An Update from the Father of Lance Corporal DeMarino

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What follows from the father of Lance Corporal DeMarino is a pure expression of what our effort is dedicated to across the websites, the publications and the magazine.

Quaker service was really part of a long goodbye that tried to bring together all the parts of Will’s life. First, when his remains arrived at the house with the Marines, my old Presbyterian pastor gave a service for the family and close friends. Then the Marines held a service at the base in NC with his whole squadron and the commander.

Then we had the Quaker service at a very old 17th C meeting house (where Will had attended nursery school!). We aren’t Quakers, but chose it because it was a chance for his entire Marine and non-Marine friends to “witness” as the Quakers put it.

Some told funny stories, a few sang songs and a few, like Jack Shaw, gave stirring eulogies. Our whole local community came and filled it to the rafters. The Marines presented the flag. The lack of, shall we say, military discipline in a Quaker service was taken in stride by his comrades. They more than rose to the occasion.

On the MALS 26, two special things. While Betsy and I were in NC, his squadron took us into the Osprey workshop to show us Will’s work station, still with all his ‘projects’ on his table, left for us to see before it was cleared.

The Commander, Raymond Baker, was with us (and his wife) and for all the world he looked like a 40 yr old version of Will De Marino. The similarity was so pronounced that I told him so. He smiled, and with a grin that was just like Will’s. He told us he will always remember Will because of that grin….he said he was once walking on the base to a meeting that was going to be tough. He had what he described as his ‘official Marine scowl’ on for the meeting. He encountered Will, with his full permanent grin, who wished him a good morning. Baker said he just had to return that big grin, whereupon he lost his scowl and his ‘preparation’.

What follows is the Eulogy from the Father:

My dear son, also know as Willy Worm Dog, I can see that big grin and those bright eyes that got you into, and out of, trouble all your life.

You were everyone’s best friend, the life of the party, the go-to guy for mischief. But also the guy that so many of your friends went to when they  needed help, someone to buck them up. A true blue friend. But it fell to  Pop, or “Pops’ as you called me, to be the disciplinarian, to crack the whip. And oh my, what a job that was! Head in the clouds, school assignments undone, grades across the whole horizon from the occasional “A” to the healthy scattering of “Fs”. Summer school repeats, and you even sometimes flunked the repeats.

Possibly no one ever before you took so many Latin classes or endured so much Latin tutoring to no avail – and only you would top it off by getting a flashy tattoo – which you knew would send your mother up a tree – and have it inscribed in Latin. I told you once I knew a lot of bad characters in my youth but I never knew anyone who  attended four different high schools in four consecutive years!

But when I thought you – and I – had batted out, you made a decision in November 2008 to be a Marine. I asked you to write me a letter saying why you wanted to be a Marine. It was a wonderful, clear letter – full of strong opinions and your ever present humor. You ticked off ever piece of advice I ever gave you – word for word – and you joked – correctly – that you were sure that I was sure not one damn word had gotten through to you.

Off you went to Parris Island. You sent me fantastic letters – long, and full of the struggles you were enduring but the firm resolve to tough it out. You were simply not going to give up. And always that wonderful humor – you said you were becoming a very reliable church goer; in fact, you went every time you could – because that was the only place those miserable bastard drill sergeants couldn’t get at you. And when you stood on that parade ground on graduation day, you had truly become one of the few, the brave, a Marine.

The son who once muttered a sentence or two when asked how he was doing in school, now talked my leg off about his job in Squadron 26. The guy who once dodged Pops calls, had become the family drill sergeant, badgering Alex to make sure he was calling the old man on a regular basis.

So all was well in the universe, and Will was safe and sound in North Carolina. You were happy and you were achieving so much, and doing so much. I remember telling you when we last talked how absolutely proud I was of you –  that Pop had no more whips to crack, no more complaints to make, no more lectures to give. From here on, you were –as far as I was concerned – a man who could achieve just about anything.

And then last Sunday there came a knock at the door, and I saw standing on my front porch two soldiers, and I knew instantly my son, the proud Marine was dead.

A life of such bright promise cut away at the moment of its first flowering.

There are no words, no gestures, nothing for my grief. I do have the wonderful memories – my son grown to manhood, loving what he was doing, and doing it well.

We receive you home today to your family and friends. And we pray to the Almighty to give you peace and love through eternity. I can only hope my mother and father and your brother Ben are there to receive you. And should you need any further whip cracking, my mother will keep you on the straight and narrow – so your days dressing up as Billy Idol are probably a little limited.

So until we meet again, my son, my love and thoughts will always be with.

Let the angels bear you up on the wings of eternity.

And we would like to add an additional input from the proud father.

When your son joins the Marines, he goes off to something called boot camp for something called basic training. Which is a pretty innocuous term for pure hell.

You can’t call him and the only communication is by letter.  So you wait for a letter without any idea how they’re doing – or if they’re doing – in a place the Marines humorously call Parris Island – an island it may be, but it sure ain’t Paris.

I should also tell you Will warned us not to address any letters to him as ‘Marine Willian De Marino’.

If the drill sergeant got hold of such a letter, He would announce to all the recruits that they had a REAL Marine in their midst, and Will would have to do an extra 150 push-ups to prove it. So with that said, I’d like to read one of Will’s letters home – it’s short and to the  point and I could tell reading it he had probably just become a Marine.

Dear Pops,

The most amazing thing happened the other day. My platoon was struggling and we weren’t very good. A lot of people dropped, more than every other Platoon. But the other day, during rifle drill ‘playing with our sticks’ it came together and as always we were yelling but because we wanted to, not because we had to. The battalion heard the boom and came all the way over to tell us we sounded like 3rd phasers. Now everything is coming together. Frankly, the ‘shit is tight’ as my drill instructor says.

I have met a lot of awesome people here, but I really never knew any soldiers before. I get along with them well.

Remember how I told you to not call me a Marine. Here is this kid named Marine !  They really give it to him. He gets called Navy, Airforce, squid. One Drill instructor took our skuzbrushes (which are those little brushes you learn to hate, and they have our names on them). And he lines them up.

Some of the names we have are Seeman, Cummings, Marine, Killing and Dickman. The drill instructors got some rocks out of that. They are funny guys. It’s really hard not to laugh at some of the things they say. But that’s  the point,  that they try to make you laugh.

Any way, I have some things to take care of and only half an hour or so of free time left. I miss you and the whole damn family. See you in a few.

The days are flying by.

Love

William

 

 

 

 

 

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