The Footlocker

THE FOOTLOCKER


I joined the Marines when I was 17 years old, looking for adventure, being patriotic, and just enough of a dreamer that I didn't realize what I was getting myself into. But my Mama didn't raise a quitter, so I stuck it out. THEN I went to Boot Camp. It was tough, but I learned who I was, and I was, by God, a MARINE!!
We had just learned Manual of Arms. For those of you that don’t know, I will explain. Manual of Arms is a series of movements and positions carried out with a rifle - in those days it was an M-14. When you’re a Marine, carrying a rifle, there is a certain way to act, move and BE with your rifle. You do not take it for granted; you treat it with respect. God knows that eventually it will save your life in a combat situation.
You start at a position of attention with the rifle supported by the web of your right hand, steadied with the butt plate of the rifle on the ground next to your right foot, heels together, feet at a 45 degree angle, thumbs along the seams of your trousers, fingers curled and cupped, head back, shoulders back, chest out, stomach in, eyes forward. From this position you carry out the Manual of Arms - you bring it up SMARTLY across your body and grasp it with your left hand at the center of the fore stock in a SNAPPY manner, so that the barrel is resting at a 45 degree angle, bisecting the plane of your head and your left shoulder, which brings you to Port Arms. You then take your right hand and move it from the top of the stock down to the pistol grip of the stock, and you are in position. From there, you can go to Right Shoulder Arms, Left Shoulder Arms, Port Arms or Present Arms.
I got good at this. I got really good at this! In fact, I was so good, I was flipping that rifle around as though it were an extension of my body. It was as if I were BORN with this rifle in my hands! I was SO good at this, AND I was a MARINE! Yes Sir!
We were standing at attention in our skivvies, (underwear for you civilians) after having just failed inspection as a group. Failing inspection was not what you might call a good thing. Failing inspection was tantamount to treason! Well, almost anyway. We were awaiting our punishment. We were dreading our punishment. We knew it would be something unspeakable from what we heard around the camp. This was our first failure, and since the only way the Drill Instructor could communicate was by yelling, we were dreading the announcement almost as much as the punishment.
When the Drill Instructor yelled, "WE WILL NOW PERFORM MANUAL OF ARMS..." I thought, Well, I'll ace this! Some punishment - heh, heh, heh.
Then the Drill Instructor continued, "...WITH YOUR FOOTLOCKER!” What? My footlocker? No Way!!
This footlocker had all my worldly possessions inside, except for what I was wearing, which wasn't much. The footlocker was made of wood, and probably weighed about 30 pounds empty, but I'm guessing 50 pounds or more fully loaded. This Drill Instructor expects me to do Manual of Arms with a footlocker? I remember taking it quite personally.
When you're a MARINE and are given an order, you do what you are told without thinking and with no questions asked. But there were no handles on this fucker! Oh, all right, it had miniscule indentations at each end where you could put your fingertips, IF you were as small as a four-year-old child. But I was a MARINE! So I hoisted up this footlocker, and I was supporting it in my arms as if it were a rifle, doing the best I could, when the Drill Instructor yelled, "RIGHT SHOULDER ARMS!” I could hear the crunch of bones from 75 guys up and down the lines as the footlockers hit our right shoulders. "LEFT SHOULDER ARMS!!!" Again the audible crunch of bones, and I knew I was not the only one in pain, but no one uttered a sound. After what seemed like an hour, (but in reality had only been a few minutes) this footlocker was weighing at least a hundred pounds. We were all trying to move our footlockers SMARTLY and in a SNAPPY manner. The Drill Instructor called, "PORT ARMS, RIGHT FACE!!"
We were in the barracks, in the squad bay, a row of double bunks down each side with a center aisle and uprights. It was an oblong racetrack sort of layout. Everybody did a right face and he yelled, "FORWARD MARCH!!" We had to be in step, left, right, left etc. and I was trying to concentrate on my feet, while my entire being was centered on keeping this damned footlocker from pitching forward and braining the guy in front of me. I was about a third of the way around, when the Drill Instructor yelled, "HALT! EVERYBODY IN FRONT OF YOUR OWN BUNK!!!" Of course, we all knew this meant to move SMARTLY and make it SNAPPY! So everyone crashed into everyone else. It was like bumper cars with no bumpers. Our fingers were smashed, our fingernails were torn off, our ears were SMARTING and our bones were SNAPPING. We were stepping on each other, our backs were bruised, footlockers were bouncing off heads, our kidneys would never be the same again and I'm sure this had a serious effect on any of us increasing the population in the near future, as well.
Miraculously, we each managed to appear in front of our own bunks, and stood there at Port Arms, bleeding internally.
Then the bastard yelled, "LEFT FACE! FORWARD MARCH!!!" We all needed first aid, and we hadn't even gone to war yet! We did it all over again, and again, and again.
Yes Sir! I was a MARINE!!

Postscript: When we were finished with footlocker Manual of Arms, it was time for a footlocker inspection, which, of course, we all failed. Nothing was laid out in our footlockers except chaos. As a result, we had two minutes to get everything back the way it should be and none of us was moving very fast. We were sore and swollen with some parts of us broken. But if we failed this inspection, we would have to do footlocker Manual of Arms again – and that was one hell of an incentive!