I realized I was awake. I had woken up naturally without the traumatic violence of a metal trash can colliding with a concrete floor. As I was enjoying a few brief moments of non-chaotic calm, I heard a Drill Instructor enter our Quonset hut. I took a deep breath and prepared to launch into the violent energy of Marine Corps bootcamp.

The trash can alarm went off and jerked the rest of the hut out of their oblivion. I leaped out of my upper bunk and felt cold concrete under my feet.

“Get up. Get up. Get up. Get your gear on. Make your rack. And hit the street at attention!” It was Staff Sergeant McGary looking as ferocious as ever.

Pulled on my green utility trousers, laced up my black boots, grabbed my green utility blouse, my cover and headed for the pre-5 am darkness of our platoon street. Taking my position in the formation, I came to rigid attention. I could hear the violent discontent of the 3 Drill Instructors motivating the stragglers.

“Because you took your sweet fuckin’ time, get down and give me 20,” Staff Sergeant McGary snarled.

20 push-ups wasn’t even a warm-up, it turned out. Before our punishment-PT was done, we were all panting and dripping with sweat.

“On your feet. Ten-shun. Right face. Forward, march.”

We hit the head. Then we were marched to the chow hall. Hands and soup spoon. Exit. Dump our metal tray. Get into formation and stand at rigid attention.

 As I stood at attention, I listened to the aggressive yelling behind me at the laggards. Without thinking, I wiped my face.

Out of nowhere, Staff Sergeant McGary was in my face.

“You call that attention asshole?” he bellowed and began hitting me on the right cheek-bone side of my face with the butt end of a can of shaving cream.

The pain and the violence of his actions shocked me. I stood at rigid attention as he hit me a half a dozen times.

“Attention means attention, fuck-nuts. You read me?”

"Sir, yes sir!” I shouted as loud as I could as I tried to catch my breath.

 And he moved on. Just like that.

My heart still pounding, I stood at attention as the rest of the platoon formed up. Staff Sergeant McGary had a way of making his points searingly clear. I can still vividly remember that moment even as I write this over 60 years later. The Marine Corps is not kidding because they are getting you ready for the reality of combat. It was less than 2 years later that in the middle of my first North Vietnamese mortar attack that I viscerally understood Drill Instructor McGary’s effort to help me. Ragged red-hot pieces of razor-sharp shrapnel are exponentially more violent and brutal than McGary’s wake-up.

March to platoon area. Head detail. During which Jerry Anderson, with a bandage still on his chin (his fall chin-first during our physical required stitches) came and got me.

“Report to the duty hut,” he said.

“What for?”

“No idea.”

“Thanks, man” and I double-timed down the platoon street to the duty hut.

I pounded on the door and shouted, “Sir, private Dillon reporting as ordered, sir.”

“Enter.”

“What’s with your blood pressure?” Gunnery Sergeant Barked asked.

“Sometimes it’s high,” I recalled.

“Report to sick-bay and get this sorted out.”

“Sir, yes sir.”

The Senior Drill Instructor gave me directions and I took off double-time.

Sick-bay was on the other side of the Grinder in one of the big administration buildings. I checked in and was told to take a seat on one of the wooden benches with a bunch of other recruits.

Maybe an hour or so later my name was called. I reported to a Navy corpsman who took my blood pressure.

“Too high.” He said flatly. You can’t stay in the Marine Corps.

The finality of his words triggered a massive surge of adrenaline. Persuasive words tumbled out of my mouth as I frantically tried to convince the corpsman that I had competitive blood pressure which spikes at important moments which was one reason why I was an All American swimmer.

I don’t know what part of my pitch grabbed his attention but he said, “Alright, I’ll send you to the doctor, but if it’s high again, you’re gone.”

He sent me down the hall to the office of one of the Navy doctors, an M.D. I handed him my file which the corpsman had given me. He read the corpsman’s note paper clipped to the file, and took my blood pressure. Not surprisingly it was really high now.

I caught a break as I explained I was a swimmer and my blood was always low.

“That’s not uncommon” and he changed the subject. I can’t recall what we talked about but thankfully his calm voice and gentle demeaner mellowed me out. I so enjoyed our conversation that I lost all track of time. He took my blood pressure again.

“110 over70” he shared matter-of-factly, “You’re perfectly healthy.”

"Thank you, thank you,” I gushed with gratitude.

“By the way, what happened to your face?”

"I cut myself shaving,” I replied.

He smiled. “I’m sure you’ll be a credit to the Marine Corps. Good luck to you private.”

"Thank you again, sir."

As I walked back to our platoon area, I exhaled. I felt like I had just dodged a bullet though at this point in time I had not the faintest idea what that really meant.

When I checked back into the duty hut, Drill Instructor Schmidt told me to grab my weapon and double-time it to the grinder. I hustled to my hut, grabbed my M14 rifle and double-timed it to the Grinder.  As I carried my weapon, I felt a mixture of pride and relief. I soon found my platoon among the many platoons doing close-order drill on the massive Grinder. I quickly harmonized with Gunnery Sergeant Barker’s precise rhythmical cadence with my M14 on my shoulder.

I felt honored to be led by Senior Drill Instructor Barker. He embodied why I joined the Marine Corps.

New Year. Fresh start. Put some real quality into your body. Into your life. I look forward to helping guide you to optimal health, producing peak performance, and laying the foundation for maximum health span.
Start your day with a JDD protein shake.

— Joe