The southern California sun was shining brightly that November morning, highlighting the Spanish-style architecture and manicured lawns. The sweet, pungent smell of Eucalyptus trees made the air seem even more clean and crisp. Three innocent saps, a scrawny kid from Louisiana, an Okie, and a Wisconsin farm kid, rode in the back of that Marine Corps pickup, passing under the arch reading "MCRD San Diego," just like Aldo Ray, Tab Hunter and the other Hollywood Marines in that 1954 classic movie "Battle Cry."

The ride ended at the receiving barracks.

Amidst yells and curses, we were marched into a room filled with a shaken looking bunch of teenagers still in civilian clothes, with shaved heads, wearing gray sweatshirts. Amidst screaming sergeants, they were silently swabbing the deck and performing various other tasks.

We were relieved of all personal belongings, and marched to our first Marine Corps meal by the same buck sergeant that picked us up at the airport. My mop of still unshaven red hair vividly broadcast that I was the newest of the new.

On the way to the chow hall, we were the target of jeers, catcalls and obscenities by every Marine along the way. It felt like the entire Corps was laughing at us, and they obviously were.

At the chow hall, the sergeant curtly advised us, "A good man can eat his chow in 10 minutes. I eat mine in five." It wouldn't have mattered if I had an hour - I couldn't eat the slop. The potatoes were so salty I couldn't handle them.

The march back to the receiving barracks brought more catcalls and jeers. Then the shaved head, the gray sweatshirt, and the rest of the day, amidst constant harassment, swabbing the deck; anything to keep us in a state of mental duress. Above all, no talking - shut up and follow orders.

Next morning we received our bucket issue, a bucket containing a safety razor and blades, shaving cream, tooth brush and paste, laundry and hand soap, towel, sewing kit, shoe shine gear, scrub brush, some stationery and stamps, and chits to use later. The Marine Corps doesn't "give" you everything you need. They issue it to you. Its cost was deducted from our 78 bucks a month, not that we had any use for the dough anyway.

We were formed into platoon 297 and met our drill instructors who would have total control of us for the next three months, and leave their imprint on our entire lives: the senior DI, a lanky staff sergeant with a thick New Jersey accent; a junior DI, a buck sergeant and Korean War veteran from Texas, average sized guy with an imposing demeanor; and another junior DI, a buck sergeant, somewhat resembling Clark Gable, but with a sinister demeanor.

Amidst yells, screams, and curses, they lined up 72 teenagers with shaved heads, still in civvies, and marched us, after a fashion anyway, across the parade ground known as "the grinder" to the Quonset huts that were to be our home.

During this trek, to the accompaniment of creative obscenities, we received our first instructions on marching. Thirty-inch steps, arms swinging naturally, 6 inches to the front, and 3 to the rear. It seems as if it should be simple enough, but it was a real fiasco.

"Where are you from, Idiot?"

"California, Sir."

"No you're not - you're from Oklahoma, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"They have lots of horses in Oklahoma, don't they?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's just the way you're marching - like you're stepping over horse - - ."

And so it went. Arriving at our Quonset huts, we were assigned racks (bunks), issued locker boxes, and given detailed instructions on how to enter the DI's duty hut when requested. And - time to run the verbal gauntlet.

One at a time we were run through, all three DIs with deep authoritarian voices, working us over verbally, screaming insults and every imaginable obscenity. After an initial several minutes, "Where are you from, idiot?"

"Sir, Tempe, Arizona, Sir."

"I thought it was Teepee."

"Sir, no, Sir, I'm quite sure it's Tempe, Sir."

"Idiot - you don't contradict me -d o some pushups." For good measure, the DI jammed his boot on the kid's back before ordering him back up.

"Where are you from?"

"Sir, it's Teepee, Sir."

"Yes, you idiot." With that the DI slammed a bucket over the kid's head and gave it a bang with a swagger stick.

The next kid, after the initial few minutes of grilling, "Where are you from, idiot?"

"Sir, Puerto Rico, Sir."

"Puerto Rico??? With tennis shoes on? Do some pushups." With that, another bang on the bucket covering the head of the kid from Teepee.

Eventually, my turn. After the initial several minutes of insults - "What kind of name is that?"

"Sir, it's Swiss, Sir."

"Swiss? Where's your watch?"

"Sir, Private Waelti doesn't have a watch, Sir."

"You're Swiss and don't have a watch? Do some pushups."

And so it went. I don't know how they come up with those stupid movie plots where recruits play pranks on their drill sergeants. I don't know about the Army, but that would never happen, at least not in Marine Boot Camp during that era. Any real or imagined infraction, ever so slight, any real or imagined hint of disrespect, attempt at humor or familiarity would be harshly punished in an infinite variety of imaginative ways, with the weight of the entire Marine Corps, the Defense Department, and the U.S. Government behind it.

That evening, 72 shaken teen-agers hit the rack, exhausted, more mentally and emotionally than physically. Any previous life seemed but a dream - never happened.

The Drill Instructors already had us conditioned to begin the laborious process of making a platoon of Marines from that scraggly bunch of dazed teen-agers.

Next week: The process.

- John Waelti of Monroe can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net. His column appears each Friday in The Monroe Times.