Going to the Fleet, But Still a Boot
Hawaii
March 1993. In our Bravos (all
green dress uniform Marines wear when in semi-formal occasions or situations
with civilian contact such as travel), myself and about thirty other Marines
fresh out of SOI were a strange sight to the tourists on the plane to Honolulu
with us. Some of us did our best to control our uniquely foul mouths when kids
were around, but I could tell that the overbearing and arrogant vibes we were
putting out were not a hit with the camera crowd. For some reason, it must be in
a Marine's blood, we all thought that a flight attendant would laugh at our
crude sex jokes because she wanted us, not because she was so amazed at our
utter lack of sophistication. Is that our fault? What do you expect to get when
you give an 18 year old a small arsenal, tell him that in some situations he
will have the right to take lives without fear of punishment, physically
desensitize him to violence, and then place him and several of his compadres on
an airplane unsupervised with attractive women on it? I think some civilian
images of the Marine Corps changed on that flight, or maybe not!
We got off the
plane, grabbed our bags, and started sweating. What!?! It was 8:00 at night, but
still 70 degrees and humid as hell. The Corporal who picked us up was joking
with us on the ride to base, how strange. I wanted to see everything that went
by, but it was too dark and the only thing I really saw was the Pali tunnel as
we went through it on our way to K-Bay (Kaneohe Bay). We checked into transient
barracks (barracks that people waiting to go to their unit stayed in), and had
to hit the rack. I didn't want to, but those bastards would not let us off the
base until we had our orientation.
After a morning of shit jobs, four hours of
boring lectures in the afternoon telling us where everything on the base was,
and some cheesy movie made in 1975 telling us not to start fights with the
Hawaiians, we were finally put on libo! It was already 5:00 at night on a
Wednesday, but I just did not care. Me and some friends headed straight to the
libo bus (a military bus that would take Marines to and from Waikiki, riding one
meant that you were either a serious loser, or just got here, or both). I had a
nice sum of money saved up because we did not have any free time in boot camp
and SOI, thanks Corporal Perez, and I was ready to unload some of it. Then
reality hit me right in the face, I was only 20 years old. NNNNOOOOOOOOO!!!!!
But wait, one of the boys heard that there was a place that made really good
fake I.Ds. These I.Ds looked somewhat close to the ones used in certain states
like Colorado and Florida, whose I.Ds are simple and easy to copy. We found the
guy, slapped down our $45, and got our tickets to the party.
The first place we
went was called Wave Waikiki. I heard it was the best alternative rock club in
town, so we were there. We nervously stood in line listening to music coming out
of the club by a new band called "Pearl Jam". Wow, this place really is cool, I
said to my friend as we tried to act like we were way over 21, until the first
of us reached the bouncer... NNNNOOOOOOOO!!!! He laughed his ass off when he saw
that worthless piece of trash I.D. He told the rest of us that if we threw them
away, he would not call the cops, so we did. Afterward, we asked him how he
knew, and he told us that he could tell by our haircuts and clothes that we were
new, and that guy who sold them to us runs a scam on all the new guys!!! He said
every bar in Hawaii was wise, so we were screwed. Oh well, we went to the beach
and played chess with some homeless guys until the libo bus came to pick us up
at 11:00. The driver knew, everyone did. We were what is called a "boot", which
is the Marine term for a new guy or it can also be used for anyone lower in rank
than the person using the term if he wants to be disrespectful.
Good Old Marine Corps Hospitality
A few days
later, we were finally assigned to our units. The few good friends I had from
boot camp and SOI who made it to Hawaii with me were all scattered among the
different infantry units at K-Bay. I would have to face my new unit with people
who I did not know, some from earlier SOI cycles, some from SOI on the East
Coast. I was assigned to Third Battalion Third Marines (3/3 it is called) Lima
Company 2nd platoon. Lima Company's nickname was "Force Lima" or "The Force"
because during an earlier training exercise, they captured some elite Force
Recon guys. On a sign the company made was it's motto "Pain is weakness leaving
the body."
As all of us boots came to the barracks with our gear, we were given
a warm Marine Corps welcome of insults by the rest of the unit which had just
returned from the field and were cleaning huge chunks of red Hawaiian clay from
their rifles. We hardly noticed because we were in awe of the rooms that we
would be living in! Each room held three Marines. To us, who were used to sleeping
in open squad bays when we were not under the stars, it was like the Taj Mahal.
The only problem was that the rooms were still overcrowded with senior Marines
in Lima Company due to leave the Corps soon, so some special arrangements would
have to be made temporarily, and that was sure to create some interesting situations.
Normally, Marines live with other Marines of their
own rank, but I would have to stay with a fire team leader (a fire team is the
most basic unit in the infantry and consists of four Marines: a team leader,
automatic rifleman which is the same thing as a machine gunner just a smaller
machine gun, assistant automatic rifleman who helps with the maintenance and aiming of the
machine gun, and a rifleman who handles scouting duties and other similar jobs).
His name was Lance Corporal Balon (Lance Corporal is one rank higher than
Private First Class, one lower than Corporal). Everyone thought we would get
along because we both came from Southern California, and we liked to surf but
sucked at it. When I arrived, he told me as long as I cleaned the room there would be no
problems. I never was good at cleaning things...
My team leader was Lance
Corporal (LCPL) Epps. He was a tall, laid back black guy from Philly.
While all the other boots were enduring sadistic rites of initiation by their
team leaders, Epps just told me that as long as I didn't screw up, he would not
be on my ass. As for initiation, he told me to look in my wall locker. When I
opened it I saw a Old English 40 ounce malt liquor! I was real lucky, but my
history told me that I should be wary because whenever something good happened,
something twice as bad would follow.
The first week I was at my best: shined
boots, pressed uniform, always fifteen minutes early, and generally acting like the hard-ass that
everyone expected a boot to act like. The squad leader (a squad is three fire
teams), Corporal Cusumano, was impressed and rewarded me by assigning me the
position of navigator on the next field op. This was a serious responsibility,
and was usually only assigned to someone who had some experience, so I knew I
was being tested. I was real nervous as the CH-53 Sea Stallion helicoptors
touched ground on an open field on the island of Molokai. As we ran off and got
into our defensive formation around the bird (helicopter), Corporal Cusumano
looked at me, and I began orienting us with the map and compass. I then told him
which way we should go, and he got us moving. We actually were going in the
right direction!! Eight miles later, we were almost there. I had passed my test,
and...wait a minute. I reached down to my side and noticed that my bayonet was
missing. The second worst thing a Marine can do, first being fall asleep on
watch, is lose gear. I wanted to tell Epps, but I was assigned to Cusumano for
this mission. I had no choice but to tell him. Surprisingly, he did not freak
out like my leaders before would have. We were ahead of schedule, so he stopped
the squad and gave me fifteen minutes to go back and find it. I looked everywhere,
but could not find it in the tall banana grass. Epps told me that there was
nothing he could do to help me. If Cusumano wanted to, he could do either
informal (physical) punishment, or write something in my record book. A Corporal
in the grunts (infantry) has great power, and his decisions are seldom
questioned by his superiors, at least the superiors who understand the
importance of that position. After returning to K-Bay, I was expecting the usual
SOI punishment for this screw-up. What actually happened I was not ready for.
Cusumano drove up in his car and told me to get in. I asked him what we were
doing. Was he going to drive me to the beach and drown me? No, he said, we were
going into Honolulu to get a new bayonet from a surplus store! He was actually
covering my little PFC ass. I had no words to thank him for that act. All he
said to me was "I like your attitude Fite, but do it again and you're gonna be
in a world of shit!"
The other team leaders began to think that I was getting
special treatment, and concluded that if Epps would not "correct" me, they
would. When they started getting in my face, I had no problem with it. I had
expected it sooner or later, but Epps took it as an affront to his leadership
abilities and told me to tell him anytime I was being messed with. That put me
in the bad position of either "running to papa" and looking like a pussy, or
ignoring my team leader, who was the only one standing between myself and a very unpleasant encounter
with the "Chain of Woe" (more about that later).
It finally came to a head one night when me and Balon
were drinking and playing football on his Sega. I was beating him, and he was
pissed off that a boot could do that on his game. To make things even worse for him, I was
playing my favorite team, the Raiders, and he was playing his, the Redskins
(this makes perfect sense to a drunk Marine). When I ran the clock out on him so
he would not get a chance to score, he snapped and took a swing at me! It was
on. He was mad that a boot had "challenged him", and I was mad that he was
bringing all the team leaders down on me. He was about 50 pounds heavier than
me, so I was at a big disadvantage in the cramped room. There was no way I could
wrestle with him, so I kept throwing punches at his face to try to keep him
back, but he was drunk and didn't feel anything. He got inside, picked me up,
and smashed me against the wall a few times. I could tell that this kind of
thing happened all the time, because the Marines living in the room next to us
knocked on our door and politely asked Balon to throw me against a different
wall so they could sleep. In the end, he landed a lot more punches, but they
were to the body. I had gotten two lucky shots to his face giving him a black
eye and a bloody nose, so everyone who saw him thought I had kicked his ass! I
think the next morning he even believed I kicked his ass, because he helped me
clean the room. Or maybe he did that because I suck so bad at cleaning.
My
friend, Lacy, got in worse trouble. After returning from a field op, we had a surprise wall locker
inspection to look for any contraband like drugs
or weapons. When Lacy's wall locker was opened, a small stockpile of ammo he
kept from SOI fell out. Something like 500 rounds for the SAW, a few smoke
grenades, several .50 caliber rounds, and about five or so high explosive hand grenades! How
did he manage to get that much ammo? Obviously, he was just keeping the ammo he
was issued at the ranges in SOI. The real question was how did he manage to
bring all that to Hawaii? He said that he just put it all in with his checked
baggage. My faith in airline security was destroyed that day. He could have gone
to the brig for a long time for something that serious, but the Captain decided that
it wasn't so bad for someone to be "interested in his job"! He recieved two weeks
base restriction and the nickname "Crazy Lacy" as punishment.
One day, the X.O
(Executive Officer, one below the Commanding Officer), Lieutenant Tuggle, a tall,
skinny blond guy with a Southern accent and a misleadingly easy going
personality, asked for volunteers for a "Rough Terrain Team", promising extra
action for those that did. That team would be responsible for making rope
bridges, setting up rappel sites, and other rope related activities that could
help Lima Company move through jungle and mountainous terrain faster. I
immediately volunteered. That was exactly the kind of thing that I wanted,
"adventure". After a week long training session in which we learned from Lt
Tuggle how to set up rope bridges over rivers, rappel (a method of going down a
rope in which you use rope friction on your waist to control your descent), and
how to tie every knot known to man, we were ready for the real thing. Lt. Tuggle
loved to form special groups like the Rough Terrain Team as an excuse to conduct
special exercises that would not usually be approved for us normal grunts.
Our
first "training exercise" was Australian rappelling from a CH-46 helicopter. The Australian variant
of rappelling involves going down the rope facing the ground, whereas normally
we rappelled with our backs to the earth. The Australian method is much more
exciting, but it takes a little more skill to brake properly, and it is easier
to fall out of your harness. The idea is that if you are facing the ground when
you go down, you can still shoot at targets. I must say that anyone who could
still hit a man-sized target while Australian rappelling is one excellent
marksman! The tower we were practicing on was fifty feet high, and we had gotten
used to that height. When I got in a bird and looked at the ground from a hundred and ten feet
up, my eyes opened up a little bit more. We had to jump out, free-fall for about
ninety feet, and brake at the last second. The local Marine recruiter had actually
come to film us! I guess he wanted to make some kind of propaganda film to show
his prospective recruits, the poor suckers. The first time I went, I chickened
out a little and started braking about halfway down, which drew the ire of Lt
Tuggle, but I wasn't the only one. After that I got the hang of it, had a good
time, and finished the day with no broken bones.
The next week, we had another
"special training" meeting of the team. This time, we would be SPIE rigging. I
can't remember what SPIE stands for, but it is a way of inserting troops into
dense jungle by hanging a rope under a helicopter and hooking about ten Marines
onto that rope in pairs. There was nothing for the Marine riding on the rope to
do other than enjoy the terrific view of Oahu as we flew around at about a thousand feet
high. That was an awesome ride, and I am glad I was able to sneak my camcorder up
with me to film the whole thing. After that day, the Rough Terrain Team never
met again. Lt Tuggle formed it because he wanted to do some SPIE rigging and
Australian rapelling from helicopters. Now that we did it, he would form some
other team in a few months to do some different crazy stunt that he dreamed up.
Of course, that team would be the same group of volunteers who had made up the
Rough Terrain Team!
Passing the Test
Shortly after the Rough Terrain Team, I was promoted to Lance Corporal. This
was a good thing, and a bad thing. There is a tradition in Lima Company that
when a Marine makes it to Lance Corporal, he has to walk the "Gauntlet". Nobody
lower than Lance Corporal was allowed to be present for the ceremony. Myself and
all the others who had been promoted waited nervously outside our hallway for
permission to enter while the gauntlet was being formed. Finally the door
opened, my name was called, and I entered cautiously, for only one Marine was
allowed in at a time. What I saw inside waiting for me was about what I
expected. All the Lance Corporals and above were lined up on both sides of the
hallway, and I was instructed to proceed. I walked slowly forward, and as I
reached each pair of guys, I was punched twice on each shoulder and leg. Some
assholes used their elbows so that it would hurt more. They wanted me to pay my
final due to them before I joined their brotherhood. By the time I reached the
end of the hallway, my arms were so sore I couldn't raise them, but I was happy
that I had finally passed the "probationary period" with Lima Company. There was
a room where each new Lance Corporal went to wait for the thing to end, which I
utilized to checked the bruises on my arms and legs. Everyone came in and we
were told that we were now officially part of the unit, and we were expected to
follow the rules of solidarity. It was a good feeling. I was mainly glad nobody called us
boots anymore (except when they were pissed off at us) and that the older Lance Corporals trusted us. That moment is
the first time in a Marine's career that he can say he really has a home.
Unfortunately, the
training we did in Hawaii was not all joyriding in helicopters. The entire year
was planned in advance by our commanders to first integrate the boots, second
train to the point where we were a cohesive unit, third go to the Big Island for
a month to prove our readiness to do any mission that we could be called to do,
and finally pass an inspection by the Commanding General of all our uniforms,
weapons, and gear.
The
inspections and field tests had to be
passed in order to go on our six month deployment to Japan in 1994, so they were
taken very seriously. During that time, we were visited by Australian troops who
were doing an exchange program with us, while some of our lucky guys got to go
to Australia for a month. It was interesting to see the differences between us
and them. They were very competent troops and good guys all around, but I think that they tried to get
too complicated with their tactics. In combat, the Marine Corps follows the KISS
rule, meaning "Keep it simple, stupid." Of course we studied tactics constantly, but
I think the Marine doctrine is to perfect the fundamentals such as physical conditioning, marksmanship,
and team cohesiveness, which won't be forgotten in the adrenaline rush of a fight.
That is why Marine infantry units are
broke down into four man teams. At even the lowest level, each man can function
without direct contact with headquarters.
On the libo side of life, I was
enjoying Waikiki and the rest of Oahu's great beaches every weekend, but the
local women were not very friendly to most military personnel, especially haoles
(white guy in Hawaii) and jarheads (slang for Marines). I guess they had been
burnt too many times in the past. I know, I can't believe that Marines would do
something like that either. Fortunately, the tourists had no such inhibitions!
Finally, August came and we went to the Big Island
for our month long field operation tests. We landed at the airport near Puuloa
Ranch, and the excercises began right there. We had to tactically move from the
airport to the base called PTA (Puhakaloa Training Area) about 40 miles away. We had
four days to do it, which might seem like a long time but is not when you are
moving tactically against an opposing force. The enemy was simulated by 2/3
which was another battalion in our regiment. The weather was hot, about 90
degrees, which made wearing our heavy gear that does not allow for ventilation
miserable.
Our new platoon commander was straight out of Officer
Candidate School. He wanted us to do everything by the book, even when common
sense would suggest otherwise. It was only a matter of time before his
inflexibility would come back to haunt him. One night, while we were at 50%
alert (which means that 50% of the platoon sleeps, the other half is on watch,
they shift every hour) he fell asleep and someone took his rifle which he was
supposed to be sleeping with. Letting someone take your rifle while you are
sleeping is a huge no no, usually resulting in the sadistical physical
punishment of the person who chose not to take the necessary precautions.
Whoever snatched it, I think it was one of the team leaders, broke it down into
its individual parts and placed them randomly around the area we were staying
at. He woke up a few hours later and started to panic when he realized his rifle
was gone. I remember him coming up to my position at about 2:30 am when I was on
watch. He was trying to act like nothing was wrong, asking me how everything was
going, but I could tell something was up because he was walking around in circles looking at the ground
with NVGs (night vision goggles). A few hours later, the C.O called an officer's
meeting, and he did not have his rifle with him. I think the Captain knew
what had happened, because he went to a team leader, and a few minutes later the Lt's
rifle appeared magically next to his fighting hole. I don't think he
ever forgave us for that one.
The Infamous "Trail of Tears" Night
On the way to PTA, we had one of the worst nights
of my whole four years in the Corps. One of our scouts discovered that the unit
we were against was planning to ambush us further down the trail we were taking,
so the Battalion Commander decided to go around them since we didn't have time
to fight. The only problem with that plan was that the terrain we were to go
over was nothing but lava fields which had cooled over the years and become jagged as the large chunks broke
into smaller ones for as far as the eye could see. Later that night, as the
moon disappeared above the clouds and our visability became nil, the 5 foot high
and sharp as hell "lava dogs" we were walking over went from a being a nuisance
to dangerous. By about 3:00 in the morning, exhausted troops were starting to
fall asleep as they walked. Every few minutes a loud "ting, ting, ting" could be
heard as a mortarman fell asleep and went with his steel tube down the side.
When we finally reached base at about 7:00 am, our uniforms and skin were
shredded from the lava fields. Most of us wanted to see our Battalion
Commander's head on a pole, but were too tired to go do it. Little did I know,
but there was even more fun to come.
About a week later, 2nd platoon was eating
our MRE lunch at a rifle range. There were some extra meals sitting around, so a
few guys opened them and ate the desserts. The LT came back and picked up his
spaghetti MRE that he liked so we always saved for him, and noticed that it was
open and the dessert was gone. He wanted to know who ratfucked (went through)
his lunch. Nobody could remember who took the desert from the spaghetti MRE, so
we couldn't answer. When everyone who took a dessert said they might have done
it, he thought we were bullshitting him, and made us stand at attention in the
sun with all our gear on until someone admitted to it. This pissed us off, so we
all just kept our mouths shut. Two hours later, it was time to go, but he said
it was not over. We would all have to pay for taking his M&Ms. By this time,
we were starting to believe that he had the mind of a spoiled child, because he
just wouldn't let it go. The next weekend, Lima Company was free to go on libo
to Kona (a beach town on the west coast of the Big Island), but he said 2nd
platoon would not be going. When he said 2nd platoon, he did not mean himself,
of course. Our old Platoon Sergeant (usually a Staff Sergeant who is the highest
ranking enlisted man in the platoon, his job is to assist the Platoon Commander
and let him know when he gets too stupid) had left, and Corporal Cusumano had
the position. That was bad for us, because a Corporal does not carry enough
weight to change a stubborn boot Lieutenant's mind. He never respected
Cusumano's opinions, despite the fact that he knew more about how to
successfully lead Marines than the LT did. Our lack of a high ranking
enlisted man at the Platoon Sergeant position to keep the Lt in check would hurt
2nd platoon for a long time to come. The only thing that saved our weekend at
Kona was when the C.O. heard what was happening and "advised" Lt to change
his mind.
I was not a perfect angel at PTA either. Me and my friend
Digiovanni were assigned radio watch one afternoon on a rifle range after we had
shot. We had two radios, so we set one of them to a frequency of a civilian
station that was broadcasting a Minnesota Vikings game, and the other to the
rangemaster which we had to monitor. What we didn't know was that the button on
the handset used to speak was jammed on the radio we set to the range master, so
everybody on every range with a radio could hear everything we were saying.
Typical lunchtime conversation for grunts usually includes talking about what
officers you would like to shoot, what super-models you would like to screw, and
singing the theme music of porno movies that you like. Me and Digiovanni's lunch
was very typical. After about 15 minutes of radio watch, a hummer (a humvee,
which is the military's new version of a jeep) innocently drove up. Some Staff
Sergeant with a battalion office job came out yelling for the radio watch.
What's his problem? We switched off the Vikings game and told him we were the
watch. As he was explaining to the Lt what we had just broadcast to the entire
Battalion, we realized that we were in big trouble. Marines could go to the brig
for something like this. The only thing that saved us is that apparently he
thought it was funny! He acted serious until the Staff Sergeant left, then he
looked at us, laughed, then replaced us with some other people. We never heard
anything about it since. I'm sure that he had a good laugh at that one with his
friends at an Officer's Club somewhere. For that uncharacteristic act of leniency, if I saw him step onto a road
in front of my Chevy Suburban, I would have to go ahead and slow down (but I might give him a little scare).
In September we all were glad to be
returning to Oahu. The chow hall at PTA is even worse than the one at boot camp.
I would rather eat an MRE than food from that stink hole. Many Marines smoked
cigarettes before they joined, but found that they could not keep up physically
if they continued. Chewing tobacco was their way around this. As a result, any
room with Marines in it was bound to have empty soda cans that were used as
spitoons. Those who were not careful about separating their Coke from someone's
spit can could be in for an unpleasant surprise. Digiovanni learned this lesson
the hard way. Me, him, and Lance Corporal Albright (a.k.a. spudboy from Idaho) were all roomates after
returning from PTA, and Albright liked to chew. It was inevitable. One morning
while we were waiting for someone to inspect our uniforms for the Commanding
General's inspection, Digiovanni picked up a can of guava juice, and got
something other than guava. His whole face turned white, and he ran to the
toilet to puke his guts out, brush his teeth, and rinse with mouthwash for the
next thirty minutes. When Albright returned to the room, the first thing he saw was
Digiovanni charging at him in a rage, and me trying to hold him back.
He wanted to inflict some serious damage on spudboy! I can't say that I blame him.
After we finished our final Commanding General's inspections, we were declared
fit to go to Japan in January 1994 for our 6 month deployment. It still had not
really hit me that I would soon be living in another country. I had still looked
at the senior Marines who had been there with awe, and imagined that experience
to be off in the future somewhere. At the end of the year, we were allowed to go
on leave for 21 days to see our families before deployment. I had a good time,
and got to see my mom's side of the family in Seattle. I had a hard time
answering all the question about what the Marines is like, because it is
impossible to explain in casual conversation. It was good and bad, exciting and
boring, personally rewarding but politically questionable, character building
and burning time that could be spent in college all at the same time.
Quote of the Year
Finley (at a range in Schofield Barracks, right before being busted in the
jaw by Va for stealing his Crunch'n Munch): "But I like Crunch'n Munch too, Devil Dog!"
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