I was looking through some items that were left behind, is in
” I’m taking this & this and that to for safe keeping”
ok kid you do that
one item not taken was a notebook
a poem from that notebook
Twas the night before Christmas and all through the Corps
not a troopie had liberty,
they sure were sore
we were all sacked out every man in the lot
in a bed of spikes called a Marine Corps cot
When out in front lawn came such a clatter
I sprang from my cot to what what the matter
a rolly polly figure appeared on the scene
to my surprise twas the Commandant of the Marines
yes it was the Commandant, there was no dout
he was wearing a poncho, green side out
he tipped toes around each man’s rack
carefully inspected every rifle & pack
to a chosen few a 96 chit
but to the majority a ration of shit
as he pulled away in his gold plated M151
drawn by 10 Colonels all pulling for rank
I heard him say with a very loud shout
Merry Christmas you bastards
you’ll never get out!
I remember reading a poem by
James M. Schmidt
a Marine Lance Corporal at the time of 1986
I’ve heard an read about something called Old school & New School
that may be true
after reading the Lance’s words it’s plain to see as the fresh fallen snow outside
there’s only one Marine Corps
Twas the night before Christmas, he lived all alone,
In a one bedroom house made of plaster & stone.
I had come down the chimney, with presents to give
and to see just who in this home did live
As I looked all about, a strange sight I did see,
no tinsel, no presents, not even a tree.
No stocking by the fire, just boots filled with sand.
On the wall hung pictures of a far distant land.
With medals and badges, awards of all kind,
a sobering thought soon came to my mind.
For this house was different, unlike any I’d seen.
This was the home of a U.S. Marine.
I’d heard stories about them, I had to see more,
so I walked down the hall and pushed open the door.
And there he lay sleeping, silent, alone,
Curled up on the floor in his one-bedroom home.
He seemed so gentle, his face so serene,
Not how I pictured a U.S. Marine.
Was this the hero, of whom I’d just read?
Curled up in his poncho, a floor for his bed?
His head was clean-shaven, his weathered face tan.
I soon understood, this was more than a man.
For I realized the families that I saw that night,
owed their lives to these men, who were willing to fight.
Soon around the Nation, the children would play,
And grown-ups would celebrate on a bright Christmas day.
They all enjoyed freedom, each month and all year,
because of Marines like this one lying here.
I couldn’t help wonder how many lay alone,
on a cold Christmas Eve, in a land far from home.
Just the very thought brought a tear to my eye.
I dropped to my knees and I started to cry.
He must have awoken, for I heard a rough voice,
“Santa, don’t cry, this life is my choice
I fight for freedom, I don’t ask for more.
My life is my God, my country, my Corps.”
With that he rolled over, drifted off into sleep,
I couldn’t control it, I continued to weep.
I watched him for hours, so silent and still.
I noticed he shivered from the cold night’s chill.
So I took off my jacket, the one made of red,
and covered this Marine from his toes to his head.
Then I put on his T-shirt of scarlet and gold,
with an eagle, globe and anchor emblazoned so bold.
And although it barely fit me, I began to swell with pride,
and for one shining moment, I was Marine Corps deep inside.
I didn’t want to leave him so quiet in the night,
this guardian of honor so willing to fight.
But half asleep he rolled over, and in a voice clean and pure,
said “Carry on, Santa, it’s Christmas Day, all secure.”
One look at my watch and I knew he was right,
Merry Christmas my friend
Semper Fi and goodnight.
