It’s December 5, 1983, at 5:30 in the evening and I’m on a bus traveling from Los Angeles down to San Diego.
The day started early. I woke up at 3:00 AM and quietly left the house I grew up in for the last time.
As a boy anyway. I’m on my way to Navy boot camp. I drive to the parking lot of the recruiting office in Santa Ana and get in a van with a few other guys. Most are joining the Army, but a few are Navy.
When we arrive at the MEPS station in Los Angeles, we’re ushered into a room and called by name to various stations to fill out paperwork and undergo a final physical. By 3:00 that afternoon, we’re taken to a large auditorium, and all repeat the oath of enlistment that is administered by a Marine Corps officer.
It’s official. We are now officially the property of the U.S. government.
Those of us heading to Navy and Marine Corps boot camp in San Diego get on a bus together. The drive takes about two hours and is punctuated by a food stop at a diner. We are instructed to order what we want. Sort of a “last meal” I guess. Then we get back on the bus for the final leg of the journey.
We drop the marines off first. The bus enters the main gate at MCRD and heads toward a row of Quonset huts surrounding an asphalt parking lot. There are rows of yellow footprints painted on the ground.
As the bus comes to a halt, the driver finally speaks.
“Any of y’all got an attitude, better leave it on the bus.”
We watch as a short little drill instructor in a Smokey the Bear hat marches toward the bus. He enters and immediately begins screaming.
Those who are getting out at this stop are herded off the bus and shoved toward the yellow footprints. Now more drill instructors emerge. One throws a recruit against the aluminum door of a Quonset hut. As we drive away, I feel my heart racing. This is getting real. I’m glad that wasn’t my stop.
The drive to Recruit Training Command (RTC) is about 25 minutes. Our welcoming party isn’t nearly as intense. An old Navy chief boards and asks if any of us were drum majors or know how to play musical instruments. He is recruiting for the Drill Company. This group plays during graduations and does community events. I played trumpet a few years ago but have been coached never to volunteer for anything. So, I keep quiet.
“You motherfuckers are going to regret it if you’re lying to me. You’ll hate scrubbing trays in service week!”
It didn’t matter. At least not then. The nail that stands up gets hammered down.
The first night is the longest. I think it’s by design. We are marched around to different areas where we dump out all our personal belongings, take a urinalysis, fill out a bunch of paperwork, and get yelled at nonstop.
Finally, around 1:30 AM we are marched toward an open-bay barracks and instructed to do the “3S” (Shit, Shave, and Shower). Those with facial hair are instructed to shave it off. Then, at long last, we hit our racks.
At 3:00 AM, we’re awakened by shouting and bright lights. We try to gather our clothes and dress, then we form up outside the barracks. We’re marched to the chow hall. On the way, a group of senior recruits spy us marching by. You can tell because their dungarees are faded, they are tanned, and they wear white canvas leggings around their boondocker boots. It’s the mark of someone who is nearly through with training. They begin a cadence.
“Hey, there R&O” (R&O is receiving and outfitting – in other words, green recruits)
“Hey, there R&O” is echoed.
“Dumb Dumb R&O.” “Dumb Dumb R&O.”
“Can’t march straight or shine your shoes.” “Can’t march straight or shine your shoes.”
“Two more weeks and we’ll be through!” “Two more weeks and we’ll be through!”
We have two minutes to wolf down our food and then it’s an endless day of getting our heads shaved, drawing our uniforms, stenciling them, and getting settled into our barracks.
Our company is designated Company 204. There are 80 of us. 40 live on the top deck in bunks and 40 on the bottom.
Boot camp is a regimented experience that involves physical training, close order drill, inspections, cleaning the barracks, and lots of classroom training. You are physically exhausted the entire time. About a week in, everyone develops the “recruit crud,” a nasty respiratory illness.
A few crack under the pressure. There are a couple of bedwetters. Some get kicked out. Most get set back to a new company.
A couple of weeks later, we are invited to a presentation by the Navy SEALs. They want to know if any of us are interested in trying out. The speaker tells us that, to be a Navy SEAL,
“Ya gotta have balls thiiisss big,” he says, holding his hands about two feet apart.
We watch a movie about BUDS. All it takes is seeing a bunch of guys lying in the cold surf shivering like jackhammers to wipe this option off the table.
Then, it’s Week #5. Service Week.
Service week is a break in training where you are assigned to work in the galley, or the chow hall as we called it. It’s seven days of backbreaking work. The day begins at 3:00 AM and ends at 6:00PM. Most of the guys are assigned to the scullery where they wash trays and silverware and then clean the galley after each of the three meals.
I’m assigned as the galley messenger. It’s my job to make sure the crew is working and, if there are any messages to pass along, I carry them in a satchel and double-time it to wherever on base it needs to go. I’m also in charge of smoke breaks.
Smokers have it easier than the rest of us. They get designated breaks. I carry all the cigarettes with me in a pillowcase so at each break, the men come up to me one by one to reclaim their packs.
The days are endless. And now I see why I should have volunteered for a drill company. They are off in the community doing parades. Mixing with civilians. Seeing women up close. Lucky them.
And unlucky me. By the third day, my feet are so blistered I can barely walk. When I peel my socks off at the end of every day, they stick because of the scabs. It takes about five minutes each time I start walking for the pain to subside. Then my feet go numb again.
The only highlight is when I’m asked to run a message to Seaman Stark. She is a beautiful Yeoman who wears the most amazing perfume. At least half of RTC is in love with Seaman Stark.
By Day #5 of service week, morale is at rock bottom. At the end of each long workday, we muster on the grinder in front of the galley and the supervisor comes out to dismiss us. Usually, it’s an expletive-laden tirade on how terrible we did. It doesn’t phase us anymore. We’re so used to be denigrated for everything that our self-esteem is gone.
But something is different today. A new supervisor addresses us.
“I need to tell you all that I am so proud of you motherfuckers!” he shouts. “This galley has never looked this good!”
I don’t remember the march back to the barracks. Normally we trudge home completely exhausted, but today we’re walking on air. After five weeks of zero positivity, this little thing has boosted all our spirits.
The next day, we wake up with more energy. Everyone pushes hard and at the end of that day, the supervisor again sends us off with praise and encouragement. The best news is that there is only one more day of service week. Then we get our white leggings and become senior recruits.
Sadly, the old supervisor has returned. Our last day in the galley is much like the first few. Long. Arduous. Thankless.
The rest of boot camp drags on until we finally graduate in late February.
Most of us will do one hitch and get out. That’s my plan, but I end up gutting out 15 long, arduous years. I’m sure a few made an entire career of it. But we’ll all remember boot camp. We’ll remember our shipmates, and we’ll hopefully remember the lessons.
The lesson I remember to this day, and a lesson I’ll never forget is that a little appreciation goes a long way.
If you’re someone who engages with or supervises people, it’s important to remember the importances of acknowledgement. Thanking someone for something is fine, but acknowledgement, the expression of appreciation is the best kind of recognition.
Who do you know that could use appreciation today?