Yes, I experienced "the sixties." During this decade I graduated from high school, went off to college, turned 21 and served in the USMC. It is well chronicled that this decade was a turbulent time with various movements and world-shaping events happening all at once. This included the before unheard of "hippies," war protests, free love, pot smoking, acid and your basic "sex, drugs and rock and roll." The college campuses around the country were the forefront of the clashes of these ideologies and cultures, and the University of Iowa was a microcosm of these global events.
It was in this environment that I was forming my opinions on such diverse subjects as majoring in business, the war in Vietnam, politics and the Beatles. I often found myself in heated conversations with roommates, other students, professors and barroom buddies. I don't mean to suggest that this was all-encompassing since I needed to devote the appropriate attention to dates, parties and football, but gradually I was deciding how to serve my country from a military standpoint.
I know and respect the fact that some individuals understood they would aspire to serve in the military service and many even knew which branch of the military. My college roommate was in Air Force ROTC, which meant he had his post-college days determined. Being in a ROTC program in 1968 took more determination than at other peacetime periods due to the controversy over the Vietnam War. The way he handled himself during this period, and subsequently in the military, had a heavy influence on me, although I knew that ROTC was not going to be my military path. I had this vague notion that after I graduated from college, I would join or be drafted into the Army, and that this may mean a tour of duty in Vietnam. Although combat was not high on my list of things to do after college, I rationalized that because the Army had bases in such places as Germany there was always the possibility of going there.
Unfortunately, I did not complete the necessary requirements to graduate at the end of my senior year, so I enrolled for the 1968 fall semester as a second-year senior. My "2-S" deferment from the draft had expired because I had not graduated in the allotted four years, and I was reclassified as "1-A." At that time it wasn't taking the draft board long to draft people after they were classified as "1-A," so I didn't return for the spring semester at school. I went to work in Des Moines for a painter, a neighbor who I had worked for during the summer months while I was home from college. I painted houses and bided my time while waiting for my name to come up.
At about this same time I asked my brother, who had been in the Army, if I should volunteer for the draft, which would move my name up on the list and take the guesswork out of waiting. I was told that the volunteer draft accomplished two things: It gave you an earlier time slot to be drafted and stipulated that you be drafted in the Army. My brother's advice was to never volunteer for anything, so I waited.
It took until June of 1969 for my name to be called. I reported to Fort Des Moines for my induction physical on June 8, 1969. After taking some written tests, I walked from station to station, following the yellow line, in my skivvies. At one station my blood pressure was to be checked by a Navy corpsman. After several checks he asked me what I was there for that day, my induction or pre-induction physical. I said for my induction physical.
"Well, you're not going anywhere today," he said, and wrote something on my papers. I continued from station to station until I reached the last one where a dozen or so of us were lined up and told to bend over and "spread our cheeks" with the sergeant in charge adding, "And unless you have extraordinary muscle control, I suggest you use your hands."
I guess they needed some humor to do that day after day.
At the final review station someone looked at my papers and told me that I had to go back to the blood pressure check station. When I got there, I noticed that the Navy corpsman had been replaced by an Army sergeant. He grumbled at me something about why was I there again, and I gave him my papers. After looking at them he said, "What's the matter with you, boy? You tryin' to dodge the draft or something?" I told him I apparently had a high blood pressure reading the first time I came to that station and I was sent back to get it rechecked.
"The draft is only for two years," he said. "If you got something wrong with you, it could last a lot longer."
I told him that I appreciated the insight. He proceeded to adjust the blood pressure readings until he got it to a level that he was happy with, wrote that on my paper and told me to leave. I took the papers back to the reviewing sergeant and this time he smiled and was happy with the results since I now had passed my blood pressure "screening."
The next step was to report to the colonel's office with the pile of papers I had accumulated along the way. The colonel's secretary, a civilian lady, looked through the papers and told me I looked like a candidate for the Marine Corps. I told her she didn't understand, I was there to be drafted into the Army. She said since it was lunchtime to get something to eat and report back to her afterward. When I reported back, she gave me a form to complete titled something like "Preference of Military Obligation of Service." This form had all the branches of the military listed and I was to rank my preference of service on it. Since I was there to be drafted into the Army, I put the Army as my first choice, followed by the Air Force, Navy, Coast Guard and Marine Corps. The colonel's secretary smiled when I returned the form.
"I see you put the Marine Corps last," she said, "but it doesn't make any difference, you're still being drafted into the Marine Corps."
The thoughts of being assigned to a base in Germany was quickly fading away and being replaced with thoughts about why they needed to augment the Marine Corps with draftees, anyway?
While I was waiting to be sworn in, I met up with an old high school friend who was in the Army and stationed at the Fort Des Moines Induction Center. He asked me why I looked so down and I told him about the Marine Corps story. He said he would try to intercept the paperwork before the colonel signed it. He disappeared for awhile but returned with the news that it was too late since the colonel already signed my paperwork. He added that it was unfortunate, since up until the week before he had been the one who chose the candidates for induction into the Marine Corps and he certainly would have skipped over me.
Shortly after this, I found out that a friend of mine from college, Tim Jotski, was the only other guy getting drafted into the Marine Corps that day, so, as we participated in the swearing in ceremony, they had to modify everything with "except for Privates Ivory and Jotski, who are being inducted into the Marine Corps." This even included the "take one step forward" instructions to show that we were willing inductees.
After the swearing in, Jotski and I had a long wait because we were to catch a plane to San Diego. The rest of the Army inductees got on a bus and headed to Fort Leonard Wood, Mo. Because I had some time (three to four hours), I called my mother to see if she would bring me my shaving kit, which I had forgotten in the morning rush. When she arrived at Fort Des Moines with my shaving kit, the first thing she said to me was, "I knew there was a reason that your father and I named you after your uncle Edward." My middle name is Edward, and my uncle, Edward Smith, was drafted into the Marine Corps in World War II. This seemed appropriate at the time. After thinking about this though, I'm sure it was a front to show me how strong she was, as she also knew the reason for augmenting the Marine Corps with draftees in 1969 as well as I did.
Finally, Jotski and I were called into the captain's office and informed we were flying by ourselves to the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego. The captain gave me a manila envelope with our paperwork in it and told me I was in charge of this "movement." On the flight to Los Angeles, we had a few "last chance" drinks on the plane. Between Los Angeles and San Diego, we both realized that we didn't know how to identify the Marines we were supposed to report to. We didn't even know what the uniforms looked like.
When we got to the San Diego Airport, it was about 10 p.m. and not many people were around, so when we saw a guy with a military uniform that included dark blue pants with a red stripe down the seam, we asked "Are you the Marine?"
He looked at the two of us and told us to step out the doors to the curb and wait with the others, at attention. We proceeded out the doors and found about 20 other young men in civilian clothes standing at attention in rows, so we joined them and tried to look like them. After waiting in this line for some time, a Marine sergeant appeared before me. He looked at the manila envelope I was carrying
"Are you in charge of this movement?" he asked.
"Well, they gave me this folder back at Fort Des Moines and—" I said. I didn't get the rest out of my mouth because the sergeant had grabbed me by the throat and lifted me about 6 inches off the ground.
"The first word out of your mouth will be 'sir,' and the last word out of your mouth will be 'sir.' Do you understand me, maggot?" he said.
I was totally shaken but was able to manage a feeble "Sir, yes, sir," and tried to disappear. We stood there for another hour or so while this scene was repeated with each new group of recruits that arrived. Around midnight, a cattle car (semi-tractor-trailer converted to haul people) arrived; they crammed about 50 of us into a space for 30 and took us to the Marine Corps Recruit Depot San Diego, which just happened to adjoin the airport.
Upon arrival we were greeted by some strange-looking fellows in olive drab uniforms and "Smokey Bear" hats (drill instructors). The greeting consisted of them yelling, "Move it. Move it. Move it." They did this until the cattle car was empty and we were all standing at attention in spotlights on the infamous "yellow footprints." The drill instructors began issuing instructions, such as, "You will stand at attention, keeping your feet at a 45-degree angle [thus the yellow footprints to help] with your hands at your sides and your thumbs along the seam of your pants. Do you understand me, maggots?"
To which the only acceptable response was, "Sir, yes, sir."
But this was always met with "Ah can't hear yoooou." This would go back and forth three or four times on each new instruction.
It was becoming apparent that sleep for us was not high on the priority list for these drill instructors, and the wisdom of having those last chance drinks on the airplane was escaping me. I remember thinking, at the time, that I had heard how physically difficult Marine Corps boot camp was, but I felt that I had a mental toughness that the drill instructors could not get through. Of course, I was wrong, but more on that later.
Still ahead on the evening's entertainment were hair cuts and the initial clothing issue. They couldn't have us staying on base very long still looking like "slimy civilians."
We have all seen movies of the masochistic barbers they hire to shave military recruits, but the new twist here was they asked you to point to any scars on your head supposedly so they would be more careful when shaving there. However, this just gave them something to aim at, and the result was a lot of bloody heads. I made it through without much problem. I had even gotten a "close" hair cut at home in anticipation of this, but with the current long hair styles and shearing of the Marine boot hair cut, I still felt that I had lost some of my identity, which is also one of the reasons for giving the hair cut.
Next came the initial clothing issue. This was my first exposure to Marine Corps group instructions, so basic that everyone would be able to follow them. Wrong! There was always someone who thought they knew what to do and went ahead of everyone else, resulting in mistakes and the group getting berated. After this we packaged up all of our civilian clothes and I packaged the shaving gear that I had my mother make a special trip to get to me, and sent them home.
At some point during the wee hours of the morning we were assigned to platoons and taken over by our own drill instructors. Ours was Staff Sgt. Gilpin. He, Staff Sgt. Burns, and Sgt. Rivera were the three most important people in my life for the next two months.
We had to march as a unit from one place to another, and none of us knew how to do this, so we were required to lock our arms together. This was embarrassing, as all the other boot camp recruits were marching in formation and all in step. That's when I first noticed the strange cadence calls that the various drill instructors were giving their troops, and how they responded to what I thought was gibberish. As I was later to learn, each drill instructor had his own style of calling cadence (for instance, "your left, your left, your left, right, left" could come out something like "yo lef, yo lef, yo lef, ri, lef" and was almost sung). It was also crucial that the men learn their drill instructor's unique cadence call and only respond to it—even when other drill instructors are giving calls to their men on the same field. At first this was confusing, but eventually we all developed an ear for our drill instructor's voice and were able to distinguish his cadence calls from the others.
When we finally got to our new homes (Quonset huts left over from World War II), we were exhausted. We were assigned bunk beds, stashed our stuff in footlockers and were marched off to the mess hall. I was famished and took a little of everything as we passed through the chow line. This was done by pointing at the food and holding out the tray, and the "servers" would slop something on it. Anyway, it didn't taste bad and helped to rejuvenate me. After eating, we formed back into a formation outside the chow hall and proceeded to our first group "head call." This consisted of putting all 75 or so of us into one toilet facility, which had about 20 sinks back to back down the middle with about 20 open toilets (no partitions) along each outside wall. Seventy-five guys trying to take care of business and all the while the drill instructor is outside yelling, "Okay, ladies, you have two more minutes to get on the road." This led to a good case of constipation.
The rest of the morning was kind of a blur with the drill instructor leading us in a group from one spot to another until it was lunchtime. I had again worked up an appetite, so I pointed at a lot of food in the chow line. The only problem was that once I got seated and had taken about two bites, the drill instructor literally jumped on the table and told everyone that they had two minutes to finish everything on their plates and get outside. Everyone was cramming food into their mouths and gagging or putting food in their shirts—anything to get rid of it. Unfortunately, the drill instructors were standing at the garbage cans and preventing anyone from throwing food away. Now I had both constipation and indigestion going for me.
At the end of the first day I was totally exhausted, and when we were told to go to sleep in our bunks laying "at attention" I had no problem. I don't think I moved an inch until morning when we were met with the Sgt. Burns yelling "Platoon 3108" to which we had to reply "Platoon 3108 aye, aye, sir" in our raspy morning voices.
The second day was more of the same, but one thing I noticed was after evening chow, we had some "commander's time," during which we could work on our gear and write letters home. Also during this time I noticed some other guys approaching the "duty hut" where the drill instructors stayed to request individual "head calls." This sounded like a great idea, but I noticed that there was a strict procedure that had to be followed exactly or there were dire consequences. The procedure was to knock three times on the duty hut door (hatch) as hard as possible. Those "boots" that didn't rattle the hinges of the door were told to go away. The three knocks had to be followed with "Sir, Pvt. _____ requests permission to enter the duty hut, sir." If this was done precisely and to the satisfaction of the drill instructor, permission was allowed. Once inside, a left face was needed to be executed properly to position the private directly in front of the drill instructor's desk. At this point, the tension usually grew, as there were endless possibilities to mess up now. One way to totally mess up was to look at the drill instructor, which would result in "You eye-f---ing me?" Then all was lost. However, if you were successful in avoiding eye-contact, stared at the wall directly above the drill instructor's head and said "Sir, Pvt. ______ requests permission to speak to the drill instructor, sir," then an affirmative response usually followed. This would be something like "Speak, maggot." This did not mean you were now free to carry on a conversation but did mean to state briefly and quickly what you wanted. This was usually something like "Sir, Pvt. _____ requests permission to make a head call."
After watching several other recruits attempt to get through this procedure, I felt that I was ready to try for myself. I was not able to get past the "knock three times" part on my first attempt, but was able to make it through the whole process on the second attempt. The problem was that the drill instructor threw me a curve at the end when he said, "Permission to make a head call granted. And Ivory, report back to me when you are done."
This had not come up before, so while I was enjoying my leisurely, private head call, I was worried about what was going to happen when I reported back. I managed to report back to the drill instructor without screwing up—even though this was new territory. His first words to me were, "Ivory, you are the most unmotivated private in this platoon."
I now realized that I was going to pay for stepping out from the crowd, but as it turned out the drill instructors had been reviewing the background of their new recruits as well.
"You are older than most of these other guys here and the fact that you have gone to college is something that they realize," he said. "Whether you know it or not they are looking to you for help, and you are the most unmotivated troop I've got. Therefore, I'm going to give you some extra duties that will help to snap you out of your shit!"
Great! Just what I needed were extra duties. As it turned out, the duties consisted of tutoring and giving tests to the other guys (on such things as Marine Corps history, our General Orders and the Uniform Code of Military Justice) to prepare them for these same tests we had to take as a platoon. I had to grade them, record the scores and keep track of individual results, and to do this I was given a "desk" in the drill instructor's duty hut, which meant I could enter it without going through all the bull everyone else had to. These extra duties also meant that I had some un-private like influence on each member of Platoon 3108's proficiency and conduct marks that were entered into their service records upon completion of boot camp. I didn't realize it at the time, but these marks help influence future promotions and are important to the individual. It also didn't hurt that I was able to give myself high marks.
Learning the various procedures of my new life also required learning a new language. This was the language of the drill instructors and it includes all the Navy terms, such as deck for floor, bulkhead for wall and hatch for door. Their vocabulary also included using the f-word in every conceivable manner. My favorite was when they took normal words and inserted "f---" in the middle for emphasis. For example, something that was done well was "out-f---n’-standing" and "wait a minute" was "stand the f--- by."
The Marine Corps has two recruit training facilities; Parris Island, S.C. and Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego. The former is probably more widely known, and the latter, where I went, was referred to inside the Marine Corps as the boot camp for "Hollywood Marines" and that the initial issue included sandals and sunglasses. I didn't see these in my initial issue and the closest I got to Hollywood was the Orange County Airport on my way home. Marine Corps Recruit Depot is located right in the middle of San Diego and shares a common border with the San Diego Airport. This proximity to civilization may seem to be comforting but it actually had an adverse psychological impact on me and others. I remember watching the jets take off from the airport, wishing that I was on board, and fantisizing about who was on the plane and where they were going.
Another physical anomaly that Marine Corps Recruit Depot has that is different than Parris Island is the closeness to Balboa Naval Base, which includes the Naval boot camp. On one of our more rigorous days, I remember our drill instructor marching us out to the fence separating us from the Naval base and him pointing out some Navy recruits congregated around a Coke machine laughing and talking.
"You see those squids over there? They got here about the same time as you. Aren't you glad we're not letting you act like some slimy civilians?" he said.
"Sir, yes, sir!"
Also, because we were located close to Balboa Naval Hospital, we were all required to go there to give blood. This was a much anticipated experience because we were able to leave our base for the afternoon and were promised steaks at the Navy mess hall. As it turned out, not only did we give blood but we were fresh meat for the Navy corpsmen in training, so they could practice taking blood. After being poked and prodded in both arms by a Navy corpsman in training, my contribution was made. Outside, our drill instructor had us standing in formation while we waited for the rest of the platoon to finish. A female Navy captain (a nurse) came upon our formation and asked the drill instructor if we had just given blood, to which he replied in the affirmative. She promptly had him put the formation at ease and allow the men to sit or rest in the shade. He was pissed, and we all knew that we would eventually pay for this brief period of relaxing. The promised steak meal in the Navy mess hall actually did happen. While it wasn't exactly a fancy steakhouse meal, it sure beat what we had been getting in the boot camp mess hall, and we thoroughly enjoyed it.
I've heard recently that the Marine drill instructors can't hit the recruits. In theory, this was true when I was in boot camp, but the drill instructors had a convincing argument that most of the recruits accepted. The drill instructors' rationale for hitting us when we screwed up was that if they were to go by the book, they would "recycle" those troops that couldn't get with the program. This meant boot camp would actually last longer; therefore, a quick correction in the form of a hit was better for everyone. This seemed reasonable—as long as you were not the one getting hit. My one and only punch in the jaw from a drill instructor came when I went to the wrong shoulder on the command "right shoulder arms." The drill instructor stopped everything and asked me what happened. My reply that it slipped didn’t convince him.
"Well, this slipped, too," he said, and punched me.
Eventually the drill instructors used group punishment for individual infractions, which were designed to get peer pressure to enforce discipline. The preferred group punishment was to have everyone get into the push-up position but with knuckles placed down instead of palms and to stay in that position for a designated period of time. Of course, individuals would buckle, and more time would be added for everyone, which would get the group to sanction the individuals, and so on.
Also, the drill instructors were fond of having minor infractions dealt with by squat thrusts. That is, standing then squatting down and putting your hands on the ground and thrusting your legs backwards into a push-up position then returning to a squat then back to standing, and repeated over and over.
One of the training courses we participated in was called "pugil sticks," which paired up platoons and individuals, who took bouts against each other. The battle took place in the middle of a circle of friendly and opposing platoon members, each rooting for their comrades. The pugil sticks are like broomsticks about the length of a rifle and have padding on each end. The exercise is supposed to simulate hand-to-hand combat. Our drill instructor gave each of us words of encouragement or strategy as we were sent into the middle of the circle to do battle. The encouragement I got: "Ivory, your college education isn't going to do you any good now. Knock his head off!"
Probably the most unique strategy of drill instructors during our training took place at the rifle range. Qualifying at the rifle range was a major event, as every Marine is basically considered to be a rifleman. Failure to qualify was not an option. So our drill instructors decided to use this opportunity to disown us. We were told we were so unmotivated they had given up on us and we could do whatever we wanted to do. They would not require us to march in formation to the rifle range or the mess hall and so on. Of course, at this point we took it upon ourselves to march in formation without the drill instructors leading us. After everyone qualified at the rifle range, they took us back, saying that they had only done this to distract us from the pressures of qualifying. It seemed to work, and I remember one of the drill instructors asking me if they had fooled me, and I thought it was interesting that they cared if they had actually convinced me of their scheme.
I qualified as a "sharpshooter" just a few points below "expert." This was fine with me because I liked the sharpshooter badge better than the expert one. My main memory of the range is how far I was able to shoot accurately with the M-14 and especially how important it was to squeeze the trigger instead of yanking it. Initially, I was off on my shots because I was not squeezing the trigger properly. To help me remember this point, the instructor had me put my trigger finger between the butt-plate of the rifle (which is hinged and flips up to rest on top of your shoulder) and the stock of the rifle. He then had me put my hand on the ground, and he bounced the rifle several times, butt first on the ground with my trigger finger between the butt-plate and the stock. This bruised my trigger finger, and I never again yanked the trigger but rather gingerly squeezed off each round.
Mail call, as you can imagine, was a much-anticipated event. The drill instructors, however, were always on the alert to intercept any contraband that might be arriving via the mail. Therefore, if a letter felt conspicuous or a package arrived, they needed to be opened in front of the drill instructor. I remember one recruit getting a single stick of chewing gum in a letter, which a drill instructor discovered, required the recruit to chew with the foil still on and to try to separate the foil from the gum. My one bad experience came when some of my college friends sent me a "sexy Anna doll" whose top came down when squeezed. That didn't get by the drill instructors either, and I ended up doing squat thrusts for an hour or so.
Eventually, even the rigors of boot camp formed into a routine of classes, close order drill, physical fitness and discipline. I remember being somewhat surprised that a larger number of the recruits weren't more physically fit. They came in all shapes and sizes and colors. Although a few, there were not many hard chargers that were there because they always wanted to be Marines. Some were there because the courts had decided that this was a good place for them to learn some discipline; others were there as a way to fast-track their U.S. citizenship (my best buddy was a Canadian citizen who had been living in Detroit); a few were there like me through the draft; some were there just looking for "three hots and a cot."
Remember my initial thoughts the first night while standing on the yellow footprints? I felt that I could maintain a mental aloofness. My letters home tell a different story. My mother kept these letters, and I remember reading them when I got out. For example, in one letter I describe how we are preparing for a forced march the next day. Although I am lamenting the physical sweat and pain, I said "better men than I have done this." This, of course, is exactly what my drill instructors had been drilling into my head, and I'm parroting it back just the way they wanted. They got to my head, and after graduating from boot camp I was ready to go to war. As it turns out, I went to Amphibious Tracked Vehicle (AmTrac) training at Camp Pendleton and then to regular duty at Camp Lejeune, N.C. These two events were also learning and growing experiences for me, but that's another story.
USMC Platoon 3108 started Basic Training on June 16, 1969 and graduated on Aug. 14, 1969 at Marine Corps Recruit Depot, San Diego, California.
