As we performed a sad rendition of marching, hunched over with our seabag, the first light of dawn began to come up. We “marched” into what turned out to be a vast array of Quonset huts. We turned down what turned out to be our platoon street. 

“Platoon halt.”

“Right face.”

We turned to face our platoon commander Gunnery Sergeant Barker.

“Drop your seabags.”

“Stand at attention.”

Our platoon of 65 recruits was divided into 3 groups. Each group was assigned to one of 3 Quonset huts. I was assigned to the first hut, Hut number 1. 

“Grab your bags and get into your assigned hut NOW!”

We awkwardly struggled with our seabags, pushing and shoving into our assigned hut. The interior of the hut was stark. A bare concrete floor, double steel bunks, and a bunch of wooden footlockers. Gunnery Sergeant Barker assigned each recruit a bunk and a footlocker with its padlock. As we stood at a semblance of attention, we were efficiently shown how to stow our gear. Then Gunnery Sergeant Barker showed us exactly how to make up our racks.

We made our racks as fast as we could and formed up out in the street, joining the rest of our platoon who had undergone the same process in the other 2 huts led by Staff Sergeant McGary and Sergeant Schmidt.

Next our platoon was organized into 3 lines ranging from the tallest recruits down to the shortest. Each step in the boot camp process had been simple but the tasks we were expected to execute perfectly every time were piling up. And our 3 Drill Instructors were getting more impatient and more demanding. 

“Right face.”

“Your other right, ASSHOLE!”

“Forward, march.”

Gunnery Sergeant Barker counted cadence. 

We tried to get into step and match Gunnery Sergeant Barker’s cadence. We marched blindly and tried to execute the Drill Instructor’s commands instantly.

We ended up in front of the Chow Hall. We were formed into 2 lines and stood at attention. 

“You eye-balling me asshole? Attention means your eyes are locked straight ahead. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“WHAT?”

“Sir, yes sir.”

“I can’t hear you.”

“SIR, YES SIR,” the recruit shouted.

The 2 lines slowly worked our way toward the entrance to Chow Hall. The smell of cooking food emanating from the big wooden, white-painted Chow Hall was incredible. Once inside the Chow Hall, we each grabbed a stainless-steel tray.

"Eyes forward, side-step down the chow line. Do you understand me?”

“Sir, yes sir.”

“I can’t hear you.”

“SIR, YES SIR” we all shouted as loud as we could.”

As we sided-stepped to our right down the chow line, recruit mess privates ladled huge portions of scrambled eggs, bacon, chipped beef on toast (shit-on-a-shingle) and fried potatoes.  Following the recruit directly in front of us, we followed them over to a series of long wooden tables and bench seats. Copying the recruit in front of us, we set our food-loaded trays down on the wooden table.  There were 2 cartons of milk already set out at each place. We stood stiffly at attention. The huge rectangular Chow Hall was jammed with recruit platoons being harassed by ferocious Drill Instructors. The atmosphere was loud and chaotic.

“Sit down and come to attention.”

We awkwardly sat down on the wooden benches.

Ready, EAT!”

Ravenously hungry, we all began to eat normally, meaning with a knife and a fork, one bite at a time. 

Eating fairly fast, I had barely eaten half the food on my tray and drank only part of one carton of milk when I heard: “ON YOUR FEET. GET OUT GET OUT!”

We struggled to get up from our seat, grabbed our still mostly full trays and headed from the Chow Hall exit. There stood Staff Sergeant McGary at one side of the exit hatch and Sergeant Schmidt on the other side. 

“YOU HAVE NOT CLEANED YOUR TRAY. YOU DO NOT LEAVE MY CHOW HALL WITH FOOD ON YOUR TRAY. EAT EVERY SCRAP OF FOOD ON YOUR TRAY.  NOW!”

The recruit began eating fast but with his fork. 

“YOU HAVE ONE MINUTE TO CLEAN YOUR TRAY. USE YOUR HANDS, ASSHOLE! EAT! EAT! EAT!”

Staff Sergeant McGary was literally shoving food into the recruit’s face. The Drill Instructor poured a whole carton into the recruit’s already stuffed mouth. The milk went all over the recruit’s face and down his green utility blouse. 

“FASTER! FASTER! FASTER!”

As I saw this in front of me, I took the clue and began grabbing food off my tray and stuffing it into my mouth. 

Terrified at the prospect of thick, muscular Staff Sergeant McGary cramming food into my mouth, I was literally gulping my food down. I was on the verge of vomiting. Keeping my eyes locked on my nearly empty tray, I made it through the exit hatch, scraped what little food was left on my tray, stacked my tray in the dirty pile,  got into my platoon formation at my assigned location at the head of one of the 3 lines, and snapped to attention. 

I could hear the loud yelling and harassing at the exit hatch just a few yards behind me. I could hear recruits throwing up. I felt grateful I had gotten through that ordeal relatively unscathed. As I stood stiffly at attention, eyes locked straight ahead, waiting for the rest of the recruits to join our platoon, I was already dreading noon chow. How was I going to eat a massive tray of food in the 5 minutes or less the Drill Instructors were giving us to eat?  One of the things I most enjoyed in life – eating – had suddenly become a living hell.

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Joe