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| BLT 1/3 USMC 1967 Vietnam |
Boot Camp Hell
I recently saw a video of what I assume was the current Marine Corps Boot Camp. It mentioned recruits reporting any abuse right away and the DI was trying to be tough (and he did sound tough to an extent), but underneath it all you could tell the old Corps was gone in the civilian desire (political desire by people who never served) to make things easier and less traumatic for the boots. They never mentioned abuse to us in 1966 because we were abused 24/7.
I'm an old Corps Hollywood Marine (that's an inside Marine joke about the difference between boot camp in Parris Island or San Diego.) The boots in Parris Island claimed they had it rougher because they had swamps. The Hollywood Marines had mountains. I would rather walk in water than climb mountains so I disagree. I entered the Marine Corps on August 10, 1966. Marines had been in Vietnam for over a year. All of us would probably go to Nam. For some of us it would be a one-way trip.
When I was in boot camp they told us if anyone complained about abuse or attacked a DI for such abuse, the DI's would call you in their hut and beat you and break your leg or arm and say you fell down or attacked them. You would then go to Corrective Custody, the jail. Those in CC carried a 16 pound sledge hammer on each shoulder and ran all day. On Sunday they dug ditches. They had a giant DI in Corrective Custody who looked like a tree trunk. The rumor was he could run all day and never get tired. I believed it. No one wanted anything to do with CC. There was also the Motivation Platoon (like CC) where you could get your mind right or go to CC, or the Fat Farm for people who were fat and out of shape. (Because of the Fat Farm, some people could be in boot camp for a year.)
The abuse in the old Corps was non-stop. We got there after dark. Having never been on a plane, my ears felt like they were exploding after four hours of altitude flying. The pain on descent was tremendous. I was from a tough Cincinnati neighborhood and my old man used to beat me like a drum so I could hack the physical abuse a little better than some recruits. We stood outside the airport in San Diego at attention waiting for a bus to the MCRD boot camp. A motorcycle gang pulled up to the light and started spitting toward us and calling us names. The man in charge of us with the Smokey the Bear hat said real loud, "You all ignore those fucking maggots." The bikers never said anything to him and took off after the light changed. Guess they knew better than to screw with a Marine Corps DI.
After we stood on the yellow footprints and got our heads shaved, we went to a barracks where we lined up with eyes straight ahead. The drill instructors walked down the line and beat the hell out of every third recruit with punches to the body and kicks to the groin. Places that would leave no visible marks. (They got the guy next to me so I got skipped.) I had gotten punched in the back of the head by the DI for laughing at my buddy Woody when he got his head shaved. I was used to getting hit in the head so that didn't bother me too much.
We then had to line up and drop our pants and look straight ahead while a doctor checked our genitals. We all had a number and he would yell out at times, "Number 57, crabs. Number 41 Blueball. Number 52 warts." I had no idea what blueball was, and I found out there was a lot of creepy things growing or stuck on peckers when you line up 80 guys.
We then packed our civilian clothes in a box, put on olive drab fatigue pants and a yellow sweatshirt, and put on Marine Corps covers (hats), and after running and staggering around and more getting beat on, we ended up in crammed full, small oven hot quonset huts where Woody bunked above me. I looked at him and said, "What the hell are we doing here?"
We would find out in two hours when the scratchy bugle recording sounded at five am, the Marine Corps served green eggs that would gag a maggot. It would be the start of a hell of torture and starvation torment that would last for eight weeks (I think it was eight weeks, but it could have been more. You lose track when there is very little contact beyond your platoon.) Everyone instantly got constipated for at least two weeks. There was no privacy walls in the head (bathroom to a civilian) and at night recruits sat next to each other on bare toilets, straining to go. A few would go toxic and have to be put in the hospital.
This was my first experience with the Marine Corps in 1966 before politics got involved, and it would only get worse. That's why when people from other branches of the service say their boot camp was tough, I know they have no idea how bad boot camp could be. That's why we were Marines in the end. We could hack anything and survive.
I will continue in another story, and welcome comments from Marines who survived it.
The abuse in the old Corps was non-stop. We got there after dark. Having never been on a plane, my ears felt like they were exploding after four hours of altitude flying. The pain on descent was tremendous. I was from a tough Cincinnati neighborhood and my old man used to beat me like a drum so I could hack the physical abuse a little better than some recruits. We stood outside the airport in San Diego at attention waiting for a bus to the MCRD boot camp. A motorcycle gang pulled up to the light and started spitting toward us and calling us names. The man in charge of us with the Smokey the Bear hat said real loud, "You all ignore those fucking maggots." The bikers never said anything to him and took off after the light changed. Guess they knew better than to screw with a Marine Corps DI.
After we stood on the yellow footprints and got our heads shaved, we went to a barracks where we lined up with eyes straight ahead. The drill instructors walked down the line and beat the hell out of every third recruit with punches to the body and kicks to the groin. Places that would leave no visible marks. (They got the guy next to me so I got skipped.) I had gotten punched in the back of the head by the DI for laughing at my buddy Woody when he got his head shaved. I was used to getting hit in the head so that didn't bother me too much.
We then had to line up and drop our pants and look straight ahead while a doctor checked our genitals. We all had a number and he would yell out at times, "Number 57, crabs. Number 41 Blueball. Number 52 warts." I had no idea what blueball was, and I found out there was a lot of creepy things growing or stuck on peckers when you line up 80 guys.
We then packed our civilian clothes in a box, put on olive drab fatigue pants and a yellow sweatshirt, and put on Marine Corps covers (hats), and after running and staggering around and more getting beat on, we ended up in crammed full, small oven hot quonset huts where Woody bunked above me. I looked at him and said, "What the hell are we doing here?"
We would find out in two hours when the scratchy bugle recording sounded at five am, the Marine Corps served green eggs that would gag a maggot. It would be the start of a hell of torture and starvation torment that would last for eight weeks (I think it was eight weeks, but it could have been more. You lose track when there is very little contact beyond your platoon.) Everyone instantly got constipated for at least two weeks. There was no privacy walls in the head (bathroom to a civilian) and at night recruits sat next to each other on bare toilets, straining to go. A few would go toxic and have to be put in the hospital.
This was my first experience with the Marine Corps in 1966 before politics got involved, and it would only get worse. That's why when people from other branches of the service say their boot camp was tough, I know they have no idea how bad boot camp could be. That's why we were Marines in the end. We could hack anything and survive.
I will continue in another story, and welcome comments from Marines who survived it.
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