Nine Lives...and counting: The Steel Coffin (USMC)
When I reached the age of seventeen (against my father’s will), I decided that I would quit high school and work full time--possibly in the construction trades. Since I was still living under my father’s roof, he gave me an ultimatum: “If you’re not going to finish school, than you will work full time in the bakery shop. As long as you’re living under MY roof, you will live by MY rules...and that’s all I have to say.” He knew that I hated the bakery shop, but since he was stuck in a rut working there, under some mysterious, obligatory, Gasparro family arrangements (of which he would never discuss); he wanted to make sure that I didn’t have the freedom of living my life according to my terms.
He was a bitter man, and rarely did I ever see him smile or laugh. My mother once told me: “Your father treats you so meanly, because he is jealous of you...Johnny.” Our neighbor, Grace, also explained to me that because I had so many “natural-borne” talents; my father probably feared that I would have a better life than his-- outside the bakery business. I acquiesced to my father’s demands and began working in the bakery shop full time, day and night. I got use to it and the money was good, for a seventeen year old.
One of the un-related bakers (Kenny) was a former Marine. He would occasionally tell me some stories (facts-of-life sort of stuff) to pass the time while he and I cut and shaped the mound of dough into loaf sized portions, on that long and wide butcher block table. He was a well groomed, thirty-something, handsome man who had the physical attributes of an athlete. I admired his independent attitude and the way he seemed so composed and cool during those long, hot summer nights in front of that white porcelain faced steam-oven. He was the one who loaded the hundreds of loaves of bread and rolls into that monster of an oven.
Some nights, when my father would embarrass and belittle me in front of all the workers—-which the son of a bitch often did--Kenny would come to the rescue. He would call me over to help him put the loaves of bread onto the pallets, and then build me up with a pep talk. In an undertone, he would say: “Don’t let that bother you son...you’re better than that.” I looked up to him, and I thought: “I want to be like him when I become a man. And, if that’s the kind of man the Marine Corps develops, THAT is what I want.” I needed someone to look up to, and Kenny and my uncle Vito set the example for me.
At seventeen and heading towards the liberating age of eighteen, puberty was knocking at my door, and my male hormones were going wild. My attraction towards the opposite sex was taking on an unusual perspective; I found myself attracted to older women. I suspected that my uncle Vito may have indoctrinated me (unintentionally) in this area of lustful interest; by relating all those carnal conquests of his, to me. This attraction started out in my mind as innocent fantasy, however because of my close relationship with Grace; I found myself in a very compromising position with her...one Spring morning.
Sitting at her kitchen table, while she was trimming my nails, and complimenting me on how I was developing into such a handsome young man; I became aroused by the scent of her French perfume, and her sensual touch to my hands. As I stared into her eyes, she slowly leaned over and kissed me. Before long, we were both consumed with lust. She stood up, and led me by hand to the sun porch, without a word spoken. We engaged in some very passionate lovemaking. I was no longer a virgin and my desires for older women became an obsession thereafter. For several weeks, I kept my distance from her house, while I tried to sort out my feelings and newly discovered emotions--which I presumptuously mistook to be “love.”
When I finally got a hold of myself, I decided to visit Grace and hopefully try to reconcile the situation between us. I wasn’t prepared to handle the new emotion I was about to encounter that day “jealousy!” Grace introduced me to this guy (Joe) who had just been discharged from the Marine Corps. He was working on the farm next to her house. He had a colorful tattoo of a bulldog on his muscular arm, with the letters (USMC) under it. And, he carried a pack of Camel cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve of his under shirt. He had a striking resemblance to a younger Marlon Brando. He even had some of his mannerisms. Of course I was impressed by his macho appearance. The fact that he was an ex-Marine only reinforced the thought of my wanting to join the Marine Corps.
After a short time, I noticed that Grace and Joe were becoming more than just friendly acquaintances. I felt rejected and jealous. As I recall, later that day, while I was repairing some damaged masonry for Grace, in the back yard; my anger and frustrations reached a boiling point. I grabbed the mortar pan and threw it at Grace. It grazed her arm and it caused her to bleed. She ran into the house crying. Adolf ran in after her. I abruptly left the property and went home to nurse my emotional wounds. That night, I made the rash decision to join the Marines Corps.
The next day, on my way down to the post office, I passed a bill-board sign that showed a Marine decked out in dress blues, with the heading: [“If you’ve got the body, we’ll build the man around it.”] That surely was the so-called “icing on the cake.” I rushed up to the second floor of the Post Office, to the Marine recruiting office. The Marine recruit Sergeant required me to have my parents sign a waiver because of my being under the legal age of eighteen. My mother was accepting of this move, however, my father was not. He said: “I don’t like this, but I’ll sign. He’s making his own bed and he’ll LAY in it!”
The very next day I was on a train headed for Paris Island, South Carolina (boot camp). After I graduated from boot-camp, my I-Q test scores qualified me for being “officer’s material.” So, I was sent to Quantico, Virginia, for (OCS) officer’s candidate school. I was assigned to the nuclear armament department, and given a (Crypto) clearance for security. Being a Marine Officer was not what I wanted. I requested to be assigned to a combat-engineer battalion, to be a heavy equipment operator. My request was granted and I was off to Camp Legeune, North Carolina.
While stationed at Camp Legeune, in 1962, I was involved in a major training exercise in the Atlantic Ocean, off the coast of Onslow beach. It looked like a scaled-down version of the D-Day landing in Europe. We were supposedly in preparation for making amphibious landings in Cuba, in case it became necessary to launch an invasion; to counter the Russian nuclear buildup there. President John Kennedy was on hand to view the exercises. The vehicle I was assigned to was called an (am-trak), which is an amphibious assault vehicle, used to make beach landings on foreign soil during war time. That particular model was the (LVTP-5A1) which had an emergency escape hatch overhead. These “steel coffins” (as they were so appropriately nick-named) were never really designed to float, as they weighed forty tons when fully loaded with a squad of Marines in full combat gear. They leaked and were very noisy inside the hull.
We were loaded into one of these monsters--like sardines packed in a can--while aboard the mother ship (LSD), anchored about a half mile off the coast of Carolina. The two gigantic bow doors of the LSD parted, and then the huge, corrugated steel ramp dropped into the ocean. Our am-trak rolled down the ramp with a thundering rattle as it tracked over the corrugations under our heavy vehicle, and then dropped like a boulder into the rough sea. We were totally submerged for about ten seconds and then popped up to the surface like a cork. Only about one foot of the vehicle actually projects above the water line. The operating engineer was having trouble keeping the engines running. And, to make things worse, the ramp-hatch wasn’t fully closed. Sea water was pouring in from the edges. The operator struggled to get control. The engines began to gurgle and burp. Then there was total silence. We all held our breaths. No engines meant no bilge pumps! We were overloaded and taking in sea water, as we began to sink below the surface. The operator took evasive action and struggled against the incoming water, to close his hatch shut, at the last minute. As the hatch slammed shut, we entered total black-out. Sealed in a steel coffin, and headed for Davy Jones’s locker, at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.
It was pitch black inside as we sat shoulder to shoulder with our full combat gear on our backs, and our rifles wedged between our legs. We were sinking slowly in a rocking motion from bow to stern, while the water rose around our boots. You can only imagine what it is like inside one of these things, at a time like this. For an eighteen year old country boy; this was a living nightmare, with no way out.
As we rocked back and forth in total darkness, on our way down, the Marines began to mumble to each other. The platoon sergeant yelled the emergency procedure to us: “You all know the drill! Wait until we reach bottom. Stand and take in a deep breath. Wait until the top hatch blows off. And then, rise up in the air bubble to the surface... and may God help us.” This was the only glimmer of hope we had—-an AIR bubble, in the vacuum between our heads and the ceiling above?
By now, with the increase of hydraulic pressure on the outside hull, sea water was cascading down on me from the partially closed turret hatch over my head. I struggled to catch my breath, as the ice cold, salt water ran down my face and soaked my body from head to toe. I was having a panic attack at eighteen years of age. This was a horrible way to die; I thought! As the water continued to rise and was now up to our knees, I began to flail my arms wildly at the cascading water over my head, trying to escape the confined space I was in. The squad leader in front of me, slapped my face and said: “Pull yourself together Marine! It’s time to make your piece with God!” At that moment, I began to pray the “our Father” and “Hail Mary” as I psyched myself up to accept death. I felt as if my heart stopped, as we hit the sea bed with a crashing thud. We couldn’t have sunk too far below the surface, because it seemed like only a couple of minutes to the bottom. I continued to pray, while my mind was in a state of denial as to where I actually was.
We weren’t at the bottom for any length of time, when I was startled out of my self-induced state of denial; by the ear piercing sound that reverberated throughout the interior of the hull. It sounded like the pounding of timpani drums. The squad leader told us that a Navy diving team had probably come down to winch us up to the mother ship. Everyone, in unison, gave a loud roar: “Oorah!” The water level kept creeping up on us, and I wondered how all this weight could possibly be winched up. We were told to lean towards the bow, because of the angle of ascent as the water rushed towards to rear of the hull. My worst fears were about to become a reality. As we ascended, and we reached the surface, I could see a ray of light visible through the small observation portal above us. Then I could feel the rumbling of our tracks as we were being dragged onto the ramp of the LSD. I held my breath. All of a sudden, the worst that could happen... happened! The steel cable that was winching us up snapped loose. There was dead silence. We were on our way down again! After the heart stopping action I had just experienced, now I was in for more of the same. Like the good Catholic, alter-boy I once was; I began to pray again: “Our father...who art in heaven....” Going down once was traumatizing enough, but twice!
It didn’t take long for the Navy to respond. I could hear the sound of that steel hook banging against the outside hull again. The Navy was obviously prepared and ready for this with their dive team. This time, as we were being pulled up onto the landing ramp of the LSD, there was a brief hold for a moment, and then there was a big jolt from behind and we were moving again. It felt like we were also being pushed! The am-trak quickly leveled out and came to an abrupt stop. Again, we all yelled out: “Oorah!” As our main hatch was lowered, we all piled out--along with the sea water. We were all completely soaked and exhausted from the whole ordeal.
As it turned out, the Navy had used additional winch cables from the on-board heavy equipment and also used the assist of another am-trak to push us up onto the LSD’s ramp, so that we wouldn’t break lose again.
After that experience, I hoped (and prayed) that I would never have to be in one of those vehicles again. But, I
knew that one day I would probably have to—-whether I liked it or not.
That was one hell of an experience! A great introduction to the Marines while only a training exercise.
My great uncle was a baker. I don't think he owned the shop, only worked there. Anyway, whenever we would visit, he would come back from the shop about 7 AM and deliver all kinds of fresh, still warm pastry for us to eat at breakfast. I don't recall him ever having any other occupation. With that job, he was able to build the house they lived in and raise four children.
My father was like your father. A bit disappointed with his career as a union truck driver and jealous of my twin brother and my success in school and possibility for future employment. He got us good summer jobs, though, to save money for college. The military was not in the radar although we were signed up for the draft.
Destiny's Daughter by Frances Altman highlights events in the life of Mary Edwards Walker, maverick suffragist, Civil War doctor and only woman Medal of Honor recipient.
When I reached the age of seventeen (against my father’s will), I decided that I would quit high school and work full time--possibly in the construction trades. Since I was still living under my father’s roof, he gave me an ultimatum: “If you’re not going to finish school, than you will work full time in the bakery shop. As long as you’re living under MY roof, you will live by MY rules...and that’s all I have to say.” He knew that I hated the bakery shop, but since he was stuck in a rut working there, under some mysterious, obligatory, Gasparro family arrangements (of which he would never discuss); he wanted to make sure that I didn’t have the freedom of living my life according to my terms.
