Following our first session of close order drill, Gunnery Sergeant Barker marched the platoon to the mess hall for evening chow. In the dark, we fell into 2 lines standing at attention leading into the brightly lit mess hall. Grabbed a tray, side-stepped down the chow line, then carried our loaded tray to our assigned table and waited at attention. 

“Seats!”

We waited at attention.

“Eat!”

I vigorously attacked the project with hands and soup spoon. 

I was almost done.

“Get out of my mess hall NOW!”

We exploded off the hard wooden benches like we were shot out of a gun and hustled toward the exit hatch. The smart recruits cleaned off any remaining food prior to Drill Instructor inspection. The slow recruits with a mound of food still on their tray looked panicked and agonized. 

I dumped my clean tray, took my place in the platoon formation, and assumed a posture of rigid attention. The now usual ordeal of chaos, harassment and punishment raged behind me. 

Marched back to our platoon area, on command we disbursed to our assigned hut. We changed into shorts, shower shoes, yellow sweat shirt and cover. We grabbed our shaving kit and rejoined our platoon formation. The stragglers were being motivated by the Drill Instructors. 

We shaved by the numbers jammed at a long line of sinks. Staff Sergeant McGary shouted out step by step commands: wet your face; lather your face; shave; rinse. We did only what we had been commanded to do. No more. No less. Like the mess hall, the time allotted seemed like about 10% of the time actually necessary. 

We stripped naked and got into the gang shower. Reminded me of post swim practice in high school and college only with a frantic urgency. We stood naked at attention. All the shower heads came on at once. Cold water. Remember this is January. The recruits yelled. 

“Shut the fuck up and get wet. 

Barely wet, the water went off.

“Soap up.”

Only partially soaped up.

The cold water came on. 

Not one recruit yelled.

“Rinse.”

The water went off.

Many recruits were still covered with soap lather.

I got all the soap off my head and out of my eyes but about a third of my body was still soapy.

“Dry off.”

“Dress.”

“Platoon formation in the street.”

Staff Sergeant McGary marched us back to our platoon area. 

“Trousers, shirt, sweat shirt, shower shoes, bucket and writing kit. Platoon formation in the classroom. GO!”

As fast as possible, we transitioned and hustled to the classroom. In a compressed platoon formation, we sat on our buckets at attention. Recruits who were late and/or did not bring all the demanded items, caught hell.

When order reached Staff Seargent McGary’s standards, said, “At ease.”

“The point of bootcamp is to get you ready for combat. You don’t know this but before you leave MCRD San Diego, combat Marines will be landing in Vietnam. So we have extra incentive to train you up before your 13 weeks is up. Bootcamp just got a whole lot tougher."

The tension in our Quonset hut classroom spiked a notch higher. 

“Get out your letter writing kit. I am going to give you your military mailing address.”

And Drill Instructor McGary slowly gave us our new and very involved military mailing address. He also reminded us to put our serial number in the address.  21 19 16 2. Since January, 1965, I have never forgotten my Marine Corps I.D. number.

I wrote 2 letters. One to my folks. And one to Carol Hawkins, a girl I had met in the cafeteria in MOMA in New York City. She had invited me to visit if I ever got back there. 

Letter writing completed, Staff Sergeant McGary said he had 2 questions.

“How many of you have graduated from high school?”

I looked around. Of the 65 recruits in my bootcamp platoon, less than 10 raised their hands. 

“How many of you have ever stolen a car?”

I would estimate that the vast majority of the platoon raised their hands.

“Get back to your hut and prepare for lights out.”

We walked back, put our stuff away and stood at attention waiting.

The 3 Drill Instructors simultaneously got the 3 huts ready for lights out. The lights in all 3 huts went out in sync at exactly 8:30 pm.

I am 6 feet, 2 inches tall. My rack was so short I could only sleep on one side or the other. 

Not having to be at the instant beck and call of a Drill Instructor for the last 36 hours, my exhaustion hit like a ton of bricks. 

The next instant, the loudest, most godawful noise jerked me up from the depth of a coma. I had just slept 8 solid hours when the Drill Instructors viciously slammed metal trash cans onto the concrete floor of the Quonset hut. 

“Drop your cocks and grab your socks, it’s another day in the Corps, ladies. Get out of those racks. NOW! NOW! NOW!”

Special on Double-Double Vanilla 

Please note. All specials including the double-double vanilla special will expire the last day of this month – November 30, 2025. 

Thank you for your enthusiastic support.

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

Joe