'One Hell of a Legacy'
The Marine Corps and one family's abiding love for it
The Marine Corps and one family's abiding love for it This week marks the end of an era for the United States Marine Corps: For the first time in 70 years, a Krulak will no longer wear the eagle, globe, and anchor. But as long as marines remain true to their traditions of valor and honor, they will still talk about the Krulaks.
V. H. "Brute" Krulak created many a legend in the corps. A graduate of the Naval Academy, he was a young lieutenant colonel in World War II when he took a Marine battalion to Choiseul Island in the Solomons, a diversionary raid to cover the Bougainville invasion. It was a daring move that achieved its mission, but Japanese resistance was much stiffer than anticipated.
Eventually, the military sent several PT boats to help the marines get away. With Japanese guns blazing, one boat sank. Krulak, wounded in the head and arm, found his way into another, where the skipper, a junior lieutenant, gave his bunk to a dying marine. Reaching safety, Krulak told the skipper he was deeply grateful for the service to him and his men--and he promised in return a bottle of Three Feathers whiskey, rotten stuff but gold in those days.
In the fog of war, the two men parted before the whiskey was delivered. Years later, Krulak--then a two-star general--realized who the lieutenant was. He scratched around to find another bottle of Three Feathers and paid a call. Coming out of a meeting, the younger man said, "I remember you. You still owe me some whiskey." Here it is, Krulak responded. And he and John F. Kennedy sat down in the Oval Office to split it. "Two shots apiece," says Krulak today, "but it was still rotten."
"The crucible." In 1968, a veteran of three wars, Krulak was the favorite choice of the Navy secretary to become commandant. Encouraged by the front office, his wife quietly bought a set of four stars for the swearing-in ceremony, never letting her husband know. But LBJ had another candidate, and Krulak retired with three.
By that time, however, his three sons had all graduated from the Naval Academy, and one of them was marching in his father's footsteps. Twice, marine Chuck Krulak served in combat tours in Vietnam. In 1995, President Bill Clinton invited both generations to the Oval Office, and there Amy Krulak--surprising her husband--pulled from her handbag that set of four stars and pinned it on her son. A circle had closed.
In the four years he has served as commandant, Chuck Krulak has left his own imprint, demanded integrity, improving equipment and pay, insisting that the corps retain its warrior ethos. At a time when many others were easing standards for young people, he toughened them. The Marines raised requirements for enlistment above those of the Pentagon and lengthened recruit training to allow more instruction in values and personal accountability.
Krulak also wanted all recruits to have a "defining moment" before they left boot camp--an experience that would teach an indelible lesson about working together. Recruits are now roused from sleep at 2 a.m. and put through 54 straight hours of live-fire exercises, long marches, and sleep deprivation. As "the crucible" ends, their drill instructors pin the emblem on them. Finally, they are marines.
Reflecting upon the tragedy at Columbine High, Krulak recently wrote in the Richmond Times-Dispatch that kids today do not want to be babied. They are looking for stricter standards: "They desperately want to be part of a winning team and are willing to sacrifice to reach that goal." And kids obviously agree: In sharp contrast to every other service, the Marine Corps for the past four years has had unbroken success in recruiting.
As his son's June 30 retirement was approaching, his dad last week sent him a letter: "The greatest contribution you have made, the best and the most valuable by far, is not even visible . . . . Call it what you will--honesty, truthfulness, character, morality, reliability, integrity, dependability. Any one will do. . . . In each and every case, it creates respect, and not just for you, but for the entire Marine Corps.
"That is one hell of a legacy to leave." All 70 years.
This story appears in the July 5, 1999 print edition of U.S. News & World Report.