1205 hours—1300 hou. . .
Attention!
Now Listen Up.
If I may digress; I wish to call your attention to this sign:
DRILL INSTRUCTOR’S CREED
THESE ARE MY RECRUITS. I WILL TRAIN THEM TO THE BEST OF MY ABILITY.
I WILL DEVELOP THEM INTO SMARTLY DISCIPLINED, PHYSICALLY FIT, BASICALLY TRAINED MARINES, THOROUGHLY INDOCTRINATED IN LOVE OF GOD, COUNTRY, AND CORPS.
I WILL DEMAND OF THEM AND DEMONSTRATE BY MY OWN EXAMPLE, THE HIGHEST STANDARDS OF PERSONAL CONDUCT, MORALITY AND PROFESSIONAL SKILL.
This maxim was posted behind every desk of every Dill Instructor for every recruit to see.
That said (or read), I would like to speak of a phaenomenon of the human race; the Drill Instructor slash Drill Sergeant.
He was an enigma to the average, shaved-head, scared out-of-his-shorts, recruit. For one thing, he was leather-lunged. That is: He could spend the day and night and the next day calling cadence to the marching boots (recruits) . . . and tire nary a lick. He could shout out push-ups with unflagging repetition, counting out the numbers from one, up to the two digit plateau, further up the line into the three digit mark, and ever on into the finite. He could bellow at the boots through the Obstacle Course. Howl at them while they were engaged in hand-to-hand combat classes. Roar at them at the Conditioning Course. Screech at them during Physical Drill under Arms exercises. And even bawl at them during book learnin’ at Class Time. The Dill Instructor’s shouts became second nature to the recruits, and after awhile, a scream became akin to a lovers refrain.
A DI also displayed superhuman attributes. His endurance and strength were unmatched. When the recruits marched, the DI’s led them. When the recruits forced-marched, the DI’s led them. When the recruits double-timed, the DI’s led them. No matter what the distance, terrain, or climate. And they did it better, harder, faster than their BEST . . . young peers. In addition, they seemed not to sleep. They were awaiting outside the barracks long before reveille sounded, eager to start the day. And they were the last to leave late at night when “lights out” was ordered, saddened that they had to depart.
(And in the dark, the DI reappeared in the recruit’s psyche, leaving him hinky and discombobulated. Definitely out of sight . . . but never out of mind.)
The Drill Instructor’s instilled many types of discipline; the most important being—the reacting to orders without a thought. And in random order: they taught us rifle discipline and shooting discipline. Water and food discipline. Elimination of bodily waste discipline. Sleep discipline. Awake discipline. Breathing discipline. Time discipline. Discipline for when you were good, and discipline for when you were bad. You name it . . . there was a discipline for it.
The DI was the midwife of our birthing from the womb of Marine Corps Recruiting Depot, San Diego—into the icy, but capable, hands of the U.S.M.C. (translation: Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children.)
That is all.
1205 hours—1330 hours: What better thing to do after a relaxing and a refreshing lunch, but jump into the deep-end of an Olympic sized swimming pool. (As you recall, it was the 60’s, and the ol’ wives tale about never eating on a full stomach—was still taken as truth.) The object of this little exercise—in military jargon—was Drown Proofing. Dive in and float, either gut up or arse up, like a corpse in a river. Time limit 25 minutes. Feet never touching bottom. Okay for the trained swimmers, not so okay for the ones prone to sink like a rock. There you’d be, splashing for life, choking on water, and in a panic. Until you’re finally saved by a lifeguard employing a cross-chest carry—to the edge, half-drowned, embarrassed and fearful. . . . Waiting for the DI’s awesome wrath as he stands there, arms akimbo, and hellfire in his eyes.
(more to come . . .)
Terry Sako is the author of 395 and a Wake Up; a novel of the Vietnam War.
Please see: www.terrysako.com
