Death of a Legend

I received word yesterday that a Marine had died, a very good Marine. That's not so uncommon these days, since they're dying in two countries at the present moment. But this one didn't die in combat, though the Vietnamese gave it their best shot many years ago. The Marine who couldn't be killed had three purple hearts. He was a big, tall man, long and lean, a machine gun squad leader. That made him an especially ripe target, and three separate times between 1969 and 1970 the enemy hit that target, but they never scored a bulls-eye. I met him when he was thirty, ten years after his first war, but I thought he must have been fifty because I was only nineteen and scared to death of him. He had scars. He swore. He had medals, lots of them, and a rare, threatening smile set beneath sad, scowling eyes that I could tell had seen things I could only guess at. He was never personally mean to me, or cruel, but always, always demanding, as a good company gunnery sergeant should be.

I have many memories of him, but the one that stands out most is of the day he inspected the guard shack as I trailed in tow, praying for a positive outcome. I was the Corporal of the Guard, and it was my guys who had done the cleaning and now wanted to go off duty. Everything was going well until he got to the urinal. I knew we had brushed it out and wiped it off, so I wasn't concerned. The gunny knew all the secret places, though, the real heart-breakers. I stood mortified with my little clipboard at my side as he dipped into the bowl and plucked out the urinal mint with his bare hand as casually as if he was reaching for popcorn. Didn't he know you're not supposed to touch those things? I mean, you just don't know where they've been! Yes, there was hidden filth under that mint. As I recall, the gunny never even said a word. He just looked at me with those hound dog eyes, holding the mint up for me to see before tossing it back in disgust. I was disgusted, but he was just having fun. I think only a man who had repeatedly cheated death could have done such a thing. And yes, we went on liberty late that day.

I last worked for the gunny in the fall of 1981, but I saw him many times over the next 30 years. He came to me often at night, in my dreams, knocking at the door of my house to drag me back into his Corps. I always tried to explain that there must be some misunderstanding, that I was out, discharged, civilian, but he would have none of it. He'd just give me that smile and say I must be wrong, and away we would go, into the night. I didn't like him much as a young man, and I didn't like him coming to my house. But when I found out recently that he was well aware of many of our foolish antics up at Camp David, things we thought we'd kept hidden, well, I started to see him differently. And when I found out that it was Lou Gehrig's Disease that finally felled him I began to mourn. It seems a particularly cruel end for one who'd given so much to this country over more than three decades of service. I hope that he comes back one last time to visit me. I think this time maybe I'll welcome him... So goodnight, Louis Goodman, wherever you are, and Semper Fi. You will be missed.