Eight Marines, a Hog Farmer, and the Great Silverware Recovery Operation
82 Years — 82 Lessons | By Mike Cunningham Sr.
There are certain moments in a Marine's life that he never forgets.
The day he earns his Eagle, Globe, and Anchor. The first time he fires his rifle for qualification. The pride of putting on that uniform and knowing he belongs to the finest fighting force in the world.
And then there's the day he finds himself standing ankle-deep in hog shit, looking for government-issued silverware.
That one tends to stick with you, too.
Especially the smell.
The Few. The Proud. The Extremely Unfortunate.
It was sometime in the early 1960s at Camp Pendleton, California.
I was a young United States Marine, serving my country with honor, courage, and commitment.
At least that's what I thought I was doing.
The Marine Corps, however, had other plans.
I had been assigned to KP duty, which stood for Kitchen Police. It was a highly specialized military assignment requiring absolutely no specialized military training.
You simply needed two hands, a strong back, and the unfortunate ability to be found by a sergeant.
Now, for those unfamiliar with the Marine Corps of my generation, KP was not an invitation to participate in the culinary arts.
It meant washing dishes, scrubbing pots, hauling garbage, and performing every miserable task the cooks could dream up.
But on this particular occasion, the Marine Corps decided to expand our operational capabilities.
We were going into agriculture.
Operation Silverware Recovery
You see, after chow, some Marines apparently had difficulty distinguishing between a slop can and a silverware collection point.
Instead of returning their forks, knives, and spoons, they threw them into the slop cans.
These cans of leftover food were sold to local hog farmers to feed their pigs.
Now, somewhere along the chain of command, a brilliant military mind discovered that government property was disappearing.
And this individual, possibly a sergeant, possibly a lieutenant, but unquestionably a man with far too much time on his hands, developed a recovery plan.
Did he suggest putting a sign above the slop cans?
No.
Did he suggest inspecting the trays before they were emptied?
Absolutely not.
That would have been far too simple.
Instead, somebody decided that eight United States Marines should visit the hog farm and retrieve the missing silverware.
From the hog pen.
Where the hogs lived.
And where the hogs had been doing what hogs do best.
The Invasion of Pork Chop Beach
I don't recall whether we received a formal operations briefing.
But if we had, I imagine it would have sounded something like this:
MISSION: Recover United States government silverware.
LOCATION: Enemy-held hog pen, Camp Pendleton area.
FRIENDLY FORCES: Eight Marines, already questioning their career choices.
ENEMY FORCES: An undetermined number of hogs with complete control of the terrain.
TERRAIN CONDITIONS: Ankle-deep hog shit, decomposing chow hall leftovers, and substances not yet identified by military science.
EXPECTED RESISTANCE: Severe.
CHANCE OF RETAINING DIGNITY: Zero.
And so we entered the hog pen.
Now, I've been in some unpleasant places during my lifetime.
But this place was special.
The ground was ankle-deep in a mixture of hog droppings, rotting food, and whatever else those animals had contributed to the local ecosystem.
Every step produced a sensation that no government-issued boot was ever designed to withstand.
The smell was something you could almost chew.
And there we were, eight members of the United States Marine Corps, looking for forks and spoons.
I don't remember seeing anything about this particular assignment in the recruiting literature.
The Enemy Had Air Superiority
The hogs, of course, were completely unimpressed by our presence.
They had the advantage of knowing the terrain.
They had unlimited supplies.
And they had absolutely no respect for rank.
I suspect they were thinking, "What kind of idiots are these?"
Meanwhile, the farmer and our NCOICs were having the time of their lives.
They were laughing at us.
Not polite little chuckles, either.
They were enjoying a full-blown comedy performance, courtesy of the United States government.
Eight Marines slogging through pig manure while grown men stood safely outside the pen laughing themselves silly.
Somewhere in Washington, somebody was probably writing a report about the efficient utilization of military manpower.
No Purple Hearts Were Awarded
I can't tell you today exactly how much silverware we recovered.
After more than sixty years, some details fade.
But I can tell you that the memory of that hog pen has never faded.
Neither has the memory of those men laughing at us.
I don't recall anybody receiving a commendation.
There were no medals.
No certificates of appreciation.
No formal recognition for gallantry under exceptionally shitty conditions.
We were simply eight Marines who had been given a job.
And when the Marine Corps gave you a job, you did it.
Even when the job involved wading through hog shit to recover a spoon that probably cost the government fifteen cents.
The Marine Corps Has Changed
I recently learned that the Marine Corps no longer relies on traditional KP duty the way it did when I served.
Civilian employees and contractors now perform many of the mess hall duties we once handled.
I suppose that makes economic and operational sense to somebody.
And I certainly don't begrudge today's Marines the opportunity to spend more time training and less time scrubbing pots.
But I wonder whether something has been lost along the way.
Not the hog shit.
They can keep that.
I'm talking about the shared misery, the ridiculous assignments, and the experiences that taught us that nobody was above doing the dirty work.
Sometimes literally.
There was something about being miserable together that created a bond between Marines.
And decades later, those miserable experiences often become the funniest stories we have to tell.
Lesson Number Whatever: Some Memories Never Wash Off
At 82 years old, I've learned that life has a strange way of deciding which memories stay with us.
I've forgotten plenty of things I probably should remember.
But I can still picture eight Marines standing in a hog pen at Camp Pendleton, surrounded by rotting garbage and ankle-deep manure, while a hog farmer and our NCOICs laughed at our misfortune.
I doubt any of us appreciated the humor at the time.
But more than sixty years later, I'm laughing about it myself.
And that brings me to the lesson:
Sometimes the most miserable experiences of your youth become the funniest memories of your old age.
The Marine Corps taught me discipline, courage, loyalty, and responsibility.
It also taught me that a man can survive just about anything.
Including a government-sponsored expedition through a hog pen.
And if somebody ever tells you that Marines are trained to overcome every obstacle, believe them.
I've seen eight Marines overcome six inches of pig shit in pursuit of missing silverware.
The Few. The Proud. The Pork Patrol.
Semper Fi!
Mike Cunningham Sr.
United States Marine Corps, 1962–1966
mikesobservations.com
