Sgt P (as we’ll refer to our hero), with a few Marines from the embassy detachment, was patronizing a local club. Also in attendance was an entire platoon of Legionnaires. Denim overalls and flannel was Sgt P’s idea of proper attire, dress blues being about the upper limit of his fashion sense. It was a distinct look which no doubt caught the attention of the largest Legionnaire present who decided to brace the goofy looking jarhead he saw at the bar.
The massive Legionnaire was, by all reports, built like an arch. In comparison, the Marines were somewhat diminutive. His shaved head shone down on Sgt P’s mere five foot eleven inch, 200lb frame. The Arch directed pointed statements at him concerning his questionable pedigree and the generally low regard Legionnaires held for Marines and Sgt P in particular. Mon Dieu! Anyone who’d ever met Sgt P would know he was slow to anger. I can imagine him shrugging his shoulders with a frown, indicating his complete disinterest in the Arch’s opinions. Despite this, Sgt P was under no delusions on where the conversation was headed.
The arithmetic surrounding Marine logic makes it a peculiar science. Sgt P’s math went along the lines of: “Well, if I’m gonna take a whooping’ I might as well throw the first punch.” He punctuated this thought by firmly planting his fist on the Arch’s temple. Sacre bleu! The entire platoon leapt to their feet as the Arch hit the deck like a sea bag full of wet laundry and cannon balls.
It would not be unreasonable to assume the night ended in an orgy of shattered glass and broken furniture. But again, the logic of fighting men isn’t the same as the average person. Though we’ve been told violence never solved anything, in this instance peace was achieved in one blow. From then on Marines and Legionnaires were fast friends and drinking buddies. Go figure.