Disenchanted.

–verb (used with object) to rid of or free from enchantment, illusion, credulity, etc.; disillusion: The harshness of everyday reality disenchanted him of his idealistic hopes.


The few of you who have been reading may wonder where I came up with the title Disenchantment. Well, I am going to spend the next few days trying to explain. I has to do with my love / hate relationship with the US Marine Corps. And truthfully, it's not so much with the organization but more with the people and what I saw happening from the inside.

I never had any intentions of joining any military. My dad was in the Navy and he worked goofy hours and had to leave every two years for 6 months. I know that a lot of kids have it worse in the military with their parent gone for longer stretches, but I still didn't like it. I was in a small town, not going to college, working menial jobs in the food industry, and my buddy asked me one day to go to the recruiter with him. He had already signed up and was on delayed entry, which means he was just waiting for them to tell him when he was good to leave for Boot Camp. I decided in a short time that I was going in. The recruiter was nothing spectacular. He wasn't a square jawed, chiseled machine that chewed up metal and spit out nails as I imagined a lot of Marines were. He was a smart guy, not big at all. I had probably signed up before I hit the door. Anyways, he asked when I wanted to leave. I told him I was in no big hurry, so he put me on delayed entry as well. I was in his office on a Friday and got my physical Tuesday. Sept 7th, 1988. I left for Boot Camp Feb 15th, 1989.

On 16 Feb 1989 I began my journey as a Marine. I wasn't able to sleep at all on the plane ride to Charleston, SC. Once there we were met at the plane by a Marine Sergeant who promptly told us to sit down, shut up and speak to no one. An old lady came up to me and asked me the time. I just stared into space. The Sergeant informed her of the time and she went away, probably understanding who we were. Shortly after we were herded into a room in the lower part of the airport where others were waiting to go to boot camp as well. We were allowed to read from the books we were soon to become well acquainted with, our Marine Handbooks. Our bibles. I didn't take much interest in it. I really don't remember what I thought. We were taken to a bus and told to get on, sit down and shut up.

The ride was dark and uneventful. Hardly any street lights on the drive south on 17. I tried to sleep, unsuccessfully. Once we got to the gate of Parris Island, everyone was awake and tense. Most knew what to expect. I had watched Full Metal Jacket and truthfully, I had fallen asleep. I just knew I was about to get a wake up call. We pulled up to the Receiving Building and stopped. Out came a DI, in full stride, to "greet" us. He stepped onto the bus and said, "SIT UP STRAIGHT AND GET YOUR EYES ON ME RIGHT NOW! WELCOME TO PARRIS ISLAND SOUTH CAROLINA. FROM NOW ON, EVERYTHING YOU SAY WILL END WITH THE WORD SIR, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT?!?" We responded with what we thought was a loud, "YES,SIR!" Of course, as I was about to learn, it was not good enough. He shot back with, 'I DIDN'T HEAR YOU! OPEN YOUR MOUTHS! DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT?" To which we screamed, "YES, SIR!" "WHEN I TELL YOU TO MOVE, YOU WILL QUICKLY GET OFF OF MY BUS AND GET OUTSIDE AND STAND WITH YOUR FEET AT A 45 DEGREE ANGLE WITH YOUR HEELS TOGETHER ON MY YELLOW FOOTPRINTS, KEEPING YOUR HEAD AND EYES STRAIGHT TO THE FRONT, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT?" Seemed to me this guy had a problem with whether or not we could understand him. But, we obliged by screaming, "YES, SIR!" Apparently someone didn't because they stood up to move before he told us. "SIT DOWN! I DIDN'T SAY MOVE YET!" Guess this was going to be a big game of Simon Says. He sat back down quickly. "READY, MOVE!" We all got up and ran to the front of the bus, bumping into everything in our path trying to get outside, except the DI. He made it abundantly clear we were to stay far away from him as he screamed at us because we were moving too slow.

Once outside, we all stood like statues, only our eyeballs daring to move to try and catch a glimpse of what was going on around us. The DI continued, "WHEN I TELL YOU TO MOVE, YOU WILL FILE OFF, STARTING WITH THE RANK CLOSEST TO THE BUILDING, SINGLE FILE AND STAND NEXT TO MY CHAIRS, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT?!?" Not only did he need reassurance that we understood everything he was saying, everything belonged to him. "YES, SIR!" We went in and were told to sit down. We were then told to count out loud from front to rear to be assigned a number. Even though we had all screamed we understood, some folks didn't seem to and screwed up the count. We were made to start over again, after that person was warned that he was not to do it again, ever so politely. When we finally got through it, we were to take the markers we had on our desk and write the number we screamed on the back of our right hand. This was our identifier, for the time being. We filled out paperwork, then some more, and then another set. Apparently the Government needs a whole lot more than just your signature on a piece of paper that says, "I DO." Then we were swept off for haircuts. Well, scalping should be the term. Sit down, smock on, hair zapped completely off. We were told by the DI to put our fingers on any moles or bumps so the barber wouldn't get them. Some just can't listen. I saw a few gushers bleeding out pretty good. I had a mohawk that was grown out, but still kind of there, and the barber looked at me and said, "What kind of haircut is this?!?" I just sat down and let him do his deed. I felt like MY head was bleeding when I got up. Then off to get uniforms and boots. What a cluster. Everyone standing around in their underwear as we packed up our old clothes and put on new uniforms. Everything smelled like moth balls.

We were all herded into squad bays. This is where we would spend our time while in Receiving. During receiving we did more paperwork, saw dentists and doctors, received numerous shots, and filled out more paperwork. Our Receiving DI looked like Sergeant Carter from the tv show Gomer Pyle. I ran into him years later when I was a DI at Parris Island. His wife was the Generals Secretary. I spoke to him for a few minutes and headed on my way. Not the guy I remembered from 1989, that's for sure. We had all received penicillin shots whether we needed them or not, and the DI was going to let us know how to get that lump of what felt like Peanut Butter out of asses, but only if someone didn't screw up. Well, of course someone screwed up. So, when we were sitting on our footlockers, we all leaned to one side. One day while showering, one of the guys that made the trip with me from MD to PI walked by and smacked me in the spot where I got the shot where I got my shot. My brain froze and everything went white, it hurt so bad. I turned around and lunged at him, swinging at air as he jumped back. I don't think he realized just what he had done. We scuffled a little bit on the stair well later that day too, but never anything after.

One night, before we were to hit the rack, we were told to stand on line in our underwear and shower shoes (flip flops). I know now that we all got numerous inspections, in various states of dress and undress. Seemed like everyone wanted to look at mostly naked guys all the time. It is actually a necessity to ensure no one shows up with any creepy crawlies or deformities that may have been missed or occurred after their initial physicals. So, there we were on line, staring across at a spot on the wall to ensure not to make eye contact with the guy across from you. A short black DI came in and walked slowly down the line, looking each one of us over. When he got to me, he saw my Iron Cross tattooed on my upper right arm. He stared at it, then at my face, then back at it. He said to me, "What is THAT supposed to stand for?!?" I told him it was from the band Warzone and the cross stood for strength and the flag inside stood for America. I don't know if that's what they intended it to stand for, but that was my interpretation at that moment, trying not to seem like a Neo-Nazi. that subject had been the topic of many talk shows in the late 80's. I just wanted to show my love for a band, and now I was defending my tattoo. Thanks, Hitler! He moved on after pinching my arm, right over the tattoo. Little did I know that he was to be my Senior Drill Instructor, the man I was to look up to for the next 12 weeks.

Pickup day came and we were all herded to our new home. 3rd deck of barracks F. The F stood for Fox Company, 2nd Recruit Training Battalion. We all sat down in rows, just like everything we always had done up until then. Covered and aligned. Out comes walking the short black DI who had pinched my arm and two other black DI's. I thought, "Oh noooooo......he has definitely told these other guys about me......" I knew for sure I was gonna leave there big and strong. If not in a cast of some sort. SDI SSgt Jones, DI Sgt Fletcher and DI SSgt Mitchell were there names. I didn't list them in the wrong order. You see, PI was one of the places where rank had a very little to do with much, it was how long you had on island and how many platoons you had done. So, Sgt Fletcher was our "Heavy", or second in charge. Pretty much the guy who was to teach us everything. The SDI, he is our big daddy. He is the one we take problems too, who talks to us at night, passes out our mail, etc. The 3rd Hat is the terror. he is there to make your life miserable. And he was good at it. they all were. So much so, that at the end of it all, I told my mom I wanted to come back and be a DI. I loved it. I was hooked.

You are probably wondering how this plays into my "Dienchantment"? Well, it's a long story, drawn out over 20 years. i am going to write a little each day about it for the next few. I loved the Corps, I hated the Corps. I loved it because of the people I met while in it. I hate it because of the people that are in it, if that makes any sense.

To be continued...