It was just the other day. I was having lunch with my dear, older friend Byron Scoggan, who is really more of a father figure for me. A Korean War-era Marine and the older brother of a Navy carrier pilot lost in that conflict, we share a common passion for the Corps and all it represents.
No matter how much we talk about our families, politics or the stock market, our conversation always drifts back to the Corps: how it was when Byron was in, how it was when I was in, and more recently just how superbly these young lads have performed in Iraq.
Somehow the subject of Bob Hope’s 100th birthday came up. Half jokingly Byron remarked how he always felt his Marine Corps time was not quite rounded out as he had never seen Hope perform live. I do not know why, but that thought stopped me in my tracks.
As a boy growing up in the 1960s, I well remember the Christmas television specials: Bob Hope with the Marines in Danang, Bob Hope at Dak To entertaining the army, Bob Hope onboard some aircraft carrier on Yankee Station in the South China Sea yucking it up with all those sailors.
Even as an adolescent watching, those warriors seemed as boys to me. I recall feeling both saddened and proud; saddened that those intrepid teen-agers were so far from home at Christmas, and proud that there were legions of these young titans engaged on the edge ensuring that the rest of us were safe back here.
There was something very private, something very fraternal to it all. Hope and the gathered masses seemed to be in their own private world. With an insider’s perception of his audience and his unique style, Hope played to this exclusive club of warriors only. The price of admission could not be paid for with dollars or connections. The vicarious experience was just not the same. You had to be there to savor the punch line. Hope’s presence at earth’s end made me want to be there, too.
When it came my time to serve during a Christmas in the far reaches, Bob Hope was somewhere else. Maybe that year he was with the flyboys at Clark AFB in the Philippines or with the Army in Berlin. Like my friend Byron Scoggan, I too would never become a member of the Bob Hope Fraternity that inextricably linked servicemen of three generations together forever. No matter. The USO was able to find and bless me in a very personal way, beyond anything Bob Hope might have done.
CAMP HANSEN, Okinawa –
During the normal course of operations while the Cold War raged, and after our involvement in Vietnam, Camp Hansen on the island of Okinawa represented the absolute tip of the spear for the United States Marine Corps in the Far East. Named in honor of a young Marine killed during the 1945 invasion of the last Japanese bastion in the Pacific, it was then home to the 9th Marine Infantry Regiment. Strategically located in the northwestern Pacific, Okinawa is both lovingly and derisively referred to as “The Rock” by those who serve there. The battalions of the 9th Marines and a large portion of the Third Marine Division were there to act as Uncle Sam’s 911 forces in readiness to respond to any military crisis throughout Asia and the Indian Ocean areas.
Just a few years prior to my participation, Marine Corps planners had developed the notion of rotating entire battalions, rather than individuals, between Okinawa and the major Corps installations in Hawaii, California and North Carolina on six-month deployments so that unit cohesion would be maintained, and turnover of personnel would not degrade combat readiness. It was a brilliant move, and this sort of whole-unit deployment is much the same today as it was when it began 25-odd years ago.
Before every unit’s departure for this “tip of the spear” six-month existence, each battalion undergoes an extensive battery of preparation and testing to ensure that it can deliver all that America has come to expect of her Marines. Mountain warfare training, desert training, combat in urban environments, the list is nearly endless. Every platoon in every company of each battalion is put through a crucible of screenings and live-fire exercises, giving added meaning to the line from the Marines’ Hymn “In every clime and place.”
Once they arrive on Okinawa the drilling continues, and ample use is made of the island’s jungle training areas, as are opportunities to work out with other nations’ militaries in such disparate locations as Korea, Thailand and the Philippines. For the warrior looking to hone his martial skills, the ascetic and near-monastic lifestyle on Okinawa and its environs are close to perfect.
Christmas Eve 1981
It had been a quiet day on The Rock. My unit, the 2nd Battalion, 7th Marine Infantry Regiment (referred to as 2/7 or “Two, Seven”), now attached to the 9th Marines, was in garrison standing down for the joyous holiday. The troops were generally lying low, huddled together in small groups mostly by fire team or squad, doing well what Marines do when not on duty – shooting the breeze about nothing in particular, rereading old letters from old girlfriends, eating, napping, whatever. For many, it was their first Christmas away from home. For a high percentage of these young Marines there was, no doubt, a sense of melancholy. The boys were missing mom’s good cooking and all of the other attendant Christmas blessings the folks at home take for granted.
Some of the troops may have been homesick. I was at home – 1st Platoon, Fox Company, 2nd Battalion, 7th Marines. For most of my young life I had wanted to be a Marine. Like most of the other Marines I have known, I wanted to fight for my country. I was right where I wanted to be. How could it have been any better?
My mother had sent over the obligatory Christmas care package of gifts and goodies. Included was a letter stating how odd the holiday for her would be with her baby half a world away. She and the rest of the family were feeling sorry for what I would be missing.
Truth be told, it was I who was feeling poorly for my friends who would never know the joy of service and an Okinawan Christmas. Admittedly, had I had a wife and kids back home my attitude might have been tempered. But here I was, a young, salty (or so I fashioned) lieutenant serving with men I admired and in a unit which consumed totally my loyalty. I had been with Fox Company for more than six months. Those young hard chargers in my platoon were an ersatz mix of kids from inner-city neighborhoods, barrios and white middle-class and poor families. In those days, one could still join the Corps with a less than perfect record in the civilian world. Some of the Marines were not quite choir boys, but they were MY Marines and we had grown close in that short period. I had every confidence in their abilities as Marines to do whatever we might be called upon to do.
My two closest buddies in Fox Company, Lieutenants Clarke Lethin and Geff Cooper, were superior young officers. My taste in selecting friends was vindicated here just recently. Lethin served as the G-3 operations officer for the 1st Marine Division and had a very large role in planning the invasion of Baghdad and Tikrit. Similarly, Cooper served as the battalion commander of the 2nd Battalion, 23rd Marines – the only reserve infantry battalion to take part in the Iraqi ground combat. (If you watched Fox News and were a Rick Leventhal fan, it was Cooper’s battalion the embedded reporter was attached to.)
We were ably led. My company commander was an experienced, exacting taskmaster and a capable teacher of young lieutenants. Our battalion and regimental commanders were both highly decorated Vietnam veterans who enjoyed wide respect from all of us who served under them. I recall no internecine squabbling or petty jealousies. I believed entirely in the goodness of the organization and the justness of our cause. We were highly motivated and thoroughly trained. We were good to go.
Always cognizant of world events and how they might impact life for me and my Marines, I had very deliberately cultivated good relationships with the men who staffed our battalion’s intelligence section. As we had just returned from an exercise in Korea, I was especially interested in that small tinderbox of a peninsula.
It was Dec. 23 when I happened to visit one of my friends in the intelligence (S-2) section. He seemed a bit harried as he pulled me aside. “Lieutenant, this is really strange. The North Koreans have suddenly begun activating certain airfields we know they haven’t used since the Korean War. The Navy is right now going to sortie a carrier battle group to the area from Japan – for Christmas. The North may really be up to something. This could be the real McCoy.” Wow. This could be it. In my youthful macho I could think of one thing only. Bring ’em on. Game time. Send in the varsity.
And so we entered the Christmas holiday. Suddenly, the whole thing was thick with meaning. Are we really going to war? You start to wonder – have we trained hard enough? Do I have the right stuff? Please, God, don’t let me mess up, etc.
The next day, Dec. 24, 1981, I was the designated battalion officer-of-the-day or OOD. When you have “The Duty” you are effectively the battalion commander’s deputy sheriff. It is really no big deal most of the time. You walk around the unit’s area, wearing a pistol strapped on, checking in with other Marines to ensure that everything is cool. You go to the armory to make sure all the weapons are secured. You go to the chow hall to make sure the Marines are not being poisoned. You visit with the MPs at the main gate to see if any of your boys have been fighting out in town. You check the message traffic to see if World War III has started. In between rounds you snooze or read. Normally dull and perfunctory duty.
USO Lady
It was early evening on Dec. 24 and I had just finished making my rounds to the chow hall and the battalion area. There was nothing new on the Korea situation. Sitting in the office that served as our tiny command post, with the door shut, I was preparing to take a nap when there was a knock and announcement from the young sergeant who was serving as my assistant for the evening.
“Excuse me, lieutenant?”
“Yes, sergeant, what is it?”
“Someone here to see you, sir.”
“Someone here to see me? Who is it?”
“The USO Lady, sir.”
“The USO what?”
“The USO Lady, sir.”
I remember quickly squaring myself away, putting my duty belt and pistol back on and stepping out to greet her. As I opened the door, it was immediately apparent there was something special about this woman.
“Good evening, ma’am. I’m Lt. Botkin. How can I help you?”
“Merry Christmas, lieutenant. Merry Christmas, sergeant. I’m here from the USO.”
She had appeared out of nowhere, alone. At the time she seemed old to me. She might have been 45 or 50; I was not sure. Plainly dressed and wearing no makeup, Farah Fawcett she was not. But her smile was genuine, and there was a different sort of beauty she displayed. She wore no wedding ring and looked like she should be teaching second grade in Kansas in 1955. What the heck was she doing here at Camp Hansen on Okinawa? And on Christmas Eve?
At her side was a small handbag from which she quickly produced several napkin-wrapped, freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. “These are for you two.” Still warm and moist, the aroma of an at-home Christmas began to drift through our small office. “Go ahead guys, eat up.” The cookies sort of pulled apart the way any superbly made fresh chocolate chip cookie would. The chips were still melty and soft. We quickly devoured her gift. “Thank you very much ma’am. That was a real treat. And certainly unexpected.” She smiled and nodded. “May I sing for you two?” “Sing for us? … Sure, I guess so.”
Right then and there, all alone, she began to sing “Silent Night.” Perhaps it is because I cannot hold a tune that I began to feel odd. I do not even like to have people sing “Happy Birthday” to me, and I am never comfortable in Italian restaurants where those cheesy troubadours come around to your table singing lugubrious Sicilian songs. This was different. She was not looking for a tip. She was singing from her heart.
At that time in my life I was not yet a professing Christian. However, it did not require superior discernment to sense her faith and the passion she had in serving. She sang heartily and with gusto. Her eyes bored into ours as we finally, albeit less heartily, joined her in song. It was as if she were looking deep into my soul, and while fully clothed, I felt naked. She sang three verses of “Silent Night,” each with the same level of enthusiasm. Not sure of the words to the second and third verses, my sergeant and I stumbled along with her. When she was done, she was done.
Emotionally drained yet spiritually charged, I was deeply touched, almost to the point of tears, by her simple magnanimity.
“Thank you very much, ma’am. You were so kind to come by. And the cookies were swell.”
“Thank you, lieutenant. Thank you, sergeant. For your service to our country.”
“No problem, ma’am. We’re happy to be here.”
“God bless you, lieutenant. Merry Christmas.”
“Yes, ma’am. God bless you, too. And thanks for coming to see us.”
She smiled a real smile and was gone in a flash. If my sergeant had not been there with me I might have thought it all just a pleasant dream.
Obviously we did not go to war with the North Koreans in December of 1981, and I never learned what the hubbub was all about. Perhaps the Communists were testing us, or were just trying to ruin Christmas for a few thousand sailors. Somebody somewhere knows the facts and never shared them with me.
Now, more than 20 years later, I often think about the time spent on The Rock. With my own sons fast approaching adulthood, I pray that they too will one day know the pure joy of service and the brotherhood of that service.
And I spend a bit of time recalling the kindness and service of that mysterious, unknown USO Lady who, in fewer than 10 minutes, burned her sweetness forever into my soul. I doubt I will ever see her again here, but someday I know I will get a chance to thank her one more time.
Richard Botkin, a member of the WorldNetDaily.com board of directors, was a Marine Corps infantry officer.
