The Mistake

Realizing you are in a world of s**t with no way out.

                                

     The Mistake

 

So, this is what hell is like. Looks like I’m going to know it for the next twelve weeks until I can get the hell out of this place.

“There is no possible way your parents wanted to have YOU as their CHILD!” the Drill Instructor screamed, leaning toward me, inches from my face. “You have got to be the biggest mistake of their lives! Do you know that recruit?” he whispered, lips touching my ear.

“Sir, yes, sir,” I shouted standing rigid at attention, sweat dripping out of every pore from the relentless California sun. The only mistake was me enlisting in the first place. God, I could have been free if I only left when I had the chance. My thoughts drifted back to a few days earlier.

Sitting in the San Diego International Airport after a long flight from Chicago the night of May 3, 1982, I began to have doubts about my latest decision. About forty of us were sitting in the area of the airport restricted to those who had made this decision. I was going to boot camp to become a Marine. From the looks on the faces around me, it seemed most of us were having the same thought: I just made the biggest mistake of my life.

I was getting the urge to run. There was no one watching. The terminal was nearly empty, a lady in a dark blue uniform shirt was emptying a trash bin, but no one else was around. I turned to John Gusse, sitting next to me. He was from Minnesota. John and I had roomed together the night before at the Military Entrance Processing Stations, MEPS, in Chicago.

“We don’t have to go to boot camp,” I said. “All we have to do is walk away, but we have to do it now. Once the Marine guys show up, we’re stuck.” No one is coming yet. “Man, we already enlisted; they’ll put us in prison,” Gusse said. “No, we didn’t. My recruiter told me we weren’t technically enlisted until we take the oath and sign the paperwork at boot camp. They might threaten us and try to scare us into coming back and going through at another time, but if we really want to get out of this, we can,” I said. I had been out of high school a year and had been searching for something exciting to do. I had dropped out of community college two semesters in a row. All I wanted to do was get out of my hometown. Now, the excitement of the IDEA of joining the Marine Corps had worn off, and all I wanted to do was go home. Gusse said he couldn’t run, and I shouldn’t do it either. I was too chicken s**t to go by myself, and before long, a couple of Marines showed up and we were herded onto a bus and off to the Marine Base. Walking to the bus felt like I was walking to the gallows. God, I should have run!

The bombardment of yells and chaos began instantly as the bus door opened. A Drill Instructor jumped through the door almost before it opened. “Get off the bus, get off this bus right now!” he yelled.

Jumping into the aisle, I knocked the kid across from me back into his seat and ran toward the door and down the steps. Several other DIs surrounded me as my foot touched the pavement. “Get in line, get in line over there,” they yelled as they leaned toward me, their faces inches from mine. They pointed to the yellow footprints painted on the ground. I remembered the footprints from a book I read in grade school. They were all in a line, four pairs of feet to a row about fifteen or twenty rows deep, heels together, toes pointed outward at a 45-degree angle, making a V shape. That was the way to stand in military formation. Once in formation, we marched to the contraband area. All the items we brought with us were taken and put into boxes: wallets, combs, cough drops, books, everything except prescription medicine. The bombardment of yells continued.

We were marched to the barber. The constant buzz of electric clippers hummed throughout the room. Sitting in the chair, the barber’s left hand pulled my forehead back. The warmth of the clipper felt kind of nice against my forehead as it moved back across my head. My head was pushed forward and down. The clippers moved from the bottom of my neck to the top of my head. Within about 10 swipes, my head was shaved to the nubs, and I was pushed out of the chair, glancing at a mirror on the way out, rubbing my hand over my head. I look horrible bald! After haircuts, we went through the process of receiving our military belongings. Military issue everything. Civilians working for the Marine Corps handed us every piece of clothing and personal item we’d use over the next twelve weeks. Our civilian clothes were boxed and stored. The only way out now was to graduate or get kicked out.

Within an hour of arriving at the base, I was standing in a room with about 150 guys in nothing but underwear or skivvies, as Marines call them. All of us, white skivvies and shaved heads. We all looked the same. For white guys, whether your hair was brown, black or blond, when it is shaved to the scalp, your nubs look grey. I didn’t recognize the guys I flew in with. I was standing in a room in my underwear, head shaved, getting yelled at by Drill Instructors. Yep, good move, going to be one fun summer!

All the military issued items were placed in our “sea bag,” a duffle bag weighing about 100 pounds with all our equipment in it. A DI ran our group from one building to another as we struggled under the weight of our sea bags. Standing in formation for a few minutes, the DI came out of the building, and we were off running to another building. There didn’t seem to be any point to it other than running us around carrying a hundred-pound sea bag. Finally, in military formation, we were allowed to sit down on our sea bags outside a large yellow building. Man, what time is it? It has to be 3:30 in the morning. I can’t wait to go to sleep. Is this where we sleep? The DIs stalked through the ranks of recruits, yelling, “Keep your eyes front, no talking, sit at attention, sit up straight.” The minutes dragged on. It seemed like we sat there for hours. Why don’t we just go inside? What are we waiting for? We were sitting outside the barracks. The barracks were three stories tall with windows all across the front. Palm trees stood guard along the sidewalk. The DIs went into the barracks and came back a few minutes later. We waited for the order to stand at attention so we could go inside. The order never came.

Sitting on our sea bags, temperatures dropping into the low 50s. It seemed cold. DIs prowled through the ranks, looking for anyone nodding off so they could scream at them: the indoctrination process had begun. The Corps was already beginning to strip us of our identity. They took all the clothes we were wearing when we left our homes and gave us their uniform that made everyone look the same. We were all Marine green. White guys were light green Marines, black guys were dark green Marines, and everyone else was a medium green Marine. Everyone was Marine Corps green. It didn’t matter what someone looked like a few hours ago, showing up with long hair and blue jeans or short hair and dress clothes. Now, everyone’s head was shaved and everyone wore Marine camouflage shirts and pants.

 The Marine Corps quickly and effectively established that we were at the mercy of their system. When becoming a United States Marine, everything is done their way. Everything is done when they say and how they say to do it. We were repeatedly reminded that we were not Marines, reminded we were lower than our civilian counterparts our age because they weren’t dumb enough to get themselves in a predicament that ended them up in the Marine Corps. We volunteered and the DIs were quick to laugh at how dumb we were to have believed the bullshit our recruiters told us.

Whether we were too stupid or poor to go to college, or we got in trouble with the law, or we were from a town where we couldn’t get a job, it didn’t matter; the Marine Corps seemed like a better alternative to our civilian life when we enlisted. These facts were continually repeated at the beginning, designed to break the ties with our past identity. Not erase it but to break it enough to get us to buy into the Marine Corps way of doing things. There is a saying often repeated in Marine boot camp: “United States Marine Corps…this is what you asked for.” I volunteered for this s**t? I didn’t like being told what to do by my parents or by teachers in school, so I join the Marine Corps? I’m a f*****g dumbass. This was a f*****g mistake!

 Finally, around 4:00 a.m. we marched into the barracks and were assigned a bed, a “rack” in Marine speak, and a footlocker. We were instructed how to unpack our sea bags and organize our footlockers. There are very specific ways to organize a footlocker, so specific that a manual was written as to how to accomplish this most important task. If one sock was out of place, DIs will have our a*s. It was demonstrated how to hang a towel and washcloth over the top bar of the rack. The placement of the towel and washcloth was demonstrated with a ruler, exactly two inches away from the end of the bar. Top bunk goes on the right side; bottom bunk goes on the left side. Showers were ordered and within minutes, we were back in our cammies: Marine utility uniforms used for everyday work, and on the road for chow"Marine speak for food.

The first full day of boot was starting, with us having been awake for nearly twenty-four hours, since early the morning before when I left the MEPS station in Chicago. We’re going to breakfast to start the day? We didn’t even go to bed. This is fucked up! The lack of sleep, the chaotic yelling and running from one building to another while having orders shouted out, then changed at a moment’s notice, only to have to grab our gear and run somewhere else is a very methodically thought-out evaluation technique to see how individuals handle stress while tired and disoriented. The first of many mental and physical evaluations that would continue to take place over the next twelve weeks had begun.

The night was a flurry of sights and sounds, running from one place to another. No sleep, getting yelled at by everyone. The process was thoroughly disorienting. The next few days weren’t much different. Wake up at 4:30 a.m. dressed and on the road within minutes, marching to the chow hall for breakfast in the dark carrying flashlights so everyone knows you are the newest of the new recruits. We were the FNGs, the f*****g new guys! The newest recruits were assigned to receiving barracks and had not yet been assigned a Drill Instructor team that would train the platoon. As receiving barracks recruits, we got up and ate breakfast first at 4:30 so the “real” recruits, who had already entered their training phase, could sleep until 5:00, when their day started.

The first few days were filled with paperwork, complete medical physicals, eye exams, teeth exams, hearing exams, and shots of who knows what injected into you. One time, it’s a simple shot in the arm and the next time, the platoon is marched into a small office with two doors fifteen feet apart. Walking through the door, handing a corpsman the paperwork so they can verify us and verify if we’re allergic to any of the shots they were about to give. We went to the back of the room and basically make a U-turn and were headed out the other door. Shirtsleeves rolled up, both arms swabbed with orange antiseptic. As we exit the office, two guys on either side of the doorway stand with air gun dispensers.

Remember those? The kind from second or third grade that scared the s**t out of almost the entire class and had kids running out of line because they didn’t want to get shot with the “needle gun”. This was the first time I had seen the “needle gun” since second or third grade, and it still scared me. Unfortunately, at eighteen and in Marine boot camp, showing I was scared and trying to run away from getting the shots wasn’t really an option. The “needle guns” had four or five needles in them a piece, so we were getting eight or ten shots of some s**t with the needle gun. If anyone is afraid of needles and shots, then don’t join any of the armed forces.

Along with our dosages of shots, we went through a battery of timed aptitude tests: reading, math, science, and mechanical. Name a field of a study, and there was a test on it. There are multiple choice pattern questions like: these three triangles look the same, how are they different? Next question, same three triangles as the previous question, how are they the same? What? They’re the same ones as before. Next question, same three triangles as the previous two questions; if two triangles are the same, how is the third different? What the f**k are they talking about, they’re all the same f*****g triangles. There’s no right answer. There’s no none of the above, so there isn’t a correct answer to these questions. This test is fucked up! What the hell are they asking in these questions? F**k it, I’m going with B.

 Regardless of how we scored on previous tests at the recruiter’s office or what our recruiter told us, these were the test that classified us into the Military Occupational Specialty (MOS) that we got assigned. We’re tested to see what job we’ll get in the Marine Corps. Along with this, we fill out hundreds of pages of paperwork that seem quite similar to the ones we signed at our recruiter’s office, and again at the MEPS station before arriving at boot camp.

Initial days are spent sitting in rooms taking test, getting shots and filling out paperwork. There is always an active duty Marine present, but not a DI, who goes through the routine of what makes Marines special. The Marine explained how the Corps doesn’t take just anyone, and if we had done anything bad in our past, they will find out, so we better tell them now. Lots of bad cop/bad cop routine. They tried to get us to confess to crimes of anything: traffic violations, stealing candy, cheating in school or if we’d been in gangs. Then they started in on the drug speech.

“The Marine Corps has some of the most advanced testing methods of detecting drugs. Even if you did it a year ago, we’ll know,” the Sergeant said.

These Marines were just trying to bluff guys and sniff out the dumb ones. I knew this was bullshit, because I told my recruiter I smoked some pot, and he told me not to worry because they wouldn’t do a drug test until I’d been in for at least 30 days, so the body has a chance to clear itself out. He said they didn’t want to kick anyone out for something like that. As long as it’s not done while at boot camp, it’ll be fine.

I hated being in the Marine Corps right then. I sat there thinking it was the dumbest thing I’ve ever done in my life, and I wanted out. I thought of standing up and saying whatever I needed to say to get me the hell out. I’ve done heroin, I’ve done whatever is worse than that too, I’ve done it all, I’ve done whatever I need to have done to be sent home! I’d be dishonorably discharged"medically discharged at best. But soon, my biggest concern was my hair. My f*****g head was shaved to the nubs. What the hell am I going to do showing up in my hometown after being gone for a couple days with my head shaved down to nubs? I can’t go home looking like this. This kid sitting in the desk behind me is freaking out. He’s talking out loud and getting louder. “I smoked a little pot with a girl a couple of months ago, do you think I should tell them?” he asked whoever would listen. “Do you think I should say something?” he asked again, looking around the area for someone’s approval.

“Just shut up and be quiet,” said a tall guy sitting across from him.

He didn’t shut up; he keeps talking and getting all nervous and starting to have an anxiety attack. Now I was getting irritated listening to him, because I couldn’t believe how stupid this guy was acting. I forgot all about me wanting to stand up and tell them that I did drugs just to try to get out myself. I finally turn around.

“Dude, they’re not giving us a drug test for about a month because they don’t want to have to discharge any of us for pot. They want us here; they got us all by the f*****g balls man,” I said.

“How do you know that? What happens if they test us?” he asked.

“They’re just trying to find out whose stupid enough to tell on themselves. Just shut the f**k up and quit talking about it.” I turned back around in my seat.

Quite a few guys were staring at me, some smiling, some looking disapproving that I had spoken. After hearing the kid behind me wig out about taking a couple of hits from a joint and me worrying about my shaved head and trying to think of what plausible lie I could possibly tell people back home, I didn’t try to get out of the Marines. I sat there and just went with the flow.

After we finished up the processing period, we were now in the system, the Marine Corps System. The last and final piece of cementing us into the system was when we took an oral oath, followed by signing the oath. The Oath of enlistment read:

 I, Greg Dickerson, do herby acknowledge to have voluntarily enlisted under conditions prescribed by law this 3rd day of May 1982 in the United States Marine Corps for a period of four years unless sooner discharged by proper authority; and I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic, that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey all orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me , according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice, so help me God.

After signing the form, it was tick-tock game locked, we were signed, tagged and delivered. We were officially a “Boot Recruit”"U.S. Government property. And I do mean U.S. Government property. I’ve heard of Active Duty Marines in San Diego while on leave getting sunburned so badly they couldn’t work. They were written up for destruction of government property: their bodies!

The “forming period” is the first few days in the receiving barracks. A Drill Instructor takes charge of the platoon and gives instruction in basic military customs. The most basic of tasks were taught the Marine Corps way; how to stand correctly, how to wear a uniform properly, how to make a rack and how to address the Drill Instructors. Before I left, my recruiter told me the forming platoon Drill Instructors were guys doing a six-month rotation after full-time training. They’re in their downtime, so they can acclimate to regular life again; a transition period is necessary. Drill Instructors are trained to explode on a recruit for the slightest incorrect movement. The job is extremely demanding and stressful, and there is a very high rate of burn out among Drill Instructors.

During forming period, before training even begins, it becomes obvious which guys should have never been allowed to enlist in any of the armed forces. Recruiters will send anyone to boot camp that can pass the initial screening and will sign the enlistment papers. Cavico, a skinny guy in the bunk next to me, was so shocked and disoriented, he couldn’t function.

At 4:30 a.m. the DI turns on the lights in the squad bay and yells, “Get out of your racks and get on line.” Everyone jumps out of bed and stands at attention in front of their footlockers while the DI walks up and down the aisles making sure everyone is up and standing at attention. The order is given to get dressed and get on the road for chow. You are given about two minutes to be dressed and standing in formation outside.

Cavico would freeze and just stand there. He wouldn’t do anything. Our forming Platoon DI spotted this kid on day one and told me and the two other guys that bunked next to him that he was our responsibility, to make sure he was dressed correctly every morning and ready for nightly inspections and standing in formation on time. We tried to help. I’d grab his pants and shirt, throw them at him, and tell him to put them on while trying to get myself dressed. We would have to button his shirt because he was so nervous he couldn’t get the buttons lined up right, so his shirt would be all fucked up. Had to make his bunk because he couldn’t make it worth a s**t and tie his bootlaces for him while he mumbled stuff to himself. The three of us were pretty pissed about having to babysit him, but there wasn’t anything we could do about it.

The last night of our forming period, our DI grabbed a chair and had us all sit on the ground in front of him in the middle of the squad bay. He explained what the three phases of boot camp were and what we could expect during each phase. He asked if anyone had questions and a few recruits asked some. It was the first time since arriving at boot that we all laughed together with a DI. I think he was extra nice that evening because he knew what was in store for us the following morning.

Cavico raised his hand to ask a question. When the DI called on him, the kid jumped up and stood at attention. “Sir, do you think I’ll make it, Sir?” he yelled.

 The whole platoon turned and looked at the guy because, for the first time since arriving on base, we were allowed to be informal to some degree. Everyone else asked questions sitting on the ground because our DI told us we could.

“Sir, do you think I’ll make it, Sir?’ Cavico yelled again. “I have to make it, Sir. My parents don’t want me. They never did; they sent me away to live with my grandparents when I was little. My grandparents made me sign up for the Marines when I turned 17. I have to be a Marine, Sir. Do you think I can be a Marine, Sir? “

I never felt sorrier for another human being then I did at that moment and never more grateful to have come from the family I came from. Cavico started to cry. Who was the a*****e recruiter who sent this kid here? The m**********r ought to be dishonorably discharged for sending a kid like that here. He knew damn well this kid wasn’t going to make it. “Do you think I’ll make it, Sir?” he asked again.

 Every recruit in the squad bay stopped looking at him. The room was dead silent. Everyone glanced around at each other without holding eye contact for very long, then at the DI, then at the floor or our boots, looking at anything except the recruit standing there crying.

No one wanted to watch him cry, but his question, do you think I’ll make it, struck a chord with me. I thought I would, even though I didn’t want to do it anymore, but there was a little doubt pushed way in the back of my mind in that compartment no one ever likes to go to. That piece of self-doubt that wonders, do I really have what it takes to be a Marine?

 “All you can do is your best,” the DI finally said. “Do your best. That goes for all of you. Your best is all you can do, and if you do your best, everything will be fine.”

That was the last question our DI took from anyone that night. He gave us an extra half hour of “free time” for our last night and told us to write letters home, start showering and get ready for nightly hygiene inspection. Every night there was hygiene inspection. Our DI walked up and down the squad bay, making sure everyone shaved. He’d make us hold out our hands to make sure our fingernails were trimmed and cleaned. Sometime he’d even smell our breath to make sure we brushed our teeth.

The next morning, we were able to sleep in until 5:00 a.m. because we were officially starting first phase training, T1, (Training day 1). The “pick up,” as it’s called, is the transition from “forming period” to “training phase” and it’s abrupt and instantaneous. After morning chow, we came back to the barracks to pack our sea bags and clean up the squad bay. Platoon 3040 had 76 recruits, and we sat in front of our receiving barracks DI and listened intently to his calm fatherly advice on how to be successful during boot camp, until he was rudely interrupted when our training Drill Instructors walked in the room to take charge of their platoon. The chaos and apprehension we felt on the first night was about to become a comforting memory we longed for.