With the Marines in the Republica Dominicana, 1965, by Fabian Acosta
From MemoryArchive
Who: Fabian Acosta What: On duty with the USMC When: Spring of 1965 Where: The Dominican Republic
I was 23. My plan was to go A.W.O.L. on a Monday night. I was stationed at Camp Lejeune, NC, at Courthouse Bay. I was a corporal (E-4) in the USMC assigned to 2d ANGLICO (Air and Naval Gunfile Liaison Company).
Vladimir Horowitz had announced he was coming out of retirement for one recital at Carnegie Hall. The maestro hadn't appeared on stage in over 10 years. His recordings were legendary (still are). Hearing his old recording of the Chopin Sonata No. 2, in a booth in the old Schirmer music store (next to Grand Central Station in NYC), had changed my life forever (I was 13). But 10 years later I was a happy camper, a Marine and like every Marine (only half of this public image is true) my happiest moments were drinking with my pals in the slopshoot (enlisted mens bar) or killing America's enemies.
When I read in the NY Times that Horowitz had announced his return for one performance, there wasn't even a question or an incorporal moment of thought. I would be there. The "how" of it didn't merit much more thought. If I couldn't get leave I was going A.W.O.L. I had to get to NYC in time to get into the standing room line at least 5 days before the concert.
I was all ready to go. I didn't tell my dad because he would have killed me and it would have hurt him - but my pals in Newark, NJ, THEY knew and we were going to PARTY on the steps of Carnegie Hall 24 hours a day for 5 days!!! I never made it.
Someone very, very, very brave (I envy that person, his/her bravery, his/her sense of justice) shot and killed Rafael Trujillo, "President" of the Dominican Republic (truly NOT SOON ENOUGH). "Communists insurgents" were trying to topple democracy in Latin America and Lyndon Johnson, president, democrat, and murderer was not going to let that happen. My outfit was mobilized that night, a couple days before I was going to go A.W.O.L. NOW I had a real choice: A.W.O.L. was one thing, desertion was another. But ... it was still Horowitz. What's a guy to do? What list of values does one run one's moral finger down to determine what to do in this kind of situation? In truth, I didn't give a small lump of bee scata if communists took over Central Park but there was no doubt in my mind what Fabian Acosta was going to do, had to do. My friends were going, my team. They were going to be shot at, perhaps even become involved in fighting for their lives. I was going.
Very wisely the USMC broke down all our teams (I was a team leader) and all team leaders were given a new team of 6 marines we didn't know. It was a nervous time.
Anyway ... this rookie officer (we are now in Ciudad Trujillo, a.k.a. Santo Domingo) volunteers my team ... us! ... to lead an Army patrol on foot 'into communist held parts of the city', along the Ozama River (I guess we "earned" that opportunity because we were Marines). Shortly after leaving our jump-off spot the road was blocked by a chain link gate secured by a chain and padlock. This new young kid/officer I now have, balances a hand-grenade (this is "real war" folks) on the chain, pulls the pin and yells for everyone to take cover. Everyone does - but me. I can't wait to see the grenade drop to the ground and roll towards this officer (hiding deep down behind some huge boxes). Just kidding! I really wanted to see if the grenade had enough power to blow the gate open even from the ground (no doubt in my mind: no grenade was going to shatter that steel chain). While I was waiting, a "rebel" came out of a door to a factory on the other side of the gate. He had crossed bandeleros of bullets over his chest and shoulders and was casually carrying a rifle. His only armor was a pair of high top sneakers, jeans, and a t-shirt. He looked towards the gate and immediately understood what was happening. He looked past the gate straight into my eyes. He was perhaps 50 yards away. He was the enemy. He was (maybe)17. I never took my eyes from his as I lifted my rifle and sighted down the barrel at him. He just looked back at me like he was going to date my sister whether I liked it or not and (NBFD) he had a switchblade in case I got frisky about it (apparently he was unaware that I shot "Sharpshooter" regularly at the USMC rifle range).
I wish I had done something funny or interesting like yelled "BANG!". I didn't. I lowered my rifle and we continued staring at each other a few moments and then he turned his back on me and slowly walked away.
The grenade was a dud. I missed that first return of Horowitz but had the undeniably great pleasure of attending many of his later recitals (yes! he did come back). Later that morning we might have killed that boy in a fire fight, I don't know. The Dominican Republic is a beautiful place with beautiful people. Trujillo didn't deserve what happened to him - he should have been flayed alive. Last and certainly least, I never regretted not killing that boy and I very much long to believe that today he is sitting in a cantina in Santo Domingo, smoking a Marlboro (after ripping off the filter) drinking an ice cold beer, talking with some friends, and without a trace of the memory of our paths ever crossing.
