After "forming" comes the terror
Donald Sensing blog
Former Marine Matthew White continues his description of what it is like to be a Marine recruit starting boot camp at Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island, where my son Stephen is nearing the end of his second week.
Yesterday we got our first letter from Stephen. It was actually a form letter, literally. It was a Parris Island form, with form number, consisting entirely of photocopied administrative information. There were several blanks that Stephen filled in, such as his unit identification and the name of his Senior Drill Instructor (GySgt Whited, by name).
At the bottom, Stephen had scrawled,
Passed IST
Miss you
Pray for me
Will write when able
My wife and I know there are volumes contained in each line. (The IST is the Initial Strength Test, which he took last Saturday. It is a physical-training test, and you do not want to fail it.)
The first week at PI is "forming," in which the recruits are organized into platoons and which consists of, says Matthew, "Lots of paperwork, classes and standing in line." Afterward the recruits are marched to their baracks where they will live for the next 12 weeks for the real "boot" of boot camp.
And that experience begins with the terror:
DI's started flying around like angry hornets who just had their hive sprayed with Raid, repeating the order to get online. I was looking for a computer but apparently they wanted us to stand on the black lines that ran down both sides of the squadbay. Being the dutiful recruits that we were, we hurried to the lines. ...
What ensued can best be compared to a blender where the recruits and their gear were the stuff inside and the DI's were the little blades at the bottom. They flew around that squadbay rarely touching the ground, belting incomprehensible orders and destroying gear. They dumped it on the deck, kicked it, threw it. My face was drenched with spit and my heart was jumping out of my chest. ...
Amazingly, five DI's were doing the same thing simultaneously to 47 mortified recruits. It was like each of them were actually 10 different people. As I write this, I am having trouble coming up with the words to paint the carnage that was unfolding before my eyes.
Suddenly, they were gone. Disappearing into the room from whence they came. All about me lay the contents of our neatly packed ALICE packs and seabags. ...
The DI's had established the pecking order. They were the kings and we were subjects. They were the lion and we were the poor yak who couldn't quite get away. They were the hammer and we were the nail. Insert your own metaphor here.
We knew that they were in charge and that try as we might, we would never please them. We would always live in terror. The very sight of them would bring back haunting memories of this moment. They had begun to tear us down. Soon they would lay the foundation and begin to rebuild.
One of the DI's that had become familiar to us stuck his head out the door and asked why his squadbay was (expletive deleted) up. We all dashed into high gear reassembling our mangled belongings. All except one poor sap.
He was motionless. Tears streaming down his face. His trousers were soaking wet as he stood in a pool of his own urine.
When I looked at him, a thought dashed through my mind that I regret to this day. "At least I'm not that guy. We picked up our platoon and he dropped his bladder."
I had arrived. And now I wanted to go home.
I remember reading what a retired commandant of the Marine Corps had written about his hour of terror that Matthew (and my son) experienced. I don't recall his name, but he said that in all the extensive combat he had seen up close and personal, he was never as terrified as during this hour at Parris Island.
by Donald Sensing,
donaldsensing.com |
