USMC: An Uncommon Bond

"We must remember that one man is much the same as another, and that he is best who is trained in the severest school."

—Thucydides,
Great Peloponnesian War (431--404 B.C.)

"Becoming a Marine is an achievement like winning an Olympic medal. No matter what else you do in life, once you pin on the emblem at the end of boot camp, you are a Marine for life."

—Tom Clancy
Marine: A Guided Tour of a Marine Expeditionary Unit

Two hundred thirty-two years ago, in a resolution sponsored by John Adams, the Second Continental Congress established a Corps of Marines. The date was 10 November 1775, in Tun Tavern, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Marines like to joke, at least they used to, that the Corps was born in a tavern—and will probably die in one.

One hundred eighty-one years later, on a somewhat less historically important date (31 August 1956), I arrived at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot (MCRD), at San Diego, California. There I was melded into a group drawn from America’s small towns and big cities west of the Mississippi River. Marine recruits from east of the Mississippi are trained at Parris Island, South Carolina.

After a few days in a receiving barracks, we met one of our drill instructors, Sgt. Jones. An inch or so over six-feet, tanned, lean and muscular, he was the embodiment of a Marine Corps recruiting poster. The starched creases in his combat utility trousers could have cut through metal.

He called us to attention and paraded through our ranks, looking us over one by one. His words boomed out in perfect cadence with his strut: "Your soul [left] may belong [right] to God, [left] but your ass [right] belongs [left] to me!" That's an old line now, but in 1956 none of us had heard it. Thus we were introduced to MCRD’s chain of command: first God, then Sgt. Jones. There were days when it seemed the other way around.

We had been given items called a "bucket issue," plus blankets, clothing and other miscellany, all of which we stuffed into large duffels called "sea bags." Sgt. Jones told us to shoulder our belongings and gave the command, "Forward, March!" as we made our first attempt at unit coordination.

He began counting cadence as we struggled to find our rhythm. "Get in step—girls!" he yelled. When an errant recruit glanced his way, Sgt. Jones, like a man gone crazy, bounded in front the offender. His face contorted and inches from the recruit's, he screamed: "ARE YOU QUEER?!! I WANTA KNOW RIGHT NOW! ARE YOU QUEER FOR ME?!! THEN DON'T YOU EYEBALL ME,BOY!!!" Everyone's eyes stayed fixed to the front.

We arrived at a row of Quonset huts and a second DI, Sgt. Dean, burst from one marked "Duty Hut." He ordered us to stow our gear in three adjacent buildings, and suddenly both men at once were shouting rapid-fire commands. "We explain things here—once!" I heard one of them yell. Some of us got knocked around for not moving fast enough. Frantically, we scrambled, crashing into each other. There was no such thing as fast enough.

It was shock theater, an awakening of American youth who had mastered the art of getting by. We were a stew of streetwise city kids, back-country "good ol' boys," a share of marshmallows, and a few "college pukes." Before, well meaning parents and teachers had reasoned with us about doing the right thing. DIs have little time to spend on the reasoning part. Do it! Now! In those early minutes, we learned that the slightest misstep would bring on the full wrath and fury of the angry gods.

Every American grows up hearing stories about Marine Corps boot camp. Movies, books and the press pass on the lore. How could anyone be surprised by the experience? Certainly not me. I was ready. But what I was really thinking that first day was—God, what have I done? I wasn't alone. Some recruits wanted to run away. Eventually a few of them did. Some others were sent home. But most of us made it through.

From what I hear, DIs today cannot do or say some of the extreme things they did then. Many former Marines believe they’ve made things too easy. The "old Corps" was tougher, they insist. Maybe, maybe not. In some ways, from what I've read, the training may be more demanding than ever. It’s an old argument that won’t be settled.

Regardless of who is right, the transformation from civilian to Marine has always been tough. It has to be. Marines stand at the ready to deal quickly and decisively with troublemakers anywhere in a very dangerous world, in places where fair play as we know it does not exist. The Marines have been called "America's 9-1-1." It's a proper label. I was lucky. When I enlisted, the Korean war had ended. The closest I came to the real thing was a crisis in Lebanon (I think in 1958). It nearly came to "lock n' load," but was resolved at the last moment. My tour of duty ended well before Vietnam.

I arrived at MCRD just three months out of high school. I wasn’t a bad kid, but one with bad habits. Among them, I was a clown and mentally lazy. "Unmotivated," they call it now. MCRD changed my life. As the years passed, I realized it more and more. Tolerance for sloppy performance ended there. The Marine Corps is pure meritocracy, or as close as you will find. You start out by earning the right to wear the uniform and be called a Marine. Rank and recognition aren’t handed out casually. You do things right. No excuses.

I was never in a real war, and I thank God for it. Fools believe war is glamorous. However, greater fools believe that somehow our way of life comes without a price tag.

I did only one tour of duty. I was average. I honored my commitment and then returned to civilian life. I wasn't cut out to be a carreer Marine. I took with me ingrained lessons about personal responsibility and overcoming adversity. And I served my country.

I’m an old goat now, or at least traveling in that direction. There is a small U.S. Marine Corps decal on the back window of my car. I display proudly. I was one of them.

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