2 weeks Ago
I've heard several stories through the years as to the origin or authorship of “Meet A Grunt.” Frankly, I don’t recall any of the various theories. I first witnessed this writing while I was in Vietnam, I believe around December 1967.
It was in a bunker where I was visiting a unit as a member of the criminal investigation detachment of the 1st Marine Air Wing. Circumstances dictated that I take refuge in the nearest bunker. Inside, with two grunts, I first viewed this writing.
The two Marines had no idea where the document originated. But it was so impressive that I jotted the writing of what appeared to be printed on the outer covering of a C-ration case into my small, green memo book and eventually took it to my next duty assignment at Parris Island. There, I had training aids/graphic arts make me a poster from the writing in my memo book.
I still have that poster. Here is what is written on it: Meet A Grunt Con-Thien : This may be your finest hour, for you are about to meet a “Grunt.” Doff your cap, if you will; wave a flag; choke back a throb in your throat; wipe away a tear from your eye, for this is the man who is fighting your war.
The Grunt is the man who lives as close to war as it is possible to get. His rank varies, but mostly he is a private, a corporal, a lance-corporal or a sergeant. He is the one who dies a thousand times when the night is dark and the moon is gone, and he is the one who dies once and forever when the enemy rifle belches flame.
If you have ever slogged through a sticky rice paddy, or waded a stream carrying 60 rounds of ammunition, a canteen, a rifle and a pack with enough field “rats” and spare clothing to last a week, you’d know why they call him a Grunt. It’s fairly obvious. His pockets are full and his boots are mud-caked and his eyes never stand still; they move and squint and twitch.
He is nervous, aware of every sound, for he operates in a never-never world where the difference in death and one more tomorrow often depends on what he sees or does not see, what he hears or does not hear. He likes the Air Guys because planes give him a measure of protection. He likes artillery outfits because they can knock the bejabbers out of an enemy platoon.
He cares about the supply outfits only to the extent they can provide him with something to eat and more ammunition to shoot. He lives first for the day his tour is up and he can get out of this country. He lives next for an R&R (Rest and Rehabilitation).
He’d like to get his hands on a cold beer because it would drive the heat from his throat and ease the corroding pain in his gut. But he is a Grunt, and if he can live through today, there will be tomorrow and, if he can live through enough tomorrows, there will be R&R and the end of his tour. The Grunt as he stands in dirty muddy majesty, is as fine a fighting man as the United States has ever produced.
He is young, tough, intelligent and knows how to kill. There is something of a builder in these young men. They speak sometimes of what must be done to South Vietnam to make it right and workable.
They speak sometimes of government and how it must work. And, if you are lucky, you may get a Grunt to speak his mind about the war. He may tell you things in a language largely unprintable.
But it may or may not be surprising to learn that, for the most part, he understands why he is here and he believes in the purpose that put him here. And that is something. Because if you take a Grunt out of his water-filled bunker, remove his flak jacket, his field uniform, take away his rifle, clean him up and dress him in a sport shirt, slacks and loafers, you’ve got the kid who was playing halfback on last year’s high school football team.
He is a national asset to be treasured! — Author Unknown From time to time over the years I’d view or hear various renditions of this missive from that bunker in Vietnam, but that was eons ago. In cleaning out my Mount Pleasant home, preparing it for sale after my wife of 65 years died, I came across that poster made at Parris Island sometime in late 1968 or early 1969. It was rolled up with a couple of maps in a cardboard cylinder hidden away with a bunch of other cylinders of photos and such from years gone by.
As I reread it, I remained impressed with the content and style of the writing, but I still have no clue of its origin except what was written on that cardboard, in that bunker so many years ago. I’d appreciate any input from any source about this excellent rendition of “Meet A Grunt.” Ralph Stoney Bates is a retired Marine Corps major.
Email him at [email protected] ..
