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Sunday, July 31. 2011
This Day in History
Thirty-seven years ago today, July 31, 2011, I entered my beloved Marine Corps. Okay, that sounds pretty fuckin’ corny, but you sort of have to be there. I’ll never forget Dad driving me down to the induction center in Downtown Milwaukee, WI. As we walked out the back door Mom was at the kitchen sink, acting like she was doing something other than crying. She couldn’t even turn around to wave, let alone give her son a hug good-bye.Eh, watching your kids go off to Boot Camp when there’s a war raging 8,600 miles away probably does that to Mothers. Dad said Mom cried for three days.
Boot Camp wasn’t war; it was attrition of a different sort. The Old Man hugged me though just before I got out of the car at the Induction Center. He was a bit emotional as well. When you’re 18, well, when I was 18, the emotions didn’t register. It was just Boot Camp and that raging war was winding down.
It didn’t get scary until we debarked the bus at MCRD, San Diego, CA, well after 10 p.m. Just to be clear, we flew from Milwaukee to San Diego non-stop on a commercial flight. At the time San Diego’s Lindbergh Field had just the one terminal and it was small. A Marine NCO corralled us as we got off the plane and ushered us into a waiting school bus painted the infamous olive drab.
Here’s a fun and funny little factoid: MCRD is just on the other side of the fence from the airport so every recruit could get that longing to be home every time a jet left San Diego.
The bus drove us around the perimeter of the airport and then down into MCRD, depositing us into the Marine Corps’ interpretation of a welcome center. The welcome isn’t that hospitable though. Immediately there was a tightly wrapped sergeant screaming at us to, “... get your fat fuckin’ asses off the fuckin’ bus and get our fuckin’ feet on the yellow fuckin’ foot prints painted on the fuckin’ deck!”
That’s about the time it got scary.Being 18 and stupid, it never occurred to me to cut off my shoulder blade length hair before leaving for Boot Camp. Consequently (and there were consequences for that lapse in preperation) up until I was ushered through the barber shop there were two Drill Instructors yelling into my ears (one on each side) variations on the questions, ”WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? JESUS FUCKIN’ CHRIST?”
Despite the terror of the moment, there was that mischievous little voice in my head encouraging me to reply, “ Why yes! Sir!” But, a saner, louder voice convinced me the Drill Instructors were probably not in the mood for wisenheimers.
The first thing they had us do was wait in line for the barber shop, all the while hollering instructions and bits of important information that mostly went in one ear and out the other. Then the barber removed my hair in a matter of minutes and the adventure was on.
Learned how to shoot a rifle and cut a man’s throat among other useful skills. Lost 45 pounds and was able to run three miles in just over 18 minutes. And learned there was more to life than diddy-boppin’ down the avenue. You had to be there to get that one.
During second phase we were up at Camp Pendleton at the rifle range; you can see it as you speed north on the I-5. It was there that some tall, lanky Texan told the entire platoon, including two Drill Instructors, every good Texan fucks cows. That didn’t sit too well with the other ten or so Texans in the platoon. So, now we know: Texas isn’t just for steers and queers, it has cow fuckers too. I have family in Texas! Hopefully they’ll read this!
Then we humped it up to Camp San Onofre for our infantry training. It was there the entire platoon saw a UFO as we waited yet again for our visit with the barber. This strange light blinked and zigged and zagged around the night sky going up and down, north and south and east and west, in no discernible pattern. Even the Drill Instructor saw it, D.I. D___, I’ll leave his name out of this; he still scares me. He told us to never mention it again because we didn’t see a thing. So we didn’t.
There are certain points in Pendleton where you can stand atop a tall hill and gaze to the west and see the moon and stars glistening off the Pacific Ocean. That’s when I first fell in love with it.
That’s Boot Camp in a nutshell. We got back to MCRD for Third Phase, the final phase of training, and began tightening up our skills. You know, you can tear down and put back together an M-16 rifle in 30 seconds — in total darkness — if you train enough to do it. You can go from being a fat kid who can hardly walk two blocks to being a lean, green fighting machine that can run all day.
Does a kid go from being a boy to a man? Hard to say because there’s a certain naiveté that’s required to successfully complete recruit training. Once you get out into the FMF (Fleet Marine Force) or whatever they’re calling it these days, the reality begins to rub that naiveté off.Once you get back to The World and see what civilians really think of the military, any remaining vestige of innocence is removed forever. For some of us, the only people who liked us were our family members. They were always joyous when we came home.
Even today, with all this pride and support of the military, that hardly means anything, unless it’s coming from other veterans or family members. A lot of it just feels bogus. My thought, and it’s just an educated guess based on anecdotal evidence: most people have no idea how to treat our military personnel and veterans because they have no idea what goes on 8,000 miles away in a land we rarely think about unless someone intrudes on our lives with the news.
So, “Welcome Home,” will suffice.
You know, when you buy those little ribbon stickies you put on your cars that say, “Support Our Troops,” next time you think you might buy one, ask who gets the money and then ask yourself if it’s really supporting our troops.
Eh, I’m old and cynical. If it makes you feel good then do it.
Anyway: 37 years ago today. I’m proud to have worn the uniform. Semper Fi.
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