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Sunday, August 1. 2010

Always Faithful

Thirty-six years ago yesterday marked my first day in the United States Marine Corps. It was a Wednesday. I didn’t pack a bag — we didn’t need any clothing, everything would be provided there — I got up early to make it to the induction center in Downtown Milwaukee. I had some breakfast; Dad got ready and drove me there. The one image above all others I remember from that morning is walking out of the kitchen, looking at Mom, wanting to hug her good-bye, but she wouldn’t turn away from the kitchen sink where she made like she was washing dishes.

Some years later Dad told me Mom couldn’t stop crying for three days after I had gone to boot camp. She had lived with a husband away fighting in the South Pacific during World War II and her eldest son serving in Vietnam at the height of the war, and now her third son was not joining the Navy, but the Marine Corps, land-based and most surely to see the war if the U.S. ramped up in Vietnam.

The North Vietnamese had immediately begun to violate the 1973 Paris Peace Accords and 16 months later, eight months after I enlisted, fellow Marines were lowering the colors of the U.S. Embassy in Saigon for the last time.
 It will always be Saigon to me.

So, with the war in Vietnam not quite settled, war hawks from both major political parties insisting we live up to our obligations as outlined in those peace accords, mother watched yet another of her family march off into the military. So she cried for three days.

Dad, on the other hand, wouldn’t let me get out of his 1970 Chrysler Newport Custom without a big hug. It’s not often we got to see Dad get emotional, but that was one of those moments. I sensed he had some tears in his eyes, but I didn’t really want to look.

The Induction Center remains a blur, we sat around a bit, getting poked and prodded by doctors who wanted to be sure we were fit for duty, and then all of us, about 100, raised our right hands and took the oath:
 I [your name] do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.

That’s it. And then you’re no longer a “free” citizen. For the next year or so you put up with people telling you when to eat (and where and what and how), where to sleep, when to sleep, what to wear, what to do and who you are doing it with!

The first three months — or longer — of that is in boot camp. I was in longer, having to lose 45 pounds and become physically fit enough to serve. I spent the first six weeks of boot camp in the Fat Farm, a platoon for recruits who are overweight, out of shape or, in the rare instance, to weak and feeble for the rigors of the Marine Corps.

When I got to boot camp I couldn’t run more than two blocks, couldn’t do more than ten sit-ups and couldn’t even do one pull-up. When I got out of boot camp I could run three miles in less than 20 minutes, do 80 sit-ups in two minutes and 12 pull-ups — the PFT. I became a lean, green fighting machine and was pretty fucking proud of it!

Although I only shot Sharpshooter on the Rifle Range in boot camp (right here at Camp Pendleton), afterwards I consistently shot expert. I’m pretty fucking proud of that too. You fire 50 rounds from you M-16 down range at targets 200, 300 and then 500 yards away. There was a time limit for each stage of fire, but I don’t remember those details.

While stationed at Marine Corps Air Station, Yuma, AZ, I had to qualify three times. The night before the first day of qualification, the third qualification in Yuma (I was a corporal at the time), I had taken some LSD and drank as much beer and whisky as my body could hold. At 6 a.m. on that first qualifying day, when I reported to the rifle range, I was a bit hung over and still tripping. About two hours later I got my time on the targets and shot the best score of my military career: 247 out of a possible 250.

The Gunnery Sergeant qualifying next to me said it was due to me being a little hung over, as my reflexes were slowed and my body wasn’t as jerky. I didn’t tell him I was tripping on LSD, which, if you do your homework, heightens the body’s senses. Having trained and qualified several times before, shooting an M-16 at targets 200-500 yards away was familiar stuff and with a sharper sense of sight from the acid and the deadening effect of a hang over, voila! I shoot the best score of my life.

Now, I’m not going to suggest young Marines take LSD and get wildly drunk the night before going to the rifle range for qualifying, I’m just saying …

The number one Military Occupational Specialty (MOS) of every Marine, from the Commandant on down, across every unit of the Corps, is that of rifleman. Even the women. No matter what the occupational specialty, every Marine must shoot and qualify with the M-16 rifle. It’s the law. You can lose rank for not qualifying. Hell, you will lose rank for not qualifying, it’s so important. Not to mention, you’ll lose rank for not qualifying on the PFT — Physical Fitness Test.

Yeah, they take all of that seriously, all the time. It’s mandated every unit must conduct physical fitness training at least three times a week. It usually happens in the wee hours before breakfast. It was funny, watching some of my fellow Marines lighting up cigarettes on the three-mile run!

My brother Ken reminded me if this: one year, just after the Holidays but in time for my birthday (January 4), I went home to Milwaukee on leave without letting anyone know. I just showed up at the back door and knocked. Mom shrieked and just about fainted! I miss getting the big hugs and kisses from Mom like I did that day. Ken said he got choked up remembering it.

The Marine Corps has never left me. Those three years, ten months and 22 days were the defining period of my life. In that time I rejected the religion of my youth, learned how to kill others, almost learned how to fix appliances, learned how to cuss better and learned the true meaning of camaraderie — brotherhood. We never stop being Marines they say and “they” are right.

Semper Fidelis.

Posted by Tim Forkes in Life at 01:16 | Comment (1) | Trackbacks (0)

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