Loon - Jack McLean [22]
My mother loved the poetic swagger of the drill instructors, and was most admiring as she’d watched the drilling recruit platoons pass by. She particularly enjoyed the singing cadence. The drill instructor would sing out a line to the cadence, each beat synchronized with the left-right-left of the boots striking the parade deck. We would then respond in unison:
One Marine Corps color is gold—
Shows the world—we are bold.
Left-right-left.
Left-right-left.
Mother was less enamored with the next cadence that she heard:
Another Marine Corps color is red—
Represents the blood we shed.
Left-right-left.
Left-right-left.
She turned and silently walked off by herself as the final cadence assaulted her ears:
If I die in a combat zone,
Box me up and send me home.
Wrap my arms around my chest.
Tell the world I done my best.
Left-right-left.
Left-right-left.
The Marine Corps expected us, on this our graduation day, to have perfect group discipline, to be in top physical shape, and to have complete mastery of the M14 rifle. We were there on all counts. Several days before, Platoon 3076 had won the series S drill competition—the highest prize for a recruit platoon. Staff Sergeant Hilton had been ecstatic.
It had been his goal from our first day.
He was proud of us.
It’s hard to imagine that we could have stood taller or moved with crisper precision than we did that morning. With our parents in the stands and Staff Sergeant Hilton singing the cadence, there could be no group of individuals on the planet that could hold a candle to the one hundred eight boys of Platoon 3076.
We sang cadence in response to his lead as we marched across the island to the waiting ceremonial parade:
One, two, three, four.
United—States—Marine—Corps.
This is—what we—asked—for.
Three—thousand—seventy—six.
We’re the—best.
Of all the—rest.
Left-right-left.
Left-right-left.
The three platoons of our graduating series marched in perfect formation across the main parade deck in front of a grandstand that had been erected for the occasion. As we turned “eyes right” to the reviewing stand, the band played “The Marines’ Hymn.” A sense of accomplishment and purpose washed over me. I had learned my lessons well and, together with my comrades, had earned the title of United States Marine.
Several minutes later, we heard our final words as recruits: “Platoon … three … thousand … seventy … six … DIIIIISSSS-MISSED.”
It was official.
I was now a private in the United States Marine Corps.
The lessons of Parris Island were incalculable, and I have no doubt that they saved my life time and again while I was under enemy fire in Vietnam. Each marine, whether eventually a cook or a pilot, is first trained to be a combat infantryman. He must be a highly trained rifleman, and requalify as such every year. He must be in top physical shape and stay that way throughout his tour. He must respect his equipment. Each marine knows that, no matter his duty assignment, he must be prepared to go into combat in an infantry rifle squad anywhere in the world on a moment’s notice. He must obey orders without hesitation, and execute his assigned duties without question.
From the first night on the yellow footprints, we learned that, as marines, we were in it together. If one fell behind, we pulled him forward with the rest of us. His success was our success. We respected one another. “Gung Ho” is a Marine Corps motto. It is derived from the Chinese and means