karell was part of the vanguard of Marines who would become predators —their prey was the Taliban.
Nawzad, Afghanistan was a ghost town. The 2nd Battalion, 7th Marines (2/7) assumed responsibility for pacifying this enemy-occupied but once-populated town in a remote and god-forsaken area of southeast Afghanistan. The people who used to live in Nawzad (some 10,000 in number (estimated)) abandoned their mud-brick homes and melted away into the dusty area surrounding it. With the departure of these simple people, the Taliban moved in and made themselves at home. Karell’s battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Richard D. Hall, had sent Fox Company to issue eviction notices.
The fact was that Colonel Hall didn’t know much more about Nawzad than Karell; Hall had no “intel” of the enemy situation because Helmand Province wasn’t a priority for the International Security Assistance Force (ISAF), NATO’s coalition headquarters in Kabul. Up until 2/7’s arrival in Helmand Province, the ISAF had ignored Nawzad.
The quiet darkness of early morning was periodically interrupted by the sounds of distant jackals, which was enough to straighten the Marine’s neck hair. Karell’s Marines didn’t know what awaited them, but whatever it was, it was about to get its ass kicked. The Taliban were dangerous, of course, but they weren’t U.S. Marines. They may have intimidated poor farmers and the U.S. Army led ISAF in Kabul, but they weren’t going to cower Fox 2/7. Still, neither Lieutenant Karell nor his company commander had a firm picture of the enemy situation.
The 2nd Battalion, 7th Marines was initially activated on 1 January 1941 at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. Its world war service included Guadalcanal, Cape Gloucester, Peleliu, and Okinawa. During the Korean War, 2/7 participated in the landing at Inchon, the Battle of Seoul, the landing at Wonsan, and the Battle of the Chosin Reservoir. Captain William Barber received the Medal of Honor for his extraordinary courage while commanding Fox Company. The battalion deployed to Vietnam from July 1965 until October 1970. While based at Twenty-nine Palms, California, the battalion was deployed for Operation Desert Shield and Desert Storm in 1990-91 with additional service in Iraq in 2004, 2005, 2006. The battalion deployed to Afghanistan in 2008, and again from 2012-2013.
2/7 spearheaded the return of Marines to Afghanistan in April 2008, engaging in combat almost from the very first day. It was the hardest hit battalion in the Marine Corps in 2008. During its eight month deployment, the battalion lost 20 Marines killed in action; 160 wounded in action, and of these, thirty amputees.
It was 15th June 2008 and Karell was seconds away from launching his first combat assault. Most of his noncommissioned officers were combat veterans, but their previous experience had been in Iraq. Afghanistan was a horse of a different color. From their position in a dried-up irrigation ditch, in the pitch-black early morning, the only thing the Marines could see was the vague outline of a thick mud wall that stood higher than most Marines were tall. The wall separated the town from a small, scraggly forest. Up until then, it was “Indian country,” and no one from Fox Company had seen what lay on the other side. They only knew that whenever a patrol came near the wall, someone from the other side started shooting at them. Not knowing the enemy situation beyond the wall prompted Karell to issue his order, “Fix Bayonets.”
Karell began the platoon’s advance, stealthily creeping along in the dark with he and his platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant (SSgt) Gabriel G. Guest, leading the way. This is how Marines do combat: leaders at the tip of the spear. Despite a long list of unknowns, the Marines of the 3rd Platoon had confidence in their lieutenant. Karell possessed all the positive attributes of an outstanding combat leader. He was calm in stressful situations. He moved with purpose and self-confidence. He was open with and respectful of his men. He was willing to admit when he’d messed up. He learned from his mistakes. In the eyes of his superiors, Karell had additional traits: knowledgeable, thoughtful, aggressive, good at planning and even better in execution. In short, Karell was a hunter-warrior —a dangerous predator.
As Karell’s Marines moved forward, they could hear the growling engines of support vehicles coming up behind them. Suddenly, from behind the wall, a rocket-propelled grenade shattered the silence of the night —the explosive swooshing above the heads of the leathernecks toward the approaching support vehicles. Marine machine guns opened up; enemy machine guns answered. Muzzle flashes from the base of the wall revealed the enemy’s positions.
The instant before the shooting started, Karell’s Marines were nervous; an instant after, Marine Corps training took over. The Marine’s first emotion was that they were pissed off that someone was shooting at them. After coordinating by radio with Fox Actual, once the Marine’s machine guns shifted their fires, Karell launched his assault toward the enemy. 2nd Squad laid down a base of fire as Karell and the 1st Squad rushed forward. Then 1st Squad took up suppressing fires as 2nd Squad advanced. The Marines of 3rd Platoon ignored the enemy’s fire as deadly rounds snapped past them, but they were expending a lot of ammunition. SSgt Guest began relaying ammo resupply forward. The enemy machine gun went silent and the enemy began running in the opposite direction.
Lieutenant Karell brought combat engineers forward. After firing mine clearing devices into the area in front of the wall, they blew a gaping hole through the adobe barrier. Karell’s platoon poured through the wall and took up a hasty defense position until the platoon was ready to pursue the enemy. What they found inside the compound stood in stark contrast to the desolate moonscape on the outside. It was a garden setting, complete with flowing water and a forest of fruit trees.
Karell and his Marines had no time to enjoy it; the lieutenant organized his Marines to begin destroying enemy bunkers. Their progress took them into the light forest. Standing before them was a white mound that rose above the trees. Karell estimated that the damn thing was forty-feet above ground. The skipper supposed it could be a command bunker.
From where the 3rd Platoon was standing the mound looked like a stone fortress. It was “no big deal.” The Marines started climbing weighted down by the intense morning heat, their weapons, ammunition, and body armor. They were looking for caves —but found none. They expected enemy resistance —but there was none. When he reached the top, Lieutenant Karell did a quick search of the area. All he found were scars from artillery of some earlier battle. Karell laughed —his 3rd Platoon had captured a huge rock.
2/7 was sent to Nawzad to train Afghan police. The ISAF reasoned that if the Marines could train local police, the police would then be able to protect their own community. The fly in that ointment was that there were no police in Nawzad. Absent the police training mission, Colonel Hall queried higher headquarters about his new mission. He was told to make it possible for the Afghan people to return to their long-deserted town. There was no mention of how he was to accomplish this task, of course, only that the Marines needed to “get it done.” So, Hall executed the Marine Corps plan: find the Taliban and convince him that he’s in the wrong business.
While it was true that the battalion’s mission had changed, little else had. Since ISAF controlled all in-theater air assets, 2/7 would not have dedicated air support. Marine grunts love their aviators, and this has been true all the way back to the early days of Marine aviation —when Marines began to explore the utility of aircraft for ground support missions. For two decades, the Marines perfected air-ground operations during the so-called Banana Wars. During World War II, Navy and Marine Corps aviation perfected the art and science of close air support. They employed these skills in the Korean War. In fact, it was during the Korean War that the Marines taught the Army a thing or two about on-call close air support. In Afghanistan, however, the Marines would have to REQUEST air support through the ISAF. Maybe they would get it, maybe they wouldn’t. There was no guarantee that 2/7 Marines would have their USMC Cobra pilots (their combat angels) overhead.
By the time 2/7 arrived in Nawzad, the once-thriving city was already long-abandoned. It was likely that Taliban or drug trafficking warlords had driven them away. But Colonel Hall was resourceful and smart. Before the scheduled deployment of his Battalion, Hall went to Helmand Province and talked to people on the ground. He came away with the understanding that, despite his (then) stated mission to train a police force, his Marines would do more fighting than training.
A week after Lieutenant Karell’s rock climb, Captain Russ Schellhaas, the Fox Company commander, assigned Karell’s 3rd Platoon to support of his 1st Platoon during an operation that unfortunately found 1st Platoon in the middle of a minefield. It was a horrible day for twenty-six seriously wounded Marines. A few days after that, Staff Sergeant Chris Strickland, an explosive ordnance disposal (EOD) technician was killed while attempting to disarm an improvised explosive device (IED).
The mission of the Marine combat engineer is to enhance the mobility and survivability of ground combat forces. Among its several specific tasks are expedient demolition, route/area minesweeping operations, and a range of other force protection measures. Thirty days later, it was Lance Corporal John Shrey’s duty to conduct minesweeping operations while leading Lieutenant Karell and his platoon’s 3rd Squad through a potential IED minefield. Karell and his Marines followed him as if they were baby ducks.
Once the Marines had made it through the minefield, they concealed themselves in a grove of scrubby underbrush within sight of their point of interest —a supposedly abandoned compound with a single adobe shack. Intel claimed that insurgents were using the compound as a rallying point, a place where they stored their gear before laying in more IEDs. North of the rally point was a band of trees, within which was another series of compounds —in distance, about a half-mile in length. Heavily armed Taliban occupied these compounds and used them as IED factories and safe havens. According to the 2/7 operations officer, the Taliban were Pakistanis who had come to fight through what the Marines were calling “Pakistan Alley.” And the Marines knew that it was only a matter of time before they would have to clear it out. For now, though, the Karell concentrated on the immediate threat: the rally point.
At daybreak, the 3rd Squad could hear the Moslem call to prayer echoing through the northern forest. Lieutenant Karell also detected the sound of armored vehicles bringing up the rest of his platoon. Shouts erupted from insurgents just inside the tree line; two Pakis ran from the wood carrying RPGs. They were unaware of Karell’s presence in the grove.
Enemy machine-gun fire opened-up against a Marine bulldozer as it barreled its way through a minefield, clearing a lane to the rally point. An RPG was fired at the MRAP carrying Karell’s second squad. The leader of the 2nd Squad was a young corporal by the name of Aaron Tombleson. At 23-years of age, Tombleson was responsible for the lives and welfare of twelve Marines. His point man was Private First Class Ivan Wilson, whom everyone called “Willie.”
Explosions began erupting near the MRAP. Lieutenant Karell heard a loud detonation and this was followed by the giant tire of an MRAP flying toward 3rd Squad. With none of his men injured in the blast, Corporal Tombleson quickly transferred his squad to a second vehicle. It was already a jumbled day and it was still early in the morning.
The bulldozer went on to punch a hole through the wall of the compound but had gotten stuck in the rubble and tight surroundings. A fire team from 2nd Squad dismounted to provide security for the engineers while they attempted to straighten out the bulldozer. Willie led the fireteam alongside the MRAP toward the rear of the dozer, but incoming small arms fire began pinging the side of the MRAP. The fire team took cover and began returning fire. PFC Wilson on point ran to the edge of the compound and took a kneeling position to return fire. In that instant, an IED exploded under him. Lieutenant Karell heard the explosion, followed seconds later by a radio report that the 2nd Squad had four or five casualties with one KIA.
3rd Squad’s Navy Corpsman was HM3 Tony Ameen. He requested Karell’s permission to move up to help attend to the wounded. Assuming 2nd Squad’s corpsman was overwhelmed in treating the injured, Karell told Ameen he could go —but only with an engineer to sweep for mines.
With Lance Corporal Shrey leading the way, Ameen and another Corpsman, HM Jack Driscoll, and a few additional Marines to provide security, moved up. The going was slow. As the medical team inched forward behind Shrey, another explosion erupted, and a plume of smoke appeared behind the tree line.
“Doc” Ameen, impatient with the rate of march, bolted out of line and rushed forward. This is what Navy Corpsmen are trained to do. They run to their wounded Marines —and this explains why 2,012 Navy Corpsmen have been killed in combat since the Navy Medical Corps was founded in 1871. Forty-two corpsmen lost their lives in Iraq and Afghanistan. There are 21 U.S. Navy ships named after Navy Corpsmen; they have received over six-hundred medals for valor —including 23 Medals of Honor and 179 Navy Cross medals.
A few steps past Shrey, Ameen stepped on another IED. Ameen went flying head over heel. He lost one foot and half of his left hand. Shrey, knocked to the ground by the concussion and bleeding from both ears, got groggily to his feet. Despite his injury, Shrey maintained his presence of mind and shouted to Doc Driscoll to halt in place. LCpl Shrey did not want another casualty among the corpsmen.
Meanwhile, Corporal Tumbleson and seven of his Marines —all that was left of his squad— carried Willie to the MRAP; as the Marines struggled to place him inside the vehicle, Wilson attempted to help them. It was then that he and realized that his arm was missing. Willie slipped into unconsciousness. Nearby, a contingent of ISAF Estonian soldiers rushed forward to help get Willie to the Medevac Landing Zone.
Lieutenant Karell called for an airstrike, which after a few minutes destroyed the compound. Afterward, Karell moved his platoon forward and occupied the compound. That afternoon, during retrograde back to Nawzad, another MRAP set off an IED, but there were no more human casualties; the truck was damaged beyond repair. When the Marines arrived back at the company command post (CP), Karell learned that Willie had died on the medical evacuation helicopter.
Even though 3rd Platoon Marines were shaken and exhausted from the day’s events, Karell assembled them to break the news about PFC Wilson. Afterward, the Marines never spoke about the battle of the compound —they only talked about the day Willie died. That night, Karell led an eight-man patrol from 1st Squad back to the enemy rally point. The Marines had learned that the Taliban often returned to a battle site to assess the damage and lay in more IEDs. No sooner had Karell and his men reached the area just outside the compound, they heard movement ahead of them. Apparently, the enemy also heard the Marines approaching and withdrew. Karell wasn’t looking for another fight —he wanted to get his Marines back in the saddle after losing Wilson.
Conditions in Nawzad were what one might expect in Afghanistan. 2/7 Marines were fighting in temperatures that hovered around 120-degrees Fahrenheit. The chow sucked —but then, all MREs do. Critical resupply was continually interrupted by enemy activity along the main supply route (MSR). There was no running water. The constant swirling of powdery Afghan dust clogged the Marine’s throats —they were continually rinsing their mouths with water, gargling, and spitting it out. Lack of contact with the outside world challenged unit morale, but worse than that, the Marines believed that their sacrifices were serving no worthwhile purpose. They were sent there to train police, but instead, the Marines became the police. And the fact was that a single battalion of Marines was an insufficient force to deal with the overwhelming number of Taliban/Pakistani insurgents over so large an area. As a result, the Marines were spread too thin —a direct consequence of President Obama’s decision to withdraw the military from Afghanistan. There were no replacements for evacuated casualties; the Marines would have to fight with what they had. Corporal Tombleson’s squad, for example, started off with twelve Marines, casualties reducing it to eight —a 33% reduction in combat efficiency.
The attitudes of Marines of Fox Company mirrored those of the other line companies. Everyone believed that when 2/7 was pulled out, as one day it must, there would be no one to replace them —and they wondered, if this was true, then why were they in Afghanistan at all? Staff Sergeant Kevin Buegel, who replaced the wounded and evacuated Staff Sergeant Guest as platoon sergeant, was pissed off. The very idea of losing Marines for no good purpose was a constant source of irritation. Eventually, word came down that Obama had reversed his earlier decision to withdraw all US forces. 2/7 would be replaced by another battalion landing team after all.
In late October 3rd Platoon assumed the company vanguard (the point) position when Fox Company plunged into Paki Alley to root out and destroy Taliban forces. Hall’s 2/7 had already cleared Nawzad but clearing the Taliban from the alley would be a tough fight, as urban-type warfare always is.
Lieutenant Karell’s platoon was engaged in clearing operations; each of his rifle squads moving deliberately through their assigned sectors. At one location, the 1st Squad encountered a Taliban shooter in the structure’s basement. Marines called out to him in Pashtu to surrender, but he kept shooting at them with an AK-47. Corporal Joe Culliver was an intelligence analyst temporarily attached to Fox company. He wanted the shooter taken alive, if possible; one of the Karell’s Marines told him, “Don’t count on it.” Nothing the Marines did convinced this shooter that it would be to his advantage to surrender.
1st Squad’s delay of advance was becoming a critical issue because the three squads moving forward provided mutual security during the platoon’s operation. Lieutenant Karell decided that they’d wasted enough time on this one holdout. Marines tossed hand grenades into the basement; the insurgent answered with more rifle fire. Staff Sergeant Buegel was pissed off; he always was about something. He rigged a C-4 explosive and tossed it into the basement. Whatever impact the explosion had appeared negligible because the shooter continued to unleash measured fire. Karell knew that the shooter was wounded, knew that he wasn’t going to surrender, and he knew that he was not going to leave him alive in the rear of his Marines.
Elsewhere in the Alley, the Taliban was putting up one hell of a fight. The enemy employed mortars, machine guns, and hand grenades against the 3rd Platoon. Karell needed to close the door on this shooter. Marines inched down the stairwell and poured hot lead around the adobe corer into the open basement. The shooter finally went silent. Karell, with his pistol at the ready, entered the basement with Corporal Culliver right behind him. The Taliban was laying on the floor along the wall on the far side of the room. He was badly wounded. Spread out across the floor in front of him were dozens of needles and empty ampules of morphine. The shooter was higher than a kite, and this explained his apparent lack of pain. As Karell approached the shooter, he suddenly heaved, reaching for his AK-47. One of the Marines behind Karell fired twice, killing the Taliban.
Folks back home believe (because this is what the U.S. media tells them) that the Taliban are deeply religious people, dedicated to their belief system, that they are willing to sacrifice themselves in the name of their god. This could be true among those who run dozens to hundreds of madrassas, and it may even apply to Afghanistan’s dozens of warlords. Taliban fighters, on the other hand, are seriously malnourished men radicalized by drug addiction. Culturally and historically, the average Afghan is opposed to any form of government and there is nothing any western coalition can do to change that. It is a situation that has existed since the days of Alexander the Great. The only options available to western forces is that of (a) relieving them of their misery and sending them into whatever awaits them in the afterlife (although, with a population exceeding 36 million people, this is highly unlikely), or (b) leaving them alone.
3rd Platoon fought on. Now, finally, with the backing of newly assigned cobra gunships, pilots could see Karell’s three squads dangerously separated in the urban setting. 3rd Platoon’s fight lasted well over seven hours. Karell believed his Marines were making progress, but that’s not what the cobra pilots were seeing. From their vantage point, dozens of insurgents were swarming eastward toward the Karell’s Platoon. It was only the gunship’s well-aimed rockets that drove them back toward Pakistan.
After seven hours, Lieutenant Karell was running out of daylight —and everything else— and his platoon was only half-way through the series of walled compounds. Marine engineers destroyed several IED factories and knew more of them lay ahead. The problem was that the 3rd Platoon was an insufficiently sized force to seize and hold the compounds. Worse, the combat engineers were out of explosives —so that even if the 3rd Platoon did capture additional IED factories, there was no way to destroy them. Captain Schellhaas knew that when he ordered the withdrawal of his platoons, it would be only a matter of time before the insurgents filtered back in.
Caught in the middle of all this was the Afghan farmer who only wanted to raise his poppies in peace. The day following 3rd Platoon’s assault on Paki Alley, Karell led a motorized patrol to a small hamlet known as Khwaja Jamal. In the spring, someone from this village was always taking pot-shots at patrolling Marines; since then, the insurgents there had either withdrawn or gone underground. More recently, 2/7 Marines had established a dialogue with village elders. Everyone in Khwaja Jamal was curious about these American interlopers. It worked to the Marine’s advantage that their living conditions were equal to those of the poor farmers, but while the Marines —the product of 21st Century American society— enjoyed their creature comforts, Afghanis steadfastly rejected modernization in every form.
Were these villagers’ friend or foe? A third of them were intent on selling Marines their ample supply of illicit drugs; another third wanted to know about American farming and irrigation techniques —and then there was a group of younger men who demanded to know why the Marines were in Afghanistan at all, how many soldiers they had, and how far could their guns shoot.
In December, when 2/7 was withdrawn, Nawzad was still empty of civilians. By then, a third of Karell’s platoon had been killed or wounded. Platoon sergeant Buegel was himself wounded by an IED, but he was one of the lucky ones. Maybe the good Lord likes cranky people. Relieved by Battalion Landing Team (BLT) 3/8, BLT 2/7 Marines returned to California to resume their lives. Some of these men left the Corps at the end of their enlistments, some remained on active duty. The majority of those who remained on active duty were transferred to other posts or stations. As new men reported for duty with 2/7, replacing those ordered out, the battalion began its workup for a subsequent tour in Afghanistan.
Lieutenant Karell, who was at the end of his obligated service, decided to remain on active duty.
Brady, J. The Scariest Place in the World: A Marine Returns to North Korea. New York: Dunne Books, 2005
Drury, B., and Tom Clavin. The Last Stand of Fox Company. New York: Atlantic Monthly Press, 2009
Henderson, K. A Change in Mission. Washington: Washington Post Company, 2009
Kummer, D. W. S. Marines in the Global War on Terrorism. Quantico: History Division, USMC. 2014
Martin, R. Breakout—The Chosin Reservoir Campaign, Korea 1950. Penguin Books, 1999.
 Celtiberians were Celticized people inhabiting the central-eastern Iberian Peninsula during the final centuries BC.
 There are dozens of explanations for the collapse of Rome, among them corruption, social malaise, and the fact that Rome attempted to incorporate barbarians into the Republic/Empire —people who were culturally non-Roman, and who therefore lacked the uniqueness of Roman esprit-de-corps.
 At the end of 2007, the most optimistic description possible for Helmand Province was that it was a gaggle turned stalemate. When the Marines were sent to Helmand Province, Marine commanders decided they had had enough of fighting battles the Army way; they intended to fight the Taliban on their own terms. It wasn’t long before the U.S. Army hierarchy in Kabul complained to Washington that the leathernecks had gone rogue; the Marines refused to do anything their Army superiors wanted them to do. But the Marines know how to win battles. They win battles through aggressiveness, thinking outside the box, and terrifying the hell out of the enemy. This mindset is a significant contrast to Army careerism. The Army began referring to Helmand Province as Marineistan.
 Skipper is an informal naval term denoting the Commanding Officer of a Marine company, the Commanding Officer of a Navy ship, or a Navy/Marine Corps aircraft squadron.
 Meals, Ready to Eat. Also, Meals Rejected by Ethiopians.
 Every Marine officer is trained as an infantry officer. A combat pilot knows exactly what his ground counterpart is facing and strives to support the grunts in every way possible.
 Fifty-two percent of Afghanistan’s gross domestic product (GDP) is generated by their illicit drug trade. Given that the majority of its 36 million people are happy to remain in the stone age, one wonders how “saving” Afghanistan is in the United States’ national interests.
There aren’t enough military airplanes to accommodate every general officer (except in the Air Force), so most flag officers in the Army, Navy, and Marine Corps rely on commercial aircraft to get where they need to go. There is no preferential accommodation, though. Whether serving as a one-star general or a three-star admiral, they all ride in normal class accommodations because the Government Accounting Office prohibits the pampering of senior military officers at the public’s expense. Other military personnel uses commercial aircraft, too … only they usually end up paying for it out of their own pockets —such as people traveling home on authorized leave.
Both situations explain how a Marine Corps brigadier general ended up spending time at a commercial airport with an Air Force second lieutenant. Normally, flag rank officers do not much enjoy talking to lieutenants. This isn’t so much a matter of snobbishness as it is that general officers were lieutenants once, too, a long time ago, and no one wearing stars today wants to remember how screwed up they were back then.
The brigadier general was in uniform because he was flying officially, attending important meetings. He was sitting by himself at a small table in a crowded waiting room at an aircraft hub, waiting for a connecting flight. He was minding his own business, reading a newspaper, drinking a cup of coffee, and munching on a few snacks.
The Air Force second lieutenant was also in uniform. A recent graduate from the academy, he too was waiting for a connecting flight. En route to the gate area, he stopped at a local news shop and picked a newspaper, a package of Oreo cookies, and a cup of coffee. Carrying the purchased articles was difficult because he also had to carry his hat, his briefcase, and his raincoat. The sooner he put all these things down on a tabletop, the better. He rushed forward into the waiting area only to find the area packed with other travelers. Well, except that there was this one fellow sitting alone at a table for two. Perfect.
The lieutenant rushed over to the table (lieutenants are always rushing around) and hurriedly setting down his several hand-held articles said, “Mind if I sit here, soldier?”
The general unfolded his newspaper long enough to affix his deadliest stare upon the young lieutenant whose own eyes fixated upon the single star on the general’s collar. Having seen all that he needed to see, and without saying a word, the general went back to reading his paper. After a few seconds of painful silence, the lieutenant sat down in his chair and set about organizing his personal belongings, which took a few moments because in organizing his personal effects it was necessary that he stand and sit again a few more times. The raincoat, for example, came off the top of the table and was hung neatly over the back of his chair. He set his briefcase on the floor beside the chair. He moved his hat to the side of the table, out of the way, and he laid his folded newspaper in front of him.
At that moment, the general again unfolded his newspaper, re-affixed his death ray stare, and reached over to help himself to an Oreo cookie. Once the item was firmly grasped in the general’s hand, the newspaper came up again. The only sound coming from behind the newspaper was that of an Oreo cookie being consumed.
The lieutenant was both aghast and perplexed. Sure, rank has its privileges, he thought to himself, but there is such a thing as social grace, and here this … general fellow has helped himself to the lieutenant’s Oreo cookies. Without asking. Without so much as a damn “by-your-leave.” Well, the lieutenant reasoned, those are my cookies; I paid for them, and I’ll darn sure eat them. He then reached across the table, ruffled his fingers through the cookie container, extracted one, and began eating it. Again, the newspaper unfolded, and the general’s stare returned once more.
Undaunted and refusing to be intimidated, general or no general, the lieutenant ate the cookie, took a few sips of coffee, and returned the general’s stare. It wasn’t a disrespectful stare, just somewhat rebellious. And it worked, too. The general went back to reading his paper. Life is full of small victories, or so the lieutenant thought. It was exactly as his Dad told him years ago.
This sharing of cookies went on for a few more minutes until finally, in response to an announcement over the public address system, the general abruptly stood, retrieved his briefcase and hat, and walked off toward a boarding gate. The package of Oreos, with one cookie remaining, sat on the table.
The lieutenant watched the general’s departure, shook his head, and thought to himself, “That is one very cheeky general.” Having eaten the final cookie and with another sip of coffee, the lieutenant unfolded his newspaper. There, inside the newspaper, the young lieutenant discovered his very own unmolested package of Oreo cookies.
I was told this story years ago. Whether it happened, I cannot say but it did bring a smile to my face, and I hope it does yours as well.