USMC Boot Camp

Red Sweat Shirts and Yellow Foot Prints

I have noticed that the posts about the yellow footprints at the recruit depots have folks that remember them and those that don’t. If any of you guys were like me, noticing and remembering said yellow footprints was the last thing on our mind during those first hours.

MCRD on February 8^th, 1960 was my destination. Flying in from Detroit via Chicago during a snowstorm was exciting and arriving in San Diego was absolutely wonderful. Warm weather and a nice Marine invited us to board his 6X in front of the airport. His words were “Get in the truck, spit out that gum, no talking, keep your arms inside the vehicle at all time and all I want to see are assholes and elbows! Now MOVE!”

I was the last in the 6X so I had a seat looking out the rear. Behind us, on the way to the depot, was a white 1958 convertible Cadillac with a beautiful blond driving. I sort of waved and she waved back. I’ve been in love with San Diego ever since.

We turned into the main gate and drove around for a while until we stopped in front of Receiving Barracks. (I found out later they do that because the main gate is just behind the receiving barracks and there is no sense for us to know how close freedom is if we decide to run.) Might have been yellow footprints. I was a bit distracted by all the yelling and stuff.

The rest of that day is a blur. There were the showers, haircut, quick in and out for the bucket issue and wrapping up our civilian clothing for mailing home. (Mine never made it)

First meal was late morning. Left over SOS. Never could stomach it again.

That night, I can still recall standing “fire watch” on the first floor while my fellow recruits got 45minutes of shuteye. Across from me was a full-length mirror that showed me what I looked like after a day in the Marine Corps. I ran my hand over my shaved head and wondered what the hell have I done.

I’ve been reading about the yellow sweatshirts and wish we had been issued them instead of the red ones. After the first time at the Wash Racks, all of our skivvies turned pink. Perhaps that is why they never issued red sweatshirts again.

Learned how to march on the “Grinder” that was not a parking lot back then. Our Quonset huts were far enough from the theater that we never heard anything going on inside until graduation day. Don’t think they use it for that anymore. I still have scars on my palms from pushups on the grinder.

The first couple of weeks at boot camp are still just spotty memories but I do recall being able to take my first dump. Usually “head calls” were limited to only a few minutes and since I was used to taking 15 minutes to defecate as a civilian, the few minutes given us was not enough. It must have been into the second week that the pain of having not crapped that I couldn’t wait any longer. I snuck out of the Quonset hut, evaded the fire watch to the heads. There, in a long row of toilets, I found relief. Two weeks of shit takes a while. As I was finishing up, another recruit came in for the same reason. We talked about where we came from and found out he dated the same girl I did back in Michigan, Pvt. Mitchell.

My memories tell me that there were, female boot Marines on the opposite side of the Grinder. Could see them out of the corner of my eye as we tried to learn “Squads’ Right Onto Line.” The Marine Corps finally figured out was way too complicated for us to learn and it was dropped.

It seemed that we changed Drill Instructors every couple of weeks. Fortunately Sgt E4 C.H. Henrickeson was with us until we graduated. I ran into him three years later and noticed he was now an E5 Sgt. and I was an E4 Corporal by then.  He told me not to pass him up, as it would piss him off; his favorite saying as a DI. We never wanted to piss him off. At reveille, he could call out “218” in a calm, quiet voice from the Duty Hut, which we could hear and repeat back, “218!” Then up and dressed in moments. Didn’t want to piss him off.

One of the other rotating DI’s was a guy that had a cadence like “Hip Hidey Ho Hi Heep…” Years later while up at Mt Fuji, for cold weather training, I heard that cadence coming from across the tent area and had to scurry over there to check it out. Sure enough it was he, SSgt Cheslock.

Another DI was a guy by the name of Sgt G.H. Michael. His demeanor was such that I was sure he was picked on growing up and enjoyed the position of authority as a drill instructor. Fortunately we only had him for a few weeks before he was sent to practice his sadism on another platoon.

The last DI was only with us for about three weeks until graduation. I don’t recall his name, as I should since he was the only one that laid hands on me. Coming back from dinner, I glanced to my right to see if the flag was about to be brought down. That quick glance was seen and suddenly, the DI confronted me. In my ear he said “Report to he Duty Hut when we get back to the Quonset hut.”

Entering the Duty Hut is one of the last things any of us wanted to do. For behind and within that door are the masters of our life. They seem to know every nuance that it takes to make our every breath a living hell.

Bang Bang Bang! “Sir. Private Harris reporting as ordered. Sir!”

Three steps in. Left turn in front of the desk, hat removed in an orderly manner and tucked under the left arm, standing at attention.

Drill Instructor: “What do you want Private Shit for Brains?”

Me: “Sir. The Drill Instructor ordered the Private to report to the Duty Hut upon returning from chow. Sir.”

In a flash he was in front of me and I could tell he didn’t remember why he had summoned me. One can tell when a Drill Instructor is at a loss, which happens like never. Slowly it dawned on him and he executed a quick punishment to the mid section. “Get out and never do it again!”

On graduation day, as the Drill Instructors were congratulating us, he asked me if I had been in his platoon the whole time. Can’t spend time in boot camp any better than that. I never stood out.

The Drill Instructors have an amazing job to do, turning civilians into a smooth operating machine to do what the Marine Corps needs done. They made a better person of me and I belatedly thank them for it.