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Kill, Kill, Kill: A True Marine Boot Camp Story

After Marine Corps Boot Camp and ITR (me on left, my sister, and my adopted brother Little Joe).
On leave (age 20) right before we went to Vietnam in 1967. We survived,
but we believed back then we would probably die in Vietnam.

Kill, Kill, Kill
I had been in boot camp at San Diego for probably six weeks. I'm not quite sure how long because the constant torment days ran into each other and one was like the next. I had even gotten a Dear John letter from my girlfriend about the third week into boot camp and I just shrugged and tossed it. I was in enough trouble just trying to deal with boot camp. I couldn't worry about what might be my last relationship before getting buffed or shot up in a war. 


We were running for miles close to dusk, as we usually did. I hated running. The DI would count cadence by chanting and making us answer or repeat what he said. That was a constant. 
His favorite was the "What are we going to do to the Viet Cong?"
We would yell in unison, "Kill, Kill, Kill."

This never stopped as we ran. This helped us prepare for war. On this day, I was sick of yelling the same thing so I thought I would change it up. It happened without thought or I would have probably not done it. 
The DI said, "What are we going to do to the Viet Cong?" 
I yelled, "Kill, Kill, Kill," like a high-pitched little girl, and it stood out among all the low-pitched voices.
"What the hell?" Sgt. Pollock said, halting the formation. "Which one of you twinkled-toed, peter puffing little girls said that?"

No one said anything. Every Marine close to me bit their lips to keep from laughing.
"I'll PT your asses until the sun comes up unless the scumbag who said that comes forward."
No one said anything or even glanced at me.
"All right, you fucking maggots. You've got a long night now."

We began running in formation, back toward our quonset huts. I had put us all in the hurt locker, and I would be in trouble with the other Marines.
"What are we going to do to the Viet Cong?" the DI said.
I saw the platoon glance at each other, and in unison, the entire platoon of 80 Marines chanted "Kill, Kill, Kill," like little girls with high squeaky voices.
The DI stopped the formation. We were all laughing. We just couldn't help it. I thought I saw the DI half-smile.
"So you girls want to play some more."

I couldn't believe it. The other Marines, all of them, went along with joke. We were all responsible.
Sgt. Pollock made us do push-ups and squat thrusts for ten minutes before screaming at us to get into our huts. We were exhausted, but we all thought it was worth it to get one over on our drill instructor.

And that was a big deal in 1966 because Drill Instructors were one step below the devil, and I could have been in real trouble for pulling such a stunt in boot camp. He could have kept us up all night standing at attention in between exercises.

To this day, I believe the thing that saved all of us from severe punishment was that we had worked as a team. The drill instructors loved that we had bonded as a platoon and would work as a unit. We were becoming Marines.

I never pulled a stunt like that again. Well, not in boot camp.



Comments

  1. lunatic Randy7:12 PM

    The social awakening of the 60's had a little irreverence built in and I think that is a good thing.

    ReplyDelete

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