When it comes to famous Marine Corps veterans, everyone remembers Lewis "Chesty" Puller, John Basilone, Sgt. Maj. Daniel Daly, and a slew of other legendary devil dogs. But to celebrate the Marine Corps' 250th birthday, it's important to remember that the Corps has no end of heroes, many of whom fade away further and further with time.
So we don't forget the Marines who fought with distinction, but may not have been as quotable as Chesty, as political as Smedley Butler, or as smart as John Glenn, here are a few more worth remembering.
1. Brig. Gen. Joe Foss
Joe Foss earned his wings in March 1941, months before America officially entered World War II. After Pearl Harbor, the young Marine aviator shipped out to the South Pacific and joined the Cactus Air Force over Guadalcanal, where the air was thick with heat, malaria, and Zeros. Across three brutal months, he hunted enemy bombers and fighters, sometimes limping home with holes in his Wildcat, ditching in the drink and getting fished out. By war's end in the Solomons, he had racked up 26 confirmed victories, matching Eddie Rickenbacker's World War I record, and earned him the Medal of Honor.
The fight didn't end with Japan's surrender. Foss helped stand up the South Dakota Air National Guard, then returned to combat in Korea with that same unit, trading the island jungles for cold skies and climbing the ladder to brigadier general. Off the flight line, he was the first commissioner of the upstart American Football League, a job description that tells you everything about his appetite for building things and breaking molds. He kept serving veterans in civilian life for decades and passed away in 2003.
2. Cpl. Joseph Vittori
Cpl. Joseph Vittori carved his name into Hill 749 on September 16, 1951. Marines had just taken the crest when a fierce Chinese counterattack punched a hundred-yard gap in the line that could have broken the whole position. Vittori sprinted into the breach with an automatic rifle, grabbed a machine gun when he could, and turned that gap into a killing zone.
He fought for hours while rounds snapped the grass and the hill shook. A bullet tore through his chest; he stayed on the gun. More Marines went down around him. When he was hit again, he told his buddy to fall back to the ridge and live to hold it. Together, they broke one more wave, buying the time the battalion needed. A final shot to the face killed him at his post. For that stand, Vittori received the Medal of Honor.
3. Sgt. Maj. Gilbert "Hashmark" Johnson
Gilbert "Hashmark" Johnson entered the Marine Corps with more time in uniform than many of his instructors, having already served 15 years in the Army and Navy. As one of the first African Americans to join the Corps, he trained at Montford Point and quickly became one of its earliest Black drill instructors. Recruits knew him for his demanding standards and sharp discipline, and his work helped set the tone for a new generation of Marines who had fought for the chance to wear the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor.
When World War II moved to the Central Pacific, Johnson asked for combat duty and got it. On Guam, he led 25 patrols under fire, showing the same command presence he had on the training field. After the war, he continued to break ground, rising to the rank of sergeant major and using his voice and example to push the Corps toward greater inclusion and professionalism.
4. Sgt. Charles "Chuck" Mawhinney
Sgt. Charles "Chuck" Mawhinney wasn't the most visible or outspoken sniper of the Vietnam War, yet he logged 103 confirmed kills, which is ten more than the legendary Carlos Hathcock's tally. For years, his record lived in the shadows until the book "Dear Mom: A Sniper's Vietnam" brought his story to light and confirmed that he holds the top mark in Marine Corps history.
One of his coldest performances came on Valentine's Day during a night river crossing. An enemy platoon slipped into the water to strike an American base. Mawhinney was alone on overwatch with an M14 paired to a starlight scope. He let the point men wade out, waited until the formation was committed in midstream, and then opened up. Sixteen shots and the attack —and attackers—were dead in the water.
5. Master Gunnery Sgt. Leland "Lou" Diamond
Leland "Lou" Diamond built a reputation as one of the Marine Corps' toughest and most skillful enlisted leaders. He enlisted during World War I and served with the 4th Marine Brigade in France, where he learned the blunt, practical craft of infantry combat. In the interwar years, he stayed in the Corps, honing heavy-weapons skills and serving with the China Marines in Shanghai. By the late 1930s, he was the archetype of the old-school salty Marine: gravel-voiced, demanding, and fiercely protective of his juniors.
In World War II, he deployed with the 1st Marine Division to the Solomon Islands. He became famous for his mortar work (at age 52) that opened the way for advances on Guadalcanal and drove off a Japanese cruiser. His precision, calm under fire, and knack for improvisation made him a natural field leader and a legend to the Marines who fought beside him. After overseas combat, he returned to stateside duty as an instructor, passing on combat lessons to new Marines before retiring.
The first full year of World War II was a hard-fought one for the Allies in the Pacific Theater. In 1942, Thailand, the Philippines, Guam, Wake Island, Malaya, Singapore, Hong Kong, and more were in Japanese hands, as were tens of thousands of American, Australian, and British prisoners of war. In January of that year, Rabaul fell to the Japanese, alarming Australians as Imperial Japan advanced on Papua New Guinea.
The enemy reached the heights overlooking Port Moresby, New Guinea's largest city, but advanced no further. American landings on Guadalcanal and the threat of an Allied assault on the other end of New Guinea forced the Japanese to make some hard decisions.
American and Australian forces had checked the overland thrust across the Owen Stanley Range on the Kokoda Track by late September 1942, then turned the Japanese around at Ioribaiwa and chased them back through Isurava and over the jungle-sawtooth ridges to the Papuan north coast. When the retreat ended, the invaders dug in at three beachheads: Buna, Gona, and Sanananda. They were low, swampy ground stitched with creeks, kunai grass, and mangroves. It looked like bad real estate, but contrary to Gen. Douglas MacArthur's assessment that the Japanese were using hastily built trenches, it was, in fact, a fortress.
Coconut-log bunkers rose barely a foot above the earth, roofed with sand and palm trunks, mutually supporting, invisible until the Japanese machine guns popped off. MacArthur, newly in command of Allied forces in the Southwest Pacific, wanted a fast, visible victory. He had political pressure, a battered public to reassure, and the specter of Rabaul looming in the Bismarck Sea. Buna-Gona, he believed, could be taken briskly. The actual land disagreed.
The Australians of the veteran 7th Division and the fresh American 32nd Infantry Division National Guardsmen from Wisconsin and Michigan stepped into a place where maps lied and compasses seemed useless, diseases were rampant, and the coconut log fortresses spat machine gun fire.
The opening attacks in November met realities no staff study had ever encountered. Trails vanished into waist-deep swamp, weapons rusted, and the standard modes of attack (artillery prep, flanking movement, a quick rush) couldn't be brought to bear or ran headlong into the Japanese defenses.
As if the enemy wasn't bad enough, malaria, dengue, dysentery, and scrub typhus culled more Allied soldiers than Japanese bullets. Supply lines consisted of air drops, from which half the supplies were immediately lost until airstrips at Dobodura and Popondetta were hacked out of the Earth, while C-47s tried to keep up with demand.
MacArthur's insistence on speed produced command turbulence. Major General Edwin Harding, the 32nd Division commander, ran into the swamp and the bunkers, took heavy losses, and stalled. MacArthur sent a telegram sharpened to a point and summoned Lt. Gen. Robert Eichelberger forward. The message he gave him at Port Moresby became legend: take Buna, and do not come back until you have. Eichelberger went to the front, changed how the fight was being fought, and, as promised, did not come back.
What changed was not the enemy, but the method. Despite MacArthur's desire for a quick victory, reconnaissance grew patient and local. Small units learned the bunker's logic: shoot to pin, crawl to the blind side, then finish at arm's length with grenades and submachine guns. Mortars, man-carried 37mm guns, and finally light tanks nosed into the fight to collapse bunker faces with point-blank fire.
Engineers became line soldiers, dragging Bangalore sections and satchel charges through reeds and sucking mud. Airmen under George Kenney's Fifth Air Force kept barges and trails under constant pressure, making each morsel of food a minor miracle for the defenders. On clearer days, fighter-bombers stitched the coconut groves and raked the sandspits where Japanese positions looked out to sea.
The Australians cracked Gona first in early December after weeks of see-saw attacks through soaked plantations and the mouth-burning of constant malaria pills. Their victory unhinged the western shoulder of the beachhead and freed experienced battalions to wheel east. The Americans, learning hard lessons at Buna Mission and Buna Government Station, turned those lessons into ground taken. Bunker lines that had repelled battalion rushes fell to squads who'd practiced the ugly geometry of the jungle: pin, flank, smother, move again.
Sanananda proved the most stubborn. Its lines ran back into swamp and sago palm, and the defenders there, reinforced by survivors from the other pockets, fought the campaign down to its wire. Allied units closed one position after another, cutting tracks, and advancing, hammering the final redoubts until organized resistance ended in January 1943.
When it was over, the beaches were a charred diagram of modern war in the least modern terrain imaginable: coconut stumps, wrecked positions interlaced at bayonet distance, and wrecked barges. The cost was severe. Some 7,000 died in Buna-Gona, nearly half succumbing to diseases. Japanese losses were catastrophic, with few prisoners taken; hunger, disease, and relentless pressure did their quiet arithmetic behind the firefights.
Buna-Gona bought more than a shoreline and comfort for Australians, knowing they wouldn't be cut off from the rest of the Allies. It secured Papua, saved Port Moresby, and—most importantly—proved that Japanese field fortifications, however intricate, could be reduced with method, combined arms, and stubbornness.
The campaign also set the pattern for the theater's future: airfields hacked out of nothing to leapfrog forward, engineers as shock troops of logistics, air power interdicting barges by day and night, and infantry tactics tuned for an enemy who dug in and fought like an angry badger.
MacArthur's reputation came out singed and complicated. He had promised speed in a place where speed was a fairy tale, relieved good officers who ran up against physics, and sent others forward who adapted and won.
Operation Cartwheel, the strategy to isolate Rabaul rather than batter into it, grew from the same operational movements that Buna-Gona had painfully taught: get the airfields, choke the sea roads, move around the strongest points, and starve the enemy of food and ammunition.
For the soldiers who fought there, the campaign was hot, wet, and tasted like the burning of Malaria pills, where Papuan stretcher-bearers threaded the jungle with care and efficiency, doing every bit of their part to expel the Japanese.
Buna-Gona is sometimes overshadowed by the glow of Guadalcanal and the later island-hopping spectacles, but it belongs in the front rank of hard-won Allied turning points. It taught the theater how to win in places that no one wanted to fight in the first place. It took too long, cost too much, and could not have been done any other way.
Mostly, TWS has helped me formally log my military career as well as recall things I had forgotten over the years. It's also a great avenue for reestablishing connections with military buddies, as well as becoming acquainted with new friends.
SP5 John Beaumonte, US Army Veteran
Served 1966-1968
It's not difficult to realize the benefit of slinging more lead at the enemy. Whether it's more lead than they're shooting at you, or just more in general, a high rate of fire is necessary for inflicting more damage and keeping the enemy in check. Napoleon, Oda Nobunaga, and Gustavus Adolphus were just a few of the legendary military minds who advocated for more bullets faster.
When the Industrial Revolution began to affect war and combat, it led to a slew of new developments on the battlefield. How weapons were loaded, how they fired, and, eventually, what they fired, were all transformed. The developments led to breechloading weapons, rifled barrels, and cartridges. It wouldn't be long before someone figured out how to industrialize the entire rifle.
That was Richard Jordan Gatling's creation: A miracle weapon cranked by a lone gunner, mowing down ranks and changing the battlefield overnight. It makes for absolute cinema, but the real birth of the Gatling gun was stranger and slower, less a thunderclap and more a stubborn drumbeat of engineering in aftermath of the American Civil War.
Gatling was an inventor before he was a “gun man.” He designed screw propellers and improved seed planters; he earned a medical degree but never practiced as a physician. Watching the Civil War unfold, he claimed to be haunted by the fact that disease killed more soldiers than bullets. In his mind, a reliable, rapid-fire weapon would shorten wars by reducing the number of soldiers needed to fight them. Whether that hope was idealistic marketing or sincere humanitarian logic is anyone's guess, but it shaped the myth. The Gatling gun's origin story is tied to an inventor who insisted he was trying to save lives by building a machine that could take many at once.
The machine itself was a mechanical marvel that refused to wait for chemistry to catch up. Early volley guns like the Requa and European Mitrailleuses predated or paralleled the Gatling. What it did first was not “automatic fire” but sustained, controlled rapid fire, in a form that military institutions could adopt incrementally. The Gatling was simply a different species: externally powered, beautifully clockwork. Unlike the automatic weapons of the future that would use the blast of each shot to cycle the next round, Gatling's design was powered by human muscle.
A cluster of barrels revolved around a central axis as the gunner turned a hand crank. Every quarter-turn married a fresh cartridge to a fresh barrel, fired it, and then offered the hot metal a chance to breathe and cool while the next barrels took their turn. That rotating logic beat fouling, and redistributed heat. A trained crew could pour out a sustained stream of fire at a time when armies were still using black powder and hand-loaded muskets.
Since it was introduced in 1862, some believe the Union Army snapped it up and steamrolled the Confederacy. The reality was much slower. Military bureaucracies are allergic to surprises, and early tests ran into the limits of ammunition, lubrication, and logistics. The first production models appeared in 1862 and 1863, just as the Union was still wrestling with procurement bottlenecks and battlefield doctrine that imagined cannons and infantry, not a mechanical beehive of bullets.
Some officers did buy Gatlings with private funds. A few even hauled them to the front and found, to their delight, that a properly fed gun could dominate a street or a trench approach in a way no volley could match. These scattered moments sparked the legend, but the war ended before the U.S. Army fully understood what the machine could do.
If the Civil War was the gun's baptism, the decades after were its schooling. Smokeless powder, brass cartridges, and sturdier mounts turned the Gatling from a temperamental prodigy into a dependable professional. The Navy appreciated it for close-in defense against torpedo boats. Army detachments learned the joy and headache of moving a heavy, crank-driven thunderer over bad roads.
The psychological effect of Gatling's gun was real: Soldiers had never heard such a seamless, mechanical roar. Battle reports from the late nineteenth century testify not just to casualties inflicted but to the way a Gatling pinned heads down and rearranged courage. No one had ever encountered weapons that allowed four men to fire 400 shots every minute, but slowly, the Russians, British, Spanish, and Filipinos began to understand what was changing.
Gatling's gun has been accused of ending the age of bravery. Technology rarely abolishes courage; it just alters the forms that courage can take. 
Troops were as brave as ever in combat; the tactics simply changed. They learned to disperse, to dig, to coordinate with artillery, and maneuver. It helped usher in the modern battlefield, where movement and cover matter more than bright uniforms and linear ranks. The gun also exposed uncomfortable truths about empire and asymmetry. Rapid-fire weapons in colonial campaigns multiplied the power of small units, a fact celebrated in contemporary newspapers, haunting future historians.
The Gatling gun didn't win the Civil War, didn't end warfare, and wasn't even the first true automatic. What it did was accelerate the journey from invention to doctrine. It nudged the forces and battlefield technology of the 19th century toward the grim, industrial arithmetic of the 20th. The first accurate automatic weapon, the Maxim gun, arrived in the 1880s and used recoil energy to run itself—no crank, no crew cadence, just chemistry driving steel. If there is a moral to the birth of the Gatling Gun, it's that technology rarely arrives as a revolution. It arrives as a crank, a barrel, and a loud, long argument.
On Oct. 3, 1921, the protected cruiser USS Olympia put to sea for a final assignment. She left with a reputation already carved into naval history and with orders that carried more weight than any broadside. Her destination was Le Havre, France. Her charge was a single coffin bearing the United States' Unknown Soldier of World War I.
Olympia had been a headline from the day she touched water. Launched in 1895, she was the largest ship yet built on the West Coast. Designers gave her speed, armor, and heavy guns that invited comparison with the ships of Britain's Royal Navy, the obvious yardstick of the era. It was fitting that such a storied vessel should carry this precious cargo.
In January 1898, Commodore George Dewey stepped aboard and hoisted his flag. Four months later, the United States was at war with Spain, and Dewey led the Asiatic Fleet toward the Philippines with Olympia in the lead. At Manila Bay, from her bridge, he gave the order to open fire. The Spanish squadron broke under American gunnery, and Marines from Olympia went ashore to silence the coastal batteries. News of the victory crossed the ocean faster than the ships that fought it. Dewey and Olympia returned as household names. Posters, parades, and a hero's welcome followed. Then the long, steady work resumed.
Olympia trained midshipmen, showed the flag in distant harbors, and kept the routine that maintained American sea power. When World War I arrived, she did not run to the Western Front. She became the flagship of the U.S. Patrol Force and guarded the Atlantic coast. She carried soldiers of the Polar Bear Expedition to Arkhangelsk in 1918 during the Allied intervention in Russia, a cold and complicated mission far from the trenches of France. After that, she flew the flag as leader of the Mediterranean Squadron, then turned for home. Philadelphia became her pier, and it was from Philadelphia that she would sail once more for a special mission.
By 1921, lawmakers were looking for a way to honor the thousands who never came home from the Great War's European trenches. They decided that one unidentified American would be returned to rest in Arlington National Cemetery, representing them all—"to bring home the body of an unknown American warrior who in himself represents no section, creed, or race in the late war and who typifies, moreover, the soul of America and the supreme sacrifice of her heroic dead."
The tomb would be a national promise in stone: we will never forget the sacrifices you made, even if we cannot identify your remains. In October 1921, four sets of remains were dug up from what is today the Châlons-en-Champagne cemetery in France. Sgt. Edward F. Younger of Headquarters Company, 2nd Battalion, 50th Infantry, American Forces in Germany, selected which set of remains from the four would be reinterred at Arlington. When that was done, someone still had to come and take the Unknown Soldier home.
T
he voyage would be entrusted to the USS Olympia and the coffin to a detachment of United States Marines, but the Atlantic almost torpedoed the idea the moment the cruiser departed Le Havre. From there, Olympia ran into the trailing fists of two hurricanes. Swells rose to 20 and 30 feet and stayed there for most of the 15 days at sea. The casket could not be secured below, so it rode the storm on the open deck, lashed tight and guarded without pause. The Marines did not quit their station: They tied themselves to the deck and kept the watch through spray and wind while the ship climbed and fell and climbed again.
On Nov. 9, 1921, Olympia eased into Washington's Navy Yard and fired a salute. The Unknown Soldier was carried from the deck of the ship to Capitol Hill, where he lay in state beneath the Capitol dome until Armistice Day.
When the 11th finally came, President Warren G. Harding led the interment at Arlington. Britain's Admiral of the Fleet Lord Beatty stood in for King George V and presented the Victoria Cross to the American unknown, a gesture of respect from one nation's dead to another's guardian. The moment linked allies, theaters, and years of grief with a single medal placed on a flag.
Olympia returned to Philadelphia and the lines of her career finally came together. She was decommissioned in 1922. The Navy and the city chose memory over scrap. In 1957, the ship was restored to her original appearance, not as an ornament, but as a record you can walk through.
As for the Tomb of the Unknown, unfortunately, "The War to End All Wars" didn't actually end all wars. American service members were killed and went missing during World War II, the Korean War, and the Vietnam War. Unknown soldiers were created to honor the dead, missing, and captured from each conflict. Today, the tomb is a solemn place, guarded day and night by the Army's finest: Soldiers from the 3rd U.S. Infantry Regiment, known as "The Old Guard."
Reading many of the articles triggers memories of years gone by. Most are all great memories. When I look back on my life in the CG, I realize that leaving school before graduation was the best choice I could have made at the time. I was unhappy with high school and looked forward to what was in store for me with enthusiasm. A few months ago, I found out that Texas had a program that would grant high school dropouts a path to receive their H.S. Diploma if they served during wartime activity. I applied and received my diploma, along with a letter asking if I would like to participate in the graduation ceremony with the 2019 graduating class. Other members of TWS who dropped out of school should check with their state to find out if this program is available to them.
RM2 Tim Roach, US Coast Guard Veteran
Served 1962-1966
"Destroyers" (Battle of Kamdesh)
By: A3C Michael S. Bell
"…That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
Henry V, Act IV, Scene III
The 61st Cavalry Regiment (1941-45, 2004-2024) was part of the United States Army; motto: "Forging Destiny." The 3rd Squadron, 61st Cavalry Regiment existed until mid-2024, this one being last of the 61st’s original four subordinates. On 3 Oct 2009, an Afghan insurgent force of about four hundred attacked the fifty-four Soldiers of Bravo Troop at COP (Command Outpost) Keating during what is now known as the "Battle of Kamdesh." Eight Soldiers fell and twenty-two were wounded in that obscure part of Nuristan whilst defending the COP for over twelve hours of close-quarter combat. Nuristan ("Land of Light"), also spelled as Nurestan or Nooristan, known as Nuriston and historically known as Kafiristan ("Land of Infidels") until 1896, is one of the thirty-four provinces of Afghanistan, located in the extreme eastern part of the nation. It is divided into seven districts and is Afghanistan's least inhabited province, with a population of fewer than 170,000. Parun serves as the provincial capital. Nuristan is bordered on the south by Laghman and Kunar provinces, on the north by Badakhshan province, on the west by Panjshir province, and on the east by Pakistan. Located in the remote, mountainous Landai Sin Valley near [ten-fourteen miles] to the Pakistan border, Kamdesh, resting in the north part very close to what was COP Keating further upland, is the unofficial capital for the Kom tribe and serves as a cultural and administrative hub in the region. Some may remember this battle through Medal of Honor citations describing the heroic actions of SSgt Clinton Romesha and SSgt Ty Carter. The battle resulted in the award of twenty-seven Purple Hearts, thirty-seven Army Commendation Medals with "V" devices for valor, three Bronze Stars, eighteen Bronze Stars with "V" devices, and nine Silver Stars.
Nicknamed the "Destroyers," Bravo Troop of the 3rd Squadron, 61st Cavalry Regiment was a unit known for reconnaissance and surveillance, particularly famous for its pivotal role in the Battle of Kamdesh during OEF. The unit was part of the 2nd Stryker Brigade Combat Team and was based at Fort Carson, Colorado. The 61st traces its lineage to the 601st Tank Destroyer Battalion which was activated on 19 Aug 1941 deployed to England on 2 Aug 1942. In North Africa, the battalion participated in the battles of Ousseltia Valley, Sbeitla, Kasserine Pass, Mateur, and El Guettar, for which it was awarded the Presidential Unit Citation for destroying thirty-seven tanks in twenty-four hours.
The original battalion conducted its first amphibious assault at Salerno on 9 Sep 1943, with the 36th Infantry Division and 1st Ranger Battalion. It fought through Salerno until 30 Sep 1943. The 601st conducted its second amphibious assault at Anzio Beachhead where they destroyed forty-two enemy tanks and countless enemy personnel. In Southern France, SSG Clyde Choate of C Company, 601st Tank Destroyer Battalion was awarded the Medal of Honor for his actions near the town of Bruyéres, France, on 25 Oct 1944. During the sixteen-day battle at Colmar, the battalion succeeded in destroying eighteen tanks and dozens of enemy fortifications. The 601st was awarded its second Presidential Unit Citation for the battalion's actions and valor. In intense fighting outside of Colmar, Second Lt. Audie Murphy earned the Medal of Honor by "single-handedly" defeating a German attack atop a damaged and burning 601st M10 tank destroyer.
The number of Troops in a U.S. Army cavalry squadron can vary but historically, and in some current units, a squadron is composed of three to five Troops (e.g., Headquarters Troop, Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, and sometimes Delta Troop) plus a Forward Support Company, which can also be considered a Troop. The exact composition and size of a squadron change over time and depend on the specific unit's mission and equipment. The number of squadrons in a regiment varies by military tradition, branch, and historical period, with examples including three to six squadrons per cavalry regiment since roughly the early 20th century. Approximately fifty to fifty-three U.S. soldiers, along with some Afghan and Latvian Soldiers, were stationed at Combat Outpost Keating when it was attacked by the Taliban; about one hundred fifty of whom were killed. The base was evacuated and destroyed shortly after the battle concluded; on 6 Oct 2009, US aircraft bombed the remnants of COP Keating to ensure that nothing could be salvaged and used by insurgents who had overrun parts of the base. The abandonment of the very isolated outpost was part of a shift in strategy by the commander in Afghanistan at the time, Gen. Stanley McChrystal, whose new approach focused on consolidating troops in more populated areas rather than defending remote outposts.
After the Americans left, the insurgents promptly looted the outpost before it was bombed. Within days, the Taliban publicly celebrated what they described as a victory. As U.S. forces and the Afghan National Army (ANA) departed, the Taliban quickly reasserted control over Kamdesh. The Taliban raised their flag over the district, and control by the Afghan central government became minimal to nonexistent. Following the complete U.S. withdrawal from Afghanistan in 2021, the entire district and province of Nuristan fell under the firm control of the Taliban regime, a shift that had effectively already happened over a decade earlier there. In the district, US forces had initiated development projects focusing on building infrastructure, boosting the local economy, and improving essential services. These efforts were a crucial component of the counterinsurgency strategy, aimed at enhancing residents' lives and increasing support for the Afghan central government. Projects were managed by US military Civil Affairs teams and Provincial Reconstruction Teams (PRTs). A US Army cavalry regiment, for example, had approved $1.33 million in projects for the Kamdesh district alone in 2006. What the 3-61st was fighting to defend that day was the protection of friendly local residents and whatever improvements had been made or were underway at that time. SSgt Ty Carter said, "There was no safe spot…Tactically, it was one of the worst places anyone could have chosen… [we were] in a fishbowl, but as a Soldier, you do what you're told."
The attack was the bloodiest battle for US forces since the Battle of Wanat in Jul 2008, which occurred 20 miles away from Kamdesh. In 2006, Allied commanders identified the Kamdesh area as key in denying anti-coalition militia access to supply lines crossing into and out of nearby Pakistan.
Bravo Troop manned COP Keating while Afghan national forces manned checkpoints and roadblocks at various locations around the area. At the time, Afghan national forces were supervised and trained by members of the Latvian Operational Mentor Liaison Teams. At about 0300 on 3 Oct, Taliban-backed insurgents ordered all Kamdesh villagers to leave the area. At 0600, the fighters opened up from all sides of the outpost with mortars and rocket-propelled grenades, immediately putting the American mortar pit out of action. Within two minutes of the beginning of the attack, American forces suffered their first casualty. Observation Post Fritsche was attacked simultaneously, limiting available support from that position. Coalition forces responded with small arms fire, mortars, and, by the afternoon, helicopters, heavy artillery, and airstrikes. Once inside, the attackers set fire to the base, burning down most of the barracks. Within the first hour, the American and Latvian defenders had collapsed to a tight internal perimeter, centered on the two buildings that were not burning. U.S. air support, including attack helicopters, A-10s, a B-1 bomber, and F-15 fighters, destroyed the local mosque, where much of the insurgents' heaviest fire originated. Once OP Fritsche Soldiers regained control of their mortar pit, their NCOIC began directing support to help the defense. Two USAF F-15E fighter bombers circled overhead for almost eight hours, helping coordinate airstrikes by nineteen other aircraft. American forces had already planned to pull out of the area to move forces to more densely populated areas, so closure of the base was imminent when the attack occurred.
The squadron conducted over one thousand combat patrols and executed numerous raids and search and attack operations. Soldiers of the 61st Cavalry found and cleared in excess of two hundred improvised explosive devices as well as numerous caches. It detained over two hundred insurgents, including more than twenty division-level high-value targets, earning the unit the Army's Valorous Unit Award. The Soldiers of the squadron also permanently removed many insurgents from the fight. They had the highest number of detainees sentenced to long-term incarceration and the highest number of high-value individuals killed or captured for a battalion-sized unit for all of Multi-National Division. Beginning in 2007, there were no more RSTA (i.e. Reconnaissance, Surveillance, and Target Acquisition) battalions in the US Army, only cavalry units. Based upon what can only be inferred from TWS records of their Army tenures, the nineteen who had been in this exact unit mostly separated from service after DEROS, but a few went on to PCS in the 61st or others. On 15 Jul 2024, the 3rd Squadron cased its colors.
The battle of Kamdesh is documented in the 2017 book "Red Platoon: A True Story of American Valor" by Clinton Romesha. The battle is also the main focal point of the 2020 film "The Outpost" which was based on the book "The Outpost: An Untold Story of American Valor" by CNN news anchor, Jake Tapper. The Netflix documentary series, "Medal of Honor," includes an episode detailing the actions of this unit. In an official after-action analysis, the reporting Officer declared, "The delayed closing of COP Keating is important as it contributed to a mindset of imminent closure that served to impede improvements in force protection on the COP. There were inadequate measures taken by the chain of command, resulting in an attractive target for enemy fighters. Over time, and without raising undue concern within the US intelligence system, the enemy conducted numerous probing attacks, learning the tactics, techniques, and procedures of B Troop, and pinpointing the locations of weapon systems and key infrastructure and materials, such as generators and barracks. The Soldiers of B Troop demonstrated courage, bravery, and heroism as they inflicted casualties on enemy forces and reestablished their perimeter. In the process, the Soldiers embodied the Warrior Ethos and recovered all friendly casualties." Army TWS currently lists nineteen members who were, and shall ever have been, fighters with this specific squadron of the 3-61, and ninety-nine who were part of the regiment. With them, and Nuristan, in sorrow, nightmarish memory, and defiant glory, we weep and rejoice, honoring the friendships and valor they served to claim for themselves and for the long-suffering people whom they strived to free.
Presently more than 81,500 American service men and women are listed as Missing in Action by the Defense POW/MIA Accounting Agency, with 38,000 estimated to be "recoverable".
At Tours of Duty, our mission is to honor the sacrifice and service of our veterans by tirelessly searching for and bringing home our Prisoners of War (POWs) and Missing in Action (MIAs). We are dedicated to leaving no one behind and providing closure to the families who have endured the uncertainty and heartache of having a loved one missing in service to our nation.
Through a steadfast commitment to research, investigation, and collaboration with government agencies, military organizations, and international partners, we strive to locate and recover the remains of our fallen heroes. Our efforts extend beyond the battlefield, reaching into archives, historical records, and communities to gather information and piece together the stories of those who never made it back home.
As a nonprofit organization, we provide comprehensive support to the families of POWs and MIAs, offering compassion, understanding, and resources to help them navigate the complex journey of recovery. We aim to foster a sense of unity and healing among all those affected by the loss of our missing warriors.
Furthermore, we work diligently to raise awareness and educate the public about the sacrifices made by our veterans and the ongoing need to bring closure to the families of our POWs and MIAs. We engage in advocacy, outreach programs, and memorial initiatives to ensure that the legacy of these brave men and women is remembered and honored. Together with our volunteers, supporters, and partners, we strive to fulfill our sacred duty to our nation’s heroes by tirelessly searching, remembering, and bringing them home. Our commitment to upholding the values of service, integrity, and compassion drives us to make a difference in the lives of those affected by the POW/MIA issue and to ensure that no one is left forgotten on the battlefield.
Join Us in Our Mission
As we commemorate this pivotal moment in history, we invite you to join us in honoring the heroes of World War II and supporting our efforts to locate and remember those still missing. Your participation and contributions make a significant impact in ensuring that the sacrifices of our POW MIA personnel are never forgotten.
For more information on how to get involved, participate in events, or support our mission, please visit our Facebook or contact us directly by phone 202-539-9615 or email [email protected].
Because of TWS, I have reconnected with several of my former shipmates. We now exchange emails, phone calls, Christmas cards, and we attend reunions that I don't think we would have known about but for TWS.
SMCM(SW) James Azevedo, US Navy (Ret)
Served 1965-1996
By Sgt Michael Wynn US Marine Corps
My name is Mike Wynn and I was born on January 17, 1947. I grew up in Marion, Ohio, and attended Olney Ave. Elementary, Edison Jr. High, and graduated from Harding High School in 1965. I played baseball and football for Harding for 3 years.
I enlisted in the United States Marine Corps in 1966. After high school, I attended Otterbein University on a football scholarship. During the seaso,n I concentrated on my studies to keep my eligibility to play football. After the season, I found other interests, and let’s just say I came to a mutual agreement with the school that I would not be returning the next semester. Four of us, including my best friend Dan Schott, decided to join the Marine Corps for 4 years. We were in from 1966-1970. My motivation to join was a mixture of patriotism and seeking excitement and adventure.
I had never been on a plane or seen the ocean so I was excited when the recruiter said I would be flying to San Diego for boot camp. When it came time to leave there was an airline strike, so we had to take a 3-day train ride instead of flying. It was so crowded we had to stand between cars and play cards most of the trip. California seemed like paradise with the ocean and palm trees. Boot camp soon changed that.
New recruits always arrive at boot camp in the middle of the night in the Marine Corps. It is planned that way to increase the shock value. When we arrived by bus all hell broke loose. The drill instructors got on the bus, yelling and nearly throwing us off the bus. I was wondering what I had gotten myself into. Boot camp was brutal, both physically and psychologically. I went in weighing 210 pounds and came out at 190 pounds. The psychological side was the worst as they completely break you down and build you up as a Marine. I hated it then, but appreciated it later in Vietnam. The last day, they got us all together to tell us what our job would be and where we were going. Ninety % of us were infantry and received orders to Vietnam. I was now a grunt in the Marine Corps.
After six months of infantry training, I was off to Okinawa, which was a staging area for those heading to Vietnam. I guess because of my rifle range scores, I was put into sniper training. My buddies were all off to the war, and I was stuck on Okinawa for many months of training. After a month or so I went to the commanding officer and requested a transfer to Vietnam. He was happy to oblige.
I was attached to the 1st Battalion, 3rd Marines, who were getting ready to leave Okinawa for Vietnam. The unit was a Special Landing Force based on several ships, which made helicopter and amphibious landings in Vietnam. I left on the USS Okinawa, which was a small aircraft carrier for helicopters.
A thousand of us lived aboard the ship for a short period and then went by helicopter for operations in and around the DMZ. We were usually in country for 1-2 weeks and then back to the ship for a few days until the next insertion. While on operations, we walked all day and then dug a hole at night to sleep. At night, we were on watch 2 hours on and 2 off, so there wasn’t much sleep going on.
I have several memories that I will never forget. In April of 1967, we were on Operation Beaver Cage and were walking in 2 columns along a river-one column on each side of the river. All of a sudden, we were hit by automatic fire-snipers-and mortars. The whole hillside seemed to move with camouflaged North Vietnamese Army (NVA) soldiers. I was on the opposite side of the river as the ambush and saw many Marines go down. We returned fire and called in air support. The firefight lasted for hours. The next day we had to pick up our dead. The thing I remember the most is how quiet it was after the action. There wasn’t even a bird tweeting. I had a minor shrapnel wound and went back to the ship for a day to get stitched up. We had 55 killed and 151 wounded on that operation.
On May 18 we were aboard ship and got up at 4am for our customary steak and egg breakfast the Navy cooked for us the morning of an operation. We were going on Operation Beau Charger which was the first authorized American entry into the DMZ. We were landing 3 miles from North Vietnam. My group took off at about 9:00am and by 9:15am bullets were ripping through the chopper. Contrary to popular belief Vietnam is not all jungle. We landed in open sandy terrain with large scrub covered sand dunes. My platoon was in the open walking towards some large dunes when the fire opened up and guys were dropping all around. I was carrying a radio at the time because our radio operator had been killed. The Platoon Commander told a group of us to charge the dune head on. I took off the radio so I could run quicker and my squad did as we were told. I was running and firing next to the squad leader, and he went down. He had been shot in the foot and couldn’t walk. He was laying in the open, so I threw him over my shoulder and started running for a small ditch about 18 inches deep. The next thing I know I’m lying on the ground with no idea how I got there. I could feel blood running down my back and realized I had been shot. It turns out that a bullet went through the squad leader’s arm and through my flak jacket into my chest. I was able to make it a few more yards to the ditch. My squad leader made it but to this day I feel guilty about not picking him up the second time and getting him to that ditch. A Marine should not leave another Marine behind. In that operation 8 out of the 12 men in my squad were killed or wounded. A total of 142 were killed and 896 were wounded.
We were both flown to the Hospital Ship USS Sanctuary for treatment. I spent nearly 2 months in the hospital, and he got sent back to the States. It took me 30 years to find him, but I finally did, and we talk on the phone about every month or so.
After my hospital stay, I was sent back to my unit to finish my tour but got a 3rd relatively minor shrapnel wound a few months later and left Vietnam.
I spent the rest of my time in the Corps in California and 2 years on the island of Guam. I was discharged as a Sergeant in 1970.
After I got out, I went back to college at Long Beach State University and got a bachelor’s degree. I worked as a fireman in Southern California for nearly 10 years and then moved to Australia in 1982. I am now retired and live a quiet life near a small rural town in Queensland.
I am proud of being a Marine and my service in Vietnam. I am proud of the 3 Purple Hearts and other medals I have earned. It took me longer than it should have to get that pride because of the way Vietnam Veterans were treated upon their return and for years after. I experienced this firsthand and for years did not mention that I was a Vet. I hope veterans are never treated like that again. People who have never experienced combat cannot possibly understand it. We were just doing our job-it was not a political issue. I can honestly say that I never thought about which politician was responsible while I was in the combat zone. I only worried about the guys next to me and my own survival.
Semper Fidelis
by Bill Sheehan
Bill Sheehan has led a fascinating career, working in film and television in New York and Hollywood since 1978. He worked on the film crews for movies like Steven Seagal’s 1990 action hit, “Hard to Kill” and 1984’s “Romancing the Stone.” Sheehan is most proud of his years working for actor-director Michael Landon, in which he not only served on the crew for television staples like “Highway to Heaven” but also often as the first aid medic.
First aid might be an unusual skill for your average cinematographer, but not for Bill Sheehan. Before his turn on movie and TV sets, he was a Navy hospital Corpsman, and he had Marines to take care of. Between 1968 and 1969, he was a combat Corpsman with 1st Battalion, 1st Marines.
After leaving the Republic of Vietnam, Sheehan has said he tried to forget his experiences there. He eventually re-examined his reasoning, deciding not only to revisit his time in the jungles, but also asking other Corpsmen to revisit their own. The result is “Together We Served,” and it’s a book worth taking a look at.
His 2022 book, “Together We Served: Stories from Combat Navy Hospital Corpsmen Serving in the Vietnam Jungles,” is a “gut-wrenching” collection of stories from Navy Corpsmen who served with Marines on the ground in Vietnam, according to the Military Writers Society of America. It’s not hard to imagine why. The bonds that form between men in combat can only be strengthened where their “Doc” is concerned.
Sheehan thanked Together We Served (the website you’re currently reading) for allowing him to use the title for his book, but more importantly he testified to the importance of revisiting his old friends, colleagues, and memories.
“Thanks to this website, I have been fortunate to reunite with several comrades from my time in the service,” he wrote. “I believe we are all more alike than you can imagine, and through this website, you will discover that. It has served me well, and I will continue to support it in the future.”
According to the book’s synopsis, these true stories are a reminder of the consequences of “a war that has initiated PTS, various cancers and emotional trauma that they still battle.” But that quick description doesn’t really feel like it’s doing justice to the deeply personal revelations contained within. Some of the personal tales are difficult to forget for the reader. It’s hard to imagine what the years in between held for the Corpsmen who lived these stories. That realness, that rawness, is part of what makes the book so unforgettable.
Retelling potentially traumatic events allows for healing by reframing the experience, integrating fragmented memories, and processing the emotional and physical pain in a safe and supported way. Just ask anyone who’s ever shared their story, wrote a book about their experiences, or even just revisited the past in a thought exercise.
For Bill Sheehan and the other Corpsmen who wrote down their stories, we hope it was a healing experience, because the stories are riveting and connect even those who weren’t yet born with the people who lived those experiences.
Readers can download a copy on Amazon Kindle Unlimited for free, or they can (and should) order it in paperback for $20. It currently enjoys a 4.5 star rating.
1. Brig. Gen. Joe Foss
2. Cpl. Joseph Vittori
3. Sgt. Maj. Gilbert "Hashmark" Johnson
4. Sgt. Charles "Chuck" Mawhinney
5. Master Gunnery Sgt. Leland "Lou" Diamond
The enemy reached the heights overlooking Port Moresby, New Guinea's largest city, but advanced no further. American landings on Guadalcanal and the threat of an Allied assault on the other end of New Guinea forced the Japanese to make some hard decisions. 
Coconut-log bunkers rose barely a foot above the earth, roofed with sand and palm trunks, mutually supporting, invisible until the Japanese machine guns popped off. MacArthur, newly in command of Allied forces in the Southwest Pacific, wanted a fast, visible victory. He had political pressure, a battered public to reassure, and the specter of Rabaul looming in the Bismarck Sea. Buna-Gona, he believed, could be taken briskly. The actual land disagreed. 
MacArthur's insistence on speed produced command turbulence. Major General Edwin Harding, the 32nd Division commander, ran into the swamp and the bunkers, took heavy losses, and stalled. MacArthur sent a telegram sharpened to a point and summoned Lt. Gen. Robert Eichelberger forward. The message he gave him at Port Moresby became legend: take Buna, and do not come back until you have. Eichelberger went to the front, changed how the fight was being fought, and, as promised, did not come back.
The Australians cracked Gona first in early December after weeks of see-saw attacks through soaked plantations and the mouth-burning of constant malaria pills. Their victory unhinged the western shoulder of the beachhead and freed experienced battalions to wheel east. The Americans, learning hard lessons at Buna Mission and Buna Government Station, turned those lessons into ground taken. Bunker lines that had repelled battalion rushes fell to squads who'd practiced the ugly geometry of the jungle: pin, flank, smother, move again. 
The campaign also set the pattern for the theater's future: airfields hacked out of nothing to leapfrog forward, engineers as shock troops of logistics, air power interdicting barges by day and night, and infantry tactics tuned for an enemy who dug in and fought like an angry badger.
When the Industrial Revolution began to affect war and combat, it led to a slew of new developments on the battlefield. How weapons were loaded, how they fired, and, eventually, what they fired, were all transformed. The developments led to breechloading weapons, rifled barrels, and cartridges. It wouldn't be long before someone figured out how to industrialize the entire rifle. 
A cluster of barrels revolved around a central axis as the gunner turned a hand crank. Every quarter-turn married a fresh cartridge to a fresh barrel, fired it, and then offered the hot metal a chance to breathe and cool while the next barrels took their turn. That rotating logic beat fouling, and redistributed heat. A trained crew could pour out a sustained stream of fire at a time when armies were still using black powder and hand-loaded muskets. 
Troops were as brave as ever in combat; the tactics simply changed. They learned to disperse, to dig, to coordinate with artillery, and maneuver. It helped usher in the modern battlefield, where movement and cover matter more than bright uniforms and linear ranks. The gun also exposed uncomfortable truths about empire and asymmetry. Rapid-fire weapons in colonial campaigns multiplied the power of small units, a fact celebrated in contemporary newspapers, haunting future historians.
Olympia had been a headline from the day she touched water. Launched in 1895, she was the largest ship yet built on the West Coast. Designers gave her speed, armor, and heavy guns that invited comparison with the ships of Britain's Royal Navy, the obvious yardstick of the era. It was fitting that such a storied vessel should carry this precious cargo.
By 1921, lawmakers were looking for a way to honor the thousands who never came home from the Great War's European trenches. They decided that one unidentified American would be returned to rest in Arlington National Cemetery, representing them all—"to bring home the body of an unknown American warrior who in himself represents no section, creed, or race in the late war and who typifies, moreover, the soul of America and the supreme sacrifice of her heroic dead."
he voyage would be entrusted to the USS Olympia and the coffin to a detachment of United States Marines, but the Atlantic almost torpedoed the idea the moment the cruiser departed Le Havre. From there, Olympia ran into the trailing fists of two hurricanes. Swells rose to 20 and 30 feet and stayed there for most of the 15 days at sea. The casket could not be secured below, so it rode the storm on the open deck, lashed tight and guarded without pause. The Marines did not quit their station: They tied themselves to the deck and kept the watch through spray and wind while the ship climbed and fell and climbed again.
Olympia returned to Philadelphia and the lines of her career finally came together. She was decommissioned in 1922. The Navy and the city chose memory over scrap. In 1957, the ship was restored to her original appearance, not as an ornament, but as a record you can walk through. 
The 61st Cavalry Regiment (1941-45, 2004-2024) was part of the United States Army; motto: "Forging Destiny." The 3rd Squadron, 61st Cavalry Regiment existed until mid-2024, this one being last of the 61st’s original four subordinates. On 3 Oct 2009, an Afghan insurgent force of about four hundred attacked the fifty-four Soldiers of Bravo Troop at COP (Command Outpost) Keating during what is now known as the "Battle of Kamdesh." Eight Soldiers fell and twenty-two were wounded in that obscure part of Nuristan whilst defending the COP for over twelve hours of close-quarter combat. Nuristan ("Land of Light"), also spelled as Nurestan or Nooristan, known as Nuriston and historically known as Kafiristan ("Land of Infidels") until 1896, is one of the thirty-four provinces of Afghanistan, located in the extreme eastern part of the nation. It is divided into seven districts and is Afghanistan's least inhabited province, with a population of fewer than 170,000. Parun serves as the provincial capital. Nuristan is bordered on the south by Laghman and Kunar provinces, on the north by Badakhshan province, on the west by Panjshir province, and on the east by Pakistan. Located in the remote, mountainous Landai Sin Valley near [ten-fourteen miles] to the Pakistan border, Kamdesh, resting in the north part very close to what was COP Keating further upland, is the unofficial capital for the Kom tribe and serves as a cultural and administrative hub in the region. Some may remember this battle through Medal of Honor citations describing the heroic actions of SSgt Clinton Romesha and SSgt Ty Carter. The battle resulted in the award of twenty-seven Purple Hearts, thirty-seven Army Commendation Medals with "V" devices for valor, three Bronze Stars, eighteen Bronze Stars with "V" devices, and nine Silver Stars. 
The number of Troops in a U.S. Army cavalry squadron can vary but historically, and in some current units, a squadron is composed of three to five Troops (e.g., Headquarters Troop, Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, and sometimes Delta Troop) plus a Forward Support Company, which can also be considered a Troop. The exact composition and size of a squadron change over time and depend on the specific unit's mission and equipment. The number of squadrons in a regiment varies by military tradition, branch, and historical period, with examples including three to six squadrons per cavalry regiment since roughly the early 20th century. Approximately fifty to fifty-three U.S. soldiers, along with some Afghan and Latvian Soldiers, were stationed at Combat Outpost Keating when it was attacked by the Taliban; about one hundred fifty of whom were killed. The base was evacuated and destroyed shortly after the battle concluded; on 6 Oct 2009, US aircraft bombed the remnants of COP Keating to ensure that nothing could be salvaged and used by insurgents who had overrun parts of the base. The abandonment of the very isolated outpost was part of a shift in strategy by the commander in Afghanistan at the time, Gen. Stanley McChrystal, whose new approach focused on consolidating troops in more populated areas rather than defending remote outposts. 
The squadron conducted over one thousand combat patrols and executed numerous raids and search and attack operations. Soldiers of the 61st Cavalry found and cleared in excess of two hundred improvised explosive devices as well as numerous caches. It detained over two hundred insurgents, including more than twenty division-level high-value targets, earning the unit the Army's Valorous Unit Award. The Soldiers of the squadron also permanently removed many insurgents from the fight. They had the highest number of detainees sentenced to long-term incarceration and the highest number of high-value individuals killed or captured for a battalion-sized unit for all of Multi-National Division. Beginning in 2007, there were no more RSTA (i.e. Reconnaissance, Surveillance, and Target Acquisition) battalions in the US Army, only cavalry units. Based upon what can only be inferred from TWS records of their Army tenures, the nineteen who had been in this exact unit mostly separated from service after DEROS, but a few went on to PCS in the 61st or others. On 15 Jul 2024, the 3rd Squadron cased its colors. 
At Tours of Duty, our mission is to honor the sacrifice and service of our veterans by tirelessly searching for and bringing home our Prisoners of War (POWs) and Missing in Action (MIAs). We are dedicated to leaving no one behind and providing closure to the families who have endured the uncertainty and heartache of having a loved one missing in service to our nation.
Furthermore, we work diligently to raise awareness and educate the public about the sacrifices made by our veterans and the ongoing need to bring closure to the families of our POWs and MIAs. We engage in advocacy, outreach programs, and memorial initiatives to ensure that the legacy of these brave men and women is remembered and honored. Together with our volunteers, supporters, and partners, we strive to fulfill our sacred duty to our nation’s heroes by tirelessly searching, remembering, and bringing them home. Our commitment to upholding the values of service, integrity, and compassion drives us to make a difference in the lives of those affected by the POW/MIA issue and to ensure that no one is left forgotten on the battlefield.
I enlisted in the United States Marine Corps in 1966. After high school, I attended Otterbein University on a football scholarship. During the seaso,n I concentrated on my studies to keep my eligibility to play football. After the season, I found other interests, and let’s just say I came to a mutual agreement with the school that I would not be returning the next semester. Four of us, including my best friend Dan Schott, decided to join the Marine Corps for 4 years. We were in from 1966-1970. My motivation to join was a mixture of patriotism and seeking excitement and adventure.
New recruits always arrive at boot camp in the middle of the night in the Marine Corps. It is planned that way to increase the shock value. When we arrived by bus all hell broke loose. The drill instructors got on the bus, yelling and nearly throwing us off the bus. I was wondering what I had gotten myself into. Boot camp was brutal, both physically and psychologically. I went in weighing 210 pounds and came out at 190 pounds. The psychological side was the worst as they completely break you down and build you up as a Marine. I hated it then, but appreciated it later in Vietnam. The last day, they got us all together to tell us what our job would be and where we were going. Ninety % of us were infantry and received orders to Vietnam. I was now a grunt in the Marine Corps.
On May 18 we were aboard ship and got up at 4am for our customary steak and egg breakfast the Navy cooked for us the morning of an operation. We were going on Operation Beau Charger which was the first authorized American entry into the DMZ. We were landing 3 miles from North Vietnam. My group took off at about 9:00am and by 9:15am bullets were ripping through the chopper. Contrary to popular belief Vietnam is not all jungle. We landed in open sandy terrain with large scrub covered sand dunes. My platoon was in the open walking towards some large dunes when the fire opened up and guys were dropping all around. I was carrying a radio at the time because our radio operator had been killed. The Platoon Commander told a group of us to charge the dune head on. I took off the radio so I could run quicker and my squad did as we were told. I was running and firing next to the squad leader, and he went down. He had been shot in the foot and couldn’t walk. He was laying in the open, so I threw him over my shoulder and started running for a small ditch about 18 inches deep. The next thing I know I’m lying on the ground with no idea how I got there. I could feel blood running down my back and realized I had been shot. It turns out that a bullet went through the squad leader’s arm and through my flak jacket into my chest. I was able to make it a few more yards to the ditch. My squad leader made it but to this day I feel guilty about not picking him up the second time and getting him to that ditch. A Marine should not leave another Marine behind. In that operation 8 out of the 12 men in my squad were killed or wounded. A total of 142 were killed and 896 were wounded.
We were both flown to the Hospital Ship USS Sanctuary for treatment. I spent nearly 2 months in the hospital, and he got sent back to the States. It took me 30 years to find him, but I finally did, and we talk on the phone about every month or so.
Bill Sheehan has led a fascinating career, working in film and television in New York and Hollywood since 1978. He worked on the film crews for movies like Steven Seagal’s 1990 action hit, “Hard to Kill” and 1984’s “Romancing the Stone.” Sheehan is most proud of his years working for actor-director Michael Landon, in which he not only served on the crew for television staples like “Highway to Heaven” but also often as the first aid medic. 
“Thanks to this website, I have been fortunate to reunite with several comrades from my time in the service,” he wrote. “I believe we are all more alike than you can imagine, and through this website, you will discover that. It has served me well, and I will continue to support it in the future.”