Once upon a time...

I was reading Murphy again, and he spoke, among other things, about a particularly foul cup of coffee in Iraq.

Long ago and far away, I was a young Marine public affairs type stationed on Okinawa. As military "journalists," we drank copious amounts of coffee from sunup until the bars opened.

We had a particularly irritating "shop duty" which required one of us junior pukes to trudge up to our basement Public Affairs Office in the wee dark hours and get things set for the day. We copied and distributed the Early Bird (which came in by fax), turned on lights, did some other random crap, and made the coffee.

Since we were stationed on Okinawa, periodically one of our Marines would get to travel to Iwo Jima. Veteran's groups, VIPs, and the occasionally over-motivated wing unit would go to the island for various reasons, and they all wanted official photos taken.

Now, we are all aware that in the all the grand mythology of the Marine Corps, there is no more hallowed battle than the one for Iwo Jima. Blood and death and sacrifice and valor and victory and the ghosts of long-gone heroes...it was a religous pilgrammage to make, and any small souvenier was treated like a sliver of the One True Cross.

One dark morning, a young corporal had Office Duty. He trudged up the hill, copied the Early Bird, and took a copy to each appointed desk. He turned on lights and then went to the main office to start the coffee. The big can, he noted, was empty.

So the corporal went to the supply closet, where there was a big red Folgers can, partially full. He set the coffee, then went out for a morning smoke and prepared to start his duty day.

The rest of the office rolled in. As was normal, the old gruff master sergeant was the first at the coffee pot. He stopped, peered at it, and hollered for the corporal.

"Yes, Top," the young man joined the master sergeant.

"Why is the coffee clear? Or cloudy? But not black?" The Top was perplexed, as was the corporal. The young man immediately opened the top of the coffeemaker to ensure he'd put the grounds in. Yep - wet and black. He looked at the Top, and the Top looked at him.

"What 'coffee' did you use?"

"We were out, so I used the half-can in the supply closet."

A sigh. A long, drawn-out, master sergeant sigh.

"Son, you made coffee with the sands of Iwo Jima."



Anybody could have made the mistake, I suppose.


Note - picture above swiped from a gentleman named, I believe, Joe Richard, who has a very nice page dedicated to those who served with such courage at the gates of Hell. Their valor allowed us to monkey around on a Japanese island 53 years later.