Category Archives: Peek Inside

Peek Inside

Boot Camp — The First Day

~ 3 ~

Parris Island

Several hours passed as we sat quietly in our chairs. Some dozed off, but I was much too apprehensive to sleep. Suddenly the outside door burst open with a loud bang and in walked three Marines wearing those same strange hats. They were screaming at us to sit up straight with our hands folded on the desk. I thought to myself, Why does everyone here shout?

One of them spoke in a loud and forceful voice. “My name is Staff Sergeant Bresnahan and I am your senior drill instructor. The two Marines standing to my left are your junior drill instructors, Sergeant Collins and Sergeant Handschumaker. For the next four long months, we will be your father, your mother, your preacher, your teacher, and your girlfriend, but I can assure you, you will not screw us. You will run everywhere you go. You will not speak unless spoken to and the last word out of your sleazy civilian mouths will always be “Sir.” Do you understand me?” We all answered, “Yes, Sir!” which was not loud enough so he asked again and again until we were all screaming at the top of our lungs “Yes, Sir!”

SSgt Bresnahan continued his instructions to his new recruits. “When I call your name you will sound off in a loud, clear voice “Here, Sir!” and get your slimy civilian asses up out of my chairs, grab all your belongings, and double time outside where yellow footprints are painted on the deck. You will plant your two slimy civilian feet on two of the footprints. You will stand there with your head and eyes glued to the back of the head of the sleazebag civilian in front of you. Do you understand me?” We went through the same routine again repeating “Yes, Sir!” numerous times until the windows rattled.

As names were called, Sgt Handschumaker was at the door screaming at each recruit to run faster. Once outside we were cantankerously greeted by Sgt Collins who pushed and shoved us to the front of the four lines of yellow footprints. Since our names were called alphabetically, I was one of the first to endure the junior DI’s wrath. I could hear screaming and yelling from inside where recruits had not sounded off, “Here, Sir!” at the decibels SSgt Bresnahan required.

The rest of that day was total chaos. From that initial site, we were herded to a building quite a distance away. When I say herded, I mean herded—like animals. SSgt Bresnahan was leading the way at almost a runner’s pace while the two junior DIs yelled and screamed at us to keep the formation closed up. We were tripping over one another and falling down; some even walked out of their shoes, but did not dare ask if they could go back to retrieve them.

We entered a building with large bins, a towel laying in each. We individually stood in front of a bin, undressed completely, and wrapped the towel around our waist. We packed all of our belongings into a box addressed to where it was to be sent. When I say everything, I mean everything went into that box. We could keep nothing even though many of us brought toiletries. Watches, rings, necklaces—every item we brought with us from home went into the box.

While all this was being done, the DIs were running across the top of the bins screaming for us to hurry, shoving stuff into the boxes, and creating more chaos and frustration.

The senior drill instructor demanded, “While you’re about it, stuff all of your slimy civilian ways into the box as well. You won’t need them anymore!”

While we were all standing naked, except for the towel wrapped around our waist, someone came down the line and wrote a number on our chest.  We then entered a room where several barbers eagerly awaited. When the kid in front of me got in the chair, the barber asked if he wanted to keep his sideburns. He hesitatingly answered, “Ye … ye … yes, Sir.” The barber told him to hold out his hand whereupon he laid each of them in the kid’s palm. Each shaving of our heads took approximately one minute to complete.

We then were treated to a cold shower and issued our new Marine uniforms and other gear. (Marines call their field uniform “utilities,” not fatigues like the Army.) From there we were herded across the huge 1st Battalion parade ground to our barracks. However, we were now carrying a heavy sea bag stuffed with all of the items we had just been issued.

We were designated Platoon 129 of the 1st Recruit Training Battalion. I learned that the hat DIs wore was called a “campaign cover.” Girls wear hats; Marines wear covers.

Originally posted 2015-10-28 16:18:06.

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A Day to Remember

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The day of which I speak  is of no significance to anyone but me. However, as I grow older each year, I feel this undying urge to recognize it. So if you aren’t interested in my day to remember, just skip it.

As Franklin D. Roosevelt speaking of December 7th 1941 coined the phrase, “A date which will live in infamy,” my date lives in my memory as though it was just yesterday, not sixty-four years ago! I am certain many of you have a similar date as well. My high school friend—Teddy Wood—and I had left school before the report cards came out during our senior year and enlisted in the Corps.

What follows is an excerpt from Chapter #2 of The Book:

On March 6, 1958, after completing all the paperwork and physicals at Fort Holabird, Maryland, I said goodbye to Mom and Dad. Woody and I then boarded a train at the Baltimore station, along with several others, bound for Parris Island, South Carolina, where the Marine Corps’s East Coast recruit training facility was located. The recruiter entrusted to me a large, sealed manila envelope. I was to deliver it to someone in command when we arrived at our destination. He informed the group that I was in charge—my first responsibility as a future Marine.

The train ride remains a vague memory to me except that we were assigned to a specific car where we were told to remain for the entire trip. I recall that some of the boys brought along a considerable amount of beer smuggled in their baggage. They shared with some of the others, but I was much too nervous to do any drinking. I remember one of the boys boasting as to how he was going to breeze through this training—he wasn’t going to take any guff from the drill sergeants.

With each stop along the way, our car became more crowded with more boys on their way to this infamous place with an exotic-sounding name—Parris Island.

Most of us were asleep when the conductor shouted out that this was our stop—Yemassee, South Carolina. I stepped off the train into total darkness with a cigarette in my mouth. Suddenly it flew off somewhere into space with what I thought were a few of my teeth. This cantankerous fellow, wearing a hat I’d last seen on a bear with a shovel in his paw on U.S. Forest Service posters, was screaming for us to do something. I had no idea then how symbolic that hat was nor that I myself would someday wear it.

Everyone was running in circles, bumping into each other, falling down. The greeting Marine was screaming, “Move! Move! Move!” which we were certainly doing but had no idea where to. I heard someone crying out for his mother. Another boy was screaming for help—surprisingly, he was the one who bragged about not taking any guff from the drill sergeants.

Absolute chaos ensued. Finally, after several minutes of the Marine shouting at us, he pointed to a building. We all ran towards it, jamming the doorway, attempting to get through it and out of the way of this insane person’s wrath.

Inside the building were steel beds stacked two high with a bare mattress lying on them and bright lights in the ceiling with shades hanging over them. The Marine thundered, “Get in a rack!” What the hell is a rack? we wondered. I didn’t recognize anything that might be a rack, so sheer chaos returned as we all tried to figure out what exactly this fellow was directing us to get into.

Finally, someone jumped into one of the steel beds whereupon we all followed suit; some beds even had two boys squeezed together. The Marine yelled, “Freeze!” Immediately the room fell into total silence except for the springs of the steel beds squeaking slightly as we all lay very still. He turned out the lights, and slowly paced up and down the center of the room while telling us we were shit, slimy civilian shit. We were in for one hell of a time when morning came, he warned, so we had better get some sleep since it would be the last time sleep would come for the next four months.

Welcome to boot camp!

As I lay there, I could hear the muffled sounds of several boys sobbing, probably wondering like the rest of us, What the hell have I gotten myself into?

 I don’t know how long I slept or if I even slept at all, but suddenly the lights came on and a loud banging sound awoke everyone as a Marine was screaming at us to stand in front of our racks. The large metal trash can he’d thrown was still rolling around the floor as we scrambled from our supremely uncomfortable beds—now to be known as “racks.” We were then herded outside onto a greyhound-type bus. I had no idea of the time except it was pitch black and cold.

As I was boarding the bus, I remembered the manila envelope still lying on my rack. I was to have surrendered it to the appropriate person upon arrival—my first responsibility as a Marine and I’d blown it. I really did not want to approach this crazed Marine, but I had to retrieve that envelope. I reluctantly began, “S…S…Sir…I need to go back into the building to—” I never finished the sentence. He was screaming and spitting saliva all over my face. I had no idea what he was saying, but I sure wasn’t going to ask him to repeat it. He shoved me towards the building. I ran in, grabbed the envelope, and bolted back outside.

By the time I returned to the bus, I was the last one to board thereby forcing me to sit next to the ill-tempered, Smokey Bear-hatted Marine. I developed goose bumps as I took my seat, so close to this fearsome devil that I was expecting him to chew my head off just for kicks.

I distinctly remember the bus passing through a gate and seeing the Marine sentry smiling as we drove past. Other than swamps on both sides of the road, I could see nothing out the window—no lights—nothing that gave a hint of civilization.

We finally came to some buildings whereupon we were herded off the bus into a classroom filled with school chairs, the types that have a small desk attached to them. There were several other Marines waiting there for us.

After much shouting for us to find a seat and sit our slimy civilian asses in it, we were required to fill out a post card addressed to our parents. We were told to write them that we arrived safe and would write again later. Then they hurried us into another part of the building where we went through a line holding a metal tray out in front of us while someone piled food onto it. We ate in total silence. When we finished—mind you, this was not as leisurely a breakfast as we were accustomed to at home—we were herded back into the classroom.

The sun was just rising on our first morning as recruits—literally as well as symbolically.

The story continues . . . . . . .

Little did I realize it then, but that day changed my entire life forever, and thirty-five years, six months, and twenty-two days later I took off the uniform and became Jim Bathurst, USMC (Ret).

Oh what a trip it was, What’s say we do it all over again guys?

Semper Fi Brothers; Jim

 

 

 

 

 

 

                       March 1958                                         October 1993

Originally posted 2022-03-06 09:29:24.

Peek Inside

Hail to the Chief (Not)

For those of you who have not read my book (shame on you; don’t know what you are missing), here is a peak at a small part of one chapters. After posting MSgt George Roof’s great commentary and recap of our illustrious past presidents beginning with LBJ, I could not help but think of my memories up close and personal with his first stalwart, LBJ. So for those of you who have chosen to not read my book, here is a small taste of chapter 30. Understand that I do not like to use “Marine talk” here on my blog or in my book, but in this case it is necessary to appreciate the scene. Enjoy. XX

~ 30 ~

Hail to the Chief

Every Marine remembers his first good ass chewing for a variety of reasons. My first as an officer occurred shortly after I had been commissioned and is remembered for who the “chewer” was. I recall quite clearly that I was at Camp David with my platoon and the president was to arrive for the weekend. The weather was bad, so all morning the plans fluctuated between flying the president to the camp, flying him to the LZ in Thurmont, or driving him up from the White House in Washington.

Since the camp sits on a mountaintop, it is fogged in at times. In these instances, the LZ down near Thurmont is often used and the chief executive is then driven up the mountain from there. On one particular day, it was on again – off again in attempting to fly the president and his party to Camp David. Finally, after numerous changes in the mode of transportation, his support personnel loaded the baggage into vehicles and began the hour and a half drive up the mountain. Meanwhile the heavy rains ceased and the fog lifted; the president and his guest, a visiting head of state, were flown straight to the camp.

I was turning over security responsibilities to the secret service when Major Baker walked by and said he would wait for me up ahead. When I finished, I joined him. As he and I were walking past Aspen on our way to the Ship’s Office suddenly the front door of the president’s cabin burst open and out came the “Boss,” President Lyndon B. Johnson. He shouted, “Hold up there!” He bolted over to us—we both saluted. The president began ranting and raving about being “surrounded by incompetent assholes.” He went on and on, cursing up a storm.

Unbeknown to me, Major Baker had terminated his salute. The president was standing between us directing his remarks at us both. Finally, after a barrage of curse words, he leaned over, looked me right in the eyes, and said, “Put your fucking hand down.” I terminated my salute.

He ended with a comment that burned into my psyche and to this very day has never left it: “If you assholes don’t get your fucking act together soon, I’ll send you all to Vietnam.” He then stormed off toward the house. I stood there with clinched fists, jaws so tight I couldn’t speak. Major Baker, obviously accustomed to this sort of abuse, laughed and said: “I wonder what we didn’t do this time?” At the Ship’s Office, we discovered the baggage had not yet arrived since it was coming by car. The president, apparently, was embarrassed that his guest could not change into more comfortable clothes.

There’s more, but you’ll have to get the book. To do so look to the left and you’ll see “Buy The Book,” click on it,  fill it out, I will get the email, and contact you personally.

Originally posted 2017-02-07 17:03:33.

Current Events, Peek Inside

Have a Cup of Joe on us – BRCC

Admittedly, I am caffeine addicted. Where did I become that way? Come on that’s an easy one, where else but the Marine Corps. When you have the mid-watch (2400-0400)  is bad enough, but when it’s your turn to “dog” the mid-watch and it lasts from 2400 to 0800, how else can one stay awake but to drink gallons of coffee?  Anyway, I digress. I believe I am also a connoisseur of coffee. And since I do drink a lot of it, I could never understand why someone would pay $5-7 for a cup of Joe? Unless, of course, money is no object, and you have no real taste for good coffee, or you drink your coffee from a place you believe adds to your station in life. Anyway, if you have not surmised by now, I do not frequent Starbucks. I am a fan of Yuban, been drinking eversince I discovered it in Newport, RI in 1985. But I will now try to find out where to get  BRCC’s coffee as I must give it a try, and if it is  near as good as Yuban, I WILL switch. I choose where I spend my hard-earned pension, and trust me it isn’t at places run by loud mouth, ant-American CEO’s. Here’s to you Mr. Schultz, you choose to take a stand and so does the American consumer. Keep your $5 cup of Syrian-made Joe

LOS ANGELES, Feb. 3, 2017 /PRNewswire/ — As Starbucks positions itself with a systematic decision to hire 10,000 Syrian refugees, Black Rifle Coffee Company (BRCC) and much of America asks why? While their attempts to capitalize on the veteran community have fallen grossly short, is it time now to make a puppet out of the very cultural diversity that founded this country for mere profit over security? Or is it time to put the power back in American citizens who need employment whose love, value and appreciation make today’s freedoms possible? Let’s be clear; the “American Dream” knows no prejudice against race, color, or ethnicity. It knows hard work. BRCC is welcoming 10,000 veterans to seek employment, training and or aid through them directly, as Starbucks has failed the military community in the hiring space.

“Starbucks CEO, Howard Shultz’s refugee hiring statement stems from marketing initiative. It’s unfortunate, maybe, to see that Starbucks is continuing to obsess with banter that inseparably promotes their love for intolerance, hypocrisy, and dominance over small businesses,” said BRCC CEO Evan Hafer.

Founded in 2014 by CEO and former Green Beret Evan Hafer, BRCC was built upon the mission to provide a high-quality, roast-to-order, coffee to the pro-2A and veteran communities. Between deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan, Hafer worked to refine both his coffee roasting and firearms skills. He spent over a decade researching coffee, refining roast profiles and of course drinking while he roasted. BRCC stands for more than just a coffee company. It’s a veteran-owned business operated by principled men who have served our country honorably and stand together to protect the business integrity, conservative values, the veteran community, and our families. They are the proud individuals who raise their right hand to support and defend the Constitution, who set aside aggressive social progressiveness to be what’s important, kind, loyal, and protecting what they love: AMERICA. Just as committed to supporting the 15 thriving businesses beneath their umbrella as they are to the act of war, their brotherhood is stronger than commerce.

BRCC has consistently grown well over 700% since roasting their first batch of coffee just two years ago. Plans are in the works to open over 100 brick and mortar stores in the next three years and 500 in six years. Currently, the BRCC compound rests on 3.3 acres in downtown Salt Lake City and is already building an infrastructure for expansion. BRCC has teamed up with 5.11 Tactical and several other vetreprenuerial powerhouses to support its rapidly progressing operation. With escalating growth, comes obvious need to hire more employees. BRCC wants to remind the veteran community, “Starbucks says they are hiring Syrians because it makes for impressive PR. We hire veterans because it’s who we are.” While irate Starbucks patrons have been trading in their gift cards for cash at stores across the nation all week over this controversy, BRCC made a formal announcement on Instagram encouraging veterans to apply for future positions with their company by way of email to careers@blackriflecoffee.com

The inherent reality as a free society is the ability to vote with dollars. Repeatedly, conglomerates play on the emotional component of political prowess, by siding with the market best suited for their business endeavors versus standing for what they believe in as human beings. As a small business consistently faced with “schoolyard bullies” shoving and attacking every successful move BRCC makes, they refuse to stop serving their country, devalue patriotic predecessors, and watch American heritage being washed away in a storm of progressive, loutish intolerance. BRCC’s sentiment of hiring veterans isn’t for marketing propaganda, but how they have built their foundation. BRCC asks America, “Before you decide to vote with your hard-earned dollar, what do YOU believe in?”

Well, what do you believe in?

Originally posted 2017-02-06 09:07:23.

Peek Inside

Memories

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Sometimes I post something I think may be of interest to someone other than me and has nothing to do with currents events of the day – this is one of them. If you are of my vintage or perhaps a few years senior or junior you may find this enlightening – sort of trip down memory lane. If you’re not of our vintage, you may find it boring. LOL For me it resurrected many fond memories of the days I loved and will cherish forever. I have no idea who wrote it; I received it from several friends and thought I’d pass it along. Even the photo rekindles many memories.

Long ago and far away, in a land that time forgot,

Before the days of Dylan , or the dawn of Camelot.

There lived a race of innocents, and they were you and me.

For Ike was in the White House in that land where we were born,

Where navels were for oranges, and Peyton Place was porn.

We longed for love and romance, and waited for our Prince,

Eddie Fisher married Liz, and no one’s seen him since.

We danced to ‘Little Darlin,’ and sang to ‘Stagger Lee’

And cried for Buddy Holly in the Land That Made Me, Me.

Only girls wore earrings then, and 3 was one too many,

And only boys wore flat-top cuts, except for Jean McKinney.

And only in our wildest dreams did we expect to see

A boy named George with Lipstick, in the Land That Made Me, Me.

We fell for Frankie Avalon, Annette was oh, so nice,

And when they made a movie, they never made it twice..

We didn’t have a Star Trek Five, or Psycho Two and Three,

Or Rocky-Rambo Twenty in the Land That Made Me, Me.

Miss Kitty had a heart of gold, and Chester had a limp,

And Reagan was a Democrat whose co-star was a chimp.

We had a Mr. Wizard, but not a Mr. T,

And Oprah couldn’t talk yet, in the Land That Made Me, Me.

We had our share of heroes, we never thought they’d go,

At least not Bobby Darin, or Marilyn Monroe.

For youth was still eternal, and life was yet to be,

And Elvis was forever in the Land That Made Me, Me.

We’d never seen the rock band that was Grateful to be Dead,

And Airplanes weren’t named Jefferson , and Zeppelins were not Led.

And Beatles lived in gardens then, and Monkees lived in trees,

Madonna was Mary in the Land That Made Me, Me.

We’d never heard of microwaves, or telephones in cars,

And babies might be bottle-fed, but they were not grown in jars.

And pumping iron got wrinkles out, and ‘gay’ meant fancy-free,

And dorms were never co-Ed in the Land That Made Me, Me.

We hadn’t seen enough of jets to talk about the lag,

And microchips were what was left at the bottom of the bag.

And hardware was a box of nails, and bytes came from a flea,

And rocket ships were fiction in the Land That Made Me, Me.

T-Birds came with portholes, and side shows came with freaks,

And bathing suits came big enough to cover both your cheeks.

And Coke came just in bottles, and skirts below the knee,

And Castro came to power near the Land That Made Me, Me.

We had no Crest with Fluoride, we had no Hill Street Blues,

We had no patterned pantyhose or Lipton herbal tea

Or prime-time ads for those dysfunctions in the Land That Made Me, Me.

There were no golden arches, no Perrier to chill,

And fish were not called Wanda, and cats were not called Bill

And middle-aged was 35 and old was forty-three,

And ancient were our parents in the Land That Made Me, Me.

But all things have a season, or so we’ve heard them say,

And now instead of Maybelline we swear by Retin-A.

They send us invitations to join AARP,

We’ve come a long way, baby, from the Land That Made Me, Me.

So now we face a brave new world in slightly larger jeans,

And wonder why they’re using smaller print in magazines.

And we tell our children’s children of the way it used to be,

Long ago and far away in the Land That Made Me, Me.

If you didn’t grow up in the fifties,

You missed the greatest time in history,

Hope you enjoyed this read as much as I did.

 

Originally posted 2023-07-24 10:57:54.