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As (by adoption) the son, first cousin, and third cousin of United States Marines, I find that branch's lack of its own secretariat within the Department of Defense to be objectionable and disrespectful to the military service rendered to this country by the Corps.  

   Historically, the Branch has been a part of the United States Navy, under the authority of that secretary.  But historical precedent does exist for separation.  The United States Air Force was separated, by Act of Congress, from the Army.  The Marine Corp is no less deserving for separation, and appointment of its own civilian administrative staff.

   My father was stationed aboard the battleship Nevada in the Pacific Theater of WWII, 1944-45, and was discharged in 1946. He served, during naval combat, as a gunner's mate; the gun that he kept supplied, as a shell loader, was used primarily against Kamakazes.  My father's best friend from high school was pulverized on deck when a Kamakaze slammed into the side of the Nevada.  My father, who had been sent by the gunner to the adjacent ordinance bunker for additional shells, was sheltered from the blast. He died refusing to forgive the Japanese people for the death of his friend.  I believe my father would not have encourgaged my interest in Haiku and Tanka.  I was forbidden to date any Japanese exchange student at my college; I was not, at that time, inclined to honor the restriction.

  My father learned, at a Marine reunion of those who at served aboard the Nevada that my father had been expected by the ship's commander, and by the Navy Department, to be one of the first Marines slaughtered in an invasion of Japan, had President Truman decided upon that action instead of the atomic bombing.  My father, due to his surname, would have been the third man to enter the lander for deployment in that invasion.  

  As an elderly civilian, my father---who was a physically powerful man up until the last couple of months of his life---asaulted and injured a Marine drill instructor who, he had believed, insulted him.  The drill instructor was hospitalized from his injuries.  I am told that the instructor was reprimanded in writing by his commander, and lost a stripe as punishment.  My father respected all fellow Marines, but did not consider the drill instructors, past or present, as legitimate Marines.  He believed they were sadists, unable to function in a combat unit.  I will not debate the accuracy of what he believed.  It was his belief, and I need not defend it.

  My father and I agreed on very little during much of my life.  However, four months before he passed, we reconciled with a handshake, after which he introduced me---with what I believe to have been pride in his voice---as his son to the hospital staff who had been caring for him.  Only after his death did one of my cousins state that I was not truly my father's son, or my grandfather's grandson, due to adoption. 

   My father and grandfather was both employed, since and after the Great Depression, by the County Engineer's office, locally.  My father surveyed land for the construction or improvement of roads; my grandfather supervised the building of small bridges, in the rural part of our country, over small creeks, culverts, and chasms.  Out of a number of unconnected roads, the County Engineer designed and constructed a single four- and six-lane highway that encircles our metropolitan area. My father surveyed the center and side lines of this beltway for the initial construction.  To this day, I feel safest on this road, which runs very close to my present residence.  (During my summer employment of 1978, I had the privilege to be on the inspection crew that oversaw the contractors who paved a major part of it.  During my first summer employment, 1975, I was told by those who had worked with him, and some of them he had trained as transit operators, that my father was an actual Artist on the transit; that he turned an angle once, and once only, and that the accuracy of his surveys, even years later, was considered to be precise enough not to be repeated.)

   I do not sign my poems with my surname because, quite frankly, I am unworthy to bear the surname of my father and grandfather; and of their historical relatives (a governor, a historian of the civil war, and an astronomer with a nebula named for him; to name only three).  Nothing compelled my parents to adopt me; and the cost of my upbringing was an arm and a leg, to say the least.  To help finance my college tuition, my mother returned to the work force after nineteen years of absence---securing a position as the Chief Admissions Clerk of the county Juvenile Court.  In her capacity, she reported several township deputies (an untrained position mostly held by amateurs, or police academy rejects, who were a bit too enthusiastic about power demonstrations) for physical abuse of the detainees.  (However, my father, like my grandfather, was suitably feared for his size and strength, and no deputy ever bothered my mother.)  Although my choice of major, and my interest in poetry, disappointed them, my subsequent corporate career apparently pleased them as, during my first major promotion to the rank of Senior Assistant Manager of a local branch of an international finance company, they mentioned it, somewhat repeatedly, to their friends at card parties and other events.

    They did not have to adopt me.  But they did---and my children's and grandchildren's (and, now, great grandchildren's) lives have been touched to some degree by that.

   This began as an essay about a Marine Corp secretariat.  It ends as a paean to my father, a United States Marine.

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