We had come along way in a few weeks - from a collection of dazed, scruffy teen-agers, to starting to look like a disciplined platoon. After a few scrubbings, our olive drab utilities had a more faded look, and felt like they belonged on us. We became intimately familiar with our M-1 rifles, although we had yet to fire them. The constant regimentation and doing everything by the numbers started to seem natural and normal. And during the endless close order drill on the grinder, we began to respond with precision to the commands of our drill instructors.
But we still had a long way to go. We had lost our favorite drill instructor, the Texan. We now had just two, the staff sergeant senior DI, and the sadistic buck sergeant, the junior DI.
We were not without light moments, of sorts - usually at someone's expense.
The smallest guy in the platoon was Nelson. Our junior DI jumped on him early.
"Nelson, you're so puny - where are you from?"
"Sir, Private Nelson is from Colorado, Sir."
"What did you do there, numb nut?"
"Sir, Private Nelson worked in a drug store, Sir."
"Worked in a drug store? What were you, a soda jerk - jerk?"
Nelson was popular, and was quickly dubbed "Wildcat." Even our junior drill instructor seemed to like the kid. He had a unique way of showing it.
As we were doing close order drill on the grinder, other platoons would be close by, marching to the rhythmic cadence of their growling drill instructors. Our DI would bark, "Wildcat, see that DI over there - get over there and growl at him."
Wildcat would double time over behind the unsuspecting DI from the other platoon, and let out a loud growl. As the surprised DI turned around with a menacing look on his face, our DI would yell, "Wildcat, get back here you idiot."
Midway through, it was time for three weeks on the rifle range at Camp Mathews in the hills north of San Diego. We were assigned to six-man tents. The first week consisted of lectures on how to sight in the M-1, and some "snapping in" exercises before firing a single round. In contrast to our drill instructors, the rifle instructors were deliberate, almost professorial, in their meticulous instruction.
Listening to lectures on the bleachers in the soft winter California sun a bone-tired recruit could easily doze off. A sharp rap on the shoulders with a stick wielded by our drill instructor reminded us that they were still around, and motivated the rest of us to stay awake and pay attention.
During the second week, we fired our first rounds - sighting in the M-1 and practicing firing. We soon became accustomed to the directions of the range master - "All ready on the left, all ready on the right, all ready on the firing line - watch your targets - targets," followed by volleys from the M-1s along the firing line.
We became accustomed to the loud pop of the M-1 accompanied by the sharp kick to the right shoulder and the ping of the ejected cartridge, followed by the clang of the ejected clip as the last round was fired. It soon seemed normal and natural.
During the third week, we practiced the sequence for qualifying - from 200 yards, ten rounds offhand slow fire and ten rounds rapid fire prone; from 300 yards, ten rounds rapid fire prone, five rounds slow fire sitting and five rounds slow fire kneeling; and from 500 yards, ten rounds slow fire prone. A bull counted five points, with diminishing points as distance from the bull increased, down to zero for a miss which was signaled by a flag, dubbed "Maggie's drawers."
I was fortunate to be among the two dozen or so of our platoon that qualified as "expert," which enabled me to wear the expert rifleman's badge, if we ever got issued our dress uniforms. That was still some distance off.
We were at the range over Christmas and New Years Day. It didn't matter as one day was just like the next, almost anyway. A bunch of parents had mailed Christmas goodies to their kids - we were certainly not Marines yet, although I think we were arguably beyond the "kid stage." The drill instructors gave us two hours to gorge ourselves on those Christmas goodies to get rid of them. There was no having that pogey bait around.
One Sunday morning, I don't know how it happened-a few of our guys got into a minor brouhaha with some recruits from another platoon in the adjoining row of tents. It was about to break into a major brawl when our senior DI nipped it in the bud. He made us duck walk in formation until we were exhausted.
The three weeks at Mathews ended. Our hair was starting to grow back, our utilities getting more faded, and we had qualified with the M-1. Could this motley collection of once scraggly teen-aged kids actually be on the way to becoming Marines?
Next week: The downhill side.
- John Waelti's column appears each Friday in the Times. He can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net.
But we still had a long way to go. We had lost our favorite drill instructor, the Texan. We now had just two, the staff sergeant senior DI, and the sadistic buck sergeant, the junior DI.
We were not without light moments, of sorts - usually at someone's expense.
The smallest guy in the platoon was Nelson. Our junior DI jumped on him early.
"Nelson, you're so puny - where are you from?"
"Sir, Private Nelson is from Colorado, Sir."
"What did you do there, numb nut?"
"Sir, Private Nelson worked in a drug store, Sir."
"Worked in a drug store? What were you, a soda jerk - jerk?"
Nelson was popular, and was quickly dubbed "Wildcat." Even our junior drill instructor seemed to like the kid. He had a unique way of showing it.
As we were doing close order drill on the grinder, other platoons would be close by, marching to the rhythmic cadence of their growling drill instructors. Our DI would bark, "Wildcat, see that DI over there - get over there and growl at him."
Wildcat would double time over behind the unsuspecting DI from the other platoon, and let out a loud growl. As the surprised DI turned around with a menacing look on his face, our DI would yell, "Wildcat, get back here you idiot."
Midway through, it was time for three weeks on the rifle range at Camp Mathews in the hills north of San Diego. We were assigned to six-man tents. The first week consisted of lectures on how to sight in the M-1, and some "snapping in" exercises before firing a single round. In contrast to our drill instructors, the rifle instructors were deliberate, almost professorial, in their meticulous instruction.
Listening to lectures on the bleachers in the soft winter California sun a bone-tired recruit could easily doze off. A sharp rap on the shoulders with a stick wielded by our drill instructor reminded us that they were still around, and motivated the rest of us to stay awake and pay attention.
During the second week, we fired our first rounds - sighting in the M-1 and practicing firing. We soon became accustomed to the directions of the range master - "All ready on the left, all ready on the right, all ready on the firing line - watch your targets - targets," followed by volleys from the M-1s along the firing line.
We became accustomed to the loud pop of the M-1 accompanied by the sharp kick to the right shoulder and the ping of the ejected cartridge, followed by the clang of the ejected clip as the last round was fired. It soon seemed normal and natural.
During the third week, we practiced the sequence for qualifying - from 200 yards, ten rounds offhand slow fire and ten rounds rapid fire prone; from 300 yards, ten rounds rapid fire prone, five rounds slow fire sitting and five rounds slow fire kneeling; and from 500 yards, ten rounds slow fire prone. A bull counted five points, with diminishing points as distance from the bull increased, down to zero for a miss which was signaled by a flag, dubbed "Maggie's drawers."
I was fortunate to be among the two dozen or so of our platoon that qualified as "expert," which enabled me to wear the expert rifleman's badge, if we ever got issued our dress uniforms. That was still some distance off.
We were at the range over Christmas and New Years Day. It didn't matter as one day was just like the next, almost anyway. A bunch of parents had mailed Christmas goodies to their kids - we were certainly not Marines yet, although I think we were arguably beyond the "kid stage." The drill instructors gave us two hours to gorge ourselves on those Christmas goodies to get rid of them. There was no having that pogey bait around.
One Sunday morning, I don't know how it happened-a few of our guys got into a minor brouhaha with some recruits from another platoon in the adjoining row of tents. It was about to break into a major brawl when our senior DI nipped it in the bud. He made us duck walk in formation until we were exhausted.
The three weeks at Mathews ended. Our hair was starting to grow back, our utilities getting more faded, and we had qualified with the M-1. Could this motley collection of once scraggly teen-aged kids actually be on the way to becoming Marines?
Next week: The downhill side.
- John Waelti's column appears each Friday in the Times. He can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net.
