Even though he only stood around 5’9” tall, people came away with the impression that he was taller. I think this was because Sergeant Giacalone[1] scrupulously maintained his military bearing; his uniform and appearance were always impeccable; he stood tall, he walked tall, and he expected the same from anyone wearing the uniform of a United States Marine. He would not tolerate a slovenly Marine — no matter what his rank.
Sergeant Giacalone’s posture was so correct that I never once observed his head turning without the rest of his body turning with it. This was likely the result of Sergeant Giacalone having once served as a Marine Corps Drill Instructor — before the Korean War. The Korean War was when Giacalone earned a silver star, a bronze star, and two Purple Heart medals.
When I knew Sergeant Giacalone, he had only recently been promoted to sergeant — for the second time. No one in the squad knew any of the details of his court-martial; there was no reason why anyone should. In those days, a Marine who screwed up could be redeemed. It was a simple formula: charge him, court-martial him, punish him, and send him back to duty. I lament this is no longer true.
In Sergeant Giacalone’s case, somewhere in his career (which began sometime in 1948), this squared-away former drill instructor developed a drinking problem. It wasn’t a frequent problem — and it never happened while on duty, but when it did happen, it was always noteworthy. Maybe he had woman troubles. We never knew. It wasn’t something a squared-away sergeant would ever discuss with the snuffies. What we did know about our squad leader was all we had to know. What we learned was that he was one hell of a field Marine; what we knew was that while our Lord might lay claim to our souls, our miserable snuffy asses belonged to Sergeant Giacalone.
Our squad leader was up before reveille; he only hit the rack long after taps. He kept himself and his squad squared away. Inspecting officers never found our uniforms or equipment deficient — that’s because Sergeant Giacalone made it his business to inspect us long before any officers showed up. We would not embarrass him in front of the company officers or the rest of the platoon.
Whether in garrison or the field, Sergeant Giacalone expected us to act so that we brought credit to ourselves, our squad, and our unit. It was hard to turn around anywhere and not see Sergeant Giacalone observing us. He lived in the barracks, in the NCO quarters at the end of the squad bay. Whether we were in the field or not, there would be no horsing around. If there was time for horsing around, there was time to study our guidebooks or complete an MCI course. The Marine Corps is a serious business — no time for slouching around. Those were the rules. I can hear him now, reminding us, “Focus people.”
The third squad stood in awe of Sergeant Giacalone, but then so too did everyone else. Even our company commander respected what Giacalone knew about field operations. Sergeant Giacalone took what our drill instructors taught us about teamwork to the next level. He was patient, repetitive, and direct. Time permitting, he would explain why this or why that, but no matter what, he issued his orders, and we obeyed them.
It was impossible not to admire Sergeant Giacalone, and it wasn’t long before we began to emulate his mannerisms. In formations, we stood tall because he demanded it. We learned to square ourselves away because he expected no less of us. No other squad in Echo Company could stand up to us; we were in Giacalone’s third herd. Looking back, 61 years, he was a worthy example. I cannot speak for the rest of the men, but for me personally, I carried a part of Sergeant Giacalone with me for the next three decades and into retirement.
There were, admittedly, a few occasions when Sergeant Giacalone was “too direct,” particularly when addressing seniors. He had no patience with officers when they meddled in matters that fell into the exclusive realm of the Marine Corps NCO. In such instances, he might suggest, “Excuse me, sir, but isn’t there something else you could be doing that is more suitable for an officer of your rank?”
Sergeant Giacalone may have been a rank-conscious snob, albeit in reverse. He avoided officers whenever possible, but when trapped, he was always correct and professional, as befitting an experienced NCO. Among those of us who were learning the trade, there was no such thing as a stupid question; officers, however, didn’t have that luxury. He expected more from college-educated lieutenants, and a silly question from one of these fellows may have elicited, “Sir, as you may recall from your second or third week of basic training …”
Sergeant Giacalone did have his biases, however. He did not like navy officers, swabbies, women Marines, disbursing pogues, shore patrol/military police, or mess sergeants.
I was one of Sergeant Giacalone’s snuffles in 1963 — snuffy being anyone below the rank of corporal. Since I was unprivileged, I don’t have any details about the events that allegedly occurred in the parking lot adjacent to the NCO Club. The rumor, however, was that there was a sergeant, an officer of the day, and several military police, the initial group of whom called for a backup. Sergeant Giacalone, it seemed, periodically went on a binge. I never saw the man in his cups, but snuffles didn’t run with the big dogs.
In any case, Sergeant Giacalone became a corporal a few days later. Rumor control had it that when Sergeant Giacalone went in to see the old man for nonjudicial punishment, he took his medicine, offered no excuses, apologized for his behavior, and agreed to talk to the “doc” about dealing with his demons. The company commander had a good size chunk of his ass, of course, broke him down in rank, fined him … but then sent him back to work. That’s how it was back then: mess up, pay up, get back to work. Giacalone was the only corporal in our company to serve as a squad leader.
Eighteen months later, I received orders sending me to another duty station. I checked out of the company and said goodbye to my squad mates. I thanked Corporal Giacalone for his leadership and his patience. He shook my hand and said, “Take care of yourself. And don’t embarrass me, goddamn it.” The last time I heard anything about Giacalone, he served as a gunnery sergeant in Vietnam. It’s where he died while trying to save one of his men. Semper Fidelis.
Notes:
[1] The story is true; the name is fictional.
Fix Bayonets! 