Point of View

The Introduction

I can only imagine how ridiculous we must have seemed to the other Marines as we were paraded around, freshly shaved heads bobbing in formation to the deep raspy cadence of our nameless receiving Marine. I can’t count the number of times the recruit behind me stepped on my heel which caused a chain-reaction that put us all out of step…once again. The command, “platoon halt” was given for the “millionth” time, as we received another explanation of marching in step and maintaining a forty inch interval from the man in front of you. We also learned a few more choice Marine phrases like “gaggle-fuck” which was used to describe our apparent inability at marching. You would think we were learning to walk all over again having never taken a step in our “nasty civilian lives.”  The Marines sure had a way with words and I often wondered if there was some Marine Corps insult book that was required reading for drill instructors or if they made it up as they went along. Whatever the case, it most often involved the word “fuck” in some form and usually was followed with a question directed at the offending recruit or platoon, as the case may be. It would later take me nearly two months to “clean” my mouth when talking around family and friends, having grown accustomed to using colorful metaphors when expressing myself.
When we weren’t learning to march, we spent most of the day taking aptitude tests, physical examinations, and finalizing the long list of documents that would follow us throughout our career. The Marine Corps was famous for its paperwork in triplicate on top of more paper work for the paper work we had just filled out. Then we would march to chow-breakfast, lunch, or dinner-we were marching. When time was limited the drill instructor would tell us, “today, we are having duck…you’re going to duck in, and duck the fuck right back out!” This of course was met with many of us biting our lips to keep from laughing, but we got his hint. This routine of marching, exams, paperwork, and “ducking” went on for three more days until the time came to be introduced to our drill instructors; the Marines that would shape us into lethal fighting instruments.
The Marine Corps Recruit Depot, MCRD, is located in San Diego, California and butts up against the San Diego airport and Naval Training facility. I never understood the recruits that would attempt to escape by hoping the fence and making a mad dash across the runway in the hopes of boarding a flight back home. For one thing, we stood out in the mass of society with our shiny bald heads and camouflaged utilities, looking more like an escaped mental patient or prison inmate, so the chances of a successful escape were nil and they would soon find themselves in the custody of the military police. For me, I welcomed the life during boot camp and felt secure in the routine and daily accomplishments of be pushed further and achieving more then I ever thought myself capable.
Our nameless receiving Marine assembled us out front of our temporary barracks for the last time in preparation for the march to our new home for the next 14 weeks. We arrived in true “gaggle-fuck” order as he faced us and gave us a stern “ten-hut.” We all snapped to attention and waited in front of a large three story building for our drill instructors to assume control over our “nasty, worst-ever platoon of civilian shit,” as we had come to be known. One-by-one, the drill instructors filed out of the building and formed a line in front of our platoon. They were clean and fit; their uniforms looked like a second skin of green and khaki, and their eyes poked out from under the brim of the “smoky” hat they wore squarely on their heads. Intimidating was a word that crossed my mind along with a few colorful metaphors of alarm. Then, one of them spoke as he announced his name as our senior drill instructor, “I am Sgt. Bennet”…