Baa Baa Black Sheep

Show me a hero and I'll show you a bum.

I was told by “Chesty” Puller* years ago, there is only a hairline’s difference between a Navy Cross and a general court-martial.

I have never been brave, but most of the things for which I had been given credit for bravery were nothing but daredevil stunts. I was trying to build up my own ego, trying to imitate the bravery of people I had read about or had been told about in the years gone by.

I didn’t know what he was yelling about, but he said he would handle it, and I was to have you report IMMEDIATELY. He also said I could smell when you were coming because you would be like a bourbon factory. He said you were a bull-necked, flat-nosed son of a bitch who would have no cap or raincoat because you didn’t have brains enough to wear them.

A word of advice to you men. Many times in your Marine Corps career you are going to feel like resigning. But don’t forget: one son of a bitch or four or five cannot ruin the Corps.

If this story were to have a moral, then I would say: “Just name a hero and I’ll prove he’s a bum.

Some subjects are timeless, and I would say that food is one of them. Yet only by comparing notes this way can We of the World Who Have Known Real Hunger actually get together and form our own sort of imaginary club. Our members today would be from everywhere, from Africa, from Europe, from Asia, everywhere. But regardless of our assorted languages, regardless of our assorted politics, the members would have something far more in common than the members of most clubs do. Would would at least know that the universal implement we all have, the stomach, usually behaves the same way under duress and causes us all to have much the same kinds of dreams.

But more than that, they give nobody else credit for knowing how to laugh, or even how to make up his own mind about his own things when these things happen to be bad. Those starved, ragged kids back in camp had more individuality than that. And because they had it, they are what Americans are supposed to be, and they are what I like to think REAL Americans still are: people who, through the years, were able to take it on the lam, laugh about it, then take it again—but always going forward on their own individual guts.

For those boys, ragged and starved though they were, would still do anything for a laugh or a joke, even if they were beaten afterward for the joke or for laughing. They are the types of kids who make Americans seem great people; they are such a contrast to the ambitious sourpusses who, during the war, held down so many of the bureau jobs here at home, and are still holding them down, and will want to continue holding them—even if it means the continuation of bureaus we no longer need. Even if it means the continuation of all these paid people still making the personal judgments for us—what we should eat, when and how; what foreign countries we should be good to, when and how; what we should think and when we should think it.

I have long since discovered that there is no such thing as bad people. There are just two kinds of people, because people are people. There are those who know and those who don’t know.

The definition of flying is: hours and hours of dull monotony sprinkled with a few moments of stark horror.

One night, out of a clear blue sky, one of the wrestlers started another one of our conversations that had nothing to do with wrestling. As a matter of fact, very few of them did. He said: “Pappy, did you realize that wrestling fans had such stupid faces before you started refereeing?” “No, I didn’t. It’s a pity my psychiatrist couldn’t work in my place some night.” “How’s that, Pappy?” “My God, he’d find enough customers in one arena to last him a lifetime.” “I have a more horrible thought than yours.” I asked: “Yeah, what is it?” “Look at them again. Then stop and think that each one has a vote, and that it counts as much as yours or mine.” “I see what you mean. Nauseating, isn’t it?

Lest some might gather an impression that this story is an exposé, I wish to say I have no intention of such. If I had chosen to write an exposé, I could have taken fiendish delight in doing a dilly fifteen years ago, when even our government was not too certain about things that went on. But to make one man’s story interesting to others he must run into good and bad situations. I have long since discovered that there is no such thing as bad people. There are just two kinds of people, because people are people. There are those who know and those who don’t know. And I don’t wish you to think I have any intention of shoving onto a few the entire blame for China becoming communistic instead of something else. In a way, even though I didn’t make a fortune like some of the others, and my main motives were not greed and power, I honestly feel that I am guilty along with them. And even though my main crime was ignorance, which is a by-product of emotional immaturity, I deserve to be included with the China gang. My only hope is that we didn’t louse up the future generations too greatly, so that they may have a chance in the years to come.

In looking back over the years I wouldn't go so far as to say I have never been brave, but most of the things for which I had been given credit for bravery were nothing but daredevil stunts. I was trying to build up my own ego, trying to imitate the bravery of people I had read about or had been told about in the years gone by.

Many times in recent years I have wished that I had majored in history instead of engineering, for I could have had a great deal more out of life, and maybe I would not have expected so much of people—myself included. And if I had been a history major, I would have been satisfied that I was involved in making part of history, only in a minor way.