In my years I have known many First Sergeants, but when I think of them, one in particular seems to leap forward in my mind: First Sergeant Frank L. Young, USMC.

Frank Young was a short, well-built, picture-poster, professional Marine; always neat and well-groomed and with an ever-present cigar.

I first met him when, in 1963, I was assigned as CO of Charlie Company, 1st Tank Battalion. Our company headquarters, as well as troop billeting spaces, was in old WW II quonset huts in the Las Pulgas area of Camp Pendleton, California. My office was a little cubiehole in the rear of the company office. I had taken command, been briefed by the platoon commanders, the maintenance and communications people, and was ready for a talk with my first sergeant.

He was very formal, courteous, and professional, with an obvious realization that he was a first sergeant and that I was the commanding officer. His formality was not stiff, however. Rather, it was formality without the touch of undue familiarity found today in so many. In that vein, he asked me: "Sir, do you want me to be a first sergeant, or a super chief clerk?"

I smiled at him and said, "We'll get along fine, first sergeant. I want you to be cognizant of what the admin section is doing, but no more so than of what the tank platoons are doing. I want you to be a first sergeant."

"Yes,sir!" We went out to Twenty-Nine Palms for a big shootout which wasn't really that big due to a shortage of ammunition. We had everything set up in the dusty desert: tents, maintenance areas, ammo storage areas, etc. First Sergeant Young brought up the rear echelon from Pendleton and arrived a couple of days after we had everything ready to roll. He arrived, riding in the front seat of a truck, sitting straight as a ram rod and completely in charge, as it made its bumpy way into our windblown base camp.

He stepped regally out of the truck, wearing his neatly pressed and starched utilities and spit-shined boots. He looked around in obvious disapproval of the seeming disorder and disarray. By the next morning, he had everything squared away and as neat as possible under the desert circumstances.

While he was there, he rode with me to a tank firing point where a platoon of heavy (M-103) tanks was practicing with armor piercing rounds against old, M-4 hulls.

First Sergeant Young had never served with tanks before, and I knew that he was dying to shoot a few rounds, but he knew we did not get the amount of ammo we had requested, so he would not ask.

I checked with the platoon commander and he agreed that we could spare two rounds without hindering the training of troops.

I walked back to the first sergeant and asked: "Wanta shoot a tank?"

His eyes lit up as he replied, "Do we have enough ammo? I don't want to screw some kid out of a round he needs practice with."

I assured him that I might have to call upon him in combat, and I wanted him to know how to shoot that 120mm. I took him to a tank and turned him over to Corporal Johnson, one of our best tank commanders.

Johnson was happy to have a chance to show his stuff to a well-liked first sergeant. He got him seated in the gunner's seat and started to explain the procedures. The first sergeant said in his gruff but friendly manner: "Shut up, Corporal Johnson. I've been reading the manual. Just point out a target."

The first sergeant fired one round and hit the turret of an M-4 at better than 3,000 yards.

He emerged from the tank, still neat and immaculate, and asked, "Is that all there is to it?" I told him that he was qualified.

One morning back in Camp Pendleton, a young trooper came running into the office from his quonset hut and excitedly informed the first sergeant that "Corporal Holland's hemorrhoids just exploded!"

The first sergeant looked at him very seriously, slowly removed his cigar from his mouth, and asked calmly, "Was anyone killed?"

Frank Young was the kind of first sergeant who should have written a manual for first sergeants. In recent years, the Marine Corps has, with no sane reasoning, allowed the position of first sergeant to be relegated to one of "super chief clerk." Most of them have no interest in the mission of the company they serve. It's not their fault; we did it to them by burdening them with administrative matters. A check of the curriculum at the First Sergeants School at Parris Island in 1979, revealed that the vast bulk of the study was on administration. A pity.

Frank Young went on to become a sergeant major and finally retired. I don't have any idea where he is, except that he is in my memories forever.