Payday weekend always seems to take on a wild west type atmosphere around the base.  Most Marines living on base are in their prime, fit and ready both physically and mentally.  Trained to be ready.. always prepared to engage any target…not to question the who, what or the why.   That is the life they lead …that is their duty…

Liberty on a payday weekend is their time to let off steam, decompress and have some fun.   With wallets flush, adventure awaits them in any number of taverns and clubs in and around the base area.  Taverns have always held a special place in the hearts of Marines.  It dates back to November 10, 1775, when the Continental Congress commissioned Samuel Nicholas to raise two Battalions of Marines.  That very day, Nicholas set up shop in a Philadelphia PA brew house named Tun Tavern.  The proprietor of the tavern was appointed chief Marine recruiter.  Prospective recruits flocked to the tavern, lured by a cold beer and the opportunity to serve in the new Corps of Marines.

The action on this night kept me busy as military police desk sergeant.  Working with the dispatcher all our available units units were engaged in a number of active incidents.  The second shift traditionally was where the action is on most nights.  Bars have been open for hours building to closing ….or is known as the bewitching hour…

Any time after midnight our detention cells would be jammed full with prisoners…
Most calls came in by way of the dispatch radio… as patrols roamed the trouble areas in the downtown area it was easy for them to spot disturbances or a flag down by a bar keep.

Just about 10 pm the desk phone rang.  “Good evening Military Police, Sgt. Ferguson how may I help you?”  In no more than a whisper the caller stated ” Help me, please help me, I’m bleeding”.  I looked at the phone puzzled, knowing that my desk phone was an internal line system.  I covered the phone receiver and look around the station to see if someone was pulling a prank phone call on me.  I then yelled back to the dispatcher and asked..  who the hell is F’ning around on my line?  He gave me a shrug and went back to his station..

I got back on the line and asked … Who is this and where are you calling from??  The whisper repeated again.. “please help me, I’m bleeding” …  I asked, where are you?  I could hear him groaning … and so I asked again…  Tell me where you are if you want my help..  In a faint voice just barely auditable above the noise from prisoner cells nearby, I was able to make out the words “motor pool”.

The vehicle maintenance garage was attached to the back of military police station in a area separated by a set of steel doors… No one should be working back there at 10 PM on a Saturday night…so I wondered who the hell was on the phone.

I directed the dispatcher to run and see what the hell was going on back there …and ordered him to “grab that sorry son of a bitch and drag his ass back to me”.  I remembered thinking I didn’t have time for playing games and would make that perfectly clear when I get may hands on him.

The dispatcher hustled off to investigate while I manned the dispatch and the desk.  It didn’t take long to get a call back …  Sarg…he said, you better get your ass over here we got ourselves a bleeder… he’s laying in a pool of blood…

Shit.. I had to think fast and respond… OK get your ass back here and get on the horn to the Naval hospital …  tell we need a medic and an ambulance ASAP.. and relay what you’ve seen..  I’m coming over now but I need you to come watch the desk…

I took off running down the hall and through the doors passing the dispatcher along the way.  When I got to the scene the duty mechanic blood was everywhere and he looked to be hanging on by a thread.  My first thought was to check for a gunshot wound.  I assured him that help was on the way and that he’d be alright.
How did this happen I asked???

Minutes passed like hours as we waited on the ambulance.  The Navy corpsman were most likely as busy as we were with payday weekend … so it might be while.  I knew I’d have to stop the bleeding or this guy was not going to make it to the hospital.  He told me he hurt himself while repairing the engine of the 2 1/2 ton truck in the service bay.  I could see that he was bleeding in his lower abdominal region and that his utility uniform trousers were shredded..  I found articles of clothing in the series of lockers lined the walls of the garage.  I handed what I could find to the Marine instructing him to use them to maintain pressure on the wound.

Surveying the area I could see a trail of blood from the truck engine, across the body and bumper to the garage floor where he lay.  How the hell did this happen?  Here is what he told me..

I was trying to tighten up a slipping fan belt but the adjusting nut wouldn’t budge.  I stood over the engine to use my foot and body weight as leverage on the wrench when my foot slipped and I landed down on the moving fan blades… Just then the medics arrived and I backed off to let them do their job…  My job was to secure the scene, call the duty flick (crime scene photographer) and the Naval investigators (NIS) who would take it from that point.  I returned to the desk and began to write my report… and finish my nightly police log.

The night was coming to a close and the third shift had taken over but I was still busy tying up the loose ends of my incident report.  I had received word back from the Naval hospital that the mechanic was stabilized but had lost a considerable quantity of blood much of which was congealed on the truck bay floor.  The investigators were clustered back in the maintenance area throughout the evening and occasionally would swing by to interview the dispatcher and myself about the details of the evening.  I was happy to finish up for the evening which was now technically Sunday morning and to be off for a few hours before returning back for the remainder of my weekend duty.

As the rumor mill circulated I didn’t think too much more about the accident but more about the poor bastard having some pretty nasty wounds to the area around his nether region.  I shuttered every time I thought about him slipping down into those heavy duty fan blades.. It’s hard to dwell on the stupidity of the situation when you’ve witnessed the pain and damage the guy had suffered.

On Monday morning I dropped by the station to check on the progress of the investigation and to get an update on the mechanic.  I was informed that the investigation was ongoing but the mechanic was patched up and transported to the Walter Reed Military Hospital in DC.  Wow.. I said..  he must have required some serious medical attention if they moved him to the surgical ward down in DC right?  The investigator looked at me and in a dispassionate tone said.. he’s in the nut house Sgt.

I could see by his expression this was not the time to talk about the details of why he was moved to a mental care facility vs an intensive care unit.. But, as you might imaging my curiosity was getting the better on me… I wondered how I could get more information without getting in the way of an ongoing investigation.. Then it hit me…the duty flick..

I drove to the base communications center duty flicks office.  Sgt. Bates was the on duty photographer that night and I could see him hard a work processing images for his incident report.  While waiting I could see photos of the incident scattered all over his desk.  Aside from images of the wrench and the bloody clothing I noticed images of a metal shavings vacuum cleaner.  This was a tool used to clean shavings of metal too heavy for an ordinary vacuum in and around the work shop.  Sgt Bates and I have worked together on several incidents over the years so he was more than willing to discuss the case and his theory about the relevance of the vacuum to the case.

As investigators conducted a thorough search of the crime scene and respective maintenance area for clues the vacuum was found in bottom of the mechanics wall locker.  On inspection the investigator discovered copious amounts of blood and skin covering the unit and in the vacuum collection.  My mind raced towards what appeared to be an obvious connection between the injuries sustained by the mechanic and the blood stained unit..  I didn’t want to know the specific details about what actually took place on that Saturday night in the motor pool.. but I imagine it would even make a mohel (“Jewish word for circumciser”) cringe a bit.

It’s been many years since I’ve thought about the details of that night.  I often wonder what ever happened to the mechanic… It’s safe to say that he/she is probably not selling vacuum cleaners or working on heavy equipment any more…

It think overall Mark Twain said it best “Truth is stranger than fiction”.

But is it?  My question to you is …  is this a true story or have a made it up?
What’s you vote… ?