Anchor Struck

Blogging recently about some of my stint in the U.S. Marines brought back a lot of memories, generally pleasant, that I’d like to rehash for you. A few months after the crab stampede a short scroll below, I bordered a flight in Kansas City to San Diego, where I would start boot camp. It was jarring from the git. A Marine greeted me as I deplaned and guided me to a bus where I was told to sit at attention and leave any cigarettes on my seat. He probably netted several cartons worth every time.

At the recruit depot, I and the other smokeless lads were greeted by the drill instructors who would make our next eight weeks nearly pure hell. They herded us into a room with 16 barber’s chairs, eight on each side facing each other. A barber stood behind each chair. It took them just a few swoops in a few seconds to shave our heads. One of the other recruits facing me must have had a mole on his head. The first swoops went well, but on the third one the barber hit something that stopped the razor. He backed up and tried it again, this time dislodging whatever it was. Blood starting pouring from the recruit’s head. He was escorted out one door and the rest of us went out the other.

In the next room we were given the skivvies, utility trousers, sweatshirts, caps and tennis shoes we would wear for our eight weeks of hell. We were ordered to change quickly, quickly. When we were done, one of the drill instructors told us to speak up if anything didn’t fit well. The tennis shoes I’d been given were a bit tight, but when I tried to speak, I could only squeak. By the end of the eight weeks, my feet were numb.

Properly bald and clothed, we were taken to the quonset huts that would house us. A drill instructor gave each of us a cardboard box and told us to put our civilian clothes in it to mail home. We were to keep our wallets. As I was packing, I remembered that I had a love poem in mine that I had written for my wife. I didn’t know if it would ever see the light in San Diego, but the night had already been so invasive, I wasn’t going to risk it. When the D.I. had his back turned, I snatched the poem out and ate it.

Our break from civilian life complete, we were ordered to bed (well, technically, our racks). As exhausting as my night had been, I had trouble drifting off. I dreaded the next day.