The initial shock had not yet worn off. After two days and two nights at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot, San Diego, some 70 teen-aged recruits with shaved heads, still in civvies, all wearing gray sweatshirts, knew we had a long three months ahead of us. It might as well be forever.
Our drill instructors formed us into a platoon, with the taller guys in front - the formation we would adhere to - forever, it seemed.
Critics of military movies sometimes debunk the "All-America" squad or platoon as merely a convenience of fiction. Such critics are wrong. Our Platoon 297 was the "All-America" platoon - almost anyway.
I say "almost" because we didn't have any East coast types. The hapless saps who enlist from there go to Parris Island, South Carolina with its stifling humidity, mosquitoes and sand fleas. We more fortunate saps from the Midwest and West get to suffer in the pleasant weather of southern California. The jealous Marines from Parris Island make a feeble attempt at revenge by spreading the myth that we "Hollywood Marines" got sunglasses in our bucket issue.
Platoons go through boot camp in series of three, one of which will be designated "honor platoon" at the end. Producing an honor platoon enhances the service record of the senior DI, thereby increasing the incentive of each DI to push his platoon to perfection.
Our Platoon 297 had the classic "All-America" mix. This included "Tex" from Amarillo, with a dry Panhandle accent, like he had a mouth full of cotton; "Chief" from some tribe in Nevada; a rebel from Alabama who should have gone to Parris Island, but since he enlisted in California, he landed in San Diego - we figured he was on the lam from the law; a couple of hillbillies from southeastern Ohio who could have been a casting director's choice for the part; several African Americans, including one from Gary, Indiana with a heckuva chip on his shoulder; several Hispanics, including a couple of dead-end kids from K.C., and one from Colorado; some farm boys; and a strikingly good-looking high school dropout from L.A. who bragged of his prowess with women - and since there were none around, we let him know we didn't believe a word he said.
We had kids from nearly every state west of the Mississippi - from Denver and Las Vegas, and small towns, including a couple of kids from Lewiston, Idaho with whom I would be stationed for nearly a year. If that "All-America" platoon was an interesting cast of characters, so were our trio of drill instructors, a staff sergeant and two buck sergeants.
The senior DI, a no-nonsense "by the book" type, mostly anyway, had a heavy New Jersey accent. One junior DI, our favorite, was a Texan and Korean War vet who had that intangible quality that no matter how tough he was on us, we liked and admired him, wanted to please him, and would have followed him anywhere. In contrast, the other junior DI had a sinister aura about him, seeming to take sadistic delight in punishing us in creative ways.
Platoon 297 was marched over to the quartermaster to be issued boots and olive drab utilities. It was sheer bedlam. Amidst yelling and screaming, a PFC would take our measurements and yell them to a guy behind the counter. As we stepped up to the counter and stood at attention, another guy would throw the gear in our face as hard as he could, and the boots and boondockers in our gut. Then, "Pick 'em up, idiot."
Putting on those utilities the first time didn't seem to help much. We still looked like a bunch imposters with the newness of that gear so readily apparent. We couldn't wait to scrub them a few times to get a more "salty" look. But it wasn't long until we began to feel natural in those utilities and boots.
Next came the M-1 rifle, and instruction on breaking it down and cleaning it, and learning the manual of arms. The M-1 would be part of our countless hours of close order drill on the parade ground known as "the grinder."
We had a rude introduction to the Navy as the Corpsmen gave us our shots. We were marched one at a time past the swabbies, swearing at us and jabbing us with their dull needles while we stood helplessly at attention in the nude. Occasionally, a recruit would faint, sending our DI into a rage, threatening us with unspecified consequences if another feeble sissy fainted. (I'm paraphrasing to keep this publishable.)
If on a work detail we ran into an even newer recruit, we assured him he need not worry about that square needle to the left testicle, as it wasn't as bad as it sounded. Besides, most everybody would survive it.
Personal dynamics soon become apparent with life in such close proximity. It was obvious to the more sadistic DI that we favored the Texan DI. And it became obvious to us that the two junior drill instructors didn't really like each other. e sensed that the two of them knew that we knew, and that we knew that they knew that we knew, and so on.
Our suspicions were confirmed when one of them was transferred - guess which one. After a day of miserable mess duty, the more sadistic DI called us to the duty hut and solemnly, but seemingly with great pleasure, informed us, "You have lost your mother - but not your father."
He followed with a lecture on how nothing has changed, except that we were now without "our mother."
We had come some distance in those initial weeks, but it still seemed liked the remaining two months would be forever.
Next week: The rifle range and the turning point.
- John Waelti of Monroe can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net. His column appears each Friday in The Monroe Times.
Our drill instructors formed us into a platoon, with the taller guys in front - the formation we would adhere to - forever, it seemed.
Critics of military movies sometimes debunk the "All-America" squad or platoon as merely a convenience of fiction. Such critics are wrong. Our Platoon 297 was the "All-America" platoon - almost anyway.
I say "almost" because we didn't have any East coast types. The hapless saps who enlist from there go to Parris Island, South Carolina with its stifling humidity, mosquitoes and sand fleas. We more fortunate saps from the Midwest and West get to suffer in the pleasant weather of southern California. The jealous Marines from Parris Island make a feeble attempt at revenge by spreading the myth that we "Hollywood Marines" got sunglasses in our bucket issue.
Platoons go through boot camp in series of three, one of which will be designated "honor platoon" at the end. Producing an honor platoon enhances the service record of the senior DI, thereby increasing the incentive of each DI to push his platoon to perfection.
Our Platoon 297 had the classic "All-America" mix. This included "Tex" from Amarillo, with a dry Panhandle accent, like he had a mouth full of cotton; "Chief" from some tribe in Nevada; a rebel from Alabama who should have gone to Parris Island, but since he enlisted in California, he landed in San Diego - we figured he was on the lam from the law; a couple of hillbillies from southeastern Ohio who could have been a casting director's choice for the part; several African Americans, including one from Gary, Indiana with a heckuva chip on his shoulder; several Hispanics, including a couple of dead-end kids from K.C., and one from Colorado; some farm boys; and a strikingly good-looking high school dropout from L.A. who bragged of his prowess with women - and since there were none around, we let him know we didn't believe a word he said.
We had kids from nearly every state west of the Mississippi - from Denver and Las Vegas, and small towns, including a couple of kids from Lewiston, Idaho with whom I would be stationed for nearly a year. If that "All-America" platoon was an interesting cast of characters, so were our trio of drill instructors, a staff sergeant and two buck sergeants.
The senior DI, a no-nonsense "by the book" type, mostly anyway, had a heavy New Jersey accent. One junior DI, our favorite, was a Texan and Korean War vet who had that intangible quality that no matter how tough he was on us, we liked and admired him, wanted to please him, and would have followed him anywhere. In contrast, the other junior DI had a sinister aura about him, seeming to take sadistic delight in punishing us in creative ways.
Platoon 297 was marched over to the quartermaster to be issued boots and olive drab utilities. It was sheer bedlam. Amidst yelling and screaming, a PFC would take our measurements and yell them to a guy behind the counter. As we stepped up to the counter and stood at attention, another guy would throw the gear in our face as hard as he could, and the boots and boondockers in our gut. Then, "Pick 'em up, idiot."
Putting on those utilities the first time didn't seem to help much. We still looked like a bunch imposters with the newness of that gear so readily apparent. We couldn't wait to scrub them a few times to get a more "salty" look. But it wasn't long until we began to feel natural in those utilities and boots.
Next came the M-1 rifle, and instruction on breaking it down and cleaning it, and learning the manual of arms. The M-1 would be part of our countless hours of close order drill on the parade ground known as "the grinder."
We had a rude introduction to the Navy as the Corpsmen gave us our shots. We were marched one at a time past the swabbies, swearing at us and jabbing us with their dull needles while we stood helplessly at attention in the nude. Occasionally, a recruit would faint, sending our DI into a rage, threatening us with unspecified consequences if another feeble sissy fainted. (I'm paraphrasing to keep this publishable.)
If on a work detail we ran into an even newer recruit, we assured him he need not worry about that square needle to the left testicle, as it wasn't as bad as it sounded. Besides, most everybody would survive it.
Personal dynamics soon become apparent with life in such close proximity. It was obvious to the more sadistic DI that we favored the Texan DI. And it became obvious to us that the two junior drill instructors didn't really like each other. e sensed that the two of them knew that we knew, and that we knew that they knew that we knew, and so on.
Our suspicions were confirmed when one of them was transferred - guess which one. After a day of miserable mess duty, the more sadistic DI called us to the duty hut and solemnly, but seemingly with great pleasure, informed us, "You have lost your mother - but not your father."
He followed with a lecture on how nothing has changed, except that we were now without "our mother."
We had come some distance in those initial weeks, but it still seemed liked the remaining two months would be forever.
Next week: The rifle range and the turning point.
- John Waelti of Monroe can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net. His column appears each Friday in The Monroe Times.
