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Lebanon County, Pennsylvania
By Marc "Devil Dog Of The Web" Iseli / Updated Dec. 2025
I popped into existence in the late 1950s, right in the middle of nowhere, otherwise known as Lebanon, Pennsylvania. That’s 20 miles from Harrisburg (the capital, not that anyone cares) and 15 miles from Hershey, where they crank out those little chocolate Kisses. The 60s were tumultuous, that means , stormy, chaotic events, for you Gyrenes, assassinations, the space race, Vietnam, and hippies everywhere. At age 8, I was a 90-pound punching bag for the local bullies. By high school, I’d had enough and decided it was time to stop being the class's no-neck chew toy. My old man was one of the Greatest Generation, stormed Normandy with the Army. The Germans called his unit the Iron Men of Metz, which sounds way cooler than anything I was doing. He never talked about it, so I got my war stories from TV and movies. That’s when the military bug bit me. I started lifting, boxing, and learning how to throw a punch that actually hurt. No more taking crap from anyone. A turning point in my life came when I came home from school and caught a movie on TV called, Toro Toro Toro. It was about WWII, the Japanese, and, more importantly, the US Marines. That flick lit a fire under me. I wanted to learn more about the battles and where they took place.

Fast forward six years. Four years out of high school, and I’m slinging boxes on the Teamsters’ loading docks at some freight outfit. Living the dream, right? At 21, the pay was decent. I had a big house, a truck, and a motorcycle, and bought the town's first Sony Betamax recorder. Only to have it turn into a 300-pound paperweight when the porn industry went VHS. Looked like I had it made, but something was off. East Coast winters sucked, and I always dreamed of somewhere warm. Just dumped my girlfriend, and started thinking, if I’d married her and had kids, I’d be stuck in this town forever, doomed to shovel snow and pay bills until I died, not to mention diaper duty.

So what was the world like? Disco fever, bell-bottoms, mirrored balls, and enough blue polyester to choke a horse. The economy was circling the drain, and gas lines were everywhere. Then Baa Baa Blacksheep, (whole story below), hit TV, about a Marine squadron in the Pacific. Hollywood, of course, turned it into a circus, but it got my attention. Suddenly, the idea of joining up didn’t seem so crazy. I was 21, the clock ticking, and I didn’t want to be that guy at the bar whining about what could’ve been.

One day, I’m wandering the mall, probably dodging mall cops, and I spot a recruiter’s office. There’s a brochure with Marines in dress blues looking like they just stepped out of a recruiting poster. I flip it over, and there’s a modern-day fighter getting gassed up. With my new gym-rat physique, I figured, why not see if I could hack it as a Marine? So I strolled in, took the AFEES test, and found out I could snag an aviation MOS. Signed up for delayed entry, two months to get my act together. Started running, took swimming lessons (because apparently, Marines don’t float). All the prep in the world couldn’t have gotten me ready for what was coming.

A month before boot camp, Pennsylvania decided to go full apocalypse. Three Mile Island was about to melt down, just twenty miles from my house. (whole story below). Two weeks before shipping out, I sprained my Achilles tendon while running. Nursed it back just enough to limp into my obligation. The big day comes. The plan: the recruiter picks me up at the Army depot just yards from my home, drives me to the swearing-in ceremony, then ships me off to South Carolina. Except the recruiter never shows. Turns out he was three sheets to the wind, so his backup drags me in. That was my first taste of The Suck. Four more years of it coming right up.... Semper Gumby!!

Alright, you glorious Rat Phixers and Phlyers, if we ever survived a TAD, a Det, or a BOHICA, who haven't, and you didn’t think I was the biggest gaff off in the squadron. Got a sea story, or some grainy photos your ex didn’t set on fire, and they’re only slightly illegal? Send ‘em by email, snail mail, or safety wire it to a carrier pigeon. I collect ‘em all, just nothing that would incriminate me.
80svmfp3@gmail.com

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