The Blast Furnace
Upon the arrival of our flight in San Diego late at night, we were greeted by a Marine Corps Drill Instructor at the gate. Wearing his campaign hat, heavily starched khaki shirt, campaign ribbons above his left pocket, Sergeant stripes on his sleeve, and shoes that shined like polished onyx, his opening salvo after getting us away from the boarding area, was a series of exploding commands that rapidly fired out of his mouth filling the boarding area with the sounds of guns and concussions. In seconds he pointed out that we are idiots, stupid, ugly and he was tempted to ship us all over to the Navy.
After loading us on a bus filled with other stupid young idiots, we departed the airport that night and headed towards the abyss, called the Marine Corps Recruit Depot, where recruits disappeared into the unknown to undergo an immersion or drowning learning how Marines see the world. None of us noticed the sign above us as we entered receiving barracks that began our descent into the hell of Marine boot camp. Illuminated by a bright light read the Marine Corps code. “A Marine is loyal to his God, his country, and his Corps.” We were now in the hands of the drill instructors whose job it was to make those words our new creed.
All Marines remember the scramble to get off that bus and get our feet on the yellow footprints and file in to get our haircuts. With four barbers in a row, rapidly shaving heads one after another, their hands never stopped unless they drew blood from a sheared growth on the head.
Once our heads were shaved, we walked through the various stations picking up our bucket and uniforms until we arrived at the showers. Whether this was baptism, ablution or hygiene, the Drill Instructor made it very clear that we walked on the holy ground of the Marine Corps and we would not be allowed to soil or contaminate Marine property with any of the dirt from our civilian bodies? Then in a voice that filled the shower room, we ordered to jump in the spray and scrub our filthy bodies. Rubbing our skin with brushes more suitable for a floor or laundry we had one minute to get out of those civilian clothes get into the showers, get dressed and line up along the table in the next room.
For the benefit of those who could not tell time or were too slow, he counted down the seconds. 48, 47 46 Get moving God Dammit, 45, 44, 43. I better see some goddamn feet moving out that shower in 38, 37. We pushed and shoved our wet naked bodies in a herd stampede to get on our uniforms and barely dry and half-dressed we ran under their swinging arms into the next room.
Putting on my utility trousers, white tennis shoes, an untrimmed belt so long that it hung from the back loop of my trousers like a tail, and a bright yellow sweatshirt with a bold red Marine Corps emblem emblazoned on the front, I ran out of the shower area and lined up along a table that ran the entire length of the hall.
Standing at attention and staring at the face of the recruit opposite of me, I could see in him that in just a matter of minutes, they destroyed any semblance of the man I was on the bus. I had been turned into Frankenstein. Naked, bald and exposed revealed all the weakness of my soft civilian body and character that boot camp intended to transform.
The recruit opposite me had a shaved white billiard ball head, a pale pallor complex indicating all his blood retreated into the interior of his body for safety, pimples on his face, eyes so wide he looked like he was zapped by a cattle prod and a face that expressed the sheer terror he felt inside. Fear oozed from his pores. You could see it in his eyes. Unwilling to blink in case that in that one second with his eyes closed, he would find himself on his back with a spit-shined black combat boot standing on his throat.
My moment of reflection quickly ended as we were told to put everything except a wedding ring and one photo in our wallet into the box before us. We deposited everything we brought or wore, taped the box closed, addressed it and stepped back away from the table. Before me, in that box was my past. All the items that I carried, photos that I would look at and little gifts to remind me of home would soon go back to where they belonged because my past has no place in Marine Corps training. It is irrelevant now. It is all gone now. I am all gone. There is only the immediacy of the present and that present consisted of the madmen standing before us in their DI belts, screaming like banshees. Within that echo chamber of the hall amplifying their voices noise so loud I couldn’t think.
The temptation to reach for that box, get dressed and get the hell out of there must have gone through everyone's mind. No doubt that is why they had us step back from that table. The cord is cut. The man in that box is dead and he won’t be of any use or help to us now. Our past is gone and no doubt our girlfriend and former job are too All that is missing is the Dear John letter from your girlfriend telling you she is dating your best friend who now has your former job. Her letter will end with her touching sentiment that brings down the curtain: I hope that we can be friends. The hole that we made by leaving was now filled in. We are gone and Mom is not going to come, take us home and put us back together again. You will never be that handsome boy in your senior high school picture anymore. This ain’t no fucking movie.
Then it started. “You maggots have twenty seconds to get out this building and line up downstairs on the yellow footprints and before he finished the other two DI’s started screaming at us while 80 recruits scrambled to the single doorway on the second floor leading down to the street. Pushing and shoving down those stairs, with the confusion and panic of the mob blinding us, we looked like blind men trying to flee a forest.
Like Jackals with mouths wide open, they would pick out a weak recruit as he hurriedly pushed the men in front of him to race down the stairwell. They assaulted and screamed at him within centimeters of his face with their bared teeth, bulging eyeballs, curses and gnawing threats that scared the living hell out anyone, within arm’s length of a Di’s jaw. To avoid being eaten alive, you had to be out of that second-floor building and lined up outside within twenty seconds or you would atone every day for the rest of your life for being late.
Lined up outside on the yellow footprints again, the Di ordered us to lock arms four abreast and march to his command. Since we were stupid and could not tell left from right he uttered the cadence very slowly, leeeffft, rrrrightt, left. After a couple steps, he ordered us to stop. “You are all as dumb as cows. I want to hear you moo as we march. Do you understand me? I want to hear you moo. You are goddamn herd.”
“YES SIR!” We responded.
“I can’t hear you ladies!” He stated.
“YES SIR!” We shouted.
“GET ON YOUR GOD DAMN COW FACES AND GIVE ME 25
PUSHUPS!” Was his order.
Dropping everything we were carrying, we fell to the ground and did our best to do as many pushups as possible.
“GET UP, GET UP GOD DAMN. GOD DAMMIT. GET UP ON YOUR FUCKING FEET. PICK UP YOUR GEAR AND FALL BACK IN INTO YOUR FORMATION. JESUS CHRIST YOU PUKES MAKE ME SICK. FORWARD MARCH.” He shouted.
Marching in the predawn hours as we crossed the base, the only sound you could hear in the darkness was the mooing from our platoon. Moo, moo, moo, we bellowed in a low voice. The deep bass of our mooing as we marched in slow motion across the base was clear to all that in the eyes of the Marine Corps, we were the lowest form of life on earth. From my perspective, I couldn’t tell if we were mooing or moaning. At 0400, we climbed into our racks and told to sleep at attention.
Our Quonset huts were along the runway fence for the San Diego Airport. Lying in my bunk waiting for the next forty-five minutes until reveille, I wondered what the new day will bring. If they could do all of this is a matter of a couple hours what could they do when they have all day. I listened to the planes taking off, bearing travelers far, far, far away from Platoon 3095. The runway was adjacent to our huts.
“You will be sorry.” Was the call the MP at the gate yelled, as our bus entered the base that night. The oppressive weight of regret sat upon me and I was wishing I would open my eyes and be home. I had wanted to be a Marine. Lots of young men did but the distance between desire and actually signing up and enlisting is vast gulf. As the roar of jet engines flew over my Quonset hut, I wondered what the hell did I get myself in for? I wanted to go home.
When the lights clicked on at 0445, a fifty-gallon steel garbage can flew by my bunk and crashed into the galvanized steel wall of my quonset hut announcing reveille. The day I had dreaded lying in my bunk that morning had now arrived. Thrown into the cauldron we started day one of our transformation from civilian to Marine.