The flight felt relatively relaxed, sort of like my flight to Eugene, Oregon. The flight attendants were nice. I drank my coke and ate the snacks they provided while I looked out the window. We passed over the 100 square mile city of greater Los Angeles. Then a short transition then a much smaller San Diego came into view. The plane made a smooth approach then a perfect landing.

The plane taxied to the gate and came to a gentle stop. The ground crew rolled the stairway up to the side of the plane. We all stood up and began to make a calm, orderly exit from the plane.  

The flight attendants wished me a wonderful time in San Diego, and I walked down the stairway. It was a cool, sunny day in San Diego. A beautiful day. In the terminal I used the rest room then walked to an airline counter. I showed them the directions in my orders and asked if they knew where that was. They were friendly and helpful. They pointed to an exit. “Go right through those doors and it’s a short distance to the loading zone at the curb.” I thanked them. They gave me big smiles and wished me luck.

I walked to the curb and stood in the bright sun in the area marked “loading zone.” It seemed I had only stood a few minutes when an olive-colored pickup truck with Marine Corps insignias drove up. Two drill instructors exploded out of the truck. One walked directly at me and yelled, “Get in the back of my truck NOW!”

I felt like I just got hit by a bucket of ice water. The shock took my breath away. I started to walk toward the back of the truck as the other drill instructor dropped the tail gate. “Any  fucking time, sweetheart. Move your ass!”

I climbed into the back of the truck as fast as I could and sat on one of the two benches that line each side of the truck bed.

“EYES STRAIGHT AHEAD. HANDS ON YOUR KNEES. DON’T MOVE!”  He slammed shut the tailgate. His tone of voice made it crystal clear these were not suggestions.

The pickup truck pulled away from the loading zone curb and drove a short while. Then the truck slowed and passed through some a large gate. We drove briskly then stopped.

The tailgate slammed open. “GET OUT OF MY TRUCK NOW!”  “NOW!  NOW!  NOW!” I got out of the truck as fast as I could and I walked as fast as I could in my startled state into a beige building marked Receiving.

The next 10 or 12 hours were a blur as Receiving Barracks drill instructors made me and 20 or 30 other recruits do things like swab decks and do pushups or burbies when we didn’t do it fast enough and/or good enough while we simultaneously yelled, “Sir Yes Sir,” as loud as we could which was never loud enough so we did more pushups.

As all this intimidating chaos was going on, it got dark outside. As the chaos continued, more recruits arrived in bunches.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, 3 new drill instructors showed up and took over. They herded us outside where there were bright yellow footprints painted on the asphalt. “Feet on the yellow footprints. Face me. Stand at attention.” We obeyed as fast as we could until we stood in the formation dictated by the bright yellow footprints, heels together in a rough semblance of attention.

“I am Gunnery Sergeant Barker, your senior drill instructor.” His uniform was immaculate and perfect. His shoes spit shined to a high gloss. Gunnery Sergeant Barker was about 6 feet tall, lean, his stomach flat as a board. His posture was proud and purposeful. His campaign hat just above his eyes.

To Gunnery Sergeant Barker’s right stood a thickly muscled Staff Sergeant Drill Instructor, about 5 feet 10, and about 210 rock hard pounds. This is Drill Instructor McGary.

To Gunnery Sergeant Barker’s left stood a Sergeant, slightly shorter than Drill Instructor McGary, with red hair and a snarling face that glared at us. This is Drill Instructor Schmidt.

“Right face,” said Gunnery Sergeant Barker. “Forward march. Left, left, left, right left.”

Bumbling, we tried to follow Gunnery Sergeant Barker’s clear, steady cadence.  

We quasi-marched down the dark street to a brightly lit building.

“Column right, march,” our Senior Drill Instructor commanded.

We made a crude right turn and headed directly toward the brightly lit building.  

“Platoon halt,” Gunnery Sergeant Barker ordered. “Form a single- file line on that door.” 

The door of the brightly lit building opened revealing a row of barber chairs.  

“Fill each chair as it opens. No empty chairs.” Gunnery Sergeant Barker ordered.

The barbers turned to their task with vengeance. In less than a minute, the recruit was a skinhead.  

“Fill the chair. Fill the chair.” Now Drill Instructor McGary and Drill Instructor Schmidt took over, driving us through the Marine Corps recruit haircut process. Marine bootcamp had officially begun.  

Shorn, we pathetically marched to the next brightly lit building and the process of issuing the platoon of approximately 65 new recruits all the gear we would need for the next 13 weeks starting with our duffle bag or, more precisely, our seabag. We also began the process of stripping off our civilian clothes (which would be shipped home) and putting on our Marine Corps gear including our green boxer shorts, our green utility trousers, our web-belt, our green utility jacket, our black socks, our stiff black boots, and lastly our green utility hat or, more accurately, our cover.

Our green, overstuffed seabag over our shoulders, we marched down the now less dark street toward an unknown destination. We were ravenously hungry. We were exhausted. We had already been up all day and all night. And, with the first signs of dawn, it appeared we were just starting our day.

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As always, I wish you and your family the very best of health.
Joe