The Making of a Marine

by Dave Larsen

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The building in Los Angeles where we were sworn in was so nondescript that it appeared to be deliberately chosen for its non-threatening appearance; so there would be no reason for volunteers like me to back out at the last minute. Taking the oath was as easy as saying the Pledge of Allegiance. But the excitement of my future adventure was replaced by a serious mood when the sergeant sternly ordered us out of the room, down the stairs and out of the building.
        The bus ride to boot camp was uneventful, and passing through the gates of the Marine Corps Recruit Depot was an easy transition onto the base because the Spanish style of the buildings had the look of just another San Diego neighborhood. With such beautiful grounds and so few people, the place looked almost serene. Then the bus stopped, the door opened, and a drill instructor ran up the steps yelling, “I want every swinging dick standing outside on those yellow footprints in 30 seconds!”
        “Move! Move! Move!” shouted the DI. He had gained control like the police do in a raid when they storm into a room without warning. We swarmed out of the bus and arranged ourselves on the 80 sets of yellow footprints painted on the asphalt: four columns, each with 20 recruits, all facing forward and standing rigidly at attention.
        My girlfriend’s brother had been in the Marine Corps, so I had quizzed him about it before making my decision to enlist. Nothing he said about the experience had me worried. And I felt lucky to sit next to a Marine on the plane ride to San Diego just days earlier. His only comment was “I’d be lying if I said it was easy.” I thought not being easy was part of the appeal because I would become part of an elite group. Knowing what to expect had calmed my fears. And being a year or two older than most of the others, I felt above the DI’s intimidation tactics while standing on the yellow footprints.
        The DIs then herded us into a nearby building for the sheep shearing electric clippers mowed our hair down to the skin. It was a silent ceremony, highlighted only by a pronounced smell of oil from the electric clippers and the growing pile of hair on the floor. After exchanging our civilian clothes for green Marine Corps utilities, I looked around the room of 80 recruits but could no longer identify anyone I knew from the bus ride. Everyone was bald, wearing the same dark green utilities and blank but obedient expressions.
        We finished packing a few essentials into our duffle bags and started marching off to our living quarters. It was almost dark near the end of our first day, and we were the only people on an ocean of asphalt. We marched into a desolate expanse so vast that it blended into the darkness at the horizon. Staying in step but drifting off-line, I was startled by a couple slaps against the side of my head. “Keep your alignment!” the DI shouted. I renewed my vow to not be intimidated and shook it off.
        When we arrived at our Quonset huts, I glanced around at the other recruits who were standing at attention and seemed to be cowering in fear. To demonstrate my courage, I dropped the duffle bag off my shoulder to the ground. But my resolve was ambushed when I got walloped twice to the back of my head. The DI had come up from my blind side and hit me much harder this time as he yelled in my ear, “Who told you to drop your duffle bag, maggot?” I remembered that the first word out of my mouth was always to be Sir, so I bellowed, “Sir, nobody, sir.” This second encounter with the DI really jolted me.
        In our isolated quarters, the DIs turned up the heat. I was so stunned by the force of the blows that before I could think about it, I was overcome by the same fear I saw in the other faces. As one DI showed us how to make up our racks, the other strolled around correcting various offenses, always with a slap or two to the head.
        The Spartans probably had better living quarters. Our Quonset huts were like elongated igloos skinned in sheet metal with only a concrete floor, footlockers, and metal “racks” for beds. The ground outside was bare dirt with an asphalt path running between the rows of Quonset huts. We were isolated in the northwest corner of the base and insulated from the world by the many other rows of Quonset huts surrounding us. I spent most of that first night trying to remember how to make up my rack in the morning so I wouldn’t get slapped again.
        The next morning, we got up when the reveille bugle sounded, dressed, made up our racks and fell into formation on the asphalt without anybody getting roughed up. Two DIs brought us into a Quonset hut and introduced themselves. Our platoon commander was Gunnery Sgt. Bush. He was the older of the two, lean with a dark tan and a fatherly air. He looked experienced in this role; years of the Marine Corps were visible in the extra lines on his face. He talked to us in a conversational manner, as though he was trying to connect and establish a rapport. Maybe the rough stuff was behind us now? I liked Gunnery Sgt. Bush ok.
        Sgt. Minnifield was more robust and looked very serious about his mission of transforming us into Marines. His face was uncomplicated and had the solemn, threatening gaze of an executioner. They both wore Smokey the Bear style covers and, in contrast to our rumpled appearance, their utilities were without a single wrinkle, perfectly creased, and their black boots had the deep shine of obsidian.
        Gunnery Sgt. Bush explained the program to us. The primary purpose of boot camp was to teach us discipline, defined as instant obedience to orders. He said the Marine Corps had rules against the DIs striking recruits and limits on the amount of physical training we could do. But they could not give us the training we needed to fight in Viet Nam by following the rules. He looked like he had been to Viet Nam, and I got the feeling he had our best interests at heart.
        “If you screw up, there are no excuses; we will kick your ass,” said Gunnery Sgt. Bush. “Is there anybody who disagrees with what I just said?” Of course, nobody raised their hand. He asked us not to talk about the tough parts of boot camp in our letters home because it would just make our families worry, as though he was saying, “I hope you are man enough to get through this without crying to your mother.” Stretching the rules to increase our chances for survival in Viet Nam seemed like a fair trade. So, I bought-in to Gunnery Sgt Bush’s program.
        By noon chow of our second day, we were very hungry from doing so many pushups, sit-ups, and squat thrusts. But before we were halfway finished eating, Sgt. Minnifield started yelling, “Get up! Get out!” He sent a message from across the mess hall in the form of a milk carton missile that hit the guy next to me in the forehead—Splat! “Get up! Get Out!” We shoveled in more food as we rushed to put our trays away but not nearly enough to finish eating and satisfy our hunger. At our next meal we were extra hungry, but stuffing ourselves as fast as we could was still not fast enough, so we learned to eat faster and faster before we ever finished a meal.
        We marched everywhere, which was easy for me and most of the recruits. Our marching formation was the same as when we stood on the yellow footprints—four squads each in a column of 20 recruits. The first recruit in each squad was the squad leader who had to be a good marcher because any mistake by him would ripple through the others in his squad. The slow learners were called “shitbirds” and were positioned at the end of the squad. The problem with learning to march was the promised ass-kicking whenever a mistake was made.
        A couple days later, we met our third drill instructor, Sgt. Parrish. He was only about 5’ 6” with a wiry build. His face narrowed to a pointed chin that thrust forward baring his lower teeth like a bulldog. The way his ears stood out added to his comic appearance, and he wore his cover tilted forward, apparently an attempt to make himself look more menacing.
        We were in the process of learning a new marching maneuver when he became disgusted with our performance and shouted, “Platoon halt! Face half-right!” This confused us for a moment because we had never heard of that maneuver. But we all repositioned ourselves by shuffling 45 degrees to the right. This would give us more room for doing PT. “Give me 30 squat thrusts! Ready, begin!” he commanded.
        In unison, we called out: “One” as we did a full squat and put our hands on the ground between our feet.
        “Two,” we kicked our feet out behind us into the push up position.
        “Three,” we brought our feet back next to our hands,
        “One, Sir,” for the number of completed squat thrusts as we stood up again.
        Sgt. Parrish stopped us before we reached 30 because someone had fallen behind, and then told us to thank the straggler before starting over again. Squat thrusts are not as hard as pushups, but that is the diabolical thing about them: no matter how tired you are, you can always do one more.
        After 100, I felt totally exhausted and thought we must be near the end. Two hundred is more than anybody would ever do without a DI standing over them. At 300, I felt like I weighed 500 pounds and was beyond agony. The unrelenting pain radiating throughout my body would subside with the hope of stopping after 30 repetitions and then kick in at a higher level every time we had to start over. I had never been in a situation like this before, so the uncertainty of how long it would continue was ratcheting up the mental pain: from knowing there was no excuse for stopping and from not knowing when we would stop; all while listening to Sgt. Parrish’s tirade. After we finally finished, my legs were so heavy each step was like pulling my feet out of deep mud. We called these sessions “squat thrusts forever,” and they were always preceded with the dreaded words, “Face half-right.”
        Mail call was after evening chow but before we hit the rack. The DIs would inspect every letter before calling out our names. Sgt. Minnifield examined one letter closely before telling Pvt. Borders to open it in front of him. Inside the envelope was a stick of gum, so Sgt. Minnifield went into his Quonset hut and returned with a bottle of hot sauce. He told Pvt. Borders to pour hot sauce on the stick of gum and chew it up without taking off the wrapper. After the effects of the hot sauce began to wear off, he then ordered him to swallow it, paper and all. Other privates would occasionally receive a stick of gum and the consequences were always the same.
        I wondered who would send the gum and why? It must be someone who knew about the consequences. Otherwise, why wouldn’t they send something better to eat? It must be from someone who had also received gum in boot camp and felt entitled to carry on the tradition, like a rite of passage.
        At the end of another long day, Sgt Parrish showed up while we were all in the shower and climbed on top of the sinks to look down on us. While stalking back and forth from sink to sink, he ordered us to turn on only the cold water.
        “On your gut!” he shouted, and 80 naked recruits fell to the floor, slipping and sliding against each other like worms slithering in the bottom of a bucket.
        “On your feet!” and up we jumped.
        “On your gut!” before everyone was standing again.
        “On your feet!” as we heaved and sloshed around in the cold water.
        There wasn’t any way to arrange ourselves that wasn’t disgusting and degrading. But it was just a tune-up for the next drill. After we returned to our area, he ordered all of us into a Quonset hut just big enough for sleeping 20 recruits and began shouting, “Move back! Move back! Move back!” to pack 80 of us tighter and tighter against the back wall. It was like mass hysteria when someone yells “Fire!” and the only exit is blocked. I didn’t have time to plan ahead, so was in a bad spot— too close to the back wall. The force of the other recruits pushing against me was like being compressed inside a garbage truck. I couldn’t expand my lungs, so breathing or even moving was almost impossible inside the huge mass of meat.
        I sometimes tried to step outside the action to feel like I still had some control. I suspected the last two incidents were part of the process to tear us down as civilians so they could later build us up as Marines.
        Pvt. Bray was a big, goofy, good-natured guy, slow to learn and struggled physically also. Consequently, he was always catching hell from the DIs. Despite his extra hardships, he generally had a cheerful attitude and was amazingly resilient. One day Sgt. Parrish took Pvt. Bray with his bucket and shovel off for some “one on one time.” They returned about an hour later with Bray looking dirty, tired, and very scared. Parrish positioned Bray in the middle of the asphalt path with a row of us on each side.
        Sgt. Parrish blared, “Tell the platoon what Pvt. Bray did to Sgt. Parrish.” “Sir, Pvt. Bray tried to hit Sgt. Parrish with a shovel, Sir.” That really surprised me because Bray was such a gentle soul. And whatever his shortcomings, they were not for a lack of effort. So, I questioned the need for whatever Parrish did that caused Bray to snap and wondered again about sadistic tendencies in Parrish. He then began his assault on Bray, issuing reprimands as he punched and kicked him. Parrish seemed to be practicing his hand-to-hand combat, and Bray was the punching bag. Wham! Parrish struck Bray in the groin, and then Wham! struck him in the face as he was doubling over from the first blow. Then Parrish faked a blow to the groin and when Bray covered up, hit him in the face and then in the groin. Parrish then began circling his target so that Bray couldn’t see half the blows coming. We had all received some of the same and usually never even winced when another recruit was catching hell. We were more concerned with our own welfare and had turned callous. “Better him than me, was the attitude. But this violent attack on Bray was so hard to watch that I consciously turned off my emotions. By the end, Bray was completely broken: physically, mentally, and emotionally. Whether it was intended or not, this spectacle was an example of what could be endured because Bray bounced back and graduated on time with our platoon. He had an innocence about him that may have worked in his favor. Maybe, in his mind, he had done wrong and deserved the punishment.
        I later became aware that suppressing my emotional response to Bray’s and other beatings had led to my loss of empathy for other people’s troubles. I first became aware of this after returning to college when a girl criticized me for being so indifferent to her friend who was crying about losing his girlfriend. At the time, I thought the guy was a blubbering crybaby because I had seen Marines suffer much worse without shedding a tear. It took hearing more such criticism over the years before regaining my empathy for others.
        Three weeks into our training, we marched over to the medical building for shots and a physical exam. As we passed by the women’s Marine Corps boot camp, I heard a woman DI shout, “I want to hear those cunts suck wind!” The medical building was run by Navy corpsmen, and when the DIs were not watching, they would slap us around and verbally taunt us. They were taking advantage of our inability to fight back for their own amusement. By this time in our training, we had been so stripped of our self-esteem that anyone else was viewed as a superior, so we didn’t even consider retaliating. The corpsmen knew this, of course, which was reflected in their smug attitude.
        I was incensed that the corpsmen, who never had to endure what we were going through, could get away with treating us that way. We accepted the rough treatment by our DIs because they had earned that right by having been through boot camp, spending time in Viet Nam, and going through DI school, which was like boot camp all over again. They were entitled. But the corpsmen had no right. I hoped to meet one of these guys off base after boot camp and remind him of this incident before getting my revenge.
        I started out as the second person behind the squad leader when we were in marching formation. After the first squad leader got fired, I moved up right behind the new squad leader, and when he got fired, I was left standing at the front of our squad as the new leader. I was confident of my marching ability, but not in the role of being responsible for 19 other guys. One of my first duties was to march my squad to the area where we would be standing guard duty that night. That went OK but I sensed my voice wasn’t loud enough for the role. And I think Sgt. Minnifield thought I needed some leadership training because the next day one of the recruits in my squad ran up to me with big, wide eyes and panted, “Sgt. Minnifield wants to see you!”
        “Why, what happened?” I asked.
        “I don’t know. When I knocked on Sgt. Minnifield’s door and asked to make a head call, he said, ‘Tell your squad leader I want to see him.’”
So, I ran to Sgt. Minnifield’s Quonset hut, knocked three times, and barked, “Sir, Pvt. Larsen reporting as ordered, Sir!”
        Sgt. Minnifield ordered me to come in then calmly walked up and grabbed me by the throat with one of his huge hands, cutting off both my air and blood supply. He held me firmly in place as he slapped me across the face several times and ordered me to teach my squad how to properly address a DI. His hand felt like it had the weight of a car door. When he was finished, I gasped, “Sir, yes Sir!” and ran back to my squad.
        I felt more like a leader after the choking and instructed my squad in my strongest voice on the right way to address a DI. Two weeks later, I was replaced as squad leader by Pvt. Schulz. I wasn’t aware of anything I had done wrong, but I suspect I just wasn’t enough of a badass. I wasn’t hard enough on the guys in my platoon. The shit I took from Sgt. Minnifield wasn’t rolling downhill to them. I thought Pvt Schulz was better suited to the job anyway, and I didn’t see much of a future in it. He seemed to relish the role and even slapped me across the face the next day for cleaning my rifle improperly. In a sense I had failed at being a squad leader. But I was OK with that. The recruiter had told me that I would probably get an office job because of my education and typing skills. So, I didn’t want to shine too brightly in boot camp and increase my chances of being assigned to the infantry, of becoming a grunt. They were the guys getting killed.
        I briefly escaped to the outside world whenever we ran the obstacle course. We had a perfect view of the 737s taking off from the airport. While waiting my turn on the obstacle course, I could see them lift-off from the runway and then sharply increase their angle of ascent as they flew off to another land. I don’t know if I’ve ever been homesick, but I’ve had few experiences as powerful as the yearning I felt to be on one of those jets.
        I felt terrible when I saw that Sgt. Parrish was on duty again. I knew the pattern by now, that no matter how hard we tried, he would find fault and we would pay the price. So, I was not surprised when, after we made too many mistakes during our manual arms drill, Sgt. Parrish ordered us to stop and shouted, “Face half-right!” He told us to wrap our hands around the barrel of our M-14 rifles and assume the push up position. We were in the up position, with our knuckles contacting the asphalt and the heel of our hands pressing the rifle against our fingers. Our fingers were sandwiched between the asphalt and the rifle. It felt like we would break all the bones in our fingers as the asphalt dug deeper into our knuckles. We stayed in this position doing pushups and receiving motivational kicks in the ribs long past when we were quivering from exhaustion.
        During the rare quiet times, like after hitting the rack but before falling asleep or on Sunday afternoon when we polished our boots and cleaned our rifles, I learned more about the others in our platoon. We were a very diverse group, and many had belonged to street gangs, been kicked out of school, or were petty criminals in their prior life. One former gang member casually mentioned how they did away with one of their rivals by pushing him off a roof. So, it was amazing how quickly everybody gave up their old ways when we were all ordered to stand on the yellow footprints our first day. Violence was the great persuader; the universal language understood by everything that breathes.
        A couple guys could barely read or write, and we had two college graduates. One was Pvt. Johnson. He was our Guide, one notch above the squad leaders. He was smart enough to always avoid the costly mental mistakes. Physically, he was only average. But that made him more impressive as a leader because, even though the PT was no easier for him, he accepted everything in stride and refused to show any discomfort from the physical strain. He led by example and his positive attitude, perfect for the job. He was a better man than me, and I really admired the guy.
        It was also during the quiet times that I would hear the stories of why the others had joined the Marine Corps. For a few, it was an alternative sentence offered by the judge: go to jail or go into the Marine Corps. For others, it was a reaction to something that had gone wrong in their lives, like breaking up with their girlfriends. But for almost everybody, boot camp was not what they expected, and most said they would not have joined if they had known what they were getting into. Then I realized why we couldn’t anticipate what we had signed up for. Feeling imprisoned was totally alien to anything we had experienced in civilian life, when we could always go to the sanctuary of our homes to recover after a long day. The 24/7 life of boot camp resulted in an emotion I had never experienced before or since: despair. The feeling that there was no end in sight for our dismal situation.
        By week six, it felt like we never got enough sleep. Whenever there was a quiet moment, I would crave it. The thought of being able to sleep late into the morning was my idea of heaven. I tried closing my eyes once when Sgt. Minnifield turned around to write on the blackboard and then open them when he faced us again. It didn’t work. A few of us got caught dozing in that class and were told to report to him when we got back to our area. We took our punishment and then all gathered inside a Quonset hut for another lecture after noon chow. I was sitting at the opposite end of the building from Sgt Minnifield and immediately began to get drowsy again. To stay awake, I reminded myself that I’d be killed if caught sleeping twice in the same day. But I still could not keep my eyes open. Then I heard Sgt. Minnifield shout, “Stand up maggot!” I opened my eyes and saw him looking toward me. I was so stunned, I couldn’t move. I knew that standing up would be the beginning of the end. When he repeated the order, Pvt. Sutton sitting next to me stood up before I could react. My mind was racing; had Pvt. Sutton been sleeping too and got caught or was Sgt. Minnifield pointing at me? I stayed put and Sgt. Minnifield barked, “Report to me after class!” Private Sutton said, “Sir, yes sir.” and sat back down. When Sgt. Minnifield returned to his lecture, my heart and breathing finally started up again.
        A couple of privates near the back of the platoon were caught scuffling one day while we were marching back from chow. Sgt. Parrish saw them, and when we got back to our area, he had them fight inside a circle we formed around them. The rules were no punching to the face and continue fighting until Sgt. Parrish said to stop. After several minutes of thrashing around in the dirt, one private began to lose and was taking quite a pummeling before it was stopped. I thought the first fight was a fair way to resolve the scuffle. But Sgt. Parrish then asked for a volunteer to fight the winner. Several privates were eager to be the next gladiator, but the original winner prevailed again: barely this time. Smelling blood, several more privates volunteered for the third round. I didn’t like the vicious look of eager anticipation in their eyes. The next round would not be a fair fight. This time the previous winner was so tired that he could barely defend himself and got thrashed unmercifully before Sgt. Parrish called it off. I wasn’t sure if the spectacle was for Sgt. Parish’s entertainment or to teach us a lesson, but there was never any more scuffling.
        I then realized that none of what we were going through was causing us any permanent physical harm. We always recovered quickly, and I was in the best shape of my life. So, the fear of getting knocked around and pain of the physical training was losing some of its power over us as we toughened up. I also realized that my physical limits were way beyond what I had known. The only excuse for stopping was passing out. Learning this helped me to persevere when pursuing my goals later in civilian life.
        We finally all became good at marching. In a competition with the other platoons, we placed second and our DIs seemed genuinely pleased for once. One time, while we were marching the length of the parade deck, we managed to synchronize our tempo so well that it sounded like only two giant feet hitting the ground.
        After a successful running of the obstacle course, we were standing in formation ready to march off to our next activity when Sgt. Minnifield asked us if we would like to call home. We all replied with a hearty, “Sir, yes Sir!”
        Sgt. Minnifield said he couldn’t hear us, so we revved up our enthusiasm and volume and again shouted “Sir, yes Sir!”
         “I still can’t hear you!”
        “Sir, yes Sir!” we blared at a full volume.
        After whipping us into a frenzy, Sgt. Minnifield said “Ok, face home. Now, call home.” We all turned to face in different directions and began calling “Home… Hoome… Hooomme.” Instead of performing as one, we were like a bunch of seals all barking at different times. Soon the calls were mixed with laughter, the first humor we had experienced since beginning boot camp. The tension released by this comic relief catapulted our spirits, but then we had to quickly march off to our next activity.
        The next day, we really did get to call home. Coincidently, the night before I had dreamed that one of my brothers had joined the Marine Corps and would be going through boot camp. I felt terrible for him and thought that one Marine in our family was enough. So, when my brother answered the phone, I told him about my dream and tried to discourage him from joining without going into too many details. My brother said that he had just talked to our aunt, who told him she was going to send me cookies. I almost panicked knowing I’d have to eat them all at once, right after chow and covered with hot sauce. I asked him if he knew whether she had already sent them. He said he didn’t know, so I told him to call her immediately and tell her not to. Mail call for the next couple of weeks was an anxious time, but they never arrived.
        For the last couple weeks, we were bussed north to the rifle range at Camp Pendleton for our rifle training. Before firing our M-14s, we went through a process called “snapping in.” This required learning the four different positions for shooting: standing, kneeling, sitting, and prone, without firing the rifle. Prone was the tough one because of the position required for our left arm. We had to stretch the muscles in the left arm to attain the proper form. There was no time for slow stretching though. While we were lying on our stomachs, the DIs would speed up the process by pushing our elbow underneath the rifle, then pushing down from above to bend the left arm into position. It was so painful I was sure some arms would break, but that never happened.
        During practice, I became very accurate shooting from each position and, because of my competitive nature, tried to score as high as possible during the qualifying round. I lost focus briefly, though, while shooting from the kneeling position and missed qualifying for the highest level of Expert by two points. At first, I was disappointed but later was glad to only be a Sharpshooter because Experts had a greater chance of becoming snipers or going into the infantry.
        During our last week, Sgt. Minnifield had some final words of advice about life after boot camp. “Half of you will be dead a year from now, so pay attention and learn everything you can during your four weeks of infantry training.”
        My first reaction was to do some quick math to test his claim. I knew that about 200 Americans were dying every week in Viet Nam, and most were Marines. So, based on the number of recruits who were entering boot camp every week, he could be right. The possibility that he may have been exaggerating didn’t change the impact of what he said, though. His statement suddenly made me realize that the odds of getting killed were probably much higher than I thought. Based on what the recruiter had told me, I had been so confident of getting an office job that I had volunteered for the Marine Corps rather than be drafted into the Army. But maybe the recruiter had been blowing smoke up my ass, and maybe I had flunked the typing test we took our first week in boot camp. I imagined myself in Viet Nam and in one of the Time magazine’s pictures of that week’s body count. There was no turning back though; so, I refused to think about it anymore and pushed those thoughts out of my mind.
        A couple days later, we learned our Military Occupational Specialty and where we would be stationed after boot camp and four weeks of infantry training. Names were called one by one to announce our fate. Most were going into the infantry and then to Viet Nam. My entire future was largely decided on that day. My MOS was 0141, Personnel Administration Clerk. The recruiter was right about my education and typing skills keeping me out of the infantry. But I also got lucky; after infantry training and two weeks in the classroom, I would join an artillery battalion and be stationed at Camp Pendleton, CA, for the remainder of my enlistment. Hearing that gave me a serene feeling of relief that would kick in again whenever I recalled that moment.
        Infantry training was after we graduated from boot camp at nearby Camp Pendleton. It was mostly learning how to shoot all the other weapons. One of our troop leaders was Sgt. Kenoyer, a real free spirit. He looked like he had been an All-American boy in his prior life—blond, athletic, brash, possibly the quarterback of his high school football team. He would seek out the fastest Marine from every new platoon and challenge him to a foot race that he always won. Our company of 320 new Marines would occasionally be assembled as one unit, seemingly for the troop leader’s entertainment. At one of those formations, Sgt. Kenoyer asked for the Four Tops to come up and sing him Happy Birthday. Nobody moved. So, he shouted, “I better see the Four Fucking Tops up here next to me in 30 seconds or there’ll be hell to pay!” So, four black guys, who obviously didn’t know each other because they came from different platoons, wandered up one at a time and gathered next to Sgt. Kenoyer. They took just a moment to discuss their performance and then sang a soulful rendition of Happy Birthday that sounded like they had been singing together for years.
        It seemed our camp was Sgt. Kenoyer’s playground, his own reward for the time he had spent in Viet Nam. He told us that when he was on leave after returning from Viet Nam, he and a friend corralled two civilians in an alley of his hometown. They made them do pushups and squat thrusts in their business suits. I laughed at the image of that and understood completely. I can understand that he felt entitled to that much harmless fun after what he had been through in Viet Nam.
        Thirty years later, the company I worked for sent me to a one-week tax class at UCLA. After the class, I rented a car and drove down to San Diego to visit an old friend. At the end of my visit, my friend drove me to the airport where I boarded a 737 for the flight home. As we were taking off, I looked out the window on the right side of the plane and was surprised to see a perfect view of boot camp. We were flying north, over the yellow footprints, the parade deck, the Quonset huts, and the obstacle course.
        Sitting where I yearned to be while watching the 737s take off in boot camp helped put the experience in perspective because it looked so small compared to its place in my memory. I reflected on all that I had accomplished in my life and gave due credit to the rigors of boot camp. Before I enlisted, I was flunking out of college, had no goals or motivation, and was just drifting through life. But I came out of the Marine Corps on an upward trajectory, more focused, confident, and knowing that nothing I’d ever do would be harder than those ten weeks.
        There was a cost, however. The deep-down primal force of aggression we once shared with reptiles and long suppressed by becoming civilized was reignited by my Marine Corps training. It now feels hard-wired in me, still simmering just below the surface. I feel scarred but not damaged. And being subjected to the intimidation and violence of boot camp made me feel entitled to use the same tactics for resolving conflicts in civilian life; a license fueled by this aggression. Favoring the Marines’ black and white nature of right and wrong and its swift justice over the murky civilian rules and remedies also added to a tendency for this vigilante way of settling disputes; a tendency that has been more of a concern than a common practice, acted out more verbally than physically, and then only as a last resort.
        I have long wrestled with this tension between society’s requirement for me to follow civilian rules and the pull of reverting to the Marine Corps’ ways. It’s a delicate dance. Whether making Marines or maintaining an orderly functioning society, there must be consequences to hold people accountable for their behavior. In an ideal world, justice is served swiftly but not cruelly.

                                                                

As our plane increased its angle of ascent, it felt good to watch the obstacle course disappear down below.