Chapter 1

The Marine Corps recruiter talked to me the entire 100-mile drive to Cleveland, about what to expect at bootcamp; and how to survive and graduate from it. Not many other options; the car was a typical government sedan from the pool of cars maintained for government workers. You can imagine just how far down the list of workers a Marine Corps recruiter was; the car we were in was as bare boned as was possible, no radio. He dropped me off in front of the hotel, shook my hand and wished me good luck, and told me not volunteer for anything; hmmm, I had volunteered for the Corps. I went in, and checked in; the DOD had reserved two floors of the hotel for handling the recruits to coming to Cleveland to either enlist or leave for bootcamp; I was assigned to a room with a young man going into the Army. Actually, an idiot that spent most of the night calling random rooms in the hotel, hoping for a woman’s voice. I could not believe it; at 2am I ripped the phone from his hands and told him I was going to beat him to death with it if he didn’t stop and let me get some sleep.

At 5:30 we got our wake-up call; we needed to get ready to report to the AFEES center by 6 for processing. (Armed Forces Examining and Entrance Station, I promise to try not to do that again; if I tried to use and explain all the military abbreviations and acronyms, this story would be thousands of pages). I checked in along with a bunch of young men and women; we were hustled to a cafeteria and had a quick and light breakfast, then those leaving for the various boot camps started going through an abbreviated physical, making sure we were still qualified to go. After that there were pages and pages of documents to fill out and sign, and several lectures to listen to. My very first issue with the Corps started on page 1, my address was no longer correct. I wasn’t ever going to live with my parents again, or return to that address; the address I wanted to use was on my driver’s license, the Miller’s address. I’d be going back there occasionally, at least for the next several years, it made sense to me to use that one. I made several failed attempts to get the Marine clerk to change the address, finally it took me saying “Okay, never mind, I’ll just go join the Army” before a Marine Corps officer came over and straightened it out; my driver’s license was the one that needed to be used, the clerk just didn’t want to retype the form. That officer gave me my first piece of advice for my time in the Corps; which was if something was wrong, it was better and easier in the long run to correct it as early as possible. I fell back on that guidance dozens of times during my career, it rarely failed me. Caused immediate problems and frustration for sure, but it was rarely wrong.

I got through the processing eventually, along with a couple dozen other young men leaving for Marine Corps bootcamp at Parris Island, and was sworn in about 4. We were shuffled around a bit more before being taken to the airport for the flight to Charleston. We got there around mid-night, and were met by a Marine in dress uniform who, with absolutely no wasted time or effort, took us directly to the plain military bus that would take the approximately 100 of us now to boot camp; a 2-hour ride, the last hour on dark, narrow, unlit country roads. After the possibly 2 hours of sleep I had gotten the night before, I was dozing when we went through the main gate; it wasn’t until 3 months later, after graduation, that I found out how to get back off the island. The bus pulled up to the reception center, and the fun began.

The Marine Drill Instructor, a DI, that got on the bus to tell us what to do next was the biggest, meanest, and unhappiest man I had ever seen. Nothing we did made him happy, including just getting off the bus. He screamed and ranted; we weren’t moving fast enough getting on the yellow footprints painted on the concrete outside the bus, out in the darkness somewhere. Eventually, with the not gentle assistance of a couple other Marines DIs; we were shoved, prodded, screamed, and kicked into place. The yellow footprints were 4 columns of 25 footprints painted on the road to represent a platoon in formation; we eventually got on the footprints, then were marched inside the building in a single file. Of course, we didn’t know how to march yet, but we did get inside learning three critical things we needed to immediately learn.

First; do not EVER open your mouth unless in response to a direct question by one of the Dis; unless it was a rhetorical question, which you quickly had to figure out. Such as:

“WHAT ARE YOU @#$%! LOOKING AT, MAGGOTT?”

which was screamed at us while learning the second thing; don’t ever look around. Don’t turn your head, don’t move your eyeballs, don’t even focus on something unless directed by higher authority; which was everyone else, since we were the absolute scum of the earth. The third was to do nothing unless told to, except breath. No scratching, no waving a fly away, no movement at all until told to do so.

“WHILE AT THE POSITION OF ATTENTION, YOU WILL NOT MOVE! I DO NOT CARE IF A FLY TAKES A 10-POUND SHIT ON YOUR EYEBALL! YOU WILL NOT MOVE!”

To say it was an interesting first couple of minutes is a small understatement; but nothing compared to what was to follow in the next 3 hours. A large barrel was sitting just in front of the door to the building we marched to; we were told to put anything illegal we might have brought with us into it; drugs, alcohol, etc.; no questions would be asked. If we ended up inside the building with something illegal, we would be prosecuted and eventually discharged, we were told. Inside the door was a large hall with rows of tables; we had to stand at attention, a position we now had a vague idea of, in front of the tables. We were to put everything we had brought with us on the table in front of us, to be inventoried and gone through. Conversation was discouraged;

“IF YOU TWO DONT SHUT THE FUCK UP RIGHT NOW, IM GONNA STICK MY FOOT UP BOTH YOUR ASSES AND WEAR YOU AROUND LIKE A COUPLE OF AUTISTIC FLIP-FLOPS!”

Everything meant every last thing, including your shoes and belt, if you were wearing one. The only thing in front of me was my shoes, wallet and toothbrush; the wallet was emptied of every scrap of paper and thoroughly examined; money, pictures, driver’s license, business cards, scraps of paper, everything; what little I had I was allowed to keep, stuffed back into the wallet. Unfortunately my almost new toothbrush wasn’t up to military standards, and was tossed into the large trash can the DI dragged beside him as they moved down the rows. There were 5-6 DIs going through our stuff, so there were lots of shouted questions about the items us maggots and scum had brought; all going on at the same time; lots of comments on parentage, intelligence, and ability. There were also questions about some of the stuff individual recruits had brought; some of the guys had brought a small suitcase that had to be gone through, a lot of that stuff going into the trash.

“I AM GOING TO TAKE A SHIT IN A BOX AND SEND IT OT YOUR PARENTS FOR SENDING ME THEIR’S!”

One poor guy had brought a tennis racquet with him; after the strings had been cut out, he had to wear it around his neck for the next several days, while we went through processing. Our records were collected after verifying our identity, they would be gone through separately, later.

After a couple hours of this we were directed to a stairway that led upstairs; we were told there were bunkbeds up there. We were to run up the stairs as fast as we could and get some rest before the processing resumed at 5; it was 4 already, but that didn’t seem to matter. A DI walked up the stairs behind us; to make sure we didn’t get lost on the way, I guess; anyone he caught up to was not gently prodded up the stairs. There were already over 200 recruits up there, sprawled all over since there weren’t enough beds to hold everyone; someone asked where we were to sleep, the answer was that we didn’t need a bed, just get some rest, not that nicely of course. There were no sheets, blankets, or pillows; just a well-used mattress on a metal spring frame; I did find a bunkbed with no one under it yet; I stretched out on the floor waiting to see what would happen after the remaining 45 minutes was up, since actually sleeping was not going to happen.

Sure enough, at 5am a DI came screaming though the door; “All right maggots, get on the @#$%&! yellow footprints! Move, move, move!!!” Approximately 80 at a time we were assembled outside on the footprints and marched to the ‘mess hall’, the dining facility; the group’s 4-5 minutes apart. We didn’t know how to march, or any of the commands used to direct a platoon, but we did get to the mess hall, a few hundred yards away. Unfortunately, I was the very first in line through the door; picking up a metal, compartmented tray stacked just inside the door and silverware was obvious, so was rapidly moving to the line of stream tables where there was food ready to be put on our trays by the messmen standing on the other side of them. I was instructed to ‘side-step’ down the line, not walk; getting a serving of whatever was being portioned out at each stop, then find a place to sit and quickly eat everything on my tray, then get my worthless ass back outside in formation. We were the very first ones through the mess hall that morning; when I turned to find a seat, I saw hundreds of 4-man metal tables with unmovable stools attached to them, bolted to the concrete floor in rows though out the massive hall.

Without thinking it through I moved to the several very nice round tables with tablecloths on them, condiments arranged nicely, napkins laid out; and put my tray down and started to quickly eat. That’s right, these were the drill instructor’s tables; I had my first breakfast in the Corps with eventually a dozen drill instructors surrounding me; either taunting or insulting me, or extremely concerned about my well-being and care. And I couldn’t just bolt down the food and flee, that would mean I wasn’t happy with either the food or their company; and that couldn’t be. What a shitty morning; and I hadn’t got past breakfast yet. Eventually I was allowed to leave, and back to the processing center we went.

Now we sat down one-on-one with a Marine to be interviewed and go through our records, making sure that everything was correct, and filled out properly;

“IF I WANTED TO HEAR SHIT, I WOULD HAVE FARTED, CLOWNDICK!”

That took an hour to get through; when we’re not going through our records, we’re learning what it means to stand at attention, and how; and how to not focus on anything with our eyes, how to develop the “1000-yard stare”; several times I heard the “What are you looking at?” question, with a few variations and additional comments, such as:

“WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME, DICKWAD, DO YOU LIKE ME? LIKING LEADS TO LOVING, AND LOVING LEADS TO FUCKING. DO YOU WANT TO FUCK ME? DO YOU WANT TO BE MY FUCKTOY?”

Enough of us started laughing that we all got to enjoy our first physical fitness training activity; doing push-ups until the DIs were tired; of watching us, I guess.

Next, just to reinforce the fact that we were now in the Marine Corps, we got a 15 second haircut; that long only if you had a mole or wart or something on your scalp; under your hair. Those that knew they had moles or bumps or whatever were instructed to put their fingertips on them, and the barber would avoid that area on the first pass. They removed every trace of hair above your eyebrows; the one guy that questioned the process lost them too; the supervising DI just grabbed the clippers and buzzed them off. If you didn’t know you had anything under your hair but did, you quickly found out when the barber just sliced it off during the haircut. Several of the recruits had blood trickling when we re-assembled outside, a couple of the recruits could have possibly qualified for a Purple Heart, if we had been in a combat zone.

A couple quick lectures followed that mostly just confused us, but confirmed that while our souls were God’s, our asses belonged to the Corps, and the DIs were deeply concerned about the low quality of our asses; at least that was the impression.

“THE BEST PART OF YOU RAN DOWN THE CRACK OF YOUR MOMMA’S ASS, AND ENDED UP A YELLOW STAIN ON THE SHEETS; SHITBAG!”

I think the timing of the lectures was just to give the blood a chance to coagulate before we hustled back into the hall. Next on the schedule was the issue of a set of skivvies; a pair of white boxer shorts and a t-shirt; a pair of flip-flops, and a towel. We were then instructed to stand in front of ‘our’ table and completely strip, put our ‘civvies’ on the table, and prepare to shower. That was an interesting process; the shower was a 20 x 15 tiled room with showerheads along three walls, the showers were turned on full, alternating hot and cold; we ran around the room once, then ran back to our table to towel off and put on our new skivvies; waiting for that command, of course. A new personal record for most of us; for how quickly you could shower.

Back to our table; we were instructed to put our civvies and whatever we had brought with us in the boxes provided, label it with our name and SSN, and fold the top flaps over so a DI could seal it with tape. We loaded the boxes on a cart that was pushed down the isles; we were told the boxes would be stored and returned to us upon graduation. We were then moved next door to receive our basic issue of work uniforms and other clothing; more skivvies, work uniforms, socks, belts, boots, etc.; an issue of the absolute bare necessities of toiletries; and a bunch of odds and ends. We were told to put on one of the work uniforms with a belt, socks and boots, then a ‘cover’, which was a hat similar to a soft ball cap. All the rest of our gear was stuffed into a new seabag, which we slung over our shoulder, and the first 80 of us were told to get on the yellow footprints again for the last time.

Waiting for us was our Senior Drill Instructor, the most imposing man I had ever seen. Tall, lean, and deeply tanned; standing at attention, wearing an immaculate dress uniform that seemed to be painted on, and the Smokie Bear hat that all Drill Instructors wore; if you saw a Marine not wearing a Smokie Bear, he wasn’t a DI. One of the DI’s from inside got us standing as straight as we could with our bag on our shoulder on the yellow footprints, marched over to in front of him and saluted, announcing the newly formed platoon was now his to train. The Senior DI returned the salute, the first DI did an ‘about face’, and marched away. The Senior DI was facing us; with no expression, and no instructions he started to issue some basic commands in a loud voice, getting us moving in the right direction. Our first stop was at the mess hall again; we were instructed to drop our bags at our feet, then filed inside to eat lunch. There were several DIs inside looking for the ‘breakfast private’, after the haircut and change to a uniform they couldn’t identify me. I kept my mouth shut and just got my food, sat at one of the 4-man tables, ate for possibly 1 minute, then hustled back outside to stand by my bag at attention. Once we were all there, our Senior DI marched us on to the barracks.

After several blocks we stopped in front of an obviously new, 3-story brick and concrete building in an H configuration; exterior stairs on the end of each wing. He told us that at his command we were to run up the stairs with our bags, to the top floor and get inside; we had better beat him to the top. He paused, then yelled “GO!”; and started walking purposely toward the stairs. I was close to the stairs and was probably fourth in line; racing up the stairs, bag slung over my shoulder. The door was propped open and I followed the first three, who were hit with buckets of soapy water, buckets and all; thrown by a dozen screaming DIs, and knocked to the floor in a pile. I somehow hurdled the pile on the floor and ended up still on my feet several yards from the door. I turned to watch as almost everyone running through the door with their bag was knocked down. Somehow the DIs missed spotting me, just about the only lucky break I caught during the next 3 months. Eventually everyone was inside, and the DIs started getting us organized.

The squad bay in the barracks was approximately 150 x 50, with a row of metal bunkbeds along the two long walls; which had lots of windows, plenty of natural light. Under each of the bunkbeds were two wooden footlockers, one for each occupant; on the beds were a set of folded sheets, a pillow and blanket. We were again shoved, kicked, and prodded to stand in front of the bunkbeds facing the center of the long room; we were now ‘online’, a phrase we heard repeatedly every day while in training;

“GET YOUR MISERABLE, STINKING, WORTHLESS, MAGGOT ASSES ONLINE!”

though usually not as nicely.

The end opposite the door had a smaller open area, what we came to know as the ‘quarterdeck’; beyond that was a large separate section containing the sinks, urinals, toilets, and showers. There were also a couple storage closets with extra sheets and the like in them; along with a small office/quarters for the DI when spending the night, which one DI did every night; we were supervised every moment of every day by at least one DI, usually all three.

That afternoon was chaotic and we never moved fast enough, or did anything correctly. We learned how to make the ‘racks’, the beds; we got everything properly stored in our individual footlockers. We were gathered informally near the quarterdeck, a ‘school circle’, and the DIs introduced themselves, and the Company Commander; a USMC Captain every bit as imposing as the DIs, if not as intimidating. The captain gave a little speech welcoming us ‘aboard’, then turned us over to the DIs. After that we rarely saw the captain, he was occasionally seen observing the training, even more rarely he trained us in something, usually Marine Corps History.

Eventually we were marched to the mess hall for supper, returned to the barracks, and everyone was made to write a postcard home; stating we had arrived safely and were being well taken care, dictated pretty much exactly that way. We were given more instruction about how to do things, and told the routine we were going to follow for the rest of the week, then shuffled through the ‘head’ to shit, shower, and shave, and put on clean skivvies; 20 at a time, giving those 20 recruits a leisurely 2-3 minutes to accomplish everything. The assistant DIs left, going home we assumed; but we were completely prepared to believe they went somewhere to plugin and recharge if we had been told that; they couldn’t possibly be human.

At 9pm we were told to get in the rack, at the position of attention, but horizontally; the lights were turned off, and we were done for the day; but the night’s activities weren’t over. Every night during recruit training a ‘guard’ was set; recruits were chosen to walk around and keep an eye on everything and everyone in 2-hour shifts, waking the next guard to assume the duty when the first’s time was up. This was called ‘fire watch’, a tradition left over from the old days of wooden barracks and coal stoves; if something was to come up the guard was supposed to ‘sound the alarm’; during bootcamp that meant waking up the duty DI. Our first night the fire watch was assumed by a platoon about to graduate; several of them roved our barracks room all night, keeping us at the position of attention, whispering words of encouragement. Well, maybe not words of encouragement; they weren’t as bad as the DIs at insulting or scaring us, but still effective. If we broke from the position of attention; or, God forbid, started snoring; we were smacked in the chest or stomach and silenced; or put back in position.

That first night the Senior Drill Instructor sat in a folding chair in the quarterdeck area in the darkened room; not saying anything. I’m reasonably sure he didn’t spend the entire night in that chair; but we spent all night at ‘attention’, most of us staring at the unseen ceiling, wondering just what we had volunteered for. The next morning my arms were incredibly sore from keeping them straight all night; it was a hell of an introduction to the Marine Corps.