Marine Recruit: Tears in the Sand

By Herb Brewer

Marine Recruit: Tears in the Sand is an epic novel of a Marine Corps boot camp (San Diego); a compelling, unabridged account of recruit training as told by the drill instructor.

Author of chronicles of a marine rifleman, retired first sergeant, Herb Brewer, USMC, now brings to life this outstanding, all-encompassing, witty, honest, caringly brutal, human, and timeless narrative. Combining two stories into one, he takes you all the way from the grueling view of the recruit to the panoramic mission and perspective of the Drill Instructor.

At MCRD, you can count on two things: the recruit is green, the marine drill instructor is legendary. First Sergeant Brewer captures the essence and awareness of what it means to be both.

Marine Recruit is a rare and unparalleled look into MCRD. Enter now the revered birthplace of the Marines where every drill instructor was once a recruit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781503513464

Herb Brewer

Herb Brewer completed two tours as a drill instructor and retired as a first sergeant after serving for twenty-seven years. Upon retirement, he continued his work as a public servant with the Oklahoma Department of Corrections. He is now retired and living in Oklahoma. As a veteran of the Vietnam War, Herb Brewer retired as a first sergeant in August 1988, after completing twenty-seven years in the Marine Corps. During those twenty-seven years, he completed two tours as a drill instructor at MCRD, San Diego, California. He graduated from numerous schools in the Marine Corps, including the US Army’s Sergeant Major Academy. After retirement, he earned a bachelor of arts in history and an associate of arts in business management. As a correctional officer and case manager, Herb retired from the Oklahoma Department of Corrections in June 2002. He now spends his time fishing and enjoying the wonders of Mother Nature. He currently resides in Oklahoma.

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Copyright © 2014 by Herb Brewer.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of creative fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 01/20/2015

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CONTENTS

Introduction

1     The Drill Instructor

2     The Recruit

Receiving Barracks

3     Day One

4     Recruit Processing

P-1: Wednesday, 20 July 1966

Platoon Commander’s Orientation

P-2: Thursday, 21 July 1966

P-3: Friday, 22 July 1966

5     Phase One

First Week of Training

T-1: Saturday, 23 July 1966

T-2: Sunday, 24 July 1966

T-3: Monday, 25 July 1966

Battalion Commander’s Orientation

T-4: Tuesday, 26 July 1966

T-5: Wednesday, 27 July 1966

T-6: Thursday, 28 July 1966

T-7: Friday, 29 July 1966

6     Second Week of Training

T-8: Saturday, 30 July 1966

T-9: Sunday, 31 July 1966

T-10: Monday, 1 August 1966

T-11: Tuesday, 2 August 1966

T-12: Wednesday, 3 August 1966

T-13: Thursday, 4 August 1966

T-14: Friday, 5 August 1966

7     Third Week of Training

T-15: Saturday, 6 August 1966

T-16: Sunday, 7 August 1966

T-17: Monday, 8 August 1966

T-18: Tuesday, 9 August 1966

T-19: Wednesday, 10 August 1966

T-20: Thursday, 11 August 1966

T-21: Friday, 12 August 1966

8     Phase Two

Mess and Maintenance

T-22: Saturday, 13 August 1966

T-23: Sunday, 14 August 1966

T-24: Monday, 15 August 1966

T-25: Tuesday, 16 August 1966

T-26: Wednesday, 17 August 1966

T-27: Thursday, 18 August 1966

T-28: Friday, 19 August 1966

9     Rifle Range

Snapping-in Week

T-29: Saturday, 20 August 1966

T-30: Sunday, 21 August 1966

T-31: Monday, 22 August 1966

T-32: Tuesday, 23 August 1966

T-33: Wednesday, 24 August 1966

T-34: Thursday, 25 August 1966

T-35: Friday, 26 August 1966

10   Qualification Week

T-36: Saturday, 27 August 1966

T-37: Sunday, 28 August 1966

T-38: Monday, 29 August 1966

T-39: Tuesday, 30 August 1966

T-40: Wednesday, 31 August 1966

T-41: Thursday, 1 September 1966

T-42: Friday, 2 September 1966

11   Phase Three

Seventh Week of Training

T-43: Saturday, 3 September 1966

T-44: Sunday, 4 September 1966

T-45: Monday, 5 September 1966

T-46: Tuesday, 6 September 1966

T-47: Wednesday, September 1966

T-48: Thursday, September 8, 1966

T-49: Friday, 9 September 1966

12   Last Week of Training

T-50: Saturday, September 10, 1966

T-51: Sunday, September 11, 1966

T-52: Monday, September 12, 1966

T-53: Tuesday, 13 September 1966

T-54: Wednesday, 14 September 1966

T-55: Thursday, September 15, 1966

T-56: Friday, 16 September 1966

Graduation Commencement

13   Outpost to Second Infantry

Training Regiment (ITR)

T-57: Saturday, 17 September 1966

Acknowledgments

Appendix A

Recruit Training Syllabus (8-week Schedule)

Appendix B

Eight Steps in the Functioning of the M-14 Rifle

Appendix C

General Orders for Sentries

Appendix D

Nomenclature of the 45-Caliber Pistol

Appendix E

Rifle Qualification C Course

Appendix F

Events of the Physical Fitness Test

Appendix G

Changes to the Code of Conduct for Prisoners of War

Appendix H

Design of the Pugil Stick

Appendix I

Commandant of the Marine Corps Test

Appendix J

Close Order Drill

Notes

Glossary

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This book is dedicated to all Drill Instructors, both past and present, but mostly to those who gave their lives while defending our nation’s freedom and our way of life. I thankfully give acknowledgment to the wives and children who remained on the home front while forfeiting their time as their loved ones were training our nation’s youth for war. To all service members of our great nation, I owe a great deal of respect and gratitude for serving our nation in a time of need.

INTRODUCTION

In March 1965, when the first Marines landed in Da Nang, Vietnam, the Marine Corps’ strength was one hundred and seventy thousand. By August, almost two-thirds of the Marine Corps were deployed to Vietnam. In order to meet the Marine Corps’ commitment to the war, it was necessary to increase their strength by another one hundred thousand Marines. This demand was met by extending the enlistments of Marines, increasing the quota for new recruits, activating some reserve units, accepting draftees into the Marine Corps, and implementing Project 100,000 in October 1966.

To meet this challenge, recruit training was reduced from twelve weeks to eight weeks in September 1965 ¹ (Appendix A). In March 1966, the Fifth Marine Division was activated, and the Twenty-sixth Marines were ordered to Vietnam. ² By June, the corps had five divisions and a total strength of 261,659 Marines. The recruiters, drill instructors, and infantry troop handlers were scrambling to meet the escalating Vietnam War. With the huge influx of recruits arriving at recruit training regiments, rigorous demands were placed upon the drill instructors to meet these goals.

Throughout 1966, over sixty-one thousand recruits arrived at Marine Corps Recruit Depot (MCRD), San Diego, California. Seventeen hundred, or 2.7 percent, would not graduate well below the male national high school graduation rate of 21.1 percent.¹ Even with this astonishing percentage, allegations of maltreatment, abuse, and assaults were spawned by the press that our nation’s youth were being mistreated. These accusations were directed at the drill instructors as poorly trained, led, and supervised.

I take issue with the assumption that drill instructors were poorly trained during the sixties. Upon assignment to the Drill Instructors School, most Marines had over six years in the Marine Corps. Thirty percent had already completed one tour, and by 1968, 10 percent were on their third tour providing a mentor for younger drill instructors to follow. Maltreatment and hazing is clearly defined in the Standard Operating Procedures (SOP) for recruit training.³

Did maltreatment, abuse, and hazing exist in recruit training during the 1960s? Yes, it did. With the thousands of Marines who have passed through recruit training, most were maltreated within the standards of the SOP. Even as late as 2006, some Marines will admit that they were abused during their training. Though not condoned by the officers or senior Staff noncommissioned officers (NCOs), it exists within the ranks of the drill instructors. Most drill instructors justified it as corporal punishment, such as a paddling by the school superintendent, or father-to-son punishment. While maltreatment did exist, most was conducted in what drill instructors called the gray line.

Punishment such as beating a private about the head and shoulders, torturing by doing push-ups with a bayonet in the middle of the chest, maiming by closing the bolt of a rifle with a finger in the receiver of the rifle, or any kind of physical abuse involving bodily harm was not acceptable by the majority of the drill instructors. As a consequence, there were those who were court-martialed, and when found guilty they were relieved of their duties as drill instructors. On the other spectrum, there were the recruits.

The average age of recruits is nineteen years. Few of these recruits have been away from home for any extended period of time. Suddenly they are yanked out of their family environment, thrown into a lifestyle they have no control over and have never experienced during their lifetime. The initial focus of the drill instructor is to take away the recruits’ identity and put them on an even keel with the rest of the recruits in body, mind, spirit, and to accomplish one goal: graduate as a basically qualified Marine.

Arriving at Marine Corps Recruit Depot, most recruits will begin the metamorphosis from a young adult to becoming a Marine. From the very first step off the bus, the recruits are thrust into an unknown environment where their heads are shaved, bodies stripped, showered, shaved, and they are issued their initial military bucket. For the next eight weeks they will experience nothing but pure hell.

Recruit training has always been physically, mentally, and psychologically challenging for any recruit to accomplish. Most recruits are immature, lack discipline, are in poor physical condition, and are usually unwilling to obey orders. Upon graduation from boot camp, the Marine will have accomplished something that his high school classmates will never experience: the pride of becoming a Marine. They are now Marines, ready to meet any challenge that lies ahead of them and to carry on with the high standards of the Marine Corps. Some folks call this brainwashing. We Marines call it Semper Fidelis—the motto of the Marine Corps.

Over the years since Recruit Training Regiment first opened at Paris Island on November 1, 1915, and San Diego on March 1, 1924, recruit training has evolved through progressive stages to accommodate the changing values of our society. For the most part, those changes have been for the betterment of the Marine Corps and the Marine recruit. Older Marines have questioned these changes as the Marine Corps was drifting away from the Old Corps and complained that we don’t make them like we used to. The mission of recruit training still remains the same. To train a basically qualified Marine with the ability, knowledge, and Esprit de Corps to accomplish the mission.

The three basic principles taught during recruit training are the love of God, Country, and the Corps. Lt. Col. F. F. Powell could not have stated it any better than this when addressing the recruits in 1974. As young recruits, your Drill Instructors will train you to become Marines. Upon your graduation they have accomplished their mission. It will be up to you to carry on the high traditions and standards that have been established for you to follow. Your future and the future of the Marine Corps will fall upon your shoulders to carry on these traditions. It is during recruit training that the drill instructor and recruit are fused into one identity: Esprit de Corps, the spirit of the corps.

The love of the corps begins with recruit training.

Image37559.JPG

Marine Corps Recruit Depot (MCRD), San Diego 1959

1

The Drill Instructor

On 8 July 1966, the young recruits had just completed eight weeks of rigorous training from Recruit Depot, San Diego, California. Most of these shiny new Marines were celebrating their graduation with family, friends, and other recruits who had graduated with them. It was a day of celebration for most—but not all. Drill Instructor Sergeant Lewis Jackson mingled through the crowd shaking hands, exchanging greetings as he slowly worked his way through the gala of those celebrating the occasion.

Once Jackson cleared the crowd, he walked east across the huge asphalt parade deck toward the reviewing stand. On this mild July morning, the wind blowing out of the east, he closed in on the bleachers, not really understanding the reason why he was going there. He could feel the pain, agony, and lack of self-confidence swell up inside his bowels as the asphalt passed under his feet.

Reaching the reviewing stand, he sat down on a center seat and gazed out across the parade deck. Other platoons continued to drill as he had done so many times before. Reaching up, he removed his field cover (Smokey Bear hat) and gazed at it for a short time. Holding the olive green cover in his left hand, he moved his right hand over and around the cover, feeling the soft felt as the surface brushed across his fingertips. Stopping at the Marine Corps emblem attached to the front of the cover, he traced the eagle, globe, and anchor with his finger wondering if the last two months were worth all the pain and agony he had endured.

This was his first platoon, and he had worked long hours preparing the recruits for graduation as Marines. He knew the Standard Operating Procedure for recruit training, the drill manual, physical conditioning, how to teach a course of instruction, how to prepare for an inspection, administration and accountability of his recruits, and that he could accomplish these tasks with little or no supervision. His platoon commander, Staff Sergeant Smith, felt otherwise.

His platoon commander had belittled, criticized, and chewed him out in front of the platoon, making him feel like he was an unwanted stepchild and could not be trusted with a recruit platoon. During the last week of training, the platoon commander had stated that he did not want him on his team and that he be relieved of his duties.

The other drill instructor on the team, Sergeant Giles, was of little value in training him to become a better drill instructor. It puzzled him why effective leadership was not offered or provided by either of them to further his career so that he could become a better Marine.

Back to division I may go, thought Sergeant Jackson. If division is the way, then so be it.

Sir, Private Walls requests permission to speak to the Drill Instructor, Sir.

Sergeant Jackson turned around and saw a private standing beside the reviewing stand. What do you want, Private?

Sir, Drill Instructor Jackson is wanted at the company office, Sir.

The writing is on the wall, and my time is getting shorter by the minute. Just as well go and get this over with, he thought.

Tell them I am on my way, Private.

Sir, aye, aye, Sir. The private took one step back, about face and dashed off in the direction of the company office.

Entering the company Office, Sergeant Jackson saw the Chief Drill Instructor, Gunnery Sergeant Acosta, sitting behind the desk reading some personnel files.

I wonder which one is mine, he thought. There was another gunnery sergeant sitting in a chair sipping a cup of coffee. He was about six feet three with broad shoulders, muscular chest, and he wore a neatly pressed uniform. Glancing at his ribbons, Jackson saw he was a Korean veteran decorated with a Silver Star and Purple Heart. His facial features reminded him of a bull who had not made up his mind if he was going to gore you or not.

Sergeant Jackson reporting as ordered.

Gunny Acosta looked at Sergeant Jackson as if studying him, Sergeant Jackson, I’ve heard a few things about you, and I want to get your side of the story. What say you?

Gunnery Sergeant Acosta, I am not sure what you have heard, and that is not what really concerns me. My honor and abilities to perform my duties have been questioned, and my career as a Marine has been placed in jeopardy. The truth lies in the fact that I am no quitter, I have never failed at anything in my life, and I don’t feel that I have failed as a Drill Instructor. Whatever judgment is made, I will accept accordingly.

Gunny Sanders, what do you think? asked Gunny Acosta.

Sergeant Jackson, I understand that you are hard on privates. Is that true?

Jackson looked at Gunny Sanders and tried to understand what direction the conversation was going. I need to be careful of how I answer this question, he thought.

I have been accused of being a hard Drill Instructor, but I also understand that a pampered Marine is of no value to the Marine Corps while in combat. I will continue to train my Marines for war, here in recruit training, or division, at any cost to save lives. Safe answer, thought Sergeant Jackson.

I like this Marine, stated Sanders. I don’t know what the problem was with his old platoon commander, but I like him. Sergeant Jackson, our mission is to turn these raw recruits into a basically qualified Marine. I need a drill instructor on my team to help me accomplish that mission. Are you that, Marine Jackson?

Yes, Sir!

Taking the last sip of coffee, Gunny Sanders set the cup on the table. Come with me, Jackson, he said and then walked out the door.

Walking on the left side of Gunny Sanders, Jackson followed him past four rows of Quonset huts to the duty hut. As they approached the duty hut, Jackson could see ice plant planted neatly around the office. It reminded him of the time he planted ice plant during his recruit training in July 1959. Ice plant is a creeping succulent plant with a yellow flower about two inches in diameter, and the plant literally covers the depot.

Some things will never change, Jackson thought.

Inside the duty hut, Lewis Jackson was introduced to Staff Sergeant Rube McAllister, who was about five feet ten, thin stature, with an outstanding military appearance.

Now we have our team together, said Gunny Sanders.

Sergeant Jackson, you are the hammer, Staff Sergeant McAllister, you will be the good drill instructor, and as the platoon commander I’ll be the middleman. I’ll hear the platoon complaints, offer tough love, home sickness, console, and consultation on the dear Johns. That way the privates will get hammered one day, have a good day, and I will pacify them on the third day. The important thing to remember is that we have to be consistent in what we do. We have to be on the same page, teaching the same thing, saying the same thing, and if one of us screws something up, then you will have to unscrew it. Are we clear on this?

Yes, Gunny.

Processing takes three days. This consists of issuing clothing, 782 gear, rifles, physicals, dental, and their battery test. During the first three weeks, I want the privates kept under high physical and mental stress. I want to gain control of their souls, both physical and mental, so that we can mold them into Marines. We will pick up our platoon on 19 July, ten days from now. Jackson, you graduated a platoon today, so take the weekend off to be with your family. Report back here on Monday and will start preparing for their arrival.

Sergeant Jackson headed for the door and turned around. Gunny, I want to thank you for giving me a chance to prove they are wrong. If I fail, please, don’t relieve me of my duties. Just shoot me and bury me on the obstacle course.

You will not fail because if you screw up, I’ll put a boot in your ass just like a private. I have a feeling that you will do just fine. Be back here ready to go to work Monday morning.

The week progressed quickly in preparation for the recruits’ arrival. The duty hut was set up and organized, supplies acquired, squad Quonset huts located, heads and showers assigned, and final instructions received from the series officer on the overall objective of recruit guidelines. In conclusion, the series officer said, Today is Monday, 18 July, and sometime tonight or tomorrow morning we will pick up our platoons.

2

The Recruit

Early Monday morning in Pauls Valley, Oklahoma, as the young man walked to the Greyhound bus station, he hesitated in front of a store window to check out his appearance. He liked what he saw: five feet nine, slender build, light brown hair. Glancing at his hair, he pulled a comb from his hip pocket, combed it back into a flat top, and continued the short walk to the bus station.

Passing time in the waiting area, he reminisced about why he was there and the future that lay ahead of him. He was leaving his family, girlfriend, job, and joined the Marine Corps for a change of life. His uncle Preston once said, If you were going to join the service, you just as well join the best.

The young man understood the risks that lay ahead and the possibility of going to war in Vietnam. But he had survived being hit by two cars, hitting a semitrailer on his bike, and falling from a thirty-feet tree. If I ain’t dead yet, than nothing can kill me, he thought.

ALL ABOARD, came the call from the coachman.

Sitting in the rear of the Greyhound bus, the young man could hear the hum of the diesel motor and felt the morning breeze blowing through the window as the bus cruised north on US-77 to Oklahoma City. His past slowly drifted out of sight as the bus continued to being him closer to the future ahead of him. The week before, he had enlisted in the Marine Corps and was ordered to report on Monday, 18 July 1966, for movement to recruit training. His change in life was only twelve hours away. Arriving at the bus terminal in Oklahoma City, he walked up North Robinson Street to the recruiting station. There he found his recruiter sitting at a desk drinking a cup of coffee.

Private Brewer reporting as ordered, Sir.

The recruiter turned around and shouted, Privates Briuer and McCray, get in here!

The young man was impressed by the recruiter’s military appearance: about six feet two, clean shaven, fresh haircut, and wearing an immaculate dress blue uniform.

The recruiter asked, Are you privates ready to go?

Sir, yes, Sir, said the three in unison.

Private McCray, I am entrusting this brown envelope to your care. You are to guard and protect it with your life because it holds the future of the Marine Corps for all three of you. Do you understand me?

Yes, Sir, said McCray.

Looking sternly at Private McCray, the recruiter said, Inside you will find a dime taped to a card with a phone number on it. Once you get to San Diego, California, you will call that number, and someone will pick you up at the airport. Do you understand?

Yes, Sir, said McCray.

Private Brewer and Private Briuer, Private McCray is in charge of you, and you will obey his orders, understand?

Yes, Sir, they replied.

OK, said the recruiter, let’s saddle up and get the three of you to the airport. Without hesitation, they followed the recruiter out to a sedan in the parking lot.

Brewer and McCray climbed into the backseat, and Private Briuer rode shotgun. It was a hot July afternoon, and the only relief they had was the warm breeze as it blew through the windows of the sedan.

Sir, can you guarantee me a school after graduation? asked Private Briuer.

Lad, all I can promise you is a rifle and a hard time, replied the recruiter.

The war in Vietnam was a subject that Brewer and his friends had talked about. Some had joined for education opportunities, some for adventure, and some for service of country in a time of need. At one time, Brewer’s original plan was to join the Merchant Marines; now an uncertain future lay ahead of him.

On the ride to the airport, Brewer began to sort things out and put them into some kind of order that he could understand. They were on their way to boot camp. Private Michael McCray was the senior recruit because he was the first to enlist in the Marine Corps. Private Fred Briuer was a second-generation Marine who was following his father’s footsteps. The Vietnam War was into its second year, and the possibility of going to war was becoming a reality.

Leaving his family, job, girlfriend, and his way of life behind, Brewer began to think of what lay ahead. He had seen the movies Guadalcanal and Wake Island starring William Bendix and the Sands of Iwo Jima with John Wayne, which dictated a perception in his mind of how Marines in combat fought and won the war. But the movie that really stood out in his mind was The DI, starring Jack Web. Leaning his head back against the rear seat of the vehicle, he tried to visualize what his drill instructor would look like, what boot camp was all about, and the possibility of going to war in Vietnam.

There were no girlfriends, hugs, kisses, or trumpet blast at the airport. The recruiter gave them their tickets, shook their hands, and said, Look me up when you get home and let me know how you did.

As the airplane took off in a southerly direction, Brewer glanced out over his left shoulder to the east and saw the small town of Pauls Valley on the horizon. Now the airplane slowly banked to the right, leveled off heading west to San Diego via Los Angeles, California.

They were flying Trans World Airline, and it was a four-hour flight to Los Angeles. Once they arrived at the airport, they would catch their second flight to San Diego and arrive at or about 10:00 p.m.

It’s going to be a long day, and I might as well get some sleep, Brewer was thinking.

In Los Angeles, there was an hour layover before flying on to San Diego. With little money to spend, they bought a Coke and walked around until it was time to board the airplane. Their time in hell would start in two hours. It would not be the devil who picked them up at the airport but a demon that drove a green Marine Corps truck.

Receiving Barracks

Arriving at Receiving Barracks, Marine Corps Recruit Depot, two Marine noncommissioned officers (NCOs) were ready to greet them.

The first and last word out of your mouth is Sir. Do you understand me, Privates? shouted the NCO.

Sir, yes, Sir, said the recruits.

They yanked the door open, and they started yelling loud enough to wake the dead. Get out of the truck! Get out of the truck, recruits!

As Brewer, McCray, and Briuer got out of the truck, the two Marines yelled, You weren’t fast enough! Get back! Get back in the truck! Back into the truck the three recruits climbed.

When I give you the word, I want you to get on the yellow footprints located in front of the barracks. All I want to see is assholes and elbows. Do you understand?

Sir, yes, Sir, replied the three.

Louder! I can’t hear you! yelled the Marine.

Sir, yes, Sir.

Louder!

SIR, YES, SIR!

Go! shouted the Marine.

Somewhat bewildered and confused, the three recruits fell over each other as they climbed out of the truck and started running for the yellow footprints screaming and scrambling as fast as they could.

Get back! Get back in the truck, Privates!

Back to the truck they ran.

Get on the footprints, privates! Get on the footprints!

SIR, YES, SIR, said the three recruits. Again falling over each other, they ran toward the yellow footprints.

Privates, I want you to assume the position of attention, pick a spot straight in front of you, and do not take your eyeballs off that object. You will keep your mouth shut; do not speak unless spoken to. Do you understand me?

Sir, yes, Sir.

There were seventy-two sets of footprints on the sidewalk, and they were the first ones standing there. Battered, bruised, and trying to catch his breath, Brewer thought to himself, What the hell have I got myself into? Since he did not have any understanding of what lay ahead in his future, this would become the hurry-up-and-wait scenario that he would learn so well. It was now 2240. A long night still lay ahead of them, and the devil was yet to come.

Standing on the yellow footprints, Fred Briuer glanced around with what limited movement he could without attracting attention. He could hear movement and shuffling of feet inside the receiving barracks as human shadows passed across the windows from within. The constant screaming of Marine NCOs could be heard and the reply of Sir, yes, Sir, Sir, no, Sir, and Sir, aye, aye, Sir. With his feet fixed to the yellow footprints, he glanced up and read:

TO BE A MARINE

YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE IN

YOURSELF, YOUR FELLOW MARINE,

YOUR CORPS, YOUR COUNTRY, YOUR GOD

< SEMPER FIDELIS > ⁴

The trucks and buses kept coming. Every time a vehicle arrived, the same scenario was played out. Get out! You weren’t fast enough! Get back! Get back! Louder! I can’t hear you! Get on the yellow footprints! Get back!

Sir, yes, Sir! Sir, no, Sir! It continued into the night until all the yellow footprints were filled.

A Marine NCO came out of Receiving Barracks and began to give them their first lecture on the position of attention. "Privates, I want you to place your left heel against the right and turn your feet out at a forty-five-degree angle with your heels together and on line. Your legs should be straight but not locked at the knees. Keep your hips and shoulders level and your chest lifted. Your arms should hang naturally, thumbs along the trouser seams, palms facing inward toward your legs, and fingers joined in their natural curl. Keep your head and body erect. Look straight ahead. Keep your mouth closed and your chin pulled in slightly. Stand still and do not talk. Pick a spot on the private’s head in front of you and do not take your eyeballs off that object.⁷ Do you understand me?"

Sir, yes, Sir! shouted the privates.

Then the NCO said, Now, Privates, it’s time to get a haircut. If you have a mole on your head, you best put your finger on it, or it’s coming off.

Forming a single file in front of the barbershop, they waited for their Hollywood haircut. Private Briuer, being the first in line, sat down in the barber’s chair. The civilian barber asked him in a mocking voice, Do you want me to straighten out your flat top? Before he could answer, the barber swiped down the middle of his head, and it took six seconds to remove his flattop. Within ten minutes, all seventy-two privates had their heads shaved and their identity stolen.

With the recruits inspected, measured, and sized, they were given one green sateen trousers, yellow sweatshirt, tennis shoes, socks, shower shoes, underwear called skivvies, two web belts with brass buckle, and a seabag. Next they received their proverbial bucket issue. This included a galvanized bucket, Marine Corps guidebook, letter writing pamphlet, a pin, one tin can of Kiwi shoe polish, one boot brush, and toilet articles—one bar of bath soap, soap dish, toothbrush, toothpaste, Gillett double-edge razor with blades, Burma shaving cream, one scrub brush with wooden handle, and a large bar of Fels-Naptha Soap, and a red pocket-size notebook called the Marine Notebook.

Privates, in your bucket issue, you will find a chit book worth $60. Each chit has a value of $10, $5, and $1. This chit book is your first advance pay in the Marine Corps and will come out of your pay.

The privates were hustled through a door into a large room. There were two long red tables along the wall and two down the center of the room. Each table was divided up into small bins, and each bin had a number on it. The recruits were ordered to fall in behind a bin.

Standing behind a bin, they were told to strip their civilian clothing, wrap a towel around their waist, and place all belongings in their bin. They could keep their watches, wedding rings, religious articles, and billfold; however, all items kept were their responsibility. The Marine Corps was not responsible for theft, damage, or loss of personal property. It was now 0200.

Showers and head calls were the next order for the night. After they finished their showers, the shuffle continued back to their bins. They were ordered to get dressed in the uniform of the day, which consisted of their trousers, sweatshirt, tennis shoes, and a green sateen hat called a cover.

Back at the bins, a detail search was conducted for contraband; knives, prophylactics, and all prohibited items were confiscated and thrown into a contraband barrel. Packing their civilian clothes and valuables in a cardboard box, they taped and addressed the boxes in preparation to be mailed home. A postcard was also completed informing their parents that they had arrived safely at recruit training. Once finished, the recruits were ordered to put all their belongings in the seabag.

Satisfied with their work, a Marine NCO pointed to a door in the rear of the room and said, Privates, you will find some yellow footprints out that back hatch. When I give the word, I want you to fall in platoon formation on the parking lot. All I want to see is assholes and elbows going through the hatch. Do you understand?

Sir, yes, Sir! responded the privates loudly.

The only identity Brewer had left were his new friends Briuer and McCray. Taking every opportunity he could, he pushed forward as the platoon mustered on the yellow footprints behind Receiving Barracks. The three privates fell in beside one another, shoulder to shoulder, somewhere in the middle of the platoon.

Don’t ask questions, keep a low profile, and stay anonymous without getting into any trouble is the safe way to go, Brewer thought.

With the privates standing in formation, a Marine NCO began to roll call. He checked, double-checked, and rechecked the roster to make sure it was accurate. With the platoon standing in four ranks, he counted off eighteen columns with a total count of seventy-two privates. Without any further instructions, the NCO executed a sharp about-face. When his heels came together, he stepped off and marched back into receiving barracks. Just outside Receiving Barracks, the recruits stood at the position of attention on a small dimly lit parking lot. With their seabags slung over their right shoulder and a bucket in their left hand, the recruits waited. It was now 0230.

The sound of the telephone woke Sergeant Jackson up from his sleep. Slowly getting out of bed, he stumbled toward the telephone. Hello, this is Sergeant Jackson.

The privates will ready at 0230, and McAllister will meet you at receiving barracks. Are you awake? asked Gunny Sanders.

Yes, I’m awake. With a click, the phone fell silent.

C:\Users\Herb Brewer\Pictures\Marine Recruit Photos\Recruit Creed.jpg

Receiving barracks ⁴

3

Day One

Private Brewer was standing somewhere in the middle of the platoon formation; he slowly gazed around without moving his head. He stood with seventy-one recruits, their heads shaved, dressed in green sateen trousers, sweatshirts, tennis shoes, and a green hat called a cover pulled down to their ears. It was the ungodliest sight of human bodies ever assembled. Most privates looked like zombies—white, pale, and the sickliest form of human being that ever lived. The Black, Mexican, and Indian recruits in the platoon had more of an identity than any. However, their identity had been robbed as well.

With little food, drink, and sleep, Brewer stood at attention trying not to fall asleep. Behind him, he heard one private ask, How long are we going to stand here? Suddenly the inquisitive private came crashing into Brewer, propelling him into the private in front of him.

The initial force sent all three sprawling to the ground. Who in the hell gave you permission to speak? came a loud vocal voice from the rear.

Staggering to his feet, the surprised private shouted, Sir, no one, sir!

Private Brewer lying on his back saw a huge body standing over him. We have a private trying to get some shuteye, Sergeant McAllister.

In the dim light, Brewer saw a demon standing above him. Get on your feet, Private, get on your feet and assume the position of attention! screamed the demon.

On the far end of the formation, another bucket crashed to the ground. Who gave you permission to look around? shouted another demon.

Sir, nobody, Sir was the replay as the private scrambled to pick up his belongings.

Up and down the ranks, the demons spewed insults. Poking a private in the midsection, We have a bucket of lard here ready for the slaughterhouse. Look at this one. It’s Ichabod Crane, and to another one standing beside him. What in the hell is this? Both demons converged on a private about five feet four, with both his seabag and bucket resting on the ground. I’ll be damn. We have one of Snow White’s dwarves in the platoon. From now on, private, you are called Sneezy. The private standing beside him laughed and snickered at the comment.

We have a smartass here. You think I’m funny, private?

Sir, no, Sir, I don’t think you are funny, Sir.

"Ewe, ewe, what the hell do you think I am, private? You think I am some kind of goat, sheep, or an animal with white fluffy fur, private?

Sir, no, Sir.

Do you know what a ewe is good for in Texas? screamed Sergeant Jackson. An ewe is a female sheep, private. You know what a female sheep is good for?

Sir, yes, Sir, they are good for wool and mutton, Sir.

Unbelievable, he is not only a smartass; he is a dumbass or playing stupid. Private, an ewe is good for one thing and one thing only, and you don’t have to pay for it like a hooker. From now on, you are called Fuzzball, understand?

Sir, yes, Sir, replied Fuzzball.

It was 0330 as the two demons stood in front of the platoon. Privates, we are your two Drill Instructors; I’m Staff Sergeant Rube McAllister, and this is Sergeant Lewis Jackson. Your Senior Drill Instructor is Gunnery Sergeant Sanders. From now until you graduate from boot camp, if you graduate, we are your mother, father, teacher, and this is your new home for the next sixty-four days. Do you understand?

Sir, yes, Sir! shouted the platoon.

Face to the right, privates, ordered McAllister. With the platoon standing in four columns, McAllister began to form the platoon according to height. Privates, if you are taller than the private in front of you, move forward and replace him. Do you understand?

Sir, yes, Sir. With seabags, bodies, and buckets clanging together, the mass of human form began to take shape under the dark shadows of Receiving Barracks.

When he was finished, McAllister commanded, Face to the left, Privates. As the platoon stood in four ranks, McAllister repeated the same order. Now, Privates, if you are taller than the private in front of you, move forward. After a few adjustments, the platoon was sized according to height from front to rear both in columns and ranks. Look at the private in front of you, left and right, and the location you are standing in. For the next few days, you will fall into formation in the exact spot you are standing now. Do you understand?

Sir, yes, Sir.

Face to your right. Privates, the first thing you are going to learn is distance. The distance between you and the private in front of you is forty inches. Distance is measured from your chest to the private in front. Raise your right arm parallel to the deck. There should be about ten inches from your fingertips to the back of the private. Once you have your distance, drop your arm and assume the position of attention. Face to the left.

McAllister continued, "Interval is the distance between privates standing shoulder to shoulder. Normal interval is measured by one arm’s length. You can check the interval by raising your left arm, giving the private on your left the opportunity to pick up his interval and alignment. Once you have the proper interval, the platoon will drop their arm from right to left.

Cover simply means what it says. You will cover down on the private in front of you; I should have eighteen files of corn standing in front of me, with three stalks to a file standing behind the front.

McAllister commanded, Right, FACE!

All right, idiots, check your distance, interval, and cover down on the private in front of you.

With a bucket in the left hand and a seabag slung over the right shoulder, McAllister continued teaching distance, alignment, and cover by giving the platoon-facing movements. The privates never seemed to get it right. Buckets fell, seabags slipped off the shoulders, and one crazy drill instructor walked up and down the ranks insulting the privates with every mistake they made. Suddenly it ended.

"Right FACE! Privates, when I give you the order Forward MARCH, I want all privates to step off with your left foot and count, ‘left, right, left, right, one, two, three, four. Do you understand?

Sir, yes, Sir.

Forward MARCH! The platoon stepped off together and started counting as they marched down the street.

Left, right, left, right, left, one, two, three, four, the privates counted as the platoon continued to struggle down the long dark road to what seemed like nowhere.

Left, right, left, right, left. Get your eyeballs off the deck and look at the private’s head in front of you. Do you hear me? shouted McAllister

Sir, yes, Sir.

Marching down the road, Private Brewer could hear the heavy breathing of privates as they labored down the street, buckets banging together, and one crazy Tasmanian devil moving up and down the formation, hollering for everyone to get in step, pick up the distance, alignment to the right, cover down on the private in front of you. Moving like a herd of cattle, they struggled down the road. Looking past the private in front of him, Brewer could see some round oval buildings up front as they continued their march. Turn to the right! shouted McAllister, and a short distance up the small asphalt road, he halted the platoon in front of the oval buildings. It was now 0400, and each squad was assigned a building to live in for the next four weeks.

Facing the platoon to the left, McAllister issued the following instructions, Take a good look at where you are on the road, the privates around you, and where you are standing in platoon formation. Now, Privates, we are going to play follow the leader. When I give you the word, I want you to follow the private in front of you, put your seabag and bucket under a rack, and get back out here in formation. Go, Privates, go!

With the four columns going in four different directions, each squad ran into their assigned Quonset hut. Most privates quickly claimed a rack as theirs; some who were larger and more aggressive intimidated their choice as others just ran back outside into platoon formation. Back in formation, they saw a military rack or bed resting on the side of the road.

Jackson pointed out the characteristics of a military rack. The bottom sheet had a forty-five-degree fold at each corner of the rack, with twelve inches of white sheet showing. The top sheet and blanket had a six-inch fold and was tucked neatly under the mattress of the rack. The blanket also had a forty-five-degree fold at each corner at the foot of the rack. He then tore the blankets and sheets apart to demonstrate how to make a rack.

Privates, it takes less than two minutes to make a military rack. With a stop watch, Sergeant Jackson made the rack in under two minutes. All right, privates, I have demonstrated how to make a military rack. You have five minutes to make one correctly and be standing beside your rack for inspection. Get inside and make your rack.

As the privates scurried off to make their rack, Sergeant Jackson said, It’s going to be a long weekend. Let’s get a cup of coffee while we are waiting.

Finishing up their coffee, the drill instructors left the duty hut for inspection. The privates were standing by for inspection, and most of the racks were made improperly.

No, no, Privates. I want you to get a sheet in each hand and get back outside in formation. Get out! Get out! Once in formation the voice of displeasure sounded off, loud and clear. None of you dipwits paid attention to how to make a military rack. Before you hit the rack tonight, every rack will be made properly. Somewhere along the line, you will learn to work together as a team to accomplish your mission. The sooner you learn this, the easier it will be. If two of you girls work together, you can get it done a lot faster and ready to pass inspection. Do you understand me?

Sir, yes, Sir. Inside, outside they went repeatedly until the racks passed inspection.

When I give you the word, I want you to undress down to your skivvies and stand by to hit the rack. Do you understand?

Sir, yes, Sir. It was now 0445.

"It’s going to be a long day. We want you ladies to get your beauty rest and be ready for the big dance