Wolverine or Irish? The Game Determines the Name
A college football rivalry game responsible for deciding the call sign of a Marine Corps Infantry Battalion.
In the fall of 2006 I was living in 29 Palms, California with the rest of 1st Battalion 24th Marines — The Terror from the North — a Marine Reserve infantry battalion from Michigan. We knew we were deploying in the next couple of weeks, but we did not know where we were deploying to or when we would be home.
Now, there are plenty of intricacies about Marine Corps life that are inexplicable to civilians, but I’ll try to explain a few so this story might make sense.
The Lance Corporal Underground is difficult to describe, but it is an integral part of life as a young enlisted Marine. Lance Corporal is only two promotions from the bottom of the pecking order in an organization that prides itself on the effectiveness and efficiency of its hierarchy. A promotion from Lance Corporal would make a Marine a Corporal, the first of two ranks that represent the Corps’ Non-Commissioned Officers, or NCOs. Most Marines will make a promotion to Lance Corporal just by being in the Corps long enough; but taking the coveted step into the NCO world is not for everyone, and in many instances (mine included) Lance is the end of the promotion road.
A thriving culture exists in the “underworld” (life below the NCO threshold), and Lance Corporals run the show. “Boot” Marines, new to the fleet, look to the Lances for advice, guidance, and for news of things to come. The Underground is the unofficial channel through which all news (referred to as “word”) is funneled to the junior ranks. It is not uncommon for Lance Corporals to know what is likely to happen before their platoon sergeants if they’ve got ears in the right places. Without much authority elsewhere, the Underground flexes its muscle in the shadows; spreading the word about upcoming training schedules, chow hall menus, and maybe just a skosh of fake news.
One important thing to realize about the Underground in the infantry is that it is made up almost exclusively of testosterone-driven 18–25-year-old men. These young men are the only filters that the information flowing through the Underground has. That being said, sometimes the word spread to the masses is true, sometimes it’s doctored a little bit, and other times it is completely fabricated. The Corps embraces chaos, though, so all of this was just part of life as a young Devil Dog.
While we were in 29 Palms, preparing for our deployment, I received word (from a trusted source) that our Battalion Commander and Sgt. Major were going to be replaced within the next few days.
Life in the desert is fairly monotonous for the junior enlisted infantryman. So, I decided to entertain myself. I collaborated with one other Marine and we went to work fabricating a story to spread around.
That evening the crowded shower room was already primed when I entered.
“Where do you think we are going?” I heard one Marine say. Some Marines thought Fallujah, or Ramadi, or another Iraqi city. It was generally accepted that we’d be going to the Al-Anbar province of Iraq.
“I heard that upper command is being replaced and we are going to Japan to do jungle warfare training. We’ll be home by the Ides of March 2007,” I stated, matter of fact.
It’s funny how word spreads in the Underground; the news always gets out, but the source is almost always forgotten. I could have never fathomed how quickly my venial story would spread. By the time I got back to the barracks, the smoke pit was buzzing with Marines contemplating life on the island of Okinawa.
Typically, rumors would spread around within a platoon. Really good stories made their way around to the entire company, but it normally took a couple of days for that to happen. From what I could tell, Marines from three of the five platoons in Bravo Company were already talking about Japan.
The next day things had calmed down a bit until the evening. Everyone was called to an impromptu battalion formation. A formation of this size is rather uncommon and when a sizable formation is organized last minute, big news is sure to follow.
“This is perfect!” I thought to myself as me and my counterpart locked eyes and smirked.
After more than 500 Marines were in our proper places, we were introduced to our new Battalion Commander, Lt. Colonel Van Opdorp. During his first address as our Battalion Commander, he told us that he was a graduate of the University of Notre Dame, news that was not music to the ears of a bunch of Michigan Marines. He said that our battalion was without a call sign, but wouldn’t be after the weekend. The University of Michigan was playing the Irish and there would be more than just bragging rights on the line. If Michigan won, our call sign would be Wolverine. If not, we would all be Irish.
He also said, “I’m not sure where we are going, or what our mission will be…” That was the spark my little rumor needed. Word was flying around the battalion. It morphed into many separate renditions, but “the Ides of March” was always attached. Later that night my section leader lamented as he told me he would probably blow his whole deployment check on New Year’s Eve in Japan, effectively stalling his plans to buy a house upon his return to Muskegon. Marines were complaining about never being able to experience combat, wasting our time on all of the training we were doing for a deployment to Iraq, only to train in the jungles of Japan instead.
That weekend the 11th ranked Maize and Blue put a hurting on a #2 ranked Notre Dame team during a 47–21 rout in South Bend. Many of us watched from the bowling alley on base, proudly singing “The Victors.” And just like that, the ‘Terror from the North’ was given it’s proper name, “Wolverine.”
On Monday we were called to another battalion formation. The new Battalion Commander gave an inspiring speech in which he embraced his new call sign “Wolverine Six.” He also cleared the air about our deployment. We were on our way to Fallujah and we were in for a fight.
The seven months that followed were some of the most mentally, physically, and spiritually demanding of my life. But, every now and then, right when I needed it most, a Marine from a different company whom I had never met would say, “I hear we’re going home on the Ides of March.”
“Me too,” I’d say; keeping alive the rumor, and the hope.
