When I Became A Liberal

In 1960 I was a newly minted Marine stationed at Courthouse Bay, Camp Lejeune, undergoing intensive training as a combat engineer. As I remember the day started with a three mile run (Whether it was before or after breakfast I don't recall) and continued in the field with high explosives, mines (We were the ones who put them in and took them out), and booby traps. We were also taught to make improvised explosive devices with whatever we had at hand. I remember booby trapping a box of nails thinking joyfully how it would shred a human being. We dealt in death and destruction, and were proud of what we could do. We never considered the consequences to ourselves -- after all, we were immortal; we were Marines; we had survived Parris Island. What could be worse? We never considered what the enemy would do to us, only what we would do to him. Maim him; destroy him. We were the force even Mao feared. We were the force the Germans in WW1 cursed as "Teufel Hunden", Devil Dogs. Sir, yes,sir, we were immortal.

One day a mate of mine returned from the base library with a book he had borrowed. He was a very bright kid whose father was a physicist at Oak Ridge. "You gotta read this," he said and handed me the book. I can still see his face clearly, though I can't remember his name. The book was "Johnny Got His Gun" by Dalton Trumbo. I do recall watching the McCarthy hearings on television, but I had no idea of the Hollywood blacklist, still less of Dalton Trumbo, a guy with a funny name. "What's it about?" I asked my friend. "Just read it," he said. So I did. And I was stunned. I'd figured the book was some kind of boy's story, something you might find in a magazine like Boy's Life or Argosy. It was about page fifty when I realized what I was reading. The voice telling the story was that of a horribly wounded soldier, WW1, who had been in an explosion that had destroyed his arms, his legs, and his face. He had been reduced to a torso, a hunk of meat with a brain, no eyes, no mouth, unable to communicate, only to think. As he gradually discovers what he has become, so does the reader, and the shock of recognition absolutely stunned me. How that book ever made it into a Marine Corps library I do not know? My guess is that whoever ordered it had no idea what it was about. Just a good old book about a good old boy. Yeah, right. What it was was a devastating story about a man turned into a piece of meat, only with a mind that still worked, still thought, still remembered, still pondered, still cried out in the silence of his soul to be as he once was. It was an agonizing read, and the image of this poor wretch has never left me. It was the dawn of my personal politics. Gradually, the notion took root that I and my buddies, guys I had grown to love and trust more than anyone on earth, were merely pawns in the games of power brokers. What was engendered was not revolt but ambivalence, some of which is with me to this day so many years later. Being a Marine meant you had become a member of the greatest fighting force on earth. There were no Green Berets, no Navy Seals; there were only the Marines. And I was one. And I was so proud of it. Even today when I hear the Marine Corps Hymn tears come to my eyes. I straighten up. Do not mess with me. I am ready for battle. Note this: every American military unit has a song: Anchors Away, the Wild Blue Yonder, the Caissons Are Marching Along. Only the Marine Corps has a hymn. A hymn! Its final lines are, "If the Army and the Navy ever look on heaven's scene, they will find the streets are guarded by United States Marines." And yet. The older I became the more entrenched the idea that young men were sent to die for old men who wanted things their way. And yet. When I was at Yale in the mid-sixties I seriously considered going back on active duty. Semper Fidelis. Go figure.