 
### Letters to Brian

Copyright 2012 – Anthony Pecoraro IV

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ISBN978-09850751-1-8

Information about the sale or distribution, of a hard copy, of this book can be made at:

Sail Adventures LLC.

PO Box 514

Lake Orion, MI 48362

pecsn24@yahoo.com

letterstobrian.com

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Table of Contents

Prologue

Introduction

Letter 1 - Leaving Home

Letter 2 - Shock and Awe

Letter 3 - Greetings from Parker

Letter 4 - Yellow Foot Prints

Letter 5 - High and Tight

Letter 6 - Canvas Sea Bags

Letter 7 - Roll Call

Letter 8 - Dump and Run

Letter 9 - A Long Day

Letter 10 - The First Meal

Letter 11 - Push Brooms and Pull Brooms

Letter 12 - House Mouse

Letter 13 - Bucket Life

Letter 14 - Double Time

Letter 15 - The Pit

Letter 16 - Field Strip Your Butts

Letter 17 - Night Games

Letter 18 - Where is Atherton

Letter 19 - Sleeping at Attention

Letter 20 - Motivation Platoon

Letter 21 - Close Order Drill

Letter 22 - A Painful Lesson

Letter 23 - Gomer Pyle

Letter 24 - Mail Call

Letter 25 - The Porcelain Rendezvous

Letter 26 - Hand-to-Hand Combat

Letter 27 - The Karate Kids

Letter 28 - Slowly Sinking

Letter 29 - The Becker Game

Letter 30 - Edison Range

Letter 31 - The Inspecting General

Letter 32 - The Gas Chamber

Letter 33 - Graduation

Letter 34 - Advanced Infantry Training

Letter 35 - Coercion

Letter 36 - War Games

Letter 37 - Four Hundred Eighty Hour

Letter 38 - Processing for Nam

Letter 39 - Touchdown In Country

Epilogue

Appendix

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

Special thanks to:

Sid, my wonderful wife of thirty-nine years – she lived this crazy adventure with me and reviewed every draft. Her faith and input was invaluable.

My daughter Courtney, who was the first person to teach me what unconditional love was all about.

Brian my son, if he had not asked me to write him letters while living in Florida, this book would not have been written. He has been a very special gift from God. Together we broke the pattern of hatred that existed between fathers and sons in my family line.

My editors: Robin Dicicco, Karen (Go Bucks) Crogan, Sue Kinch, Debbie Potts, and Dennis Upsure. They provided valuable insight and asked great questions that helped round out the project.

Al and Sally Pelletier, the first guinea pigs to read the original draft, and encouraged me to continue writing.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

Dedicated to: My dad, who died before I got to know him.

### Prologue

I never had the opportunity to know my dad. I remember he was a gentle soft-spoken person, but intense. In the twenty-three years I lived in his home, I can remember only one conversation he had with me. I was eighteen and he called me into the living room to discuss the "birds-and-the-bees." He leaned forward to share his fatherly wisdom. I can remember his words exactly as he delivered them. "Son! Just don't do anything stupid," he said. The room was silent except for the sound of the furnace that had just kicked on. _"Is that it?"_ I asked. "Yes," he said. He was unable to communicate with me, and I hated him.

Born in 1900, he traveled to America, alone, at the young age of sixteen. He sought to build a life and escape the poverty and entanglement of the gang wars in his hometown of Palermo, Sicily. The Mafia was establishing roots in America too, but he would be able to protect his family in a large and growing new world. He could vanish into any community, village, or city and begin a new life without people questioning his past. He could start over.

At his first job, when he arrived in Michigan, he made five cents an hour. He then got a job working at Chrysler for twelve cents an hour. He paved the way for his mother, father, and siblings to follow him to the land of freedom. He met my mother and got married in Detroit. It was an arranged marriage – he was thirty-three and she was twenty-two. As young adults, they lived through the Great Depression and WWII while starting a family. After the war, America was on the road to prosperity. He not only cared for his young family, but he supported his father, mother, and sister. His parents lived next to us, in a two-family flat. He cared for them his entire life, and that placed additional stress on his young marriage and family.

My dad's father was an angry and abusive man. I remember walking past him and frequently receiving his backhand, just because I was within reach. My three older sisters knew him as a mean and a spiteful person. I discovered, later in life, that my dad vowed to protect his mother from his father. Each day he came home from work, he first checked on how his mom was doing before he entered our house. That alone says more than my imagination can dream up.

When my mom came into their family, she was emotionally and verbally abused. She was raised in a happy and jovial family, but became angry, reactionary, and swore like a drunken sailor. I remember she frequently slammed cupboard doors, and pounded her rolling pin on the counter.

I learned early in life that I couldn't trust what mood she might be in. Over the years I observed her behavior, she taught me that a reckless outburst of anger would keep others away from you. She could go from calm into a rage in a split second. I used that same strategy successfully to keep people away from me. I was good at keeping my distance. It is easy, but I wouldn't recommend it. It works well but it is not healthy.

The lesson on trust, however, came from my dad in one swift moment. When I was ten years old, my older sister was bugging me and I called her "a rat." In a rare moment of fury, my dad chased me into my bedroom. By then, he was fifty-seven years old. It was no contest – my speed as a ten-year-old left him in the dust. I dove under the bed, where he couldn't get to me. After ten minutes of the standoff, I made him promise not to spank me when I came out. As soon as I came out, he broke the promise and gave me hell with his thick leather belt. That was the last time I cried. I vowed never to trust anyone. I told myself "when you get close to someone you will get hurt and betrayed." I built a shell of armor around my emotions that the horrors of war would not penetrate. I have learned that vows you make can affect you – and those you care about – for a lifetime.

There were a few occasions when my father attempted to bond with me. When I was eight, he took me bowling a few times and we played checkers on the living room couch. I remember this because we had just moved into our new house in Saint Clair Shores, a suburb of Detroit. When I spent time with him, I felt I was special but I learned not to look forward to it. For the most part, my father was just the man that shared dinner at my table, and then disappeared into the living room to read the paper.

When I was in junior high, I played on the school's basketball and baseball teams. He attended only two of my basketball games in three years. When I was in eighth grade, I made the final basket in the semifinal Catholic League championship game, with only a few seconds left. I played second-string point guard. Our first-string guard fouled out with only a few minutes left and I went in to cover. Their guard was taking the ball up the court for one last drive when I slapped the ball out of his hand, burst down the court and made the basket as time ran out.

The crowd exploded and my team lifted me up on their shoulders and carried me off the court cheering. But, I wasn't the hero of the game. The final basket really didn't mean anything. We were ahead by eighteen points, so the two points just rounded our lead to twenty. But, playing in the game and being carried off the court was exciting and made me feel special and proud. I wished my dad were there to see it. When I told him about the game he said "That's nice." He wasn't much for showing emotion.

He attended one of my baseball games the year we won the league championship. I was chosen to be the All-Star second baseman, but he wouldn't let me play in the All Star game. It had something to do with my age and league rules. League rules allowed thirteen-year-olds to play in the regular season, but not in post-season games. I was thirteen, but looked much younger. I tried to convince him that no one would know that I was thirteen. He tried to explain that it was the honest thing to do, but I didn't want to hear it. I got tired of playing organized sports after that, and besides, I was looking for more interesting things to do. The streets were calling my name.

My three older sisters knew my father differently. To them he was a loving man, younger and happier. He was forty-seven years old when I arrived on the scene. He began having heart problems in his mid-fifties and it wore him down. He retired at age sixty-two, after years of health problems and nervous breakdowns. His vitality for life had ebbed away. He was only a shell of the man he had been when he arrived in America at sixteen. He had nothing to offer a late-in-life boy who tested every boundary and limit he imposed.

When I was a toddler, I recall seeing him fly into a rage throwing chairs and flipping tables. I never saw an emotional reaction from him except when he had nervous breakdowns. He would disappear for months at a time. When I was about eight, I discovered he was in the hospital. When I visited him, I heard my mother and the doctor discuss "shock treatments." The last time he had a breakdown I was sixteen. He returned a solemn, broken man. I remember him sitting on the sofa watching "The Price is Right." He had given up, and by then I had gotten accustomed to him not being there for me. Neither my mother nor dad could show love, or any emotion other than anger. I never saw them hug, laugh, or kiss. Our home was sterile, more like an operating room than a carnival.

I was twenty-five when my father passed away. He had a series of strokes and his body was failing. He spent the last month of his life in a nursing home. He couldn't speak or move his arms or legs. He could barely move his right hand. My sisters tried to encourage him to write. They placed a pen between his fingers, held a paper pad to the pen, and supported his hand. Regardless of how much he concentrated, he wasn't able to scribe a single legible letter, much less a word. This made him extremely frustrated, and watching his decline was very hard for my mother and sisters.

I was at work when I got a call from my sister. It was 1:15 p.m. "Dad had a massive stroke. They think he only has a few hours left." When I got to the hospital, my mother and sisters stood at his bedside sobbing. He was barely conscious. I stood in the back of the room as rigid as a cold steel pillar. I learned in Nam that death was just a cold hard life event; you shake it off, and move on to the next objective. I couldn't understand their emotional outbursts.

I didn't want to be there, but I came to support my mother and sisters. As I stood in the back of the room, my sisters asked me to go up to the head of the bed and tell my father that I loved him. I looked at them in defiance and stood rigid, unshakeable. They pressed me for several minutes. I reluctantly gave in to their demand.

"Tell him before he dies. If you don't you will regret it for the rest of your life!"

I moved to the head of the bed and looked at the broken man. I stared into the face of a skeleton. His eyes and cheeks were sunken in. His skin was a pale gray. His lips were dry, crusted and chapped. My sister tried to give him a sip of water but he couldn't swallow. The water rolled out the side of his mouth onto the bed. My mother took a wet washcloth and softly wiped his brow, cheeks, and lips. He seemed to appreciate it, or at least that's what my mind led me to believe.

His breathing had slowed to eight shallow breaths per minute. He struggled with each breath, and his body was cold and clammy. He could no longer move his eyes, and it looked as if he was staring up, at the ceiling. There wasn't much time left. I bent down, close to his ear, and the smell of death burst into my nose. I had smelled it a thousand times in Nam. I forced out the _"I love you dad,"_ and saw his chin quiver as he tried to move his lips, but he was too weak. I then noticed tears well up in his eyes and a single tear slowly flowed down his cheek. It was a moment I didn't expect and will never forget. In a split second, my worldview of my father changed. I realized that this was not the man I knew growing up. That single tear sent me on a journey to discover who my father really was, and to get to know my mother while there was still time. I didn't know how to start and I was inept at everything I tried.

At age forty, I made a decision to conduct an experiment and challenge my mother. My goal was to get her to say, "I love you" without prompting her. I decided to say, _"I love you mom"_ and hug her every time we were together. The first few months she stood stiff, as I hugged her, like a cold steel pillar. She had no emotion. The expression on her face was one of complete surprise and fear, as if she was about to receive bad news like, _"mom the doctor told me I have three weeks to live."_ Or, she looked around the room expecting to be mugged. Perhaps it was a throwback from her youth, since two of her brothers had ties in the Detroit mob scene. I suspect there were times she got too close to seedy characters and learned to look over her shoulder when she felt uncomfortable.

Sometime during the first year of the experiment, she loosened up a bit. She patted me on the back and said, "That's nice" when I told her _"I love you mom."_ In the second year of the experiment, she learned how to say those three words. It was very mechanical. I could have trained a parrot to say, "I love you" with more emotion. By the end of the second year, I heard some sentiment in her tone. We were making progress. Little signs of progress continued through the third year also.

The breakthrough came in the fourth year of the exercise. I don't remember the details of the exchange or how the conversion progressed, but she spontaneously gave me a hug, without my prompting, and said the words I waited for. I was now forty-four, and it was the first time I heard those words from her lips. Perhaps she told me that she loved me while I was young, but I have no recollection of it. As far as I was concerned, it was the first time I had heard it from her. She died shortly after that and I wondered how things might have been different if I had started the experiment ten years earlier.

Because of my family's inability to relate, I was determined to do something different with my son. I started telling Brian stories when he was a young child. I also wrote him letters and shared the good and difficult times life brings, with the hope he wouldn't make the same mistakes I had. I hoped he would make different choices and be spared some disappointment. Perhaps he wouldn't learn the anger and hate that lived within me, which darkened my existence for years.

When Brian was in his twenties, he moved out of state for several years. He missed the bond we had known, and asked me to write him some letters. I was thrilled that he wanted to reestablish the connection we had. Thus, these letters are the result of Brian's request. It is my hope that these letters will provide Brian with a view of something every boy and man needs – a connection with their dad.

"Who is or was my dad?"

"What drove him?"

"What shaped his life?"

"Why did he do what he did?"

"Did he care about mom and me?"

"Will I have his strengths, or his weaknesses?"

A few years after Brian was born, I was eager to know how I would measure up as a father.

" _Would Brian see me as I saw my father, weak and out of touch?"_

" _Would he judge me as I judged my father?"_ I had judged my father based on a child's limited understanding of the difficulties of life.

" _Would I press too hard, to be what my father wasn't, and push him away?"_

" _Would I give up on him because I had no idea of how to reach him and meet his needs?"_

I had sought answers to these questions for years, since Brian was born. I spoke to a dozen men who had managed to establish healthy father/son relationships. I had read books and had taken classes. While the information was good, I came away with facts and the life experiences of others. I had nothing more than a mosaic of ideas; bits, and pieces of a puzzle I couldn't solve. I needed help. I had tried everything I could and had nowhere else to turn. I didn't really have much faith in God, but I was desperate. I had nothing to lose. If God wasn't real, or He didn't give a darn about my concerns, my prayer would just drop to the floor like a brick. But, if there was a chance He could do something, I had to give it a shot. So, I prayed and asked God for help. I threw in a Hail Mary and Our Father, just for good measure.

Brian's fourth birthday was coming up and I still didn't have any answers. Then, one day I happened to be going through some old papers that had been stored in a box, untouched, for more than ten years. I found my dad's wallet. His driver's license, union card, Blue Cross, and social security card were tucked into the side pocket. I found a certificate of achievement from Chrysler, for his thirty years of service. He had kept a log of the jobs he held. He saved an old pocket watch that had a broken spring and stopped working. I remembered seeing him pull it from his vest pocket, to wind it, often. I found his birth certificate, citizenship papers, marriage certificate, and several poems he wrote to my mom. I then came across his death certificate. I froze as I read it. I felt my stomach sink. I could feel the blood rush to my head. My heart raced and my head began to throb. I could feel blood pulsate in my neck veins and across my temples. I got lightheaded, and sweat beaded up on my forehead. I was numb.

The date of his death caught my attention. I couldn't come to grips with what I read. My father died on April 16, 1973. It seemed like an hour before the impact of what I read sunk in. April 16 was not just the day my father died, it was also the day Brian, my son, was born. I had never made the connection before. April 16 not only symbolized the day the history of anger, between father and son, ended. It now represented the day a new father-son legacy began. It was the piece of the puzzle I was looking for. The realization that fate was in my corner gave me the conviction it would all work out.

When Brian asked me to write him letters, I was thrilled he wanted to reestablish the connection we had known. I knew we had established a special father-son bond, but the ultimate confirmation that we had broken the anger barrier – the hallmark of my family's dark past – was cemented the day I stood next to him at his wedding, as his Best Man. Of all of my life's accomplishments, this honor will always be the premier moment of my life. With the old legacy dead, we have launched a new birthright into orbit, a destiny to be passed on for generations.

This book started simply as letters to my son, Brian. But, it has forced me to reevaluate the life I had with my father, and get to know him as the valiant man he was. Brian touched my life the moment he was born. However, living life with him has molded me to be the father he needed.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

Introduction

Marine Corps Boot Camp changed my life forever. I was headed for trouble since age eleven. I hung in a street gang, looked for trouble, and found it. I prowled the streets at night with a small gang of misfits, breaking into garages looking for anything to steal. We usually found beer.

I didn't like beer. The adventure and adrenaline rush drove me. If I was lucky, I could catch the eye of a Grosse Pointe Woods cop and lure him into a chase. The chase was a blast. I could fly over a six-foot fence, cut through several back yards, and be two blocks ahead of him, or double back to elude him, before he got back to the squad car.

Eventually I was charged with breaking, entering, and grand larceny. I was injured during the break-in and received thirty stitches on my left temple, after which I was arrested in the E.R. The judge said he would not press for a trial and a prison term, if I kept my commitment to enter the Corps. I had been drafted to go into the Army but because of my rebellious nature, I would not allow them to choose my future. I will make the choice! So! I enlisted in the Marine Corps, which was a three-year hitch. It was an impulsive urge to prove to myself that I could hack it. I could accomplish something. For once, I wouldn't be a failure in the eyes of my parents. I knew that I would be going to Vietnam, and also knew that if I had to go into combat I would fight with the best. If I could make it as a Marine I would be the man my father never was, but I was sure I wouldn't return alive. Being buried in Marine Dress Blues was far better than an olive drab or brown uniform. Perhaps in death, I would get my dad's attention.

In the first draft of this book I included the raw "in your face" profanity every recruit must endure. However, I was troubled that the extreme Marine Corps style would be overly offensive. Rather than force the brutal, visceral attacks upon you, the reader, I thought it would best serve your imagination to fill in the blanks. Once you get into the flow of the story you can use your imagination and choose any degree of profanity your mind can tolerate whenever the Drill Instructor (DI) is speaking.

When you read the words of the DI in **bold type** he is speaking in a loud aggressive tone. When you read his words in **CAPITALIZED TYPE** , he is screaming and most likely has positioned himself in front of a lost soul he intends to flay. His neck veins are bulging and his face is fire engine red. Steam is spewing from his ears. Lightning bolts are shooting from his eyes and fire from his mouth.

When words are separated by a hyphen (-), it represents a pause between each word he spoke, often used to punch his point home. I changed the names of my Drill Instructors and the boys that lived through boot camp with me, and have attempted to describe the character of my Senior Drill Instructor and stay true to my boot camp experience. While all of the DI's "one-liners" are described as I remember them, they may not have occurred in the sequence I have noted. With this small qualification, the stories are written as I experienced them, as a nineteen-year-old, naive, and impressionable kid. The events left permanent images burned deeply into my memory. Ask any Marine about boot camp and they will provide details of their experience, even if it has been sixty years since they graduated.

The essence and spirit of Marine training has not changed since the birth of the Corps on November 10, 1775. The Continental Congress met at a Tavern in Philadelphia and drafted a resolution calling to establish Marine units that would fight for our independence in the American Revolution. The Continental Marines were attached to the Continental Navy and commissioned to provide ship security, engage in ship-to-ship fighting, and serve as a landing force for the fledgling nation. Working in small units gave them the speed and agility to capitalize on the weaknesses of the enemy. The Continental Navy could deliver the aggressive Marine warriors to the enemy's back door rapidly, which proved to be a successful strategy in their pursuit of freedom.

Marines are strategic warriors. When moving into a troubled area they hit the ground with their plan, mission, and strategy clear. From the inception of the Corps, their intense training and commitment has earned them the reputation, "First to Fight." They have frequently been called on to establish and hold a secure beachhead until larger ground units can be assembled.

Rapid deployment has always been associated with the United States Marines, who are often stationed on ships off the coasts of troubled regions worldwide. Their position of "Forward Deployed" places the Corps ready to move into action anywhere they are needed, on extremely short notice. Within six hours of getting the call, a Marine Expeditionary Unit can launch the first wave of Marines ashore anywhere in the world.

A Marine Corps Drill Instructor's job is to transform a boy into a man and teach him to survive in combat. I still remember hard lessons I learned from my DI and will always give him the credit for my survival in Vietnam. During intense firefights, his voice echoed through my mind and I moved to assault an enemy ambush on his command. Marine Corps Boot Camp was the transition that thrust me from child to man.

As you read these letters, you will come upon several unflattering remarks about Navy personnel. Please note there is a sibling rivalry in all the military units. While the digs and insults are part of our internal family feud, all branches stand and fight as a united armed force to protect the freedom of our country. I have the highest respect for all of the branches and the men and women that place their lives on the line for us. This includes local police, firefighters, National Guard, Coast Guard, etc. If you are part of the family, the rivalry is a healthy internal competition. Marine units raze other Marine units and everyone else. It occurs in every branch, but when the shit hits the fan, you can expect the highest support for the united cause. Unless you are part of the family, you have not earned the right to rip on my brothers and sisters in uniform.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Leaving Home

It was 4:00 a.m. on May 6, 1967 when I heard the alarm go off. I got up, washed my face, dressed, and went to the kitchen. Mom had breakfast on the table. The smell of bacon, coffee, and toast filled the air. Looking around the room, my head was filled with images I had taken for granted my entire life.

Light from a street lamp raced through the window and ricocheted off the chrome toaster that sat next to the sink. Yellow wallpaper, encircling the room, flashed with large bright sunflowers. The lime green trim was a loud contrast that irritated my eyes in the early morning hours.

We moved into the house when I was seven years old and the same wallpaper hung in the kitchen now, twelve years later. I never thought much about it before, but now I was leaving and everything looked different. It may have been the first time I really saw the kitchen.

A glass of orange juice sat next to my plate. I sat in my usual place across from my dad. The old man, bald with glasses perched on the edge of his nose, dunked his toast in his coffee and ate his last few bites in silence. My mom and I were careful not to speak and break his solemn moment.

I finished the last breakfast I would enjoy as a boy. At 4:30 a.m., we were heading to Fort Wayne, where I had to report by 6:00 a.m. My dad backed the car, a brown 1958 Dodge, out of the garage. _"I hate this stupid brown car,"_ I said.

I don't know why I said it. Perhaps it was an awkward attempt to break the silence. My dad quickly corrected me. "It is Mocha."

" _What the hell is Mocha?"_ I shot back – but only in my mind – the words never made their way to his ears.

Street signs and parking meters flashed past my view as he drove through my stomping ground. The storefronts and neon signs were a blur and difficult to read as we sped out of town. I didn't need to read the names on the buildings. I had walked that stretch a million times. I knew every inch, I had counted every manhole cover and crack on the sidewalk. I knew the window at "Bob's Drug Store" was cracked. It had been cracked since we moved into the area, but it didn't matter because they had a great selection of candy.

Then there was Wilson's Antique Shop on the corner of Brys and Mack. It was next to a twenty-acre plot of undeveloped land we called "The Woods." In front of the large glass storefront window was a half wall where they planted flowers in spring. We sat on the wall after curfew and waited for a cop to drive by so we could spring into action. The first guy to spot the cop would jump up and stumble toward the street to get the cop's attention. The rest of us would jump on him, pretending to beat the poor sap. The cop would rush to the rescue and when he got close, the chase was on and we ran into "The Woods." Once we got into the shadows of the tree line, we hit any one of a dozen trails that weaved through the woods like a maze. We split up, running in different directions, to avoid capture and met at a rendezvous point later.

We spent the summer nights thinking up ways to lure the cops into a chase. The summer night fun began after 10:00 p.m. and ended at 6:00 a.m. My mom and dad went to bed at 10:00 p.m. I slept on the second floor, above the kitchen. After they settled in for the night I climbed out of my window, across the roof of the sunroom and down the drainage pipe. Once my feet hit the ground, I got lost in the shadows of the night.

I often got home when my parents were eating breakfast. The sunroom was next to the kitchen and a large picture window overlooked the yard from the sunroom. I had to make sure my timing was perfect. I needed to climb onto the sunroom roof without being seen or heard, to get to my second-floor bedroom. From age thirteen to seventeen, we ran the streets, a small band of misfits. It was a blast.

Once, when "fishing for cops," Jimmy Dillon and I were dancing on the half wall in front of the Antique Shop. When the cops turned the car in pursuit, I jumped off the wall but ran into Dillon who had lost his balance. Falling backward, Jimmy crashed through the window. We ran, leaving Jimmy to be discovered unhurt, by the cops. His dad paid for the window damage, Jimmy kept his mouth shut about the horseplay, and I got off scot-free.

Those days were behind me, and now I was leaving.

Before my dad sped out of town, I already missed home. I wanted him to slow down and let me soak it in one last time. Would that be too much to ask?

Yes!!!

I would not give him the benefit of speaking to him; much less ask him for a favor. I sat in the back seat and let the silence scream on that crisp spring morning. I had taken my home for granted for years and now we drove away from the security of home, my freedom and a time of being an irresponsible boy.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### The Induction Center

Fort Wayne was on the west side of Detroit. It had been an active duty station in Detroit for WWI and WWII, but now served as the military's induction and staging center for the region. The Vietnam War was escalating and thousands of young boys would get the taste of what it was like leaving home and family for the first time.

We drove sixty minutes to reach the fortress, and the silence in the car spoke volumes. Not even a squeak from my mom broke the morning stillness. After nineteen years of silence, why should I expect anything different now?

Why didn't he ask me how I felt? Was it too hard for him?

Why couldn't he simply say, "You can do it son" or, "I am proud of you."

Even if it wasn't true it didn't matter. I wanted something he couldn't give. He was weak and insignificant, but I was weaker and only a fraction of the man he wasn't. He was an absentee father, and I was an absentee son.

The car turned, moving at a snail's pace onto the final stretch of highway. The fortress was on the left, hidden in the shadows of a tree line that circled the base. It was an island, in the midst of Detroit's emerging urban blight. The surrounding neighborhood, once a thriving area, had been neglected. It looked like it had been ravaged by war. Burned houses, boarded-up storefronts, and trash cluttering the road set a tone of despair. Every other street lamp cast enough light to warn the wise that they shouldn't linger. It was an ominous sight.

We arrived at 5:30 a.m., and I flipped my jacket over my shoulder and tucked a fresh pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes into my shirt pocket. I kissed mom, reluctantly hugged dad, and walked the last quarter-mile down the dark empty street and onto the dimly lit Army base. I heard them drive off and didn't look back.

The sun was coming up and the smell of diesel fuel was thick. I walked down the narrow path next to the building, past the brown, dry and brittle evergreens that hadn't tasted water since the last fleck of snow melted in March.

After checking in, I was directed to take a seat and wait until my name was called, and was told we'd be leaving soon. I entered a room that seemed larger than a basketball court with a thirty-foot ceiling and endless rows of well-worn metal folding chairs. There were small windows near the ceiling that looked like they hadn't been cleaned since the mass induction of WWII. Very little light entered the room.

There was a bathroom on each side of the room near the front. There was one drinking fountain that must have been connected to the water heater. It seemed like the longer it ran, the hotter the water got. I wondered if they designed it like this intentionally, so we would learn not to expect much in our military future.

There were several hundred young men milling around looking pale and abandoned. Few spoke, most smoked. Three of the six ceiling fans moved enough air to circulate the cloud of smoke that hung in the air. Bright green paint curled off the walls, like the skin of an apple peeled back. Beneath the paint, a dusky olive facade was revealed.

Like inmates in a prison yard, we were confined to the room with guards at the door. I tried to sleep on the cold steel chair I had picked, but the realization that my life had changed began to sink in. Thoughts of what my fate would be raced in my head. My mind flashed to images of the fighting I'd seen on the evening news. I did not like the images, and couldn't sleep.

At 8:00 a.m., a large group of Marine and Army personnel entered the room. The guards' uniforms were perfectly creased, stripes on their arms or silver bars on their shoulders. They moved through the crowd without expression, formal, in perfect step and determined to get these ragamuffins processed to the assigned duty station.

They reviewed the large pile of documents, including the names and duty assignment of each man in the room. At 9:00 a.m., they began calling names and began directing the sheep into another room. Each time a group left, they didn't return. It was noon when my name was called. I was one of thirty boys. I thought we were headed to lunch. It only made sense because we'd been given nothing to eat since we arrived. Food, however, was not to be part of the plan.

We were led to another room and were told to stand at attention in a straight line and raise our right hand. The group's response was slow, disinterested, undisciplined, and lacking focus and respect. We were a group of misfits. Most of the group had been drafted. Few enlisted. We swore to obey rules that we didn't understand. To serve, protect, and be loyal to the country under any circumstances. Like parrots, we repeated the words and commands of our master.

After the swearing in, they called the names of the boys who enlisted into the Marine Corps and instructed us to take two steps back. Four answered the call. The remaining crowd glanced over their shoulders, as if to say "suckers." "Why would anyone join the Corps for three or four years when you could accept the draft and be out in two years?" It was guaranteed that a Marine would see combat. The Army had a wider range of duties, assignments, and the chance of direct combat was less. I'm sure it wasn't true, but as a nineteen-year-old kid that had never been away from home, I knew the answers that would solve the world's problems. I was dumb, but proud to be a Marine.

After we took two steps back, the sergeant counted the men remaining in the front line. Every fifth man was told to take two steps back and join our group. The Marine quota would be met. The expressions on their faces changed. Smirks and smiles were replaced with a pale sense of dread. Once the selection was completed, the two groups were separated.

We, the Marines, were led into another room with more folding chairs, where we would wait, and wait, and wait some more. It was 3:00 p.m. when I glanced at my watch, and still no lunch. The temperature in the room must have been 105 degrees, as the hot sun beat down on the roof. The two functional ceiling fans moved little air, while screeching as if they'd plunge from their perch any second. Sweat dripped off me, as if I'd run through a sprinkler. My wet shirt stuck to the back of the rusted metal chair. I was tired. My ears were ringing. Weak from a lack of food, I sat but could not sleep. I looked around the room, and every boy looked drained. No one, however, seemed to care. We were all numb.

At 6:00 p.m., a bus arrived to take us to the next location. Thirty boys left for Detroit Metropolitan Airport. The destination was Marine Corps Recruit Depot, (MCRD) San Diego, California. We waited for hours before we boarded the jet, but I'd never been on a plane before and looked forward to the flight. I bought a stale sandwich for $5.00 at the airport, and the lettuce was wilted and brown. I took two bites, spit them out, and threw it away. Little did I know my next meal would be in fourteen hours.

Our jet landed at an airport in San Diego at about 10:00 p.m. I thought the flight was rough and I almost lost my measly sandwich a couple of times during the three-hour, sleepless, and boring flight. I didn't know it then, but in a few short months I would be thrilled to catch thirty minutes of sleep on the deck of a C130 transport plane with thirty-mile-an-hour monsoon winds driving water like a fire hose through the hull of the ship. I would understand, then, how smooth this flight really was. At nineteen, I was soft, just like the other twenty-nine boys on that flight.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Shock and Awe

The sounds and sights of the California airport exploded like a carnival sideshow when we arrived in San Diego. The terminal was huge. It had to be a hundred feet wide with fifty-foot ceilings and a corridor that had no end. The colored flags and banners that hung from the ceiling mesmerized me. Walking aimlessly down the corridor, the new recruits made comments about the terminal, boot camp, their girlfriends, etc. It was just small talk that reflected the cocky attitudes of boys who were about to enter a new world.

I was walking next to Chuck. He was the biggest guy in the group, and he played linebacker in high school. He was six feet tall, packed with solid muscle, and topped the scale at 200 pounds. He carried a brown package that contained the profile of each boy in the group, and he'd been instructed to deliver it to the Senior Drill Instructor when we arrived. Half of the group was smoking. Chuck and I were chewing gum as we meandered through the terminal, and I was daydreaming as we aimlessly wandered around. I noticed a Marine walking toward us dressed in the unmistakable Marine Corps Dress Blues, and I heard a faint voice say, **"Spit that gum out of your mouth."**

I turned and looked in the direction of the voice and saw him approach. He took one more stride and walked directly up to Chuck. He slapped Chuck across the face, hard enough to send him spinning off balance and stumble to the right. As Chuck regained his composure, the Marine broke the sound barrier with his command.

" **I SAID SPIT THAT GUM OUT OF YOUR MOUTH!"**

I swallowed my gum and froze. Cigarettes and gum flew in every direction at the speed of light. The noise that had echoed in the terminal was now absent, replaced only by the sound of my heart pounding in my ears.

I was stunned. My mind was spinning out of control. Intense emotions of fear and confusion surged within me. I was alone, thousands of miles from home and safety, and I instantly realized that the oath I'd taken "to serve and obey" was not full of idle words from an empty ritual. My life was no longer mine. I was now the property of the United States Marine Corps. Other Marines in their olive drab fatigues appeared from nowhere, and we were prodded and pushed to an exit on our left. I knew this guy had special powers that couldn't be matched, so I decided to listen carefully, but my ears had not been trained to listen in the Marine Corps tradition. Nothing I could have read or done would have prepared me for what was to come.

We left the terminal as he continued to bark orders.

" **Place the toe of your shoe on the line at the curb."** He punched out his words in the face of every recruit while other Marines kicked our shoes and pushed us to move faster.

" **Get your toe on the line, maggot."**

" _Did he say, Maggot?"_

" _Who is he talking to?"_

" _What line?"_

" _I don't see a line. Where's the line?"_

I began to panic. I decided to follow the guy in front of me, hoping I'd be invisible hiding behind him. It didn't work.

We were pushed and shoved for what seemed like hours in the cool California night. Every fifteen minutes another group of twenty-five or thirty boys arrived. The routine was the same. They forced and pressed us to place our toes on some invisible line. The madness seemed to go on for hours.

Four olive green buses, with "MARINES" painted in bright yellow finally pulled to the curb to collect the "fresh fish." Each bus carried fifty bodies. I boarded the second bus and took a seat near the rear. Two Marines then boarded and moved into position. One stood in the rear of the bus, and the other in the front. Their green fatigues were starched and pressed, the creases perfect and their boots were so shiny I was sure they were patent leather. Even their hats, which I would soon call "a cover," were starched with the Marine Corps "Eagle, Globe and Anchor" on the front panel.

The globe on the U.S. Marine emblem signifies continuing historical service around the world. The eagle represents the United States. The anchor dates back to the founding of the Corps in 1775, and acknowledges the naval tradition of the Marines and their continual service under the command of the Department of the Navy. On the emblem itself, there's a ribbon, clasped in the eagle's beak, bearing the Latin motto "Semper Fidelis" (Always Faithful).

The Marines stood tall with their feet spread the width of their shoulders. Their hands were folded behind their backs at belt level. They did not flinch or move. They looked like they had walked off the Marine recruitment poster that hung in the recruiter's office. Their faces were chiseled, clean-shaven, and expressionless. They did not blink as they stared down the aisle. Another Marine entered. Walking up and down the aisle, he began barking commands.

" **No talking, ladies."**

" **Fix your eyes on the back of the head of the dirt bag in front of you."**

" **Place your feet flat on the floor, heels touching and toes at a 45 degree angle."**

" **Place your hands on the bar in front of you."**

He walked up and down the aisle slapping the head of anyone talking or who did not have his heels and toes in the correct position. Once he delivered his speech, all three of them moved to the next bus to repeat the drill.

" _Ladies?"_ I didn't think there were any women on the bus but I was not going to turn my head to look. I would soon discover that being called a lady was a compliment, considering the infinite list of names they had at the tip of their razor-sharp tongues. As the number of insults grew, I was sure they must have had a special book to study from. Their job was simple: break a boy down, remove any sense of identity, and build a machine that would charge directly into oncoming enemy fire and overcome the opposition. In less than twenty-four hours, the first part will be complete. It would take about three months to finish the job.

The buses sped off to the base, and drove through dark streets and roadways for a very long twenty minutes. We sat in silence. As we pulled in, I saw a couple dozen Marines standing near a large warehouse. They sprinted from the shadows, after someone shouted a command that made no sense and sounded like he had a mouth full of marbles. They moved into position forming two lines at the exit door, which led to the warehouse. I was sitting near the rear of the bus when the front door opened.

We sat in silence and after a few minutes, Staff Sergeant Parker boarded the bus wearing the infamous "Smoky the Bear Hat," the icon of a Marine Drill Instructor. The actual name is a Campaign Hat. Do not let a DI hear you say, "Smoky the Bear." That is, unless you have a death wish, or you are a masochist.

He took his place at the front of the bus. Standing about five foot nine, he was a clean-shaven Caucasian, and looked like he was in his mid-thirties. He wore the traditional Marine Corps green fatigues that fit him like he had been poured into them. He was well built. He obviously pumped iron. His collars were starched and there wasn't a single wrinkle to be seen anywhere on his uniform.

Time stood still at that moment. I would learn that the time-space continuum was different in the Corps. It didn't matter what day or hour it was, it was not mine to use. I would sleep, march, eat, and crap on command. For the next three years, I would wear Marine Corps "Olive Green" and love it, because I was told that I loved it.

He would tell me when I had a question and would give me the answer. I didn't have to think because he'd do the thinking for me. I spoke only when I was told to speak. He told me when to wake up, when to sleep, when to eat and how much to eat. He gave me new clothes, a roof over my head, and three square meals a day. How much easier could it be? I was being paid twenty-four hours a day, even when sleeping. At twelve cents per hour, three dollars per day, what else could a nineteen-year-old want?

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Greetings from Parker

" **Welcome to my Marine Corps ladies, I am Staff Sergeant Parker."** He began in a soft, yet firm, tone. **"I am your Senior Drill Instructor during your stay in my resort,"** he said as he walked down the aisle looking at each recruit. One chap made the mistake of glancing at Parker and got a quick knuckle to the head.

" **I did not give you permission to look at me. Look straight ahead and keep your eyes on the back of the head of the maggot in front of you."** The boy sat up straight and froze.

Parker then turned and addressed the group.

" **Tomorrow Commandant, General Something or Other, will send your mother a letter informing her that you have arrived safely. Before the day is complete, you will write her a letter also. It will be a nice letter and you will tell her how much fun you are having. Now! There are a few basic rules you need to know and if you learn them we will get along fine. If you do not learn my rules I will be disappointed and you - do - not - want - me - disappointed."**

In rapid-fire succession, he rattled off his rules.

" **Rule number one. When you address me you will begin - and - end every sentence with Sir."**

" **Your life is now mine. I own you."**

" **You will follow my commands as given and when given."**

" **There are three ways to get a job done, the Right Way, the Wrong Way and the Marine Corps Way. You will do exactly what I say, when I say it."**

" **I will do your thinking for you. I will tell you what to think and when to think it."**

" **You have no rights and you have not earned the right to be called a Marine. The title of Marine is only given to the few that earn it. I do not give it away and you have not earned it."**

" **You are gutter trash and you have not even earned the right to be called human."**

" **You are the lowest form of life on this planet."**

" **You are nothing more than the waste product from a single cell organism, lying under a pile of horseshit."**

" **You will not speak at any time, unless I give you permission."**

" **You will not speak to another recruit."**

" **You will not speak in your barracks, at chow or in the Head."**

" **I better not even hear you speaking to yourself."**

" **You will stand at attention at all times unless I give the command to stand at ease."**

" **In the position of attention you will stand straight with your shoulders square, chest out and your fat gut sucked in."**

" **You will place your arms at your side with your hand against your leg."**

" **Your thumb will be aligned with the seam of your trousers."**

" **You will look straight ahead; your eyes will be fixed on the back of the head of the turd in front of you. You will not look to the side."**

" **There - will - be - no - eye - movement."**

" **You can forget about the girl you left back home. She has already slept with your best friend and his brother."**

" **I am not your mother and I am not your Priest. I will not hear your confession, whining, or excuses."**

" **There are no shoulders to cry on. You can cry in your pillow, after lights out, just don't let me hear you."**

" **You do not have the right to feel sorry for yourself. No one put a gun to your head, when you signed the papers. You all volunteered."**

" **You need to know that I can't make you do anything while you are here. But I can make you wish you had. No matter how tough it gets, it won't last forever. It only feels like it will."**

" **My job is to teach you to survive. If you survive recruit training you might survive Nam. One out of every five of you will not return from Vietnam alive and that will hurt my heart. So I will ride your ass hard so you just might reach the ripe - old - age - of - twenty - one."**

" **When I give you the command to disembark, you will get off my bus in thirty seconds. Plant your feet on a pair of the yellow footprints painted on my deck. Do you understand, ladies?" Silence hung in the air for a few seconds and then he belched out his question again.**

" **Do you understand me ladies?"** he exploded.

"Yes Sir," the group mumbled in a weak monotone response. The words echoed in the bus as he stormed down the aisle slapping anyone within reach. I was sitting on the aisle and received a quick knuckle as he passed.

" **I can't believe you broke my first God Damn rule."**

" **When you address me, you will Begin-and-End every sentence with Sir."** He stood at the front of the bus, a menacing figure; with his legs spread the width of his shoulders. His Smoky the Bear Hat tipped down just above his eyes.

" **Let's try it again, ladies."**

" **Sir, yes sir,"** the group yelled.

" **That's better girls. Now! I want you to get off my bus in thirty seconds." He stood his ground at the front of the bus and gave the command.**

" **Disembark."**

The group stood and began to exit the bus like a dejected high school football team, lumbering slowly, after losing a championship game, grumbling all the way. I was standing waiting for the crowd to thin out so I could exit when bodies began flying in every direction. Being short at 5'4", I couldn't see over the guys in front of me.

The crowd began to clear and I saw Parker flying down the aisle. He was punching and kicking anyone he could reach. If someone was in his way, he just walked over him. They were his personal human carpet. Everyone scrambled to get out of the way.

" **What do you girls think this is, a slumber party?"**

" **I want you off this bus and your feet on the yellow footprints in thirty seconds and I do not want to hear a sound from you. If I hear a sound, I will personally cram my fist down your throat and pull out your vocal cords."**

" **I will castrate anyone that is not off this bus in thirty seconds. Now! Sit your ass back in your seat. When I give the command you better get it right."**

" **We do not have all night."**

" **YOU - WILL - NOT - WASTE - MY - NIGHT."**

He took his position at the front of the bus and gave the command.

" **Disembark."**

Everyone scrambled to get off, some jumping over the seats to get to the front and avoid a knuckle sandwich. As we exited the bus, the only sounds you could hear were grunts and the scuffle of shoes. We moved into a brightly lit courtyard and flood lamps turned the night into day.

Rushing to escape the wrath of Parker, we had to run past a gauntlet of Marines. There were two rows of Marines leading from the bus to the yellow footprints. They pushed and punched anyone they could reach as we tried to find the safety of the yellow footprints. As I exited the bus, I saw one of the Marines take a bead on me. As he hauled off a kick to move me along, I punched a quick burst of speed and shot past his boot.

" **YOU LITTLE SHIT, I AM NOT DONE WITH YOU YET,"** he screamed.

That didn't sound good, but I figured he wouldn't remember my face because it wasn't my face he was aiming at. Within a few minutes, 200 boys scrambled to find a pair of yellow footprints to stand on.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Yellow Footprints

A ten-foot cyclone fence, with barbed wire along the top surrounded the courtyard. The area was fifty feet wide and twice as long. The deck was asphalt with yellow lines that defined the traffic lanes.

Parker took a position at the top of the stairs next to the building. He stood tall in a stance that demanded respect. He did not have to ask for it – he had already earned it.

" **There was a time the recruits that joined my Corps had balls. Men knew what being a Marine meant. Now all I get is a bunch of girls, hippies and faggots,"** he huffed.

He descended the stairs and began to circle the group. We stood there for twenty minutes or more. He walked up and down the lines taking inventory of the group he had just inherited. He ranted on about how weak, ugly, and worthless we were.

Parker walked up to a kid that enlisted from Mexico.

"What sir?" the kid asked.

" **DID I GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO SPEAK?"**

"No sir, I thought...."

" **YOU THOUGHT? DID I GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO THINK**?" Parker interrupted.

" **I WILL DO YOUR THINKING FOR YOU, AND YOU WILL NOT SPEAK TO ME UNLESS I GIVE YOU PERMISSION. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"**

"Yes sir."

" **WHAT IS YOUR NAME BOY?"** he said as he looked at the boy, sizing him up for the kill.

"Orlando Hernandez, sir."

" **ARE YOU STUPID HERNANDEZ?"** Parker was foaming at the mouth. Spit flew into Hernandez's face.

"No sir."

" **WELL, YOU MUST BE – YOU BROKE RULE NUMBER ONE."**

"I don't understand, sir."

" **NOW I KNOW YOU ARE STUPID, HERNANDEZ. YOU BROKE MY RULE AGAIN."** Parker was now standing nose-to-nose with Hernandez, poking his Smoky the Bear hat onto the terrified boy's forehead.

" **ARE YOU PLAYING WITH ME HERNANDEZ? NO ONE CAN BE THAT STUPID."**

"No sir."

" **YOU BROKE IT AGAIN HERNANDEZ! YOU MUST BE PLAYING WITH ME."** Within a few seconds, two other DIs stood next to Hernandez, yelling in the face of the petrified boy. They were all foaming at the mouth and spit was flying around like mad dogs devouring a piece of meat.

" **ARE YOU THE ONLY CHILD THAT DIED AT BIRTH, OR ARE THERE MORE BRAIN DEAD SPICKS LIKE YOU RUNNING AROUND?"** Hernandez was silent, which was his best defense.

" **WHY DO YOU KEEP BREAKING MY RULE, YOU MORON?"**

"I don't know the rule, sir."

" **NO SHIT SHERLOCK. YOU BETTER FIGURE IT OUT BY THE NEXT TIME YOU SPEAK TO ME. YOU MAKE ME SICK, YOU WETBACK PIECE OF SHIT."**

Another slime bag that had just arrived snickered at the event. Turning, Parker saw him smiling.

" **WHAT ARE YOU SMILING AT BOY? DO YOU THINK SOMETHING IS FUNNY? ARE YOU LAUGHING AT ME BOY?"** Parker said with a look that could melt stone.

"Sir, no sir," the boy said.

" **WELL YOU BETTER WIPE THAT SMILE OFF YOUR FACE BEFORE I UNSCREW YOUR HEAD AND PISS DOWN YOUR NECK."**

Silance floated softly in the air for a few short seconds.

" **DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME BOY?"**

The boy stood in fear and said nothing.

" **I ASKED YOU A QUESTION, YOU WORTHLESS PISS ANT."**

" **DO YOU READ ME BOY?"**

" **DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?"**

" **GIVE ME AN ANSWER. I DON'T HAVE ALL NIGHT."**

"Sir, yes sir."

Satisfied with the answer, he turned his attention to another recruit. Circling the boy, Parker sized up his next meal.

" **Where did you get that coat cowboy? Did you roll some drunk and steal it?"**

" **Are you a thief boy? Am I going to have a problem with you cowboy?"**

"Sir, no sir," the boy said.

" **What is your name boy?"**

"Sir, Jason Williams sir." Parker looked back at Hernandez.

" **Williams your job is to teach Hernandez what rule number one is, before I speak to him again. Do you understand Williams?"**

"Sir, yes sir."

" **If Hernandez doesn't know the rule by the morning I will personally take it out of your hide. Do you understand me cowboy?"**

"Sir, yes sir."

" **Where are you from Williams?"**

"Sir, Alabama sir."

" **Did your momma teach you to follow the rules Williams?"**

"Sir, yes sir."

" **Where are your feet supposed to be Williams?"**

"Sir, on the yellow footprints sir."

" **That is correct Williams. Now! I want to know why your size 15 clodhoppers are standing on my deck?"**

"Sir, I don't know what you mean sir."

" **WILLIAMS, DO YOU THINK I AM STUPID?"** Parker said as he slapped Williams on the back of the head.

" **LOOK AT YOUR FEET WILLIAMS, AND TELL ME WHY YOU ARE STANDING ON MY DECK?"**

Williams looked down and saw his feet on the yellow footprints.

"Sir, my feet are on the yellow prints sir," Williams said.

Parker began stomping on William's right foot, which was placed on the painted yellow footprint. However, the toe of his cowboy boots overlapped the paint and extended to the black asphalt. Parker then kicked and yelled at the bewildered boy's shin.

" **I DID NOT GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO STAND ON MY DECK."**

Williams repositioned his foot. As Parker screamed, the feet of 200 boys shuffled into the correct position. Parker walked up and down the rows, checking the foot position of every recruit, to ensure that everyone got the point. There was absolutely no doubt that anyone was standing on his deck any longer.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### High and Tight

Parker completed his survey of his "fresh fish" and motioned to a group of Marines who were in the shadows. **"Round Up"** he screamed, as he entered the building. Immediately the Marines broke their formation and formed two lines that encircled the platoon and defined the route we would take to enter the building.

Twelve stairs ran up the side of the building to a door. There were windows on each side of the door, which were so clean I wondered if there was glass in the frames. It was quite a contrast to the windows at Fort Wayne.

The door was open and the light in the room seemed dim compared to the bright lights in the courtyard. In a few minutes, Parker came out and motioned to one of the Marines, who sectioned off the lines. Ten bodies at a time were driven like cattle into the building. When we were given the command, boys ran up the stairs as fast as they could. If someone stumbled, you ran past or over him. The penalty of not moving fast enough was too great. It was better to run over the poor sap than be a target for someone who wanted to plant his boot in your chest. I watched a dozen boys get slapped, kicked, and pushed up the stairs if they didn't move fast enough. No matter how fast you ran, it wasn't fast enough, **"Move, Move, Move,"** was sure to follow. It was one of the DI's favorite commands. He screamed it frequently, as his neck veins bulged. The sooner you realized that moving fast was a way of life, the easier your life as a maggot would be.

I stood as number seven, in the next group of ten. When I entered the room the last boy from the earlier group was running out a door on the other side of the room. He moved like greased lighting, as if he was being chased by the devil himself.

It was a white room with two rows of white chairs, and mirrors lining both sides of the room. Behind each chair was a white cabinet. On the countertop were the tools of the trade. Tall jars with a blue liquid, and combs, were positioned on the left of the counter. There were brushes and an assortment of electric clippers on the right. Behind each chair was a Marine, stone-faced with electric clippers in hand.

I was "gently nudged" and told to take a chair, as he pointed to my right. I moved quickly and jumped into the first chair I saw, and just as quickly I was yanked from the chair and redirected to another chair.

" **YOU STUPID IDIOT, DID I TELL YOU THAT YOU COULD SIT IN THAT CHAIR?"** he exploded. He grabbed my shirt and dragged me across the floor. My automatic response was to push away to break his hold on me, which was answered with double slaps to my ears. A quick right, then left.

" _Sir, I thought..."_ another quick slap.

" **DID I GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO THINK?"**

" _Sir, no sir."_

" **I DID NOT GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO SIT IN THAT CHAIR. I TOLD YOU TO GET INTO THAT - CHAIR."**

The force of his words alone would have moved me, but with a special touch, he physically shoved me. I stumbled and fell into the chair. The whole event took only a few seconds but time moved slowly. It seemed to last forever. It was an insane moment. I wondered if I would survive boot camp. My thoughts flashed to the headlines I read in the newspaper. _"Recruit dies in forced march through the swamp while in Marine boot camp."_ I was sure my name would be in the news in a few days. After being attacked by the angry pit bull, I realized my resistance inflamed his aggression. A lesson learned – _"stay low profile and live."_

Quickly, I sat up straight in the chair and thought, _"I am not ready for this. Perhaps I should have let them draft me. Better yet, just shoot me now. Why put me through all this insanity only to be killed in Nam? Save the money and ship my body home now."_

Sitting directly across from me was a young black boy, James Green, who had been part of the group that had come from Detroit. He had a perfectly shaped Afro. His hair looked like it was the size of a basketball. It must have been four inches thick. He wore a black comb in his hair, just above his right ear. Wrapping the traditional white barber's drape around the boy's neck, the barber spoke in a soft and kindly manner.

" **Well, Michael, you have a nice fro there."**

"Thank you sir."

" **How long did it take you to grow that fro Michael?"**

"Four years sir, but my name is not Michael sir, it is James."

" **Well you look like Little Michael. You know, the small Negro boy in the Jackson Five."** His tone stung with sarcasm. Taking the comb from the boy's hair, the barber gave it to the recruit.

" **Here you go Michael you might need this later. How would you like it cut Michael?"**

"Just trim a little off the top please sir," James said.

" **Sure thing Michael, trimming is what I do best."**

" **You don't know rule number one, do you Michael?"**

"No sir."

" **I can tell. I suggest you learn it."** Then, with the speed of a short order cook, the Marine took the shears and cut a path, front to back, down the middle of the recruit's head **, a reverse Mohawk.**

Total shock came over James. The whites of his eyes grew as big as golf balls. With terror on his face, he was speechless. The Marine then cut a second path from left to right, ear to ear. With a sinister smirk, **"Oops"** he said. He gave James a mirror and let it sink in for a few seconds, and then he removed every hair on the boy's head. Once finished, the barber began to remove the drape from around James' neck.

" **GET OUTTA MY CHAIR TURD,"** he screamed directly into James' ear. Without hesitating, James jumped up and ran toward the door.

" **ARE YOU A THIEF MICHAEL?"** the Marine shouted.

Realizing that he still had the drape around his neck, James scrambled to untangle it as he stumbled toward the door. Throwing it in the air he ran like he was being chased by a mad dog, which was not far from the truth.

" **PICK UP MY DRAPE MICHAEL!"**

James spun around, grabbed the drape from the floor, and threw it at the barber. It landed on the chair.

" **GET BACK HERE AND HAND ME THAT DRAPE!"** the barber yelled.

James hesitated, looked back for a moment then turned and burst out of the room. I do not remember his feet touching the floor as he left. I watched James change in a few short minutes, from a proud young man, into a shocked and fearful child. Another boy was already in the chair and a new game began. James was old news and free from the mad dog's grasp.

As I watched James get his introduction and new haircut, I overheard another recruit's discussion with his "stylist."

" **Hello son, I see you got your hair cut recently."** Again, the conversation began in a soft and kind manner.

"Yes sir, my mother thought I should look presentable as I entered the service sir."

" **That was thoughtful of her. Did mommy accompany you here, to - the - service?"**

"Sir, no sir."

This conversation was not headed in a good direction.

" **What kind of service did you enter son?"**

"Sir, the Marine Corps sir."

" **Do you think you are a Marine son?"**

"Sir, yes sir."

" **WELL, YOU ARE NOT A MARINE, YOU SLIMY PIECE - OF - SHIT. YOU ARE A MOMMA'S BOY. YOU WILL NEVER HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO BE A MARINE IN MY CORPS. NOW I WANT YOU TO TELL EVERYONE THAT YOU ARE A MOMMA'S BOY."**

"Sir, I am not a momma's boy sir."

" **ARE YOU CALLING ME A LIAR BOY?"** The barber screamed, landing a quick slap to the boy's head.

"Sir, no sir."

" **I THINK YOU CALLED ME A LIAR AND NO ONE CALLS ME A LIAR. NOW I WANT TO HEAR YOU TELL EVERYONE THAT YOU ARE A MOMMA'S BOY."** Silence hung like a thick, wet, wool blanket.

" **WELL! SAY IT BOY. I DON'T HAVE ALL NIGHT."**

The boy's lip quivered.

"Sir, I am a momma's boy, sir," he repeated sheepishly.

Coming around to the front of the chair the Marine yelled directly in the boy's face, nose to nose.

" **DID I HEAR A MOSQUITO BUZZING AROUND MY EAR? THAT WAS THE POOREST EXCUSE OF AN APOLOGY I HAVE EVER HEARD. I WANT TO HEAR YOU TELL EVERYONE WHO YOU ARE."**

" **LET ME HEAR YOU LOUD AND CLEAR."**

" **SAY IT!"** A pause hung in the air.

" **SAY IT! "** The boy was silent.

" **I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"**

" **SAY IT!"**

" **SAY IT! I - AM - A - MOMMA'S - BOY!"** He screamed in rapid-fire succession, as he landed another slap to the boy's head.

"Sir, I am a momma's boy sir," the boy yelled.

" **I STILL CAN'T HEAR YOU."**

"Sir, I am a momma's boy sir," He yelled until his face turned beet red. I watched the sad event unfold, from a reflection in the mirror.

Satisfied with the response, the Marine went back behind the chair, grabbed his shears, and with one last demeaning comment and a few quick strokes from his hand, the boy was reduced to clay. He jumped from the chair and ran out of the room the instant he was given the command, happy to be alive. I kept my mouth shut, got my head shaved and left my cocky attitude and identity on the floor, just as 200 other boys would do that night. As I left the room, I realized it was after midnight. A new day had begun.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Canvas Sea Bags

I ran down a hall to the right. It was dimly lit with the shadows of Marines staggering the entire distance. **"Move! Move! Move!"** echoed from every wall. The hall brought us to a stairwell that took us down two flights and emptied into a large room. The warehouse had tall ceilings, bright lights, and a strong smell of canvas. I descended deeper into the web, a maze of eight or ten stations stocked with supplies. Once I reached ground level, I couldn't see what was going on, because I could not see over the guy in front of me. The line moved slowly and I wondered why we were always in a rush, only to wait once we got to where we were going. Hurry up and wait. I would get used to it.

At the first station, I got my Dog Tags.

" **Memorize your number, hang them around your neck and never take them off."**

They had my name, my blood type, and serial number stamped on them. "Catholic" was imprinted on them. I had not gone to church since I was eleven. I did not care. They could think anything they wanted. God was irrelevant to me.

A Marine with one stripe on his sleeve, Private First Class, walked up from behind and bent my thumb back so far I thought it was broken.

" **Assume the position of attention, scum bag,"** he said.

" _Sir, I am at attention sir."_

" **YOU LYING SACK OF SHIT. WHERE IS YOUR THUMB SUPPOSED TO BE?"**

" _Sir, along the seam of my pants sir."_

" **PANTS?"**

" **GIRLS WEAR PANTS, MEN WEAR TROUSERS."**

" **BUT YOU'RE NOT A MAN, YOU ARE NOTHING BUT PUKE ON MY DECK. NOW GET YOUR THUMB IN LINE WITH THE SEAM OF YOUR TROUSERS."**

I glanced down to see where my thumb was, because I could feel it touching the seam. I received a quick slap to my right ear. Still ringing from the last several slaps, my head was throbbing. I quickly reset my eyes to the back of the head of the boy in front of me. I was then brought to my knees when he grabbed my thumb and bent it back again.

" **WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM BOY?"**

" **DON'T YOU KNOW HOW TO FOLLOW ORDERS?"**

" **WHY CAN'T YOU LINE UP YOUR THUMB WITH THE SEAM ON YOUR TROUSERS?"**

" _Sir, I did sir."_

" **WHEN YOU LINE UP YOUR THUMB WITH THE SEAM, IT IS SUPPOSED TO BE STRAIGHT."**

" **THIS IS NOT STRAIGHT."** He said as he pulled my thumb in front of my eyes and landed another slap.

" **THIS IS STRAIGHT."** He placed his thumb in front if my face.

I looked at his thumb, then mine, and realized for the first time in my life that I had curved thumbs. My whole family had thumbs that curled back about fifteen degrees. I would practice for days until I could make my thumb look straight and avoid further pain a curved thumb would bring.

I finally got up to the next station. I could see all the stations clearly as I glanced to the left while approaching the counter.

" **Height?"** I was asked.

" _Sir, five-foot-four sir."_

" **Waist?"**

" _Sir, 28 sir."_

" **Shirt size?"**

" _Sir, small sir."_

" **Shoe size?"**

" _Sir, eight sir,"_ He wrote down the information and handed me the card.

" **Next station,"** he belched.

I went to the next station and handed the card to the Marine. At this station, they handed out green fatigue trousers and shirts. I learned that a shirt was called **"a blouse."** With all of the male ego and testosterone flying around, I wondered how the term "blouse" got into the vocabulary.

He looked at the card and looked at me.

" **Height?"**

" _Sir, five-foot-four sir."_

" **Waist?"**

" _Sir, 28 sir."_

" **Shirt size?"**

" _Sir, small sir."_

" **Shoe size?"**

" _Sir, eight sir,"_ He wrote down the information and handed me the card.

" **Next station,"** he belched.

He grabbed several pairs of shirts and trousers. They were all folded neatly in a pile. I also got a bright yellow sweatshirt that had a red Eagle, Globe, and Anchor, stamped on the chest.

At the next station, boots and tennis shoes were handed out. I was handed one pair of white high-top tennis shoes, which are called "go-fasters," and four pairs of socks. **"Next station,"** he said. At the next station, I handed him my card, again.

" **Hat size?"**

" _Are we gonna repeat this routine all night? "Why don't they just read the card? Why did I have to write it out if they don't read it?"_ I thought.

Finally, I received white tee shirts, boxer shorts, a field jacket, wool blankets, white sheets, and other garb that would define who I was – the property of the United States Marine Corps, for the next three years.

I placed all of the gear I was given into a canvas duffle bag in the order I was told. As I did, I discovered I had been given an assortment of blouses and trouser sizes, some small and some medium. The field jacket came to my knees, which turned out to be a blessing because it served as a small sleeping bag. I could tuck my knees up into it and it kept me warm sleeping under the stars.

The hat was large and came down to the bridge of my nose. Later, I traded my hat for a smaller size, with a guy whose hat was too small and kept falling off his big, fat baldhead. After everyone had been issued their gear, the large group was broken into smaller groups of seventy-two men, and led into separate rooms. The room was bright, with floodlights all around. The windows along the wall had secure metal bars to keep us in. There were rows and rows of red cubicles, back-to-back, which ran the length of the room. We were instructed to stand in front of a cubicle, one recruit per cubicle.

" **Strip to your birthday suits boys. Remove all of your clothes, rings, gold chains, and anything you brought here and place them in the cubicle."** We had been ordered to bring nothing but the clothes on our back to boot camp. Now they were taking them from us.

We were ordered to remain at attention until he gave further orders. He and the other Marines left the room. We stood there, bare butt to the wind. It was a cold night. The temperature seemed like thirty. It probably was sixty degrees. The guy across from me shivered with blue lips. I probably looked just as strange to him. A large wall clock guaranteed time moved slowly. It was 2:00 a.m. when Parker returned.

We were given cardboard boxes and ordered to place everything we owned in the box and send it back home, **"to \- your - mommy."** We were permitted to keep our cigarettes and wallet but had to put them in a small white bag that hung around our neck. We dressed into the bright yellow sweatshirts, green fatigue trousers, white high-top tennis shoes, and our covers. A "cover" is the term used to refer to a hat.

We were ordered to exit the room and form lines on the tarmac outside the warehouse. **"Move! Move! Move!"** he commanded. In a few short minutes, four lines of eighteen boys, seventy-two "fresh fish" were in the net. We were arranged by height. I was the last person in row four. I would soon learn that each row was called "a squad." The very first person in each row was given the title of "squad leader." He was responsible to ensure the squad got the job done.

The smallest Marine fighting unit is called a fire team, generally three or four men. Four fire teams make a squad, four squads make a platoon, and four platoons make a company.

" **Listen up!"** Parker said.

" **Place your duffle bag on the deck, at your right side. Place your right arm on the shoulder of the dirt bag in front of you. This will be your spacing at all times, when marching, running and standing in formation. Do you understand?"**

"Sir, yes sir," we shouted.

" **Pick up your duffle bag and place it on your right shoulder,"** he commanded. Everyone shuffled and within seconds, the bags were on our shoulders. Parker took his position at the left side of the group. Standing tall, he gave a command. **"Forwaaard Harruch."** The squad leaders began to march. We followed.

Parker yelled as he marched. I had no idea what he was saying. It did not sound like English. **"Lert, lert, lert, reett, lert."** Every once in a while he kicked a recruit and screamed in someone's face.

" **March tall. Don't slump."**

" **Get that bag on your shoulder."**

" **What do you think this is, a walk in the park?"**

We marched a half-mile, to what would be our home for the next twelve weeks. It really was not much of a march. It was more like a bunch of cub scouts lugging heavy, awkward bags. When we got to our location, we discovered that the buildings we would stay in were called **"Quonset huts."** There were rows and rows of these corrugated steel units. Quonset huts are half-moon shaped structures that curved down to touch the ground. We were standing on an asphalt walkway that separated two rows of Quonset huts. In front of each Quonset hut was a ten-foot-wide asphalt walkway he called "his road." Between the hut and the road was a four-foot area he called, **"his lawn."** It was nothing more than pebbles, ground cover, weeds, and sand. There was a lot of sand in the San Diego recruit depot. It was our job to keep the sand off **"his road"** and back in **"his lawn"** where it belonged.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Roll Call

" **Stand at attention, state your name and "count off,"** Parker commanded.

"Sir, Adam Smith number 1 sir."

"Sir, Thomas Stowe number 2 sir."

"Sir, Charles Parker number 3 sir."

" **Parker? Did I hear you say your name was Parker?"**

"Sir, yes sir."

" **I DO NOT BELIEVE YOU,"** Sergeant Parker said as he ran up to Charles. Standing nose to nose with him, Sergeant Parker snarled.

" **I CANNOT BELIEVE A LOW-LIFE SCUM BAG LIKE YOU WOULD DARE TO USE MY NAME IN VAIN. TELL ME YOU ARE PLAYING WITH ME BOY."**

"Sir, my name is Parker sir."

" **NO IT IS NOT. I WILL NOT HAVE A SHIT BAG IN MY CORPS USE MY NAME IN SUCH A DISGRACEFUL MANNER. YOU HAVE NOT EARNED THE RIGHT TO SAY MY NAME. YOUR NAME IS PECKER WHILE YOU ARE HERE. SAY IT! SAY IT! MY - NAME - IS - PECKER."**

"Sir, my name is Pecker sir." Letting the words linger for a few seconds, Staff Sergeant Parker did a crisp about face.

" **COUNT OFF,"** Parker ordered.

We began counting again. I would be the last boy to be assigned a number.

" _Sir, Anthony Pecoraro number 72 sir."_

" **Peck - a - what - O?"** he said, as he marched to my side.

" **What kind of name is that boy?"** he asked as he looked down at me. I looked up to answer him and saw that I came to his shoulder. He landed a quick slap to the back of my head.

" **DID I GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO LOOK AT ME PECK - A - WHAT - O?"**

" _Sir, no sir."_

" **WHAT KIND OF STUPID NAME IS THAT BOY?"**

" _Sir, Italian sir."_

" **So, you're a spaghetti bender,"** he paused.

" **I am not going to try to remember that stupid Wop name. Your name is Peter during your visit here."**

" **What is your name boy?"**

My mind raced and at the same time I was numb, I hesitated.

" **YOU MUST THINK WE GOT ALL NIGHT TO WAIT FOR YOU."**

" **DO YOU NEED TIME TO THINK PETER?"**

" **DO YOU WANT US TO STAND HERE WAITING WHILE YOU GET THE BALLS TO ANSWER ME?"**

" **WELL!!! WE DON'T HAVE ALL NIGHT."**

" **SAY IT!!!"**

" **SAY IT, NOW!!!"**

" _Sir, my name is Peter sir."_ Satisfied with my response he turned and took his place at the head of the platoon. Seventy-two would be my number and Peter would be my name.

There were frequent roll calls daily. How else would he know if someone went AWOL or Absent Without Official Leave? We were separated in groups of eight and assigned a Quonset hut. When given the command we were to move into our designated Quonset hut, place our duffle bag on a bunk of our choice and stand at attention until Parker returned to give us further instructions.

Each Quonset hut was set up the same. They were about twelve feet wide, fifteen feet high, and twenty feet long. The middle of the hut was to be kept clear, and served as a pathway to move around. There were four sets of bunks, two on each side of the hut. There were two banks of lockers, one on the right and one on the left near the front door. The door would now be called a "hatch." There was a second hatch at the back of the hut. We were ordered to use only the front hatch, when given permission to enter or leave the building.

The bunks, which we would now call a "rack," were simple steel frames with well-worn mattresses, supported by a heavy webbing of interconnected springs attached to the frame. There were two footlockers, wooden boxes two feet wide, eighteen inches deep and three feet long, under the rack. Each footlocker had a steel handle on each side. A hinged steel plate in the center served to lock the footlocker when a padlock was attached. Each footlocker had a three-inch-deep tray where belts, brass buckles, toothpaste, soap, and other items were stored.

I quickly chose a rack. It was the farthest from the front door. I had never slept on a bunk before and they looked rickety. I picked the top. I figured that if it collapsed it would be better to be on the top than be crushed by some 250-pound kid from Arkansas. It worked out well for the kid from Arkansas too. His fear was that he would roll out of the rack, and fall six feet to his death onto the concrete floor.

Parker came in, and for the next thirty minutes we were taught to make a rack. The sheets and blanket were to have square corners. The Eagle, Globe, and Anchor were to be centered on the blanket. The wool blanket had to be tight enough so the DI could bounce a quarter off it and catch it. If it did not bounce, your rack would be torn apart and you would remake it until he could catch the quarter; so the tale is told. The pillow was to be centered at the head of the rack and covered with the second wool blanket, called a dust cover.

We knew that we were not to speak to each other, but after he left, we whispered quietly and prayed we would not get caught. It would be ten weeks before we would be permitted to speak to each other, and then only with limitations. No casual conversations were allowed, at any time, within earshot of Parker.

" **I DO NOT HAVE A PROBLEM IF YOU BREAK MY RULES. YOU WILL NOT BE PENALIZED FOR BREAKING MY RULES. BUT YOU WILL PAY WHEN YOU GET CAUGHT AND YOU - WILL - GET - CAUGHT. I HAVE ALL THE TIME I NEED, I - WILL - WAIT - YOU - OUT."** With that said, he left to demonize another Quonset hut.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Dump and Run

Once the racks were made, we stripped to our underwear and put on our Jesus Slippers, or shower sandals. We were ordered to get soap and a towel.

" **Place your clothes in the duffle bag and set it on the rack. You have two minutes to get into formation, on the road."**

Once in formation, we counted off. When he was sure everyone was still there, we marched to the "head," the Navy term for the bathroom. In ancient sailing ships, the bathroom was in the bow, the head of the ship. The sailors would go below deck to take care of business. We marched to the head and he gave the command.

" **You have ten minutes to take care of business. Do you understand me ladies?"**

"Sir, yes sir," was the response.

" _Ten minutes, that sounds reasonable,"_ I thought.

He walked up the ramp to the entrance and turned to the platoon. With a nod of his head two other DIs, Sergeant Wilkinson and Sergeant Martin, broke ranks and ran into the building.

" **First and second squad, Reeee - HURA,"** Parker yelled.

I wondered what language he was speaking. San Diego is close to Mexico, so maybe he's speaking Spanish. Confused, no one moved. Without hesitation, he ran down from the ramp to the first squad. He began screaming to the first boy in the line.

" **Did you hear me give the command?"**

" **Move before I change my mind. Move! Move! Move!"**

The first squad ran into the building. As soon as the last boy passed Parker, he began screaming for the second squad to follow.

" _Oh, I got it. Reeee HURA, must be the term they use when they need to go to the bathroom,"_ I thought. Later I would learn that HURA was an acronym for: Heard, Understood, Recognized, and Acknowledged. When he gave instructions he would always ask if we understood and the answer would always be "Sir, yes sir." At no time did anyone raise their hand and say, "Excuse me sir could you explain it again?" His commands were always Heard, Understood, Recognized, and Acknowledged.

My thoughts were quickly redirected to the noise coming from the building.

" **WHAT DO YOU THINK THIS IS, A VACATION?"**

" **YOU BETTER SHOOT STRAIGHT."**

" **YOU BETTER NOT DRIBBLE ON MY DECK BOY."**

" **JUST PICK A SEAT, THEY ARE ALL THE SAME."**

" **YOU HAVE BEEN SITTING THERE FOR FIVE MINUTES BOY."**

" **DO YOU NEED MY HELP SWEETIE?"**

" **GET OFF MY POT, WE DON'T HAVE ALL NIGHT."**

" **I DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE NOT DONE, YOU CAN FINISH TOMORROW."**

It had not been five minutes and the thirty-six boys that ran into the building were stumbling out the other side, pulling up their boxers as they ran.

" _I thought he said we would have ten minutes! This is not good. I am the last guy. Ten minutes isn't enough time. I hoped they use reverse order next time,"_ I murmured to myself. A change in order, however, was not in the cards. I was the last to enter the head, the mess hall, a forced march, and every activity we encountered. In high school, I was always first in line, but they formed the lines in reverse height order.

I ran through the door and discovered the problem. The wisdom of my nineteen years had sized it up. The building was not equipped to handle the number they were pushing through. The building had a wall partition down the middle. On each side of the partition was a long trough for a urinal. Ten men could squeeze in at a time. I hoped their aim was straight and that there was no backsplash.

There were ten stools on each outer wall, twenty total. _"How could anyone expect seventy-two people to get in and out in ten minutes?"_ I thought. I ran to find a space at the urinal but there was too much backsplash. I quickly turned to take a seat but there were no dividers or wall partitions between the commodes. I froze. I was not used to sitting on a pot with an audience. It felt like I was sitting on the bench, at a high school basketball game, with my pants down. The coach was yelling at me and everyone in the stands was laughing. It was not a pretty picture. I decided I did not need to go that badly. Besides, I had taken a leak on the plane.

After we ran through the head, we were directed to one of four long stainless steel troughs to the right of the building. Each trough sat on a steel frame, which was designed so the trough would be positioned at waist level for an average recruit to wash. There was a large galvanized pipe running down the middle, about eighteen inches above the basin. Faucets extended from the main pipe, which gave each recruit a space to wash. Each trough would accommodate twenty boys, ten on each side.

" **You are here to wash the civilian slime off of your faces,"** Parker yelled, as he hovered over us.

" **When you have washed your face you will place the soap in the container and wrap it with your washcloth. You will place the towel around your neck and stand at attention with the soap in your right hand. When I give you the command to fall in, you will assemble on the road behind Sergeant Martin and Sergeant Wilkinson. Do you understand?"**

"Sir, yes sir," was the response.

I would soon learn to wash my clothes, take a bath, and maintain my daily hygienic needs, in a bucket, at this station. The water was always cold and refreshing after a long run, the obstacle course, or any of the extreme workouts, which occurred daily during the long and hot California summer. We often ended a long run or workout at the trough. It was a refreshing relief.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### A Long Day

When we got back to the hut we were told to stand on top of the footlocker. Each time we were given the command "foot check" we were to pull the footlocker out and stand on it. Parker was primarily looking for blisters that would slow us down or disable us. When he was looking at my feet, I noticed his watch said it was 4:15 a.m.

" **Get some sleep – tomorrow will be a long day,"** he demanded.

" _A long day! What do you call this? I got up at 4:00 a.m. and it is now 4:15 a.m. In addition, there is a three-hour difference between Michigan and California. I have already had a twenty-seven-hour long day. This must be part of a plan designed to break us; cut our hair, remove any shred of our identity and deprive us of food and sleep. It's working,"_ I thought.

" **Do not think you can escape from my base. We have guards patrolling the base and you will be caught. You have no clothes, except the yellow sweatshirt, which can be seen a mile away. The locals get $25.00 a head,"** He said as he paced back and forth for a few minutes.

Walking to the door, he turned to see that everyone was in the rack. **"Lights out,"** he shouted as he flipped the light switch and slammed the door. _"A long day?"_ I thought. I feared that this was the first _"Long Day,"_ in what would be three years of long days. A dim light came in through the small windows on either side of the hatch. " _I am alone and miss home."_ I thought, as I faded out.

It was 5:00 a.m. when the speaker system blasted reveille. Within seconds, the door swung open and a different DI burst into the hut.

" **I am Staff Sergeant Wilcox, I am your Drill Instructor today."**

He was a black man, shorter than Parker, and built like Mister Universe. You knew you did not want to piss him off. He stood with his feet spread apart, the width of his shoulders and his hands were on his hips. His Campaign Hat was tipped down. It was hard to see his eyes.

" **I want you dressed, your racks made and standing on my street in ten minutes."**

" _What happened to Parker?"_ I thought.

Dazed from little sleep, we barely lifted our heads from the pillows and just looked at him. He knew our minds were fogged and knew exactly how we would respond. He had seen it many times before. He waited a few seconds to let his words sink in; then he transformed into a "category five" tornado. He moved from rack-to-rack, pulling everyone he could reach to the deck.

He started at the first set of top bunks and the guys fell like stones. They did not see it coming. Thud, two bodies hit the deck. I was now moving as fast as I could. I reached the deck and had one leg in my trousers when he reached me. As I balanced to get my second leg inserted, I was driven into the wall. Both of my feet flew off the ground. My left shoulder took most of the force of the fall and my head slammed into the door.

" **GET UP,"** he screamed in my ear, as I lay on the floor. I stood to find my socks and tennis shoes, as he moved to find another target. My ears were ringing and I was dizzy. I was not sure if it was from the fall, lack of sleep, no food, or a few too many slaps to the head.

" **I WANT EVERYBODY ON MY STREET IN TEN MINUTES AND YOUR RACK BETTER BE SQUARED AWAY,"** he yelled. Slamming the door, he left. Stunned, we got to our feet and looked around the hut. It was trashed. All of the mattress, blankets, sheets, and pillows were in a pile in the middle of the floor.

" **TEN MINUTES,"** echoed from the street. His timing was perfect. We scrambled to sort out the mess on the floor.

" _Squared away, what the hell is he talking about?"_ I would find out later what it meant – right now I needed to make my rack and get out on the street.

I exited the hut and saw two other DIs barking orders, **"Fall In! Fall In! Fall In!"** They circled us like vultures waiting to devour their next meal.

We were told to line up in the exact order we had been placed just a few hours before. The group moved with such haste, we didn't really establish a proper formation.

" **Count off,"** yelled Wilcox.

"Sir, Adam Smith number 1 sir."

"Sir, Thomas Stowe number 2 sir."

"Sir, Charles Parker number 3 sir."

" **Did Parker speak to you boy?"** Wilcox asked, as he stomped to the boy's side.

"Sir, yes sir."

" **THERE IS ONLY ROOM FOR ONE PARKER IN THIS PLATOON, AND THAT AIN'T YOU."**

" **WHAT - IS - YOUR - NAME - BOY?"**

"Sir, Charles Pecker sir," Charles yelled.

" **GET IT RIGHT NEXT TIME PECKER."**

"Sir, yes sir."

The count went well until Munrose.

"Sir, Joseph Munrose number 14 sir." Wilcox ran over to Munrose.

" **MUNROSE, ARE YOU NUMBER 14?"**

"Sir, yes sir," the boy yelled.

" **IF YOU ARE NUMBER 14, WHY THE HELL ARE YOU STANDING BEHIND NUMBER 23?"**

" **WHY AREN'T YOU LINED UP BEHIND NUMBER 13?"**

"Sir, I don't know sir."

" **ARE YOU TRYING TO SCREW UP MY FORMATION?"**

"Sir, no sir," the boy yelled.

" **YOU BETTER FIND YOUR POSITION IN LINE."**

Munrose ran to find his spot but it was easier said than done. No one really knew who was supposed to be standing in front of or behind him; everyone just fell into a position without leaving an empty spot for his team member. Munrose was not the only one out of order, so we would repeat the drill several times. Once we had counted off and were in proper order, we were commanded to learn the name and face of the person in front and back of us and to always line up in that order. A lesson we would not need to relearn. After we counted off, he gave us instructions.

" **Listen up!"**

" **On my command, squads one and two line up single file, to the left side of my street. Squads three and four line up on the right side of my street."** He paused to let it sink in. **"Move,"** came the order. We scrambled to form two rows along the street. Wilcox walked down the middle of the street, sizing up the platoon assembled for the first time. He took a position in the middle of the group, while the other two DIs took positions at either end of the lines.

" **Firrrst and Secooon squaaaad, Riiieeet, Heess,"** Wilcox commanded.

Not a soul moved. Everyone was a bundle of nerves. _"What the hell did he say? Why does it sound like he has a mouth full of marbles? Why can't he just speak English?"_ I thought, in silent protest.

It did not take five seconds and all three DIs moved, as if on cue. They began yanking anyone they could reach, spinning them into position.

" **IS THIS GROUP DEAF OR JUST STUPID?"**

" **I SAID RIGHT FACE, THAT MEANS TURN YOUR BODY TO - THE - RIGHT."**

" **FACE THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET BEFORE I INTRODUCE YOU TO MY BOOT."**

With that said, everyone from the first two squads moved to face the middle of the street. He then turned to face us, and I was ready. I had learned the lesson. He wouldn't have to say it twice. When he gave the command, I turned as expected.

" **Thirrrd and fooourth squaaad, Lerrrt Heess."** Wilcox was good.

In one semi-smooth move the third and fourth squads turned to the right. We were now facing the Quonset huts.

" _Weren't we supposed to be facing the middle of the street?"_ I thought. The question did not linger long.

" **NOW I KNOW THIS GROUP IS STUPID. I - SAID \- LEFT - FACE, THAT MEANS TURN YOUR BODY TO THE LEFT AND FACE THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET."**

Everyone from the third and fourth squads scrambled to face the middle of the street as quickly as they could before being physically assaulted and forced into position. For the next five minutes, we were lectured. **"YOU MUST BE THE DUMBEST IDIOTS THAT EVER - ENTERED - MY - CORPS."** His words faded into obscurity.

" _He seems to have a good grasp of the basics of the English language. He has certainly mastered all of the four letter words. Why can't he just say "left face" or "right face?"_ I thought.

" **Spread out, raise your arms so your fingertips touch the fingers of the turd next to you."** Everyone followed the instructions without difficulty. Once we were spaced apart he barked, **"Jumping Jacks! Reeee HURA!"** He paced up and down the lines inspecting our form, for at least twenty seconds.

" **COMPANEEE HALT."**

Everyone stopped, gasping for air. We must have done fifteen jumping jacks.

" **You look pathetic, like a bunch of girl scouts skipping rope. In my Corps, we perform as a team, in unison – we all move as one. Timing is critical. Your life will depend on it. When you do jacks in my Corps, your two feet should be planted on the deck with your arms at your side. I will count cadence and you better be moving as one."**

" **On - my - count - ladies."**

" **Reeee HURA."**

" **One... Two... Three... Four..."**

It took only a few minutes for the group to get the timing almost correct. He counted to twenty-five. Most of us moved as a unit. Those who didn't would pay later.

" **COMPANEEE HALT,"** he commanded.

" **PUSH-UPS! ASSUME THE POSITION,"** he belched.

There was confusion. Some dropped into a push-up position, while others stood waiting for **"Move! Move! Move!"** A little pushing and shoving by a DI would correct the misguided responses.

" **WHAT IS IT ABOUT ASSUME - THE - POSITION YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND?"**

Everybody hit the deck.

" **On - my - count - ladies."**

" **Reeee, HURA." "One... Two... Three... Four..."** He stopped at twenty-five but we were not moving as a single unit. He let it slide.

It wasn't because we didn't want to. We just were not physically fit. This would be rectified over the next few months.

" **On your feet,"** came the next command. Most of the platoon tried to stand at attention. A few stood bent over at the waist gasping for air. A quick response from the three DIs followed. Knuckles flew in every direction, for the first few maggots they could get to. The others took the bait and stood straight – well, almost straight.

" **WHY ARE YOU BENT OVER?"**

" **WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?"**

" **DID YOU LOSE A CONTACT, SWEETIE?"** He screamed at Oliver, one of the fat maggots.

" **DO YOU WANT ME TO PLANT MY BOOT UP YOUR BIG - FAT - ASS?"**

He turned to address the platoon.

" **WHEN I SAY ON YOUR FEET, I WANT YOU STANDING AT ATTENTION. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME LADIES?"**

"Sir, yes sir." The response was solid. There was no need for him to say, I can't hear you. But he said it anyway, and everyone yelled louder. It was a routine we would get used to. They yelled at us and we yelled back. The only time we spoke was after lights-out, and then we whispered, because the penalty of getting caught talking was too great.

" **Fall in,"** was the next command. The group scrambled. Some began to form lines as instructed earlier, while others dropped into the push-up position. A few stood, not knowing what to do.

" **Fall in."**

" **Fall in."**

" **Get into formation ladies. Mooove."** Wilcox yelled.

Lightning bolts shot from his eyes and connected with the eyes of every recruit he looked at. Each blast had more than enough energy to drive them into formation.

" **Count off,"** he yelled.

This time we were in the proper formation – another lesson learned. We were then instructed to re-enter the hut, get our towel, soap, and washcloth, and be back in formation in three minutes. Once we reassembled, with towels around our neck and soap in our right hand, we were given the command. **"Forwaaard Harruch."** The group lurched forward in an uncoordinated manner. The next command came quickly. **"Halt!"**

Everyone froze. Most came to attention, but it was sloppy. Our heels were not together. A few stopped in mid-step with the right foot, or left foot, in the forward position and the other dragging behind. It was not pretty. A few quick slaps or a swift kick to the leg got all heels into position.

" **Ladies! When I say forward march, you will step forward leading with your left foot. The next step will be with your right foot. That - is - how - it - works - ladieees."**

" **Left - right - left, each stride will be no more than thirty inches."**

" **The heel of your foot will land parallel with - your - shoulder."**

" **When I call cadence I want one sound. I want the sound of seventy-two heels striking the deck as one. I do not want to hear seventy-two feet striking my deck."**

" **You will be a unified unit. There are no individuals in the Corps. You can take the words I, ME, and MY out of your vocabulary. You will march as one. You will fight as one, and if I don't kill you during the next twelve weeks you may have the opportunity to die for the one - and - only - Corps."**

He paused and then gave his next command. **"Forwaaard Harruch."** The effort was better but it still didn't cut muster. He let it slide. He knew we would march for hours every day. In a few weeks, we would be marching with the sound of a single unit. For the moment however, we would march to the Head like girls skipping to the park. I quickly learned it did not matter if I understood the words. It was the response that mattered. When a command was given, it was our ability to respond that was being programmed. There were two speeds we moved at: fast and faster. If we weren't marching, we ran. Marching and running was now my way of life.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### The First Meal

It had been 30 hours since I ate my last meal, before I left home. We marched to the mess hall and took our place outside the entrance, behind several platoons that arrived before us. Wilcox strolled up and down the lines. Periodically, he would stop and slap a new recruit upside the head because his eyes wandered. Justin Carter made the mistake of moving his eyes and Wilcox jumped on his case without mercy.

" **Are you eye-balling me boy?"**

" **I did not say you could look at me."**

" **Place your eyeballs on the back of the head of the turd in front of you."**

" **Do you know where the back of his head is, sweetie? It is right here."** Wilcox placed a quick slap to the back of the head of the poor sap standing in front of Carter.

" **If I catch you eye-balling me again, I will slap him twice as hard next time. Do you want to be responsible for the brain damage of this dirt bag?"** Carter froze.

" **Are you deaf?** I asked you a question boy."

" **Do you want to be responsible for this boy's brain damage?"**

"Sir, no sir." His voice quivered, as he forced out those three little words.

" **I do not want your eyeballs wandering around. I expect them to be fixed on the back of the head of the meatball in front of you. If I catch you eye-balling me again, I will unscrew your head and take a dump - down - your - throat.** He paused for effect.

" **Do you understand me Carter?"**

"Sir, yes sir!" Carter screamed.

" **I can't hear you scum bag. Do you read me boy?"**

"Sir, yes sir!!" Carter screamed back, this time with more volume, and Wilcox left him alone.

Being the last recruit in my squad, I could see Wilcox marching up and down the lines. My peripheral vision provided enough of a view that I learned the games Wilcox played. I tried not to move my eyes, but it was hard because my attention was drawn to where the action was taking place, and there was always the danger of another DI coming from a different angle. I concentrated on keeping my thumb straight to avoid a repeat of last night's lesson.

The platoon in front of us was beginning to enter the mess hall. Their drill instructor stood at the entrance to the chow hall and gave the command.

" **First squad, on my command,"** he yelled, followed by a short pause for effect.

" **Forwaaard Harruch."**

They entered the chow hall with complete, coordinated unity. Every foot moved and all heels struck the deck with the sound of a single movement. They were skilled, and I wondered how long it took them to become that precise. After all four squads had entered the mess hall, Wilcox took his place at the front of our platoon.

" **On my command, I want this platoon to march forward and stop on the yellow line."** We stumbled to the line, just in front of the entrance, when he gave the command. As we waited to enter the mess hall, Wilcox stomped up and down the line shouting instructions.

" **When you enter the chow hall you will pick a tray and hold it to your chest."**

" **You will take a spoon, fork, and knife in your right hand."**

" **You will take a cup in your left hand."**

" **You will fall into the line I select for you."**

" **You may choose any item from our fine cuisine."**

" **Take only what you will eat, because you will eat everything that you take."**

" **Once you exit the chow line look for Sergeants Martin and Wilkinson. They will show you the section where you will sit."**

" **When you get to the table, you will stand at attention with your tray until you are told to sit."**

" **You - will - not - begin to eat until the entire platoon is in place."**

" **When I give you the command, you will have ten minutes to eat."**

" **When I give the order to fall in, you will - not take another bite."**

" **You will take your tray to the conveyor belt."**

" **Place your fork and spoon in the correct container."**

" **If there is any food left on your tray you - will - pay for not following my orders."**

" **Do you understand me ladies?"**

"Sir, yes sir," was the response.

While we stood waiting for our turn to enter the chow hall, a recruit from another platoon cut through our line to join his platoon. Wilcox, who was standing at the front of our squad, moved quickly to the area where the recruit had broken through our line. Screaming like a banshee, he stood toe-to-toe yelling in the face of the boy who mistakenly allowed someone to break through our ranks.

" **WHY DID YOU LET THAT BOY BREAK OUR RANKS? NO ONE BREAKS OUR RANKS. YOU ARE A UNIT. YOU WILL MOVE AS A UNIT, YOU WILL LEARN AS A UNIT, YOU WILL FIGHT AS A UNIT. NO ONE WILL EVER BREAK THROUGH RANKS AND SEPARATE YOU FROM YOUR UNIT."** Wilcox bellowed. Two other DIs entered into the game and all three screamed in the boy's face. **"NO ONE BREAKS OUR RANKS."**

Wilcox drove this point home with one of his many stories. This one was about a squad of Marines during World War II who were stationed in the South Pacific.

" **They were on night patrol. It was pitch black. The patrol had to move through the jungle holding on to the belt or shoulder straps of the Marine in front of him. At one point, the ranks of the squad were broken, as one of the men slipped and fell. When they regained their position one of the Marines felt something was different. The Marine moved his arm up and across the shoulders of the individual in front of him. He could feel the uniform was different. The high collar of the jungle uniform was missing. Recognizing the enemy had infiltrated the ranks; the Marine quickly took his bayonet and struck the enemy with a lethal blow to the neck."**

" **When the ranks were broken the enemy slipped in and took a position in the squad. This compromised the mission and the lives of every man. Never let anyone break your ranks. If anyone attempts to break your ranks, close ranks tight. Take whatever action necessary to keep the intruder from separating you from your team. If they infiltrate your parameter, your life and the lives of your team are at stake."**

It was a lesson we would not have to learn again. An attempt to break our ranks would be tested many times while at Boot Camp, but would never succeed. It is not difficult to protect your ranks. The squad simply tightens up and assaults the intruder, just like how fire ants protect their mound.

When it was finally our turn to enter the chow hall, Sergeant Martin entered first and took a position at the beginning of the chow line. The mess hall was large and divided in two sections. Both sections were set up identically, and each could accommodate 200 recruits. Wilcox gave a command to the first squad to enter the mess hall, and they were directed to line up at the chow line. I watched Martin hover over each recruit who passed through the line. He would supervise the amount of food for the overweight boys, who he called "fat maggots." He found a good specimen, new recruit Rob Stevens.

" **Who the hell let you enter my Corps boy? He must have been blind and dumb. You are so fat I'll bet you can't give me one measly pull-up. You must be topping the scale at 300 pounds. Do you weigh 300 pounds, boy?"**

"Sir, two-hundred and thirty pounds sir," the boy said. That might have been fine if he was six foot three inches, but he barely made it to five-foot-seven inches. That placed him about fifty pounds over the Marine maximum weight standard for his height.

" **Before you leave here you will be half the fat pig you are today. You better hear me boy. When you pass through this line, you will take one scoop of eggs, two sausage links or bacon. You will not take a piece of bread or any potatoes. You can have one carton of milk and all the orange juice you want. Do you read me boy?"**

"Sir, yes sir."

" **Get out of my face, you are a disgrace to the human race."** The boy hobbled away with his one scoop of eggs, two sausage links.

When I reached the front line Martin approached me.

" **You scrawny little shit, how much do you weigh?"**

" _Sir, one-hundred and five pounds sir,"_ I said.

" **You need to put some weight on."**

" **Give him two scoops of eggs, two sausage links, two slices of bread and two cartons of milk."** He directed his comment to the server behind the line.

" _Sir, yes sir"_ I said.

" **WAS - I - TALKING - TO - YOU - BOY?"**

" **DID I GIVE YOU PERMISSION - TO - SPEAK?"**

" _Huh, sir, I thought ..."_

" **YOU THOUGHT? YOU THOUGHT? WHO GAVE YOU PERMISSION TO THINK?"**

" **I DID NOT GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO THINK."**

" **I DID NOT GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO SPEAK."**

" **WHAT - I - GAVE - WAS - AN - ORDER."**

" **NOW GET YOUR FOOD AND GET TO THE TABLE. YOU - ARE - HOLDING - UP - MY - LINE."**

I moved as quickly as I could but it was not fast enough. He chased me to the table, yelling all the way.

" **You better not spill anything off that tray boy."**

" **Are you listening to me?"**

" **I am talking to you turd."**

I was shaking like a 4.0 earthquake had just struck. Just as if the floor buckled, my body pitched to the right, then left.

" _What the hell is the matter with him?"_ I thought. Luckily, some other poor sap caught his attention and I made it to the safety of the table. I tried to blend into the crowd, and the other seventy-one bald-headed, terrified boys, dressed in bright yellow sweatshirts, white high-top tennis shoes, and green baggy pants – I mean trousers – felt the same way.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Push Brooms and Pull Brooms

The term **"Field Day"** had nothing to do with a sporting event. It refers to a top-to-bottom cleaning of your area, such as the barracks or the area outside the barracks, where we'd pick up litter and return the area to its expected condition. Each of the four squads was given an assignment. Shovels, rakes, and brooms were located in a Quonset hut at the end of the row. It was the squad leader's responsibility to ensure that all team members assigned to him completed their duties, such as picking up cigarette butts and papers, or pulling grass from between stones and pebbles around the Quonset huts. I was given a push broom and assigned the responsibility of cleaning the sand off the street.

I was sweeping the street when Sergeant Wilkinson approached me.

" **What the hell do you think you are doing recruit?"** I stopped sweeping and stood at attention, holding the broom at my side.

"Sir, sweeping the street sir."

" **Do you think I'm stupid boy?"**

"Sir, no sir."

" **Then tell me, what do you think you are doing?"**

"Sir, I am pushing the sand off the street onto the grass sir."

" **You - are - not - pushing the sand off of my street, sweetie. Do you think I am blind?"**

"Sir, no sir."

I had no idea what he was talking about but I thought my heart was going to explode in my chest. I was terrified and confused.

" **What do you have in your hands boy?"** He screamed.

"Sir, a push broom sir."

" **THAT IS CORRECT. WHAT ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO DO WITH - A - PUSH - BROOM?"**

"Sir, push it sir," I yelled.

" **THAT IS CORRECT. NOW! I WANT TO KNOW, WHY \- ARE - YOU - PULLING - MY - PUSH - BROOM?"**

" **IF THEY WANTED YOU TO PULL IT, THEY WOULD HAVE CALLED IT A - PULL - BROOM."**

" **I BETTER NOT CATCH YOU PULLING - MY - PUSH - BROOM - AGAIN. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"**

"Sir, yes sir." Satisfied with my response he moved on to his next target.

I had never thought about it before. I had pulled push brooms my entire life – it was just part of sweeping. Push it or pull it, it didn't matter to me. For some reason this guy had a fetish about brooms and I wouldn't win this argument. I knew, however, I would never pull - his - push - broom - again.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### House Mouse

I went back to cleaning the street when Michael, another recruit, ran up to me. He and I shared the same hut and he had seen the push broom disaster unfold.

"Hey Peter, I got a job for you."

" _You trying to get me in trouble? Stop talking to me and leave me alone,"_ I said.

"No, I'm not kidding. Come with me, you won't be sweeping the streets," he said.

" _What are you talking about?"_ I snapped.

"I got the job of a House Mouse, and they need another guy."

" _What the hell is a House Mouse?"_ I said.

"He's the guy that helps Parker and the other DIs. He runs errands and stuff."

" _What kind of stuff?"_ I asked.

"I don't know yet. All I know is that a House Mouse does stuff for the DI's and you don't have to do this stuff anymore. They always pick the shortest guys for this job. Come on, it's a good thing. It will get you off the street."

He yanked the broom from my hand, grabbed my shoulder, and pulled me toward the last Quonset hut. Not knowing any better, I followed.

"This is where all the DIs stay. This is where we will work," he said.

He ran up to the building, pounded his fist on the doorjamb three times, and yelled.

"Sir, recruit Albert requests permission to enter, sir."

" **Permission granted,"** was the response from within. He ran in and stood at attention in front of the drill instructor's desk. I followed and stood at attention next to him, which turned out to be a fatal error.

" **Who gave you permission to come into my house? Do you have shit - for - brains?"**

It was Parker. He had been sitting behind a desk before I entered. Now he was up and moving in my direction. My heart sank. I was gripped by fear.

" **I asked you a question shitbird. Who gave you permission to enter - my - house?"**

" _Sir, I thought ..."_ I caught myself in mid-sentence but it was too late.

" **You thought? Who gave you permission to think?"**

I could not back down, it would be a sign of weakness. I could not let him see me flinch. I stood my ground.

" _Sir, I thought the Drill Sergeant gave me permission to ..."_ He landed a quick slap upside my head.

" **DRILL SERGEANT!!!"**

" **DRILL SERGEANT!!!"** His blast sounded like a freight train screaming in my ear.

" **ARE YOU TRYING TO INSULT ME, YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT? THERE ARE NO DRILL SERGEANTS IN THE CORPS. THE MARINE CORPS HAS DRILL INSTRUCTORS. DO YOU THINK YOU CAN REMEMBER THAT PETER?"**

" _Oh no! He knows my name,"_ I thought. I have been delivered into the devil's den and he smells blood. He will read my fear and cut me into pieces. My pulse was pounding in my ears. I was dizzy and lightheaded.

" _What did I do to deserve this? I must have died and gone to hell."_ I said a quick Hail Mary and hoped there was still time to redeem my soul.

He moved around the desk and was now standing behind me. I could feel his glare over my shoulder. **"ABOUT-FACE,"** he screamed in my ear. I stumbled to do an about-face and lost my balance.

" **Take your Cover off in my house,"** he said. He snatched the hat off my head and shoved it into my gut with the force of a punch. I fought for air and struggled to stand at attention. Glancing up, I felt fire surge from his eyes, followed by a scorching rebuke.

" **ARE YOU EYE-BALLING ME BOY?"**

" _Sir, no sir,"_ I repositioned my eyes to the center of his chest and realized I had never known fear before. Sure, I was scared watching "Dracula" or "The Mummy" at the Saturday afternoon matinee, when I was the innocent age of twelve. But, I never felt this kind of terror. Well, maybe once. When I was eight years old, I found myself alone in my basement. Not knowing what was lurking in the shadows, behind the furnace, scared the crap out of me. That is how I felt standing now, standing in front of Parker.

I promised myself. _"If I survive this, I will face fear without blinking. I will stand up to anything with my head held high for the remainder of my life. I will not show him my fear. I will take whatever he throws at me. I will not break."_ I stood tall, ready for the next assault.

" **WHEN YOU COME TO MY HUT, YOU'LL KNOCK ON MY DOOR THREE TIMES."** He demonstrated by pounding three times on my chest.

" **THEY - WILL - BE - HARD - LOUD - KNOCKS."**

" **YOU WILL REQUEST PERMISSION TO ENTER."**

" **YOU - WILL - NOT - ENTER - UNLESS - YOU - ARE - GIVEN - PERMISSION."**

" **DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT PETER?"**

" _Sir, yes sir."_

" **I DON'T THINK YOU DO!"**

" **GET OUT AND TRY IT AGAIN."** He shoved me in the direction of the door and I stumbled onto the street.

" **PUT YOUR COVER ON YOUR HEAD YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT."**

" _Sir, yes sir,"_ I yelled. I hobbled to regain my composure.

Standing at attention, I pounded on the door and yelled. _"Sir, recruit Pecoraro requests permission to enter, sir."_

" **I can't hear you,"** was the response from inside the hut.

With more effort, I yelled. _"Sir, recruit Pecoraro requests permission to enter sir!"_

" **Knock like you want to get my attention, Peter."** I knocked harder.

" _Sir, recruit Pecoraro requests permission to enter sir."_

" **You better make me believe it."**

" _Sir, recruit Pecoraro requests permission to enter sir."_

My throat hurt from screaming and my knuckles began to swell after pounding repeatedly on his door. I began to pound with my left hand to reduce the pain on my right hand. Within a split second, a rebuke came from Parker.

" **WHY DID YOU SWITCH HANDS PETER?"** He screamed as he marched to my side.

" **WHO GAVE YOU PERMISSION TO SWITCH HANDS?"**

" **I KNOW I DIDN'T GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO SWITCH HANDS."**

" **WHO GAVE YOU PERMISSION TO SWITCH HANDS?"**

I was lost for words, I hesitated.

" **ARE YOU IGNORING ME RECRUIT? I ASKED YOU A QUESTION. WHO GAVE YOU PERMISSION?"**

" _Sir, the recruit's hand hurt, so he switched hands sir."_ I replied.

" **DID MOMMA'S IDDI-BIDDY BOY HURT HIS IDDY-BIDDY-PINKIE?"**

" **YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT PAIN IS. YOU WILL TAKE THE PAIN AND LEARN TO LOVE IT. YOU WILL LOVE IT SO MUCH YOU WILL ASK FOR MORE. SOOOO! SUCK IT UP."** He was now standing within two inches of my ear and poking his hat onto the side of my head.

" **ARE YOU TELLING ME THAT BECAUSE YOU HURT YOUR PINKIE, YOU DECIDED TO MAKE A DECISION?"**

" **DID YOU DECIDE TO SWITCH HANDS PETER?"**

" **TELL ME YOU DID NOT DECIDE TO MAKE A STUPID DECISION."**

" _Sir, the recruit made the decision sir."_

" **YOU HAVE NOT EARNED THE RIGHT TO MAKE A DECISION."**

" **YOU DO NOT HAVE THE RIGHT TO THINK ON YOUR OWN."**

" **I WILL DO YOUR THINKING FOR YOU AND I WILL MAKE YOUR DECISIONS FOR YOU."**

" **I - OWN - YOU! IS THAT CLEAR SHIT-BAG?"**

" _Sir, yes sir."_ I yelled as loud as I could so I could get this routine over with.

" **IT WARMS MY HEART TO HEAR THAT YOU SEE IT MY WAY."**

" **NOW! SWITCH BACK AND USE THE OTHER HAND."**

He stood there for a minute, like a brick shit-house, and watched me before he went inside the hut. Small smudges of blood collected on the hatch as I pounded. I transferred the force of the blow slightly, to the palm of my hand. That helped ease the pain on my knuckles, which went undetected by Parker. My throat was another matter. It would be sore for days. I just had to suck it up.

When finally given permission to enter, I stood at attention directly in front of Parker.

" **YOU MEASLY LITTLE WEASEL. GRAB THE BOOT POLISH FROM MY LOCKER, AND PUT A HIGH SHINE ON THE TOES OF MY DRESS SHOES. YOU CAN SIT ON THE FOOT LOCKER WHILE YOU WORK."**

" _Sir, yes sir."_ I ran to the locker and grabbed the boots and polish. I then moved to the footlocker to begin work. I had difficulty opening the can of polish and in one awkward moment, the can popped open and fell. A small chunk of polish made a mark on the deck. The response from Parker was immediate.

" **YOU CLUMSY FOOL, CAN'T YOU DO ANYTHING RIGHT? YOU WILL CLEAN THAT UP AND THEN YOU WILL HANG TEN."**

He turned to Michael, **"I TOLD YOU TO FIND SOMEONE WHO COULD HELP, AND ALL YOU CAN BRING ME IS GUTTER SLIME TO MUCK UP MY FLOOR."** He then turned to me.

" **THIS IS YOUR FAULT. GET SOME RAGS AND DETERGENT AND CLEAN UP THE MESS."**

Once the smudge had been cleaned up, I stood at attention. **"YOU HAVE RUINED MY MORNING PETER, DON'T EVER SET FOOT IN MY HOUSE AGAIN,"** Parker said. That was music to my ears. I did not want to be there anyway.

" **BEFORE YOU LEAVE, YOU WILL HANG TEN FROM MY LOCKER."**

The confused look on my face was obvious and Parker turned to Michael. **"Tell him what he is to do and if he doesn't get it right, you will hang alongside him."** Michael explained that I had to hang from the top of the locker for ten minutes or until I was given permission to stop.

I jumped to reach the top of the locker to hold on, hoping I would not have to hang too long. I moved to reposition my fingers for a better grip, but before I could reset them, Parker was standing beside me. He lifted me up. **"BY YOUR ELBOWS DUMB ASS, HANG BY YOUR ELBOWS."**

He instructed me to position my arms across the top of the locker. With my upper arms parallel to the deck, I was told to bend my arms, at the elbows, so my fist would rest on my forehead. My body hung along the vertical length of the locker. With my elbows holding my weight, I held this position for a few minutes. My feet dangled a foot above the deck. My only consolation was that Michael hung beside me.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Bucket Life

We arrived at the first of several distribution centers and waited in formation while Parker entered the building. Wilcox and Martin stood watch over us. When Parker came out, he ordered the first squad to enter. Once we entered, we were given a bucket and were directed to several stations to receive our gear. We placed the items in the bucket. The gear included: toothpaste, a razor, bayonet, backpack, ammo belt, clothing stamp, sewing kit, and a little red book called the "Uniform Code of Military Justice," (UCMJ). This book included the rules, regulations, and requirements for conduct and legal process that applied to all military personnel.

We took the gear back to our huts and were ordered to pull our footlockers onto the street. For several hours, we were taught how to stamp our name on everything that had been issued. **"First initial, last name,"** Parker ordered. We stamped our underwear, cover, fatigues, and trousers. Everything was stamped, except the canteens, bayonet, and other items that would be returned after graduation. During the stamping exercise no one spoke, except the DIs.

Parker explained how to store the gear in the footlocker. Everything that was issued had an exact place, which would be precisely measured during inspections. We were issued a small measuring tape, the kind a tailor uses, to arrange our stuff.

"Junk-on-the-bunk" was the term we used to describe the process of laying items on the rack for inspection. It was critical to get each item in its exact location – our belt, buckle, cover, backpack, canteens, ammo belt, washcloth, and towel. Everything required precise spacing. Parker would take a measuring tape from his pocket, and measure the spacing of each item lying in the footlocker or on the rack. The mistake for incorrect placement of gear was not pretty. On several occasions, I had my rack and footlocker dumped onto the floor for placing my belt buckle 1/8th of an inch off center.

After the stamping party, we performed calisthenics and went to lunch. After lunch, we ran to our next location, another distribution center. We were fitted for our dress uniforms and given our rifle. Our pictures were taken in dress blues. Actually, the jacket was only a prop. It was split up the back so we could slide our arms through the sleeves. The front was straightened and the back was secured with Velcro to hold it in place. Two snaps of the camera and another recruit sat down on the stool for his Dress Blues photo.

After we were assigned our rifles, we marched back to our huts and lined up in two rows facing each other. We stood at attention with our rifle. Wilcox gave us the basics of handling the rifle while he paced up and down each row.

We were reviewing every possible combination of maneuvers for handling the rifle when Parker arrived. Wilcox ordered us to "fall in." Parker and Wilcox marched us to the parade deck where we learned to march and drill with our rifle. We spent many hours a day learning to march, which is called "Close Order Drill."

After several hours of close order drill, Parker marched us back to our huts. We were instructed to pull our footlockers onto the road. Then we were taught how to break down, clean, and reassemble our rifle. Parker hammered into us the respect we must have for our weapon by teaching us the Creed. Parker would drill this creed into us over-and-over.

" **This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine.**

My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I will master it as I will master my life.

My rifle without me is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless.

My rifle and I are one.

I will shoot straighter than my enemy.

I will shoot him before he shoots me.

I know what counts are not the rounds I fire.

I know it is the kill that counts.

I will keep my rifle clean and ready at all times.

My rifle and I are the defenders of my country."

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Double Time

The sun was high as we marched to the airfield. Wilcox gave the command when we reached his ideal viewing position.

" **Platoooon Halt."**

" **Leeeft Hece,"** he barked.

We stopped, turned left and stood watching planes land and depart from the airfield, which was adjacent to the base. We watched, and watched, and watched some more. I counted no less than five planes depart and an equal number land. Eventually, Wilcox took his position in front of the platoon and paced from one end to the other.

" **Listen up! I want you to take a good look at those planes and I want you to know that you cannot escape from MCRD by stowing away in the cargo hold of a jet. If you try, you will die. This is no joke. If you try, you will die."**

" **It might seem tempting, but let me assure you that there is no oxygen at 20,000 feet; and there is no heat in the cargo hold. So you will not only die from lack of oxygen, you will be frozen stiff when you land."** He paused to let it echo in our heads.

" **There is nothing stopping you from jumping this fence to that airstrip. Do any of you ladies have a question about trying to escape on a jet?"**

The question was rhetorical. Obviously, everyone understood him clearly. However, was it true or was he just yanking our chain? Even if it was not true, it did not matter. As far as I was concerned, it was true.

After he was sure we understood him, he gave us the order, **"Rieeght Hece."** He paused to let it sink in.

" **Platoooon Forwaaard, Harrch."** The platoon launched forward to his cadence of **"Lert, lert, lert, rieet, lert,"** for several minutes. Suddenly my ears tuned into his commands. He was actually saying Left, Right, Left. Then, without warning, he gave a new command. **"Double Tieeem, Harrch."** He launched into a jog while we watched, without a clue we continued to march. After a few strides, he stopped.

" **Platoooon Halt."** He turned to face us, with his legs spread wide and arms on his hips. **"Are you ever going to get anything right? Push up position NOW,"** he screamed.

Everyone fell to the ground and assumed the position. I could hear Mitchell's teeth, the recruit next to me, rattling as he hit the deck. I wondered if he could hear mine.

" **On my count, Reeee HURA, 1, 2, 3.... 23, 24."** We were gasping for breath when we hit 25. He gave his next command, **"Fall in."** Jumping up, we stood at attention.

" **Listen up!"**

" **When I call cadence you move to the beat and rhythm I set. Marching in normal speed is called Quick Time. Running in formation is called Double Time and the purpose is to keep you maggots moving in step, as a unit. When marching at Quick Time, your stride is thirty inches. At Double Time, your stride is thirty-six inches. To make it simple for you idiots, when I give you the command Double Time, you run. I can't make it any simpler than that. Do you understand?"**

"Sir, yes sir." The group yelled in unison.

" **Let's try it again girls."** He paused to let it sink in. Then he gave the order.

" **Platoooon, forwaaard march."**

" **Left, Left, Left, Right, Left."**

" **Companeee, Double Tieeem, March."**

We ran for fifteen minutes along the fence of the Naval Base, adjacent to our base. The Naval Base served as boot camp and a training center for the **"sailor boys."** He made a point to highlight the differences between our training and our **"pantywaist"** neighbors.

He pointed out how weak and inadequate our physical condition was. He compared us to the **"sissy pants squids,"** next door.

" **You make those squids look good."**

" **I have never seen a more pitiful handful of prissy Girl Scouts."**

He told us about the healthy sibling rivalry between Marines and our Navy cousins. **"Naval power, skill and discipline are exceptional, second to none. The Marines I know have the highest regard for our Navy cousins. But no respectful Marine would get caught dead in one of those sissy white Dixie Cup Caps."**

Another lesson learned, understanding your place in the pecking order is important.

### ~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### The Pit

After lunch, Parker took us for another run.

" _He must be breaking some rule running us after a meal. You're not supposed to go swimming or running for at least two hours after a meal,"_ I thought.

The thought did not have time to linger. The run was immediately followed by a visit to "The Pit" where we would push out twenty-five push-ups, twenty-five jumping jacks, twenty-five sit ups and twenty-five squat thrusts. We were out of breath, but Parker didn't break a sweat.

"The Pit" is a large area of sand where we did calisthenics. Workouts in the pit were more excruciating than on the road, because sand got into your eyes, mouth, and every crack or fold of your skin. I shook sand out of my boxers all day. Sweating made the sand stick to your shirt and act like sandpaper, rubbing skin raw with every move.

A morning trip to the pit meant sand would aggravate all day long. I itched everywhere but I couldn't scratch or move to relieve the irritation. The discomfort forced me to focus and discipline my mind to endure the pain. Parker had several sayings that he ranted over and over as we worked out in the pit.

" **Take the pain."**

" **Pain is your friend."**

" **Pain is weakness leaving your body."**

" **This is a mind game."**

" **It is mind over matter."**

" **I DON'T MIND, AND - YOU - DON'T - MATTER."**

Horseflies swarmed, biting exposed flesh, and ants consumed the salt from our sweat. If we swatted them, Parker would scream and punish us more because we moved without permission.

" **They need to eat too. The next time you slap one I will slap you, and the platoon will do twenty-five squat thrusts."**

Punishing the whole platoon is brutal. Everyone pays for the mistake of one. It is psychological warfare and the DI is skilled with the tricks of the trade. Everyone begins looking out for each other, at first.

Then, the platoon begins to turn on the repeat offenders to get them up to speed. There is a point when patience runs out because the non-hackers just can't get it right. After a while, the guys in the platoon begin doing the dirty work when the DI isn't around. Most non-hackers are transferred to "Motivation Platoon." On a few occasions, guys took matters into their own hands and someone went to the hospital.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Field Strip Your Butts

After the pit, we marched back to the huts and stood at attention on the road.

" **On my command fall out. If you have cigarettes grab them and fall into two lines on the road, facing the middle of the road. You have five minutes ladies to get your cancer sticks, and four of them are already gone."** Parker paused to let it sink in.

" **Fall out."** We ran to get our cancer sticks, reassembled into a two-line formation, and waited to be given permission to smoke.

" **Everyone who has cigarettes hold them in your right hand, above your head,"** Parker said, as he walked back and forth between the columns.

" **You are allowed to smoke when you hear the command, 'the smoking lamp is lit.'"**

" **However, the smoking lamp - is - not - lit - and - you - will - not remove the cancer stick from your pack. You will not light a match or strike a flame of any kind unless the - smoking - lamp - is - lit."**

" **The smoking lamp is lit only under conditions where there is absolute assurance that the lives and safety of the men are secure. When aboard ship there are explosive chemicals. Smoking around them could cost the lives of hundreds of men on the ship."**

" **When you are on night patrol or in an ambush site, lighting your cigarette can be seen a mile away. Your location will be compromised the moment you light that cancer stick."**

" **You may get one drag from that cigarette but the second or third time it glows, in the pitch-black night, a sniper will put a round through your stupid skull. You will have given away the position of your team and you will have endangered their lives."**

" **Will you ever light a cigarette at night ladies?"**

"Sir, no sir," was the response.

" **Great! I will now teach you how to 'Field Strip' that cancer stick."**

" **Take one cigarette from your packet. Place the pack in your right hip pocket and hold the cigarette in your right hand. Bring it up to chest level, with the filter up, for you ladies who don't smoke a manly cigarette."**

" **For all you girly-types, rip the filter from the cigarette and place it in your left hip pocket."**

" **Rip the paper from the cigarette, place the tobacco in your right hand and place the paper in your mouth."**

" **Swallow the paper. You can toss the filter in a 'shit can' later."**

" **In the field make sure you get rid of the filter so no one can track - and - kill - your - dumb - ass - for - being - stupid."**

" **Sprinkle the tobacco around so that it cannot be detected by any enemy force that might pass by. You do not want to leave any evidence you were in the area."**

" **If I find any tobacco on my deck the platoon will do 200 push-ups.**

" **Fall out and put the cancer sticks back in your foot locker."** It would be six weeks before we heard the words the "smoking lamp is lit." When he finally granted us the privilege of smoking, no one smoked a filtered cigarette.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Night Games

We marched to the mess hall for our third meal of the day. After dinner, we ran fifteen-minutes and took another trip to the pit. After the workout, we found ourselves back on the road in front of the huts.

" **Get your footlockers, your boots, and polish and be on the street in five minutes,"** Parker commanded.

When we were assembled, he instructed us to spit polish our boots. I had never heard the term before and watched others so I wouldn't have to ask him anything. It really wasn't too difficult. You just put a little polish on a rag and spit on the polish as you rub it into the leather. It took hours to build up the polish on our new boots, so we sat on our footlockers until it was too dark to see any longer. We then stowed our gear and assembled on the road for roll call.

" **Seventy-two present and accounted for,"** Sergeant Martin informed Parker after we counted off. We made one last trip to the head before lights out. When we returned from the head we found all of our racks had been piled on the deck, in the middle of the hut.

" **You have ten minutes to make your rack. When you get your rack made, strip to your boxers and stand at attention next to your footlocker,"** Parker yelled, as he stood in the hatch.

When we got our hut squared away, Parker returned and asked each recruit for his wallet. He counted the cash and gave it to Sergeant Martin, who recorded the contents and placed the wallet in a bag. He began to ask every boy questions about their home, mother, girlfriend, and blood type.

" **Do you know your blood type scarface?"** "Scarface" was a nickname he had given one of the recruits that had a scar on his cheek, the result of gang fights in Chicago.

"Sir, no sir."

" **Learn it, it may save your life, and learn the blood type of every boy in this hut,"** Parker ordered. Now, it was my turn to be interrogated.

" **Oh! We have a Beatle here,"** he said when he saw the picture on my license. I played bass guitar and sang in a band before I enlisted, and had shoulder-length hair.

" **Do you think you're a Beatle Peter? Which one are you, Ringo? You kinda look like Ringo, with that big nose and all!"** He looked at the picture again and smirked.

" **Well, do you think you're a Beatle Peter?"**

"Sir, no sir."

" **You must be a Beatle "wanna-be. Do you want to be a Beatle Peter?"**

"Sir, no sir."

" **Well, if you're not a Beatle why do you have long hair? Are you gay boy? Only a queer would want to look like a girl. Are you a fag boy?"**

"Sir, no sir."

" **Ok Peter, but if I catch you looking funny at the other recruits you will wish you were never born."**

He went on to another recruit and looked at his license.

" **Ahiga, what kind of stupid name is that?"**

"Sir, Navaho sir."

" **So we have a real live injun here."** Parker's tone stung and Ahiga's face stiffened.

"Sir, Navaho sir."

" **Oh! A proud injun huh?"**

" **I heard you the first time turd."**

" **What does your injun name mean, chief?"**

"Sir, it means 'he fights' sir."

" **So are you a fighter boy? Did you join the Corps to fight?"**

"Sir, yes sir."

" **Are you looking for a fight boy?"**

" **Do want to take a poke at me chief?"**

"Sir, no sir."

" **Do you want to kill those communist bastards, mister proud injun?"**

"Sir, yes sir."

" **Okay chief, if you get through My - Boot \- Camp you might just have a chance to kill some commie scum."**

The next victim he walked up to was Robert Wilson, from Los Angeles. Parker looked at his license.

" **Wilson, Robert J."**

" **So, Wilson, you are from the great city of Watts."**

"Sir, yes sir."

" **You've seen tough times up there lately, haven't you Wilson?"** Parker could smell blood and began to circle for the kill.

"Sir, yes sir."

" **Did you enlist into the Corps to escape from the rubble of the riots?"**

"Sir, the recruit enlisted to make a better life for himself, sir."

" **Right!"** Parker said with a sarcastic rip in his delivery.

" **You're full of shit Wilson. You and your soul brothers burned the city to the ground and now you are looking for an easy way out. I guarantee you slum boy, the Corps will not be your easy way out. There are no handouts here. You will earn everything you get."**

" **Do you know your serial number slum boy?"**

"Sir, no sir."

" **Were you told to memorize your serial number when you were given your dog tags?"**

"Sir, yes sir."

" **Well, you - have - had - your - dog - tags - for - a - whole - day. Why is your service number not memorized?"**

"Sir, I don't know sir."

" **Are you telling me you're too stupid to memorize your service number, Wilson?"**

"Sir, no sir."

" **Then tell me why you have not memorized your service number?"**

"Sir, the recruit has no excuse sir."

" **I expect you to have your number memorized by reveille. Do - you - understand - boy?"**

"Sir, yes sir."

" **Push-up position Wilson. Give me fifty."** Wilson dropped into the push-up position and began pumping out his assignment.

Parker turned to address every recruit in the hut.

" **You all better have your service number memorized by reveille. It is stamped into your dog tags. Memorize your blood type also. It could save your life. You will do one-hundred pushups every day until your service number is memorized."**

He then turned and yelled, **"Lights out."** He exited the hut with Sergeant Martin behind him. Lights went out at 10:00 p.m., or should I say 22:00. Any reference to **"civilian time"** would be followed by a penalty of fifty push-ups. We now used military time, a 24-hour clock.

Eight of us stood in the dark trying to read the numbers on our dog tags. After a few minutes, my eyes adjusted to the dark but I could barely see the numbers. A few of the guys huddled by the window to try to decipher what was stamped on the tags. It didn't take long to realize that trying to memorize the number without light was stupid. I decided to crawl into my rack, with the hope that I would have time in the morning to read the numbers while we policed (cleaned up) the hut.

Lying there, I thought sleep deprivation must be a key factor used in the first phase of boot camp. New recruits are driven for the first several days with little or no sleep. The culture shock during the first week breaks you completely. Each day you are driven to the edge of your physical and mental limits, and then pushed further the next day. Major changes take place daily. You labor to meet the continual demands. After the initial shock wears off, you begin to fall into the routine, and become determined to finish the course.

I realized it had been about forty-five hours since I woke up to my mother's breakfast. With two days of a three-year hitch behind me, I resigned myself to my new life.

" _Is it day two or day three?"_ I wondered.

It didn't really matter; I was looking at a long haul. I tried not to think what tomorrow might bring. I was completely overwhelmed. Finally, I dozed off to sleep.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Where is Atherton?

Reveille sounded and all bodies hit the deck moving. When Wilcox entered the hut, someone yelled, **"Attention."** We had been instructed about Marine conduct earlier. The first person to see the Drill Instructor enter the room had to announce his presence by yelling "Attention." Whenever an officer entered the room, the first person to see him would yell "Officer on Deck." In either case, everyone in the area would stop what he was doing to stand at attention.

" **Carry on,"** Wilcox yelled. We continued getting dressed and making our racks. He walked around the hut making us nervous. **"On the street in five minutes ladies."** It seemed like less than a minute had gone by before we heard, **"You have one minute before formation."** I quickly finished tucking my blanket under the mattress and checked to see that my corners were square.

The call came from the street. **"Platoon, fall in."** We ran into position and counted off as instructed.

"Sir, Adam Smith, number 1 sir."

"Sir, Thomas Stowe, number 2 sir."

"Sir, Charles Parker, number 3 sir." All went well until it came to Dobbs.

"Sir, Henry Dobbs, number 48 sir." Silence hung in the air for a few seconds, but it felt like an hour. Wilcox, who had been standing at the front of the platoon, looked at his clipboard and immediately sprinted to the middle of the squad, where he found an empty spot.

" **Where is Atherton?"** he screamed. The question echoed throughout the base, and silence sat softly in the ears of every boy standing on the road.

" **Roberts, James, McCarthy – check the huts. Mendoza, check the head and bring him back here. You have five minutes."**

" **Runner,"** Wilcox yelled. Michael, the house mouse, broke ranks and immediately stood at attention next to Wilcox. **"Report to Staff Sergeant Parker, tell him we have a flight risk. Atherton is U.A."** (Unauthorized Absence)

Michael made a brisk about-face and ran to headquarters. A few minutes later, Michael returned and Parker wasn't far behind.

The squad leaders returned and reported Atherton was nowhere to be found.

" **Fall in,"** Wilcox yelled. Looking at his clipboard Wilcox gave the order.

" **Count off, beginning with Blanchard."**

"Sir, Kenneth Blanchard, number 50 sir."

Parker took the clipboard from Wilcox and stood stone cold until the entire platoon counted off. With the exception of Atherton, all were present and accounted for.

Parker marched us to the mess hall for breakfast. Even then, Parker found a way to mess with us.

" **This morning we will eat in the standing position."**

" **On one, place your fork into your food."**

" **On two, raise the fork to your mouth. Do not spill any food on my deck as you feed your pie hole."**

" **On three, chew your food thirty times."**

" **On four, swallow."**

Sometimes we ate sitting down. On other occasions, we ate standing, bent over at the waist, because we did not have time to sit down. Whatever the method he chose, one thing was consistent. We had less than ten minutes to shovel it down before he called us into formation.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Sleeping at Attention

Day three was full of calisthenics and marching, as it would be every day in boot camp. The main objective for this day included a medical physical, eye, dental exams, and a battery of tests to evaluate our knowledge and skills. Once the tests were complete, our Military Occupational Specialty, or MOS, was determined. I was given the MOS of "0311" a rifleman, the infantry. This was no surprise. I never did well in school and read at a fifth grade level. I graduated with dubious honors, sixth from the bottom of my high school class.

The medical exams and tests took the majority of the morning. The platoon stood at attention outside a building, waiting to enter for testing. I had trained myself to balance my weight while standing at attention, using my rifle to prop me up. I had gotten away with taking several short naps. On this occasion, however, I awoke from my catnap with Parker's nose within an inch of mine. The shock of seeing his face and the screech that pierced the sound barrier ensured I would never take another catnap; at least where he could see me. My penalty for taking an unauthorized nap was to stand, with my arms parallel with the ground, palms up, holding my weapon. The M14 rifle weighed 11.5 pounds and he placed it across the palms of my hands.

I was expected to stand straight, while holding my weapon. Within minutes, my arms started to sag. Parker then slapped me upside the head, because my arms were not parallel with the deck. To compensate I bent my knees. He then kicked me on the back of my leg to get me to stand tall. I then bent my back to compensate and a smart punch to my kidneys straightened me up. I had never experienced such insanity. To survive boot camp, I had to limit my thinking to the moment. I couldn't even think about my next meal, much less graduation day. _"Get through this minute,"_ I would tell myself. It was a great strategy and it came in handy when I got to Vietnam.

The daily "Field Day" routine gave me an opportunity to catch up on lost sleep. We cleaned, scrubbed, and polished the floor every day. A grain of sand or a speck of dust could never be found in our Quonset hut. As the other boys divided the cleaning duties, I volunteered to clean behind the lockers that were pushed against the wall. There was a twelve-inch wide area that needed to be cleaned. Only someone small could crawl behind the lockers and clean them.

We generally had about thirty minutes for morning clean-up. While everyone nervously scrambled to get their chores complete, I crawled behind the lockers where I could not be seen. It took three minutes to clean the entire length of the lockers, but I stretched it to thirty minutes. I cleaned for three minutes and slept for twenty-seven. I took advantage of the fear and nervousness of my fellow maggots, as they were too busy to notice I was sleeping behind the lockers. It was one time that being small worked to my advantage. Being small would no longer be a benefit when I was in Vietnam. I was chosen to be the platoon's Tunnel Rat. However, that's another story, to be told later.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Motivation Platoon

After lunch, Parker ran us to "the small parade deck," which was adjacent to the airport. It was noon, the sun was high, and the temperature must have been 95 degrees. The humidity made our clothes stick to our skin. I was panting and gasping for air after the short fifteen-minute run. The parade deck was about the size of a high school football stadium with a jogging track that circled the field. The entire area was asphalt and painted with yellow lines that defined the running lanes.

Parker stopped the platoon in the middle of the parade deck. He drew our attention to a large group of recruits that were running from one end of the parade deck to the other. Each recruit had a metal bucket in each hand. Parker directed our attention to a large pile of sand, on the right side of the parade deck. The pile was six feet high and fifteen feet wide. Once he was sure we could clearly see the pile of sand, he brought our attention to a smaller pile of sand on the left side of the parade deck.

" **Listen up ladies!"**

" **What you are watching is the Motivational Platoon running through their routine. In today's exercise, they will move the pile of sand that is on the right side of the parade deck to left side. Once they move the pile from the right side of the parade deck to the left, they will move the pile back to the right."**

We stood there for ten minutes watching the recruits run from one end to the other. They filled each bucket with sand and ran the length of the parade deck to empty them.

" **Motivational Platoon is where we send recruits that are having a difficult time adjusting to the Corps. This is where pond scum that has lost its motivation comes to find it again. There are two types of maggots that find themselves in Motivational Platoon. The first are overweight pigs that lack the motivation to perform the minimum physical fitness requirements. They must lose the dead weight that keeps them from peak performance."**

" **The second kind simply cannot follow orders. They are misfits who fail to accept responsibility for their conduct. Should you find yourself falling into either of these two categories, you will spend time in the Motivational Platoon. You will stay as long as it takes to get your head screwed on straight. Once you have regained your motivation, you will be reassigned to a regular platoon. You will begin training at the point you were, before you failed to meet minimum standards."**

" **Are there any questions?"** There were no questions. The point was understood. I met one poor boy that spent three months shaving off the weight in Motivation Platoon.

Parker then ran the platoon for ten more minutes around the obstacle course and stopped where there was a well-worn path in the dirt. We waited for another Motivational Platoon to pass by. As they ran past, the only sound we heard were boots pounding the deck and the grunts of distress from the recruits. Each recruit had a pack on his back. We were told the packs were full of sand. Two canteens hung from their cartridge belt and they held a sledgehammer balanced on each shoulder.

" **Their assignment for the day is to circle the obstacle course,"** Parker said **. "There are many different routines and exercises that each Motivational Platoon performs.** " With no additional explanation, we ran back to the Quonset huts to retrieve our rifles. We lined up on the street as Sergeants Wilcox and Wilkinson replaced Parker and Martin.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Close Order Drill

" **Rieeght face,"** Wilcox commanded.

" **We will now learn how to correctly handle a rifle,"** he announced as if we had never heard it before. _"Did he forget we just reviewed this several hours ago?"_

" **We will begin with Port Arms,"** he paused.

" **Port Arms is a two-count move, beginning from the position of attention. The rifle is held diagonally in front of the body, with the muzzle pointing upward to your left and about four inches from the waist. When performed correctly the platoon moves in unity. All men move as one. With each move the sound of all rifles snap as one. It is synchronized perfectly,"** he proclaimed. We practiced for twenty minutes before moving on to "Right Shoulder Arms."

" **Right shoulder arms is a four-count movement."**

" **On my command you will grasp the barrel of the rifle with the right hand and raise it diagonally across the body. With the left hand, grasp the hand guard above the slip ring. The rifle should be four inches from your waist. For those of you that do not know what four inches looks like, it is the width of your fist between your belt buckle and the rifle,"** he paused for effect.

" **On count two, you will move your right hand from the barrel and grasp the butt of the rifle."** Another pause.

" **On count three, release the left hand and twist the rifle so that the sights are up, and place the rifle on your right shoulder. Do you understand ladies?"** With no questions, he continued.

" **On count four, sharply move the left hand back to your left side, in the position of attention."**

We executed every position for handling a rifle for what seemed like hours. The M14 rifle weighed 11.5 pounds. Lifting it a thousand times made my arms feel like rubber. My mind raced with fear of what would happen if I dropped my rifle. Several boys had dropped their "piece." They were sentenced to perform 250 sit-ups as a result. That thought kept me pushing against what my body was telling me I could not do.

After reviewing the entire range of rifle maneuvers, Wilcox marched us to the parade deck for close order drill. We marched, or should I say stumbled, for hours in the hot summer sun. We were terrible. Half of the boys awkwardly moved the rifle when orders were given. The other half turned to the right, when ordered to turn left, and began marching away from the platoon. This always produced the wrath of Wilcox.

After awhile he stopped the platoon and proceeded to remind us that we were inferior scum for not marching straight. Standing in the hot sun, recruit McCarthy requested permission to speak with the Drill Instructor.

" **Request granted,"** Wilcox said expressing aggravation.

" **What is so damn important that you would dare interrupt the training of this entire platoon?"**

"Sir, this recruit requests permission to use the head, sir."

" **What's the matter McCarthy, you gotta go potty?"**

"Sir, the recruit doesn't feel well, sir."

" **Request denied McCarthy. You are a slacker."**

McCarthy tried to restate his case, but was rebuffed by Wilcox.

" **Are you dumb or just plain stupid?** **I - said - request - denied."**

" **You will train with everyone else,"** he said as he stared at the face of the boy in agony.

Without another word exchanged, Wilcox marched to the front of the platoon. McCarthy stood straight, for a few short moments, then lurched forward and expelled his lunch on the recruit in front of him. Wilcox headed over to McCarthy, but before he reached the boy, McCarthy's stomach gurgled and with explosive force, he emptied his bowels. Wilcox reached McCarthy as his body waste ran down his leg and leaked out of his trousers.

" **I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU SHIT ON MY DECK RECRUIT. GET OUT OF MY FACE SCUMBAG. GET YOUR DUMB ASS TO THE INFIRMARY."** Without hesitation, McCarthy sprinted away, as Wilcox gave him one last command. **"You better not leave a trail. If I find a trail you will pay."** I don't think McCarthy heard his last words, he ran as if he was being chased by Satan himself. The boy who got splattered with McCarthy's puke tried to argue the need to change his fatigues.

" **REQUEST DENIED."**

No rebuttal was attempted. He would march with us that afternoon and the puke would dry to a crust on his fatigues.

" **CLEAN UP THIS SHIT,"** Wilcox ordered Williams and Grafton.

" **GET A BUCKET AND MOP."**

" **ON - THE - DOUBLE."**

" **WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?"**

" **MOOOOVE, WE DON'T HAVE ALL DAY."**

Williams and Grafton ran to get the mops and buckets. Wilcox strolled up and down the line stopping in front of each of the remaining recruits. He inspected each rifle and asked the recruit if he had memorized the serial number of his "piece." Few had. A penalty of one hundred push-ups was given for failing to know the serial number. He also asked each recruit to repeat his service number. Another one hundred push-ups were issued for failing to know the number. I had an easy service number, which I had memorized. The serial number on my rifle was another story. I pumped out one hundred that day, a mistake I would not repeat.

Pumping out one hundred push-ups is not that difficult when they're broken up into four sets of twenty-five throughout the day. Doing push-ups wasn't my concern. The bigger issue was that every time I got caught making a mistake I stood out, and I really wanted to be invisible. It didn't really matter how hard I tried; it was not possible to stay invisible. Once, I was ordered to do 1,000 push-ups. I completed them in batches of 50 over four days.

One thousand push-ups may sound like a lot, but it's not when you're driven by fear, and you have a good spotter. Your spotter counts your reps to ensure that you meet the target. Your spotter makes a big difference on how difficult your penalty can be. You hope you're assigned a spotter who knows how to count correctly. I said correctly, I did not say accurately. There is a difference.

A good spotter can count to fifty before you push out thirty. Learning to be a good spotter doesn't take much skill, just common sense. The realization is that next time he may be on the other side, and you will be his spotter.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### A Painful Lesson

I expected we would take our usual run after dinner. However, I was surprised when Wilcox marched us back to the Quonset huts. We stood at attention, in two rows, facing the middle of the road as Parker approached. Behind him were two MPs, Marine Corps Military Police. Walking in front of the MPs was Atherton. Actually, he wasn't walking as much as he was hobbling. As he came closer to the platoon, you could see he was walking slightly bent forward, handcuffs on his wrists, and arms crossed at belt level.

The MPs escorted Atherton to the middle of the platoon, where he stood in obvious pain. In silence, the platoon stared at him. Both of his eyes were swollen, almost shut, and blood oozed from his nose and lips. His face was bruised so badly his head looked like a blue soccer ball. It looked like he had been dragged behind a horse.

" **Pay attention boys,"** Parker said.

" **Recruit Atherton thought it was possible to leave the greatest fighting unit on the earth. Regrettably, for him he misjudged the height of the fence and his fall was disastrous. Fortunately we found him and we will take him directly to the infirmary. Once he recovers from his injuries, he will spend time in Motivational Platoon. There he can think and get his priorities straight."**

" **Do you have anything to say to these boys Atherton?"** Parker asked.

Atherton's silence spoke more than anything he could have said.

" **Take him away gentlemen."**

The MPs tapped him on the shoulder with their nightstick and led him away. Once the Atherton demonstration was complete, we were given "Commander's Time" for the remainder of the evening. During "Commander's Time," a recruit can write letters, polish his boots, clean his rifle, and make productive use of the time given to him. Recruits cannot sleep, play games, or leisurely idle the time away. I spent time memorizing my rifle's serial number and learning the Chain of Command, including the names of the Commanding Officers, Senior Master Sergeant, and Drill Instructors. I also read the articles in the small red book they had given us, the Uniform Code of Military Justice. The UCMJ is the system of military law we would live by for the duration of our captivity.

The night ended with the usual foot check. Each boy demonstrated he knew the serial number of his rifle, his blood type, and his service number. A few of us would finish the night completing the last batch of push-ups or sit-ups we had earned earlier that day. Lights went out at 22:00. With day two behind us, we slept like rocks.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Gomer Pyle

The physical challenges weren't as difficult for me as the mental demands. I had been involved in sports my entire life and I was able to turn up the heat as expectations grew. However, not every boy was able to meet the daily physical demands. Twenty percent of the boys were not prepared. They were either not coordinated or overweight. The uncoordinated boys got harassed daily. If they didn't trip, slip, or stumble, they were two steps behind everyone else. Several overweight maggots were transferred to motivational platoon. We received an equal number of recently motivated recruits. As long as someone else was taking the heat and focus off me, I was glad. Eric Stapleton and a few others helped me because they were uncoordinated and stood out.

Stapleton was tall and lanky, about six-foot-four. His arms and legs were too long for his body. His posture was poor and his arms came almost to his knees. When he tried to stand straight, at attention, his back swayed like an old gray mare. He had a long egg-shaped face and wore large, thick, black-rimmed glasses. He was just awkward, the most uncoordinated guy in the platoon. I had no idea where he was from, and I didn't care. I had no desire to be near him at any time, in case he screwed up.

Stapleton quickly got the name Gomer Pyle. Gomer was a character on a TV sitcom. It was called Gomer Pyle, USMC. Gomer was a naïve, good-natured, clumsy, down-home, backwoods boy. He was tall, lanky, and awkward. He had a strong southern drawl and was about twenty cards short of a full deck.

In the TV series, Gomer drove his DI crazy because he couldn't get anything right. Every platoon had a Gomer Pyle. Stapleton was ours. He was our resident "shitbird." A "shitbird" is someone who cannot get anything right. Stapleton was an undisciplined recruit. In reality, he may have been the strongest guy in the unit, mentally anyways. He never gave up, even when he was the object of extreme ridicule and daily punishment. As long as Stapleton was around, my ability to stay invisible improved.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Mail Call

I continually tried to stay invisible. As long as I performed well, Parker found other "shitbirds" to mess with. "Mail Call" was one time I could not avoid a face-to-face encounter with Parker. During mail call, the platoon pulled our footlockers onto the road, and lined up on both sides of the street. If your name was called, you ran, as fast as you could, and stood at attention in front of the DI. He handed you the mail and you ran back to your footlocker to read it. If you did not get mail, you could write a letter, polish your boots, clean your weapon or study any one of the many training manuals.

I got very little mail after Penny sent me a Dear John letter the first week of boot camp. She had fallen for Eddie Lapeer.

Maybe I should say the letters I got from my mom and sisters didn't make up for the letters I did not get from Penny. I thought we would be together for life. I discovered that you can't expect a fifteen-year-old to wait while you go away for three years. It was another hard lesson for a nineteen-year-old boy to learn. _"I'll take care of him when I get home,"_ I thought.

No incidents occurred during mail call to make me stand out. Other recruits were not so lucky. Recruit Sturges was sent a "Care Package" from his mom. He had to open it in front of Parker. Unfortunately for Sturges, she sent him a one-pound bag of chocolate candy. Parker made him dump it on the deck and commanded him to eat the whole bag, as he did push-ups. Sturges picked the candy up from the deck with each lunge. He ate half of the bag before his body could no longer handle it. He emptied his guts onto the deck and cleaned the mess, while we read our mail.

Other recruits fell on difficult times whenever a girlfriend or wife sweetened letters with a scent of perfume, a lipstick kiss or drawings of cupid on the envelope. Each offense was worth a hundred push-ups.

Recruit Lindy racked up 400 push-ups during the first mail call, and another 1,000 before he could get his girlfriend to stop sending him letters with her tokens of affection. Frantically, he wrote her daily. She, however, had fired off five letters before she got the first letter he'd written to her. Lindy watched Parker's face every time we had mail call, wondering how bad the penalty would be. The third time Lindy got mail, Parker didn't even need to call his name. When Lindy saw Parker's expression, he jumped up and stood at attention next to Parker. Parker stuck the letter between the poor boy's teeth. Dropping into the push-up position Lindy finished the punishment with the letter between his teeth. After week three, mail call became boring. Lindy and the other "sissified" recruits had been converted.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### The Porcelain Rendezvous

It had been five days since I arrived, and the pain of not taking a dump reached its peak. One night as I lay on my rack, I couldn't sleep. I could feel my heart throbbing in my ears. I tossed back and forth thinking how bad the next day would be. I wouldn't be able to function anymore. The fear of being the object of Parker's attention was too much to bear. I decided to sneak out of my hut and hoped I wouldn't get caught.

I opened the rear hatch. Slowly, I poked my head out and looked both ways, up and down the road. I knew sentries were guarding the area and I needed to move carefully. I thought about the quarter-mile I had to cross to get to the head, but I had to take the chance.

The row of Quonset huts directly across from me belonged to another platoon. Infiltrating their area was like entering enemy territory and was more serious than "breaking ranks" in the chow line. The competitive nature between units was extremely high, and the consequences of entering their area were not pretty. I needed to cross hostile terrain that belonged to three different platoons, to get to the head.

I waited a few minutes, watching, when a sentry emerged from the shadows and headed down the length of the road. I tucked my head back into the hut and closed the hatch. I listened until he passed. I cracked the hatch and watched him march to the end of the row and head away from our platoon.

When he was out of sight, I darted fifteen yards into the shadows of the Quonset hut on the other side of the road. I had no idea how many sentries were roaming the area. I was in uncharted territory, a no-man's zone. I waited in the shadows until the next sentry passed. When I thought it was clear I sprinted to the next row. Each time I waited to make my next move, I remembered Atherton's face and the condition he was in after they caught him. I had to push the images out of my mind of what I might look like if I got caught.

I made it to the last row and saw that it was only a twenty-five foot dash to the head, which was a single building standing at the edge of a football field. Three hundred meters beyond the head was the airfield and the illusion of freedom. The area was lit up like a baseball stadium during a summer night game. I scanned the area. There was no movement. After five minutes, I decided to make a run for it. I was within ten feet of my target when a guard moved from the shadows. His fatigues were perfectly fit, starched, and pressed. He had a black band on each arm with white block letters, **"MP."**

He carried an M14 rifle, which was on his shoulder, as he turned the corner. When he saw me, he immediately shifted into his "on guard" position. He snapped his rifle to Port Arms and stood at attention. Two magazines for the M14 hung from his waist, one on each hip. I froze in my tracks and stood at attention.

" **Halt! Who goes there?"** He yelled so loud I thought he would wake up the entire base.

" _Sir, recruit Anthony Pecoraro sir."_

" **State your Unit and serial number "**

" _Platoon 1173, Serial number 2342345 sir,"_ I rattled off.

" **State your business."**

" _Sir, recruit requests permission to use the head sir."_

He looked at me carefully, trying to evaluate my motives. It would not look good for him, if he let someone escape on his watch. I expected him to tell me to return to my hut or take me into custody. It was cold and his stare made it colder. Time stood still.

" **Carry on, "** was his order. I was relieved as I ran into the head.

The first time I ventured out it took me two hours to disassemble the brick that had lodged in my gut. "If I only had a spoon," I thought. As I sat, I realized why the guard let me go. I figured he didn't think I looked like a threat. "Who would try to escape MCRD wearing only white boxers and Jesus slippers?" I thought. I must have looked pathetic. I'm surprised he didn't break out laughing. It was the first of many early morning rendezvous with the pot. At last, I was alone in the quiet and peace of the night. I would sit, think, and poop. I discovered the secret of using the head. Good times!

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Hand-to-Hand Combat

Hand-to-hand combat included bayonet and "Pugil Stick" training, as well as martial arts. We attached our bayonet to our rifle, and thrust our bayonet into a body-size bag of sand or stack of straw. We were also taught how to fight using a rifle at close quarters. We learned to use the rifle to block a thrust, jab an opponent, or use the butt of the rifle as a club. The basic movements were choreographed and performed by the numbers, which means the instructor would command the action as he counted.

" **On one: Step forward with your left foot and thrust your bayonet into his chest."**

" **On two: Twist the bayonet and thrust again."**

" **On three: Step back and pull the bayonet out."**

It was very boring. On the other hand, "Pugil Stick" training was a blast.

A pugil stick is a large Q-tip shaped club. It's used to simulate close-quarters combat, and the combatants wear football helmets with face guards. We fought in the sand, which made it hard to get your footing, and made it much more strenuous than fighting on the grass.

The platoon was divided in half, two teams, which faced each other in a single file. The gladiators, at the head of the line, squared off for the contest. When given the command they ran into the middle of the sandpit and began pounding on one another. The object was to land a killing blow to your opponent while blocking his attacks directed at you. Being the smallest guy in the unit, I got my butt kicked the first few times. When I ran to the center of the pit to meet my opponents, they always had the reach. These guys would swing the stick like a baseball bat, and try to knock my head off. I was an easy target.

After being pummeled several times, I had to face one of the biggest guys in the unit, Mason. He was a "fat body" topping the scale at about 240 pounds. The look on his face said he wanted to tear my head off. I think he was trying to prove to Parker that, in spite of his weight, he could hack it. This would be accomplished at my expense and I was not fond of the idea.

When Parker gave us the signal to fight, I ran to the center of the pit. The sight of this 240-pound wild boar driving at me scared the crap out of me. I decided to bail and made a quick move to my left, just as he cocked his pugil stick to strike. He swung as if he wanted to knock a curve ball out of the park. It played like this in my head.

" _It's a tie game in the bottom of the ninth, with bases loaded, and Mason steps to the plate,"_ I still shudder to think about it.

I maneuvered to the left and he missed, as I ducked. I glanced over my shoulder and noticed that his momentum carried him forward and down into the pit. I realized he couldn't stop. I made a quick decision to turn. I swung and landed a blow to the back of his head. He fell, face first into the sand. Everyone cheered. Parker smiled and kicked Mason in the ass. **"Get up you worthless piece of pork."**

The accidental move became part of my defensive strategy from that point on. I started to win some matches.

A few weeks later, our platoon was scheduled for a competition with another platoon for the pugil stick championship. It was an ongoing competition between Parker and the other platoon's Senior DI. They challenged each other in everything. As the competition went on, Parker kept me in reserve. He challenged the other senior DI to pick his best warrior for the ultimate challenge at the end of the competition. The other platoon's senior picked a rather large fella to compete in this "winner takes all" match. Parker then called me to the head of the platoon.

" **Okay Peter, get out there and do your thing. Kick his ass."**

The other platoon leader had never seen me in the pit before and had no idea I used diversionary tactics. Most of his guys just charged in, swinging away, using nothing but brute force to overpower their opponent. When I came to the edge of the pit they all laughed. It was a typical David and Goliath scene.

I defeated their star player the first match. After the bout, their senior demanded a rematch. Parker agreed. My opponent won the second match. I attempted the same maneuver that had beaten him the first match but he anticipated the move. It was an easy kill. Parker demanded a rematch.

" **The best of three,"** he screamed.

In a rare moment, Parker had a face-to-face coaching session with me. We discussed the strategy and how I would defeat this monster. The third match started. I ran to the center and made a quick move to the left then pivoted, circling left. I made two more quick turns evading his strike. He positioned himself to counter my first move, committing to a maneuver he couldn't recover from quickly. The momentum of his swing carried his body forward and he had to take an extra step to keep from falling. That extra step placed him behind me, opening up his back. He was in a defenseless position. I gave him a quick "right/left" blow to each kidney, and he fell to his knees. I closed with a cross-check to the middle of his back. He fell prone in the pit. The match was over.

All hell broke loose. My platoon went crazy. I don't know what the wager was, but it was guaranteed I wouldn't see any of it. It didn't really matter – I had gained Parker's respect for a few short minutes.

I finished the day pumping out one hundred push-ups. I earned them because I failed to swallow my last bite of lunch before I ran into formation. I learned to eat faster. Parker was creative, and found more imaginative reasons to issue penalties for me to execute. I got very good at pumping out push-ups. It's still one of my favorite exercises.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### The Karate Kids

Most hand-to-hand combat training was primarily centered on defending yourself with your bayonet and rifle. However, we did have some basic training in Karate. We were taught the basic kicks, punches, and blocks. I think we spent four hours throwing kicks and punches into the air. One-on-one practice was done by the numbers.

" **On one, you will step forward with your right foot."**

" **On two, you will execute a punch to your opponent's midsection."**

" **On three, you will execute a front kick."**

It was not very practical. During the martial arts training, each platoon would send a recruit to the platform. The instructors would demonstrate each move on the "volunteer." Marshall was chosen from our platoon – he had a cocky attitude and a lot of rough edges, and Parker had a plan to get the boy's attention. The demonstration was informative for me but painful for Marshall.

The instructor started with the basic demonstration of pressure points: the groin, the Adam's apple, the kidneys, etc. With an open hand "knife strike," the instructor used Marshall's body to demonstrate each pressure point. The boy recoiled in pain. Marshall withstood the blows and took the beating. After a "back-knuckle strike" to his temple knocked him out, his ability to respond to Parker's commands improved remarkably. Stapleton, another "volunteer," would also help the martial arts instructor. However, he was unteachable. It wasn't an attitude issue with him – he just wasn't coordinated.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Slowly Sinking

We were required to pass a variety of physical training events before we could graduate. One of the most dreaded, for me, was swimming. I was never a good swimmer. The first test was to determine if we could tread water. Wearing a full set of fatigues and boots, we were instructed to jump into the pool and tread water until we were given instructions to stop. The weight of my fatigues and boots continued to pull me under. I struggled to keep my head above the water with every move, and it seemed like I treaded water for an hour.

We were then given the command to stop treading water, take a breath, relax face down, and float as long as we could. It was a simple test to determine if we were a **"floater or sinker."**

" **If you are a sinker, I will drop this weighted sandbag on your shoulders. You will resurface and sit on the red bench,"** the instructor said. The sandbag was the size of a softball attached to a long tether.

I took the biggest breath I could. I floated face down and tried to relax. Within a few seconds, I realized I was beginning to sink. I waited for the thump of the sandbag to stop the test. _"I'm obviously a sinker,"_ I thought. However, I never felt the sandbag and assumed I was floating a few inches below the surface. I continued to hold my breath for as long as I could. When I could no longer hold my breath, I opened my eyes and looked up. I expected to be at the surface and thought I'd only need a kick or two before I could catch my breath. To my shock, I realized I was two feet from the bottom of the twelve-foot pool. Looking up, I saw humanoid shadows dancing on the surface. Each ripple or wave contorted the figures of the men standing at the edge of the pool. I attempted to swim to the surface but the more I fought the worse it got. After kicking for a few seconds, I was out of breath but I wasn't deep enough to push off the bottom. My head was pounding. My ears were ringing. I was dizzy and lightheaded. Terror surged through my mind.

" _I will drown if someone doesn't rescue me. Someone will see me and rescue me any second,"_ I thought.

Looking up, I didn't see anyone attempting to jump in to help. My mind flashed back to the headlines: _"Recruit dies from swimming accident in Marine boot camp pool."_

I continued to sink very slowly and the weight of my clothes and boots kept me from swimming to the top. I decided to swim to the bottom and push off. Time was moving slowly. My fear turned to panic. After several frantic strokes, I was able to reach the bottom of the pool. With one desperate thrust, I propelled myself to the surface. Gasping for air I wondered, why didn't the instructor give me the signal? Of course, he viewed it differently. **"What the hell is wrong with you recruit? Can't you follow instructions? I hit you with the sandbag four times."**

The next exercise was equally insane. Jumping from a twenty-foot tower, in full gear, looked easy from the ground. When I got to the top of the tower, my perspective changed. I was not fond of heights but there was no backing down. I was terrified but the fear of repercussions from Parker was greater than my fear of jumping. I was saddled down with full gear: a pack, boots, rifle, an ammo belt, and full canteens. I jumped and sank like a rock.

We were instructed to surface and swim to the end of the pool. I struggled as I tried to surface. The weight of my gear pulled me to the bottom of the twelve-foot pool.

"It will be easier for me to walk along the bottom of the pool, to get to the shallow end," I thought.

So, I walked along the bottom of the pool. When I got to the shallow end and surfaced, it didn't go over very well with the instructor. **"Get out of the pool,"** he insisted. I was told I would have to repeat swim class until I was able to pass the standards that had been set.

He directed my attention to a column of wet boys standing in a corner. I was handed a card and told to stand in **"that line."** He pointed to the other side of the pool.

" **Have it stamped, Sinker/Failed."**

I stared at the card in despair. "I have to do this all over again," I thought. I went to the line, dreading that I would have to relive this torment another day. When I got to the head of the line the Marine stamping the cards was shooting the breeze, "jack jawing," with his coworker.

"Results," he asked.

"Sir, sinker/failed sir." I said.

He reached to grab the stamp while he continued to "jack - his - jaws" and he grabbed the wrong stamp. He stamped my card with a code that recorded me passing the course with the highest rating possible.

I kept my mouth shut and headed out of the building with a smile.

" **Wipe that smile off your face recruit,"** Parker yelled. I responded immediately on the outside, but I continued to smile on the inside. I figured my chances of surviving in the ocean, if a ship sank, were better than surviving the wrath of Parker. I decided to take my chances at sea.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### The Becker Game

Being the shortest guy in boot camp didn't help me blend into the pack. During training sessions, I frequently became the brunt of the DI's humor. During one training session, we were learning the firemen's rescue. This is a maneuver where we carry our team member, if injured, to safety. We had to run fifty yards to pick up our partner, who was on his back, pull him up and over our shoulder, and run back to safety. On one occasion, I was teamed up with the largest guy in the group. Becker lumbered across the field, picked me up like a toothpick, and ran back. Everyone laughed.

When it was my turn, I ran the course but couldn't pull the 240-pound slab of meat off the ground. I yanked his arm so hard Parker thought I would pull his arm out of its socket. Wilcox ran over to me, spun me around, and said, **"Climb on his back Becker."** The boy stumbled to his feet and hung over my shoulders. I struggled to hold his weight.

" **Run Peter,"** Wilcox yelled.

I took off. My first step landed well, but I never got the second step off the ground. I fell flat on my face with my passenger on my back. I tried to push myself to my knees but I was unable to move. I was pinned down and I couldn't catch my breath. Becker didn't move either. He just laid on top of me, afraid that if he made the decision to move, without being given a direct order, Parker would skin him alive.

" **Get off him Becker,"** Parker yelled.

" **Peter you okay?"**

"Sir, yes sir," I said.

" **Ok! Becker get back to your squad."**

Becker started running back to his team and Wilcox held me back for ten seconds. Becker had a fifteen-yard lead when Parker announced.

" **Becker! If you let Peter beat you back to the platoon, you will be given half of your dinner rations tonight."**

" **Peter! If Becker beats you back, you will give me a thousand push-ups."**

It was no contest. Becker needed to shed a few pounds anyway. No mercy expected, none given.

On another occasion, we were in a team-building physical fitness exercise. One team was to pick up a telephone pole and toss it to the other team. After ten minutes of the exercise, Parker thought it would be funny to toss me. So, for the next few minutes, I served as the object of the game. I don't know how high they threw me; I just remembered to hold my body stiff and hoped they would catch me. DIs truly have a sense of humor. It is just hidden beneath their granite exterior.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Edison Range

We left the recruit depot for Edison Range where rifle training and qualification took place. It was about a two-hour bus drive north of San Diego, located at Camp Pendleton. We would be there for two weeks. We set up in a large barracks that housed the entire platoon. The head and showers were relocated between the two wings. Think of it as a basketball court. The half court line, in the middle, represents where the head and showers were located. The area on each side of half court is where the squad bay units were located. It was nice having the head in the same building where we slept. We didn't have to march a quarter of a mile to take a crap.

Edison Range is a major milestone for every platoon, because after qualification, there are only four weeks until graduation. Most of the intense training was behind us now and from this point on, we focused on reviewing and polishing up the fine points of close order drill, inspection, and physical conditioning. I didn't realize this at the time, because I had determined not to think ahead. I lived moment-to-moment, taking every challenge as if it were my only goal. It worked for me. It kept my mind disciplined in the present.

In San Diego, we had a full schedule of classroom work every day. Part of the daily routine at MCRD included Marine and U.S. history, basic weapons training, academic testing, military conduct, and the legal system of military justice, etc. There was only one reason we were at Edison Range, to learn how to shoot a rifle. With no other training sessions scheduled, Parker had more time to push our physical training and test our endurance. After morning and afternoon target practice, we ran the hills. There were no hills in San Diego, so this new challenge gave us a more realistic appreciation of our physical condition. "Humping" up the slightest incline gives you an appreciation of how sore your legs can get and how quickly your lungs scream for oxygen.

We started out on small trips and within a week, we were running a five-mile course. On one particularly hot day we set out for a five-mile run. The temperature was nearing one hundred degrees. The black flag was flying, but we ran anyway.

There are five colored flags: White, Green, Yellow, Red, and Black. Each color reflects the conditions listed for the physical training heat index. White is for minimal risk, Black is for extreme risk. In theory when the Black Flag flies, physical training and strenuous exercise should be suspended for all personnel in training.

Halfway through the run, we reached the top of a hill. Parker ordered everyone to drink one of our canteens of water. Several guys fell out with heat exhaustion and were evacuated to the hospital. He ordered everyone to drop to the ground, elevate our legs, remove our outer shirt, and pour water over our head, soak our shirts and keep the wet shirts covering our head and neck to cool down. We rested for thirty minutes before trucks arrived and brought us back to the barracks. Everyone took cold showers and got ready for evening chow. The night was relaxing, and we were given time to study and write home.

While at Edison Range, I became the focus of Parker's attention. I had never shot a rifle before and could not get the hang of it. This didn't sit well with Parker. Winning the marksmanship contest was the highest and most respected award a recruit and Senior DI could achieve. I tried every day to reach the score that would allow me to qualify as a marksman, but I was struggling. To complicate matters I got double pneumonia and was given an order from the doctor: four days bed rest.

When I brought the order to Parker, he took the paper, rolled it into a ball and threw it into the garbage. **"If you take four days off you will not qualify and I will send you back to week one."** His words reverberated through my brain and reset my priorities. We were three-quarters of the way through boot camp and there was no way I was going to go back to week one and start over. I took the antibiotics I was given, and had to muster the strength to push my way through the next two weeks.

I was running a fever and shivered with chills. I was coughing up yellow and red junk and it was difficult to breathe. When I took a breath, a burning sensation radiated through my chest. It reminded me of the time I experimented with smoking. I was twelve, when one of the older guys rolled dried leaves and small wood fibers into a brown paper bag. I inhaled deeply and thought my head was going to explode. My heart pounded wildly and the burning in my chest was instantaneous. My eyes watered so badly I couldn't see to run home. I staggered across the field to get help and thought I would die. I pretty much felt the same now. Once again, I couldn't run home.

After a few days, the antibiotics kicked in and I knew the worst was over. Well, almost over. I still had to qualify and my scores hadn't improved. I struggled to see the target and squeeze the trigger in between coughing jags. My confidence was shaken.

The day before qualification I was laying prone, lining up my sites for my final round of target practice. I was unaware that Parker stood behind me, watching. Using one of his more subtle motivational techniques, he picked up a 2 x 4 and struck me on the back of the head. The force of the blow thrust my head forward, slamming my eye into the rifle sight.

" **You better qualify tomorrow Peter or your last four weeks will be a living hell. Do you read me?"** I did not have to answer because he just walked away.

The pounding headache and the small amount of blood that dripped from the gash above my eye further distracted me. I was unable to focus on the target. It was one big blur. I couldn't distinguish the details of the target's rings or bull's-eye. I scored twenty points below the minimum qualifying level that day. _"How can I make up twenty points?"_ I thought. The fear of not qualifying increased dramatically. I was worried about the final test I had to take the next day. Would I be able to see the target?

Later that night we had an "Air Raid" drill. It was an easy game. Anytime the DI yelled "Air Raid," we were to fall onto the ground and get into the "Elbows and Toes" position. "Elbows and Toes" was more brutal than "Hang Ten." To understand "Elbows and Toes," you must think about holding yourself in the push-up position. However, instead of holding your weight using the palms of your hands as the base, your weight is held by your elbows while your fists are placed parallel with your ears. Your body must be straight, with no sway at the waist or back.

There we were, in the shower before lights out and Parker yells, **"Air Raid."** Everyone hit the deck while Wilcox shut off the hot water. We began freezing as the cold water from the shower met the cold California night air.

In one of his more heartwarming lectures, Parker walked around the shower for ten minutes reminding us how qualifying was the most important lesson of our training. Periodically he would kick the elbow out from under a recruit, causing him to fall on his face. The penalty for not having a straight back was always creative. Another lad was struck on the back of his head because his fists weren't parallel with his ears.

When Parker finished his tirade, he began to exit the showers. _"Finally, it's over,"_ I thought. To my dismay, on his way out, he hauled off a kick striking me in the chest with enough force to flip me onto my back. **"You better qualify tomorrow Peter,"** he said as he left. We finished showering in cold water and quickly exited to dry off and get into warm clothes. The imprint of Parker's boot, a reminder of his love, was still visible at reveille.

That night a "Blanket Party" took place. A message had to be sent to the borderline recruits that might not qualify. Stapleton was the target, since he was the lowest-scoring recruit. Six unnamed intruders threw a blanket over him as he slept. They held him down so he couldn't move, then proceeded to punch him for several minutes, warning him and others "you better qualify." The whole event was unsettling.

" _That could have been me,"_ I thought. I had not yet reached the hard and cold stage of a "Mean Green Killing Machine." In a few weeks, during Advanced Infantry Training, the transition would begin. For now, however, I put the event out of my mind. The morning, and qualification day, would come soon.

The next day I beat the minimum qualifying score by three points. Relieved, I settled into the final stretch – only four weeks to go and the worst was behind me. Stapleton didn't qualify and had to run up and down the hills, holding his rifle above his head, as we marched a five-mile route that afternoon. Parker had him scream, "Look at me. I am an insult to the Corps," during the three-hour exercise.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### The Inspecting General

While at Edison Range, inspections took on another level of focus. We were only a few weeks away from the IG's (Inspecting General) final review of the platoon. The IG was our final test to see if we met the Marine standard for inspection readiness, and the winning platoon would gain a coveted ribbon as an achievement. The inspection was for all the marbles. No one wanted the senior drill instructor to look bad, because if we didn't have our act together all hell would break loose. But that's how we felt for Rifle Qualification, Close Order Drill, and every other competition we faced.

Our daily routine for inspections was intense, but not as rigid as preparing for the IG's inspection. "The head" was a special area of attention. When cleaning "the head," Parker set the standard, and he expected to be able to drink out of the commode. If you were responsible for cleaning the commodes, there was always a chance he would ask you to take a handful of water and drink it. Everyone took special care when cleaning the commodes.

The drain covers in the shower were made of solid brass. Every day they were polished to the point you could see your reflection. It was forbidden to have a single drop of water in the showers, on the sinks, floor, etc. You knew the inspector would walk into the shower with his white glove, and shove his pinky down a drain. If water or dirt were found, we would fail the inspection and have to clean the barracks again. We unscrewed the drain covers and scrubbed the drain and pipe as far as we could reach to ensure that no moisture or dirt would be found. We pushed toilet paper up the faucets as far as we could, so that no water dripped during the inspection.

On occasion, we failed inspections because an inspector found moisture on a pipe behind the commode. Moisture often accumulated on the cold water pipes that led from the bulkhead (wall), because of the high humidity. After cleaning the head, the platoon would wait next to their lockers at attention for the inspection to begin. In the ten minutes we waited, humidity condensed on the cold water pipes and caused us to fail the inspection. We finally figured out how to win the high humidity game by the time the IG inspected our area.

It could take an hour for the IG to inspect one side of the squad bay. During that time, we had to keep up with the moisture problem. Both sides of the squad bay had to work together to eliminate the moisture. We would clean the head and wait for the IG to commit to which side of the squad bay to inspect first. Once he made the decision, the side not being inspected sent two recruits into the head with rags to wipe any water that had built up. The recruits removed their boots because boots left prints on the perfectly polished floor. They ran around in their socks and, at the last possible second, hid the rags in the utility closet. They ran back to their bunk. Sliding into their boots they stood at attention, prepared for inspection.

Once the IG finished inspecting the first side of the squad bay, he would inspect the head. He finished by reviewing the other side of the barracks. The guys that were just inspected would take charge of the humidity while the IG inspected the rest of the platoon. There was always a chance the IG might decide to re-inspect the head, so we didn't take any chances. I'm sure that Parker knew the game we played, but he let us play it and we passed the IG inspection.

The night before we left Edison Range, Parker held a mock IG inspection. **"As soon as you pass the inspection you can purchase one item from the vending machines in the Mess Hall and have the rest of the night to write letters."** He held up a small bag and shook it so we could hear the sweet sound of the coins, which was something we hadn't seen since we gave him all of our money. We had just won honors for "Marksmanship" and Parker was pleased. Perhaps he was human after all. Was this his way to reward us for winning the competition?

Our first inspection was at 16:00. We failed because he found moisture in the shower. **"The head is a disaster. You have two hours to get the showers squared away. I will be back at 18:00,"** he informed us after he gave us the bad news.

Everyone gave special attention to the head, so when he returned he would find it spotless. We failed the inspection at 18:00, because he found dust on the rafters and the air ducts that hung from the ceiling.

" **I will be back at 20:00. If the barracks are squared away you can complete the night with Commander's time."**

The guys boosted Michael and me up onto the air ducts to clean them. Other guys built a human pyramid to reach and clean the rafters. At 20:00, Parker returned and found the barracks, head, and showers spotless. **"Well done boys. You have done an outstanding job in the showers, and in eliminating the dust from the rafters. The General could eat off the floor it is so clean. But, you have failed to meet the standard of eliminating every element of filth."** He then pulled a toothbrush out of his pocket and walked over to the door that led outside. He bent over and, with the toothbrush, lifted a few grains of sand from a crack in the floor next to the door.

" **Get your toothbrushes boys. You have until 21:30 to get every fleck of sand out of every crack in this floor."** Once we took care of the sand problem we showered, and had our routine foot check before lights out. No ice cream! No letters! No free time! Another lesson learned. _"Boot Camp isn't over yet, so don't let down your guard."_

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### The Gas Chamber

While bayonet training was a disappointment and failed to meet my expectations, the "Gas Chamber" exceeded anything I could have possibly imagined. I had heard about the gas chamber in the first week of boot camp. The stories were so extreme it was hard to believe tear gas, also known as CS gas, could be that bad. I would think differently while trying to survive in the chamber.

Parker marched us to the gas chamber, an old Quonset hut, at the top of a hill. There were no windows, and only two small lights that gave us enough light to see and make us anxious. While outside, Parker had us put on our gas masks and ensured we had a secure fit. After a few minutes of breathing with our masks on, we entered the chamber.

Parker instructed us that once we were in the gas chamber the door would be locked behind us. **"Do not run at the door,"** Parker warned. He instructed us to leave our masks on while he dropped several CS canisters. On his command, we were to remove our mask and begin singing the Marine Corps hymn, while standing at attention. On his second command, we were to place our gas mask back on, clear it, and continue standing at attention. It sounded easy enough. Parker was going to stay with us during the exercise, and there was no reason to believe he would expose himself to anything traumatic.

He dropped several CS canisters and waited about 30 seconds for the gas to fill the chamber. He then took his mask off and ordered us to remove our masks. At his command, all masks were removed and the response was immediate. When I say immediate, I don't mean it snuck up on us in ten seconds.

I mean immediate, as in:

NO WARNING!!!!

SCRATCH MY EYES OUT!!!!

MY GOD! AM I GONNA DIE!!!

IMMEDIATE!!!!

The response included extreme burning in the eyes, nose, and throat. We shut our eyes as tight as we could, but it didn't stop the burning. Tears streamed out and ran down our faces like open fire hydrants, but they couldn't stop the fire that was raging on our faces.

Our airways felt like they were closing, and we couldn't breathe. We gasped for air, but got only more burning in our lungs. We tried to hold our breath to keep from breathing in more gas, but we couldn't stop coughing. Excessive mucus ran down the back of our throats, which made us choke and cough even more. The cycle wouldn't stop.

There was a powerful impulse to run, but there was nowhere to go. Everyone began choking, and panic raced through our minds, along every nerve and to every cell in our bodies. Our brains screamed for relief, but there was no relief. Our bodies recoiled and jerked, and muscles spasm as if we were being electrocuted.

Boys began to vomit and mucus flew in every direction as they sneezed and coughed helplessly. By now, we were completely disorientated and dizzy. We stumbled and spun in circles trying to escape, but there was no escape. We had to push past the insanity. It was mind over matter, to the extreme.

Bobby Christopher dropped his mask and ran to the door. He hit it so hard he knocked himself out and he lay on the floor until the exercise was over. I covered my face, as if it would help. It did not.

Parker stood there singing the Marine Corps hymn and seemed oblivious, untouched and in complete control. The man was made of granite.

After a few minutes, Parker gave us the order, **"don, and clear your mask."** My mind was thinking I'd get some fresh air, but I was disorientated and I didn't think the mask was full of gas. When I put it on and took a deep breath, I panicked again because the burn rushed into my face and lungs again. I held the mask tightly to my face, hoping that after a few breaths the insanity would stop. _"Suck it up,"_ I told myself. _"Parker said it would be ok. I have to believe him – what other choice do I have?"_

Parker finally opened the door and we poured into the sunlight gasping for fresh air. I washed my face at a nearby trough until the burning subsided. Parker dragged Christopher from the chamber floor and dumped several buckets of water on him before Christopher came to.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Graduation

We marched to breakfast smartly and with style. Pride swelled in our chests. When we pulled up to the mess hall, we could smell the disgusting odor of the fresh fish that had arrived the night before. The stench of civilian slime was obvious. It had not yet been washed from their weak and undisciplined bodies. Our platoon stood behind them and watched as a recruit from another squad cut through their platoon's formation. It was a moment of justice as the "Senior" flayed the poor sap. **"NO - ONE \- EVER - BREAKS - OUR - RANKS,"** echoed across the campus. Ah, the sweet taste of victory. It was a great moment, knowing we would graduate in a few short hours.

After breakfast, we marched back to the Quonset huts and changed into our dress uniforms for the graduation ceremonies. Stapleton was sent to the infirmary that morning, just like he had been on the day of the "Close Order Drill" competition. It must have been an emergency, or Parker wouldn't have ordered him to report to sickbay. I'm sure Parker would have wanted him to participate in the ceremony, and it was unfortunate that he couldn't join in the festivities. After the ceremony, we told him about how great it was showing off in front of a thousand VIPs and guests. He didn't seem to mind. In fact, I think he was relieved.

We were on a drug-free high. Adrenaline was pumping through our veins. It was exhilarating. We had won the competition for "Close Order Drill" and we were proud to show everyone that we moved in synchronized unity. Each platoon competes to win in key areas of training, such as: Close Order Drill, Physical Fitness, Inspection Readiness, Marksmanship, Academics, etc. The platoon that gets the highest score is appointed the "Honors Platoon." Parker knew his stuff. He pushed and drilled us to peak performance. We learned the importance of winning as a team. Camaraderie within the group developed; determination, discipline, and focus were razor-sharp. Our platoon won Close Order Drill, Physical Fitness, Inspection Readiness, Obstacle Course, and Marksmanship. We lost Academics. We were not the smartest, but we kicked butt in every other area and we won the coveted Honors Platoon status.

The Marine Corps band set the tone for the day with an exceptional performance, as 400 recruits marched to the large parade deck in grand style. In moments, we would be given the title of United States Marines. We knew that only a few are honored to have earned the right to be in this position.

The parade deck was the length of four football fields and half as wide. It was big enough to land a small plane on it. At one end of the parade deck was the Administrative Building where the Commanding General, high-ranking officers, and dignitaries sat. Flags on both sides of the podium were a testimony of honor, patriotism, commitment and love of country and Corps. On both sides of the building were platforms and bleachers, which were filled with a thousand family members and visitors. They would watch the transformation from boys to Marines.

Parker had trained our platoon to march as a single unit. All heels struck the deck with one sound. Now, on graduation day, five companies joined in the ceremony. Four hundred men now marched with complete unity. Four hundred heels would strike the deck with one sound. It was a remarkable testimony to the skill of the DIs and 200 years of Marine Corps discipline. The parents watching the ceremony must have beamed with pride, as they watched their young boys celebrate the transformation to young men – Marines.

We marched past the Commander's podium and Parker gave the order. "Present - Arms." The order was perfectly timed by Parker. Our response was a perfectly executed, synchronized move, and we saluted the dignitaries as we passed by the podium. As "Honor Platoon," we would strut our stuff. It was fantastic. Pride exploded within me. It was the most exciting moment of my life.

After graduation, we were given base liberty for several hours before being ordered to start packing for our next duty station. I didn't have visitors so I played basketball for two hours with other Marines who also didn't have guests. I bought an ice cream and soda to celebrate the first free time I had in twelve weeks. That night, after lights out, most of the guys were too pumped-up to sleep. Jonathon was the exception. He slept like a log and became the target of our boredom. We slowly stretched his arm out, careful not to wake him, and filled his hand with shaving cream. We brushed a feather across his nose until it itched enough for him to scratch it. The result was hysterical laughter when he awoke to a face full of foam.

Someone bought a deck of cards during liberty. We started a poker game under the glow of flashlights, using our footlockers as a table. I was never good at poker but I couldn't resist getting into the game. It was 01:00 when Parker entered the hut.

"We are busted," I thought. We stood to attention. He walked over to our makeshift table and stared at each of us.

" **What's the rule about gambling men?"** he said.

" _Men?"_

" _Did I hear him correctly?"_

" _Did he call us men?"_

Michael popped in nervously and said. "Sir, it is against the rules sir."

" **Correct. Why are you breaking my rules?"**

"Sir we couldn't sleep sir ..." Michael started to explain, but Parker cut him off.

" **Who's winning?"**

"Sir, I am sir," Roberts said.

" **Who's losing?"**

" _Sir, I am sir,"_ I said.

Parker looked down at the cash on the table. His tone softened.

"Peter, get your cover."

He pushed all of the money from the table into one pile.

"Peter, take your winnings and hit the rack, and the rest of you get some sleep – tomorrow will be a long day."

I scooped up the cash and jumped into my rack.

"I didn't see any poker game tonight because my Marines know better than to gamble."

"By the way, it's Staff Sergeant Parker to you. Can you remember that Marines?"

He paused to let it sink in and turned to leave.

With a smirk, he said. **"Good night men – see you at 05:00."**

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Advanced Infantry Training

After graduation Parker took on a new platoon of fresh fish, while we packed for Camp Pendleton after being transferred to the Infantry Training Regiment (ITR) for Advanced Infantry Training. Sergeant Leafton, who had two years of action in Vietnam, was my platoon leader. He'd won the Silver Star for bravery, and the Purple Heart for injuries sustained in combat. On the left side of his face were several scars, the result of flak from an RPG (Rocket Propelled Grenade).

We spent eight weeks learning about the weapons we'd use in Vietnam. We learned how to fire an M16, tear it down, and rebuild it under unreasonable and hostile conditions. Everyone learned to break down their "piece" (weapon) and reassemble it in less than a few minutes, blindfolded. This skill was critical, because the early M16 was prone to jamming and we had to learn to repair it in the dark. The chance of the rifle jamming at night, in the middle of a firefight, was entirely realistic, and the inability to repair it was unacceptable. The unreasonable and hostile conditions I experienced during advanced training were nothing compared to the reality of where I found myself on many occasions in Vietnam. My M16, M79 grenade launcher, 45-caliber pistol, and M60 machine gun all jammed at night, during combat. You can't pull out a flashlight to assemble your weapon unless you want to get shot because you gave away your position. Knowing how to fieldstrip your weapon and reassemble it, in pitch-black conditions, is critical. You have to get back into the fight quickly. Everyone's life depends on it.

I learned the importance of camouflage and how to become invisible in any surroundings. **"The shadows are your friends. Learn to blind your enemy using the shadows,"** Sergeant Leafton would say.

I learned how to use dynamite, C4 (plastic explosives) and how to set land mines. We were taught the proper way to throw a hand grenade, break down and reassemble an M60 machine gun, the M79 grenade launcher, set Claymore mines, fire mortars and land-based rockets.

A hand grenade weighs about a pound and is about the size of a baseball, and is comprised of three main components:

1. The body contains the explosive material.

2. The handle (spoon) is a long metal piece that runs along the body and keeps the firing pin from striking the fuse.

3. The spring-loaded firing pin is held in place by the spoon.

When ready to throw a grenade you grab it and hold the spoon firmly in place, next to the body of the grenade. When you pull the pin, located on the top, you can hold the grenade indefinitely as long as you hold the spoon firmly in place. The grenade is activated when the user releases the spoon. The spring-loaded hammer strikes the percussion cap, igniting the fuse. Once the grenade is armed, it will detonate in approximately 4 to 5 seconds. A grenade has a lethal radius of about fifteen feet and a casualty radius of forty-five feet.

The Claymore is a directional anti-personnel mine. It has a curved shape that covers a sixty-degree arc. When a Claymore explodes, it drives seven hundred steel balls racing at 3,900 feet per second to find the target. The area covered is about six feet high, fifty yards wide and up to the length of a football field.

The Claymore uses a small hand-powered electrical generator we called the clacker. The body of the clacker is about the size of a pack of cigarettes, and a small moveable lever generates an electrical charge when pumped. It is used primarily in ambushes and as an anti-infiltration device against the enemy.

The M79 grenade launcher is a single-shot, shoulder-fired, break-action grenade launcher. The Terminator, Arnold Schwarzenegger, used the M79 in the movie T2.

The barrel pivots on a hinge, it's loaded like a shotgun, and it fires a 40mm grenade. Because of its distinctive sound, it has earned the nickname of Thumper or Blooper. It was the first weapon I used in Vietnam. I loved using it, but it jammed frequently.

We were taught how to set "booby-traps," and learned the penalty for not discovering one. Booby-traps are homemade bombs constructed and used in guerrilla warfare. They were usually made from an artillery round or grenade with an electrical or manual detonating mechanism. The term booby-trap comes from a Spanish word, which translates to stupid, fool, idiot, etc. The term booby-trap gives rise to the idea that an individual with the misfortune to be caught in the trap does so because the individual is a dunce. The term booby-trap is no longer used today – now they're called Improvised Explosive Devices, or IEDs.

The Vietnamese were very good at making booby-traps. One of the easiest and most effective booby-traps they used involved a hand grenade, because it could be slid into a soup can or hollow tube. They would pull the pin on the grenade and hold the "spoon" (spring-loaded trigger) in position, and then slide the grenade into the tube or can without releasing the spoon. The device had a trip wire attached that was laid across a path at ankle level, and when someone snagged the wire, the grenade slid from the tube, killing or wounding anyone within the "kill zone."

We were also taught how to clear a minefield. Learning how to sweep a minefield, to recover and disarm a live mine, was unnerving and involved laser-sharp focus and keeping our wits about us. Anti-personnel mines are designed for use against humans, as opposed to anti-tank mines, which are designed for use against vehicles. Typically, anti-personnel blast mines are triggered when the victim steps on the pressure plate on the top of the mine. Even if you have a metal detector, you need to be aware that a mine can be made from other materials, and a metal detector is not always reliable.

Imagine that you have to clear a path as wide as a two-lane road and as long as a football field. You are one of ten guys selected to probe for the mines. On your knees, moving inches at a time, you use your bayonet and probe the soil to locate the mine. You push your bayonet into the earth on a slight angle, searching for hard objects. When you locate an object, you carefully remove the soil around the edges of the object, which can often be just a rock or a stump, or some other harmless material.

When we found a mine and couldn't disarm it, we flagged it and the platoon moved around it. A special team trained to disarm mines would be called in to destroy the field. While we were on our knees probing for mines, other members of our platoon stood watch for any sign of an enemy trap.

On several occasions we came across a suspected mine field, but didn't have the time to probe the field. In these cases, we depended on the skill of the point man to scout the path. A good point man is worth his weight in gold. As he set his course through the field, everyone followed his exact path and would step directly into the foot imprint he'd just made. When we were in a minefield, we couldn't afford to think of the consequences, and had to be intentional about our every move. There was no room for a knee-jerk, nervous, reaction. Total control of our minds was required. Marine boot camp helped us focus and respond with control. It's amazing how the mind can be trained to function in extreme conditions.

We also learned how to read a map so we could navigate through the jungle, day or night. Everyone needed to learn how to call in artillery, air support, or Medivac choppers. I wasn't very good at reading a map. During our training, I led my fire team off course by several hundred yards. Sergeant Leafton gave up on me and called us in after being lost for an hour.

" **Peck, when you get to Nam make sure you tell your platoon leader you don't know the difference between a map and an ass wipe"** (toilet paper).

" _Yes sir,"_ I said

"How many times have I told you, you don't have to call me sir? **You are not in a boot camp anymore.** You only address an officer as sir. Do you think you'll ever get that into your head?"

" _Yes sir."_

" **It is Sergeant Leafton to you Peck. Can you say Sergeant Leafton?"**

" _Yes sir Sergeant Leafton."_

" **Has anyone told you that you are a dumb ass?"**

" _No sir."_

" **Let me be the first."** He said with a smile as he slapped me on the shoulder.

" **Join your platoon Marine."**

" _Okay Corporal Leafton,"_ I said as I turned.

" **It is Sergeant Leafton, Pecoraro."** I heard a zing in his voice.

" _Just messing with the Sarg, I'm not in boot camp any longer, remember?"_

" **Dumb ass!"** echoed over my shoulder as I took my position in the platoon.

" _I am not in boot camp anymore!"_ The thought brought a smile to my face.

We practiced maneuvers day and night. I learned how to assault and clear buildings, cross a valley, a river, move through very thick forest and mountainous terrain. We practiced in teams of four men and with the company of 200. We were taught to coordinate all movements as a single unit, regardless of the size of the unit. Even in a large unit, we moved from position to position and location to location with precision. We were taught how to respond if we were caught in an enemy ambush and how to spring one.

" **Ninety percent of your success, in an ambush, is because you have the element of surprise. You will wait until the enemy is in position, in the middle of the 'kill zone.' When you spring the ambush, you will have a ninety percent chance to annihilate your enemy."**

" **During the first seven seconds, the enemy is confused and disorganized. An undisciplined enemy force will run. You must take advantage at that moment. With the element of surprise, you can destroy an enemy force twice your size."**

" **If you are caught in an ambush you - must \- overcome - their - element - of - surprise. They expect you to panic and run. They expect you to be disorganized. If you do not assault the enemy in the first seven seconds, you will be pinned down and picked off like fish in a barrel."**

" **BUT, YOU WILL NOT PANIC."**

" **YOU WILL NOT BE DISORGANIZED."**

" **YOU WILL NOT RUN"**

" **You will stand your ground. You will turn and return fire immediately. You will assault and overrun their position. Put out as much lead as you can, as fast as you can. Overcome their firepower with greater firepower. The element of surprise is now yours. The enemy does not expect you to attack. We take back the element of surprise by a counter-attack. That is how we win. We attack,"** Leafton taught combat strategy, which I used regularly in Nam.

Other exercises included a series of training courses, which were set up as villages. We practiced house-to-house maneuvers there. Other Marine platoons played the role of our enemy. When they attacked us, we had to establish a defensive position and begin a counter-attack. We were scored on the speed and effectiveness of our counter-attack. Of course, we used blank rounds.

Villages were also set up to simulate jungle warfare, and one exercise was designed as a jungle. It was a "live-fire range" with pop-up targets. We walked a trail about a mile, where targets would pop up at any time, and we fired using live ammunition.

The pop-up targets could be civilians or enemies, and we had to make split-second decisions whether or not to shoot. We were scored on the speed and accuracy of our decision to shoot and hit the correct target, and our superiors didn't take kindly when a civilian was killed. They made it as real as possible. It was very stressful to run the live-fire course. My mind flashed back to Parker. His words from boot camp echoed in my head.

" **You will shoot to kill without hesitation."**

" **Your life will depend on split-second timing."**

" **Your reaction will make the difference whether you live or go home in a body bag."**

" **If you think about his family, you will hesitate and we will ship your body home."**

" **If you think about your family, you will hesitate and we will ship your body home."**

" **You must shoot to kill without thinking, without hesitation, without remorse."**

" **You will kill him without regret and look for the next GOOK to kill."**

" **The second you feel regret or remorse will be the first step to your grave."**

" **You must smell the rat before you can see him."**

" **You must see the rat before he sees you"**

" **You must kill him before he kills you."**

Like all combat lectures from Parker, it was bizarre but it made a lasting impression. We worked on our reaction time daily. As I ran the live-fire course, I began to realize what **"Move, Move, Move"** was about. **"** _It was about reaction time."_

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Coercion

The ITR (Infantry Training Regiment) instructors and platoon leaders don't harass and abuse you like the DIs in boot camp. There's no reason to break you like they did in boot camp, which doesn't mean there isn't discipline or punishment. It just means it's not at the same level of insanity.

While at ITR, Stapleton supposedly hadn't showered one day and the Instructor thought he needed to be taught a lesson. The Instructor told one of the squad leaders that he "better get Stapleton squared away." I got wind the punishment was to take place in the showers, so I sat on the six-foot wall that separated the shower stalls to watch the event.

Six guys from the platoon took him into the showers and stripped him down. They dunked him head first into a 55-gallon drum and washed his entire body vigorously with a "scuz brush." A "scuz brush" is a six-inch long stiff bristle brush that is used for cleaning the squad bay floor and other objects that require coarse scrubbing.

At first, there were about twenty guys rooting for the vigilante crew, but after a few minutes the group turned on the attackers and forced the exercise to stop. They had taken it too far. I hadn't reached the hardened stage yet, but I was well on my way.

A few weeks later, a Marine who had just gotten out of the brig (jail) for fighting was transferred into our platoon. He began trying to intimidate guys, which was not a wise move. He thought he was a bad ass and began picking fights, but most of us had been together since boot camp, for over three months. We'd been through hell and back, and we were tight. How could anyone think he could come in and break up our cohesive team?

One day while we were out on maneuvers, Sergeant Leafton told a few of us how this guy needed to get squared away. "He is making everyone look bad and he needs to straighten up. I am going over the hill, to take a leak. I'll be back in ten minutes," Leafton said. That was our cue.

We gathered around the bad ass and beat the crap out of him. For several minutes, I was caught up in the mob mentality. Before I realized what I was doing, I found myself kicking him in the head and striking him with the butt of my rifle. When the event was over the boy lay there looking up at his attackers, in silence. He had been broken. The corpsman (medically trained personnel) came over and treated him, but he said he was just bruised, and that there was nothing broken. He was sent back to the rear and never returned to the unit. I am sure the final report said he fell off a cliff during our exercise. The lesson from boot camp had been learned, _"No one ever breaks your ranks."_

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### War Games

Advanced combat training would not be complete without a seventy-two hour war game. The exercise was designed to test our endurance, and to evaluate our ability to work as a cohesive unit in a simulated combat environment. The California summer sun was scorching as the temperature approached a hundred degrees. We humped the rocky hills and valleys of Camp Pendleton with full packs, rifle, flack-jackets, helmets, and other gear. We were given daily C-rations and two canteens of water every morning. Everyone was warned to ration the water.

" **It has to last twenty-four hours. If you waste your water before noon, you will not receive more until 06:00,"** Leafton advised.

Our company was in competition with another company. Four hundred men combed the California landscape, like ants foraging for a snack to devour. Our objective was to secure a mountain range after overcoming a series of obstacles strewn throughout thirty miles of rocky hills, valleys, and streams. We ran patrols and ambushes day and night. We were given four hours of sleep every day. We pushed to hunt, find, and destroy the enemy.

The first night, my "fire team" took a position on top of a mountain and settled in at 22:00, using a large hole as a defensive position. The moon was low on the horizon, and there was little light. I took first watch and woke up Stephens to relieve me at 24:00. Then, I settled in for a nap. I woke up at sunrise, and noticed no less than a dozen scorpions crawling into their holes to escape the California heat. It would be a lesson learned. _"You can't predict and control the conditions you find yourself in. You just face them, control your mind, and move to the next objective."_

The next day I was sent on a reconnaissance mission with two other Marines. We had to scout a mountain ridge along the border of a valley that we had to cross. When we reached the top of the mountain, we swept across the plateau while keeping a distance of fifteen meters between us, so if one of us got captured the others could complete the mission. The team crawled through a quarter-mile of waist-high grass, so that we'd ensure our position wouldn't be given away. Slowly we moved, on our bellies, careful not to disturb the natural movement of the grass swaying in the wind. We synchronized our watches, and the mission was planned so we'd rendezvous back at the ridgeline in ninety minutes. We successfully confirmed our enemy's location and movement, and with the mission complete, we headed back along the ridge, using the tree line to cover our movement. I drew the short straw and took "the point," which was the lead position. Butch and Purcell followed at ten-minute intervals. I moved through the tree line and came across an enemy scout crouching behind a tree looking into the valley. I held my position and scanned the area to ensure that he was alone. After a few minutes, I concluded he was a forward observer on a recon assignment and moved into position from his blind side. When I got within five feet of him, I gave him the command to surrender.

" _You've been tagged private._ Place your weapon across your shoulders and move slowly to your rear." I ordered.

"No, I'm not moving," he said.

" _What do you mean you're not moving? You can't do that!!"_

"No!" he insisted. I'm not moving."

" _What? You're not playing by the rules. I captured you fair and square. Move out!"_

"No, I'm not moving and I would suggest that you not move either."

" _What the hell are you talking about? I got the drop on you. Move out."_

"Snake! You're standing next to a rattler. I am not moving and you shouldn't either."

I looked down and saw I was standing about two feet from a large Diamondback. It was coiled up. I could now hear it hiss as it rattled its tail. It sat between me and the other Marine. I froze and stared at the beast. It was not intimidated and stood its ground. After a minute, I slowly took a step backward then another. I was about ten feet away when Butch caught up to me.

"Whatcha doing Peck?"

" _Rattler Butch. Make a wide berth to the left and watch for others."_

" _Hey dude, what's your name?"_ I asked the crouching Marine.

"Jason."

" _Did you get bit Jason?"_

"No, I've been crouching for thirty minutes. My legs are numb. I don't think I can move," he said.

" _Okay Jason, take it slow. Butch and I will pull the attention of the rattler away from you. When I give you the high sign, position yourself behind the tree, so it's between you and the snake. Shake out your legs then move to the left along the ridge."_

Butch and I moved into position about ten feet apart, on an angle away from the snake. We dropped the butt of our rifle to ankle level swinging it slowly, like a pendulum. As the snake was distracted, Jason moved slowly and positioned the tree between him and the snake. Butch and I backed away very slowly, and Jason, relieved from the ordeal, gladly became our prisoner.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Meritorious Promotion

When graduation from Advanced Infantry Training came, Leafton assembled 200 Marines on the parade deck, in front of the barracks. Meritorious promotions would be given for outstanding performance. Fifteen Marines were given a promotion to Private First Class (PFC).

I was standing at attention during the ceremony thinking about heading home. The guy next to me nudged me. I looked up and he nodded his head toward the podium. The commanding officer handing out the promotions had called my name. I looked at Leafton and he nodded to approach and except the promotion. I shook hands with the Captain and Leafton, smiled and made a sharp about-face and joined my platoon. Standing there, I remembered an incident that had occurred a couple of days earlier. We had a final inspection before graduation and I stood at attention in front of my rack. Leafton walked past me and reached under my blanket and pulled out several live rounds (bullets).

" **What are these Pecoraro?"**

" _M14 rounds sir"_

" **I can see that! How did you get these in your rack?"**

" _I don't know sir."_

" **You know I can have you arrested, court-martialed, and sent to the brig for the possession of live ammunition?"**

He pressed me for a response but I stood my ground. I answered every question and assault he made. It was easy. I had no idea where the ammunition came from. After a few minutes, he left me alone and I never heard another word about it. I wondered if that was a final test to see whether I deserved the promotion. I sewed my new stripes on my uniforms and proudly wore them home the next day.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Four Hundred Eighty Hours

I got a twenty-day leave before I was shipped to Nam, and I hoped my dad would be curious about my boot camp experience. Unfortunately, beyond the customary "welcome home son," he wasn't interested. I don't know why I assumed I would be able communicate and relate with him now. In the nineteen years I lived in his house, we could never break the communication barrier.

Why did I expect something to change during the three months I was gone? I don't know, but it was one of those moments where I learned to lower my expectations to avoid being hurt.

I hooked up with two guys, Ron and Dale, who were from the rock band I played in before I enlisted. I wanted their help to hunt down Eddie Lapeer for stealing Penny, so they came along for the ride. We drove by Eddie's home, but he wasn't there. We looked for him at all the local hangouts, but he was nowhere to be found. One night about midnight, we ran into him as he came home from work. I had been drinking. He was sober.

" _I have the right to kick your ass Eddie,"_ I told him. I justified my conduct.

"I didn't plan to steal Penny from you," he said.

" _I'm not buying it Eddie,"_ I said as I approached him.

I threw several punches to test his response, and then lunged to his right. The move was a fake. My plan was to strike with a reverse roundhouse kick, as he retreated to avoid my assault. I had successfully landed this kick many times during combat training. Spinning, however, after you have been drinking is not a good idea. I lost my balance and fell. I didn't even come close. As I lay on the ground, looking up I noticed peach fuzz on the kid's baby face.

"I don't want to fight you Nino," his voice cracked.

I stood, looked closely into his eyes, and saw myself.

" _This is wrong,"_ I thought.

I had never intentionally started a fight. I had been bullied for years, and I hated bullies. I was thirteen years old when my brother-in-law taught me to defend myself, after which I started to stand up to the bullies. Often they would back down. I then started standing up for others who couldn't stand up for themselves.

Injustice angered me. My character is deeply rooted in fighting for a just cause. If I fought Eddie rather than defending an underdog, I would be victimizing one. Confused emotions raced in me. I couldn't fight him, but my teenage ego couldn't make it look like I was backing down. The whole event was unsettling. I don't remember who broke the silence, but the night ended quietly. We both went our separate ways.

Most of my time home was boring. My friends were either in school or working. Days dragged along with little or nothing to do. One night we went to a high school dance where my old band was playing. They sounded great and I was disappointed that I wasn't up there playing too. I had lived in a dream world, playing in the band and riding my motorcycle during high school. We played at school dances and parties for three years and had become a popular local band. Our name was "The Future Generation." Dale and I started the band when I was in tenth grade. Even though everyone in school knew me, Dale was my only real friend. I was never good at making friends. The vow I had made never to trust anyone hindered my ability to make friends. I just kept my distance from people so I wouldn't get hurt again.

Hanging out with my friends wasn't the same. It was a reminder that my life had changed. The week before I went back, I went on a whirlwind trip to New York City with Ron and Dale. It was a four-day wild ride with no plan, no food, and little money. We slept in the car for a few hours when we got exhausted. We walked the streets of New York from dawn-to-dawn, catching only a few hours of sleep at a time. One night we slept on a dark street in Greenwich Village and another in Central Park. It was the high point of my time back home.

While boring at times, the twenty days went by way too fast. Going back, knowing I was headed for Vietnam was difficult. My next assignment was to complete a jungle survival course. Jungle Survival Training was the final reality check. How well could I survive if I was separated and stranded in the jungle? I learned the type of vegetation to eat and what to avoid, as well as how to collect clean water and morning dew to drink and avoid dysentery. I was taught how to make weapons and tools to trap, kill, and prepare animals for food. I was told that I could never start a fire to cook a meal, unless I wanted to give away my position and become a POW. I was taught about the type of snakes in the region and how to treat myself if bitten by a poisonous snake. I was taught how to use the location of the sun, moon, and stars to work my way back to friendly forces, usually moving at night, which was the safest method to keep from being captured. Learning how to use the camouflage skills I had been taught was reviewed, and I was taught how to stay invisible and to steer clear from the locals during daylight hours. The training was very interesting and exciting for me, but it brought the reality and danger of the war to the forefront of my consciousness.

Next stop, Vietnam. I briefly thought of not going back. I was scared and conflicted. I knew if I didn't report back, as ordered, they would hunt me down. I would be on the run for life. If I ran to Canada, I could never return to America. If Canada sent me back, it would be worse. They could charge me with desertion. I remembered the rules from the UCMJ that had been drilled in my mind.

"Any person found guilty of desertion shall be punished. If the offense is committed in time of war they shall be punished by death, or such other punishment as determined by court-martial."

" _Time of war?"_

" _Death?"_

With what I had experienced in boot camp, I didn't doubt it. The choice came down to a few options. Take my chance in Nam, spend ten years in a Marine Corps brig, or face a firing squad. I remembered the image of Atherton standing in front of the MPs. The choice was easy. I chose Nam.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Processing for Nam

We landed in Okinawa for a two-day stopover on our way to Nam, and had to complete paperwork the "Top Brass" needed done. It was SOP, "Standard Operating Procedure." We didn't have anything to do because we were in transit, so they kept us busy cleaning the barracks and policing the area. In the evening, we were given liberty, and a few guys went to the base club. I only had a few drinks because I had "Fire Watch" from 02:00 to 06:00 and needed to be sober. "Fire Watch" is sentry duty. Generally, you guard an area such as a barracks. My job that night was to check in everyone who had gone out on liberty. I had to organize the liberty passes and keep the records straight.

I returned from the club in time for my assignment. The space I was assigned to was the size of a closet, large enough to fit a card table. I had to stand behind the table because there was no room for a chair.

I had just enough to drink to get tired and fought to stay awake, but lost the battle. I woke up at 06:30, curled into a ball on top of the table. I was covered with a hundred liberty cards, an empty clipboard, and a pounding headache. I took the cards and tried to file them, but after a few minutes I gave up and threw them on the table. I went to my rack to catch another ninety minutes of sleep. I took a pass on breakfast.

The next night I went to the club again. We were shipping out in the morning and all bets were off. I slugged down more beer than I had ever had before and took the base shuttle back to my barracks at 22:00 hours, and lay down on the bench seat in the back of the bus. I woke up at some ungodly hour with the bus driver standing over me.

"Hey buddy, you got a home?"

" _What?"_

"Where are you staying?"

" _Oh! Huh, take me to 2123B."_

"Hey, buddy – this was the last trip for the night. If I hadn't looked for packages left behind by drunks like you, you'd be sleeping in the yard tonight. You gotta go buddy – my shift is over."

" _What! Where am I?"_

"You're in the yard. You can't stay here. You gotta go."

" _How am I gonna get to my barracks?"_

"I don't know. That's your problem. I gotta go, and you do too." He turned off the lights in the bus and led me to the gate.

"Look, start walking that way. Someone will pick you up."

I looked down the long, dark two-lane road, miles from nowhere. The only light came from a sliver of a moon, as it peaked through the cloud-covered night sky.

I don't know how long I walked, but he was right. Somehow, I got to the barracks, but I don't know how I got there. When I woke up in the morning, I was lying on the floor next to my rack covered in my own vomit. I showered in my clothes to get them clean, then dressed in a dry set of fatigues. I rolled my wet uniform into a ball, and shoved it into my sea bag – I'd be in Nam in a few hours, and would have more to worry about than some moldy, wet clothes.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Touchdown In Country

We began circling the airport at 13:30. I was still sick from the night before, but it really didn't matter, as we'd be landing in twenty minutes. I looked out the window. The country looked like a tropical paradise, lush and green. Multi-colored rice paddies checkered the landscape and extended to the mountain's edge. It was beautiful. I remember thinking _, "I can't believe there's a war raging down there."_ I knew better, however, and I subconsciously waited for the pilot to swerve violently, taking evasive action to avoid "Land-Based Rockets" streaking toward the jet. Taking down a jet of two hundred Marines would be a feather in the cap for a North Vietnamese gunner. We circled Da Nang and I prayed that we would land quickly. I thought I'd have a better chance of survival running from mortars or rockets than being a sitting duck in a flying target. Why didn't they just paint a red bull's-eye on the side of the plane?

Vietnam was divided into four tactical combat zones. "I Corps" (pronounced eye core) was the northernmost combat zone and bordered the Demilitarized Zone, at the 17th parallel. Da Nang was a major base in "I Corps" and ideal for an airfield. Situated in a valley, it was surrounded by mountains, and the South China Sea to the East. It was once a small provincial airfield, but the base had been expanded to 2,350 acres, which included two 10,000-foot runways and a separate area for choppers. Someone said it was five-hundred square miles, but I didn't really care – I wouldn't be staying long.

As we taxied to a stop, I expected mortar shells to begin dropping all around the plane. The jet stopped just off the runway, about 300 feet from makeshift terminals, which were a series of pole barns with corrugated steel roofs. Most buildings didn't have walls and were just open-air structures.

Looking out the window, as I waited to disembark, I saw that a line had formed. Two hundred Marines were waiting to board the "Silver Bird," heading stateside. The line stretched the length of a football field. Most of them dragged duffel bags. Some traveled with only the clothes on their backs.

When I disembarked the air-conditioned jet, a wall of heat and humidity struck me, and felt like I'd walked into a steam room at the gym. In addition, the smell of jet fuel made it hard to breathe. It took a few minutes to adjust and regain my composure.

The line moved slowly as we exited the plane and crossed the tarmac. Each man I passed looked like he'd been dragged behind wild horses, and without exception, appeared as if he hadn't changed his shabby jungle garb or bathed in months. My bright and shiny "spit-polished boots" were in stark contrast to the mud-caked jungle boots they wore. My clean and starched fatigues were evidence that I was "fresh meat," here to replace the battered men heading home.

It seemed like it took an hour to cross the short distance on the tarmac. Each man I passed looked straight ahead, expressionless. "I would be thrilled to be heading back home," I thought. But they looked like walking zombies – hard, cold, and stone-faced. The two lines passed in complete silence. I wanted to ask each man I passed what it was like, but I couldn't muster up the words. With my anxiety no longer containable, I blurted out a question to the guy standing next to me.

" _What are the monsoons like?"_

" _Are they bad?"_

" _I've heard a lot about how difficult it is, always being wet and cold."_

He stared straight ahead and without expression, he said **. "The monsoons will kick your ass if you let them kick your ass."**

I didn't know what he meant but I wasn't going to make the mistake of asking another question. His words, however, were just enough for me to begin thinking and planning for the monsoon season.

When we got to the terminal, we were ordered into a loose formation and given instructions to retrieve our gear and wait in the terminal until called. A large flatbed truck pulled up and four jarheads began calling names as they threw our duffel bags to the ground.

" **Peco."**

" **Raco."**

" **Peckocarl, get your gear."**

" _It's Pecoraro sir."_

" **I am sure it is. Don't call me sir, I am a Corporal."**

" _Yes sir Corporal."_

" **Just grab your gear, you idiot – you're holding up the line."**

I threw my bag over my shoulder and headed toward the terminal. There were hundreds of men milling around. Many had just arrived and were waiting for the orders that would ship them to their unit. Others were waiting to catch the "Silver Bird" back home.

As I scanned the terminal, I saw bodies lying everywhere on the mud-caked concrete slab. It made the cold steel chairs at Fort Wayne seem like the Hilton. It was impossible to get into the terminal without stepping over or on someone. I wasn't going to try to compete for space when so many men had spent a year in-country and had earned the right to any spot they wanted.

The image of their bodies lying around was overwhelming. I dropped my gear and began looking for a priest. I needed to go to confession. I didn't really have any faith in God, but just in case, I needed to set things straight. There were chaplains everywhere. It made sense. It was a good place to enlist converts. When I finally found a Catholic priest I waited in line for an hour, so he could hear my confession. I prayed to the Blessed Mother the entire time I waited, hoping I wouldn't get killed before I got my confession complete. I knew I wasn't on speaking terms with Jesus, but I hoped his mother might have the pull I needed. After all, I had never used her name in vain, so perhaps she'd put in a good word for me.

The sun was high and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Dust filled the air as trucks and jeeps drove through the area. A musty smell hung in the air. It was a combination of dirt, mold, diesel fuel, and canvas. I would learn to love it. In fact, I would look forward to coming back to the smell and safety of "base camp" after two months in the wilderness.

I thought it must have rained recently because there were puddles of water on the ground and the reddish-color mud stuck to everything. Word had spread that all new arrivals could get food in the mess hall, which was a quarter-mile down the road. While that sounded good, I worried about walking a quarter-mile without a weapon. _"What if we get attacked – how can I defend myself? I don't even have a pocketknife,"_ I thought. Before heading to lunch, I stood, observing the behavior of the veteran leathernecks. It didn't take long to see that they felt comfortable as they moved throughout the area. Obviously, they thought it was secure. With my reservations in control, I decided to head to the mess hall for lunch but made sure to stay close to a couple of guys who carried M16s.

When I returned from lunch, I noticed most of the "salty dogs" had been processed and were on their way home. The floor of the terminal now had open spots of real estate scattered throughout. I picked a nice spot and settled in for a short nap. I was dozing lightly when I heard loud speakers crack.

" **Rockopolo report Command Post Five,"** I faded back to sleep. A short time later, the speakers blasted again.

" **Pocopapa report to Command Post Five."** I rolled over to get comfortable.

" **Private First Class 'Anthony Recoparleo, the Fourth' report to Command Post Five."** I jumped up quickly and stumbled over several dozen guys before I found the Command Post. I ran to the door.

" **You Pecalari?"**

Yes sir, but it's Pecoraro sir."

" **Right, I'll remember that. Don't call me sir. I am a Sergeant."**

" _Yes sir sergeant."_ He shook his head and handed me a brown folder.

" **You are attached to the Third Marine division at Phu Bai. Your flight leaves tomorrow at 14:00, from hangar nine. Be there by 13:00."**

" **You will find housing behind the Command Post, up the hill. You're not to leave the compound. There are bunkers on each side of the hooch, in case of a rocket attack. If you want, you can sleep in the bunker. The enlisted men's club is open until 21:00. Chow closes at 18:00."**

He stopped as abruptly as he began. A few minutes later, a crowd began to move toward the housing units and I followed.

The hooches, which housed about twenty men each, were built on stilts made of four-by-four posts. Three steps led up to the entrance. The deck was made of plywood. The sides of the hooch were covered with black mosquito mesh screen, and olive-green plastic tarps rolled down to block the wind and rain during the monsoons. The roof was made of corrugated steel. I picked a rack next to the door, in case I needed to make a quick exit.

I checked out the bunkers and went to dinner. After dinner, a few of us walked to the club. The club was nothing more than a large tent full of wooden chairs and picnic tables on a dirt floor. They sold chips, pretzels, beer, and soft drinks. The guys ordered a couple pitchers of beer, and we listened to stories and jokes told by boys who were shipping out to their combat units in the morning. The tall stories and laughter helped reduce the anxiety. I had a coke.

When it was my turn, I told them several stories about a bunch of misfits I hooked up with before shipping out from LA.

First, there were Flip and Skinny, two soul brothers from LA who lived through the 1965 Watts riots. Skinny was arrested for wandering the streets when the city was under Martial Law. Flip was almost caught looting. He escaped, but his friend was caught during the robbery.

Flip got his name because he was always playing with a good luck coin. Skinny? What else would you call a lanky, six-foot, 140-pound kid?

Big Chief was a Navaho Indian from Colorado. He was a big boy. He wanted to make the Corps a career, to escape the life he knew on the reservation.

Little Chief, or Chicken Beak, was from Arizona. He was a member of the Hopi Tribe. He got his nickname because he had an odd point on the tip of his nose. He was short and stocky and loved to drink and fight. Someone was always assigned to keep him out of trouble.

Nick enlisted from New Mexico. He was an American citizen, but his parents had immigrated from Mexico after World War II. He was a big boy. He'd been a manual laborer, and at 220 pounds, he looked like the Incredible Hulk.

Jack was born and bred in Texas, and would remind you of it every time he could. He didn't like anyone that wasn't born a Texas native. He would boast, "God knows you guys need someone to look after you, to keep your dumb asses out of trouble."

One time Jack started messing with Skinny, and got him on the ground in a headlock. Flip jumped in and wrestled Jack to his knees, holding him in a bear hug. Skinny jumped up and grabbed Jack in another bear hug, from the opposite side. As quickly as it occurred, Chicken Beak started screaming hysterically, "Oreo." The rest of us broke into laughter as we realized that Jack, the white boy from Texas, had been pinned between the two black boys. From that moment, they became the "Oreo Brothers," a name Jack wasn't fond of. Our personalities mixed like oil and water, but for some reason we had chemistry.

We once went to LA for a weekend before we shipped out to Okinawa. We rented three rooms in a dingy hotel. Apparently, I mixed beer and liquor and about midnight went to get something to eat. I got into a verbal confrontation with everyone in the bar. Supposedly, I went from table to table, making insulting remarks to the ladies and trying to pick a fight with anyone that would bite.

The owner of the bar called the cops. The guys dragged me out of the bar and went to the hotel to lay low. The cops tracked us down and looked for me, going room-to-room. Jack took the cops to an empty room for the first search. When the cops went to search the second room, they moved me from where I was hiding to the room the cops just searched. Jack was taken by surprise when the cops went to recheck the first room again. The guys didn't have time to move me, so they quickly hid me in the closet, behind the ironing board.

I heard them pleading with the cops not to arrest me because I was shipping out in a few days. I am sure the cops could see me hiding behind the ironing board, because I could see their legs when the door was open. I wasn't much of a drinker at that time.

Two weeks before the LA incident, Chicken Beak started a fight in a bar that was a Navy hangout. I knew he was headed for no good. We entered the bar in our Marine uniforms, a sure-fire recipe for trouble. I checked the exit doors, which was part of my routine. We all expected Chicken Beak to start a fight, and he usually started mouthing off after a few drinks. We had dragged him out of other bars after he instigated flights, so we knew what to expect.

On this occasion, he started trashing a couple of large sailor boys. He had a toolbox full of insults. One of the sailors stood to fight after Chicken Beak called him a Sissy Pants Squid. The sailor grabbed Chicken Beak and pinned him to the bar. Big Chief jumped up and tackled Sissy Pants. The sailor's friends jumped up and immediately both tables emptied into the middle of the room. Pushing, shoving, and punching broke into a frenzy. Other Navy boys tried to break up the stockpile of mad dogs. After a few minutes, someone yelled, **"MPs OUTSIDE!"** As the MPs ran through the front door, we exited through the back. This was only one of several occasions when the back door was needed to escape an arrest.

The last few weeks before we were shipped to Nam, Chicken Beak got into so much trouble he was put under "house arrest." He could have spent time in the brig, but they needed him in Nam, so they overlooked his unbecoming behavior. He was ordered to stay in the barracks and wasn't eligible for a liberty pass, to leave the base. Nonetheless, he snuck off the base, went to the city, got drunk and was arrested by the MPs for being AWOL (Absent Without Official Leave). The last two days before we shipped out, he was handcuffed to his rack. There was an empty bucket and toilet paper next to his rack, and a guard checked on him every few hours, bringing him chow and water.

Someone snuck in a pint of booze, and we sat, talked, and laughed at him as he discussed his strategy for transporting himself and his rack to his favorite watering hole in Oceanside, California.

After we shipped out, I lost contact with them, but the images of those crazy guys still make me shake my head in amazement.

The stories ended at 21:00 and I walked back to the hooch. I couldn't sleep, so I sat on top of the bunker and looked across the valley and airstrip. The moon was high in the sky and I could see the contour of the mountain ridges in the distance. _"It must be ten miles to the other side of the valley,"_ I thought. The night was silent except for the continuous roar of the F16s, Huey gunships, and artillery salvos that supported the troops that were running operations across the length of the valley. White flashes of light burst from the shadows across the face of the mountain ridges. It was like 1,000 flash bulbs bursting at an outdoor rock concert. Each flash of light interrupting the darkness was followed by a dull thud. Explosions could be heard ten seconds after the flash of the blast disappeared. Heat lightning stretched across the sky as a storm front headed into the valley.

My mind was pressed with images and thoughts of the men running patrols along the crest of the mountains. I needed a distraction to take my mind off the combat scenes that were playing out in my head, so I pulled a small tablet of paper from my pocket and wrote a letter home.

" _Dear Mom, I landed safely in Da Nang today. I am fine, there is nothing going on here. The night is quiet. There is heat lighting in the sky. The monsoon season has begun and rain is expected every day. I got a tattoo the other day. It is small, the word Love. I placed it on my left arm. It is blue with green and red highlights."_ I chose not to tell her I got the tattoo after an argument with another Marine, about the love he had for his sweetheart back home. I didn't believe love existed. I had known nothing but anger and betrayal during my nineteen years of life, so the tattoo represented nothing more than my cynical, angry view of life.

" _Love is a stupid word found in sappy songs and foolish daydreams of giddy girls. Love is nothing more than a vulgar four-letter word and I will not have a part of it. Whenever I want to find LOVE, I can look on my arm. It will always be there. But you will look for it aimlessly your entire life and never find it. At best, it is an elusive demon. In the least, it is a fairy tale only fools chase,"_ I told him.

My life of anger was about to spiral deeper, to a strange new level. The next thirteen months would destroy any slim flicker of love that may have existed up to that point. I knew that I was headed into a dark place, and there was no reason to worry the old lady. I finished the letter, which was a lie. Like every other letter I sent her, I told her I was fine and in a safe place.

In a few days, I would seek, find, and kill an elusive enemy, often a kid who was younger than me with peach fuzz on his face. My new jungle fatigues would soak up the blood of an enemy combatant and innocent villagers caught in the crossfire. A day later, the blood of an American boy would mix with the blood of the Vietnamese boy. The stain got bigger and turned into a large, dark gray spot, after the rain and mud washed the red blood cells from the fabric. It became impossible to tell where the blood from the Vietnamese boy began and the American boy ended.

Dried blood and the smell of death penetrated my senses. It would take days for the smell of the blood to be washed from my skin and clothes. The more time I spent walking in waist-high water, the quicker the smell faded.

My mind became set on hunting Gooks. I carried their bodies to the village edge and laid them down, next to Highway 1, to be claimed by their families.

A barbarian rage overwhelms you when you carry the body of your friend to the truck for his last ride home. When you place him in the body bag, you take one last look at his face before you zip it closed. Your anger and hate surge. The death of your friend was personal. You had spent time sleeping in foxholes and defending each other when under attack. He told you about the 1956 Thunderbird he rebuilt. He won the Skeet Shooting Championship at the County Fair. You knew about his family, his wife Jill, and his new baby Seth, who would never know his father. His dreams of building a home for his wife and family have died with him, but will live forever, unfulfilled, in your mind.

You begin to see your enemy as less than human, as vermin to be eradicated. You must devalue their every human quality, so you can squash them like spiders and flies. You must lose your life, your true human self, to survive. You become one of them, the enemy. With each life you take, you lose a bit of yours.

Hate for the vermin explodes in your mind, something snaps and you want to hunt them down. Killing one hundred rodents never makes up for the loss of one lonely kid from Minnesota, Iowa, or New York. It doesn't matter how many you kill – it never fills the hole ripped from your soul.

Conflicting emotions overpowered my world. Every time I searched the body one of those dead Vietnamese boys, I found pictures of his family wrapped in plastic to keep the elements from destroying the image. He cherished the images of people that he had hoped to see when he returned home after the war. I wondered who would sift through my pictures.

War is insanity, where the lines of humanity blur. There is no difference between Vietnamese Vermin or American Vermin. We both lost an important element of the heart. We became absorbed by the conditions we were immersed in, and we both died. You may wonder; how does a transformation like this occur? Sun Tzu, an ancient Chinese military general, addressed it 3,000 years ago.

"To know your enemy, you must become your enemy."

Sun Tzu was right. I came to know my enemy and became him in the process.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Epilogue

It has been forty-four years since I left the war zone, yet every spring the smell of death awakens my mind. When I turn over the soil in the garden, the smell of the earth, mold, and decay bring back vivid images of death. I travel back in time for a few short minutes, when I help your mom plant spring flowers. I try to re-bury memories that will not die.

At this point you may think all is well. I returned alive. I had a great family, a successful career, and many wonderful experiences. From all indications, I lived the American dream. Now I find myself compelled to face the demons that I ignored for years. I tried to write this story forty years ago, but the battle in my mind prevented me. I discovered that the weight of the hate, violence, and death I knew was too intense. When I tried to write, I found myself in a trance reliving the events. After twenty minutes of vivid images, only a few disjointed words made it to the page. I could not function and had to put it aside.

I know some of the details have faded. I don't remember the names of all of the villages, roads, mountains, and operations. However, the events and images that are deeply burned in my soul will provide enough background for you to understand what drove me. Finally, I can unveil the part of the life I buried. I thank God I made it back alive. But, as I write the next chapter, the bigger question will be: how well did I survive? Tomorrow, I will pick up the next chapter when I leave Da Nang and fly to my main base, Phu Bai. There, I will begin my pilgrimage through the "Grass Lands and Waste Lands" of Vietnam. I will then unpack the years of struggle after returning from Nam. The journey to recovery has been a long road of intense battles. Often, I wished I were back in Vietnam. It was a simple life with clear objectives. I understood the enemy. I had been trained to overcome his aggression. In Nam, the battle could be addressed by a quick burst of rifle fire, a Claymore, or an air strike. The only death I was concerned with was a quick one. When I came back to "the world," I died a hundred deaths every day. I was ambushed from an invisible enemy in my mind. I had no outlet for the anger, pressure, and depression and tried to find relief in drugs and alcohol, which lead to a false and deadly road. That road almost stole the little hope of what life might have held for me. My adventure and recovery is only appreciated when I look back and know that the reward for overcoming the obstacles isn't measured by the stuff I accumulated. It is only measured by the love I learned to accept and give back to others struggling in their journey. It took me forty years to discover that love truly exists. I now realize that when you help others find a way to recovery, you truly have lived a dream worth chasing.

I love you, Brian. Thanks for your faith and encouragement. My life has been enriched because you have been with me in this adventure.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

### Appendix

At ease/or as you were – order to disregard the immediately preceding order.

AWOL – Absent Without Official Leave.

Aye-aye or aye – nautical term used as a response to orders, meaning "I understand the orders I have received and will carry them out."

Barracks – living quarters.

Blooper – M79 grenade launcher.

Blanket party – a group assault on a service member, repeatedly striking him, preceded by covering the victim's head by a blanket so he cannot identify the perpetrators.

Boot – recruit, or derisive term for a Marine just out of training.

Boot camp – recruit training for enlisted Marines at Parris Island, SC and San Diego, CA.

Brig – prison or place of confinement aboard ship or ashore at a Marine Corps or naval station.

Bulkhead – wall.

Campaign cover – official term for the brown campaign hat worn by drill instructors.

Carry on – order to continue after being interrupted.

Close order drill – the procedures and methodology of handling weapons and moving troops about in an orderly fashion, used to indoctrinate recruits in obedience to commands and military appearance.

Colonel – proper means of addressing Lieutenant Colonels and Colonels.

Cover – headgear; protection from enemy fire.

CS – tear gas or 2-chlorobenzalmalononitrile, a white powder used for defense training.

Deck – floor or surface of the earth.

Devil Dog – nickname for Marines.

Fat-body – overweight recruit or service member.

Field day – day or portion of day set aside for top-to-bottom cleaning of an area.

Field-strip – to disassemble a weapon to the major part groups for routine cleaning or lubricating.

Fighting hole – a defensive position dug into the ground; can be dug for one Marine, a pair, or a weapon crew; formerly known as a "foxhole."

Final Duty Station – A reference to a Marine's final posting, assignment.

Fire watch – sentry on duty specifically guarding a person, place, object, or area in a non-combat area (such as a barracks); considered under arms but usually unarmed.

Firrrst and Secooon squaaaad, Riiieeet, Heess \- First and second squad, right face.

Flak jacket – antiquated term for ballistic vest or body armor.

Forwaaard Harruch - Forward March

Full-bird – Colonel, as opposed to a half-bird, light colonel, or short-bird/short colonel, a Lieutenant Colonel; so named because his or her rank insignia is a silver eagle.

Gear – property or equipment; usually referring to an individual's combat equipment.

GI shower – bathing with limited water; bathing an individual who refuses to meet minimum hygiene standards.

Go-fasters – running shoes or sneakers.

GOMER – slang for a stupid person, from the character Gomer Pyle.

Grunt or ground pounder – infantryman, formerly a pejorative that has taken more neutral tones.

Hatch – an opening on the deck of a ship, in the roof or floor of a building, or an aircraft.

Half-bird – Lieutenant Colonel, as opposed to a Full-Bird Colonel.

HE – High Explosive, used to describe various kinds of ordnance.

Head – bathroom or latrine, a nautical term from the days of sailing ships when the designated place to defecate and urinate was forward, at the bow or "head" of the ship.

High and tight – nickname for a common variant of the buzz cut, where the hair is clipped very close.

Hooch – tent, hut, or otherwise temporary or ramshackle dwelling.

Hot-shit – sarcastic reference to an overly arrogant person.

House mouse – recruit tasked with cleaning and performing domestic chores in drill instructor-only areas.

Hump – carry or lift a load, "to carry one's gear;" also a forced march carrying full equipment loads.

Hurry up and wait – expression denoting inefficient time management or planning, often when a senior rushes a unit into a situation too fast that subsequently makes them wait.

HURA – an acronym for: Heard, Understood, Recognized, and Acknowledged.

IED – Improvised Explosive Device, a bomb constructed, set, and detonated in unconventional warfare.

IG – Inspector General.

IG inspection – official inspection of a command or unit by the IG or his representatives.

In country – phrase referring to being within a war zone.

Jarhead – pejorative term for a Marine. Jarhead has several supposed origins: the regulation "high and tight" haircut resembles a mason jar.

Jesus slippers – government-issue sandals or flip-flops for sanitation in showers.

Junk on the bunk – a formal inspection of gear that takes place in the squad bay, where the gear is placed on the rack in a specific order.

Leatherneck – nickname for Marine, so named for legends stating that stiff leather collars were once worn to protect the throat from sword-blows.

Lert, lert, lert, reett, lert - Left, Left, Left, Right, Left

Liberty – authorized free time ashore or off station.

Marine – the following nicknames are usually acceptable: leatherneck, devil dog, sea soldier, warrior, hard charger, motivator; the following are acceptable from other Marines: jarhead, gyrene.

MCRD – Marine Corps Recruit Depot, San Diego, California

Master Gunnery Sergeant – Master Sergeant "Top" and Gunnery Sergeant "Gunny."

Medivac – MEDIcal eVACuation; removing a wounded person to the closest medical or triage facility using designated ambulance equipment, vehicles, or aircraft.

Mess or mess hall – cafeteria.

Military time – the time of day on a 24-hour clock. "1330" or "thirteen-thirty" instead of "1330 hours."

MP – Military Police.

Parade deck – area set aside for the conduct of parades, drill, and ceremonies.

Passageway – corridor or hallway.

Piece – used to refer to your weapon.

Rack – bed; inappropriate to use the term "bunk" except when used in conjunction with "junk on the bunk."

Reeee - Ready

RPG – Rocket-Propelled Grenade; a common explosive weapon used by many militaries and insurgent groups; the most common of which is the RPG-7.

Salt, salty, or salt/salty dog – experienced or well-worn person or object, from the salt that would accumulate after long-term exposure to salt water.

Scuttlebutt – gossip.

Senior Drill Instructor – the leader of a recruit platoon.

Seabag – duffel bag used to carry one's personal belongings. "Duffel bag" is an Army term not used by Marines.

Semper Fi – shortened version of "Semper Fidelis," the motto of the Corps; Latin for "always faithful."

Shit bag or shit bird – habitually unkempt or undisciplined Marine.

Sick bay – infirmary or other medical facility aboard ship.

Sick call – daily period when routine ailments are treated at sick bay.

Sight in – aim a weapon at a target using the sights, considered an intention to shoot the target.

Smokey Bear – brown campaign cover worn by drill instructors, so named because of their similarity to the hat worn by Smokey Bear.

SOP – Standard Operating Procedure, the routine manner of handling a set situation; can be a standing order.

Spit and polish – extreme individual or collective military neatness, extreme devotion to the minutiae of traditional military procedures.

Spit-shine – polish leather footwear (boots and dress shoes), employing spittle to remove excess grease and produce a high polish.

Squadbay – living quarters with open rooms and shared head, as opposed to barracks that offer individual rooms.

Square(d) away – make neat and be in regulation appearance.

Squat thrust – an exercise performed from a standing position: drop to a squat position with your hands on the ground near your feet. Throw the feet back, placing yourself into a push-up position. Perform a push-up, stand, and repeat many times.

Thirrrd and fooourth squaaad, Lerrrt Heess - Third and forth squad, left face.

Tunnel rats – soldiers who performed underground search-and-destroy missions in the networks of tunnels designed by the Viet Cong, during the Vietnam War. They often entered the tunnel with only a 45-caliber pistol and a bayonet.

UA – Unauthorized Absence; the naval version of the term AWOL.

UCMJ – Uniform Code of Military Justice; the system of military law, both judicial and non-judicial.

USMC – United States Marine Corps.

Utilities – field and work uniforms.

Watch – formal tour of duty of prescribed length, usually a guard-related task.
