Thirty-Nine Years Ago...

I missed my opportunity to touch on my experience of going into the Navy on the actual anniversary. Thirty-nine years ago, however, I woke up in the Receiving and Orientation barracks, to begin my second day of confinement at the Naval Training Center, San Diego. Getting that far, however, was not uneventful.

After the phone call from the Navy Recruiter, my parents were pretty stunned. They had no idea. I had made up a "plausable" story, going to spend the night with friends after going to the Fillmore, to take a Greyhound to SF in order to take my Basic Battery Tests (GCT/ARI/Sonar/bunch of others, now called ASVAB's), to see if I qualified for professional training. I did pretty well, a combined GCT/ARI of 127, well above any minimum requirements for any of the schools. I chose DP, Data Processing Technician, and was guaranteed to attend the Class "A" School after Boot Camp.

Now that the word was out, so to speak, I think my dad was very pleased, perhaps a bit proud, but he would never actually tell me. Mom was worried, probably for a good reason, as she had been a Navy Wife for a long time, and knew what sailors went through. There was also, on her side, a genetic link to alcoholism, and she knew I had been drinking for a while, already. They took me to the Induction Center, witnessed my swearing-in (actually my second), and spent some time hanging out with me until the bus to the airport came. They actually went to the Oakland Airport, and hung out with me until the plane boarded. This did a lot for my "reputation" going in. Most everyone else was alone.

We got on a PSA 727 bound from Oakland, direct to San Diego. I had a gym-bag, and a hefty envelope containing all of my paperwork. Taped to the front were my orders, identifying me as D82-31-8274, my Service number. We were all told not to order alcoholic beverages during the flight, so I drank a cola; the flight took about an hour.

When we arrived at Lindberg Field, we were met by a Navy/Marine Corps Recruit Liason, who shouted a lot, and got us in three lines, standing at Parade Rest, baggage and records between our feet. There were a total of 110 of us, 14 Marines, and 96 Navy. The bus to NTC had a capacity of 90, and I watched everyone, including the guy next to me, get on the bus. I was 91. "Great," I thought, "now we have to wait for the bus to go back, unload, and come back." It was my first day, what the heck did I know.

The Navy driver, upon reaching his limit, went in to tell the Recruit Liason that there were still six Navy recruits left. While he was inside, the MCRD bus came, a smaller, 30-passenger, Marine OD green stopped. The driver was loading his 14 recruits as the Recruit Liason, a Navy CPO, burst through the doors, screaming profanities at everyone, but no one in particular. He got on the Navy bus, looked around, and got off; got back on, then off again, swearing like a Mule Skinner, and stomped off to the MCRD bus. Noticing that the MCRD bus was only half full, he approached the Corporal-driver, and a short, but angry discussion ensued. When it was over, the Corporal got on the bus, moved all the Marine Recruits to the front of the bus, giving the last two rows of seats to the six Navy-guys. "This ain't gonna work," the Corporal kept muttering. When we were all situated, he told us to stay in our seats, no matter what happened at MCRD, and he would drive us to NTC.

The drive was quiet-ish, some general conversation, getting to know one's fellow recruit, stuff like that. As we pulled in to the Marine Corps Recruit Depot, things got real quiet as we entered the gate, and pulled up to the main building. A Drill Instructor, complete with his "Smokey the Bear" hat waited patiently for the bus to stop. As soon as the door opened, the largest, meanest, angriest black man I have ever seen leaped onto the bus, put his hand on his hips (effectively blocking the forward exit), and started screaming. "Maggots, you got ten seconds, and ten seconds only to get off this bus, and get on those yellow footprints outside; we've already used up five, and you won't touch me on the way out, now MOVE!"

Fourteen Marine Recruits got busy throwing things out the windows, going out the emergency exits, and otherwise getting out of this man's immediate vicinity. It was Marx Brothers, Keystone Kops, and Three Stooges, all at once, live. It struck me as funny, and I laughed, attracting the attention of the DI. "What the [explicative] is your problem [explicative]?" The Corporal tugged on the DI's trouser-leg, and told him we were headed for NTC. A look of hatred passed across the DI's face, "Pussies!" He yelled, exiting the bus. Our journey continued not a moment too soon.
The short ride between MCRD and NTC was very, very quiet. I looked around at the other guys, and they all had the same look on their faces, "What have I done?" After the experience with the Marine DI, none of us knew what to expect when we reached our destination. I worked on steeling myself up for a repeat performance, a badass shouting orders. For the second time, as a newly-enlisted Navy recruit, I was wrong.
I swear, the man who got on the bus was Wally Cox. Looked like him, sounded like him, I almost laughed when he said, "OK you guys, they have already started a session, you need to wait out here, and you can smoke if you want, until they come to get you." Getting off the bus, I noticed a guy in dungarees, folded up once, at the bottom, wearing a white helmet, and deck shoes. He was walking around the compound, going from floor-to-floor, and he looked like he was in some kind of pain. Some of my previous doubts returned.
It was all pretty smooth. We went in, took everything out of our pockets, dumped any baggage into a box, kept our razors and shaving cream, sealed it all up, and mailed it to our home address. Relieved of any possible contraband, we were handed linens, pillows, and blankets, and led to a second-story barracks room. We were directed to remove any facial hair, including sideburns, up to the tops of our ears, immediately after we claimed, and made, a bunk. It was after "Taps," but the room was a-buzz with noise, as we shaved, and prepared ourselves for a sleepless night.
Crash! "Get the [explicative] up!
It was the loudest sound I'd ever heard (OK, up to this point). Up? I was half-way dressed before the trash can stopped bouncing down the "centerboard". Up? I had slept maybe an hour, the image of that poor guy in the white helmet had me worried. Up? I'm scared out of my wits, and you come in bouncing a trashcan through the middle of the room, screaming your lungs out, and expect me not to be up? That was March 16, 1971.
Thirty-nine years ago, today, the wake-up was much less dramatic.