Unca Cheeks the Toy Wonder's Silver Age Comics Web Site!

You all couldn't just bloody leave it alone, then, could you...?

"Where's that series of articles on war comics you promised us, Unca Cheeks?"

"Soooooooooooo: howzabout those war comics pages, then, Unca...?"

"You... ummmmmm... do actually have some old war comics, don't you...?"

"Dear Unca Cheeks: The enclosed restraining order has been duly sworn against you on this date, 6/17/00, by the claimant, Salma Hayek, pursuant to her adjudged complaint that you have been stalking her, day and night, like some major, gibbering psycho-sexual luna -- "

Ahem.

Yes. Well.

You get the gist of it, surely.

Fine. Fine.

Be it on your own heads, then.

"The Voice of Victory!" [FIGHTIN' MARINES #68; Charlton Comics Group; March, 1966; Nicholas Alascia, artist; author believed to be hiding out somewhere in the remote mountain fastness of the Azores, under an assumed identity] opens up with --

... oh, wait! Wait! Unca wanted to go on a little bit about this particular comic's wholly deranged and demented cover, first -- !

We see a ragged, beard-stubbled Marine sergeant, crouched resolutely behind what appears (at first blush) to be some sort of hush-hush (and hitherto unrevealed) special U.S. devised death ray; spewing forth a sweeping, fiery arc of mass destruction from its teensy-tiny li'l nozzle.

Directly below this stirring artistic homage to the collected cinematic oeuvres of noted "B"-movie thespians John Agar and Sonny Tufts is a not-terribly-well-rendered three panel vignette, in which a distressingly simian-seeming aggregate of Japanese soldiers are being tormented by a mocking and bodiless voice; the latter which ringingly proclaims (and rather snottily, too, I daresay) that "You Are DOOMED, Sons of Nippon! Ha Ha Ha Ha!"

(Unca isn't altogether certain on the following point, mind... but: his best bestest guesstimate, in this particular, is that "The Sons of Nippon" were some stripe of lesser-known Charlton Comics super-villain team, really. Rather like -- oh, say -- Marvel Comics' own notorious Sons of the Serpent. Or The Sons of Satannish. Or The Sons of Katie Elder, even.)

Okay. End of Snide and Only Tangentially Relevant Interlude, then.

Back to the four-color travesty at hand.

... opens up with the following overheated (and weirdly ungrammatical) caption; well worth quoting in delirious, unexpurgated full.

"These four marines were the nucleus of the 1st Squad, 2nd Platoon, Charlie Company, 1st Marine Division! They'd never been in combat before... but their squad leader, Sgt. McTigue, bellowed his order 'Come on, you apes... nobody lives forever!', and they followed him! Some died... leaving the Actor, Creepy and the Kid to follow Mike McTigue to victory!"

You... ahhhhhh... got all of that, right...?

War. Hunnhh. Good gawd, y'all. What is it good for -- ?!?

"Sarge," the mustachioed marine maverick known as Actor whimpers, manfully. "We... we broke through their lines! Shouldn't we...?"

"Come on, Actor!" that grizzled veteran of a thousand thousand war campaigns, Sarge, snarls in response. "We're goin' all the way!" (Now, now.)

"As the indomitable 1st Squad smashed through the Japanese gun positions," the following caption breathlessly enthuses; "... General Yashui personally took charge of eliminating them! Here is what he said... translated, naturally!" Well, naturally.

"The fools!" General Yashui -- appealingly rendered (in the traditional four-color fashion of the era) as a gibbering and shrilly dyspeptic buck-

toothed, bespectacled half-pint -- rages, ineffectually. "Hold your fire, until every gun bears on them... we will obliterate them!"

"Especially the sergeant!" Yashui blusters, displaying an overbite of truly epic proportions. "It is a matter of personal honor that he die!"

[UNCA CHEEKS' PRO-ACTIVE ASIDE: ...and it is right here, right now, that your duly appalled Unca would like to make it manifest and plain that he -- for real; no foolin', now -- finds this sort of thing in the most exceedingly execrable taste imaginable; more so even than that marathon Jim Varney film respective he saw, just last week. Twice.]

"He has become the symbol of victory to his comrades!" the Japanese general (who, apparently, keeps close, watchfultabs on precisely this sort of thing) continues. "His voice strikes terror to the hearts of my men [sic] when he bellows at night through the jungles!" [Sic. Sick, sick, sick.]

"Once that voice is stilled," a frenzied Yashui concludes, going for the big, splashy dramatic finish; "... Japanese victory will be assured!"

It remains a matter of grave doubt, insofar as your (admittedly) suspicious Unca is concerned...

... but: he finds it increasingly difficult to make himself believe that this particular issue of FIGHTIN' MARINES was ever, ever sanctioned for instructional usage within our nation's high school history classrooms.

"The Japs waiting for the signal to fire," we are distressingly informed (did Unca mention that this particular comic book came out in the year 1966, by the by? We were actually allies of some sort with the nation of Japan, by that point, he's reasonably certain.); "... shivered at the sound of his voice!"

"Alright [sic], you apes," Sarge barks, in the distance; simultaneously managing to encourage his own troops; demoralize those of the enemy; AND(somehow) rendering his voice plainly audible, through the thick cloth of his white, peaked hood.

"All Japanese guns... fire!" a stern-visaged Yashui commands, cleverly remembering to specify just which side it is for whom said order was intended. (This commonplace battlefield stratagem was first devised by none other than Germany's own notorious "Desert Fox," Erwin Rommel; and has long since been immortalized, in combat lore, as The "Mother, May I?" Principle.)

"Hit the grit, you heroes!" the quick-thinking Sarge responds, still in four man mid-charge against what is (apparently; based upon the evidence of the accompanying visuals, at any rate) a good three-quarters of the armed ground forces of Imperial Japan, in their entirety.

"I have destroyed the accursed marine whose voice was the voice of victory!" a gleeful Yashui exults, as the four marines are resultingly bombarded with enough in the way of high-grade, long range explosives to leave the greater portion of (say) downtown Detroit a smoking, blasted heath. Assuming anyone might ever conceivably notice, I mean.

[UNCA CHEEKS' ASIDE: ... and just precisely how -- so long as were on the subject, at this juncture in our narcoleptic li'l narrative -- do you suppose one goes about being duly anointed as the official "voice of victory" for the American armed forces, anyways? I mean: are there organized casting calls for this sort of thing, d'you imagine? Formal elections, with the ultimate accuracy of same guaranteed by the accounting firm of Price- Waterhouse? And wouldn't you think that any former morning "drive time" radio DJ would start out with one huge and monstrously unfair advantage over his G.I. fellows, in any such competition...?

[I'm just sayin', really, is all.]

"Every Jap gun on Guadalcanal is bein' fired right at us!" an indignant Sarge exclaims; a wee li'l bit on the befuddled side o'things, apparently, re: how this whole "war" business actually works, out in the field.

(Unca's no grand expert himself in such matters, mind... but: he does recall reading somewhere, at some point, that it involves repeatedly firing at the contestants on the other side; until they all either fall down, or else their mothers call them back inside for dinner.)

"Yes," a similarly confused Actor affirms, agreeably; "... I know, Sergeant... but, why us?" To which the practiced and paternal top-kick, in turn, blandly responds [Pick One]:

A.) "General Yashui's over there... he commands the Japanese in this area! He's an old enemy, Actor!"

B.) "... what? You mean other than the fact that we're all tarted up in the recognizable-at-a-glance uniform of the armed opposition, you mean...?"

C.) "Never mind that now, ya gold-brickin' yahoo! We've still got ourselves one whole canvas bag full'a newspapers to get out there, by God and by damn! And we both always knew the life of a certified GRIT delivery boy sure as hell wasn't gonna be all fancy French dames and caviar, right? Now... get your worthless G.I. butt out there and start deliverin', or else I'll end up pluggin' you one myself -- !"

D.) [tearing away the cunningly-devised plasticene face mask, and revealing the tell-tale epicanthic eyefolds of the enemy]: "What do you mean 'us,' Yankee Soldier Boy...?"

... and -- as the Sarge's whiskey-hoarse growl flatlines out and away, into the storytelling distance -- we're suddenly and savagely blindsided by one great, reeking limburger of a flashback.

All of a sudden, like.

"The general was a black belt judo champ," Ol' Sergeant Aesop offers, by way of conversational prelude; which -- while not quite up there with "It was the best of times; it was the worst of times," God wot -- could've sucked a whole lot worse, one s'poses.

"I was a boot PFC stationed at the embassy in Tokyo!" our man continues. "I didn't like General Yashui first time I saw him!"

(... but, y'know... some of his best friends are probably "Japs," actually. So it's probably something else instinctively setting his teeth on edge, in this particular instance. Mebbe. Kinda. I s'pose.)

"Our troops are thoroughly trained in the lethal skills of judo!" a sneering Yashui casually informs a nearby American ambassador. "Any one of my men could barehanded destroy three of your marines!" Plus: my dad could kick your dad's butt. The big, hairy femme. Neener- neener-neener.

("... could barehanded destroy"...? Where the hell is this tawdry little tale supposed to be taking place, anyways: DC's Bizarro World...?)

" 'Marines on guard duty don't make noises,' the sergeant explained further, 'but General Yashui thought he heard something... it sounded a lot like the Bronx cheer!' "

(Unca's just guessing here, mind... but: he's willing to lay odds that the so-called "writer" responsible for this meta-fictive mess has never actually read the section of the Geneva Convention Articles relating to "Respecting the Rank of Opposing Officers." Probably woulda made for quite the little creative eye-opener, actually.)

This wholly lamentable lapse in the fabled Marine Corps rigor and discipline duly acknowledged, then; an enraged General Yashui all but stamps his little feetsies and shrieks at the smirking, stock-still sergeant. ("He spit some Jap at me for a minute... and then switched to English!" Which is almost certainly more than this clown could've done, betcha, had their respective situations been reversed. Betcha a dollar.)

"Very soon," the apoplectic Yashui rails; "... the Japanese will teach you barbarous westerners that you cannot treat us with contempt!"

"Then, he did it!" Sarge chortles, in coarse reminiscence. "He slapped me... the way gents used to whenever they challenged each other to duels!"

(... and it worth noting, here, that said "slap" is plainly shown to be so wimpy and ineffectual a one, on the part of Yashui, that a nakedly arrogant Sarge is capable of smirking his way through it, with hair unturned; a scene every last bit as boneheaded and unbelievable as anything to be found within the pages of Marvel Comics' long-vanished G.I. JOE series. Or an episode of GOMER PYLE, U.S.M.C., even. HOOO gosh -- !)

"Permission to speak, ambassador?" a blase Sarge coolly queries.

"Granted, marine!" the greying diplomat shoots back, making mocking "bunny ears" behind the head of the patently oblivious Yashui.

"Insolent marine dog!" the still-livid Japanese general fairly spits, by way of response.

"Isn't that a sort of challenge, General Yashui?" the doofy doughboy inquires. "I know I'm only a private, but doesn't slappin' someone mean you want to fight them, sort of?" (Quick, now: somebody get the local chapter of Mensa on the phone, muy pronto -- !)

"Exactly!" Yashui snarls, in acknowledgement. "I shall demonstrate my point to your ambassador... I shall destroy you with my bare hands!"

"Does PFC McTigue have the ambassador's permission to accept his challenge?" Sarge asks the ambassador, seguing (inexplicably) into the third person to do so.

"Of course, McTigue!" the diplomat readily agrees. "I shall explain to your lieutenant that you conducted yourself quite properly!" (Say whaaaa -- ?!?)

Quicker'n you can say "... but... but... what about the court-martial, f'chrissakes...?": Yashui and McTigue are squaring off before a hooting and cheering throng of onlookers; the former in traditional dojo duds, and the latter in government issue slacks and t-shirt.

"It turned into a real big deal!" a bemused Sarge later recounts; blissfully unaware of just how nerve-janglingly close a brush he'd actually had with a quick, involuntary siesta, re: the nearest military stockade. "There was even a photographer and a couple of reporters there!"

The opening rounds of our jingoistic little jamboree rapidly demonstrate, however, that -- "little Jap" or no -- the much-maligned General Yashui clearly does know some li'l something regarding the manly art of self-defense; sending a (doubtless) distressed and disbelieving McTigue flipping and flopping across the length of the arena like some great, overgrown tiddlywink.

"Then he hit me with a judo chop!" the big wussybear snivels, in pained recollection "Like to scramble my brains!" [Insert Obligatory Snotty Comeback Here.]

"I was stunned a little," Our Little RAT PATROL Wannabe continues; "... [and] that's when I fight best!"

(This may well stand as one of Unca's all-time favoritest examples of WayDopey Comic Book Dialogue evereverever, quite frankly; on easy par, certainly, with the immortal Stan Lee-scripted faux pas, re: a snarling Captain America informing his opponent of the moment that "... only one of us is gonna walk out of here, under his own steam... and it won't be me!")

Somehow, the onset of mild concussion serves as the crappy comics equivalent of an Underdog "Super-Energy Pill," insofar as Sgt. Rock's Idiot Half-Brother is concerned; granting him the ability to (somehow) surmount Yashui's immeasurably greater knowledge of all things pugilistic, and knuckledust his way to a red, white and blue victory.

"I belted him out [sic]," McTigue snickers, in something vaguely approximating the english language. "With reporters there, diplomats, and so on!"

Simply defeating his foreign-born opponent, however, isn't quite enough for this fellah.

"I put a foot against his backside," the Sarge confesses, incredibly; "... and shoved him face down on the floor! "Unsportsmanlike... but I sort of figured it was the right thing to do!"

[UNCA CHEEKS' ASIDE: As sweet auctorial serendipity would have it: this issue of Charlton Comics' FIGHTIN' MARINES contains a copy of said publication's yearly "Statement of Ownership" figures, for the preceeding twelve months.

[During that period: FIGHTIN' MARINES sold an average of two hundred and fifty-seven THOUSAND copies, each and every month.

[Jesus wept.]

"McTigue," the dogface answering to the nom de guerre of "Actor" confides, as the narrative hiccups its way back to the present-day; "... I'd die happy right now if I could've played that role!" To which Sarge snaps back, in turn [Pick One]:

A.) "Don't worry, Actor! You'll get your chance, someday!"

B.) "Oh, hell, Actor: you'd 'die happy' for a chance to dress up like the friggin' Hamburglar, at McDonalds franchise openings -- !"

C.) [shaking his head; adamant]: "No way, pally! My agent's already tapped "Big" Bea Arthur for that plum role -- !"

D.) "Promises, promises."

"The barrage ended," we are then reliably informed; "... and McTigue struggled to his feet! His great voice once more echoed through the jungle, striking fear to the Japanese..." [sic]

"LET'S GO, MARINES!" the renowned leader of men bellows.

(Well: maybe it's all in how he says it, then.)

Tragedy strikes, however (and, granted: it's a uniquely loose usage of the word, as these things generally go) as a crazed and slavering Yashui -- espying the leather-lunged lummox thhundering his way over the far rise -- decides to take matters into his >own hands, ultimately.

"I swore I'd kill him," the Japanese commander shrills, snatching a rifle away from a nearby sniper; "... and I will do it personally!"

Two panels after that...

... and, well: Ol' Marse McTigue... he be daid.

"Word raced through the Japanese army," the ensuing caption mumbles, dispiritedly. "The voice of victory was stilled forever! No more would that bellow strike fear into their hearts!"

(The artwork accompanying said caption, by the by -- provided directly above, for quick'n'easy reference -- provides us with a long, loathsome look at artist Nicholas Alascia's vision of the "typical" Japanese soldier: eyes squinted into barely perceptible slits, and bridgework formidable enough to gnaw straightawy through battleship plating. Are these supposed to be human beings or huge, mutant termites, f'cryin' out loud -- ?!?)

"Minutes later," the story's addlepated author informs us; "... a huge Japanese offensive was planned to begin immediately!"

(Apparently, that was the only thing holding the Japanese back from Conquering the Entire Known World, then: the continued battlefield presence of this one particular loud-mouthed, inarticulate and sucker-

punching "Sarge" feller. Makes you wonder why everyone else within the U.S. armed forces hadn't simply packed up their jammies and their toothbrushes and trucked on back home, already. I mean: what the heck did we need any of them for, anyways...?)

"The Marines were saddened!" our whacked-out wordsmith gibbers. "Not just McTigue's 1st Squad, but the whole regiment shared their gloom..."

"What'll we do now?" a nameless G.I. wails, disconsolately. "His voice used to give me the guts to fight...!"

"You'll fight, kid," his (ostensibly) more seasoned and battle-weary companion assures him, by way of response; "... don't worry!"

Were this some grainy, black-and-white American Movie Classics offering, circa two in the bleary A.M.: we'd have a John Wayne or a Montgomery Clift -- or, hell: even a Burgess Meredith or a Victor Mature -- unslinging the battered rifle from one bleeding shoulder; growling something suitably inspirational; and leading a ragtag charge towards destiny, and battlefield immortality --

... but: this is Charlton Comics' FIGHTIN' MARINES #68, sad to say...

... so: we aren't exactly talkin' John Ford, here, storytelling-wise.

Cripes: we aren't even talkin' Ed Wood, as far as that goes.

"We'll never stop 'em now," a panicky and terror-stricken soldier ululates, as the entire adult population of the island nation of Japan takes gleeful turns jumping up and down on him and his fellows; "... without the Sarge bellowin' orders how to fight!"

[UNCA CHEEKS' ASIDE: ... oh, for chrissakes, people! Those long, semi-cylindrical objects you've been lugging all over the greater part of creation, these past six months or so? You aim 'em at the guys on the other side of the battlefield; squeeze the trigger; and fire, awright? Geez louise -- !]

"At last!" an increasingly jaundiced-seeming Yashui cackles and gloats, amidst all the bloodshed and the carnage. "The insult to my honor is avenged! The loss of face has been restored!"

(Unca Cheeks would just like to take the opportunity, at this juncture, to humbly and sincerely apologize to anyone out there of Japanese descent; anyone married to anyone of Japanese descent; anyone who's ever known anyone of Japanese descent; anyone who's ever ordered Japanese take-out; and anyone who's ever watched THE COURTSHIP OF EDDIE'S FATHER.)

... and then --

... THEN --

... well: just scroll downwards, and see for your own silly, stupefied selves.

"Get up, marine!" an all-too-distressingly familiar voice rings out, to the evident astonishment of one and all. "Attack! You, kid... on yer feet! Come on, you apes [...] we're gonna wipe out the Japs!"

(... again with that whole "Japs" thing! Did Charlton's editorial brain trust ever even pause to consider that maybe -- just may-frickin'-be -- some poor, luckless Japanese-American kids might be picking up the occasional newsstand comic, in The Year of Our Lord, 1966? Two full and complete d-e-c-a-d-e-s after WWII had bloody ended, for the luvva Allah? Can you say "statute of limitations," people...?)

"It's the Sarge!" a stunned and flabbergasted soldier exclaims, eyes bulging in naked wonderment. "He ain't dead!"

This single, signal battlefield event, then -- the Lazarus-like revival of the one guy (apparently) with the ability to convincingly deliver such ringing and inspirational pronouncements as "We're gonna wipe out the Japs!" -- presages what would almost certainlyy rank as one of the most stirring and memorable military reversals in all of recorded combat history.

Wellllllllllllllllllll. Except for the fact that it's all purest, putrid comic book hokum, I mean.

"Suddenly," the narrator exclaims, all but wetting himself; "... the marines turned the tables on the attackers!"

"Try some o' that fancy judo on me, you phoney!" one particular soldier rasps, launching a great, looping haymaker directly towards the exposed and quivering chin of a frantically backpedaling General Yashui; sending the latter's thick-lensed spectacles flying halfway to Okinawa, if Unca's still any decent judge of distance.

The story finally twitches itself to death two panels later, then; with another platoon leader approaching the Sarge's unit and casually informing them that: "Sgt. McTigue was back in the base hospital, critically wounded! It wasn't his voice you heard!"

"Actor," said lieutenant continues, eyeing the journeyman ham actor critically; "... you've got an ear for voices! [...] Was that McTigue bellowing during the battle?"

"As far as I know, lieutenant!" the soldier baldface lies, by way of measured response.

"The man they called 'The Actor'," the concluding caption counsels, was "an expert ventriloquist, and famed in peacetime for impersonations [...]!"

Shyeah. Right.

"Impersonate" this, whydon'cha, Charlton...?

Well, then: that wasn't very good, was it, now...?

Be here next time out, though, campers'n'camperettes.

You think "The Voice of Victory!" was a real four-color eyesore...

... just wait until you experience the full, unfettered funnybook horror that is Charlton's nigh-legendary "Executioners From Hanoi!"

You'll all be bloody begging Unca for more "Sarge" and "Actor" stories, by golly, by jingo.

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