My Life So Far, Vol. 2

In June, 1976, it wasn’t politically correct to enlist in the military services. The draft had ended in 1975. But I had already enlisted in the delayed entry pool before the end of the draft. So even if it hadn’t ended, I wouldn’t have been subject to the draft, I was already committed to serve.

I had always been a social rebel. All of my classmates would talk about doing their own thing, but they all did the same thing. I, on the other hand chose to do something else, that no one else was doing. They dressed in bell-bottoms or baggies and platform shoes. I wore boot cut jeans and Western boots. They listened to disco and rock. I listened to classical and country. They talked about beating the draft. I actually did. When the draft was eliminated I was a Marine.

The Marine Corps chartered a plane to take all the inductees from Detroit and Chicago areas to San Diego, California for boot camp. The aircraft was an older turboprop liner used only for charter service. When we were on final approach to Chicago O’Hare Airport, the wind between the buildings was so fierce the airplane actually flew backwards a few yards in the last leg. But the pilots knew the airport well and made adjustments so we touched down on the sweet spot on the runway. No military cargo pilot could have done a better job.

The problems with the aircraft were not limited to wind. On approach to San Diego Airport, the pilots noted a red indicator light for the landing gear. They had no way to tell if the gear was up or down. So the decision was made to divert to the airline’s corporate headquarters at Long Beach Airport where there were all the support resources to ensure the aircraft would fly again. The flight crew were nervous because there was a very real possibility that the aircraft would crash at landing. All the passengers were inductees into the United States Marine Corps. We were scared too, but we refused to give it place. It was the passengers’ calm, cool demeanor that comforted the stewardesses and pilots as we approached the airport and braced for crash. All the emergency equipment was out and ready. There was talk of spraying the runway with foam, but when the tower saw the landing gear down in the correct position, they decided to forego the foam.

The landing was picture perfect without and untoward incident. But the passengers were many miles away from our expected destination. The airline bought us supper catered in the terminal but the rest of the terminal was closed. So we had to sleep in chairs and on the floor as we waited for the Marines at the Recruit Depot to come and fetch us.

It was a Wednesday when we landed in Long Beach, and we were supposed to be in San Diego that day before 1600 hours to get our barracks assignments. The upcoming weekend was a Federal holiday, Independence Day fell on a Sunday that year, and the Marine Corps was intending to take the whole week off at MCRD San Diego intake. So when we were a day late, we wound up in limbo for that week. We watched a series of movies that Sunday, all of them action flicks of the Marine Corps in WWII and the Korean Conflict. But most of us hated the wait because we didn’t enlist to lounge around, we were there to become Marines.

Finally on July 12, 1976, we met our Drill Instructors. I was in the Third Recruit Battalion. Once we were situated in the squad bay, the D.I.s took us one at a time into the office and interviewed us for potential problems. I admitted that I had once had problems with heat. So I was required to wear a huge “H” on the front and back of my sweatshirt. The senior Drill Instructor, Gunnery Sargent Carver, told me I was a “shit bird” and he was going to see to it I was dropped. I knew better, and he never knew me. I decided to be the best that I could be.

One thing I never did was admit that I was receiving my high school diploma that summer. People with my test scores and a diploma were sent to Officer Candidate School or some other special group. I had learned that standing out in that way was to be a target. So I wanted to be a regular Marine like Uris. I had chosen to go to radio school after Boot Camp so I could be in the same situation as Uris was in WWII. I did not want to learn how to jump out of perfectly good airplanes before they land or swim to shore from a submarine five miles off the coast and twenty feet under water. I knew that if a war started, a radio operator had a larger picture of what was happening than a supply clerk or a grunt. So I never told them I could type and my vision kept me out of the infantry.

One example of the lengths the NCO’s would go to in order to bring their predictions to reality is my rifle qualification in Boot Camp. I always loved the sport of target shooting. I even had a .22 rifle as a teenager so I could plink cans and poke holes in paper. My father had been a soldier in the 1940’s occupation army. He taught me the basics of firearms safety and marksmanship. So when I went to the rifle range in Boot Camp I had something of a head start.

I quickly mastered the Marine Corps method of marksmanship, which is the best I have encountered for teaching people who have never fired a rifle how to hit what they intend to hit. By the end of the first week of rifle training I had gotten used to the unnatural positions from which Marines fired on the Known Distance Course. During the second week my proficiency rapidly improved. At the 200 meter line I had problems in the offhand and kneeling positions, mostly because the M16 rifle is so light that it is hard to hold still in those positions. But at the 300 and 500 meter lines my score was incredible for a bespectacled nerd.

The final day of rifle training we shot for official score. I did respectable at the 200 meter line, only dropping a few points in the offhand and kneeling positions, and only dropping one point in the rapid fire. At the 300 meter line I only dropped three points from the maximum possible, firing a perfect rapid fire. But at the 500 meter line I was getting really hot. I fired seven strait bulls eyes, six in the ‘x’ ring, when someone fired on my target and hit the post. I informed my rifle coach that the target being marked was not fired on by me and he called the butts to tell them I had not fired. While we were trying to get my target cleared up that person fired twice more, one complete miss and one on the one point ring. I lost fourteen points to the subterfuge. It turns out the senior Drill Instructor was in the butts and didn’t want the best score in the platoon to fall to me.

I missed expert by one point because of the cheating of my DI. But I knew that I could shoot when the need arose, so I didn’t care. I re-qualified three more times with my rifle in my Marine Corps career, each time firing expert. The only practice I got was the week of qualification and whatever I did on my own.

In 1804, shortly before he crowned himself Emperor of France, Napoleon was explaining to Marshall Ney how he wanted to establish such equality in France that everyone stood the same height in the social order. Napoleon used a wheat field through which they rode as an example of the even height of social stature he would institute. Ney, it is said, pointed out that some stalks were taller than the others, just as some people would always stand above the rest. How, he asked, did Napoleon plan to deal with that form of inequality? Napoleon drew his sword and smoothly slashed across the top of the wheat, lopping off the heads of the stalks that stood above their neighbors. Now they are all the same height, he told Ney, and that is how we shall deal with the people.

To avoid Napoleons in the Marines, and in other places, I have learned to keep my head down and not stand out from my fellows. I do the best job I can of the tasks assigned. But I never tried to be more than those around me. My ambition was to be a Marine, and I achieved that upon graduation from Boot Camp. So the rest of my time in the Corps was spent being the best at what I was doing, nothing more. To better myself in case of war, I went to the unit library and read all the professional journals of the various arms of the Army as well as the Marine Corps Gazette. Now it has become codified that all Marines must read journals and books. Who would have thought of that in the late 1970s?

To be continued….

Ol’ Fuzzy is not employable and was denied for disability benefits. The only thing I have is the blogs. But I don’t qualify for ads on the blogs until September. If you like the scribbles I post, please help me keep it going. You can leave me a gratuity by dropping a buck or two in Ol' Fuzzy's Tip Jar. This is a PayPal account I opened on Wednesday, April 5, 2017.