January 2018

A celebration of life was held for Mawk Arnold in the American Legion hall in Fairhope, AL on Saturday and, as Tom Kerr of our organization reported, “the hall was filled to its rafters. I swear more than half of the town was there!” Kerr reported that Dale Dye and Read more…

A belated but sad note: Maj. Gen. Terry Murray, who served as the Corps’ Director of Public Affairs in the mid 1990s, died at home on June 17, 2017 and was buried at Arlington National Cemetery on Aug. 31, 2017.

Retired Major Mawk Arnold (center) is joined by lst Marine Division Snuffies, retired Captains Russ Thurman (left) and Dale Dye, during a visit to the Denig Memorial at the Marine Corps Museum during the 2016 annual conference. (Photo by former Captain Debbie Thurman)

(Editor’s note: An additional obit was published on http://www.gulfcoastnewstoday.com)

By Capt. Dale Dye USMC (Ret)

It’s indisputable that I would not have survived my service in Vietnam if it hadn’t been for a rugged, rawboned mustang officer who enlisted in the Marine Corps nearly a year before I was born. In fact, none of the seriously twisted bull-goose loonies that served as Combat Correspondents in the 1st Marine Division under Captain Mawk Arnold would have lived through their combat tours — much less avoided serious brig time — without the guidance, patience and protection of the man who was then and continues to be our Skipper. 

Mawk Arnold USMC (Ret) 1924-2018 (Photo courtesy of Bob Bowen)

Mordecai R. Arnold, out of Texas via Alabama and practically all points east and west where Marines have planted boondockers, is my hero, but the noun fails to convey what he really means to those of us who served with The Skipper. There aren’t enough terms in a thesaurus to cover the depth of gratitude, emulation, admiration and devotion we feel for the gentle giant in whose shadow we spent the most seminal times of our lives. For the double handful of us Marine Corps combat correspondents who made it through the crucible of frenetic combat operations in northern I Corps circa 1967-69, only one term fits when we talk about The Skipper: love. We loved The Skipper unashamedly and unabashedly and we’ll gleefully rip the lungs right out of any macho sonofabitch that wants to challenge that emotion. We learned that from The Skipper who often threatened to do something similar — if less violently — to anyone who messed with his wayward boys in or out of combat. 

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