Point of View

Yellow Foot Prints

For every Marine before me and those that come after there is probably one thing we can all describe very well; the two yellow painted foot prints outside the receiving barracks of Marine Corps Recruit Depot. This platoon of painted yellow feet is arranged on the black asphalt in alignment with their matching counterpart in four rows of twelve and is the first thing a new marine recruit sees when he arrives in the night.
Up until that point, everything is relatively calm and quiet, everyone having just arrived from destinations across the nation, brought together for one common purpose; to become United States Marines. We are met by a marine Sergeant who barks a stern but brief speech, having something to do with our mothers are not here and from this point forward, the first and last words out of our mouths will be sir, “do you girls understand?” he asks. A few of us manage a meager “yes sir” which is met by this marine yelling that he did not hear us as we wail out another, louder “yes sir.” This little exchange goes on for a few moments longer before finally taking us from the airport to MCRD. We all sit in silence as the bus makes its way up California Interstate 5, our fate unclear at this point. Some of the guys slept, their crooked heads bouncing off the glass windows of the crowded bus while others just observed. I was one of the observers as I took a silent head count of the people I would most likely come to know quite well. Young men from all over the country, from all walks of life had been assembled all hoping to earn the title of Marine. A tall lanky guy, Mallory, took up most of the seat, his knees coming just to under his chin, sat looking confused and misplaced. He would later earn the nick-name “Lurch” not only for his height, but his odd resemblance to the television character of the same name. We used to all laugh when the drill instructors called for him. He was required to respond in a deep monotone voice, “You rang sir?” Another guy, Foster, was from Chicago and had these huge glazed eyes and permanent grin on his face. It was hard to tell if he was sleeping or not because his eyelids never really closed. He was obviously the class clown in life and would pay for that “honor” by spending many-a-day with his face in the dirt doing push ups until exhausted. I decided right then on that bus that I would not bring any undue attention to myself. I would do what was required of me and nothing more.
The bus passed through a large arched gateway and came to a halt in a dimly lit parking lot. We sat trying to see the landscape of our new home, the sergeant sitting behind the wheel of the bus like a statue. You could hear the heartbeat of the man next to you as we waited for something to happen. Time had stopped in that parking lot as we waited, just sitting in wonderment, our thoughts racing when the doors of the bus burst open, the wait was over. Another marine sergeant had come aboard to welcome us to MCRD, although it didn’t sound so welcoming. He barked at us in a string of colorful metaphors, some words I had never heard of before and gave us ten seconds to get off his bus. We all scrambled out of our seats, like an emergency evacuation of a burning plane, we headed for the little door of the bus where we were met by more yelling marines. The confusion was overwhelming as we tried to figure out where they wanted us and what we were doing wrong…already.  “Fall-in you pukes” said one marine, while another just glared as we rushed by trying not to make eye contact. “Get on the yellow foot prints” they yelled. We all found a pair of yellow foot prints and stood on them waiting for the next evolution of profanities and instructions, which wasn’t a long wait as the marines went through the ranks of civilians, screaming in our faces to look forward and stop “eye-fucking” them.  I was reminded of comedian George Carlin performing a skit on the many uses of the word “fuck,” but I seem to have missed this particular meaning, “eye-fuck.” It’s not found in the Webster dictionary, but means to stare. We would hear that combination of words in the months to come and it would become part of our vocabulary, among other choice sayings. From the yellow foot prints we were introduced to the NCOIC, non-commissioned officer in charge. A gunnery-sergeant immerged from the shadows to welcome us to MCRD. In a stern but quite voice he explained the night’s events which would include haircuts, uniform issue, the packing of our civilian cloths and medical exams. After each evolution we would report back to our yellow foot prints before moving on to the next phase. As chaotic as it seemed to us, it was well organized and moved like a precise machine. We wouldn’t sleep that first night at MCRD. Instead the marines would keep us active with tests and questions about our past, making certain we each were issued the proper number of uniforms and constant head counts, all from our little yellow foot prints. Three days later we would be introduced to our drill instructors and the nameless receiving marines would move on to the next group of wide-eyed civilians. For us, it was all just beginning.