The DI was God! He was our mother, father, sister, brother, uncle, and the girl you were screwing down the street. He was our new family. I have to say that being a DI isn’t the easiest job in the world. He has 12 weeks to take a herd of idiots and make them into Marines. His job is to get rid of the losers, momma’s boys, lazy lizards, non-hackers, and other assorted scum. We graduated with 81 people, so nine didn’t make it.
The DIs came in two forms: Senior Drill Instructor (usually a Staff Sergeant) and Junior Drill Instructor (usually a Sergeant or Corporal). They were fair and never asked you to do anything they wouldn’t or couldn’t do. The problem was, they could do all the training exercises easily, but some of it almost killed the rest of us. These DIs were in 110 percent shape. They could run miles yelling and singing without missing a step, climb the ropes like monkeys, and shoot like the experts they were. In short, they were some mother-fucking, squared-away dudes, as the black guys would say.
Before I joined up I had started to get my body in condition. I could run six miles and do 60 push-ups nonstop. I lifted weights in my parents’ living room every day and even got a crewcut the day before I left. I was ready for their games. Some people were so out of shape they couldn’t keep up in the running formations. The DIs had a gray Navy truck follow the platoon on the runs. If you fell out due to heat exhaustion, they just threw you in the ice truck, which drove the losers back to the barracks. By that time they were alive again. As soon as we got back to the barracks, the DIs would go off on the losers, calling them things like “whale shit,” which is the lowest thing in the ocean, even lower than reservists. Then they would make both sides of the squad bay line up, port and starboard, and the ice guys would have to run the gauntlet. Both sides of the barracks would punch and hit and try to beat the shit out of them as they ran by.
When the rest of us saw this, we really got motivated. No matter if you were near death, you wouldn’t fall out on a run and face that punishment. If your bunk-bed buddy was about to drop, you grabbed him and helped him up. Teamwork—the strong helped hold up the weak. No one falls out! Keep the DIs happy! This sounds good, but there were always two or three slobs who must have devoted their sorry-ass lives to eating cupcakes and ice cream. How could you hold up a 240 pound piece of shit for a five-mile run? They had to go.
The Marines had a special place for fat wastes and other losers, non-hackers and ten-percenters. If you couldn’t hack the program, the DIs sent you to the STB—Special Training Battalion. This was like being sent to Devil’s Island. It was a brutal place filled with crazies, piss ants, momma’s boys, laid-back losers, non-hackers, chubby fellows and other assorted vermin, where they ran your ass and yelled at you all day. There were no schools, no movies, nothing but running and physical exercises. They made the losers run holding onto the belt of the guy in front of them, and whenever a regular platoon passed, the recruits would throw punches at them. Their DIs would look straight ahead.
How do I know about the STB? It all started when one unlucky day, a fat waste fell off the ball-breaker obstacle at the obstacle course. All 230 pounds of him landed on my left foot. It swelled up until I couldn’t put on my boot and the DI was forced to send me to the Navy hospital at Beaufort, South Carolina, which handled base personnel, military dependents and hurt boot-camp Marines. I arrived wet and filthy dirty with a messed-up left foot. The first Navy doctor ignored me. He figured I was too muddy and he didn’t want to get his hands dirty. Being treated like a piece of shit in an emergency ward of a Navy hospital pissed me off. People wonder why the Marines hate the Navy, when, in reality, the Marines are part of the Navy. I had to sit and wait until finally the first snob left and a Navy Commander doctor came in and asked what he could do for me. God bless this man. He was kind, and angry that I had been ignored for so long. He got me cleaned up, got me some dry clothing and a bed, and examined my swollen leg. He told me to put my leg up on a pile of pillows for five or six days and I would be okay. I was treated well for the next seven days, when I finally could walk and run again.
The doctor told me to take care of myself and not let any more fat guys fall on me. We shook hands and I told him he would go to heaven for helping me. This made him smile. He called a jeep and off I went to Parris Island. When I returned, I was reissued my M-14 rifle and 782 gear, which was a bucket with a shelter-half, tent pins, rope, mess gear, and all the crap you need in boot camp. I got my duffel bag back, which somebody had packed when I was in the hospital. I thought I would rejoin Platoon 383. How wrong I was!
The Gunny Sergeant in headquarters didn’t know what to do with me. He told me that Platoon 383 was at the rifle range and that I had missed a week of rifle training. I replied that I had been shooting since I was nine years old. He said that the Marines were really serious about the two-week training at the rifle range, and if I didn’t comply with the M-14 training, I might not graduate and would have to do the whole boot camp over again. While he went to lunch, I hitchhiked out to the rifle range in the middle of nowhere to find my old platoon. I knocked on the door the hardest I ever knocked in my life. I yelled out my name, “Private Gebhart, 2099701, reporting back from the hospital for duty!” The DIs were in shock to see me. I figured they would beat me up for coming back, but what the hell, they were my new family. I was amazed I didn’t get the standard tune-up. They explained that I had missed one of the most important weeks of training at the rifle range and they were not allowed to take me back. They said they admired my determination and guts, and even drove me back to Headquarters and shook my hand and said good luck! They also said they were sorry to lose me. I guess I wasn’t a shitbird after all.
The Gunny Sergeant said I would have to report to STB. I was wearing my chrome dome helmet liner. I had my bucket with all my 782 gear in it, my M-14 rifle and my duffel bag filled with all my clothing. I knocked on the door and a hand grabbed me by the throat and pulled me inside the squad bay. I was hit on top of the head, flying my helmet liner across the room, which was filled with fat freaking losers, other assorted crazies, and who knows what else. The STB Drill Instructor was the worst. He threw my 782 bucket into the wall, spilling its contents all over, and took my duffel bag and dumped it all over the floor. Then he grabbed my rifle with such force that it knocked me down. He said, “Welcome to STB. I am Staff Sergeant Fadden. You mess with me and I’ll kill you!” What a great welcome. Made me feel right at home. He then walked out and left the Junior DI in charge.
The Junior DI told me to pick up my stuff and find an empty bunk, and said he hoped my stay with the STB was long and miserable. Then he went to his private quarters. All the lowlifes in STB were trying to steal my belongings from the floor. I yelled out that I would take my M-14 bayonet and gut them down like a dead Pennsylvania deer in hunting season if anybody took any of my stuff. A miracle happened—they returned all of my gear, right down to the ropes for my shelter-half. It took me a good half hour to get all my gear back where it belonged and to repack my duffel bag.
To get out of this hellhole, I had to do 50 push-ups, 50 sit-ups and run five miles the next morning. During the night, the Staff Sergeant returned drunk on his ass and in a worse mood than when he left. He came in at 3:00 AM, pushing open the door, overturning the bunk beds with men still in them, and throwing their stuff all over the room. I got lucky; he didn’t mess with me. I passed the strength test the next day.
While I watched, these pitiful sons-of-bitches flunked the test on purpose. The rule was, if they could not make a Marine out of you in six months, they would discharge you as unfit for military duty. Most of the losers in STB were counting the days until they were let go. How they could go through all this harassment and endless physical exercise was beyond me. All they had to do was pass the strength test and then be reassigned to a new platoon and transfer out of the STB hellhole. They were the type of low-life scum who will get you killed when the sloop heads hit your position. Ball-less wonders and coward dogs. It was good the Marines weeded out the te
n-percenters and other wastes. They could go back to their mothers and play with their twangers for the rest of their useless lives.
MY NEW HOME
The Gunny Sergeant eventually assigned me to Platoon 387. He wished me well and asked me to put on my killer face for him. Later in life I ran into that Gunny Sergeant again. This time he was acting as a DI in the movie “Full Metal Jacket.” He was the one that got shot in the head by the fat guy. He was, and still is, an okay guy. You had to laugh at all his particular sayings. One of his favorites was “Fucking outstanding, Marine!”
I reported to my new platoon and knocked on the door. The door flew open and once again I took a punch to the face that blackened my eye, two punches to the rib cage, and was thrown against the wall. My new DI called me a “fucking Russian spy” brought in to ruin his outstanding platoon. He told me not to unpack because when morning came he would personally throw me the fuck out. He took no crap, period. He called me “Buzzard,” and I felt right at home again—black eye, hurt pride, and a DI who wanted no part of me. In my mind I was singing “Home, Home on the Range,” and hoping not to hear any discouraging words.
Well, he never threw me out. If the door opened today, 43 years after I first met him, I would still do whatever he asked as fast and efficiently as possible.
Morning came, we ran our three miles, and went to chow. In boot camp, the last man through the door is the DI, so when he is done eating, everyone is done. You have to get your ass out on the parade deck before he walks out the door of the mess hall. I can tell you this—you are hungry as shit and have to eat fast.
There is a big sign on the door to the mess hall: “Take All You Want, Eat All You Take!” Of course there are some guys who hide donuts in their hats and pockets. When the DI comes out and finds donuts, the whole platoon is punished. Private Fat Waste gets to eat his donuts while the rest of the platoon, 80 or so people, do push-ups. When nighttime comes to the squad bay, Private Fat Waste gets a blanket party. Reality check: “Eat It or Leave It! Don’t Bring It Outside.” Just about every day some platoon’s heavy guy would be standing outside the mess hall reciting, “By the position of the sun and moon and stars in the sky, and every tick-tock of my Mickey Mouse watch, the time on deck is…” The Marines had a table marked “Fat People,” and they were on a special diet, which is why they were always stealing ice cream and donuts.
There are a million stories I could tell all day long about my 13 weeks at Parris Island, but I’m going to mention only the good ones. On the second day there, the DIs took us into a large warehouse to get everything we needed to live. There were some Simple Simons who amazed even the DIs. These idiots lived so far back in the woods that they had to pump daylight into them. There were 90 tables in the warehouse with all the stuff you would ever need—foot powder, soap, razors, toothbrushes, shoe polish, boot brushes, etcetera. Each recruit received a duffel bag. The DIs yelled out, “Hold up one can of boot polish!” Everybody held up one can of boot polish. “Put it in the bag!” This went on, one item after another. It took a lot of yelling and quite a bit of time.
When the DI yelled, “Hold up your toothbrush,” Private Hardtack from West Virginia held up his shoe brush. He had never seen a toothbrush in his whole life. I was standing next to this village idiot, so I started laughing. The DI went nuts. He was strangling me, and I still couldn’t stop laughing. Needless to say, this got him really pissed. He gave me a new name, “Laughing Boy,” that remained how I was called for quite a while. Private Hardtack just kept holding up the shoe brush, while all the other guys tried hard to hold back their laughter.
On the third day, everyone got a footlocker with a lock and a stamp with his name on it. You had to mark all your shirts and pants and clothing with your name stamp for laundry purposes. Later that night, while I was shaving, I looked over in the mirror next to me and saw a black guy from New York City, Private Hines, wearing boxer shorts marked “Gebhart.” We had been issued 12 boxer shorts, and when I went out and counted mine, sure enough I was missing four. I had three choices: tell the DI and get beat up; live with only eight boxer shorts and let this ghetto trash get one over on me; or take my boxer shorts off this underwear thief and reclaim them!
The problem with choice three was that this scumbag joined up with his complete gang of killers—12 soul brothers who stuck together like glue. And now they were all in the head, and fighting one meant fighting them all. I decided I was a “Marine, do or die!” I wanted my boxer shorts back, simple as that. I went back into the head and told Private Hines to take my mother-fucking boxer shorts off. Naturally I got into a fight that quickly escalated into a race riot. All the southern boys (as I’d sort of hoped) backed me up.
The Junior DI entered the head, grabbed Hines and me, and threw us both against the urinals with such force that I got a nasty bruise on my leg. I told the DI that Hines had stolen my boxer shorts. He looked at the name and asked if Gebhart was one of Private Hines’ aliases from his ghetto gangster days. Private Hines got a tune-up for lying and stealing and we all got a speech about honesty. There are three things that the Marines hate: faggots in the ranks, thieves, and scumbag cruds that don’t take a shower. The DI liked the way I stood up for myself and took on the soul brothers. I retrieved my boxer shorts and they made it home to my laundry bag.
Now let me tell you a story I call “The Swimming Pool Horror Show.” One day they marched us down to the swimming pool. I couldn’t swim. I was afraid of water. My mother and my aunt had tried to teach me to swim in the ocean when I was seven years old. Each wave knocked me down until I just about drowned. I had a fear of water and I wanted no part of this pool.
When we got inside, we put on our swimming shorts and then had to walk under a shower. I didn’t even want to get wet. Then they marched us down to the 15-foot section of an Olympic-size pool with lines painted on the bottom of it. It looked like it went for miles to the other end. All you had to do was jump in and swim to the other end. Seventy-three men jumped in and did this in about three minutes. That left us non-swimmers, five black guys and two white guys, standing looking down into 15 feet of bottomless water, scared shitless. They got seven lifeguards with long aluminum poles with hooks on them, and told us to jump in. If we started to drown, they would pull us out with the poles.
I figured if I got a running start and let out a loud rebel yell, I could make it halfway down the pool to the shallower water. I did just that, hit the water about 12 feet from the wall, and started to sink. The more I tried to dog-paddle, the more water I swallowed and the more I sank. Finally, after I raised my hand the third time going under, the pole with the hook fished me over to the side of the pool. I was near death, and hanging on for all my life to the little ledge at the side of the pool. Then the DI pushed me back into the deep water. I was exhausted and nearly drowned again. They finally fished me out, yelling at all seven of us, and said we had to come down to the pool every day until we could swim from one end to the other. Every day we reported and tried to learn from the lifeguard how to swim in three to four feet of water. They really didn’t care if we learned or not, as long as we didn’t drown while they were on duty.
Finally we all took the test. We all failed! When we returned to the platoon, I told the House Mouse, a recruit who helped the DI with the paperwork, to mark I had passed or I would cut his balls off with a K-bar knife. So he took care of me and the DI went nuts on the other six guys, who kept their mouths shut about it. The DI took chalk and drew a big fish on each man’s utility jacket to embarrass him. Then he ordered the guys into the shower room, which contained about six showerheads on each side, and ordered all the other recruits to build a wall with the footlockers up to the ceiling—in essence building a dam. He had them cover the footlockers with their rubber ponchos to make the shower room waterproof, and ordered the six non-swimmers to turn on the water.
It took about a half hour for the water level to get up to the showerheads. The six guys looked like trapped submariners
in a sunken German U-boat. They were hanging onto the showerhead and drowning at the same time. The shorter guys were even in worse shape. They were yelling for God to save them and even for their mommies. Finally the DI broke down the dam, and bodies and water flew out like the scene of an open fire hydrant on a hot West Philly night. What a freaking mess it made out of the squad bay. Everyone was ordered to man the mops and buckets and clean up the disaster. The near-drowned guys got harassed, kicked and yelled at. It was a miracle I bullshitted my way through that one.
THE ROPE
We had started training at Parris Island on our second day. The DIs said the Marines were in a big hurry to get fresh troops to Vietnam to kill gooks. Our platoon ran out to the obstacle course where the three DIs showed us how to climb the rope. They went up to the top, about 20 feet or so, and yelled “AB! AB! ABDU!” Then they climbed down. They instructed the next three Marines in line to climb the rope. Two Marines made it to the top, but the third got stuck in the middle. He hung there, his hands bleeding from rope burn while the DIs yelled at him and called him names. “Sweet Pea! Piss Ant! Shit-for-Brain!” He fell about 16 feet and broke his left leg. The bone ripped through his pants leg, and he was in immense pain, but the DIs just pushed him aside and said he didn’t do it as he was taught. Tough shit!
LBJ's Hired Gun Page 2
