Presley O'Bannon, a legend in the Corps and in his own mind, took Derne, Tripoli on 27 April
1805 with 7 Marines (one Sgt and six Privates, oh and a Navy Midshipman with the
improbable name of "Mann").
Rather than engage in some stale retelling of this story in a classical and fucking boring
historical account, I'm gonna take a LOT of poetic license and tell this story from the 1st
person POV of the poor fucking Sergeant who had to run this particular railroad.
We'll shorten the prologue to this, because this was the first instance of the State Dept
kicking something into the stands that resulted in good men getting killed. Huzzah.
So, there I was [he said], in my birthing space on the ARGUS, minding my own damn
bidness, and fucking with Chief Surly, who had the rack below me, by farting in time with the
pitch of the ship (we'd had cabbage at chow for like ten days straight, the stench was
unbelievable.)
Pvt Hunt beats on the hatch screaming for permission to...
"Yeah, shut yer yawp and open the goddamn hatch".
"Aye, Sgt." [Opens hatch] "Lt. wants you up in his wardroom."
Fuck me. What now?
"He didn't say, Sgt."
No shit, fuckstick. It was rhetorical. Disappear, shithead.
"Aye"
I found the sir up on the weather deck, actually. Talking to some civilian asshole. Called
himself "Eaton. Esquire, actually."
No shit. Just like that. Fucking asshole.
So get this. They lay it all out for me in like ten minutes. They want to land at Alexandria, go
find the wog that used to run Tripoli but was deposed, and walk from Egypt to fucking
Tripoli with a handful of Christian Greeks and a shitload of Bedouin assholes.
Like what could possibly go wrong?
Right?
Well, EVERYTHING WENT FUCKING WRONG.
We walked 40 miles a fucking day, across the fucking Sahara Desert. From mid-February to
late March. I had Mohammedans and the Greeks at each other's throats everyday, while
every Bedouin tries to steal our shit so they can sell it back to us. FUBAR.
At several points, the idiot who was our guide swore up and down that the next stop would
have a well and we could fill up on water.
Fucking wrong. Oh, there was a well--but the motherfucker was drier than the Queen's
snatch. So we walked another 40 miles, another dry well.
Ever mediate a fight between Greeks, Turks, and Bedouins? I have. It's fucking bullshit.
Yeah, because fuck you. Four different languages, two different religions. Get off my dick.
So, me and my Privates--all SIX of them,FFS--stare down these cocksuckers with fixed
bayonets. I shit you not, the only thing that saved the day was that Eaton, esq. idiot coming
up with the idea to eat one of the camels.
Know what camel tastes like? It tastes like a chicken's sweaty asshole. So I've got angry
people from three different countries, who don't speak English, bitching at each other
because of God, who haven't had a drop of water in 3 goddamn days...
...and Eaton esq.'s fucking solution is to eat the transportation. Well, fuckhead, what's gonna
carry the ammo that was on the camel? Hmmmm?
You guessed it. We spread loaded that shit amongst us. Because O'Bannon didn't want to
piss off the wogs. Jesus wept.
Oh, and guess what? We find this Navy Midshipman cocksucker who was along who had this
weird trail of orange peels behind him. No shit, I'm eating sweat-basted chicken asshole and
this fucker's horded a shitload of oranges. True fact. O'Bannon pulled me off of him. Twat.
Well, on 10 April, we got word that the ships were sighted off of Bomba, so we shagged ass
that direction and finally got resupplied. Thank Christ. Pvt. Hunt was falling out constantly,
and if we didn't get help, I was going to beat that fucker to death.
Well, bad news. We get to Bomba on the 16th and no fucking ships. Seriously.
I took it out on Hunt, that bleeding asshole, so I felt somewhat mollified.
I asked the Sir if this Swiss Watch was living up to his fucking expectations. He just sniffed
and walked off. Asshole.
More mutinous shit from the fucking wogs from every corner. We stared 'em down again
with fixed bayonets.
Finally, on 17 April, Hunt comes off OP screaming like a teenage girl because he spotted sails
on the horizon. Kid has no idea how close to death by my hands he was then.
So, we met support on the beach, endured the smugness of that Eaton esq. asshole, and got
the first real meal we'd had in a month. To this day, if my old lady serves either rice or
biscuits, I lose my shit.
O'Bannon and that Eaton fuckwad come up with a plan to close on Derna. Basically, it
involved the Greeks/Bedouins up over our left shoulder lighting up the entry point, while
Hunt and I breached. (It had to be Hunt. Fucker was cross-eyed. You think I want him on
support?)
Okay, healthcare is free.
So we do this, and magically, we didn't get shot by either the Arabs or the Greeks.
Right as we breach, fucking O'Bannon busts past me on a medal of honor run. Damnedest
thing I've seen. God must love THAT motherfucker.
He shot a load of nickels into the position inside the gate, pulled both pistols and let fly with
that shit to the confused dude running down the stairs, and we're in. The barbarian horde
came in behind us, and by the time I could reload, we were in there like swimwear.
The arty guys came up behind us and started moving field pieces around toward the town.
Yeah, we liberated that fucker alright, by bombing the shit out of it with their own artillery.
Next thing I know, swear to God, O'Bannon had a US flag in his kit, of all things. He's up at
the mast on the top deck, takes down whatever rag was up there and raises the national
ensign, by God. I choke up just saying that. Goddamn beautiful, by God.
Huzzah and all that shit. Found water, pulled the camels up for ammo, buried Wilton (poor
bastard), and bandaged up that Eaton esq idiot.
New problem set, lieutenant. We took this bitch, how in the blue fuck are we gonna hold it
against every wild-eyed Mohammedan in the Sahara?
So we posted up on defense, tied in everybody, and waited. The Easton esq cocksucker
turned out to be useful in the end, since he bullshitted the chief Mohammedan of this
shithole into surrendering before we marched on Tripoli.
More good news, the young ladies of Derna are fucking hot and very willing. We left in June,
after hauling more ass than the B&O railroad. They wrote a song about us. No shit. "Din din
Mohamed U Ryas Melekan manhandi,"...
...which means "Mohamed for religion and the Americans for stubbornness." I think you can
read between the fucking lines.
So that's my '04-'06 deployment. Swear to God.
Bartender, another one for me and whatever this dude wants. My tab.
Sources:
https://www.usmcu.edu/Research/Marine-Corps-History-Division/People/Whos-Who-in-
Battle of
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