If I live to be 100, I'll never forget Marine officer boot camp in Quantico, Va. I had never been yelled at by strangers before, certainly not while carrying a footlocker full of 782 gear from basement storage to third-floor barracks. That first night in the rack I thought I had made a terrible mistake. Day 2 was shots—lots of them, both arms, blood running down from the air guns.
But a ray of pride from an unexpected source: Two officers referred to my apparent stoicism (heck, I was in shock!) and remarked that's how they liked us—tough and wiry. Scared and numb was more like it.
Firewatch, guard duty in the officer candidates' parking lot with an empty holster, was a blessing in disguise. I got to be with my '68 Chevy Malibu and enjoy a little bit of home. I had always been a slow eater, but in the mess hall I learned I could quickly pack in a lot of calories by washing down two or three pieces of cake with Kool-Aid or milk.
On the parade field Sgt. Stedman was 150 pounds of terror, but within a few weeks we grew to love that guy. He could (and did) outrun us backwards smoking a cigarette. He later confided to us that it was all to prepare us to lead guys like him in battle, that we needed to be tougher than him.
I was never an exceptional Marine officer, but I'm thankful every day for my Marine training and my life afterwards.