I was in a bar recently when in walked a young man (to me, anyway; he was in his mid to late 30s, I'd say) who had a Marine Corps tattoo on his left bicep. I was across the bar from him but it jumped right out at me. I told the bartender that I would buy him a beer and when she relayed my offer to him he looked up in surprise, smiled and said he didn't drink. I was a bit annoyed because, after all, that wasn't the point; and never mind that he was bellied up to a bar. WTF? So I told him, patiently, that I'd buy him one of whatever he was drinking and "Semper Fi". He said thanks and "Ooh rah," which I guess is what Marines say today, God only knows why. And he kept calling me "sir," which was disconcerting to a former Sergeant. Do I – perish the thought – look like an officer? Or was it merely the deference that youth owes to experience? I don't know.
I couldn't stop staring at his tattoo. It was nothing much at all but it made a deep impression on me. It was a simple block-letter U.S.M.C., punctuation included. No one else seemed to notice, but it spoke volumes to me. It said, in my mind, to the civilian riffraff that crowded the place: I've been to places that you'll never go, done things you'll never do and I've been better than you'll ever be – I'm a Marine, then and forever, and that isn't something just anyone can be; I earned it and I'm part of a hallowed brotherhood.
He left, I left and life barreled ahead, but I couldn't stop thinking about that simple tattoo. I knew then that I had to have one, which seemed more than a bit ridiculous at my age – 62 – but a Marine Corps tattoo was something that I surprisingly, desperately wanted.
My wife didn't understand. She has been to Camp Lejeune to attend a Marine Corps Scholarship Foundation ceremony for my son, where she met Maj. Gen Raymond Fox; she has heard me endlessly extoll the virtues of the Marine Corps and has listened to me express my love and admiration for Marines and the Marine Corps, and she knows where I will be when the choice is between my monthly Marine Corps League meeting and any other commitment. But, she doesn't really get it. So she was horrified when I told her where I was going as I set off to a nearby tattoo shop. To her a tattoo is the mark of the beast, a pre-requisite for life as a carnival worker. For me, too. I'm no fan of "body art", except when it comes to something meaningful that highlights a connection to honor and excellence. So off I went, even as I risked the displeasure of the woman I love.
I was back home an hour later, freshly inked. My tattoo is on my left arm, above the bicep. It is a simple USMC (sans punctuation) in black with red highlights. It's small, discreet, and I think, elegant.
I live in New England, where sleeveless T-shirt weather lasts for about three weeks every year, more's the pity. But even in the depths of winter I know I'll be able to feel it, lending to not only my arm but to my very being the memory of my days on active duty when I was woken up each day with the greeting "Good morning, Marine! It's another day to serve the Corps!" Or, on bad days, "Incoming!" Now, God help me, I miss them both.
When, someday, I sleep the sleep of the dead, I'll be marked as a Marine, partly because of my tattoo. And, like my time in the Corps – good and bad – I wouldn't have it any other way.
Bill Federman
Sgt., USMC
1968-71
RVN 1970-71