Daniel Cervantes:
CLASS OF 1977
Hobart High SchoolClass of 1977
Hobart, IN
Purdue University - ScienceClass of 1988
Indianapolis, IN
Purdue UniversityClass of 1985
Hammond, IN
Hobart Junior High SchoolClass of 1974
Hobart, IN
George Earle Elementary SchoolClass of 1971
Hobart, IN
Daniel's Story
The Boys of Three-Fifty-Two
It has been more than thirty years now and most of the fine points elude me today. But, some memories never diminish. Take for example, the summer of 1980. I was laying in the rear of a throbbing, noisy and cold KC-130. Together with a number of Marines, we were on a flight from MCAS El Toro to NAS Barbers Point. I was a young corporal and had already served a year in Okinawa, Japan, an exotic tropical island. Now, I was heading to the American version of paradise in Hawaii. The KC-130 is the Marine Corps version of a flying gas station. What it is not designed for is comfortable long (or short) distance human transport. Our small group of aircraft, and the personnel contained within them, were all proud members of Marine Aerial Refueler Transport Squadron 352, affectionately known as the "Raiders". To pass the time, I would play my favorite tunes in my head, usually Led Zeppelin, George Thorogood, Ted Nugent or ZZ Top. Sony was just releasing its first compact cassette Walkman in the United States, so we didn't have the luxury of portable music players (and we had to run PT in our combat boots, but I'll save that for another story). Or, I might tune in something less commercial, such as our squadron song, "We are the boys of Three-Fifty-Two." It was a brutal nine and a half hour journey.
On the second, or maybe the third day, after sweating away for Uncle Sam's Misguided Children, we were ready to blow off some steam. Our resourceful senior NCO's seized, legally or otherwise, a M35 "Deuce-and-a-Half". They arrived with this behemoth while we were still shoveling down our evening chow. We quickly changed into our swim trunks, then, hoisted a galvanized garbage can, ice and beer into the posterior of the truck. The Deuce-and-a-Half easily held the dozen healthy, gung-ho and parched Marines, thirsty for adventure.
By the time we reached Barbers Point Beach, the Sun had already set. The view of the sand and water was seductive. The only sound was that of the waves rolling slowly against the shore. The objective was secure, or so it appeared. For the moment, all was carefree. We jettisoned our cargo and ignited the party. Marines drank, laughed and assailed the briny deep. After downing a few cold ones, a couple of us began to sing, "We are the boys of Three-Fifty-Two, the Raiders of the night."
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w much time passed exactly, I'm not sure, but our tranquility was soon disrupted. The disturbance was quite distant, and curiously, it did not originate from terra firma. The moaning grew louder, and more sensual. A few of us began to deliberate the origin of the turmoil. Then, what appeared resembled the Greek god Poseidon dragging a nymph from his underworld. As they drew closer, the apparition transformed into a Marine supporting a half-clothed, attractive, young woman. The female was disoriented and appeared depressed. However, she did not seem in immediate danger. We sat her down and offered her our undivided attention. She responded positively to our deluge of interest, eventually regaining her bearing. Her melancholy seemed to lessen a bit as well. This unfortunate interruption put only a temporary damper on our celebration. Marines returned to drinking, laughing and merrymaking.
Before long, the Naval Shore Patrol crashed the party. They conducted a prompt investigation of the night's manifestations. The SPs concluded that a suicidal female, currently undergoing divorce proceedings, was found on a sandbar semiconscious, the timing of Marines arriving on the secluded beach being a fortunate coincidence. After some lively discussion, we were instructed to evacuate the area. I don't remember if the SPs provided the exact reason for extinguishing our party; the beach closed after dark, alcohol not allowed on the beach, or Jarheads not allowed to retrieve waterlogged maidens without prior authorization.
Reluctantly, we repacked the Deuce-and-a-Half with our makeshift cooler and what remained of the beer. Before climbing into the rear of our truck, we each offered best wishes to the dispirited young woman. As we retreated, I will never forget the Siren yelling, as she charged after us, "I want to go with you guys!" We slowed for just a moment, but I knew we couldn't stop to take her with us. Some Marines smiled, some waved, some grunted and some returned a carefully crafted remark. For the rest of the ride back to our quarters, I thought to myself, "It sure is great to be Raider!"
We are the boys of Three-Fifty-Two,
The Raiders of the night,
We're dirty low down Sons-of-a-Bitc**s,
We'd rather f*** than fight!
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