Loon - Jack McLean [13]
I had never before been in the coastal South, so the pungent early-morning low country smells mixed with military web gear that first entered my senses that morning made an indelible imprint on me, a smell I can occasionally conjure up even today.
We marched in our scratchy new outfits, seabags weighing heavily upon our shoulders, to a building across the base that would become our barracks. The stark intensity of the occasional spotlight provided the only illumination. There was no sound except the marching cadence of boots on pavement, the rustling of clothes, and the occasional clanging of a canteen. There were no more little jokes or asides among my new comrades. Staff Sergeant Hilton had by this time made vivid examples of several more boys.
We were very tired.
Home was very far way.
My platoon, number 3076, consisted of one hundred ten boys of all shapes, sizes, and colors. Andover prided itself on attracting “youth from every quarter,” but the mosaic of America that was this platoon helped me understand how culturally limiting my prep school experience had been. Here, we really were from every quarter: sons of coal miners, truck drivers, farmers, convicts, factory workers, and sharecroppers from every conceivable ethnic enclave in America. There, however, the differences ended.
At any given moment of any day, we wore exactly the same clothes: white boxers and T-shirts to bed; utility pants, T-shirts, and combat boots during the day; shorts, T-shirts, and sneakers for physical training. Any self-imposed attempt at identity was stripped. We each had a footlocker at the base of our bunks in which we had exactly the same gear—down to the size and color of our toothbrushes. Noses, lips, and ears seemed disproportionate in size, given the absence of hair.
Our trips to the head were relegated to strategic moments during the day, with few exceptions. In the early morning, we were given ten minutes to shit, shower, and shave. Although there were twenty sinks, there were only eight open toilets, so the pressure to complete your business in a timely manner was extreme, as there could be as many as five or six boys in a tight line directly in front of you.
Each night, a regular fire watch schedule was established. Outfitted with a steel helmet liner—known as a chrome dome—and a web belt, each recruit would walk the squad bay in a one-hour shift, all night long. The soft cadence of boots on the concrete; the rustling of canteen, bayonet, and ammo magazine pouches; and the occasional snores were the night music of Platoon 3076.
For the next two years, guard duty became a nightly part of our lives, whether in a stateside barracks or in a Vietnam foxhole. Being awakened at three A.M. for watch relief after a physically exhausting day was one of Parris Island’s greatest tortures. On the other hand, it also provided the only time to be alone with one’s thoughts, which I welcomed. I needed as much time as I could find to keep my mind around what was going on.
We customarily would hit the rack at about nine-thirty P.M. The first several days, we were awakened at four-fifteen A.M. to the sound of a screaming drill instructor who, as often as not, would throw a galvanized trash can down the concrete floor of the squad bay. One hundred ten boys instantly leapt out of racks, identically clad in white boxer shorts and T-shirts. In a single motion we pulled our sheets off the bed and held them high above our heads while standing at attention in perfect rows in front of our bunks. Each set of linens was carefully examined so that bed wetters could be weeded quickly from our ranks.
There was a purpose to the madness that ensued over the next several months, and intellectually I was at peace with it. The physical and mental elements, however, were excruciating. The United States Marine Corps Recruit Depot at Parris Island, like its sister in San Diego, California, exists for three purposes: to teach group discipline, to conduct rigorous