We were back from the rifle range to San Diego. We weren't Marines yet - still boots. But even among lowly boots there is a hierarchy - topped by the "salts" that had returned from the range. We sported a superior attitude toward those pale-faced innocent saps coming to San Diego out of the northern winter.
But there was no let up in the iron discipline. We now responded with precision to commands during more complex drills on which our platoon - and our drill instructors - would be graded.
We were measured for our dress uniforms, the greens, and the since-discontinued summer tropicals and cotton khakis. In contrast to the initial issue that was thrown at us as we stood at attention, we were measured with precision by expert tailors - essential if Marines are to look sharp.
We still had our share of interesting incidents. One thing you don't want is to be sent back to another platoon because of accident, illness or other reasons. Such an unfortunate boot is never quite accepted as "one of us." It isn't fair, but neither is a lot else in the world.
Near the end, a couple of unfortunate boots from an earlier platoon joined us to complete their sojourn. When one of them committed an infraction, our junior DI ordered the usual pushups - no big deal except the DI marched the platoon over him during the process.
"Step on him - step on him," ordered our DI. Most of us didn't, but apparently someone did. The kid was sent over to sick bay and came back with his wrist wrapped up. I wish I had asked him what kind of tale he told the Navy docs to keep our DI - and himself - out of trouble. Happily, the kid healed and graduated with us.
During our pre-rifle range days, our platoon was in formation, waiting to go into the chow line. Our junior DI nailed a couple of us.
"I distinctly saw you two idiots move your eyeballs while at parade rest - do some pushups," he said.
It had rained the previous night and there was a puddle conveniently located between an adjacent platoon and ourselves. So it was the usual standing rigidly, and falling forward with your arms breaking your fall, then the pushups. Falling forward into the water puddle caused a splash onto the boots of a soldier in the adjacent platoon.
"Waelti, you splashed water on that (soldier's) boots. He must have spent all of two minutes shining them last week," the DI said.
I took that as less a reprimand of me than a verbal shot at one of our DI's rival platoons and its DI. Besides, our DI was merciful and didn't march the platoon over us as he later would with that kid we inherited from another platoon.
At long last, the final week. We went through final inspections and final drill under review of officers and senior NCOs. Honor platoon was decided by a combination of performance on the rifle range, written exams, inspections throughout the entire period, and the final drill. Our platoon 297 beat out our rival platoons 298 and 299, but it was too late for our drill instructors to let up on us.
We received orders that would determine our MOS (military occupational specialty). Prior to the rifle range, we had taken a series of aptitude tests, including one to determine our potential to discern the rhythmic ditty-dum dum-ditty of the international Morse code. It seemed easy enough, as it should have for any semi-competent accordionist. Sure enough, I and a few others were selected to return to San Diego for radio operators school.
A major portion of the platoon was selected to go to Naval Aviation School in Jacksonville, Fla. to learn various technical skills for duty in the Marine Air Wings. Several, those for whom being squared away seemed uncommonly easy, and who had tall, slender builds, were selected for Sea School, the six week spit-and-polish course to prepare them for honor guard and funeral duty.
The remainder of the platoon, mostly the high school dropouts, would go to Twenty Nine Palms in California's Mojave Desert to become artillerymen.
But first, there was the not incidental matter of another month of infantry training. Whether a Marine becomes an artilleryman, radio operator, electronics technician, jet mechanic or fighter pilot, he is trained first as an infantryman. So, it would be off to Camp Pendleton for a few more weeks before the advanced schools - except for those going to artillery. They were slated for 30 days of mess duty at Pendleton prior to infantry training and artillery school.
It was not lost on me that we who had "higher education," i.e. high school diplomas, got off easy. After this ordeal, UW-Madison no longer seemed intimidating.
We were still privates, and would be for some time - in contrast to the other services, there was no automatic promotion for completing the first phase. Those slow promotions in the Corps probably save the Defense Department a few bucks, but the civilian defense contractors can take care of that situation.
We were still teen-agers, but no longer kids. With the iron discipline imposed by our drill instructors, and three months of work, sweat, pressure, anxiety, and maybe even a few tears, this scraggly bunch, incredibly, was molded into an honor platoon of Marines.
It's not that Marine boot camp is so impossible - it's that so few are willing to do it. But through it all, we had earned the right to wear the eagle, globe, and anchor - and to bear the title, United States Marine.
It was its own reward. Semper Fi.
- John Waelti of Monroe can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net. His column appears each Friday in The Monroe Times.
But there was no let up in the iron discipline. We now responded with precision to commands during more complex drills on which our platoon - and our drill instructors - would be graded.
We were measured for our dress uniforms, the greens, and the since-discontinued summer tropicals and cotton khakis. In contrast to the initial issue that was thrown at us as we stood at attention, we were measured with precision by expert tailors - essential if Marines are to look sharp.
We still had our share of interesting incidents. One thing you don't want is to be sent back to another platoon because of accident, illness or other reasons. Such an unfortunate boot is never quite accepted as "one of us." It isn't fair, but neither is a lot else in the world.
Near the end, a couple of unfortunate boots from an earlier platoon joined us to complete their sojourn. When one of them committed an infraction, our junior DI ordered the usual pushups - no big deal except the DI marched the platoon over him during the process.
"Step on him - step on him," ordered our DI. Most of us didn't, but apparently someone did. The kid was sent over to sick bay and came back with his wrist wrapped up. I wish I had asked him what kind of tale he told the Navy docs to keep our DI - and himself - out of trouble. Happily, the kid healed and graduated with us.
During our pre-rifle range days, our platoon was in formation, waiting to go into the chow line. Our junior DI nailed a couple of us.
"I distinctly saw you two idiots move your eyeballs while at parade rest - do some pushups," he said.
It had rained the previous night and there was a puddle conveniently located between an adjacent platoon and ourselves. So it was the usual standing rigidly, and falling forward with your arms breaking your fall, then the pushups. Falling forward into the water puddle caused a splash onto the boots of a soldier in the adjacent platoon.
"Waelti, you splashed water on that (soldier's) boots. He must have spent all of two minutes shining them last week," the DI said.
I took that as less a reprimand of me than a verbal shot at one of our DI's rival platoons and its DI. Besides, our DI was merciful and didn't march the platoon over us as he later would with that kid we inherited from another platoon.
At long last, the final week. We went through final inspections and final drill under review of officers and senior NCOs. Honor platoon was decided by a combination of performance on the rifle range, written exams, inspections throughout the entire period, and the final drill. Our platoon 297 beat out our rival platoons 298 and 299, but it was too late for our drill instructors to let up on us.
We received orders that would determine our MOS (military occupational specialty). Prior to the rifle range, we had taken a series of aptitude tests, including one to determine our potential to discern the rhythmic ditty-dum dum-ditty of the international Morse code. It seemed easy enough, as it should have for any semi-competent accordionist. Sure enough, I and a few others were selected to return to San Diego for radio operators school.
A major portion of the platoon was selected to go to Naval Aviation School in Jacksonville, Fla. to learn various technical skills for duty in the Marine Air Wings. Several, those for whom being squared away seemed uncommonly easy, and who had tall, slender builds, were selected for Sea School, the six week spit-and-polish course to prepare them for honor guard and funeral duty.
The remainder of the platoon, mostly the high school dropouts, would go to Twenty Nine Palms in California's Mojave Desert to become artillerymen.
But first, there was the not incidental matter of another month of infantry training. Whether a Marine becomes an artilleryman, radio operator, electronics technician, jet mechanic or fighter pilot, he is trained first as an infantryman. So, it would be off to Camp Pendleton for a few more weeks before the advanced schools - except for those going to artillery. They were slated for 30 days of mess duty at Pendleton prior to infantry training and artillery school.
It was not lost on me that we who had "higher education," i.e. high school diplomas, got off easy. After this ordeal, UW-Madison no longer seemed intimidating.
We were still privates, and would be for some time - in contrast to the other services, there was no automatic promotion for completing the first phase. Those slow promotions in the Corps probably save the Defense Department a few bucks, but the civilian defense contractors can take care of that situation.
We were still teen-agers, but no longer kids. With the iron discipline imposed by our drill instructors, and three months of work, sweat, pressure, anxiety, and maybe even a few tears, this scraggly bunch, incredibly, was molded into an honor platoon of Marines.
It's not that Marine boot camp is so impossible - it's that so few are willing to do it. But through it all, we had earned the right to wear the eagle, globe, and anchor - and to bear the title, United States Marine.
It was its own reward. Semper Fi.
- John Waelti of Monroe can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net. His column appears each Friday in The Monroe Times.
