That's not a stain on my dress blues, Sarge, that's ART!

Hello again, friends and neighbors. Time once again for a venture into uncharted territory. The "war story". By war story, I mean noncombat war story, thank Christ!
"What did you do in the war, Daddy?"
"I don't want to talk about it! Well, OK, let me have another Stroh's and I'll tell you. You know son, I slogged it out, toe to toe with the commies of Cuba, in a little backwater hell hole called "GITMO."

Yes, I was on "The Rock" in the bleak, dark days when the only torture going down was the chow we Marines, in moments of desperation (the day before payday usually) were required to ingest lest we starve, which on second thought was probably a decent alternative. Being on what is technically known in geographic terms as an "island" and being restricted to about 2 square miles of that island, opportunities for entertainment in our off time were a tad limited. I mean, how many quarts of whiskey can one man ingest in 72 hours? Well, quite alot it turns out.

First, a history lesson on how America (motto "We never a met a third world country we couldn't kick the crap out of, at least not until 1953") obtained the base to begin with. In short, I wouldn't know, but I have heard it had something to do with Teddy Roosevelt rough riding a seniorita known San Juanita Hill after war had been declared following a suspicious explosion on the USS Maine which was attributed by American zealots to Cuban rebels, but which in fact had been caused by the accidental ignition of methane gas which accumulated in the sailors quarters following a night of Dos Equis and burrito supremes from the local Taco Bell. The resulting loss of life (apparently one dozen sea anemones gave up their ghosts) inspired the iconic American publicist, William Randolph Hearst, already in pique due to the kidnapping and conversion of his granddaughter to a notorious gang of Democrats, drummed up false charges against the Cubans as being the miscreants responsible for the Maine's destruction. Thank God we've never gone to war on trumped up charges since!

To make a long story a bit longer, the Americans whomped those little godless Cubans and at the surrender table the following exchange took place.

President McKinley "We want that port down there at Guantanamo Bay for a naval base. We'll sign a 99 year lease, with an option to renew, so nobody can say we took advantage."

Cuban Leader "Well, it has a lot of value for our country, it is the main trade route for our cigar and Cuban sandwich trade and losing it will cause massive poverty in the region, not to mention the humiliation of an occupying force on our mainland!"

President McKinley "OK, We'll give you a buck for it."

The rest, as they say, is history. The United States became the proud owners of a Cuban port which had all the military strategic value of tits on a boar. As it turned out, Gitmo ultimately became the U.S. version of being shipped "to the Russian front" for Germany, or "to Siberia" for the Soviet Union. As a matter of fact, quite ironically, this is how I came to find myself stationed there. I had managed in some way, which is of no interest to my wife and children, to get sentenced, I mean assigned to duty at Gitmo by my First Sergeant, a great guy by the name of Brewington, a man who loved me like his own child. Ah yes, "The Brew" as we all called him. Wonderful sense of humor and would do anything for you. Ask anyone, (except Bob Duggan or Keith Doughty) they'll tell you. He just had unusual ways of showing it.

So, in the summer of '72 I found myself living it up in that Caribbean paradise, having beverages, eating, having beverages, standing guard duty and having beverages. This was interrupted only by my exciting regular 8 hour shifts in the communications center on "John Paul Jones" hill typing airplane coordinates, which consisted of 12 digit numbers and transmitting them to various other bases around the world and to Washington for God knows why! I really wondered if there was any reason for us having this base especially when I started reading the messages we were sent from all the other bases which consisted of reams of pages with, surprise, 12 digit numbers that were the same airplane coordinates I had so painstakingly spent hour typing and sending out. I finally realized the whole point was just to piss off Castro. Not that we hold a grudge or anything.

Anyway, what made me think of all this was that I recently read somewhere (possibly the stall of a toilet on the Ohio turnpike) that the Cleveland Museum of Art was going to host an exhibit that consists of the armor of soldiers from the middle ages. And I thought to myself, holy crap, they're calling old army uniforms and gear, "ART." Does this mean that there is a chance that all of my Marine corps uniforms and gear might wind up in an art museum somewhere in 500 years? Does that turn your stomach like it does mine? Naw, couldn't happen. They would have to go with some soldiers that were a little more spit and polish than me. I mean, I had a hat (or "cover" in Marine parlance) that I wore every day for 2 solid years and that by the end of my time little parts of cardboard had started poking out of the brim from the rips. I think the helmet I had issued to me (Hey, you never know) had something like "F*&%$ Nixon" written on the inside liner. My boots hadn't seen actual shoe polish since boot camp, and the belt buckles, buttons, ribbons and other little trinkets we were supposed to put on our uniforms had essentially started to oxidize and were losing all the princples of what would qualify as actual metal.

No, I think the art museums of the future will probably go with stuff from the TV commercials, shiny and crisp and military. That would be my guess, but I wonder...I think I'm going to go see that exhibit after all. I heard they have a suit of armor that has "F*&%$ Henry VIII" and "Anne Boleyn is a slut" etched on the inside.

Love
Dad