You ask me to not hide any details, but honestly, my memory ain't the greatest, even with all the memories that changed my life forever. You'd think I'd remember the important shit, or to offer things aspiring recruits should know to prepare themselves for Marine Corps boot camp, but honestly, it's been hard to recall every little thing that went down. What I do remember about the transition from the DEP to bootcamp was a shit ton of celebrations, since my birthday was right around the same time I was shipped to Parris Island and I had just graduated high school.
Not to mention, I almost missed walking for high school graduation because my grandma's funeral was the same week. We went to Minnesota to attend the funeral and flew out instead of driving, like we did all the time when we went there to see my dad's side of the family every summer. Rebecca Hanson, the figure of our family's history and pride, was such a great lady. I only wish I got to know her better as a person before she began showing signs of dementia. I've heard all sorts of stories, and she was around all the time as I grew up. I'll always remember her as someone who was true to herself, and provided everyone with structure, identity, and a solid relationship. I'll even admit this here; when I was young, we always had tea parties. Take that as you will.
What can I say? We grieved, we honored her memory and heritage, and we went back home. The lady was the pinnacle of our Scandinavian heritage, and she was an awesome person before her brain rotted away. God, there were times when she didn't recognize us Hanson boys, which was a fucking damper, to say the least. I remember my grandad in his wheelchair front and center in front of her urn crying, which we all felt, but we didn't partake then and there. My brothers and father didn't, at least. I can't speak for the rest of the family and friends. It was a fucking funeral, I'm sure others cried. I wasn't scanning the pews. I was just sad that she passed on, but it didn't discourage me. I loved her of course, but like I said, she wasn't all there when I was growing up into a late teenager. I loved her as much as I loved everyone in the family who nurtured and raised me, but my goals were still at the front of my mind. We made it back in time for me to walk and get my diploma the following week.
There were so many unfamiliar faces at the funeral that were definitely familiar with me. It was sort of awkward. I'm sure other people can relate to that much.
Anyway, I graduated in May, a couple weeks after my birthday, and the date to fly out to Parris Island was soon approaching. A few days prior, us poolies were flown out to the MEPS facility, then to a hotel until our date of departure came. All the staff were on either side of us clapping and congratulating us as we left, which looking back, I should've savored the last signs of humanity and optimism while it lasted.
On June 23rd, 2014, we were dropped off at the airport and found where the other recruits were gathered to be flown out from Massachusetts. I remember us sitting in formation while we waited for the bus after landing and gathering, sitting in our professional civilian attire with our paperwork, doing small talk until we were silenced. We were then huddled onto the bus that drove us to the recruit depot. Morale was high, but so was our anxiety. I'm sure I talked to some of them, but I can't remember what we spoke about.
Just before we entered the base, we were told to put our heads down and close our eyes, probably so some of us couldn't form some elaborate plan to escape knowing where the exit was. It was grueling to sit there, leaned over, head caved into the seat in front of me, but when the bus came to a halt, that's when shit went from 0 to 100 real fucking quick.
A Drill Instructor, wearing that iconic smokey bear, charged onto the bus and gave us our first orders after telling us that we arrived at Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island, South Carolina. After a first of many spiels, we were ordered to form a neat, single file line, run to the yellow footprints, and await further instructions. We were then told to respond with an 'aye sir!' after every single command that we were issued, and to yell as loud as we could every single time. It was all about saying 'this recruit, that recruit', as though we weren't human anymore. Couldn't use words like 'I', 'me', or 'my'. That shit got easy real quick, for better or worse.
It was dark out, and I didn't know what time it was. We rushed out, as we were ordered, and took our positions on those iconic yellow footprints, as countless others have since the base started training recruits in 1915.
I've seen enough videos and have been told the legend of those footprints to know that starting in this moment, I was at the mercy of the Marine Corps. All I could do was keep up and not do anything stupid.
After the spiel of initiation, we all were barked into the doors that we would never exit, seated and issued little blue bags that we wrote our platoon number on, which would hold essential trinkets and paperwork that we'd eventually use to hold things like stamps, social security cards, mailing addresses, and some other shit I don't completely remember.
Games started then and there. They'd order us to sit down within a fast paced countdown that no normal person could accomplish in time. When we all didn't sit down in time, even just one of us, we'd be told to get the fuck back up with another countdown, rinse and repeat. I got used to this shit quickly. Then, we began our next three days without sleep getting all the paperwork in order, hair cut, and injections shot into our asscheeks. That shit was real, let me tell ya. We got our gear, made sure that we all had every single thing accounted for, and if we didn't, more games were played until we all had what we needed.
Again, all this shit happened so fast that receiving was a blur, not to mention the lack of sleep playing its role. It became sort of routine after the first 24 hours, and during that time, once we were all accounted for, we got to read a piece of paper to our family so they knew we made it there safe and sound. Without having a chance to let my father respond when he eventually picked up late at night, and this is when we still had landlines at the house, I was told to hang up and let the next recruit take their turn. Some of their families didn't pick up, which was undoubtedly a damper, but they left their message and moved on through orientation.
We got our military IDs, which involved taking pictures of our bald heads and worried faces. My face was ice cold, same as my complexion. I can't imagine any recruit in history ever took that photo with a grin, because if they did, well, games would ensue for them without a doubt. No one wants that unless they're older and/or bolder than most of us were.
From there, it was just about getting our gear, buying essentials from the PX, which is like a military exclusive convenience store for things like razors, nametags, hand sanitizer, deodorant, and a bunch of other essentials and toiletries we needed. There was a checklist and a prepaid card to use with our paychecks.
When we were brought to our barracks for the first night of rest after 72 grueling hours, we were with DIs that were to look after us until our REAL DIs made their first entrance into our lives. I remember learning the basics about making our beds, and that first night of rest was so surreal. Without the context of how life would be for the next 13 weeks with these stand-in DIs, I almost felt comfortable. That was another feeling I wish I didn't take for granted right then and there.
Soon after the hope of comfort diminished, we were faced with our official Drill Instructors. Boy in hell, I can't tell you how iconic and intimidating that day was, and we didn't even start doing any training yet. We were nothing more than solidified in paperwork as part of the recruit training depot. We weren't Marines yet. We had to earn that by not giving in to our comfort levels or lack of discipline, which we'd soon build as a unit. As soon as we were ordered to stand up, that's when our new way of living officially began. Nothing to do but step ourselves in the furnace, praying we didn't get fried in the exposure.
That whole ordeal was just a taste of what had yet to come. Some things, not in any particular order, stood out in my mind from the first 72 hours. For one, getting a buzz cut sucked for me, because I had acne on my head and they made sure it bled. They were civilians I think, the barbers, but most, if not all, were undoubtedly old veterans. My acne only got worse from that day forward. Also, when we were given our shots, there were some squirming and crying in pain, especially after we got what they call a 'peanut butter shot', which is basically a shot of bicillin, which prevents bacterial infections. My ass, being bigger and more pronounced thanks to my mom's side of the family, barely felt it, but even I wasn't spared from the days of soreness. Others had it worse though. They couldn't sit right for days, whenever we were given the opportunity to do so with our legs crossed and hands on our knees, but as for me, well, it was fine. If you got a nice ass, you're well prepared to get fucked, which was a common occurrence as a recruit, nice ass or not.
Maybe it didn't matter how nice your ass was. I guess if you kept quiet, followed orders, and didn't lash out or act stupid, you were only punished due to other recruits' stupidity. It's unavoidable to play the games, but if you're good, you're less likely to be targeted or to stand out.