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The rifle was an M-14, the weapon of choice in the United States Marine Corps for a short time during the 1960's. It was called a magazine fed semi-automatic shoulder weapon replacing the tried and true M-1 Garand, which had been the main infantry weapon since 1942. The M-1 had been my first rifle and, as my drill instructor informed me, my best friend. I had been taught its care, cleaning and operation during the spring of 1959 in "boot camp" at Paris Island, South Carolina. As any new thing goes, the M-14 was looked upon with distain. It may have been lighter than the M-1 (8 pounds rather than 9 and a half). The magazine held more rounds (20 bullets versus 8). But it wasn't as accurate. It had plastic parts and the ammo was this funny 7.62-millimeter instead of 30 caliber, not that we 17 and 18 year old recruits had any idea what either measurement meant. It was just that millimeter was foreign to us. Although history says that the M-1 was greeted with the same lack of enthusiasm when it was introduced at the battle of Guadalcanal in 1942, replacing the 03 Springfield, it soon, however, earned its reputation in combat. The story goes that the Japanese had learned that the 03 had only 5 rounds, so that as soon as a marine fired 5 times it was safe to put their heads up. Of course the first time they did that, the marine having 3 more shots made short work of them.

All of that brings me to October, 1962. My artillery unit had been sent to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba in August of that year. Our job was to provide support to the Marine Infantry Station on the U.S. held naval base. It was a routine assignment; troops had been rotated to the base for years. Earlier, it had been a fairly easy assignment: tropical weather, cheap rum and pretty Cuban girls. But then came Castro and bad relations between the two governments. The gates were closed and the troops restricted to the base, leaving only the good weather and cheap rum. Some civilians were still allowed on the base to perform functions like cleaning and running the PX (Post Exchange). The rumor was that the pretty blonde who worked there was making a fortune in the stock room. Even this changed on a Sunday morning in October. It was normal practice for all units to go on alert once a month. This required us to remain at our positions ready to defend the island until relieved. Thanks to the perversity of some commander, this drill always started on a Friday and ended on Sunday. I'm sure the guy that dreamt this up would have loved to keep us out until Monday, but no C.O. (Commanding Officer) would dare prevent us from attending church services. Not that any of us went to church, but the threat was always there. This particular Sunday we were sitting around our 105 howitzer gun emplacements, overlooking the fighter jet landing strip, which was the reason for our presence. We were obliviously waiting to get relieved when one of the guys said, "has anyone noticed all of the big airplanes landing?" This was greeted with the normal amount of ignorance present in bored young men. "So what?" "I've counted 53," announced the astute observer. This was enough to wake a few of us up. "Are you sure?" By then we were all looking into the sky and sure enough there they were, one after another, circling the field and landing each in its turn. As our interest increased the Lieutenant arrived. And announced, "they want all the trucks up on the runway." We had 5 6x6 trucks -- 4 to haul the guns and 1 for ammo. The lieutenant was unable to answer any of our questions but said he would go with the trucks to find out. Since I was the head mechanic, not one of the drivers, I followed his lead by assigning myself to go along just in case of a break down. In reality there was no way I was going to wait around with the cannon cockers to find out what was happening.

Following the lieutenant's jeep, we soon arrived at the airfield and were directed to one of the many Boeing 707's lining the strip. I hopped out and ran up the gangway to greet the first marine emerging from the jet. I was going to be the first to find out what was happening. The guy in the doorway beat me to it. Looking at the palm trees he said," where are we? Hickam Field?" Hickam Field is in Hawaii. "No way, man. You're in Gitmo." "You must be joking," shouted one of the marines from within. I then point toward the main hanger. "Look over there." The words "Guantanamo Bay Naval Air Station" were emblazoned on it's front. Now it was my turn. "Where are you guys from, Lejune?" Camp Lejeune is in North Carolina. The answer was. " No, we're from El Toro." El Toro is in California. "I told my wife this was just a drill and I'd be home for dinner," groaned another new arrival. Our combined confusion aside we were told to "quit gabbing and get the trucks loaded." We soon started our taxi service ferrying the planes full of combat ready Californians to different spots on Leeward Point. Gitmo is divided into two pieces: Mainside, where the port for the naval school and other administrative buildings are, and Leeward Point, the location of the fighter wing. Leeward is by far the smaller just barely big enough to hold the landing strip and supporting personnel. Where these hundreds of troops were going was beyond me. I was soon to learn part of the answer, though. We had just completed a run to the swimming pool, where a battalion command post was being set up, when the lieutenant arrived. "Let's go guys." Off we went back to our gun positions. Everyone loaded onto the trucks and we headed back to our barracks. We were all looking forward to a shower and a good meal at the naval mess hall. "Grab all your gear and get back on the trucks in 15 minutes," was not what we expected to hear. The lieutenant was hit with a barrage of questions and complaints, the answer to all of them was, "get everything that belongs to you. We are vacating the barracks for the aircrews." This, of course, was met with many unkind remarks about Airedales, which is how we referred to Marine aviators. A few minutes later, those who made the remarks might have regretted them. Just as the loading was about finished, our attention was drawn down the road toward the runway. A 707 loaded with ammunition landed wing first and exploded in a huge ball of flame. The 7 crewmen died and the fire burned all night, the fire fighters being prevented from approaching the inferno due to exploding ammo. It was a very subdued crew that returned to our now permanent home.

It turned out our position was at the center of activity. A wide sandy beach located just below the airfield was a perfect site for landing craft, and here they came swarming out of the sea, disgorging, hundreds of troops, tanks, trucks and all manner of military equipment. Just like everyone else, they had no idea what was going on. They had been training at a Marine base in Puerto Rico and were surprised when they headed our way. It was growing dark and the Sea Bees erected floodlights so the landing could continue. Rumors were now growing like fleas on a dog. "This was just a drill." "Castro was going to invade." "The Russians had attacked." And on and on.... Finally, we were told that President Kennedy would address the world in an hour. This was not a drill. At the appointed time, without any order being given, all work stopped. We gathered around the radios that appeared from nowhere.

The news was grim. The U.S. had discovered guided missiles being installed on Cuba and Kennedy was imposing an embargo on all ships to Cuba until the missiles were removed. There were a lot of other things said, but that was the bottom line. My country was threatening another country with military intervention and I was part of that intervention.

Being a truck mechanic in an artillery regiment you don't expect to really need your rifle. A box end wrench is your weapon of choice and in a pinch you might help the gun crews, a task you avoided like the plague. But this was a different kettle of fish. Gitmo is at the southernmost end of Cuba, protected by a 24-mile chain link fence. Our position on Leeward Point was extremely vulnerable and explosive. Besides the piles of howitzer ammunition we had, there were the tanks of aviation fuel for the jets, and, just to make things worse, the liquid oxygen plant was right next door. The area we defended was very small and in the event of an attack from the mainland our backs were to the sea, any defense might be short lived. All during our assignment the lieutenant had complained about the lack of small arms ammunition, bullets and hand grenades. We, of course, privately laughed at his concern. "What did we need with small arms ammo?" It was when the truck pulled in and we unloaded cases and cases of 7.62 ammo and hundreds of hand grenades that I started to think about my rifle. There were only 25 of us -- this was a lot of ammo. Somebody clearly thought we needed it. I then decided to take a short walk and be by myself, taking my rifle and a few grenades with me. They would become my constant companions for the next month.

I had joined the Marines when I was 17 needing permission from my parents to do so. My head, of course, was filled with dreams of glory and bravery fighting for my country. The past three and a half years had certainly dulled those thoughts. I was due to get out in a little over four months and intended to do so. I had been a pretty good marine having received the normal amount of promotions and been awarded my good conduct ribbon after three years of service. But the tedium and ignorance of many of my contemporaries had worn me out. Now, all of a sudden, I was faced with the real deal. What would I do if I were called upon to face an enemy who was trying to kill me? All of our training was filled with the ideal of defending the flag, which I believed in. But, when it came right down to it, what would I do? No altruistic answer came to me immediately. I then looked at my rifle, which I held firmly in both hands. "What should we do?" I had spent many hours learning to use it, and my M-1, being able to qualify as either Marksman or Sharpshooter and by Marine Corps standards that was pretty good. It would be a shame to waste all that effort. If and when the time came we would do what was necessary. I felt a lot better after that talk. I was prepared. I hadn't been cajoled by some screaming sergeant or officer, the decision was mine and I would not back off from it.

As history now knows, I was not required to fulfill my promise to my rifle. As Dean Atchison said, "We stared the other guy in the eye and he blinked." Today the world is being confronted with yet another war. People who will not be required to carry a rifle will make the decisions as to whether or not our young men and women will need to talk to their rifles. I hope once again the conversations are needless.