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.
