Usmc Quotes

No one ever drowned in sweat.

If I charge, follow me. If I retreat, kill me. If I die, revenge me.

In the simple moral maxim the Marine Corps teaches — do the right thing, for the right reason — no exception exists that says: unless there's criticism or risk. Damn the consequences.

I'm in battle mode. Shut down. Hard. I'm not Hunter anymore. I'm Lance Corporal Lee, USMC. Semper Fi, bitches.

Improvise, Adapt and Overcome" - USMC, unofficial

In my experience, Marines are gung ho no matter what. They will all fight to the death. Everyone of them just wants to get out there and kill. They are bad-ass, hard-charging mothers.

WE STOLE THE EAGLE FROM THE AIR FORCE, THE ANCHOR FROM THE NAVY AND THE ROPE FROM THE ARMY. ON THE SEVENTH DAY WHILE GOD RESTED, WE OVERRAN HIS PERIMETER, STOLE THE GLOBE AND WE'VE BEEN RUNNING THE WHOLE SHOW EVER SINCE.

Show me a hero and I'll show you a bum.

We're surrounded. That simplifies our problem.

WARRIORS BY DAY, LOVERS BY NIGHT, PROFESSIONALS BY CHOICE, AND MARINES BY THE GRACE OF GOD.

Retreat, hell we just got here!

When I joined the military it was illegal to be homosexual, then it became optional, and now it's legal. I'm getting out before the Democrats make it mandatory.

Be professional, be polite, but have a plan to kill everyone you meet.

Take your time. Stay away from the easy going. Never take the same way twice. Gunny Arndt's rules for successful reconnaissance; Guadalcanal 1942

The purpose of bayonet training is to awaken your killer instincts. The killer instinct will make you strong. If the meek ever inherit the earth the strong will take it away from them. The weak exist to be devoured by the strong. Every Marine must pack his own gear. Every Marine must be the instrument of his own salvation.

It takes thousands of bullets to kill an army but one to end a war.

Then, as now, it was just uncomfortable. Now, as then, it was a lifted chin and a crooked smile that said more than they would ever allow themselves to communicate.

Great Marine commanders, like all great warriors, are able to kill that which they love most -- their men.

We are trained fighting machines. Peace is not an option for us. We’re jarheads. What the hell do we know about peace?

Pain is weakness leaving the body

Never fear your enemy but always respect them

Whenever you are presented with a problem, the first thing you should do is conduct a literature survey.

Democracy and tyranny are not distant relatives. They’re bedfellows.” -General John James Commandant, USMC December 11th, 2032

If you do decide to turn the page after this warning, you do so with the understanding that you’re never going to look at a USMC commercial the same again, because you’ll know how disgusting we really are, and how disgusting we need to be in order to laugh as we maim other human beings and then step on their skulls. Oh, and then come back into society and expect to be “normal.” Yeah, that’s a fuckin’ joke.

Sergeant Bobby Shaftoe, USMC, pours some beans into the grinder and starts to belabor the crank. A black flurry begins to accumulate in the coffeepot below. He has learned to make this stuff the Swedish way, using an egg to settle the grounds.

Culture equals values plus behavior, as my friend Lt. Gen. George Flynn, USMC (ret.) says. If an organization has a strong and clearly stated set of values and the people act in accordance with those values, then the culture will be strong. If, however, the values are ill-defined, constantly changing, or the people aren’t held accountable to or incentivized to uphold those values, then the culture will be weak. It’s no good putting “honesty” or “integrity” on the wall if we aren’t willing to confront people who consistently fail to uphold those values, regardless of their performance.

Sgt. Basilone in his personal humility and unwavering dedication to the men who served with him, became a true hero of the American people during World War II.

Do or Die

There are many qualities in a man, but one that is absolutely necessary in an infantry leader is stark courage.

...he couldn't help but wonder what Hannah might have looked like if...he'd answered that question April had asked him years ago.

No matter how hard you train them, how deliberately you plan, or how much support you send their way; to lose Marines is to watch as fires flicker out beneath a torrent of rain.

A Face on the Flag is a tribute to veterans and the friendships they carry through life. Vets young and old will find someone they know in A Face on the Flag.

And I need something for the bake sale this afternoon," she added. "What bake sale?" Another eye roll, accompanied by a foot stomp. "Daddy! The fundraiser for the eighth grade trip to Washington, DC! I've told you about a hundred times." I jumped off the bed and hitched up my flannel pajama pants. "Eighth grade! What the fuck, Millie, you're only in sixth. That trip is two years away--no wonder I filed that under Forget This Immediately." I went over to my dresser and grabbed a USMC sweatshirt, pulling it on over my T-shirt. That earned me a heavy sigh. "That's a dollar in the jar, Dad." "No, it's not! I was only at fifty cents." "The F word is a whole dollar, Daddy," Felicity informed me. "Oh, right." I paused. "You know what? It's worth it.

Letters found on the Japanese dead in the crater described us as monsters. “The Americans on this island are not ordinary troops, but Marines, a special force recruited from jails and insane asylums for bloodlust.

Yet if he had been asked… if he were happy… He would have admitted readily enough that he was uncomfortable, that he was cold, and badly fed, and venomous; that his clothes were in rags, and his feet and knees and elbows raw and bleeding through much walking and crawling; that he was in ever-present peril of life, and that he really did not expect to survive the adventure he was about to thrust himself into voluntarily, but all this had nothing to do with happiness: that was something he never stopped to think about.

That was our first real look, up close, at the war. Seeing blood and wounds like that hit hard and put pictures in our heads of what combat was really going to be like. You think you can perform when it counts but then you see wounds like that, for a second, you’re not so sure. You start to wonder what you’ve really got inside.

There are two basic military functions: waging war and preparing for war. Any military activities that do not contribute to the conduct of a present war are justifiable only if they contribute to preparedness for a possible future one. Clearly, we cannot afford to separate conduct and preparation. They must be intimately related because failure in preparation leads to disaster on the battlefield.

The purpose of the bayonet training, Sergeant Gerheim explains, is to awaken our killer instincts. The killer instinct will make us fearless and aggressive, like animals. If the meek ever inherit the earth the strong will take it away from them. The weak exist to be devoured by the strong. Every Marine must pack his own gear. Every Marine must be the instrument of his own salvation. It's hard, but there it is.

The rare quality of outstanding leadership can come in many forms. Some inspire their followers with lofty words. Others command respect due to their unrivaled competence. Puller’s ability to motivate men came from a simpler source. His Marines knew that he would ask no more of them than he was willing to put forth himself, and that was everything he had. They knew that when they were putting their lives on the line, he would be right out front with them. They knew that he would zealously look out for their welfare and shield them as much as possible from both the daunting hardships and the petty troubles of a tough profession. They knew that he understood what they were going through and saw things from their point of view. He was, in their eyes, a lofty figure who was right at home among the lowliest of them. Few men can rise to greatness and still genuinely retain the common touch. Medals and rank never changed Puller; he possessed the heart of a private throughout his long career and his men idolized him for that simplicity. One editorial mourning his passing captured the result: “There were few Marines who would not have tried to establish a beachhead in hell at a nod from Chesty Puller.”2

Please give me another chance!” Breathing hard, I waited for a light to come on, a door to open, a sign that she still loved me . . . but the house remained dark and silent. Crickets chirped. I glanced over at the girls, who seemed just as distraught as I was. They looked at each other, and then back at me. That’s when I heard a feminine voice come out of the darkness behind me. “Hey Winnie? Yeah, it’s Audrey. There’s some guy across the street yelling at the Wilsons’ house, but I think he’s talking to you.” Oh, fuck. Horrified, I spun around on my knees. A teenage couple stood under a front porch light at a home across the street. The girl was talking into her phone. “Dude,” the guy called out. “I think you’re at the wrong house.” Fuck. Me. Behind the couple, the front door opened and a barrel-chested man came storming out the front door wearing jeans, a USMC sweatshirt, and a scowl. “What’s going on out here? Who’s shouting?” “That guy over there is telling Winnie that he’s sorry and he loves her, but he’s at the wrong house,” said the girl. “I feel really bad for him.” “What?” The man’s chest puffed out further and he squinted in my direction. Then Winnie’s mom appeared on the porch, pulling a cardigan around her. “Is everything okay?” No. Everything was not okay. “Who is that guy?” her dad asked, and by his tone I could tell what he meant was, Who is that fucking idiot? “Is it Dex?” Frannie leaned forward and squinted. “Is that you, Dex?” “Yeah. It’s me.” I’d never wanted a sinkhole to open up and swallow me as badly as I did at that moment. If my kids hadn’t been there, I might have taken off on foot. Just then, a car pulled into their driveway, and my stomach lurched when Winnie jumped out of the passenger side. Her friend Ellie got out of the driver’s side and looked back and forth between Winnie and me. “Holy shit,” she said. “Dex?” Winnie started walking down the drive and stopped at the sidewalk, gaping at me kneeling in the spotlight from the streetlamp above. “What on earth are you doing?” “Hi, Winnie!” Hallie and Luna started jumping up and down and waving like mad. “Hi!” And then, because apparently there wasn’t a big enough audience, another car pulled up in front of the MacAllisters’ house, and a second teenage girl jumped out. “Bye!” she yelled, waving as the car drove off. Then she noticed everyone outside. “Oh, crap. Did I miss curfew or something?” “No,” the first teenage girl said, hopping down from the porch. “Omigod, Emmeline, this is amazing. Kyle was just leaving when this man pulled up, jumped out of his car, and starts shouting to Winnie that he loves her and he wants another chance—but he was yelling at the Wilsons’ house, not ours. Not that it mattered, because she wasn’t even here.” “Audrey, be quiet!” Winnie put her hands on her head. “Dex. What is this? Why are you on your knees?” “We told him to do that!” Hallie shouted proudly. “Because that’s what the ogre would do!