Marine Vignette #134, "Coupla' Vignettes," By Cpl Wittwer

From: WittwerG@sec.gov (WittwerG)
To: gunnyg@hotmail.com Save Address
Subject: Coupla vingnettes
Date: Fri, 18 Feb 2000 20:07:52 -0500
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Here's a true story about Maj Davidson, the XO of 1st ITR
at Camp
Geiger in 1965/66:

Just before I got out of the Corps I was with 2d MT Bn, TAD
for 6 mos
to 1st ITR. Although I was the Col's driver, it was usually
the XO
that I drove around in an International Scout (what a piece
of junk).
The Maj had a photo on his desk from some Gen that said
"Congratulations, Rock," followed by some compliments.
Davidson was a
poster Marine: at least 6' tall, very powerful build,
square jaw,
graying crew-cut hair, all that ****. He always talked
salty, too, and
called HQ "the barn" (I guess 'cause that's where all us
animals
stayed).

Davidson was always bragging up his dog & how he had been
taking it to
the ranges in his car, & how he could shoot shotguns &
pistols around
it without spooking it. So I pictured a German Shepard or
Doberman
posed nobly beside the Maj, willing to follow him or even
lead him
into hell. Imagine my amazement when we stopped by his
quarters one
day & he called the dog to come get in the Scout. It was
smaller than
a cocker spaniel, with long hair. I'm not a canine person,
so I
couldn't tell what breed it was, but it looked like a
reject from a
Disney "shaggy dog" movie. Not only that, the dog didn't
even have a
name like King or Rex, names that merit some respect; I
can't remember
what its name actually was, but it may as well have been
Soapy. On the
way to the "Racetrack," where the firing ranges were, it
sat under the
Major's legs with its tongue hanging out, drooling. It was
a hot day.

We got to the 3.5 range, where a platoon of Geiger Tigers
were getting
ready to familiarize on rockets. We left the doors on the
Scout open
so it would stay as cool as possible.

Rock & I were standing at a respectful distance from the
firing line,
and the dog was between us, drooling & wagging its tail.
All of a
sudden, KABOOM, the 1st round heads downrange. It was like
the dog
evaporated. I didn't see him leave, and neither did the
Maj. Since the
area around the rocket range was well cleared, the dog
couldn't have
been hiding close by, and so we should have been able to
see him
headed for the tree-line and the nearest cover, which we
couldn't. It
was as if that dog had been beamed up.

"Cpl," Rock says, "see if you can find Soapy." This pissed
me off, as
I could see myself out in the woods, looking for the mutt &
getting
covered with ticks. I'm also thinking the Maj has been
lying to me
about shooting any guns around his dog, or that he ever
took it to a
range before. So I'm out in the woods, whistling & calling
for the dog
& the rockets are going BOOM. BOOM. BOOM, & I figure Soap's
probably
getting deeper into the woods, so far away that I can't
hear him
busting through the underbrush.

After looking for about 20 min, I got tired of the search,
& came back
into the sunshine, dogless. I had left my smokes in the
Scout because
I didn't want them getting soaked with sweat. As I reached
in to get
them, I hear this vibrating noise, and think, "damn, did I
leave the
engine running?" I have the vehicle's key in my pocket, so
it isn't
the engine. Finally I locate the source of the noise. The
missing
pooch is up under the dash on the passenger's side of the
Scout,
shaking so hard that he makes the Scout rattle. I had to
keep a
straight face until I got the Maj back to Regiment, after
dropping off
the dog.

Another story about Maj Davidson:

We had this guy named Ribini, a PFC assigned to ITR as a
Remington
Raider (office pinky). While it was winter, I never noticed
him much,
but that changed when the warm weather came. Admin started
playing
volleyball to build morale, or to at least keep it from
going totally
into the ****can. The games were scheduled, and attendance
was
mandatory (organized grab-ass). That didn't bother me, I
like playing
volleyball.

I soon noticed that if you were downwind of Ribini on the
court, that
was a bad place to be. All by himself, he smelled like a
high-school
locker room. When the games were over, we all started
getting ready to
go to the head and shower, except for Ribini, who took off
his
skivvies and rooted around in his laundry bag for a dry
pair. The dry
pair was yellow, same color as the ones he took off. He
threw his
civvies on over them & said, "I gotta get to J-Ville & pay
some bills
before the stores close." On the way out he walked between
the big
floor fan and me, & I found myself in another place I
didn't want to
be.

I noticed that a couple of my buddies reacted just as I
had, like a
tide of sewage had just washed over them. They said, "Damn,
looks like
someone needs a GI shower." I didn't believe in GI showers,
except as
a last resort, and I was senior.

First, I got a washcloth and a bar of soap & left it on the
pillow of
Ribini's rack. The subtlety of this was lost on Ribini; he
failed the
fan-test. Well, maybe he needed something a little more
direct. I got
a magic marker and wrote on his pillow-case, "Ribini, you
need to
start taking showers." That didn't work either. On the
third day after
the barracks had been inspected, we grabbed Ribini's
cot-with laundry
bag attached-and carried it out onto the sidewalk between
the
barracks. Another message on the other side of the pillow
case (Ribini
had flipped his pillow so that the first message was facing
down)
noted that Ribini was not going to be allowed bring his
bunk back into
the barracks until we saw him not only showered, but in
clean clothes
(each morning he repeated the stunt of rummaging in his
laundry bag
for a "clean" pair of skivvies).

Maj Davidson showed up at HQ around noon that day & told me
to get the
vehicle so we could head out to "The Loop." As we motored
on our way
he sat there pensively for awhile, then said, "Cpl, I took
a walk
around the Company area this morning before coming to the
Barn. I saw
a rack out on the sidewalk between the barracks. Would you
know
anything about it?" "Yes, Sir, that's PFC Ribini's rack, &
he has not
taken a shower for at least a week. We are not letting him
back into
the barracks until he gets cleaned up." "Carry on, Cpl."
"Aye, aye,
Sir."

The rack move was enough to convince Ribini that we were
serious about
his "cleaning up his act," and he never failed to follow a
laudable
hygienic regimen as long as he remained with that unit. I
was happy
that we did not have to resort to brutal means to achieve
our aim
(filthy as he was, I certainly didn't want to touch him).
Perhaps
being physically outcast was even more embarrassing for
Ribini than
the traditional approach. All I know is, is that it worked.

Cpl Wittwer, USMC 1961-1966