The bus pulled into the dreary-looking Marine Corps recruit depot at Parris Island, South Carolina. It was about three O’clock in the morning. Most of the young men on board were asleep when it came to a halt. A sergeant wearing a “Smokey the Bear” hat climbed on.
“Welcome to PI, gentlemen. The Marine Corps hopes you enjoy your stay here. Now you people have ten seconds to get the fuck off this bus and fall in on the little yellow footprints. Move! Move! Move!”
The sergeant then grabbed the two boys closest to him and pushed them out the door. The recruits formed up on the footprints and were herded into a large gray building with a long row of barber chairs in the center. A marine in a fresh, clean uniform stood behind each chair with clippers in his hands, grinning. Sean sat in one of the chairs.
“Just take a little off the sides,” Sean said, joking nervously.
“Right,” the corporal said, as he began shaving off all of Sean’s hair.
The recruits were taken to another building where they were told to strip, given shots, and directed to deposit all their clothing and personal possessions into canvas bags. Anything related to their civilian life, hair, clothes, rings, was being systematically discarded. The recruits were then issued seabags, uniforms, and other military gear. Stripped of their hair and belongings, everyone now looked the same. The process of becoming a marine had begun.
The rest of the day, the recruits would hurry up and wait. They double-timed from one location to the next, only to wait, at attention, to be issued a piece of gear. Late that night, they were allowed to sleep.
The following morning, the recruits were awakened at four to the sound of metal trash cans being thrown to the hardwood floors. Every light in the squad bay was on, and all the drill instructors were running through the building upsetting bunks with men in them.
“Get up! Get up! Get up! Drop your cocks and grab your socks. Reveille! Reveille!” they yelled.
The drill instructors continued to train the recruits. They were taught to clean their gear, stand at attention, and wear uniforms properly. Individual egos were broken down. Teamwork was stressed above all else. When an individual made a mistake, the entire platoon was punished. The bodies of the young recruits became leaner and harder. At lunch, the drill instructors would say, “Well, ladies, today we are having duck for lunch. We’re going to duck into the mess hall and duck out again.”
The drill instructors called the recruits scumbags, girls, and ladies. They liked to say things like: “You people are not even marines and you’re not civilians either. What you are is recruits, and recruits are lower than whale shit, and whale shit is on the bottom of the ocean.”
Another thing the drill instructors liked to do was have the platoon hold up their rifles and chant, “This is my rifle; it is my life. I love my rifle; in combat, without it I will surely die.”
The recruits stood in the hot, sweltering sun for hour upon hour, at times with their arms outstretched and their rifles placed across the tops of their hands. Some of them passed out, only to be left where they dropped.
On one extremely hot day in July, as the platoon was marching, one of the young recruits broke formation and went berserk. He fell to the ground and pounded it with his fists, crying, “I can’t take it anymore!”
A small white truck with a red cross on the side arrived a few minutes later. Two men in white jackets got out, put a strait-jacket on the recruit, and took him away.
During the final phase of basic training, the recruits were taught how to kill up close. They learned to use anything available to kill the enemy, a knife, a bayonet, or even bare hands if necessary. It was clear to the recruits that their days of youthful innocence were over. They were going to war, and war was not a pretty business.
To make sure the recruits understood, the senior drill instructor told the platoon, “Take a look around you, men. If you have learned your lessons well, only a quarter of this platoon will come home from Vietnam in a box. Another quarter will live in wheelchairs for the rest of their lives. God help you.”
The sun was setting on the day before graduation. The platoon was putting the finishing touches on its marching skills. Everyone had orders for Westpac, Vietnam. The DI began to sing cadence, and the platoon answered back.
“Hey there, Marine.”
“Hey there, Marine.”
“Now where you going?”
“Now where you going?”
“Going across the pond.”
“Going across the pond.”
“Going to fight the Cong.”
“Going to fight the Cong.”
“So if you die.”
“So if you die.”
“Before I do.”
“Before I do.”
“Won’t cha tell Saint Peter.”
“Won’t cha tell Saint Peter.”
“I’m comin’, too.”
“I’m comin’, too.”