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     Michael W. Mann is going to my old “institution of higher learning”. He’s going to Parris Island for his Marine Corps training. Of course this is another introduction to hard life. Michael is my nephew.

     In my case I was grouped with other Marines at Fort Jackson in Columbia. It seems strange now as it did initially back then to go up to Columbia to go to Parris Island. I lived very close to Parris Island anyway. I know now why we were brought together into Parris Island. It was for the shock and awe factor to stun the enemy into submission and obedience. The recruit is not a Marine. The recruit is a lump of raw clay, actually more dirt and mud, that must be torn down in every way in order to become a serial numbered piece of the military machine.

     I imagine things may be different now at Parris Island. Perhaps PI is as Fort Jackson was when on leave I was coaxed into visiting a hometown friend who was going through army boot camp at Fort Jackson. I was told there would be no problem seeing him. My friend had been to see him and knew the procedure. Sure enough while my friend was going through his training he was a little freer than we at PI. We found my friend in his army fatigues sitting in front of the TV. I believe that we interrupted his watching his favorite show. We had no TV and no visits from anyone at PI.

     Things were a little different at PI. Upon reaching the base and coming to a stop we were greeted by some great guys who came on the bus and told us we had 3 seconds to get off the bus and that two of those were gone. We stood in the yellow foot prints at attention while being shouted at. This was late at night and we then set about getting our heads shaven, duffle bags, clothes (utilities, underwear, wool socks), boots, tooth brush, powder razors, other toiletries, letter writing gear, brass polish, boot polish, and whatever else would make our lives so comfortable. This lasted for hours and hours.

     We finally made it to sleep after being reminded that there was no talking or sounds of any kind to be made.

     After sleeping for at least minutes we were shock and awed by trash cans thrown and our drill sergeants yelling for us to stand at attention and the law was laid down. Each recruit was individually torn down verbally. When Sgt. Sewell came at me and yelled the question of whether I understood him, I rebelliously sneered, “yes sir”. He softly said, “That’s alright Davis, we’ll straighten you out.” This was equivalent to “good morning”.

     Needless to say “I was straightened out”.

     I hope my nephew doesn’t get Sewell. I’m sure he’s a general by now. He rose quickly to Staff Sergeant. I believe he was 23 or so. He was one of the youngest Staff Sergeants ever, for the Marine Corps. They didn’t just hand out rankings and ribbons. When he hit someone he knew what he was doing. He had a knack for hitting me right below the ribs to deflate my lungs and then dare me to “not stand erectly at attention”. I almost liked it when the other two drill instructors hit me.  Sewell could walk head down between rows or recruits and very quickly put his knee into a recruit’s chest.

     One day Sewell was instructing us on how to turn the backpack strap so that the strap would not cut into your side or arm. He did not want to see anyone turn the strap the wrong way. It was certainly not my intention to sit at the front of the class, sitting on the floor, right in front of him. It appeared to be a mirror image and quickly I would have seen my error had I not been squirming around on the floor trying to get Sewell’s fingers out of my eyes.

     We were kept busy for the 2 months training at PI. Protocol, history of the Marine

Corps, physical training, rifle training, pistol training, KP of all kinds, etc.

     I was there in January and February. Snow was on the ground. The wind was horrendous. We had one of the worst accuracies recorded of the rifle range. Later in Okinawa after Vietnam I would shoot one point less than expert. This “record” we had at the rifle range seemed to not sit well with Sewell so we were punished.

     Punishment/extreme exercise seemed to follow some screw up by one or two folks and the entire “unit” would have to pay. Each soldier would be an integral cog of the unit.

     We had class on disassembling the 45 cal. Pistol. Our test final on this class was to reassemble the 45 cal. Pistol blind-folded. We had to reassemble the pistol without eyes.

This was to be done to finish Parris Island. A recruit needs to get off that island or repeat all training and even take a mandatory excursion into the swamps and marshes for a day or until you had a “better attitude”.

     On this day I was able to reassemble the pistol incredibly fast. I finished and removed my blind fold to see Harry Blackwell from Aiken, SC having trouble.

     I have known two Harry Blackwells. Both were in the USMC. The one I met in Vietnam was from Queens. I was envious or jealous of the Queens Blackwell. He got tons of mail in comparison with me. But alas I was an ass.

     The Harry Blackwell from Aiken was brilliant in my opinion. He was a great Marine. He did everything well and I thought he could have gone to college. This opinion was acquired from very little conversations and more actual dealing with rifles, guns, or anything. He was a very quick learner. I was slower to learn, not as mechanical minded, and screwed up the high school education I did have.

     I was surprised. Harry was better than everybody there at this type of assembly I thought. I removed my blind fold and saw Harry fumbling. The drill instructor in charge of this training had his head turned in another direction. I grabbed the pistol out of Harry’s hand and assembled it very quickly. After all I now had my eyes.

     So perhaps I saved Harry from getting the wind knocked out of him that day. If it had been someone else who needed more training I may have not helped. There was nothing to consider on this day though. Harry would not have learned anything new had I not interfered. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred he could have shown me up. His receiving any punishment today would not serve any purpose.

     I saw Harry years later at his Gas station outside of Aiken. He’s done great I’m sure.

     After being at PI a while we were allowed to smoke. I may have done it just to get out of the barracks, which we never did but for classes or such. Recruits or soldiers march everywhere if there are three (at least in boot-camp). There was no “lounging about”. But smoking was only allowed once at night. We had to lock our footlockers and march out of the barracks and march into a circle. One recruit had a bucket with sand and a match. He would call out that “the smoking lamp was lit”. He lit the first cigarette and every other cigarette was lit from that one in both directions until the last smoker at the other side of the circle finally lit his. I was that guy and by that time “the smoking lamp was out”. When I came back in the barracks I saw that I had left my foot locker unlocked, and much to my chagrin Sewell had seen it too.

     Toward graduation of PI we were allowed to talk among ourselves more. The day before our graduation I somehow caused Staff Sgt. Sewell to rip a button off my shirt. If not me it would have been another recruit.

     He prepped us before graduation that if our parents were there that we had better introduce ourselves correctly. If we did not he would call them son-of-a-bitches or whatever he wanted and if we didn’t like it he’d beat the shit out of us, and if our fathers didn’t like it he’d beat the shit out of them, and if our mothers didn’t like it he’d beat the shit out of her as well.

     I took him at his word.

     There is so much to the story of my time in the military and otherwise. We don’t have time for that now.

     Michael Mann is now “at bat”. Michael Mann is center stage. Michael is an action figure and a lot more. Michael is relinquishing his entire life for years.

     Everyone in the Marine Corps is taught weaponry even though they may be in an office. Every Marine regardless of training can be given a rifle at any time. The infantrymen will always have to “secure the area”.

     No matter. You are going. You will not return the same Michael Mann on your return. Michael Mann will morph into another Michael Mann and will be okay. Someday, if not sooner.

     I don’t get the constant trials and why there is a war. I know there are greed, lust, hunger, and a plethora of other reasons.

     Michael, I want you to know that regardless of how this Marine has/will continually turn out, I will always try to do the right thing.

     Now you have to be brave. You have to act in every circumstance as if your Mom or Dad were there. You can’t throw your life away over trivial outcomes but you are to be tested for the rest of your life as you know.

     I want to give some figures that will not be popular. I am not running for mayor. I care about you and your soul. I don’t want you to be confused as I have been and still am.

     The bad news: About 80 % of our citizens of the US will not really care about you and your contributions in this life. You will be able to trust less than 20% of most folks. Combat situations will differ. As for me the odds are way slimmer. Another story.

     It doesn’t matter. We have to do right and be right as the circumstances of our lives unfold.

     Be your best. Your memory can be agonizingly accurate later.

Be impeccable with your word.

Don’t take anything personally.

Don’t make assumptions.

Always do your best.

(The Four Agreements)

Never desert your country but don’t be surprised when they desert you.

Always try to do more for others than they might for you.

There are millions of reasons to fight. All may be wrong.

If you’re going to fight- fight for the best reasons-

God, family, love, and yes for peace.

When we pray this prayer:

Our Father which art in Heaven,

Hallowed be Thy name,

Thy Kingdom come,

Thy will be done,

On earth as it is in Heaven.

Forgive us our trespasses

As we forgive those who trespass against us.

For Thine is the Kingdom, the power, and the glory.

Forever, Amen

We pray that this world and this planet will resemble Heaven.

When you can- keep a journal of your adventure.

Document events and times with receipts or whatever you can.

This is proof of who you are and where you’ve been.

This is your life you are living. It’s worth recording.

Take photos. Be a reporter of your time here on Earth.

There are many things that many can say.

Just be true to yourself and hurry back.

Be careful.

Happy trails, Michael

Semper Fi

Vietnam Days

     In the meantime, in the early morning hours of November11, 1918, a shrill fire whistle began to blow, mingled with all the other bells and whistles in town. At first some thought there was a massive fire. Others guessed the real news and soon everyone was screaming with joy. A parade spontaneously formed. It included the town band, followed by the town fire truck, followed by hundreds of cars decorated with American flags. Children gathered in the town square and shot fireworks. An elderly Negro woman marched up and down Broad Street, the main thoroughfare, waving the American flag. For one day, at least, segregation took a backseat as other Negro citizens joined the march around the courthouse square and the celebration inside it, waving more flags and shooting fireworks with Caucasian citizens.

     But if any Negroes thought that their loyalty and aid in winning the war would finally lead to true democracy and equality, they soon discovered they were wrong. Caucasians throughout Georgia, as elsewhere in the South, made it clear to returning Negro veterans that seeing them in uniform or hearing that they were determined to no longer suffer the injustices of Jim Crow was an offense to their sensibilities. Roughly sixty miles northeast of Bainbridge, in the town of Sylvester, Daniel Mack, a Negro veteran, was sentenced to thirty days in jail for announcing that now that he had been to France and fought for democracy, he would no longer accept mistreatment from Caucasians. As severe as it was, even that punishment wasn’t enough in the eyes of some local citizens. Before he could finish his sentence a mob broke into the town jail, dragged him out, and beat him to death. Closer still to Bainbridge, in Blakely, forty-three miles to the north, as soon as Wilbur Little alighted from the train after returning from the war, he was forced by a group of local Caucasians to take off his uniform and walk home in his underwear. Despite such intimidation he was resolute in his determination to wear it around town anyway. As a result, he eventually paid with his life.

     We kept our eyes straight forward and did not look at the crowd except for occasional glances to see what was going on. All of a sudden I saw a face I remembered- the drunk from the bus station sit-in. My eyes lingered on him just long enough for us to recognize each other. Today he was drunk too, so I don’t think he remembered where he had seen me before. He took out a knife, opened it, put it in his pocket, and then began to pace the floor. At this point, I told Memphis and Pearlena what was going on. Memphis suggested that we pray. We bowed our heads, and all hell broke loose. A man rushed forward, threw Memphis from his seat, and slapped my face. Then another man who worked in the store threw me against an adjoining counter.

     Down on my knees on the floor, I saw Memphis lying near the lunch counter with blood running out of the corners of his mouth. As he tried to protect his face, the man who’d thrown him down kept kicking him against the head. If he had worn hard-soled shoes instead of sneakers, the first kick probably would have killed Memphis. Finally a man dressed in plain clothes identified himself as a police officer and arrested Memphis and his attacker.

     Pearlena had been thrown to the floor. She and I got back on our stools after Memphis was arrested. There were some whit Tougaloo teachers in the crowd. They asked Pearlena and me if we wanted to leave. They said that things were getting too rough. We didn’t know what to do. While we were making up our minds, we were joined by Joan Trumpauer. Now there were three of us and we were integrated. The crowd began to chant, “Communist, Communists, Communists, Communists.” Some old man in the crowd ordered the students to take us off the stools.

     “Which one should I get first?” a big husky boy said.

     “That white nigger,” the old man said.

     The boy lifted Joan from the counter by her waist and carried her out of the store. Simultaneously, I was snatched from my stool by two high school students. I was dragged about thirty feet toward the door by my hair when someone made them turn me loose. As I was getting up off the floor, I saw Joan coming back inside. We started back to the center of the counter to join Pearlena. Lois Chaffee, a white Tougaloo faculty member, was now sitting next to her. So Joan and I just climbed across the rope at the front end of the counter and sat down. There were now four of us, two whites and two Negroes, all women. The mob started smearing us with ketchup, mustard, sugar, pies, and everything on the counter. Soon Joan and I were joined by John Salter, but the moment he sat down he was hit with something that appeared to be brass knuckles. The blood gushed from his face and someone threw salt into the open wound. Ed King, Tougaloo’s chaplain, rushed to him.

     At the other end of the counter, Lois and Pearlena were joined by George Raymond, a CORE field worker and a student from Jackson State College. Then a Negro boy sat next down next to me. The mob took spray paint from the counter and sprayed it on the new demonstrators. The high school student had on a white shirt; the word “nigger” was written on his back with spray paint.

     We sat there for three hours taking a beating when the manager decided to close the store because the mob had begun to go wild with stuff from other counters. He begged and begged everyone to leave. But after fifteen minutes of begging, no one budged. They would not leave until we did. Then Dr. Beittel, the president of Tougaloo College came running in. He said he had just heard what was happening.

     About ninety policemen were standing outside the store; they had watched the whole thing through the windows, but had not come in to stop the mob or anything.

The above was taken from “Coming of Age in Mississippi” by Anne Moody.

After several other demonstrations:

     Our cell didn’t even have a curtain over the shower. Every time the cops heard the water running, they came running to peep. After the first time, we fixed them. We took chewing gum and toilet tissue and covered the opening in the door. They were afraid to take it down. I guess they thought it might come out in the newspaper. Their wives wouldn’t have liked that at all. Peep through a hole to see a bunch of nigger girls naked? No! No! They certainly wouldn’t have liked that. All the girls in my cell were college students. We had a lot to talk about, so we didn’t get bored. We made cards out of toilet tissue and played Gin Rummy almost all day. Some of us even learned new dance steps from each other.

After several other demonstrations:

     All of a sudden, the air was full of laughter from teen-agers on the church lawn. At that moment, the two cops jumped the little ditch between the street and the church lawn and began pulling a young man named McKinley Hamilton toward the street by both arms. When they made it to the ditch, they jumped again, still dragging McKinley, who was stumbling behind. They thought he was resisting them. One of the cops cracked him across the head with his billy stick, and the other joined in. The licks were hitting hard and sounded loud against McKinley’s head. Two more cops joined in. The Negroes on the lawn began to move slowly toward the street.

     “Stop beating that boy!” Mrs. Chinn yelled.

     “We ain’t gonna take that!” someone yelled as every Negro on the lawn began to move faster.

     McKinley was down on the pavement in a pool of blood. By the time the Negroes reached the ditch, a jeep driven by a cop had pulled up. As McKinley was picked up bodily and thrown into it, big clots of blood dripped from his head and you could only see the whites of his eyes.

     “They killed him!” some old Negro screamed.

     “Jesus, they’ve killed the boy,” cried another.

     I don’t know how I got there but I found myself standing on the edge of the ditch with the other Negroes. I realized that within a second or so all hell was going to break loose and that I, too, was going to be a part of it. I turned and looked at the crowd. Everyone in the church was now standing on the church lawn- about six hundred Negroes. They were raging with anger.

     “Come on, let’s go back inside!” Reverend Cox was yelling over the noise that filled the air. Almost everyone ignored him and continued talking. “We can’t handle this out here this way! Let’s go inside and discuss it.”

     Suddenly there was a new commotion as I started back toward the church. Two white men were standing in the street. Negroes were shouting at them. “What happened? What happened? You men are crazy,” a teen-ager yelled.

     “Weren’t you sitting over there in that car?” shouted another teen-ager. “We saw you. And you saw what happened just like we did!”

     Angry shouts from other teen-agers and adults forced the two white men to retreat to a red car that had been parked at the intersection by the church all morning. “Who are they?” I asked Mrs. Chinn, who was standing just outside the church door.

     “FBI’s,” she said. “They were sitting over there and they saw it all just as we did, and them bastards had the nerve to ask what happened.”

Someone may say now,

“How dare he take this civil rights struggle and use it out of context?”

If you think that the civil rights issue is over you are wrong.

If America doesn’t support its Veterans it is a fake country, with fake people.

Just as a white chief of police and a black SLED agent framed me,

they can frame anybody and they do.

The words above and throughout will demonstrate that

our government

cannot be trusted with a damn thing.

Not for the entire 200 plus years of existence.

Police officers will cause grief and then stand around and watch while they do nada.

Black, white, brown, get over it.

What I’m saying is that “buy all the “support the troops ribbons” you want.

It won’t mean shit unless you treat the Vet with respect.

All people deserve respect.

If you don’t respect the Veteran, get the hell out of the country that I fought for.

Judge Lyerly- Get the hell out of my country- you “piece of shit on a good man’s shoe”.

This is how a large part of America works:
 Let's say this doctor has his Cayman Island account shielding his money from taxation,
Upon telling this doctor, that I was diagnosed with PTSD,
the doctor says, "I don't know how we (America) will pay for all this."

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 email Michael at gr8bikn@yahoo.com