Marine Lance Cpl. Justin J. Swanson, 21, Anaheim; killed in explosion

Justin Swanson was 16 when he met a Marine recruiter.

He was getting by at Buena Park High School -- not the worst student, not the best.

He had a big smile, gave big hugs and could charm his way out of trouble. He had a little swagger, a lot of girls. He stood up for kids who were bullied and cut football practice to baby-sit his half siblings.

His mother was faintly amused by the contradictory phrases on his report cards: “In danger of failing” right next to “a pleasure to have in class.”

Swanson appeared carefree -- “the happiest, go-luckiest good kid you ever saw,” his mother said, but his family had cares in abundance. His parents split when he was a baby. His mother worked three waitress jobs. A bad marriage came and went. Money troubles stayed.

His father went to prison. His mother worried about her son’s future.

So when a military recruiter offered Swanson deferred enlistment, his mother, Mary Hargrove, steeled herself and signed the forms.

“I didn’t have anything to offer him,” she said. “I couldn’t put him through college, and I didn’t want him to end up like other kids in the neighborhood.”

Recalling the moment, she added: “I never thought this would happen.”

Swanson, 21, a Marine lance corporal, was killed Nov. 10 when a roadside bomb exploded beneath the Humvee he was driving in southern Afghanistan’s Helmand province, on the Pakistani border. Three others were injured, one very seriously. Swanson was assigned to the 1st Battalion, 5th Marine Regiment, 1st Marine Division, 1st Marine Expeditionary Force at Camp Pendleton.

Swanson was born in Fountain Valley and reared in Tustin, Buena Park, Corona and Anaheim.

He was 13 when his father, a janitor who had emigrated from Australia, was arrested for selling drugs. After that, they had little contact.

“When you are in there, every time you get something from the outside you get upset,” said his father, Leslie James Swanson. “You already got a guilt trip anyway.”

There was strife at Hargrove’s house. But Swanson’s mother said he appeared resolutely happy. He was fun-loving, with a protective streak, she said, adding that he had no time for what she called “drama.”

At Buena Park High, his grades were good enough, although he did his homework at the last minute, his mother said. He was high-energy, confident and thrived on camaraderie, she said.

Swanson wasn’t big, but had an air of physical strength, said his English teacher, Ron Carcich.

Swanson had a favorite phrase -- “I got your back.” He served as a peer assistance leader at the school’s “Challenge Day,” a program about empathy, and leaped to the defense of students who complained about being picked on.

Football coach Frank Saiz said he would sometimes find Swanson on the practice field alone, cheerfully performing push-ups or sprints. To the coach’s puzzled question, the young man would explain that he had done something wrong -- been late, or gotten detention -- and was carrying out his own punishment. “You’re gonna find out about it anyway,” Saiz recalled him saying.

Swanson flourished in the Marine Corps, said Gunnery Sgt. Michael A. Rivera, who served with him in Afghanistan. He was handsome, cocky, upbeat. Women, Rivera said, “had no chance.”

After enlisting, Swanson went to see his father in prison. He wore his uniform. Father and son hadn’t seen each other in seven years.

When he left, guards and inmates peppered the elder Swanson with questions. A corrections sergeant was impressed. “Man, that’s a good-lookin’ kid,” the father recalls being told.

Swanson was at Camp Pendleton when his father was released, and the two reconnected.

Later, after a tour in Kuwait, Swanson told his mother that he was going to Afghanistan.

She was confused. “At the time, truthfully, I didn’t really realize what exactly was going on over there,” Hargrove said.

Swanson’s unit was at a forward operating base. There was no running water. At midday, it felt hot enough “to melt your face off,” Rivera said.

Between patrols, the Marines spent hours playing the board game Risk. Once or twice a month, there was rocket fire.

At first, the area had appeared a ghost town. But Rivera saw hope. After the Marines worked to win locals’ trust, he said, markets reopened and children came out to play.

Swanson was an unofficial specialist with broken radios -- and Rivera’s right-hand man.

It was especially hot the day of the Nov. 10 patrol. Swanson’s Humvee was fourth in a line. Other vehicles had driven safely over the buried explosive. Then it blew.

Rivera was a few feet away. He saw a spurt of sand and dirt. He limped to the Humvee: His leg was fractured, though he only realized it later. In Rivera’s memory, the scene plays out in silence.

Swanson’s mother was asleep at home when her daughter came to wake her: Two men in uniform were at the door.

Carcich, the English teacher, was on a break at school, sitting on a table in his classroom. A colleague entered and said: “I am going to ruin your day.”

On Nov. 19, Swanson’s parents waited at the Los Alamitos air field. The plane was late, and the light was fading. Hargrove had been prepared by a Marine media specialist, but felt unsteady.

The plane landed. There was “the most excruciating long wait,” Hargrove said. Finally, the doors opened and Swanson’s casket was brought out. The procession to Westminster Memorial Park stopped traffic. Along the way, Hargrove spotted a line of preschool students standing at attention, hands over their hearts.

Rivera, 42, has decided to retire since returning from Afghanistan. “I’m done with it,” he said. “After Justin. . . .” He trailed off.

Swanson’s father went back to his job as a carpet salesman. Hargrove said she worries about him: Newly off parole, he has no other children and lives alone.

For his part, Leslie James Swanson said he is proud of his son, who, he said, died for his country. “But given a second chance, I think he would rather be coming home, to be quite honest.”

In addition to his parents, Swanson is survived by siblings Kayla, 16, Gage, 14, and Kelli, 8.

Funds are being raised for a memorial “Challenge Day” at Buena Park High. Donations may be made to the school.

jill.leovy@latimes.com