Farewell PFC Polk: The End of a Nightmare (In the Valley of Hope Book 2)

by Richard Weirich

  “Is that right?” said the sergeant, sarcastically. “Since you feel the need for bonding, just sit down in this seat beside of me, and you and I can get to understand each other a little better. And may I ask your name?”

  “Lester.”

  “Lester, is it? Well, Lester, you’re an idiot.” What followed was a tongue lashing of epic proportions, salted with more curse words in 60 seconds than Buddy had heard in his entire life.

  And when the Marine finished his volatile diatribe, Lester had something else to say. “But, why? What does all this yelling and cursing do to make us better men?”

  When Sergeant Wood stood up, the recruits braced themselves for more yelling. “If any of you men need to use the head, do it now, because we’re going to shut her down.” The line to the head quickly formed and when the aisle was cleared Sgt. Wood calmly asked Lester to follow him. “Lester, stand here while I go inside and take care of my business.” When Sgt. Wood opened the door he told Lester to take his turn in the head.

  “Oh, no sir. Already went earlier.”

  “Get your ignorant butt in there and have a seat.” Then the sergeant grabbed Lester by the arm and shoved him into the tiny room, slammed the door, pulled a nightstick from his belt, and pushed it through the latch. Turning his attention back to his recruits, Sgt. Wood yelled, “For the remaining six and a half hours of your journey, the head is off limits. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is Lester an idiot?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is Lester a fool?

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Anybody else want to ask me any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  No one else made a sound for the remainder of the journey. Finally at their destination, Sgt. Wood ordered the men to look out the windows to their left and to take in the beauty of their new home for the next 90 days. “See that sign. Ain’t she beautiful?”

  “Yes, sir,” yelled the recruits.

  Buddy viewed a large black rectangular sign situated between two palm trees that read, ‘U.S. Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island, South Carolina. Inwardly he felt a strange mix of excitement and dread as he wondered what he would experience beyond that sign. Hopefully, he was made of the right stuff they kept talking about.

  It was nearly midnight when the bus pulled to the curb and suddenly there were three Marines simultaneously shouting commands. The scene that followed was nothing but pandemonium and mayhem. Buddy never knew that it was possible to scream that loud for so long. Even though he had been told to expect the verbal bashing, it defied his wildest imagination. One rapid fire order after another: “Pick up the paper. Put down the paper. Turn around and face the wall. Turn around and face me. Make a fist. Arms down by your side. Ankles together. Feet at 45-degree angle. Eyes straight ahead. Eyes on the deck.”

  Donnie glanced at Buddy to see how he was holding up under the pressure, which resulted in an angry drill instructor yelling within an inch of Donnie’s face. “Did I tell you to turn your head?”

  “No, sir,” yelled Donnie.

  “Will it happen again?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Was it a stupid thing to do?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So, you’re stupid.”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’re not stupid?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When I get finished with you, you’re gonna be a genius. Ain’t that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What are you gonna be?”

  “A genius, sir.”

  “Right now, what are you?”

  “Stupid, sir.”

  “I can’t hear you.”

  “Stupid, sir,” yelled Donnie, louder than before.

  Once the recruits were lined up to the drill instructors’ satisfaction one of them called roll and discovered that one man was missing. Sgt. Wood announced that Lester Branson had been detained on the bus for disobeying orders. Quickly, he ran into the bus and freed Lester who then faced a round of questions from the drill instructors, first of which was, “Are you a troublemaker?”

  “No, sir.”

  As one of the DI’s led the recruits into the barracks where they would spend the night, Lester was held back. Sgt. Wood produced a toothbrush and a bar of soap and ordered Lester to return to the bus where he was to clean the head “until it sparkles.” While the others slept on bunks with no mattresses, Lester toiled through the night.

  At 3:00 a.m., Lester joined his compatriots and at 5:00, the recruits were again hit with an avalanche of frantic commands that culminated in front of the barracks in freezing weather. This was the official beginning of Boot Camp, October 8, 1953, and Buddy and Donnie were assigned to Platoon #389 and introduced to their drill instructor, Sgt. Bubba Robicheaux, from Hell, Louisiana. That’s right, you may have heard about me. I’m the Cajun drill sergeant from Hell. From this day until the end of your little journey you will be known as Swamp Dogs. Say it loud, Swamp Dog.”

  “Swamp Dog, sir.”

  “I will be your personal tour guide through some of the most beautiful swampland you will ever see anywhere. Not a DI on this base that loves the swamps more than me. Reminds me of home sweet home.”

  Sgt. Robicheaux wasted no time educating his men that the primary means of transportation to and from all Boot Camp activities, including trips to the head, were to be handled via running. “No walkin’, ever. If I catch you walkin’ you can expect the toe of my size 14 boot to make a direct hit to your backside. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You will call me, Sgt. Robicheaux. You will never call me, Sgt. Bubba. Only my friends get to call me, Bubba…and you and me will never be friends. By the end of this day, every single one of you will hate me. 13 weeks from now you will curse the day I was born. But I promise you this. You will be the best outfit that Parris Island has ever seen. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What is my name?”

  “Sgt. Robicheaux, sir.”

  “Double-time to the chow hall. Go, go, go, go!”

  After breakfast, Platoon #389 called their families for the last time until the end of boot, lost their hair, received uniforms and gear, and began the rigorous training that would turn them into fighting men. Despite all the yelling and intimidation doled out by Sgt. Robicheaux, Buddy and Donnie quickly adapted to military life. Scouting and sports proved to be an asset. They were in better physical condition than many of the recruits and they were always there to pick each other up when the going got rough.

  Others weren’t so lucky. Ever since the bus trip from Washington, Lester Branson had been branded as a screw-up. Not only did the DI’s give him a hard time, so did his fellow recruits. One day, on an extended run in a driving rainstorm, Lester fell and couldn’t get back up. Sgt. Robicheaux kept yelling for him to get on his feet and keep going, but it was obvious that he was in pain. The platoon was ordered to stop and then to stand around Lester and join in on the yelling for him to get up. Lester was in tears and his every effort to stand up resulted in another fall into the mud.

  Buddy couldn’t take it any longer. He broke ranks, walked passed his DI, and helped Lester to his feet. Donnie feared the worst for his best friend and decided that if Buddy were to land in the brig, then they should go together. After all, they enlisted via the buddy program. Together, they helped Lester to his feet and carried him back to the trail that led to the barracks.

  The platoon quickly passed them and stood in the pouring rain while waiting for the trio to arrive. The sergeant was suspiciously quiet and the recruits were anticipating that all hell was about to break loose. When they came into site, Lester was still grimacing in pain while Buddy and Donnie supported his weight by flanking his sides. Sgt. Robicheaux waited until they came to a stop in front of him at which time he ordered his men to attention. And then he got in Buddy’s face.

  “Polk, what were you thinking?
” yelled the DI.

  “A man was down and needed help, sir.”

  Then the sergeant confronted Donnie. “How about you, Turner? What’s your excuse?”

  “Thought Polk needed my help, sir,” screamed Donnie, who feared the worst and braced himself for what was to come.

  “Johnson and Walker,” commanded the DI. “Fall out and take Branson to sick bay.”

  Buddy and Donnie turned loose of Lester as the other recruits hauled him away.

  “Polk and Turner, fall in,” screamed Sgt. Robicheaux.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Since you men began training I have tried to get you to understand that we work together as a team. A good Marine looks after his brother and has his back. Polk and Turner got that right. What they failed to do was request permission to break ranks and assist. For that, I need one hundred pushups, right now. Hit the deck. Do it.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Buddy and Donnie whose physical strength was already depleted.

  Sgt. Robicheaux ordered the men to count as the two errant recruits struggled through their punishment. Whenever they stalled, their cohorts exhorted them to keep going. There was no letting up. No amount of pain, fatigue, or weakness was an acceptable reason for quitting. Neither one of them had ever done that many pushups but their DI had a way of getting things out of his men that they never thought possible.

  With the ordeal concluded, Buddy and Donnie were dismissed and ordered to the showers. But Sgt. Bubba Robicheaux wasn’t done yet. “And for the rest of you, since you have failed to learn how to work together as a team, you’re going to run the 3-mile course again. You have 30 minutes. Go, go, go, go.”

  Mail Call was one of the highlights of the day and usually came at the beginning of the one-hour evening downtime. Most often, news from home was a welcome relief from the rigors of training. But sometimes, the news was more painful than anything dished out by the DI, especially when it came in the form of a Dear John letter. In mid-November, Donnie excitedly opened a letter from Trudy, only to discover that she was now dating someone else. Buddy did his best to console his friend and used the occasion to reveal the missing details about his summer in West Point.

  “Something I never told you about what happened to me last summer,” said Buddy while polishing his boots.

  Donnie didn’t want to talk. “Tell me later. Not in the mood right now.”

  “No, you need to hear this. Remember how you kept telling me that I was different and wondered if something was bothering me? Actually, there was a problem, a big one. I met a girl. Sally. We dated all summer. I was crazy about her and I really thought she was wild about me. Then, just before it was time for my job to be over, she broke up with me. Said we needed ‘space,’ whatever the heck that is. When I came home, I was a basket case. Still think about her every day but it has gotten easier. Never thought I’d say this, but Boot Camp was a God-send. You’re going to find that all that hurt you’re feeling right now will come out in your training. You’ll run faster, jump higher, and fight harder.”

  Donnie mustered a smile. “So that’s where all that aggression has been coming from. If you had done that when we were playing football, Strasburg would have won more games. Why did you wait so long to tell me?”

  “Like you said, didn’t feel like talking about it.”

  Donnie opened up about his thoughts on Trudy’s letter. “Always thought she was out of my league. It was one-sided. I loved her, but deep down I knew she wasn’t in love with me. Suppose I need to wake up and smell the coffee. Girls like Electrolux will be the best I’ll ever do.”

  “There’s still hope. Don’t forget about that uniform. Remember, it’s a girl magnet.”

  Donnie closed his eyes and leaned his head against the base of his bunk bed. “Just need to be left alone.”

  Buddy was right about one thing. Donnie was like a different recruit. Even Sgt. Robicheaux took note of the remarkable difference in his performance. Donnie’s training scores jumped from average to excellent. In hand to hand combat drills, he was so aggressive that he had to be called off his opponent, which resulted in a seldom heard laugh from his DI.

  The remaining time passed quickly for the men of 389. The dreaded holidays away from home actually turned out to be welcomed time off from training. On Thanksgiving, they were treated to a fancy feast with all the trimmings. All that was missing from Buddy’s traditional celebration was Helen and Woody’s incessant bickering, his dad’s ritual eating utensils, and his mother’s German Chocolate cake. Just before Christmas, he received a giant box of homemade cookies from Mable, sufficient for feeding the entire Platoon. And the arrival of the New Year signaled the end of training.

  Buddy felt good about all that he had accomplished except for one thing. Either his recruiter had access to incorrect information or he just outright lied about Buddy becoming a Marine pilot.

  “That was a promise,” argued Buddy when he was presented with his duty assignment. “The recruiter said it was a done deal.”

  Buddy’s indignation was met with laughter. “My recruiter told me I would see the world. So far, all I’ve seen is this desk and a pile of papers.

  “Where I come from, a promise is a promise. I would think that lying is against everything that being a Marine stands for.”

  “Serving your country is not about being what you want to be and doing what you want to do. It’s about serving your country.”

  Buddy realized that no amount of arguing could change the outcome of his duty assignment. He dropped the subject.

  The interviewer continued. “To be a pilot you’re required to have a college degree and then you must be commissioned as an officer. And in your case, you still couldn’t qualify.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re color blind. Best we can do is to send you to Airman School where you’ll be trained as an Ordnance Tech. You won’t be flying planes, but you’ll be right there with them.”

  On January 2, 1954, Buddy, Donnie, and their fellow Swamp Dogs became Marines. Of the 64 who started training with Platoon #389, 60 made it to graduation. Lester Branson was among those who failed.

  Men in Uniform – January 1954

  For the second time in six months, Buddy was homeward bound on a Greyhound Bus. Fortunately, this time, he was over the depression that haunted him on his first trip. However, Donnie was now in that boat of despair, still reeling from Trudy’s breakup letter. He feared he might run into her since she was still home for the holiday break from college.

  The journey from Parris Island to Strasburg took just under twelve hours with several bus changes along the way. The most unpleasant stop was the layover at the Richmond terminal where they waited for two hours for their bus to arrive. Buddy thought about calling Sally during the long delay but reasoned that it would best to leave well enough alone. He had moved on with his life and supposed that she had done the same.

  Buddy and Donnie were proud of what they had accomplished in Boot Camp and they were honored to wear the uniform that identified them as United States Marines. And when they stepped off the bus onto King Street in Strasburg, they were filled with so much pride, they were about to bust a button.

  “Donnie,” shrieked his mother. “Welcome home.”

  Standing behind the Turners were the Polks, teary-eyed and thrilled to see their son. Even Helen and Woody were there and nearby was police officer Tommy Clem, Buddy and Donnie’s old Boy Scout leader.

  After the brief reunion, the families returned to their homes. On the car trip back to the Polk house on Capon Street, Buddy was persuaded that his mother set a new record for questions asked in 5 minutes, the first of which was, “What happened to your beautiful hair?”

  “For God’s sake, Mable,” complained Charlie. “Let the boy talk.”

  When Buddy got out of the car, he ran after Dickie, caught him, and engaged him in an enthusiastic bout of tickling. When the fun was over, he told his nephew to check his pockets from which Dickie retrieved 2
quarters.

  As the rest of the family ascended the front steps and entered the house, Buddy took a detour to the pen where his dog, Inky was kept. Minutes later the two were playing chase in the yard. Undaunted by the cold January temperature, Buddy ran and Inky jumped as though they had never been apart. Their time together brought to mind their first meeting when Inky was a pup. Just a stray that nobody wanted…dropped off to find a home. It took some heavy duty begging, but eventually Buddy’s parents warmed to the idea of taking in the cuddly pet.

  Playtime ended when Helen threw open the back door. “Dinner,” she yelled.

  “Back in a little while. I’ll bring you a bone,” said Buddy as Inky barked knowingly in response.

  By the time Buddy arrived, the family was already gathered at the kitchen table.

  “Beginning to think you didn’t want to be with us,” said Mable.

  “Had to see Inky before it gets dark. Of course, I want to see you.”

  “Made all your favorites,” she said while handing him a bowl of mashed potatoes. “Brown and white gravy. Take your pick. Have both if you want. What do you think of my new stove?”

  “Very nice,” said Buddy admiring the state of the art range.

  “Me and your daddy went to Winchester and picked it out. It’s a General Electric. Best they make.”

  Buddy wondered how his mother was able to get his dad to agree to purchase such an impressive appliance. Such extravagance was uncommon.

  They sat there for nearly an hour, eating, and listening to Buddy relive his Boot Camp adventures. And then Helen dropped one of her all too familiar bombshells. “Guess what we’re doing this weekend?”

  Charlie didn’t wait to hear her announcement. He hummed in advance. After all, this meeting was about Buddy, not her.

  “We’re finally moving to Middletown. Buddy, thought maybe you could help us.”

  “My God, Helen. The boy just got home,” said Charlie, who then grabbed his eating utensils from the table and carried them to the sink.