Posts Tagged ‘marine corps’


A couple months back, I reminisced about how the Marine Corps smells. Well, today, I came across something else that I owe to the Corps: My feet still smell like the Philippines.

You see, a long time ago, in the Marine Corps…

Our ship sailed up to this island in the Philippines, called Panay. We got off the ship and started hiking around in the jungle. It was so hot and humid that sweat poured off the rim of my cover (hat) not in drips, but in a steady stream, like the inaudible trickle of water no thicker than a shoelace that comes out of the tap just before you close it off. The sweat soaked my uniform until it felt like I’d just crawled out of a river. The sweat permeated my jungle boots until, when I stepped, moisture pushed through the seams, or the little brass grates on the insole. It even soaked my backpack, and into my poncho liner inside my backpack.

Anyway, we each only had a few pairs of socks. After three days, I had to recycle them. Even though I left them out at night, draped across the tops of my boots, they didn’t get dry. This might have had something to do with the constant rain at night, along with the damp cold, or taking our nature strolls through underbrush still wet from the previous night’s rain, or the fording of rivers while on maneuevers during the day. In case you weren’t aware of this, Marines don’t take off their boots to ford rivers. Or their socks.

You know, when you look at someone, you’re really looking at their hair, eyes, and, most importantly, skin. And, this is particularly hard to believe when your looking at someone attactive, like Gisselle, or Tom Brady, or your one-year-old, but that person’s skin is actually host to millions of bacteria microbes, most of which have been living there for years. Some skin bacteria like to live on your eyelids, or your nose, or your hands. But, most bacteria like to live in moist, dark places, like your mouth, your armpits, your crotch, and your feet. And, the bacteria that give rise to body odor can come from anywhere, and land on a random part of your body. If that part of your body suits them, they will thrive. And smell.

When I say that my feet still smell like the Philippines, I don’t mean that the Philippines is in itself a smelly place. Well, actually, that’s not true. There were parts of Manila that made me want to vomit from smell alone. But, the jungle in Panay smelled like a jungle. Nothing in the jungle itself smelled say, as bad as my feet do today if I wear the same socks for two days. And, my feet don’t actually smell bad at all. As long as I wash them every day, dry them out completely aterward, and never, ever ever, ever – please,never, wear the same socks twice without washing them in between wearings. Because if I do…

In relation to the annals of military history concerning feet, my feet didn’t take any abuse whatsoever during their service in the jungle of Panay. We were only there a week. I didn’t step in a punji trap. I didn’t trip a toe-popper. I didn’t get trench foot, immersion foot – heck, I didn’t even get blisters, or footsore. I didn’t even get athlete’s foot, or plantar’s warts – I got those from the ship’s showers, even though I wore my frigging flip-flops to prevent those things. But still, after our playtime in Panay, my feet were never the same.

After a week in the jungle, I – and my comrades – weren’t even aware of how filthy we were, until we got to the beach, for return to the ship by CH-46 helicopters.We had to wait a long time on the beach for our helicopters, because the CH-46 was an antiquated piece of crap that spent most of its time being repaired. For the first time in a week, we were exposed to the tropical sun, and in stark contrast to the jungle, the beach sands had zero humidity. While we all had three pairs of socks, we had only one pair of cammies. And, our cammies instantly dried out, and the fabric turned white and stiff from grime and body salts. My collar actually cut my neck. Our uniforms made crackling sounds when we moved the fabric. It felt like we were dressed in cardboard.

We recognized how dirty our clothes were, but we didn’t recognize how much we stank, because our stink was the only thing we smelled. But, the sailors who tried to pass us in the ship recoiled away from us. The Marines in berthing who hadn’t gone ashore kindly remarked that we smelled like shit.

I shoved my crusty cammies and my three pairs of socks into a laundry bag, showered (with my flip-flops on), came back, and put on a fresh set of laundered cammies. They were broken in, and felt like clean pajamas. Then, I smelled my laundry bag, hanging from the corner of my rack.

The stench radiated from the nylon mesh bag, knocking me back. I transferred the whole laundry bag to a willy pete bag, which was basically a waterproof rubber sack. I sealed the top, and, forgot about it. Big mistake, because I missed the call for the ship’s laundry. The toxic clothing had to wait until we got to Cebu, where we were given liberty. I took the laundry out to the city, and found a launderer. I think it cost three bucks to do the laundry, but I gave her ten, out of guilt, for putting up with that nightmare.

Regardless, after I got my clothes back from the launderer in Cebu, I still put them through the ship’s wash. Then, a week later, I put on my socks from the jungle. These socks were olive-drab, cushioned on the bottom, and when you got them, they’d have printing on them that said in white ink: “50% cotton, 50% wool.” When new, they’d reach up past your calf and stay there. When broken in, which only took a couple wearings, they’d sag down to the top of your boot. Anyway, I put them on, and we had a hot, sweaty, tiring day in uniform. My feet felt gamey and wet in their socks, and I was glad to kick off my boots at the end of the day.

Then, the smell hit me. It was the same nastiness that came crawling out of that willy pete bag, a mix of old gym socks and fermented zombie puss…

I guess, lying there on the tops of my boots, exposed to the jungle air and all the dust and yeast and bacteria and stuff flying around in it, my socks must have picked up a strain of microbe that, despite flourishing for thousands or millions of years in the jungles of the Pacific islands, never knew that its perfect environment happened to be on the melanin-deprived skin cells of the feet of a human being evolved in the environment of Northern Europe. And, when this microbe found itself in its version of paradise, it could only rejoice by being fruitful, multiplying, and producing what, to its version of a nose, must be a great odor, but to the nose of its host species, was a nightmare.

The socks were ruined. Even laundered three times they still had the odor. I tossed them. But, the damage was already done. My feet were the new home of this smell. I quickly found that any lapse in foot hygiene would not only ruin socks, but sneakers and boots, too. Once those microbes found a new home in the fabric of my footwear, they were there for good. No matter how many times the shoes were washed, bleached, sun-bleached, microwaved, or frozen, they would always come back whenever the temperature and humidity level recreate their utopic environment. It really makes me wonder, What in Heaven’s name landed on my socks in the jungle – a non-virulent form of Anthrax?

I was forced to up my game, and take my foot hygiene, sock wearing, and footwear usage into a pattern that resembles an obsessive-compulsive disorder, all to prevent a recurrence of The Odor.

Flash-forward to today. I can go years without being bothered by it, because I am vigilant. But, then, victory will weaken me. I will do something like I did this morning. It’s cold out, and I only have a few pairs of wool socks that are really primo – nice, new, and thick. And, this one pair, I wore yesterday. But, I was in the office all day, and I don’t sweat much in the winter…

So, I wear them again. But then, by about ten in the morning, as I swing one leg up to rest it over the other, the breeze made by my leg kicks that scent up to my nose. It’s not The Odor, not a stench anyone uninitiated to its legacy would recognize, but for me, it’s a reminder:

Despite 19 years, tens of thousands of washings, daily sock changes, anti-bacterial creams, summers spent only in sandals, wearing different shoes every day, and two decades worth of new socks and footwear…

My feet still smell like the friggin’ Philippines.

Kaiheitai’s epic war novel: Mark of the Legion

'Mark of the Legion' - available on Kindle.

‘Mark of the Legion’ – available on Kindle.


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Even twenty years after you graduate from boot camp, you’ll remember how the Marine Corps smells.

I come across them all the time.

A couple years ago, I bought a military surplus M-16 cleaning kit as a gift for my stepdad, to go with the AR-15 rifle he’d bought for himself. As soon as I held the cleaning kit, the smell of unchained hydrocarbons from CLP (Cleaning, Lubricant, and Preservative (fancy military name for ‘gun oil’)) flew up my nose, and in an instant I was, in my mind, spreading my disassembled M16A2 service rifle out on a nylon blanket that they issued us. The blanket had all the profiles of the weapon’s parts, but you usually memorized them in a day, anyway.

That smell made me feel the weapon in my hands. The safety / burst selector switch under your right thumb. The smooth crook of the pistol grip between your thumb and index finger. I heard it, too. The neat ‘click’ of the ejection port cover going home. The sliding rasp of a magazine. The angry ‘pang!’ of the recoil spring when it’s shoved back and locked in the ready position after the last round in the magazine is fired.

The eye-smarting smell of ammonia from the propellant is something you never get from anything but firing those rounds.

That wasn’t the only time a Marine Corps smell hit me hard.

The smell of diesel exhaust always puts me in a HUMVEE.

The oily smell of tent canvas puts me back into a half-shelter.

The smell of a new cotton t-shirt reminds me of the sleep-deprived nightmare of the early morning when eighty newly-arrived recruits and me were fitted to freshly-printed camoflauge uniforms, and given two kinds of boots to wear: green-and-black jungles, or black cadillacs (patent leather combat boots).

The smell of shoe polish (Kiwi) – I know most people don’t use it these days – is a a good acquaintence of my nose when I shine up my boots and shoes, a habit I had since Parris Island.

Actually, someone said that black Cadillacs aren’t even issued anymore.

We had to shine our brass in boot camp. We used this stuff called ‘Brasso,’ an acid-based cleaner that smells like it’s tunneling holes through your neurons. I inherited some antique brass candlesticks a couple years ago, and bought some of the stuff to shine them up. Pouring Brasso from its metal can onto a rag made me remember, for the first time, having all my uniform brass laid out on a clean towel, while the entire squadbay smelled like a chemical waste disposal facility as we scrubbed away with Brasso. You had to take your buckle off your web belt to clean it, but the buckle tip didn’t come off. You had to just clean it on the canvas belt, and be careful not to smeat the canvas with Brasso, or it would turn green. Marines wear a lot of green, but the canvas belt had to stay brown. You had to clean your brass Eagle, Globe, and Anchor insignias that went on your dress blues. And your tie clip that went on your Alphas.

Today is the Marine Corps Birthday. Nov. 10th. My first Marine Corps Birthday was spent on Parris Island, as a recruit. I thought it was pretty funny that the Marine Corps gave itself a cake. I believe it was the 217th birthday, when I was there. We also got steak and lobster. If you can choose when to go to boot camp, I’d say do it from September through Christmas. You get to pig out on Halloween (candy always floods the platoon, one way or another) the Marine Corps Birthday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. Even the kids on half rations got to pig out.

Today, my wife bakes me a cake for my Marine Corps Birthday. This is the third cake she’s made for me.

I’m going to give my son his first piece.

Someday he’s going to ask me about the Marines. I’m going to tell him how the Marine Corps smells, and how those smells stick with you for the rest of your life.

Happy Birthday, Teufelhunden.




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