Girl Lost  Chapter 7 

September 9th, 1970 - Elvis was in Phoenix and I was in San Diego - the Marne Corps Recruit Depot to be specific. As the days went on, I realized I should not have acted on the suggestion to enlist so quickly but I had been feeling so rejected, scared and alone at the time that it was done as an impulse. Staying for the Elvis concert would have been a better choice.

Most of boot camp was a blur - military classes , physical training and drill made up the day. Everything was done as a group so privacy didn't exist. We'd march everywhere together - classes - chow - the head - and showers. Even punishment when someone messed up was done as a group.

The recruiter had told me that the easiest way to survive boot camp was to keep my mouth shut unless replying to a D.I. or platoon commander which helped immensely especially since I had 18 years of keeping my mouth shut at home. I only wish he would have mentioned how to avoid others messing up which was a bigger problem for me.

It felt that I was always doing punishment exercises - 99.9% being caused by others. ( I went into the Corps at 128 lbs and between PT (physical training) and the punishment exercises I came out of boot camp at 150 lbs. (Any thoughts of keeping my cute figure had obviously disappeared.)

I had three major dislikes in boot camp:

1) Drill - I hated it! Enough said.

2) Target practice - We used the M-14 for both drill and qualifying at the rifle range while the Marines in Vietnam were using the newer M-16. All Marines had to qualify with their weapon - period. I qualified on my last shot - a bullseye in the prone position at 500 yards. The D.I. walked by and told me I had no idea how fortunate I had been to make that shot.

3) Group showers - the worst part of boot camp for me hands down! Early on the D.I. yelled "incoming". We were expected to dive to the floor and cover our heads without hesitation. Wet - nude - male bodies on and under me - so disgusting - it took every fiber of my being to not vomit.

As hard as I tried, I could not totally avoid confrontation with my D.I.. We had been stamping our names in our uniforms when he came over to inspect my efforts. He didn't say a word and turned to walk away. The next thing I knew I was flying over a bunk and crashing into a wall - I had no idea what had happened.

Dazed, I struggled to my feet. He was standing there looking at me. He stated that we should all consider that a lesson to pay better attention to what we were doing. Looking over my work I found the smallest of ink tails hanging from the last letter of my name. Lesson learned.

I was amazed that he had even seen it but was more amazed at the speed that he had displayed in connecting his fist with my chest. I realized that he had actually not hit me as much as had given me a controlled but powerful shove.

I'd never seen it coming but would see the speed and control soon after when he used it on another recruit.

We'd just finished a run (in formation). There had been numerous drops and the procedure was for the formation to run circles around the recruit who had dropped until he rejoined the formation allowing it to continue. This could double or triple the actual length of a run depending on how many people would drop during the run. Apparently, this was to much for the recruit and he flipped out as we arrived back at the barracks moving through the formation swinging at random recruits.

I watched in fascination as the D.I. took a second, assessed the situation, made his decision, timed his move, and proceeded to step in between the wild swings and level a lightening fast blow to the recruit's chin. He was not only down but out for the count! I remember feeling an overwhelming sense of relief that I had only received a shove from him and not the punch.

FYI - Our shirts were blouses (okay with me), women wore pants so ours were called trousers, and we carried weapons not guns - a gun was that thing between a guys legs - it was known for firing both bullets and blanks.

With boot camp winding down, I was starting to feel a little more confident in my ability to remain invisible and out of trouble until graduation. No such luck. The platoon was in line waiting to enter the mess hall. The D.I. had been walking up and down the line looking us over when he stopped next to me and asked what was sticking up out of my trouser pocket.

I knew he could see they were my newly acquired glasses. He pulled them from the pocket - asked if that was where they belonged and then placed them on my nose wrapping the ends around my ears several times. Then he asked who the hell I was and if I'd been in his platoon from the beginning. Even after I said yes, he asked several more times. Keeping my mouth shut had definitely paid off.

Graduation arrived and so did my dad. He was wearing his Air Force blues. He looked impressive. I took him over to meet the platoon commander and promptly proceeded to trip in the gravel as I did my about face to walk away.. As I stumbled, I glanced over to see the P.C. shake his head at my dad. I didn't care - I had graduated!

I had a little time before leaving for ITR at Camp Pendleton. I walked around with my dad for a few minutes but have no idea what we spoke to each other about. 18 years old and we still couldn't communicate beyond hello and goodbye.

Our visit did end on a humorous if somewhat embarrassing note A Marine had come around a corner so fast I didn't see a rank. I popped off a salute with my dad following suit. It was only a private! We ended up grinning at each other and then saying goodbye.

I left for Camp Pendleton a short while later.