The Navy's drill instructors are called Recruit Division Commanders (RDCs. The military is enamored with acronyms, so I will do my best to put military lingo into laymen's terms). So as we were going through our final rounds with medical, we were lined up alongside the wall in the hallway, and my RDCs started giving us nicknames. Now, if you've ever seen the movie Animal House, the scene where John Belushi was giving out Delta names, it was sort of like that. Only two names have stuck with me after all these years; one was another person who was aptly named Private Pyle. Yes, just like from Full Metal Jacket. The name fit him like a sweater in the winter. Mine? Well, mine fit just like a sweater in the winter also. Tubby was my name all through boot camp, and man, oh man, did the RDCs not waste a moment to call my name.
P-Days are over, so that means boot camp can properly start. Once the medical department has cleared the final soul, we all marched back to our compartments (these were our barracks where we slept) and stood at attention, in silence and scared shitless. What happened next is something that has stuck with me for over 20 years and is one of my favorite stories to tell. The door in the front of the compartment blasts open under the influence of an RDC's foot. The back and side doors follow suit. For the next hour, it was an onslaught of pushups, 8 count bodybuilders, and jumping jacks. You name it, we did it. They didn't care about your age or past experiences, they just wanted you to do more pushups while calling you colorful names, and as you lost your composure because it was funny, well, you were made an example of. Guess who that was (I'm raising my hand; you just can't see it). I remember it as clear as day. I was in the pushup position, my arms are shaking, and I'm staring at the pool of sweat that is pooling on the floor in front of my face, and then it happened.
RDC: Pyle, are you quitting? Did your mom raise a p**sy?
Pyle: No, sir!
RDC: I think she raised a big lazy p**sy...
Then it happened. Pyle got up and punched the RDC. For about 5 seconds, everything was in slow motion. Right in front of me, a recruit and RDC were fighting. Never in a million years would I've thought that something like this would happen. As I would come to find out, this wouldn't be the last time I would see a fight between service members. As the other RDCs in the compartment restored order, we stood silent, sweaty, out of breath, and in disbelief of what we just saw. The base police came and took Pyle away to the brig, and he was never heard from again. That day would stay a constant conversation topic throughout boot camp. Years later, I would see my old RDC, and I asked him about that day, and all he said was, "shit happens." Boot camp as a whole was a pretty cool experience. My division was nothing short of the military version of The Bad News Bears. I mean that! My division comprised a rag-tag group of folks from all walks of life, and most of them barely made it through the halfway mark. Now, this isn't a dig on their character, far from it.
The military is a strenuous way of life and is not made for everyone. I came close at least 3 times to get out during my career. The only thing that kept me in is that I had zero clues of what I was going to do after I got out. It didn't help that I started to see a pattern with leadership when they knew someone was not going to reenlist; they were pretty much shunned and cast away. We'll get into that a little later. Now, back to boot camp.
I never experienced being homesick before boot camp. Along with getting used to and learning a new way of life, the culture shock was immense. Once you graduate boot camp and go to your first command, you start to realize that it is a tool to re-program 18 plus years and get you military ready. Now, I say re-program, not in a bad way, but to highlight that the RDCs have a herculean task while maintaining Navy regulations and keeping their cool while doing it. Their days normally start around 4 AM and end about 10 PM. I will always consider it one of the most tasking jobs in the military, regardless of branch. The RDCs are stressed, the recruits are stressed, everyone is stressed. While learning how to cope with new surroundings, you try to find any type of reassurance that you did the right thing, and this won't last forever. Whether it's a letter, or perhaps you decide to find the lord every Sunday and spend a few hours in the chapel, you grab on to anything that you can. I'll freely admit I conveniently found my Roman Catholic roots a few times. I mostly leaned on the weekly Mail Call on Sundays. Letters from home provided the stability that allowed me to navigate boot camp.
I still have all those letters that I got while in boot camp. I used to read them often as they serve as a great time capsule in where I was during that time.
As boot camp raged on, people left, some folks got set back a few weeks in training, and some folks came into our division as they too were sent back a few weeks in their training. It happens, no big deal. As part of the preparation to get you ready for the Navy, you have jobs/tasks that you are in charge of. Mine, ironically, was Divisional Yeoman. It's funny because that is exactly what I did in the Navy for 20 years, I was a Yeoman. Basically, I would escort the folks to what is referred to as ASMO Central to be processed to go home or to be sent back in training. Generally, it was menial paperwork tasks; however, the great thing is that I got access to the RDC's office, which save me from getting "beat" (boot camp term for doing strenuous exercises for a prolonged period of time. It was all fun and games until they saw you chillin' in the office, and then it was our turn!
I never really stopped thinking about the folks that got kicked out of boot camp and went home. Some were excited, and some, you could tell they didn't want to face their families. The look on their faces expressed such a sadness that has stuck with me for over 20 years. I can't recall a memory about my career and not give a few minutes to the souls that went home early. That may sound a bit melodramatic, but I can sympathize with that very sadness of not making it. Guilt.
It was gun range day. After our classroom time and written tests, etc., it was time for gun qualifications. I was the ONLY left-handed person in my division. To the nonmilitary folks, this may seem like nothing at all. If you are carrying a firearm, this is a thing because left-handed gun-belts are a lot like the Chicago Cubs' World Series championships. You know they're around; they just don't have a bunch. So after my mild berating of being a south paw, I had my gun belt and was ready to get qualified. As with any type of firearm training, safety is paramount. There is very little, if any, wiggle room for dumb sh*t. Every gun rage has the same standard rules. One is, if you have a question, you will raise your non-firing hand. For me, that is my right hand. So, when you are inundated with 30 plus recruits, the one left-hander is going to stick out like a sore thumb. Case in point. I had a question. I raised my non-firing hand, which is my right hand. The instructor absolutely lost his marbles. After I was yanked off the range, I was relieved of my weapon, and it was push-up time. I was disqualified for violating the safety rules of the gun range. Now, I know what you're thinking, and you're right; I didn't violate any safety rules at that time. They didn't have time to save face, and they absolutely were not going to entertain reasoning from a recruit, and I get it. Once I had the big red disqualified stamp on my form that I took back to my RDC (who already knew everything that happened), it was 8 count bodybuilders and the threat that I was going home due to nonqualifying at the range.
I was devastated. I was going home, back to small-town Missouri, to figure out what to do with my life. The utter disappointment I felt was more so along the lines of this was my first big venture into adulthood, and it was going up in flames because I was lefthanded. So after about 45 minutes of getting beat in front of the RDC office, I was told to fall in line and get ready for chow. After chow, I was told to report to the ship's officer (our barracks' "Commanding Officer"). It was him and my 2 RDCs. I was told to recant the story about what had happened at the gun range. I did, and their response was simple..."Don't f*ck up again"! I wasn't going home, and that felt rad. I was relieved. I used to wonder if any of the folks I took to ASMO Central to get processed out ever tried to come back in the military. Out of those folks, how many was the military the last option? I hope they found solace.
Overall, I had fun at boot camp. The smells, sounds, people, the entire place had such remarkable moxie about it, and when I would return 17 years later, that same moxie was still there. I remember we had just left the chow hall and marched past the building where you get fitted for uniforms. You could hear the Black Crowes’ song She Talks to Angels, and for some reason, I remember thinking to myself, I really miss home, my comics, video games, and just being able to be “me.” At the same time, I had this reassurance that everything was going to be ok. From that moment on, every time boot camp got rough, or I got homesick, I would play that song in my head, and it was such a calming reassurance.
For everything that boot camp was, I wouldn’t change anything. Even the senseless and goofy sh*t was an experience that was a huge stage in shaping who I would become. Upon getting our first set of orders, I was informed that I had been selected as Honor Recruit, an award for the recruit who shows enthusiasm, a supportive attitude, etc. I was pretty stoked to find this out; also stoked to find out that it was voted on by the other recruits in my division...unanimously. Obviously, I’m no Douglas McArthur, but the honor was pretty rad. Upon graduating from boot camp, I was heading to PCU Harry S. Truman (CVN-75) based in Norfolk, VA. PCU or pre-commissioning unit means the ship is still being built and has not been commissioned as a USS yet. The great thing about the military is you get to see new and exciting places; I was headed back to my hometown! I was excited, scared, and 100% clueless on what awaited, but what awaited was some really rad people I was getting ready to meet. People that would forever change my life and, in some cases, keep me out of a foreign jail.
With that being said, I noticed that we are over 2K words. Since I ramble on like Nolan Ryan throws strikes, I will break this entry into parts because we need to dig into the first time at sea, meeting Nicki, and realizing you can't have your subscription of The Progressive come to the ship as mail, but you can watch all the Fox News you want to. Thanks for reading.
