Hello Sgt Grit;
I'd like to submit this story for possible publication in your newsletter. I have to say that I'm an avid reader and enjoy your newsletter with my morning coffee. I'd also like to say that while I've order from your store I've never visited personally. I'm almost afriad too, you have way to may toys, AND I WANT ALL OF THEM!!!!!
Anyway, this is a true story, it's my own personal memories. I'm attaching a photo that was taken the day these events occured. If you choose to use this article please include the photo and use the following caption "From left to right, Greg H, Russell H and John H". Also please include my e-mail if you think it appropriate.
The Exploding Armadillo or How Three Young Marines Spend a Day of Leave
It was the best of times ….. It was the worst of times ….. Wait, that’s the “How I Spent My Summer Vacation Story”. On a side note; the summer of 1978 I was the guest of the United States Federal Government, Department of Defense, Department of the Navy, United States Marine Corps, Marine Corps Recruit Depot, San Diego, CA, Recruit Training Regiment, 1st Recruit Training Battalion, Charlie Company, Platoon 1046. Under the tutelage of Senior Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Yoshii, Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Scales and Drill Instructor Sergeant Gorell, three very jovial and informative gentlemen. A summer I’ll never forget. This is about how three young blood thirsty killing machines spent their time off one day when they had pockets full of cash and there was an absence of appropriate adult supervision. You see my lifelong friend Greg and I had just spent three of the most intensive months of our young lives being indoctrinated into the United States Marine Corps by Drill Instructors whose job it is to tear us down to nothing and then rebuild us into proud members of one of the most elite fighting forces on the earth. We needed to blow off a little steam. Here’s a hint, it doesn’t involve excessive amounts of alcohol, at least not on this day ……. This day it involved excessive amounts of ammunition. Hey, it’s the South, we do stuff like that.
This happened in early September 1978. Greg and I left for Boot Camp at approximately the same time, so quite naturally we returned home at approximately the same time. My brother Russell had joined the Marine Corps two years earlier. Russell scheduled leave (that’s vacation for you civilians) to coincide with Greg and I completing Recruit Training. We all returned home within a few days of each other, and being good Marines, we quite naturally hung out together. One day while on leave Russell and I went out to where Greg lived near Lake Arrowhead close to Henrietta, TX, we had arranged for a shooting day out in the country. Once again, it’s the south ….. It’s our pastime. But oddly enough it’s a pastime that is frowned upon while inside the city limits. Oh, and they won’t let us shoot at signs from a moving vehicle either ….. So they say. Anyway we had our usual arsenal with us. Russell with his single shot Remington 12 gauge shotgun; I with my single shot Remington 20 gauge shotgun; and lastly the family single shot Ithaca 22 caliber rifle. I and bet you thought this was going to involve REAL WEAPONS!!! These were the toys from our childhood. Remember …. It’s the south.
We arrive at Arrowhead and the shooting begins. There was a large pile of brush that Don (Greg’s father) had cut and was waiting for the right time to burn off. It had been there some time (think Texas in the summer …. Hot and dry). Well living in that pile of brush was a group of small black birds, they called them bull bats. So this intrepid young trio decided that target practice was in order since we might be called upon to defend our country from foreign invaders. You see, as Marines we are taught that we are riflemen first and foremost, so every Marine is taught basic infantry skills, no matter what his primary MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) might be. If war breaks out and grunts are needed, the Marines are there ….. And we were there, the birds were there, and we had a LOT of ammunition …. So it seemed the logical thing to do. I don’t recall exactly how many munitions we had, but I remember needing something to carry it all in, at least in the beginning. Our pockets simply would not do; not enough room for our stash and besides; the Marine Corps NEVER allows its troops to load their pockets; it destroys the look of the uniform. (Ya’ll didn’t know you were going to get a lesson in Marine Corps History and Policy did ya?)
So back to our story, one of us; no telling who; starts throwing sticks at the pile to spook the birds and set them a flight while the others get ready and take aim. Now mind you we did have the sense to position ourselves so that we had open land down range (that’s the direction of fire). We avoided shooting at the house or at the truck (we needed to get home) or at the street or at the civilian population. We had been taught weapon safety. So the birds are in our sights, and the rounds are flying, over and over, shell after shell was expended. The birds were swooping, first this way then that way. We were taking aim, firing, reloading, taking aim and firing again as fast as we could. There was, however, this one obstinate little bird that seemed to be teasing us. Almost tempting fate the way it kept swooping down and around and back out of sight. We took several shots at it, but it continued to elude our onslaught of bird shot. Oh did I mention that Greg also had a shotgun, an Ithaca feather light police special 12 gauge riot gun. So with three highly trained and armed killing machines it was almost comical why that little bird kept returning. And then it made its fatal mistake. It landed on the electrical wire that ran right behind us alongside the road. Russell, without missing a beat, shouldered his weapon in firing position, walked directly under that little bird, raised his weapon into a vertical position and sent that little bird to Allah ……. In little bitty pieces.
The blood lust had begun, there was no turning back now, and we had to find more targets. So off we went; packing our arsenal that by now had grown to also include Greg’s shotgun and his 7.65 Caliber Argentine Mauser with long range iron sights. We’re Marines; we all had been trained and qualified with the M16 which had fixed open sights. We didn’t need scopes. So we set off, on foot, to find more ‘game’. We wandered for miles (again, we’re Marines, we’re use to hiking), but alas, no live ‘game’ to be found. So being good Marines we “improvised”, we “adapted”, we “overcame”. You see there were these small metal signs posted on the lots that had been sold. They were about six inches tall and 12 inches wide, made of sheet metal on a short metal post. They only stood a few inches above ground level. They seemed like perfectly good targets to us. We stood abreast (side by side) and took careful aim. The one on the left took the left half of the sign, the middle man the middle of the sign, the right man the right side of the sign. And we fired!!!!!!!!!!! We curled up many of those signs that day.
Now as we moved about the country in our stealth manner, quietly hunting for “commies” or anything else that could prove to be a “target of opportunity” we remember that as kids a certain man that we knew (a certain bear of a man, the protagonist in my last story, aka Greg’s Dad) had on occasion mentioned that his line crews didn’t have much to do …. We knew what that meant … So our next target would be the glass insulators on the tops of the phone poles. I don’t know how many we blew to smithereens but I do remember that we attempted to cut down a phone pole with shotgun blasts. After several boxes of rounds each we decided that was a useless endeavor …… and we were bored……. Those creosote soaked phone poles are TOUGH!!!!!!!!!
After that we came upon a small pond and decided to deploy a new weapon. We had been expending large quantities of shotgun shells and being good Marines we always “policed our brass” (we picked them up). So at this small pond we started to toss the used shells in. The first part of the game (we’re still kids after all) was to get the shells to float which was easy enough with a light toss. The second part of the game was to sink them with a single shot from the 22 rifle ….. However you could not “hit” them … you had to do it by shooting right in front of them. You see the vacuum caused by a round entering the water will pull objects under. So the game was how many can you sink with one shot without actually touching any of them. I have no idea who won. But we sank a LARGE quantity of empty shells in that pond. We figured it was easier and more entertaining than carrying them around in a bag for the rest of the day.
While at the pond towards the end of our “game” we noticed a small box across the pond. One of them says to me “go push it in the center”, so I trot around this little pond and discover that it was indeed a wooden box, but it had another box attached to the front to resemble a boat of sorts. I pushed at the box and it went a little ways into the pond ….. Maybe two feet. Knowing that was not acceptable I found a stick and pushed harder at the little “box boat”, but again it only moved a couple of feet. Now for some reason I had carried my shotgun with me (probably my learned instinct from my recent indoctrination, we never went anywhere it seemed without our trusty M16). So the bright idea occurred to me that I could ‘persuade’ the little box boat into the center of the pond with a well placed blast from my trusty sidearm. So I cut loose with a hip shot and blew that little boat in half!!!!!!!! Physics lesson for the day, shotgun blast into two loosely attached half rotten wooden boxes will most likely sever the connection and result in the aforementioned box boat resembling the Titanic…… Game over. Time to find a new target.
By this time we had gone several miles and decided to work our way back to ‘base camp’. Besides that we were thirsty and hungry. So we’re heading back being ever watchful for opportunities to hone our marksmanship skills. Now as anyone knows that was raised or lived in north Texas for very long that from most places if you look west you can see yesterday and if you look east you can see tomorrow. For those of you that are without a compass ….. The sun rises in the east. So as we’re walking along we spy an object lumbering along a road off in the distance. It’s brown and wide has a tail and seems to be moving. Upon careful inspection we decide that it’s an armadillo ……. An actual live armadillo …… walking …… on its feet. Normally if you see the Texas state mascot, it’s on-the-half-shell. Dead, on its back, feet up in the air …… Road pizza. Well this was truly the target of our demented twisted blood thirsty dreams. But it’s so far away; could we catch up with it and not lose it in the brush?
Greg had a better idea; he sets down his shotgun and un-slings his trusty Argentine Mauser. He chambers a round, puts the rifle up to his shoulder in the proper standing firing position and sights in the little bugger. He calculates the distant, flips up his long range sights, makes some adjustments and pulls the trigger. CRACK!!!!!!!! The shot is fired, we quickly turned our gaze to the waddling little target and suddenly IT EXPLODED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It didn’t just stop moving, it disintegrated!!! Blood and guts flew everywhere!!!!! We estimated the distance at about 1000 yards. We quickly moved to the mass of flesh that was formerly a moving target to inspect the carnage. It was GREAT!! There was blood and guts and stuff everywhere. We stood there admiring the shot and retracing our steps. Was it really that far of a shot? Yes it was.
We continued to head back to base but kept our eyes peeled for anymore waddling targets. But alas, there were none. We had exhausted an excessive arsenal of ammunition, honed our skills, made our kills and done considerable property damage …… it was a good day.
Prolog – I’m a “Hollywood Marine” and a “Piece Time Marine”. I’ve never heard a shot fired in anger. I do; however; hold in great respect and reverence those that went before me and those that followed after me who felt “the sting of battle”. Some days I don’t feel worthy of the title “Marine”, but then I remember that we each had our part, we each had our lot. Growing up I wanted to be General Patton, but my place was to be Radar O’Riley. And I was good at.
John H. Hardin
Sergeant, United States Marine Corps
1978 – 1984, 0151/3051
Hometown – Wichita Falls, TX
Currently – Austin, TX