Loon - Jack McLean [12]
And move we did, clambering over one another as though escaping a fire, grabbing our bags from the overhead bin and tumbling out of the bus onto the painted yellow footprints that were lined up in perfect platoon formation. There were several dazed stragglers who seconds before had been in a sound sleep. I have a vivid memory of Staff Sergeant Hilton grabbing one of them by the neck as he hit the bottom step and throwing him to the pavement.
Straggling, apparently, was not tolerated.
There had been joking on the trip down about what was in store for us—the perverse kind of banter unique to teenage boys. We all had heard stories about Parris Island; some had direct knowledge through friends or family members who had served. We were confident that we knew what was coming and were prepared to take it on. We were … marines.
Sort of.
In fact, we would not officially be marines until we graduated from Parris Island. Of that we were constantly reminded. Although we were to hold the rank of private and were to be paid accordingly ($96.50 a month), one had to learn to be a marine before ever being accepted as one within. Here, “learn” meant “earn,” as I never knew before.
Once we were assembled on the footprints, Staff Sergeant Hilton asserted his authority over us as a group. We were one hundred ten boys, but by the time we graduated, we would be one.
That was made clear.
For the next several days, the only words spoken by any of us would be a resounding “YES, SIR” to any request or question that came out of Staff Sergeant Hilton’s mouth. Otherwise there was silence. That evening, we were herded in loose formation through the double doors of the receiving building. Every motion was a lesson—how to open a door the Marine Corps way, how to hold it, how to move in a straight and tight line. (“Asshole to belly button, ladies. Asshole to belly button!”)
Our clothes were removed, bundled, and sent home. We were given a pen and a postcard upon which to write a single line home saying that we had arrived safely. Our heads were shaved clean. Wrapped in towels, we were led to the showers to wash off the last of our “civilian scuz.”
As we emerged, we passed through a gauntlet of navy corpsmen who gave us a number of shots in each arm. I had an aversion to needles and immediately, instantly abhorred corpsmen and all that was navy. That naïve opinion would change shortly after arriving in Vietnam, where I witnessed the selfless valor of the United States Navy Medical Corps. No group of individuals—marines included—ever brought greater honor to the United States Marine Corps than the navy field corpsmen.
Still wrapped in towels, we emerged from the initial processing center and walked across the parade deck to enter a cavernous supply warehouse. The now cool night air felt strangely fresh against our denuded, clean bodies. We were ordered to hold our arms out straight before us and sidestep on command. With each step, a marine would throw an additional article onto the growing bundle of military clothes that bore some resemblance to our size.
Combat boots, however, were the one exception—they were carefully fitted and issued. This was the first of two important lessons—that healthy feet and clean rifles were nonnegotiable in the Marine Corps.
Dog tags were stamped and hung around our necks, where they would remain until we were released from active duty or killed. I wear mine to this day. We were given sheets, towels, toothbrushes, soap, canteens, mess kits, razors, shaving cream, shoe polish, and all manner of necessities that would be required in our new life. We were not issued a hairbrush. Our arms, still outstretched, ached. Our heads pounded. Staff Sergeant Hilton screamed. We were neither fast enough nor good enough. We would NEVER become marines!
At the last stop we were given a seabag in which to put our new possessions. We filed outside and again