The Terminal Lance Corporal - Chapter 2 - T-1

Chapter 2 - Training Day 1 - T1

My most vivid memory of Marine Corps Recruit Depot, MCRD, San Diego would not be hugging family at graduation, nor the completion of the week long “crucible”; the much acclaimed 75 plus mile hike and training operation, where the recruit subsists off virtually zero sleep and minimal food. My earliest memory of Marine Corps boot camp would be Training Day 1, referred to T-1 in USMC vernacular. 

On T-1 the recruit is dropped from his or her processing platoon to meet their training companies and begin the arduous process of turning “lazy, aimless, disgusting civilians' ', as was so eloquently phrased by our drill instructors, into Marines. The Marine Corps Recruit meets for the first time, his company, platoon, fellow recruits, and the men who will for the next three months comprise the majority of his waking life and nocturnal nightmares, his drill instructors; DI Sergeant Seville, DI Sergeant Fields, DI Sergeant Giorgio, and our vaunted Senior Drill Instructor, DI Sergeant Mola.

Senior Drill Instructor Sergeant Mola is thin and tall. With his hands on his hips, his jaw set forward and the infamous Drill Instructor Cover (hat) angled dramatically forward; we can make out two beady eyes, flashing with a dark, menacing intensity, perched directly below the “Smokey the Bear” hat.

His movements are exaggerated, yet delivered with the precision of a gymnast. 

He stands at the position of attention smartly in front of the squadbay, the three subordinate Drill Instructors standing dutifully behind him, their military bearing and posture impeccable. They stare forward with seemingly dead eyes, cold and unfocused; staring through us into an abyss we are not as of yet, privy to.

Their muscles toned and bodies in world class, peak physical condition; they look like toy soldiers, GI-Joe miniatures brought to life. They are like wind-ups dolls with body-builder proportions. Senior Drill Instructor Sergeant Mola raises his right hand, palm flat and facing the platoon and begins to take an oath. The three Drill Instructors behind him do the same. Their words are horse, harsh and raspy, termed “frog voice” in DI nomenclature ; yet delivered in perfect unison; 

“These recruits are entrusted to my care. I will train them to the best of my ability. I will develop them into smartly disciplined, physically fit, basically trained Marines, thoroughly indoctrinated in love of Corps and country.”

A short, colorful introduction, rich in pomp and ceremony, is then given by the Senior Drill Instructor, who, ending with dramatic drill flourishes, orders the three other Drill Instructors standing dutifully behind him to;

“Make these recruits Marines.”

On the heels of these words, spoken smartly and with no small degree of rigid military bearing, the Senior Drill Instructor pivoted 180 degrees, executing an impeccable “about-face”  and disappeared into the duty hut behind him. 

And with that the fun immediately began.

This is the world I found myself and my temporary home would become the 3rd Training Battalion, Golf Company, 2026 for the next 3 and a half months. We began that day - the 80 or so recruits - at the front of a 150 by 30 ft squadbay; a sterile, chipped, tear-stained, gypcrete-floored room that smelled faintly of bleach and simple green. Filled front to back with rusted Korean War era antique bunk beds stacked 2 high, the squad bay, a character in itself, was a glimpse back through military history; a time capsule representing Cold-War-era Americana.

After the symbolic and somewhat theatrical introduction, a cacophony of screaming and shouting suddenly and violently exploded from the direction of the other three Drill Instructors; and we dodged blows from seemingly-possessed DIs, weaving between fists and flailing limbs on our way to our assigned bunks for our first equipment inventory. 

I distinctly remember feeling as if the scene unfolding before me was all a bit over the top and dramatically overacted; and I tried to my best ability to suppress laughter as terrified recruits ran to and fro, attempting to find and display specific equipment or items of clothing for DI approval.  

“Covers! Covers! Hold them above your heads!” DI Sergeant Giorgio would scream at voice-shattering decibels and every recruit would scramble through their newly issued gear and clothing at increasingly frenetic speeds; attempting to find their “covers”, or hats in civilian parlance. 

Di Sergeant Giorgio would then begin to count down, starting at ten and working his way down to one, while recruits frantically scrambled over themselves to find covers, trousers, blouses, pancho liners, waterbowls and running shoes. By the time Sergeant Giorgio reached zero, the majority of the platoon would find themselves “on-line”, standing in front of their footlockers at the position of attention and holding out whatever item of gear was demanded. 

This bizarre, seemingly-amphetamine-fueled inventory would continue for the next three or four hours and in much the same fashion; with terrified and wide-eyed recruits attempting to find specific items of gear before the fury and rage of the DIs would become directed at the unfortunate recruit who was slower than his comrades in whatever task the DIs demanded.

Becoming “the one” would soon become every recruit’s, and later every Marine’s greatest and most pressing fear. Marine Corps training operates on a specific axiom; that although the vast majority can be motivated to “correct” action via individually applied pain or discomfort; for a special few, collective punishment would be the only effective tool utilized to assure maximum compliance.

For some this singular fear would become an obsession which could twist and contort one’s character, causing normally well-meaning individuals to behave in ways they would never have expected, and seemingly contrary to their nature. The essence of this collective retribution was described in an often heard military mantra, one ceaselessly pounded into our heads;

“The platoon is only as strong as its weakest link”

And god forbid you be that link. 

But back in the Squad Bay, the DI barking commands and conducting the inventory, Drill Instructor Sergeant Fields, a tattooed, muscle-bound, poster boy for the Drill Field; suddenly stopped shouting and pivoted in the direction of myself and my rackmate Cassanada.

The silence was palpable. 

We both immediately jumped to the position of attention - eyes front with our hands clasped firmly at our sides - Marine Corps protocol when addressing or being addressed by a Drill Instructor or any enlisted while in boot camp. He looked toward our footlockers, cocked his head mechanically to the side and muttered a quick;

“The heck”?

The heck he had been referring to was Recruit Cassanada’s footlocker, closed and yet unsecured, with the padlock hanging open from the aluminum clasp. Sergeant Fields took a step toward Cassanada and leaned toward his footlocker. In a fraction of a second, Sergeant Fields had spun the unlocked U of the padlock from his left index finger like a western gunfighter re-sheathing his pistol with spectacular spinning flourishes. 

Yet instead of spinning an ivory-handled, nickel-plated peacemaker revolver into a stamped and studded leather holster; Sergeant Fields spun the 2-lb master lock into the face of poor Recruit Cassanada. Cassanada’s head snapped backwards from the force of the blow as he struggled to stand upright. As Cassanada lifted his hands to his head reflexively, a jet of blood exploded from the fresh gash, pooling at the foot of an equally shocked Sergeant Fields, who stood there, like me, stunned. I stood at the position of attention; shocked and terrified, completely unable to move.

I had believed that the Marine Corps of my grandfather; “The Old Breed” as Eugene Sledge, the battle-hardened WW2 Island-hopping veteran called them, was over. I had been told that DIs no longer “laid hands” on recruits and all manifestations of physical force disappeared somewhere between Vietnam and the First Gulf War. 

It was a newer, friendlier corps. 

Or so our recruiters had made it seem. 

That illusion exploded like the vein from poor Cassanada’s forehead. My barely stifled laughter ended instantly with a terrified shudder, and as my thoughtless naivete evaporated, the icy and debilitating grip of fear spread in its wake. This was no longer a joke and was far from the silly game of military role-playing I had assumed it to be. The realization that our drill instructors could very much hurt us, seemingly without compunction or consequence would be a lesson I would not soon forget. 

Drill Instructor Sergeant Fields grabbed Cassanada by the blouse and pulled him close. As his blood spattered against the tear-stained, gypcrete-tiled floor, Sergeant Fields growled; 

“Get your blood of my deck,” 

I’m ashamed to admit I dared not even move my head for fear of attracting the DI’s attention. Cowardly, I watched out of the corner of my eye as my rackmate scurried off to grab a rag; one hand tightly clenching his cover over the gash in his forehead in an attempt to stem the bleeding now soaking his uniform and squadbay. 

As we finished our inventory I watched Cassanada spend the next twenty minutes on bended knee, scrubbing his own blood off the squad bay deck.

I had met the true corps.