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6 March – A Day Never to be Forgotten

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

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 slimy 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 scummy 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 literally 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 were told to remember it. 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 his sideburns. He hesitatingly answered, “Ye…ye…yes, Sir.” The barber asked that he 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.

As any former Marine knows, you never forget your DI’s names—never! They were mean as hell, immaculately dressed, extremely knowledgeable, and I disliked all three of them.

The initial weeks of training continually brought the wrath of the DIs down upon us as we were introduced to the Marine lexicon. Men wore trousers, not pants; doors were hatches; floors were decks; bathrooms were heads; walls were bulkheads; and on it went until we learned to speak “Marine.” Time was even changed; 1:00 p.m. was now 1300.

The hardest one for us all was the use of the word “you.” We were being taught to use the third person when speaking to an officer. For example, the DI may have asked, “Who told you to do that?” If the recruit answered, “You did, Sir!” it resulted in many push-ups, bends and thrusts, or any of the other abominable exercises used as “group tighteners.” The correct response should have been, “The Drill Instructor did, Sir!” (While I freely use the abbreviation “DI” herein, no recruit would dare utter that term when referring to his drill instructor) The DI’s favorite response while the recruit tirelessly did the exercises was, “A ‘ewe’ is a female sheep. Do I look like a female sheep to you, private?” That word, “you,” was never again part of my vocabulary.

Sgt Collins was my least favorite; he seemed to enjoy watching us endure pain. He did have the best marching cadence though. On calm nights, while marching back to the barracks after evening chow, he could really make us strut. However, sometimes he would get mad at us and make us pull our covers down hard on our heads, put our hands in our pockets, and get up on our tiptoes. He did not want to hear the sound of our heels striking he pavement.

When he really got angry, he would have two recruits run around the platoon barking like dogs, while the first and third squads “moo’d” like cows as the second and fourth squads “oinked” like pigs. Other DIs would come out from their barracks as we passed by and yell, “Hey, Collins, what you got there, a herd? I like your herd dogs, can I borrow them?” He seemed to gain a great deal of enjoyment from that.

When he was particularly irate, he’d herd us around back of our barracks where a Dempsey Dumpster was located, a large square steel container for trash, the type that a truck lifts up to dump. He would bellow, “Whoa, herd,” then he would snap his fingers and say, “Get in.” After having done this several times, we knew exactly what he meant.

Now, you are probably saying to yourself, There is no way a platoon of recruits will fit into a Dempsey Dumpster. Wrong! Our platoon numbered about seventy recruits at any given time and we could all get into that dumpster at once. Then he would close the hatch and bang on the sides. The first time was a real experience, but we became so good at it that we could do it in about two minutes flat.

A main topic of barrack’s bull sessions among young Marines was always who had the toughest DIs. Stories of one’s experience that supported any claims likely became more embellished with time. Most stories solicited comments such as, “That’s nothing, one time my DI did….” However, I found that Sgt Collins’ love for that Dempsey Dumpster gave me a story that always topped everyone else’s. It invariably brought astonishment, disbelief, or, if nothing else, much laughter. Every Marine wants to believe his DI was the toughest in the Corps. There is something manly about having the toughest DI—or at least the toughest story.

Sgt Handschumaker was not quite as bad as Sgt Collins, but he could be hell when he wanted to be. He was from Louisiana, spoke with a strong southern drawl, and called a horrible cadence. We could not march well to it, which got us into trouble quite often. I think he must have been the newest of the three DIs, as he always seemed to take note of the other two’s actions.

SSgt Bresnahan appeared to be the consummate professional; he was like the “old man” to us. During the latter part of boot camp, he would gather us into a school circle in the evenings out by the swamp behind the barracks and tell stories of his experiences in the Korean War—he’d let us smoke during these story-telling rituals.

He always alleged that history repeats itself. He reminded us that the first offensive action for Marines in WW II was Guadalcanal on 7 August 1942, and the first offensive action by Marines in Korea was on 7 August 1950, exactly eight years later to the day. Therefore, he would proffer that on 7 August 1958, Marines were going to war somewhere and we’d be right in the thick of it since we were to graduate in June.

If liking a DI was a possibility—and it wasn’t—SSgt Bresnahan would have been my choice. While I could not profess to having liked any of them, I certainly respected each of them.

(There is an ironic twist to the stories about these three drill instructors. I would serve with each of them later in my career.)

I don’t remember many of my fellow members of Platoon 129 since we were not allowed to talk amongst ourselves. Oh, we talked, but we were very careful for if you got caught you were in deep trouble. I do remember Jim Keeley, our platoon guide. I would follow Jim in a job many years later.

That’s the way it was in the Marine Corps. As the smallest branch of the military, you always met up with fellow Marines in subsequent assignments during your career. No matter what duty station I reported to, I would find someone there with whom I served previously, a good feeling for the most part knowing someone in a strange and new place who could help in getting adjusted there.

One member of our platoon was a big Canadian chap who was getting his U.S. citizenship through an enlistment in the Corps. He was the DI’s “bouncer.” Anytime a recruit needed a “group tightener,” they called on Dobie. (When someone was said to be in need of a “group tightener,” it meant he needed an attitude adjustment, usually by physical means.) We referred to him as “Dumb Dobie”—although not to his face. He was big, but not the sharpest pencil in the drawer.

Woody, my friend from Baltimore, was also initially in my platoon. Woody tended to be somewhat chubby, and after the initial strength test he disappeared. I never saw him again at Parris Island; I honestly believed they killed him and threw his body in the swamps. After graduation, I learned that he had been sent to the Fat Man’s Platoon, a platoon of recruits who were overweight and needed strength training.

The one platoon member with whom I became good friends was Fred A. Eberhard from Poughkeepsie, New York.

Funny how, after all these years, I can still recall these individuals by name. One develops that closeness while in the Marines.

The Corps could have searched one hundred years to find the ideal location for a boot camp and never have found a better place than Parris Island, South Carolina. When initially established as a Marine training base in 1915, it was an island accessible only by barge from the town of Port Royal. In 1929, a causeway was built from the mainland over Archer’s Creek and across Horse Island onto Parris Island.

The base was surrounded on three sides by swamp. The DIs would often warn us that if we desired to leave Parris Island to not attempt to swim over to Port Royal or Beaufort. If you made it through the mile of stinking, quicksand-type marsh, the sharks in the bay would eat you.

There were many memorable events in boot camp—far too many to share in this venue. However, I will attempt to give the uninitiated a sense of it all.

For example, one evening after chow, in lieu of marching directly back to the barracks, Sgt Collins detoured over to the replica of the Marine War Memorial located in Arlington, Virginia—often referred to as the Iwo Jima monument—that stood at the edge of our battalion parade ground. He halted us so we were all facing the statue and gave us parade rest.

We paused there for the longest time. We had no idea of his motive, other than letting the sand fleas eat us. It was one of those calm, hot, humid South Carolina evenings when the “Flying Jaws” were out in force looking for fresh meat. His stock comment when someone flinched as a flying jaw chewed on his ear was, “What’sa matter, Privates? You just ate. Now let my sand fleas eat.”

To stand there quietly, in the still of the evening with the sun slowly setting in the west, staring at the faces of those long-ago heroes as they strained to raise that flag on Mount Suribachi, their hands reaching out symbolically for that steel pole, was very moving.

These men—young boys actually—were participating in the fiercest combat in the Pacific campaign. Five Marines and one Navy Corpsman raising “Old Glory” atop a hill that many others had just died taking. Their facial expressions, captured so magnificently by the sculptor, Felix De Weldon, stirred one’s emotions to an indescribable height.

Yet the fight for that island was far from over and three of those raising that flag would be among the nearly seven thousand Marines who died on Iwo Jima.

Inscribed on the base of the monument was Admiral Nimitz’s apt account of the Marines who fought there: “Uncommon valor was a common virtue.”

Sgt Collins wasn’t in our eyesight; he was behind the platoon probably smoking a cigarette and enjoying watching the “jaws” chew on us. He called us to attention and gave us “at ease,” something he never did.

Walking down the sidewalk on the far side of the statue was a female wearing a Marine uniform. None of us yet knew there were women Marines. As she passed in front of us, I sensed she was somewhat embarrassed. Seventy male recruits who had not seen a female in months stared at her from no more than one hundred feet away.

As she reached the front of the platoon, Sgt Collins announced, “Privates, walking across your front is a female Marine, commonly referred to as a “BAM,” which stands for Broad Ass Marine.” We didn’t know whether to laugh or not, but some could not hold back and snickered. He continued, “Let’s give her a loud cheer for what she adds to my Corps.”

Even from a distance, I could see her blushing as she quickened her pace to get past us. I laughed and jeered along with everyone else, but deep down inside I actually felt sorry for her. I have often thought about the changing times in our society and that incident; I am confident that any current DI would not dare do anything like that in today’s Marine Corps.

As mentioned earlier, many of my life’s memories are somehow linked to a rock and roll song. I remember our first day at the rifle range. Our M-1 rifles were being checked before we fired them. We were lined up on the porch of the permanent personnel barracks for a semblance of shelter out of the rain. One of the Marines inside was playing his radio. Having not heard a radio in months, I listened to “Tequila” by the Champs for the first time. Each time I hear that song on my favorite oldies station I’m back in boot camp waiting to have my M-1 inspected.

Graduation Day finally arrived on 3 June 1958. Mom, dad, and my childhood sweetheart attended the ceremony. We spent some time together driving around the base in their car while I pointed out all the sites where I trained—and gotten my butt kicked. It was the proudest day of my life until then. At last, I had accomplished something worthwhile; I had endured and met the test of Marine recruit training. I was now a United States Marine!

Early the next morning, as we boarded Greyhound buses, SSgt Bresnahan was standing at the bus door where he shook each one of our hands and said, “Congratulations, Marine!” Leaving Parris Island wearing the uniform of a United States Marine, having successfully completed what many military organizations consider to be the most demanding recruit training anywhere in the world, and having your DI call you a Marine for the first time was truly an indescribable feeling. It’s one of those life’s events that fall into the category of “having to walk a mile in another man’s shoes” to fully understand it.

The busses pulled away from the curb and headed out the road across Horse Island and to the main gate. It was as dark as it had been that early morning when the bus came in through the gate thirteen weeks prior. This time the Marine sentry saluted as we passed. What a memorable gesture. We were brothers-at-arms now and bound for the Infantry Training Regiment at Camp Geiger, Marine Corps Base, Camp Lejeune, North Carolina.

That scumbag recruit was, of course, me. Today is my anniversary and this event took place sixty-three years ago, but it seems like only yesterday. And you know what? As bad as it was, I’d do it all again as I know damn well everyone of you who have walked in those boots would do so as well.

By the way, in case you’ve not read it. this post is Chapter 3 in the book. If you have not, shame on you. LOL

NOTE: You don’t have to look at the photos, I was just having some fun reminiscing on my anniversary LOL.

Pvt Bathurst                                      LCpl Bathurst

 

 

 

 

 

Sgt Bathurst Senior Drill Instructor

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2Lt Croy and Sgt Bathurst Platoon Commanders in E 2/1 RVN

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2Lt Bathurst’s First Salute from GySgt Lee M. Bradley    (SgtMajor Retired)

1Lt Bathurst MB, 8th&I SCP Commander

Capt Bathurst CO E 2/7

 

 

 

 

 

Capt Bathurst CO HQ CO                   Major Bathurst CO Marine                                 9th Marines                                     Barracks, Lemoore, CA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Major/LtCol Bathurst CO Recruiting Station, Chicago, IL

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

LtCol Bathurst Co 2/6  &  BLT 2/6

Final Command CO, SOI (West) CLNC   Retired 30 September 1993

             Thirty-Five years, six months, and twenty-two days of having                    trouble going to sleep at night because I couldn’t wait to get                       up and go to  “work.” But what the hell who was counting?

Originally posted 2021-03-05 17:36:35.

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Well, after a little more than a year I finally received a book trailer I had requested and paid for back in January 2022. So, I thought I’d give it a try out here on the blog. LOL I just wanted to get it out there and see what it looks like and how it’s accepted. There is a gross error in it however. The book is NOT available on Amazon anymore at their highly inflated price that they never shared with me. Talk about a rip off. Anyway, I cut ties with the publisher and Amazon at the same time. Until I find another publisher, I do have a few of the hard covers that survived the hurricane here in September, and I do have a few that did get a little wet which I will sell really cheap. The others I’ll let go for $30 personally inscribed and I will eat the postage to you. Anyway, let me know what you think of the trailer.  You may have to copy and paste the URL below to see the trailer. I hope you enjoy it.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1s2eNGB3KzRT4sqISHc-G_pJxsDX4uSeI/view?fbclid=IwAR3MLHR-WiCt2a9qBCYSo9PIX5E9aBq2L3Wzw6JifAb_NRvAgbtA024lAXA

 

 

Current Events, Recent Posts

My Open Letter to Commandant Berger

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Okay gang, here it is, read, enjoy or not, and PLEASE give me your comments — I am not thin skinned. What a sad commentary to have to write, but I had to!

Dear Commandant Berger,

Sir, I pen this open letter to you, not as any form of disrespect, but only one of disagreement—albeit a rather loud and harsh disagreement. I have followed with keen interest much of what you have been carrying out as our 38th Commandant. I have hesitated writing to you since I know there is nothing I or any of my fellow retirees can do to change your mind. We have been watching and reading with much dismay your actions aimed in only one direction—you know, and we know where that is.

Firstly, you are surely wondering who this seemingly brash retiree is writing me? Well succinctly, I am a retired Marine just short of thirty-six years—ten enlisted and twenty-six as an officer. Having received a combat commission as a Sgt during my first tour in Vietnam, I eventually retired October 1993, so I was into my 23rd year when you were commissioned in 1981. I also note from you biography we are fellow Marylanders, you in Woodbine, me in Inverness.

In 1982 I was—as a senior Major—assigned as CO of the Corp’s then largest recruiting station—Chicago. I went in as a “fireman,” my predecessor had been fired. Chicago had ninety-two canvassing recruiters; the only station close to us was Los Angeles with seventy-eight. These two stations required a LtCol as CO because they needed an Assistant Operations Officer to help manage a pool that numbered into the thousands at any given time. If my memory serves me correctly, we annually shipped around 4,000 recruits to MCRD, San Diego.

I knew nothing about recruiting when assigned to this command. However, I was blessed to have a Deputy Director, an ADPP, and two Recruiter Instructors who were recruiting SME’s in every respect—they taught this Grunt Major how to spell recruiting.

With the help of many outstanding Marines, both canvassing recruiters and “A” billets, Chicago slowly rose from a failing station to be the top station for nineteen consecutive months. Because of the mentoring I had by so many experts, including the LtCol running MRRE at HQ, I believe by the time I was reassigned three years later, I was among the select few of the most knowledgeable 8402 officers in the Corps. It was the toughest assignment I ever had during my career—including combat. I learned much about the heritage, values, and the respect Americans had for the word Marine—and about myself as a leader.

So, why am I telling you all this? It isn’t meant to be boastful for I am certain any dedicated Marine would have been able to do the same with such expert mentoring and hardworking recruiters. No, I tell you because recruiting is in my veins. I bleed recruiting. I understand it better than most—including your general running the recruiting command. I think about it often. I have visited RS’s, spoke at poolee functions, and I started and ran a National Young Marine unit in IL for years. So your new “plan”—so cagily named “Semper Fi”—where your recruiting general has asked all veterans to be “faithful” to their Corps and assist in the recruiting effort—which I know is not doing well—really “woke” me up. Pun intended. The sheer audacity of such a request is unbelievable. Do you really think the retired community is going to take up that challenge? If you do, you sir have lost touch with your retired Marines.

I communicate regularly with 100’s of Marines, former, active, and especially retired—the entire non-active Marine force are in agreement that you are destroying “our” Corps. Sadly, I can longer speak with recruiters or poolees without lying, and I will not do that.

I say this with a heavy heart, but I have recently talked to one of our super stars from the Young Marine unit out of joining the Corps. That’s all he wanted to do when he graduated; he wanted to be like me. I even gave him some of my uniforms to wear in the unit. My conscience and respect for him would not allow him to do that—he was too good for that. So he took my advice and went on to college in hopes that by the time he graduates in four years you will not have totally destroyed our Corps. Maybe, just maybe, someone will come along and right all your wrongs.

Your actions are—as you state—”in the interest of bringing our Corps into the modern society” are contrary to everything our Corps has stood for since its birth. Your push for sexual preferences for women, unisex uniforms, women in the combat arms, allowing transgenders, relaxed female grooming standards and acceptance of despicable tattoos, fraternization at all levels, the vapid attacks on the very culture of the Corps, and its alleged racist/sexist heritage is unacceptable to those who have worn the EGA. I have not mentioned the draconian reduction or elimination of combat units and equipment, the destruction of the MAGTF, or your latest thoughts on recruiting cyber experts at elevated ranks without having to attend boot camp or OCS

Enlisting high tech people without having to go through boot camp or OCS? Having never been enlisted, you cannot “feel” the rage your Marines will experience. Those two “initiations” have always been the key ingredient that banded us together and made us a family forever i.e., earning that sacred EGA for life. I spent tours as a DI at Parris Island, and a Sgt Instructor at OCS—I know the intensity with which Marines hold that honor. I took part in instilling it.

Eighteen months of maternity leave. Sounds great—the female gender love it. May I asked which Marine, male or female, will do her job while she is home with her newborn for one and half years? Let’s be honest and ask of what value is this Woman Marine to the Corps? Joins for three years and spends one half of her enlistment on maternity leave. Considering recruit training, MCT, and then MOS training, you may have her for a year or even less. Bad move general.

Allowing a Sikh Major to wear his religious head garb and go unshaven? (Update: Doing more research after a call from a dear brother, it appears this dirt bag is a selected captain, not  a major. I can’t find where I got it that he was a selected major? I highlighted and expanded the pic of him and sure enough he is wearing 1st Lt bars. Sorry.) Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea what other Marines are thinking when they see him? No, I’m sure you don’t, and you obviously don’t care. Your changes are all directed towards pleasing every minority and the hell with everyone else. Is that what you mean about bringing the Corps into the “modern society?” General, that is your modern society, not mine or that of the retired community.

You are watering down our Corps, so we look like everyone else. We never looked like everyone else—we never wanted to look like everyone else. Remember the ad, If everyone could be a Marine, it wouldn’t be the Marines. America doesn’t need a second Army, America has always loved her Marine Corps, but that is slowly changing—some look at us as victims now. It’s amazing the questions I get from knowledgeable people when I am out and about wearing my Marine ball cap. You think America isn’t watching? Guess again general.

And what’s this about your comments concerning the Army National Guard recruiting our discharged Marines? Of course they do, why not? They are trained, disciplined, and understand honor, integrity, and commitment. Plus the ANG are not going woke like the Armed Forces. Another of my super stars in the Young Marine unit, a female, could not get into the PLC program at her college, so she went ROTC and is having the time of her life, getting rapid promotions employing the leadership principles she learned in the Young Marines. Remember them general, there are eleven of them in case you never learned them or forgot them.

Moreover, you complain about the other services recruiting our prior service Marines. Again, why not? But you say some of them are disappointed and are asking to come back into the fold. Did any of your recruiting gurus dig into what it was they were dissatisfied with the branch they chose? Probably not. My bet is they missed what the Corps had to offer such as pride, honor, being part of something great, and of course wearing the hard earned EGA. I will watch this action closely for I believe if you allow them a “streamlined” method of coming back, they will find themselves again disappointed by all the changes you have made to the Corps they remembered and loved.

Are we soon to become obsolete and folded into the Army? I mean they have artillery, so we didn’t need them. Is that your plan—we think so. Look above you general—what is the service of your bosses? I am sure they applaud your actions as it falls right in with their desires.

Finally, recruiting older Marines, not 18–20 year old’s as they haven’t achieved full maturity yet —so you say. Tell that to those of us who served in WW I or II, Korea, Vietnam, or the Sandbox. I know and I would “think” your generals would know what type of young man seeks out the Corps. The one we have always—to use the new PC term—vetted and made him a Marine for life. Now you don’t want him. You want the misanthropes, the gender confused, the lost souls, the weak minded, and those we know are poorly suited to the battlefield.

In closing, it appears your changes are destroying everything the United States Marine Corps has stood for in 246 years—the very fabric of the Corps. What happened to “We don’t promise you a rose garden,” or “The Few, The Proud, The Marines?” Now it appears it’s, “Come Join Our diverse organization, all are welcome.”

As I said at the beginning, I mean no disrespect to you general. I know I speak for the vast majority of the retired community when I disagree with all you are doing to “our” Corps. It seems you just don’t know how to say “No” to anything unless it is to diminish our traditional values. How dare you call our heritage racist and sexist. Tell that to four of the last six Sergeants Major of the Marine Corps who were black. My mantra was always, “Mission, Men, Myself.” Having read your Bio and watched intensely what you have done and are doing to our Marine Corps, I must place you in the category of a term I learned long ago as a PFC—Cocker Spaniel Marine! If you are unfamiliar with that term perhaps you need to read my book, We’ll All Die as Marines.”

Semper Fi General (if you can be),
Jim Bathurst
Col, USMC (Ret)
1958–1993

Postscript. You will probably never see this letter, but maybe, just maybe, someone will read it and find a way to get it on your desk. I hope so!