During a telephone conversation last Friday, Colonel Gordon Keiser, USMC (Ret.) asked if I had heard that “Stan” Wawrzyniak had died? I gave a shocked reply of “No!” The past June, I had spent over a half-hour on the phone with “Ski” in a hearty exchange of “Marine stories.” By the way, he liked being called “Ski.” In fact, he used to introduce himself to Marines by saying: “I’m Captain Wawrzyniak. Since none of ya can pronounce my name, call me ‘Captain Ski.’” Anyhow, Colonel Keiser continued: Lieutenant Colonel John Cole, USMC (Ret.) had called to say that Ski had died in October of a heart attack at his home in Swansboro, North Carolina and was buried in the Veterans’ Cemetery in Jacksonville, North Carolina. We wondered aloud why a Marine like him wasn’t buried in Arlington National Cemetery. Later, I was reminded by Lieutenant Colonel Bruce Greisen, USMC (Ret.) that Ski was a family man. Then, it dawned on me; this way, he is near his families in both Swansboro and Camp Lejeune, North Carolina.

After dropping out of high school, Ski served “a short hitch” in the Navy. Switching to the Marine Corps, he went to China in the late ‘40s and entered the Korean War with Shore Party. By March of 1951, he had wrangled his way into the 5th Marine Regiment––there is a story that he went “over the hill” from Shore Party to get there. In two tours with the 5th Marines, he was awarded two Navy Crosses, a Silver Star and three Purple Hearts. On one occasion, as a company Gunnery Sergeant, Ski was leading an assault up a hill when CHICOM grenades exploded behind him exposing his ass bleeding from multiple wounds. The troops behind him started laughing. Ski turned and shouted, “What the hell ya sons-o’-bitches laughin’ at?” They laughed harder and some laughed so hard they rolled down the hill. [My apologies, I had used the word buttocks to describe that part of Ski’s anatomy in a preceding sentence when I realized that he did not have a buttocks: Ski had an ass.] His second Navy Cross started out as a Medal of Honor recommendation. When the Commanding General, 1st Marine Division told him that he had been recommended for the Medal of Honor, he also promoted him to meritorious master sergeant––Ski had five years and eight months in the Marine Corps. Sometime later during a company formation at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina the First Sergeant asked if anyone wanted to apply for an officer program? Ski raised his hand. The First Sergeant asked what made him think he was officer material? “I can do as good a job as the dumb-shit lieutenants I’ve seen so far,” he replied. The First Sergeant agreed and Ski became an officer.

In becoming a "Mustang" officer, Ski didn’t forget his enlisted roots as demonstrated in an early assignment at Marine Barracks, U.S. Naval Base, Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. Late one evening, while “checking posts” as Officer of the Day, he stopped his jeep at one of the Guard Towers on the Base’s perimeter. As he climbed the ladder to the observation deck, he heard the Marine sentry there snoring. Upon stepping onto the deck, the Marine awoke and, seeing Ski, snapped to attention. As he stood there at Present Arms, he said, “Sir! There’s only the two of us here. If you report me for sleeping on post, it will be my word against yours!” Ski stood there silently chewing on an unlit cigar stub as he listened to the sentry. Then, suddenly, he grabbed the Marine and threw him over the railing to the ground below breaking his legs. “Yer right!” Ski shouted down at him, “It’s my word against yers!” Ski believed that officers should listen to enlisted men.  

I first met him in 1960 at the Marine Corps Cold Weather Training Center, Bridgeport, California. Almost immediately after reporting-in, I was bombarded with “Ski stories.” One took place when he was a student in the Mountain Leadership Training Course during glacier training at Twin Lakes (a place popularized by Jack Kerouac in The Dharma Bums). While practicing a glacier rescue technique, he was dropped by his belayer into a crevasse and sustained internal injuries. The route out of there was an arduous 2,000-foot descent to the truck pick-up point over some three miles of terrain that ran the gamut from gravel-like surfaces to boulder-covered slopes. Refusing to be carried, he walked out under his own power carrying his pack; and, during rest stops, he urinated blood. Anyhow, I first really met him one day during a run when I slowed to a walk in order to puke; he came up and kicked me in the ass, barking: “Move out! It tastes the same if yer walkin' or if yer runnin'!” Ski didn't believe in slowing down or quitting.

In the summer of ‘60, he was in charge of the Mountain Leadership Training Course and I was going through the Course as a student. The practical application phase of the Mountain Walking Class included, of all things, climbing a mountain--the 11,321-foot White Mountain. I had just taken off my pack after arriving at the summit when Ski appeared with a rope over his shoulder leading back to a sergeant who had tried to quit––as indicated before, Ski would not let you quit.  Just as the sergeant got to the edge of the mountain crest, Ski dropped his end of the rope. Unfortunately, the sergeant wasn’t fully past the edge and he fell backwards down the mountain. Ski ran over to the edge and shouted, “Ya son-of-a-bitch! I pull ya up this mountain ‘n’ then ya go and roll back down it!” He then turned and shouted: “Milavic! You and Greisen go down there and bring that ungrateful bastard back up here.” Days later, we were learning how to do something called a “practice fall.”  It was my turn and I had tied one end of a climbing rope around my waist––the rope was supposed to “brake” the fall––and backed up to the edge of a 100-foot cliff. The object of the exercise was to jump off backwards and, while in the air, change the body position from the vertical to 45 to 90 degrees from the vertical so your feet wound-up on the cliff face. Well, I jumped backwards but I went straight up and straight down rubbing my chin, nose, forehead and knuckles on the cliff face. As I hung there trying to get my breath (the rope around my waist had gotten tight “braking” my fall), I heard this loud voice, “Ya f---ed up, didn’t ya? Well, how long ya goin’ ta hang there like a limp dick?” I climbed back up to the top of the cliff. As I stood there bleeding and wheezing, Ski came over and, in almost fatherly tones, asked, “Are you OK? Do you want to take a break before trying again?” I said I was OK and wanted to go ahead and get it over with. Well, it took two more tries to get it right. As I was bouncing off the cliff face with my feet in the right position, I heard that voice again, “Why didn’t ya do that the first time? Quit screwin’ around and get back up here!” Ski always had an encouraging word.

Months later, he came through the Evasion, Escape and Survival Course as a student. During the Survival & Evasion Exercise of the Course, his team went unseen by the instructors for the four days of the Exercise. He just kept his team on the high ground––something he learned in Korea––and watched us scamper around the valley. That was the first time we “aggressors” didn’t capture at least one student from each team in a class. Ski finished first in his class. As a matter of fact, he finished first in a lot of things such as Army Airborne School and Army Ranger School. However, Ski believed he should have finished first for he was much older and experienced than his classmates at “Jump School” and Ranger School––34 and 35 years old respectively. Ski was very logical.

At Bridgeport, he was also the mess officer. One weekend morning, I was sitting in the staff NCO mess with GySgt Bill Lightfoot and SSgts B.B. Goodrich and “Big Orange” Swaggert when he came in and saw a bunch of students––lieutenants––sitting around on the officer side of the mess (the two were separated by a salad bar). As if shot from a gun, Ski was over there pulling the chairs out from under them while shouting, “What the f--- d’ya think this is, a lounge? Get out o’ my mess hall! Go! Go! Go!” Lieutenants ran every which way. Ski was only 5’6” tall. So, I guess it was because of the way he looked––he was built like a bull dog––that scared those lieutenants. Well, when they were all gone, I started to laugh and he came over and said, “Milavic what the f--- are ya laughin’ at?” “You, Captain! You’re the funniest thing on this base,” I answered.  He looked at me and continued, “Ya know? Yer right!” He then started laughing with me. We all sat there for . . . whatever and told stories and laughed. Ski liked to laugh.

In ‘61, we were giving a martial arts demonstration in the town of Bridgeport when it came his turn to speak to the audience: “Now that Lieutenant Clapp has shown you Judo and Staff Sergeant Milavic Karate, yer probably wondering what I do. Well, I’m the eyeball and groin man.” He then proceeded to “eyeball” me and “groin” Lieutenant Clapp, or maybe it was the other way around, to the delight of the audience. Even civilians liked Ski.

There was also the time, he was the Officer of the Day and had to read a Letter of Censure as part of a sentence given a Marine by Colonel G. E. Martin, our Commanding Officer (CO), at Office Hours. The whole Training Center was mustered to hear Captain Ski “censure” this Marine. As he read it, we noted that there were a lot of unintelligible words in that Letter. Well, when Ski also realized that, he shoved the Letter into the hands of the Marine saying, “Take this damn thing and don’t screw up again!” Ski knew how to communicate. It was about that time, one of our captains told me that Captain Ski didn’t have much of a future before him because he didn’t have a college education. Ironically, that captain, who had a college degree, was passed over twice for major and separated from the Corps and Ski went on to retire as a lieutenant colonel. Ski just knew how to be a Marine.

Colonel Keiser reminded me of Ski’s assignment as protocol officer to some general on Okinawa during the Vietnam War––I had similar problems with the Assignment Branch at Headquarters, USMC. It seems he screwed up some general’s visit to his general. His general took him aside and said, “Wawrzyniak you screw up another visit by a general officer and I’ll send you to Vietnam.” Ski replied, “Sir, when’s the next general coming? I’m in a hurry to get to Vietnam.” I understand that he didn’t have to wait too much longer. He served as the Executive Officer, 3rd Battalion, 3rd Marine Regiment where he was awarded two Bronze Star Medals with combat distinguishing “V” devices and his fourth Purple Heart. He told the story about being the last man in a patrol reentering friendly lines one night. The sentry letting them into the position said, “Major, with all due respect, you got more balls than brains.” Ski’s comment? “An’ ya know? He was right!” Balls or brains, for Ski, taking care of his Marines was the most important thing.

In 1972, I met him again when he was the CO, Headquarters Battalion, 3rd Marine Division on Okinawa. One day, he told me a story about when he was with 2nd Force Reconnaissance Company back around ‘63. The CO had received a letter from some kid who had seen a TV special on Force Reconnaissance and had made up his mind to be a Force Reconnaissance Marine officer. He wrote to ask if the CO would please tell him what he should do to prepare himself? The First Sergeant got the job of writing the response. When Ski learned about this, he told the First Sergeant that he would like to write the closing lines. To the finished letter, Ski added, “You must also learn how to talk like an officer. Therefore, you should immediately begin practicing using words like shit, f---, piss, screw you . . .” and he went on. When the CO saw it, he became unhappy; Ski laughed. Ski really liked to laugh. We met again a year or so later at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. One night, I was at the Officer’s Club talking to some lieutenants from 2^nd Force Reconnaissance Company when one of them was described as someone who had, once upon a time, sent a letter to the CO of the Company seeking guidance on preparing himself to become a Force Reconnaissance officer. I could hardly believe it and the lieutenant was beside himself when I told him the other side of the story. I immediately telephoned Ski and in less than a heartbeat he was there. The two of them spent the rest of the night talking. Even Ski got sentimental––sometimes.

On leaving Okinawa in 1972/3, he had a change of command ceremony. Now, remember, this is the CO of Headquarters Battalion. After the formalities were over, it took an hour for all the people there to shake his hand. There were, of course, Marines and then officers and NCOs from all the other services as well as a gaggle of civilians. Although it was never confirmed, I think there were even some CHICOMS, North Koreans and VC/NVA in that group.

That turnout was suggestive of an even larger group spread throughout the Marine family who knew, followed, and admired him . . . ya know? It could even be said that we love him; that’s not a typo––love him! No, I don’t mean we went around patting each other on the ass or hugging each other. This was a Marine who led Marines: he knew each of us; communicated to each of us; and, each of us knew he cared about each of us. If he sometimes cursed at us, that was OK, for he was always with us: at PT, climbing a mountain, falling off a cliff, in war, or whatever--he was always with us!  Ski didn’t try to move mountains; he moved Marines and conquered mountains! During the past few days, I wondered what he would have said as I was sentimentally resusitating these memories? The answer was not long in coming: “Move out! It tastes the same if yer walkin’ or if yer runnin’!” Aye, Aye, Sir!