After the (Cuban Missile Crises) was over and a nuclear, world war III was averted by President John F. Kennedy; the LST (Landing Ship Troops) that I was aboard, ran directly into a raging hurricane about fifty miles off the coast of Cape Hatteras, North Carolina. An LST has somewhat of a flat bottom keel, which makes it very vulnerable to tipping over in a violent storm at sea. We were taking on huge waves, several stories high, that were white-capping at the peaks from the over one-hundred mile an hour winds. We were listing at roll-over angles at times, and one of the big (six by) troop trucks, chained to the open deck, broke loose and slid into the ocean. I watched this through the focsle porthole on the bow. It got worse! The cables that control the rudder broke loose and we were at the mercy of the sea’s mountainous swells. The on-board C-bees attachment managed to weld the cables and saved us from rolling completely over. I recall the Captain saying: “This storm’s gonna push us right into the beach.” Yes, I did get sea-sick and I did puke my guts out. By the grace of almighty God...we made it to shore—-minus some of the ship’s cargo!
After settling down at the base for a short time; my platoon was sent to Vieques Island, off the coast of Puerto Rico, in the Caribbean. It was there, while on liberty call in Puerto Rico that I finally got to the “tattoo” business. It wasn’t anything to outrageous like other Marine’s pretentious tattoos. It was just a small, bald eagle, perched atop the globe, with a scroll that reads: U.S.M.C. And, it was placed inconspicuously on my upper arm, so that it would hide under my short sleeve shirts. It just seemed like the right thing to do... at the time. I’d be remiss; if I neglected to tell you that I was court-martialed and stripped of rank, because of being AWOL in Puerto Rico, and shacking up with a bar-girl there. I recall hitching a ride back to Vieques Island on a “banana boat.”
After six months in the Caribbean, I returned to Camp Legeune, to resum combat infantry training. I liked being at this base because of the close proximity to this quaint little village of Jacksonville. Bars, women and booze! I would go there often, in the evenings, on liberty pass. I liked frequenting the bars there because most of them had pool tables in the back room. I had become pretty proficient at shooting pool and I often would play for money. My buddy (Larry) would call me “hawk eye” because I could shoot past a ball on the table, in a shot so close, that it would move slightly from the air movement as the cue ball passed by. The red-necks, whom I usually played nine-ball with, would call me a “hustler.” Some of those red-necks were also Marines in civilian clothes; as I was too.
One hot summer night, my buddy and I decided to go into town and try to earn some money, so that we could make a trip to his home town in Ohio, on a leave-pass. At this point, I was as good as I could be in shooting nine-ball on a professional table. We took the bus ride into town. We heard of this bar in Jacksonville, where they had a professional sized pool table. That’s where we went. We sat at the bar and had a few beers, while we did a recon of the area for any possible prospects. There were a few likely players in the back room, so we went in as inconspicuous as possible--considering I had my own cue stick in a leather pouch. Larry and I went over to a lone table and began shooting some pool. I employed a few trick shots that I had learned, and that drew the attention of one of the players. He came on as being somewhat cocky and self-assured. He had his own cue stick too!
We set the stakes at five dollars for the nine-ball. As we played, I purposely let him get ahead, with an occasional win myself. We kept raising the limit on the nine ball, until we got to fifty dollars. Some hours went by, and we bumped heads all along. The room was filled with cigar and cigarette smoke; the bar had last call and I was running out of steam. It was getting late, and so I wanted to raise the limit to one hundred dollars, with the intention of winning all his money--so that I could get back to the base before roll call in the morning. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his redneck buddies (some of whom I recognized as Marines) getting pretty frustrated and depressed, as they watched their stake in him dwindle. When I said that this would be the last game, this guy got angry and said: “You’re not goin’ anywhere till you gives me a chance to win back some of ma money.” I played a few games with him to let him win back a couple of hundred dollars. Then Larry and I gave it our ol’e Marine Corps stand, and said: “We are going out that door... right now!” They stood and stared at each other as we walked out. All my senses were alert to any movement or sounds behind us. When we got outside, Larry frisked my pockets and said: "Damn...we must have over a thousand dollars. In 1963, that was a lot of money!
We headed back to the base on the last shuttle bus out. I hated that early morning ride, with all those drunk and rowdy, vomiting Marines. When we arrived back at base camp, Larry went his way, and I went my way. As I entered the barracks recreation room, in the dark, I was suddenly and violently pulled from left to right by two strong men. It was too dark and difficult to see faces. The next thing I knew; I was being used as a punching bag. One big redneck kept punching me in the face, while another guy was kicking me in the chest and ribs. Two men were holding my arms while this was going on. At that time, I was proficient in karate and judo, However, with both of my arms being pulled apart, and the barrage to my face being so fierce and so fast; I didn’t have the time or energy to fight back. They finally let me drop to the floor. While down, I was able to recognize some of the voices I heard, squabbling for the money. I could feel them searching my pockets and taking the wads of money that I won. I do recall one of them saying something like: “Let’s finish the “wop” off and leave ‘em in the gutter outside....” Those “rednecks” hid moonshine in their lockers, and back then they were a rough bunch of characters, when filled with 150 proof "white-lightnin", even for Marines. Being “ambushed” by your own men, especially Marines, was not characteristic of: “A few good men!” However, back in the early sixties, in the Deep South, prejudice and hatred towards blacks, Italians, and "Yankees" was still prevalent among the rebel rousers.
I did manage to get up and stagger to the night watchman’s desk, as bloodied and bruised as I was. And, I recall instinctively holding my right eyeball into my eye socket, because it was bulging out. I remember drifting in and out of consciousness while being rushed to the base hospital in an ambulance, with all the red and blue lights flashing, and the deafening sound of the sirens. The next day, I found myself (once again!); lying in a hospital bed, my face wrapped in gauze bandages, and in a chest cast. My right eye was swollen like a golf ball, and I was sore all over my body. The nurse came in to give me more morphine drip. She told me this: “You have a major concussion; your right eye was hanging outside the socket; you have some cracked and broken ribs, and you have numerous contusions and abrasions.” She also said that I was fortunate to be alive with the beating I took.
I spent the next month in the hospital recuperating. My buddy Larry came to visit me one day and said: “John...what are you going to do about this?” I said: “When I get out of here, I am going to take care of them, one by one--no matter how long it takes.” I also recall telling Larry: “Spread the word in the barracks, to put some fear of expectation in those bastard’s minds!” He did as I asked.
When I did return to the barracks, I was brought before the CID (criminal investigation division) for questioning. When asked what happened to me, I said: "I was involved in a brawl in the city, by a bunch of drunk civilians. They joked: "Well...it looks like YOU got the worst of it...Marine!" They suspected that I was covering up for the rebel Marines, so they dropped the case, and suggested that I transfer out of the outfit to prevent any "further conflict." A few of the redneck gang had already transferred out of the outfit. I was able to get some vengeance on one of the two leftovers (Red) one night while in the village; in an alley by the bar. I got to practice some of my Jujitsu skills! The last one, the biggest one (West), the one who put my eye out; I ran into him a year later, on Okinawa. I hunted him down with my Colt.45, not intent on killing him, but only to scare the hell out of him...which I did! I cocked a round into the chamber (for a moment, I considered shooting him in the leg) but aimed at his crotch. I said: "You owe me money!" I recall him pleading with me: “Please... don’t shoot me now. I’m close to being discharged!” I was too, and so I had a "moment-of-clarity," while facing him: (After all the crap I’ve endured for four years; I’m not going to let this bastard put me in the brig (Military Prison)for a few hundred dollars...I want out!) I put the safety on. He ran his ass off and I think I saw a wet spot in his crotch. Thank God that my pent-up rage had that "moment-of-clarity."
In retrospect; that eye twitched and fluttered for a number of years later. I can recall the first embarrassing moment when I was on a date, with my girlfriend, at a restaurant, and it began to flutter uncontrollably. I tried to hide it with my cupped hand, but I finally had to give in and explain to her about the "accident."
You certainly were lucky to have survived that beating. And, not lost that eye as well as get some revenge. Like you wrote, so much more, "a few good men."
I hear stories about how great it was back in the 1960s, but your story reminds me of the bigoted and bad side of that era where beatings like yours commonplace. Maybe the story writers are longing to go back to that kind of behavior that's becoming less and less tolerated with cell phone videos and rules of behavior.
The neighbor of mine who entered the Navy at that time was a tough farm kid who had to save an Indian buddy of his who would often get drunk and get into scrapes while they were out together. Those were the days…
Jack Kelly was a child performer, son of New York model, Nan Kelly, brother of actress, Nancy Kelly, brother-in-law of actor Edmond O'Brien and cinematographer Fred Jackman, Jr. On TV, from 1957 until 1962, he was James Garner's brother on the show,
The story of Ron Hull, paralyzed in a surgical accident back in the dreaded polio epidemic days, was able to overcome most of the stigma and stereotypes and "pass for normal" for 30 years. As Ron's paralysis increased gradually through the next 20
