The Marine Story

Boot

I suppose a story should start at the beginning, so.....

I was born on 07 August 1984 at Marine Corps Recruit Depot (MCRD), San Diego, CA. A Hollywood Marine, just like my dad and my two sons. So.....suck it. Marines of my generation often refer to “the day they were born” as the day they graduated from Boot Camp and became Marines. Nowadays, Marines are “made” before they actually graduate and are addressed as “Marine” during their last week of Boot Camp. I was a lowly, piece of whale shit, pig, recruit until the day I graduated. All males recruited West of the Mississippi River are sent to MCRD San Diego, CA and are considered “Hollywood Marines.” All male recruits East of the Mississippi are sent to MCRD Parris Island, SC and are (self) considered “Real Marines” (all females are sent to Parris Island, regardless of where in the country they were recruited) There are no goddamn mountains in Parris Island, therefore, there is no Mount Motherfucker in Parris Island. Therefore, the only “Real Marines” are those that have experienced this singular, life defining moment. Suck it, Parris Island.

Before I enlisted, I had a passing interest in the Marine Corps. One of my good friends had joined the year before, and my dad was a Marine in the 1960s. For the high school newspaper I had written a series of articles about the Marine peacekeeping mission in Lebanon. Then, one day a friend of mine had asked for a ride to the Marine Recruiting Office. I took him, and half listened to the recruiter as he pitched my buddy. Then he drew me into the conversation with the Buddy Program. The Buddy Program was when you go to Boot Camp together, and one of us would get the recruiting credit for the other towards promotion (getting two recruit credits would get you promoted to Private First Class immediately after Boot Camp). Kevin, my buddy, jokingly said that if we both joined, he would get me as a recruit credit, since he asked me to come to the office. I agreed, but didn't commit. Kevin and I would go several more times to the Recruiter to talk about his options......then eventually about my options. I looked through the Military Occupational Specialty (MOS) catalog, and everything looked so complicated to me. I didn't know at the time, that the Marine Corps could teach any idiot many of these jobs in the catalog. My scores on the ASVAB were pretty high, and qualified me for any MOS in The Corps. But, lacking the self confidence I did, I thought that 0311, Infantry (killing people and breaking things) would be my best bet. That, and they offered me two grand to sign a six year contract for MOS 0311 in the Marine Corps Reserves.

I originally enlisted on 31 October 1983 and entered the Delayed Entry Program (DEP). Just days after the Beirut Bombing on 23 October 1983 that killed 241 Marines and Corpsmen. The first modern-day act of a suicide/terrorist bombing. I enlisted on a wave of patriotism and payback that swept through men of my age at the time. Much like those that would join a generation later after the attacks of 11 September 2001. My mom was super-pissed when she found out I enlisted. She had bought tickets to the 1984 Summer Olympics in Los Angeles. I would miss them. I entered Boot Camp on 15 June 1984, days after graduating from high school.

That bastard Kevin never joined The Corps. I hate you, Kevin.

There are certain memories that (27 years later) are still as fresh as they were in 1984. I know my Platoon at MCRD was 3057. I remember this because I can still hear Sergeant (Sgt) Smith screaming in my head “3057 IS DEAD!”

Sgt Smith (our Heavy Drill Instructor) had taken us on a “World Tour, just like Michael Jackson.” This “world tour” consisted of visiting every sand pit on MCRD San Diego (and there are a lot of them) and “thrashing us” (that's what we called it, each generation of Marines seems to have their own terminology....it's what you normally do in a sand pit). Anyway, we had committed some sin against His Marine Corps, and now we were going to pay. Smith got so pissed at us towards the end of our world tour, that he had us bury the platoon guidon at one point. Then, had the platoon fuck-up stand at the head of the “grave” with his arms out like a cross. That's when he pronounced that “3057 IS DEAD!” After the “funeral” he got us back on the road to march us home. He had our Guide put a boot band around the guidon so it wouldn't unfurl, because he didn't want anyone to see what platoon we were. He didn't want to be associated with the scum that was Plt 3057. He certainly was not proud of us, and we should take no pride in being Plt 3057. Good times. Whenever someone asks me today, “What battalion (or platoon) were you in in Boot?” my mind goes back fuzzily trying to recall..... “Third Battalion, that sounds familiar, what platoon was I in....?” and then suddenly Sgt Smith's voice-- “3057 IS DEAD!” rings in my ears, and I remember exactly what platoon I was in.¹

We had two suicide attempts in Boot. One attempted an overdose (dumb-ass, the docs in Boot would never give you enough to OD). One slit his wrist. I remember being woke up that night and helping to clean up the blood. Both disappeared in ambulances, and their fates were never made known to us. And we had one recruit lose it, and go bonkers in the middle of the night. He was a huge, bear-like man (large, lumbering, and covered in hair). One night he got up, wearing nothing but his skivvies, and began screaming incoherently and shoving racks, recruits, and footlockers all over the place. Then he put on another recruit's uniform (crazy, not stupid) and pissed himself. Off he went in an ambulance, never to be heard from again. This little episode scared me. I had talked with him just a few days prior to that, and he seemed a pretty decent, together guy. And strong as hell. If he could lose it like that...what were my chances?

One time I was gear watch in the squad bay. I was on light duty for an ear infection (after Swim Week). It was late afternoon, and the platoon was on it's last event of the day, physical training (PT) of some type. Sgt Smith was cheerfully strutting through the squad bay, and shouted “GEAR WATCH!” I jumped up from a footlocker I was sitting on and responded, “SIR, YES, SIR!” “Were you just sitting down on duty, Private?” he asked. There was no way I could avoid denying it.... “SIR, YES, SIR!” I said. “Very good. I'm gonna thrash the shit out of you when I get back, Brower.” I sweated all that afternoon and into the evening, dreading “the thrashing” I would get when he got back. That son-of-a-bitch went home for the night. He never did come back and thrash me.

When we went to the Confidence Course, a DI from another platoon was performing a demonstration for us on one of the obstacles. I can't remember what it's called, but it was high, and involved sliding along ropes over a nasty looking water trough. The DI demonstrating was climbing the rope netting to the top of the obstacle, probably 50 feet high. He slipped and lost his grip on the netting at the very top of the obstacle. And fell. Fifty-feet. And hit the sand at the base of the ladder. Then he bounced. Probably about two and a half feet. Then he got up, brushed himself off like nothing had happened, and directed another DI in a shaky voice to “finish the demo.” Then he walked off. That was one bad-ass DI.

Another good time for me in Boot was on Camp Pendleton's Edson Rifle Range. Let's begin with a pleasant memory. During Grass Week, the DIs suddenly formed us up and marched us out to a barbed wire fence along a running trail that paralleled I-5 (which runs through Camp Pendleton). The DIs then ordered us to sit, noses pressed up against the barbed wire fence (remember, this is 1984). From the south came a jogger. Carrying a torch. I have no idea who he was, but I know he was headed for Los Angeles. The DIs offered no explanation for what we had just seen. After the torch had passed out of sight, they got us up and marched us back to training.

And then the nightmare began.

I'd been shooting well all week and wasn't really sweating Qual Day (Qualification Day). Then Qual Day came. First thing in the morning (about 0430, we began firing at the crack of dawn), I run out of the squad bay and my sling snaps off my rifle, and the rifle flies through the air and into the grass. Barrel first. Three inches deep, and sticking straight out of the ground like I chucked it into the earth with a bayonet affixed. When I pull it out, there's a cartoon-like tuft of grass sticking out of the barrel. Wait....it gets better.

I'm in the butts first thing in the morning.³ There is “NO RIFLE CLEANING IN THE BUTTS” according to signs everywhere. There is also a red line painted just beyond the target line. Stenciled every ten feet along this line (so, about 90-100 times) are the words “DO NOT CROSS WHILE FIREING” (sic). This disturbs me to this day, but I have since learned that those that work on rifle ranges and in armories are retarded. More on that later, and I digress, so.....

I surreptitiously disassemble my rifle in the butts and feverishly punch the barrel to get all the mud out before I get to the Firing Line. My buddy pulling butts with me takes up the slack while I do this, and helps me watch out for DIs. When I finally feel satisfied that my rifle is clean, I step up to help with pulling the target. Just then, there is an unusually loud “zing-pop” in the butts. Something slams hard into my thigh, and it burns. “I'VE BEEN SHOT!” I think to myself. However, what comes out of my mouth is a high pitched scream that attracts half the DIs in the butts. By the time they get to me, I'm on the ground, clutching my leg. One DI is asking how I feel while running his hands over my head and chest for any other wounds. Another is ripping open the leg of my cammies to get to the “wound.” See.....I was hit by a ricochet that barely broke the skin. The slug was stuck in my leg and it was hot and burning (and painful).....but it was nothing a band-aid wouldn't take care of. Which is exactly what one of the DIs did. He put a band-aid on my boo-boo. And then offered a kiss to make it better. I instantly earned a couple of nicknames that day-- “Screamer” was my favorite. Though, “Purple Heart” and “War Hero” were equally ego squashing as well. Wait......it gets better.

So, we get to the Firing Line that afternoon and I'm.....just a little bit shaken from all the events that morning. I don't think my head is in the game.....you know? I shoot like shit. I get to to 500m and I shoot off my last round, add up my score, and......I'm one point shy of a Marksman. I failed the range. I'm an UNQ (Unqualified).³ However, I don't lose all hope at this point. Because, the score that matters is the score card maintained by the guys in the butts by the recruits pulling the targets. My fellow recruits in the butts will look out for me (though, at Edson Range, it is anonymous. They do their best to ensure recruits don't know who is shooting on what target). Sure, they might not know who I am, but who would fuck a guy over ONE POINT on the range?

Apparently, the two fuckers pulling my target would. I am now officially an UNQ on the range. And I earn yet another nickname-- “Bad Shot Brower.” I would never know who it was that fucked me over on the range that day, but I had my suspicions. There was this skinny Russian fuck, Pvt Prissy-bitch (not his real name). He was the Prac Private and thought he was the smartest recruit in the platoon (a “prac private” is a recruit assigned to drill other members of the platoon on “practical knowledge” which is tested in Practical Exams throughout Boot. He's usually singled out as the smartest guy in the platoon). Prissy-bitch was smart, I was smarter, but he fit the bill better as Prac Pvt-- He was Russian, effeminate, wore glasses and had this egg-headed geek look. I outscored him on all the academic tests (Practical Exams) in Phase I, and he hated me. I know that sounds (and is) silly, but it was true. He spent a lot of time glaring at me, and later (after the range) falsely narked me out to a DI for talking in formation. From then on, he was my sworn enemy. I got to punch his ass later in the Fleet. And that's another story. Back on Edson Range....you guessed it....it gets better.

Once you qualify on the range, you get to go back to MCRD San Diego for Mess and Maintenance Week. If you go UNQ, you stay on Edson Range over the weekend. And you try to qualify again on the following Monday. What followed my UNQ on the range led to what I refer to as “the worst weekend of my life.” I've been to SERE School⁴, experienced combat, a nasty divorce, hell, I had a heart attack.....and this is still The Worst Weekend of My Life.

A team of DIs remained behind to watch us over the weekend. And by “watch” I mean mercilessly haze us until we hated them with every fiber of our beings. It started Saturday morning with a fitted sheet count (for accountability purposes, you know, to make sure we hadn't stolen a fitted sheet and sold it on the high stakes fitted sheet black market. The real bitch of it was, they weren't actually fitted sheets. They were just bottom sheets we hospital-cornered and used like a fitted sheet). We ripped up our racks, and held up the sheet. The DI would make a lap through the squad bay counting off the sheets, then tell us we had two minutes to make our racks back up. About two and a half minutes later, he would announce that he'd forgotten the number of sheets he counted and we would have to do the count again. We did this five to seven times per day. By the way, there were 41 fucking sheets every time. Forty-one recruits that went UNQ on the range. Forty-one of us to wake up and go to chow in the morning. How hard is it to remember that? Well, you do have to remember that DIs are numerically challenged. When we had to do anything, they would count down the last few seconds out loud to make sure we knew we had run out of time. For instance they would tell us, “YOU HAVE TEN SECONDS TO GET ON LINE!” Then they would count it down, “10, 9, 7, 5, 3-2-1, ZEEEEEEROOO!” See? Numerically challenged. They can't even count backwards correctly.

One of the DIs watching over us UNQs had a wonderful sense of humor. He was The Bad Ass DI That Bounced when we did the Confidence Course. He scared the shit out of us. He would come out and ask us “So, recruits, I guess what you want more than ever is to go home, am I right?” There was only one answer he would accept-- a resounding “SIR, YES SIR!” That was the only “correct” answer. If we said anything else, he would keep denying he heard anything, or would play other games, until we said it. Once we agreed we wanted to go home, he would then say “Well, then, pack your seabags, you're all going home! You have 30 seconds.” We would then dump our footlockers on the floor, and jam everything into a seabag. Once the footlockers were empty, of course, this is a perfect time to learn how to conduct manual of arms movements.......with a footlocker. My right arm and the right side of my head still hurt thinking about going to “right shoulder arms” with a footlocker.

Once that was done, he would ask us, “I guess, though, recruits, that you all want to qualify on Monday and get back to MCRD, am I right?” Of course, the answer was (again) “SIR, YES SIR!”

“Well, then, why do you have your seabags packed? You're staying here until Monday. Put your shit back into your footlockers! You have 30 seconds.” We did this, also, five to seven times a day. This same DI (The Bad Ass DI That Bounced with the perverse sense of humor) was also, apparently, a Trekkie. He would randomly yell out during the day, “What would we say if we don't qualify on Monday?” Our scripted response would be “Sir, beam me up Scotty, I'm in a world of shit, sir!” “That's right, ladies.” He most often liked to do this while we were doing the rifle drill movements with the footlockers. Yeah.....good times.

Of course, none of these fascinating games we played over that weekend had anything to do with learning how to shoot better, but I'll be damned if I didn't shoot expert that Monday.⁵

In the next few years, as a very young Marine, I learned to stop telling the story of how I got “shot” in Boot because people thought I was bullshitting. It is such an outrageous story, other Marines would get this disbelieving look (a look I became very good at recognizing in later years as a Marine Interrogator) and dismiss me outright. Fifteen years later (1999) while stationed at Camp Lejeune, NC I was assigned as a Verifier in the butts (A Verifier is a senior non-commissioned officer that “verifies” and documents “misses” on targets, and the final score cards when tallied). While serving as a Verifier I hear this strikingly familiar series of noises-- a “ZING-POP” followed by a scream. I run towards the scream and find a Marine on the ground, clutching his leg. Deja vu big time. I go to him and I rip open the cammies where I see a hole and blood. His buddy sweeps off his cover and begins checking the rest of him out. Deja vu within deja vu. The Marine is fine. There's a welt and a hell of bruise on his leg, and a small cut. But it looks like the bullet ricocheted (again) off his leg. We sit him up, and he's shaken, but seems fine. Until he starts hopping up and down on the bench and mumbling “hot, hot, hot!” and grabs at his boot band on the injured leg. And out of his trousers falls a lead slug. In perfect condition. It still has the crimp marks on the back end. Only.....it's shaped like a banana. He has the slug to prove his story. I don't know what happened to the one that hit me. But, somewhere in The Corps is another Marine telling almost the exact same story.

We went through Field Week on Camp Pendleton (sort of like today's Crucible). I conquered Mount Motherfucker and Bitch Ridge (things we can longer say in Boot Camp.....out loud, anyway. I'm sure recruits today hump up Mount Motherfucker....and still, unknowingly, call it by it's once true and cherished name). Mount Motherfucker is a giant hill on Camp Pendleton with three feet of sand on its surface. The hill is so steep that, with a full pack, you are leaning so far forward to keep your momentum going that your nose is inches from the sand. And for every three steps forward, you slide one back in the sand. Not one atheist has ever made it to the top, because you're praying to something/anything/everything about 3/4 of the way up. I think I saw Jesus during this week. It was the beginning of a short religious revival in my life.

We didn't get hit on a regular basis in 1984. On a regular basis. I got hit once by a DI during Field Week. I took a butt-stroke to the kidney from a DI from another platoon. I got hit for talking in formation (when I wasn't). That Russian fucker (Prissy-bitch) pointed me out when the DI asked who was talking (it was actually my buddy Chris who was talking). I liked Chris. I took the hit for him.

It was also in 1984 that Prince released Purple Rain. Of course, when you're in Boot, the outside world ceases to exist. You have no idea what is happening, especially in pop-culture. Chris and I were tasked to demonstrate the art of camouflage using charcoal. We did ourselves up really well. Both our faces were blacked out, we did the insides of our ears and even our eyelids. Sgt Smith (who is black) grabbed us up and took us to the Senior. He put his arms around both of us and said, “Hey, boss. I'm taking my boys out tonight to see Purple Rain.” They both laughed hysterically. Chris and I had no idea what the hell they were talking about. We just stood there nervously. Finally, Smith says to us, “Good job. Now disappear.” The first thing I did on Boot Leave was go see Purple Rain.

We came back to to MCRD for Third Phase. It was then I witnessed one of the funniest things in Boot (in Third Phase you're allowed to see the humor in things.....we were even allowed to smile and occasionally laugh). The platoon fuck-up, Pvt Pyle (not his real name, but you're getting that by now, aren't you?), was getting his ass chewed by the Heavy (Sgt Smith), and was then told to go to our Junior DI, Staff Sergeant (SSgt) Wood, and tell him that “the recruit wishes that SSgt Wood would thrash him into a puddle of sweat.” SSgt Wood then ordered Pvt Pyle to go back to Sgt Smith and tell him that “Sgt Smith doesn't have a hair on his ass, if he can't thrash me harder than SSgt Wood.” Pvt Pyle says neither of these things, but does run and stand in front of each DI as directed. Speechless. Both DI's then closed in on Pvt Pyle, both screaming obscenities and daring him to disobey the orders of the other. During a lull in the shouting match, Sgt Smith sneers (with this evil fucking grin he had) and says, “Well, Pvt Pyle, I guess it boils down to one thing. Who do you fear most. Me? Or him?” Pvt Pyle, braced at attention, suddenly threw both arms stiffly out from his sides, looking like some retarded penguin and let out an unintelligible, bird-like squawk. It was a hilarious scene, but I managed to choke down my laughter. The DIs seemed to lack the discipline that I possessed. Both of them ran into the DI Hut and we could hear them laughing themselves to tears for the next several minutes.

Before suffering the indignity of getting “shot” on the range and going UNQ, I was the quintessential Invisible Private. I never held a leadership position, I never finished first or last in any event (except the Knowledge Tests, I had the top score in the platoon). I never fell out of a run or hump. The DIs didn't know my name. After the range, I was “skylined” and often singled out for punishment. But after Mess and Maintenance Week and Field Week, it seemed that my notoriety had faded. During Field Week I'd gotten some nasty blisters and went to sick call. They cut and drained the blisters (the blisters took up the entire surface of my heel), bandaged them up, and put me in tennis shoes until they healed. Meanwhile, the platoon is preparing for Third Phase Drill. Platoons are all over the parade deck, executing all the marching machinations that will be part of the Third Phase Drill competition. And there I was in bright blue tennis shoes (instead of combat boots like everyone else), marching with my platoon. The Senior, SSgt Billings, halts the platoon and motions to me, “Hey, Blue Shoes! C'mere!”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

“What's your fucking name?

“Sir, Brower, sir!”

“You been in my platoon the entire cycle?” He asked this with a look of confusion, as if he can't recall ever seeing me before.

“Sir, yes, sir!”

“Alright......Disappear, pig!”

“Sir, yes, sir!” And I disappeared. Grinning.

Of course, it might have been my drastic change in appearance during Boot that contributed to his failure to recognize me. Before Boot I was a high school athlete, cross country, soccer, and track and field. I was in damn good shape and scored a 300 (maximum score) Physical Fitness Test (PFT) BEFORE I got to Boot Camp. In First Phase for the PFT, I scored just under a perfect score, 294. My PFT score continued to go down as the Boot Camp physical and mental regimen continued to “break me down.” There was supposed to be, at some point, a swing towards “building you back up” according to the training doctrine. And we were definitely supposed to be in the building back up period in Third Phase. My body never got that memo. Throughout Boot my body continued to break down. I lost 30 pounds, going from 165 to an emaciated looking 135 (I'm a big framed 5'11” by the way). The Third Phase PFT was my worst score in Boot (though still a First Class....I was still in pretty good shape).

When graduation came, I was never so glad to see my parents. They showed up for Visitors' Day (the day before graduation) and, as a further demonstration as to how much I had changed physically, I walked right up to my mom, within two feet of her, before she recognized me.

After the graduation ceremony, we went to Pea Soup Anderson's for lunch. I don't know why I remember that. I enlisted from (and returned to) Orange County, CA. So, my parents just drove me home after Boot. There was no Freedom Bird for me out of MCRD. I was a little disappointed that I wasn't flying home like all my other compadres. But, just a little disappointed....I got over it pretty quickly. We drove straight to a high school football game of my alma mater (my younger brother played on the team). I was still rocking my slick-sleeved Charlies with not a ribbon on my chest and (despite being told to relax several times), I was locked at Parade Rest on the sideline. And chicks were digging it. All 135 lbs of it.

Boot Footnotes

1. MCRD units were organized into Battalions, Companies, then Series (named after the first platoon in that Series) and, finally, platoons. My full unit in Boot was 3^rd Bn, K Co (or Kilo Co), Series 3057, Plt 3057. I had to break out the Boot Camp Yearbook to figure that out. Each platoon had three Drill Instructors assigned to it. A Senior (the senior DI), a Heavy (the disciplinarian and all-around general asshole DI), and the Junior (least experienced DI, usually a first-timer as a DI).

2. The butts is the target area of a rifle range. Marines sent to the butts are in a bunker like area (shielded from direct fire). They pull the targets each time they are shot at, mark the hole with a cardboard disc, then put the target back up (so the Marine shooting can see where the round went in his target and make adjustments). Marines in the butts also change the targets when necessary, and keep score of the Marines shooting on the target.

3. Recruits at the time shot on a Known Distance (KD) Range. They shot from 200m, 300m and 500m lines in various positions and stages (slow fire and rapid fire). There was no Combat Qual Range at the time. At the bottom of a score card for the rifle range are several check boxes that describe the final qualification that the Marine receives. The check boxes are marked (highest to lowest), “EX” (for Expert), “SS” (for Sharpshooter), “MM” (for Marksman), and “UNQ” (for Unqualified). UNQ is pronounced “Uh-n-k” and is often referenced by recruits and infantryman as the ultimate disgrace. Mine was checked “UNQ.”

4. SERE- Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape. The school (infamous) for being that which teaches military service members what it may be like to be captured and tortured by an enemy.

5. I didn't really shoot Expert. If you go UNQ, no matter what score you shoot on a “re-qual,” you will receive the lowest qualifying score possible (Marksman). So, even though my unofficial score was a “low Expert,” officially (in my record book and the badge I could wear on my uniform), it was the lowest qualifying score possible.

Infantry Training School (ITS)

Infantry Training School (ITS) in San Onofre on Camp Pendleton is now the called School of Infantry (SOI). However, in late 1984, when I was training there, it was ITS. It used to be known as Infantry Training Regiment (ITR) before my time, and I remember my dad telling me about ITR. In the chow hall at ITS at that time, in huge wood letters (at least 3 feet tall) were the letters “ITR.” Like MCRD, this place had remained the same for generations of Marines. The “ITR” in the chow hall being just one of those examples. The Receiving Barracks squad bay I stayed in had subtle and well hidden graffiti on the ceiling. Only someone freaked out and staring at the ceiling for hours trying to get some sleep would see it. One piece was dated “1966.” I thought to myself that this could be the very same squad bay my father lived in.

There were several Quonset huts in San Onofre (the same ones my dad remembers from the 1960s). One was the S-4 and the one next to it was a gear shed (lawnmowers and landscaping equipment). When I arrived, we had to wait a couple of weeks before training. To keep us busy, we ended up doing the landscaping for a brand new set of squad bays for the newly created Delta Company. Another pair of Quonset huts was a weight room (we weren't allowed to use) and the other served as the residence of the self-proclaimed “Camp Pendleton Football Team” (the sole users of the weight room).1 The football players did nothing but work out and go to practice all day. I thought that would be a pretty cool MOS. Another pair of Quonset huts served as our Morale, Welfare, and Recreation (MWR). It had a pool table, a library/book exchange, and some video games. All of those Quonset huts are gone now. Except one. It's been preserved and serves as the NCO Club for the instructors of SOI. It's a pretty nice setup, and I hope they never tear that one remaining Quonset hut down.

Next to the MWR Quonset huts was a pizza shack. That's still there today. And they still serve the second worst pizza in the world (the worst pizza in the world is made in Okinawa, Japan). And the Budweiser in a pitcher still tastes like shit. Ah. Memories.

Across the main drag from the pizza shack used to be the E-Club. There is no E-Club for the students at SOI anymore. I find that sad. The sole reason my memories of ITS are vague and disjointed can be directly attributed to the amount of alcohol I consumed at the E-Club. I learned to put cigarettes out on my tongue at that club. And was introduced to that age-old Marine tradition of the Gross Out Contest. The first Gross Out Contest I witnessed in the club was (as they all are) an impromptu event driven by boredom and alcohol (sadly, not all Gross Out Contest involve alcohol....sometimes we're actually sober when we pull shit like this). Anyway, there's an empty pitcher on the table and somebody shouts “Everyone put five bucks on the table!” People start pulling out money, I'm not sure what's going on so I hesitate. “I'll drink whatever you put in this pitcher, once I see all the money. Put it on the table!” Okee-doke. People start throwing in pieces of pizza toppings, beer, and gobs and gobs of hot sauce, I throw in a cigarette butt and some ashes, somebody else spits tobacco juice in it.....several people spit tobacco juice in it. And he drank it. For about 65 bucks.

I remember from Field Week in Boot Camp (also held in the San Onofre area) that the area was filled with trails leading up all kinds of hills and mountains, and across incredibly steep ridges. During Field Week we traveled relatively few of the trails in the area (it was, after all, only a week). I worried (to myself) that these trails were used by somebody, and since I knew I was coming back here for ITS, I suspected it would be me in the future. I was right. And they sucked just as hard as they looked a few months ago. A couple years later, I would return (again) to San Mateo (on Camp Pendleton). San Mateo was just on the other side of Mount Motherfucker from San Onofre. I would develop an unnatural hatred for these hills.

Besides the hills, one of the more terrifying things about arriving at ITS was the fact that my Senior DI, SSgt Billings, had followed me there with PCS orders (Permanent Change of Station) as an infantry instructor. I was absolutely terrified of this man (despite the fact that he seemed to not even remember me in Phase III of Boot). What if he was one of my instructors? As it turned out, he wasn't. I ended up in Alpha Company, and he (I think) was in Delta. And he turned out to be a decent guy. I guess he did remember my troubles on the range, and stopped by during our live fire training and asked how I was doing (Marine to Marine, not Recruit to Marine). And, as a matter of fact, I was doing fantastic (at shooting). In ITS they issued us M-16A2 rifles (in Boot we had M-16A1 rifles). The A2 (for me) was a world of difference. The extra weight in the barrel seemed to just lay naturally in my hands and settle, and lock on the bull's eye. I couldn't miss with this rifle. I really couldn't. I would shoot Expert with this rifle for the rest of my 22 year career. Twice I would shoot a range (record) high.

One of my very first memories of checking into ITS was The Race Riot. We had finally finished the landscaping around Delta, and we were picked up and settling into our new squad bay as Alpha Company, ITS. We were now Marines! We had WALL LOCKERS (instead of footlockers). We could post nudie pics up in our lockers, and wear cool Ooh-Rah-Kill-Them-All-And-Let-God-Sort-Em-Out
t-shirts! We could drink ourselves stupid at the E-Club and play ridiculous games! And we could hang giant Rebel flags above our racks! Wait.....what was that last one again? Apparently, Pvt Shithead from (I think it was) Texas thought he would show his Southern Pride by unfurling this little gem in our squad bay. This was not well received by about half of the members of our newly formed company (who were black). Now, I am not a fan of the South. As I mentioned, I hailed from Orange County, CA. In my upbringing, it was a definite no-no to display the Rebel Flag. I knew this. I sympathized and sided with the blacks who were raising hell about the flag and asking the idiot to remove it. It was apparent; however, when the fists began to fly, that I had not been sufficiently vociferous in my position. Some black dude came at me with a running start, fist raised and tried to clock my ass! Now, because this running start for his punch was at least 15 feet long (and would have been hilarious if he wasn't coming at me), I was easily able to slip his punch. And it was now fairly obvious that sides had been chosen strictly based on color. So......I go to swing at this bastard who had just come at me, and promptly slipped in my stocking feet on the slick (freshly polished) concrete floor and landed flat on my ass. I then quickly rolled under my rack and remained there until the end of “the riot.” Which only lasted a few minutes before The Offender admitted his mistake and removed the flag. And all was well in Alpha Company once again.

The training itself was arduous. There was lots of humping hills, war games, weapons firing, and land navigation. Land navigation (land nav) was my favorite. And I was good at it. A land nav course usually consisted of ammo cans mounted on posts that were located at a specific geographic point. Land nav students were given the coordinates of these boxes, then tasked to find them (using a map and compass). Each box had characters painted on them (for example, “A2”). The students had to successfully record the correct characters on each box they were assigned to find. It was during a night land nav course that I was introduced to the art of “fucking off.” Since I was so good at land nav, my team gave me the map and compass and told me to go forth and find the boxes. I went forth, and I found the boxes. In record time. I was excited. The instructors had challenged us to break land nav course records. I wanted to race back and report to the instructors just how fast we had completed the course. My teammates disagreed. There is a very old Marine adage that goes “why stand, when you can sit; why sit, when you can lay down; and why lay down, when you can sleep.” They wanted to sleep. The night land nav course began right after sunset. We were not due back until just before dawn. We had several hours to......well, sleep. Peer pressure is a bitch. But I did get a good night's sleep for once.

Even though the training was hard, we still had our weekends. ITS students were not allowed to drive vehicles, so having the E-Club there was a necessity for some. For some. I had managed to sneak my van into San Onofre and I parked it on the other side of the pizza shack. I became a very popular guy at ITS. I made some great friends. That I have never seen or had contact with since. Still......some good times.

I did have (another) nemesis at ITS. Some red-necked fucker from Tennessee. Dumb-ass bastard must have weighed 120lbs, but tags ME with the name “String Bean.” I hated him. I don't even remember his name, but from this time on I have harbored a hate and distrust of all things Tennessee.

So, my first experiences as a Marine have so far reinforced the negative stereotypes of rednecks and The South. And “these people” will have to work themselves out of a hole for a very long time with me. However, there was a man who made quite an impression on me. He was an instructor who taught some classes on weapons systems and explosives. His presence as an instructor and his ability to keep our interest and keep us entertained was incredible. He opened with a joke about a hair-lip. It was fucking hilarious. It doesn't translate well to the written word, it's more of a performance than anything else, so I won't try to duplicate it here. But, verbally, I can, to this day, repeat the joke almost word for word. During another class, in one particularly boring topic, he introduced us to the “P-136 Alertness Aid.”

“The P-136 Alertness Aid,” he began, while holding up a pencil, “must have the following characteristics: One end must be fairly sharp and pointy,” and he would indicate the 'lead end' of the pencil. “The other end must contain a soft, rubbery end capable of absorbing shock,” and he would indicate the eraser end of the pencil. “The P-136, when combined with a strategically placed piece of duct tape,” at this point he places the pencil on his upper lip and fastens it to his lip with the tape. “When properly placed, with the pointed end at the base of the nostril...when you begin to fall asleep,” mimes a student groggily falling asleep, then crashes his head to his chest (removing the pencil from his lip at the last second- for demonstration only). The pencil, in this position would jam up your nose, pointy end first “driven by the shock absorbing , bouncy end,” he continues. “And this, will definitely wake you the fuck up.” I still tell this joke to students to kick off particularly boring lectures. It's still goddamn funny. This instructor's delivery and presence was something I would admire and strive to achieve my entire career (his stance while he lectured looked like he was prepared for someone to jump him at any moment, and there was no question he would kick their ass the entire time he was teaching). I can't pull that off. But his use of humor and his easy going manner I have adopted and used in my duties as an instructor and intelligence professional ever since. Now......I just wish I could remember his name.

Closer to graduation, I had accumulated six months in The Corps, and the Company First Sergeant stopped me in a passageway. I was all cammied up, full pack and rifle, and headed for a training exercise. He stops me and asks “Pvt, how come you're not a PFC yet?”

I was late, and wanted to get on my way. Rather than pontificate upon the slow bureaucracy that is part of the institution, as I had perceived in my short time in the Marine Corps, or the fact that they let stand the word “fireing” at least 90 times at Edson Range....instead, I just replied “Pvt don't know, sir.” And continued on. I remember him telling me as a left that he would “look into this” for me. Whatever.

Three years later I would get a letter in the mail for the Naval Board of Administrative Corrections. That letter stated that “based on an inquiry begun on” (I don't remember the date, but it was damn close to my graduation from ITS) “….it has been adjudicated that your promotion to PFC, and therefore your promotion to LCpl were unnecessarily delayed...” blah, blah, blah. I will be provided with new promotion warrants that reflect said changes, backdating my promotions one month, and...Oooooh! A check for 40 dollars! The difference between one month's pay of Pvt to PFC AND PFC to LCpl (using, of course, the pay scale of three years prior). However, back then, you could get a pretty good drunk on for far less than 40 bucks.

We graduated from ITS in mid-November of 1984. That meant that I got to spend my very first Marine Corps Ball at ITS. This was an event. For people who do not understand Marine Corps Balls......Let me digress for just a bit and explain.

The Marine Corps Ball is THE annual event for Marines. It celebrates our birthday on 10 November 1775. No matter where Marines are, or what they are doing, they will pause and recognize this day. And when not in combat or in austere conditions, The Ball is celebrated with great pomp, pageantry, and ceremony. Fancy dress uniforms, tuxedos, and ball gowns are worn. There is historical pageantry and protocols, a good meal, music and dancing. And there's always a giant cake and a semi-elaborate and traditional cake cutting ceremony. In some small towns this is the social event of the year.

In San Onofre there was music and we were in dress uniforms (not fancy dress uniforms, but the plain green 'Alpha' uniforms....still.....it's a dress uniform). The Ball was held in the chow hall, the one with giant ITR letters in it. There weren't any ball gowns being worn, because there wasn't a female to be found here. The meal was a chewy steak. But there was wine. Remember those (really old) juice dispensers? The clear plastic square container kind with an agitator in them that always kept the orange juice moving around in it? That's what the wine was served in. With the agitators turned on. Red AND white, of course.

So, there we were. Sitting in plastic chairs, drinking agitated wine out of chow hall juice glasses. Chewing (and chewing, and chewing) on a steak and rocking out to Prince singing “so, tonight I'm gonna party like it's 1999....” I was so soured by this, my first Ball, that I avoided attending them for several years.

Footnotes for ITS

1. I have no idea if these guys were really “The Camp Pendleton Football Team”, or if even such an animal existed at the time. But that's what they claimed to be.