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Welcome Marine Veterans Of VMFP-3
By Marc "Devil Dog Of The Web" Iseli / Updated Dec. 2025
Back in the early 60s, when the Vietnam War was still a hot mess and I was just a pint-sized grunt-in-training, my brother and I waged epic backyard campaigns with plastic army men. We commandeered our mom’s curtain clips for air support, launching rubber band strafing runs that would make a Marine DI proud. Eventually, we graduated to buying plastic model planes from the neighborhood’s resident arms dealer (aka the guy with a garage full of Revell kits). After a few dogfights, we’d haul our battered squadrons out back, douse them in lighter fluid, and send them to Valhalla in a blaze of glory. Sick puppies? Guilty as charged, but at least we had style.

Somewhere along the line, I got hooked on WWII documentaries, World at War was my gateway drug. One afternoon in ‘72, I stumbled onto Tora! Tora! Tora! on TV, and suddenly I was obsessed with all things Pearl Harbor and the Pacific slugfest. I started hoarding books like a supply sergeant with a new shipment, and even built a USS Arizona model for my shelf (which, shockingly, survived longer than most of my backyard air force). The Marines in those shows looked tougher than a two-dollar steak, and the battles always seemed to happen somewhere warm and tropical, basically the opposite of my East Coast icebox. I figured I’d never see those places unless I joined a traveling circus or the Corps. Spoiler: I picked the one with fewer clowns, or so I thought.

After high school, I finally escaped the parental barracks and landed a cushy gig for a young buck. Then one night, Baa Baa Black Sheep hit the airwaves, a show about a squadron of Marine misfits raising hell in WWII. Naturally, I was glued to the set. Hollywood, as usual, took more liberties than a boot on weekend liberty, but with Pappy Boyington (the real deal) advising and Robert Conrad playing him like a barroom brawler, it was hard not to get fired up. Suddenly, my high school diploma felt about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. Then, while loitering at the mall (as one does), I spotted the recruiter’s office and a glossy brochure with a Marine jet getting fueled up. I only kept the front cover, but that back cover shot was the clincher. That was the day I signed up for the world’s finest gun club. The rest, as they say, is classified.

Sometimes I still can’t believe that just a few months after signing my life away to the Marine Corps, I was living the dream, if your dream involves sand fleas and yelling. After boot camp, I got shipped to MCAS El Toro, home of the original Black Sheep squadron, VMF-214, and their trusty A-4M Skyhawks. Pappy Boyington was still kicking around and would drop by now and then, though I never got to swap war stories with him. Instead, I found myself huffing jet fumes while refueling RF-4Bs in the same fuel pits from that fateful brochure. I finally got to see all those sun-soaked California spots I’d only heard about, plus Hawaii (checked off the USS Arizona), Wake Island, and even Japan, once the enemy, now just another place to get lost on liberty. The Corps left its mark on me, and now I’m a project manager in construction, herding contractors instead of Marines. Life’s been good, and the final chapter’s coming up faster than a hot rack on a cold night.

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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