Sgt. Grit Community

THE POPE AND THE MASTER GUNNERY SERGEANT   Pope John Paul passed away and found himself, at zero-dark-thirty, standing outside a set of locked, un-tended gates. He picked up a large stick and made the gate bars go 'rat-a-tat-tat' for about a minute or so until a very sleepy-eyed guard wearing only herring-bone pattern utility trousers and flip-flop shower shoes came to the gate from the guard shack and growled, "Waddya want?"   "I'm Pope John Paul and my best guess is that I've died and arrived at Heaven. If that is indeed the case, I have just concluded 68 years of working for God the Father and the powers that be must have thought I should check in here. Or do you have a different take on this situation…?"   The gate guard glowered at the Pope, scratched his crotch and walked back to the guard shack where he took the time to finish dressing, grumbling to himself, and grabbed a clipboard. On his way back he said to the Pope, "My last scheduled arrival was two and a half hours ago. I ain't got no orders here for you." He unlocked the gate, jerked his thumb at the Pope and said, "Just grab whatever gear you brang and in the morning we'll get some office pinky to figure this shit out. Then they can set up your training schedule."   After several minutes of walking through palmettos and gnarly pine trees in an area that a sign indicated was 'Elliot's Beach', John Paul glimpsed something out of the corner of his eye that brought him to an abrupt stop. There to his left was a large section of manicured grass surrounded by a wooden picket fence and an ornate gate – all painted a brilliant white so bright that it nearly lit up the night sky. But it was all in miniature! The fencing and the gates were only a few inches high. Odder still were the hundreds upon hundreds of what appeared to be tiny head stones!   Seeing his bewilderment, the guard said to John Paul, "Look – I know you don't have a clue. In the morning you'll go through receiving and get the whole picture. Very quickly, you're in the Parris Island section of Heaven and you're looking at the Sand-Flea Memorial Cemetery. These critters have been genetically engineered to enhance their natural viciousness and are an important part of the training experience. Their sole function is to instruct trainees in how to endure pain and also in slow, stealthy movement. Many of them are lost in the training regimen and are interred here… whenever we can find the bodies. Only their given names are inscribed on their head stones because they all have the same hyphenated last name. No other Heavenly training facility has the benefit of Sand-Fleas as a major part of the cadre. Their graduates will never know what they've missed."   "C'mon, let's move out!"   Shortly, they arrive at a group of old WWII quonset huts. Inside, all of the iron racks have a mattress and pillow without sheets or a pillow case and a ratty OD blanket imprinted with 'Property of the U.S. Army'. The locker-box he grabbed onto had a broken hasp and no tray. The Pope stowed his gear under the rack and crapped out.   The next morning he was awakened by sounds of loud cheering, clapping and laughter. He went out the front hatch and saw a golden headquarters building on a slight hill and a flashy Lincoln Town Car, top down, parading toward him from the clouds. The cloud walks were lined with saints, angels and ordinary folks, all cheering and tossing confetti. On the very back of the back seat there sat, in his dress blues, a United States Marine Corps Master Gunnery Sergeant; all of his campaign ribbons in place and his badges glistening on his chest, a cigar clamped in his teeth, a can of San Miguel beer in one hand, and his other arm around a voluptuous brunette angel with a magnificent rack of bouncing halos – plus another one above her head.   This sight disturbed the Pope mightily and he ran over to the guard shack and hollered, "Hey, what gives?" He was so pissed he didn't know whether to genuflect or make the sign of the cross! "You put me, the friggen Pope, with 68 years of good deeds in the service of the Lord God, in a damned ratty old quonset hut, while this Marine guy – who must've committed every sin known to man and broken all of God's laws – is staying in a golden mansion way up on the hill and getting a hero's welcome. How can this be?"   The Sergeant of the Guard calmly looked up and said, "Hey, man! We usually get a Pope up here once or twice a century – not always though. But this is the FIRST time we've ever had a Master Gunnery Sergeant!   Submitted by: Cpl. Bill Hart ANGLICO, 3/6 1953 – 56