United States Marine Corps Drill

It had all happened a long time ago at Camp Pendleton California, a place the 1st Marine Division calls home. The year was 1954: that was the year the division had completed its return from what some called the "Police Action" that taken place in a far off place called Korea. Each man standing in formation on the hard asphalt in front of the older WW11 barracks that chilly morning had been waiting for rifle inspection. It was on a Monday morning following a weekend of liberty call.

Every man in the ranks had been a part of the division, but there had been a clear distinction. Many were "short timers", dudes back from Korea wearing the ribbons with the combat stars nailed to them. These were men who had been a part of the landing force that charged into shore at a place called Inchon. Many of the others had gotten their butts frozen at The Chosin Reservoir where they had managed to get themselves surrounded by enough of the enemy to make a Ghengus Kahn movie. A few had been there from the beginning spending sweaty harrowing nights peering out over the banks of the Nakdong River that was a part of the desperately held defensive perimeter at Pusan; each man on that perimeter those nights had been prepared to blast away in the dark at anything on the other side that might move, crawl or pass gas.

With the company of good friends, and the guidance of the gunnery sergeants, the short timers had managed to maintain the, character, poise, and discipline necessary to wage a war and to return home with their honor intact. They had shown up in San Diego harbor lined up from bow to stern aboard the APA's, the navy's large troopships that had shown up on the horizon and lumbered up to the docks with these men aboard. These are men who no longer have enthusiasm for the kinds of pleasantries associated with cold weather, troop formations, rifle inspections and the exhausting training exercises through the less than scenic back boondocks of Pendleton; many of them had been draftees. All had served their time; they now shared a lousy attitude and were ready for discharge and the long train ride home. A few had left earlier. Some had a month left on their enlistment, others a few weeks. The remainder had "a few more days and a wakeup". Each of those men is eager for his last day and the discharge that would take place.

The other men in the formation on that morning were we boot butt recruits who had simply shown up fresh from the customary ten days of furlough that followed the weeks and months spent in boot camp at Paris Island or San Diego, followed by the months in an infantry training company at Camp Lejuene or over in the backwoods at Pendleton. Because of the challenging cold that the short timers had been exposed to in Korea, we recruits had been allowed the additional privilege of taking advantage of the cold weather training offered at Pickle Meadows, a place located high in a part of the rock hard and brutally harsh mountains of Nevada most noted for the butt freezing temperatures.

Big old warm Greyhound Buses that left Pendleton on a regular basis had taken us there, and during the ride, we had slept very comfortably until the gunnery sergeants had kicked our warm butts off of the warm things and into one of the colder more remote and isolated parts of the world. This had all happened in the middle of a clear freezing night under a full moon. We had been outfitted in cold weather gear that included heavy and baggy fiberglass britches and bulky parkas along with the very large Mickey Mouse boots that protected our feet that the government thought so much of. We also had the pack racks that provided us with the admirable capability of carrying double the weight of the field pack; but, the truth is, we had not been happy.

It did not take long. In the freezing dark of the Nevada Mountains surrounded by all of the snow and ice and feeling the winds from the mountain tops freezing our noses and eyebrows and butts, we realized that we were in serious stuff. With no signs of even a privy and protected from the cold blasts of air coming at us from the ravines and mountains all around us only by the two strands of barbed wire fence that lined the dirt road we were standing on, each of us believed we would not be around at the end of this thing to get our return ticket to Pendleton "punched".

We, the boot butt recruits were only beginning our trip "around the horn". We had only recently arrived at the world war 11 barracks as replacements for the short timers. We had shown up properly indoctrinated and physically conditioned to stand in the ranks as volunteers ready to replace the short timers who would soon be heading home. We had years to go and miles to grind out, carrying our weapons, sweating under the weight of a full field pack and cursing the heat of a summer or the cold of a winter before that day of discharge would arrive for us. In time, we would get things very close to right; the gunnery sergeants assigned to the company would see to that.

Until then, when we screwed up, the officers, would complain to the gunnery sergeants, and these Neolithic knuckle walking butt kickers would come charging into the barracks like hell on wheels, like maybe the officers had fed them gun powder and fired them out of cannons. They would holler and kick over our neatly arranged locker boxes, cuss, and then kick our butts, and wonder aloud, lamenting about how sorry we are and how difficult it must be for our mamas to love us.

On this Monday morning that had started early, the process of rifle inspection was supposed to be routine. The weekend liberty that we returned from was over. So were the big breakfast, and the cleaning of the barracks. The older marines who the gunny said had been around the horn stood in the "at ease position" waiting quietly and unenthusiastically for the appearance of the inspecting officer who would conduct the ritual of rifle inspection. When in any formation, we recruits would always stand with our ears laid back, and our eyes unblinking; our backs would be straight, our shoulders would be square, and the buns would be tight.

The buttons on our shirts would be lined up with our belt buckle, the belt buckle lined up with the zipper on our pants and any thing else that might require lining up. All of us had learned how to keep at least one eye on the gunnery sergeants who were always wandering around wearing their early stone age look searching for something to kick or cuss at and finding nothing would continue to watch making certain that each of us got things closer to right; In truth, they had been semi- patient while we were learning, but when we learned more, more would be expected; and we would stand in formations waiting for what ever in hell came next.

The last time we had been in formation was three days earlier during the earlier hours of a Friday afternoon. Each of us, boot recruit and short timer alike, had strapped on our cartridge belts, and grabbed our weapons in preparation for the short leisurely hike that always preceded liberty call on a Friday. The hike was always the same. In difference to the short timers who would soon be leaving the corps it was nothing more than a short walk that left the barracks and extended a mile out into the boon docks followed by a break.

The "cigarette lamp" would be turned on, "those who had them could smoke them" and afterwards the Captain who always enjoyed time spent with his mixed bag of misfits would turn the smoking lamp off and we would hell it back to the barracks in time for a shower and liberty call for the weekend that followed. The buses at the front gates of the camp and the ladies on the streets of nearby towns would be waiting.

We had forgotten that the familiar figure of the very tall and lean Captain with the Purple Heart to go with the other valued ribbons nailed to his uniform had been discharged over the weekend. Scuttlebutt had it that the man had left the camp wearing a canary yellow shirt, powder blue slacks, and leather shoes with the smell of fresh Italian cow droppings still on them. Recent reports now have him on the other side of Dallas and continuing east.

Taking his place on that past Friday afternoon hike had been a new officer, a second lieutenant of surprisingly ample girth fresh from officer candidate school at Quantico Virginia who had led all of us off on the kind of thing the short timers had no use for. The darn fool with the butt and the waddle to go with it had been silly enough to extend what had always been a short hike to something very different, and he had done it for personal reasons. From the short timer's perspective, this man's interest on that Friday afternoon had not been in the proper care, feeding, and well being of his troops; instead, it was seen as suspect, as an act based on a private logic and a personal agenda that centered on an overly ambitious need for an early promotion to a higher rank.

Everyone in the ranks knew that this kind of ambition is "a grievous fault". Sure as hell, this kind of personal logic or pursuit of a private agenda is a practice unaccep-table in any unit or on any base that is a part of the Corps. We had completed the customary first mile and, with out pausing, the lieutenant had continued on with all indications suggesting that a third mile might lie in wait. That was the point when the short timers had become suspicious.

The gunny had already slid up next to the lieutenant reminding the man that the buses would soon be at the front gates to take us to where the ladies in the nearby towns were waiting. When the lieutenant had said nothing, was when sounds began coming from the back of the formation where the short timers always gathered. The sounds formed into a long slow and very soft Georgian chant and had lyrics that sounded suspiciously like "go cheeks go". These men had not missed the ample evidence of the round butt and the waddle that went with it. In time we were well into a third mile. There had no longer been any doubt; the words became more distinct, the soft chant took on a more derisive form, and the lieutenant with the broad cheeks hearing the challenging taunt of the short timers picked up the pace.

The gunnery sergeant had not been happy; the example of leadership this officer is providing is not the kind the Corps takes pride in. The gunny with the strips on his shoulder and the hash marks on his sleeve that the corps depends so completely on for the training, discipline and spirit that its members are noted for recognized the predictable beginnings of the small mutiny. The men in the ranks, including the recruits, are valued troops worthy of more respect. The new officer had placed the gunnery sergeant in a dilemma.

Recognizing the troops were correct, the gunnery sergeant had set aside the immediate impulse to jump into the formation to kick butts and crack skulls. He had also resisted the need to say a few more words to the round Lieutenant. Instead, the gunny had fallen back from the formation looking at the ground, spiting, and quietly cussing, and wishing to hell he was back at the NCO club with the comfort of a cold beer and the company of his buddies who also had the stripes on their shoulder and the hash-marks on their sleeve. There wasn't much doubt: liberty call for the men, followed by the rush to the buses and a visit with the ladies on the streets of the nearby towns that did so much for morale would be a long way off on that Friday.

The gunny sergeant views rifle inspection in the corps as a sacred ritual best carried out in a series of clearly defined moves intended to impress the observer, serve as an act of discipline for the individual being inspected and as a demand for the respect due a superior officer. On that Monday morning that came so soon after the disaster of the previous Friday, the inspection began in text book fashion yet deteriorated rapidly in a way that only the gods might have predicted.

It had also begun almost immediately. The new lieutenant, fresh from Quantico Virginia bounced out of the old barracks and approached the men waiting for rifle inspection. No one had seen the peckerwood since he had led these men on what some had called a "march of folly" the previous Friday. When he made his appearance, the gunnery sergeant who had been around the horn, had the stripes on his right shoulder and the hash marks on the right sleeve to remind everyone of his firm respect for the traditions of the Corps immediately called his men to attention. The sun had warmed. Everyone present had their game-face on. From there it was all down hill.

The heavy perspiration on the forehead, neck, shoulders and back of the lieutenant that had been so clearly in evidence on the previous Friday afternoon was missing; but the look of fierce determination the officer had shown on that occasion was still clear on his face and in his eyes. Evidence of the ample butt that many suggested was indistinguishable from his head was also clear. He approached his gunnery sergeant with the same waddle that everyone in the waiting formation was now familiar with. After returning the very sharp salute of the sergeant, the lieutenant, with the sergeant at his side, took up his position in front of the first man in the ranks that day. It turned out to be a poor day for the Lieutenant. The gods do after all have a clear sense of justice.

The first man to be inspected that morning was not a marine who had been "around the horn". Sure as hell only a few knew where the lad had come from, but that was not as important as the reality that he was a boot recruit recently arrived after weeks and months of training to replace the short timer. He had worked hard to prepare himself but, because he is a recruit, the sergeant will remind you that he is probably dumber than dirt.

When the officer approached the young man, there was no hesitation. The lad had been well taught. The stock of the M1 Garland rifle that had been at his side was brought to chest height with the snap and vigor required. With the right hand grasping the rifle by the wooden stock the left hand slammed the bolt to the rear locking it in place and opening the breech in preparation for the officer's inspection. The new lieutenant was pleased. He grabbed the riffle with a speed and exactness that impresses the gunny. With movements that must have been practiced constantly back in Officers Training School at Quantico, Virginia, the lieutenant held the rifles stock high in the air permitting an easier examination of the lands and grooves of the barrel. A quick spin of the rifle allowed a through examination of the breech. A quick turn of the wrist and elbows permits a survey of the base plate and the weapon was returned to the recruit along with a question that might have been better left unasked.

Do you know my name Marine? The lad standing in the ranks on that day did not flinch.
Yes Sir.
Then with all the gods in the heavens watching, listening, and smiling the question came; but only after the second lieutenant had pumped himself up in a proper manner. The voice had boomed. The eyes of the lieutenant had narrowed, and the veins in the officer's neck had become more pronounced.

What is my name Marine? The lieutenant's voice was a challenge that the young marine answered with a loud clear confidence and with out hesitation. He had been confronted by gunnery sergeants in more convincing ways. The answer came in a voice that did not crack or squeak.
Lieutenant Cheek's sir.

The gunny's eyes had immediately focused sharply on the horizon.
In the months that follow this gunnery sergeant will assist the lieutenant in the acquisition of the social amenities necessary for success in the corps; mile after mile on the hills, through the ravines in the back woods of Pendleton swearing, cussing grunting and groaning under the weight of a full field pack, his weapon and the heat of the sun will take care of the ample girth. In time, the lieutenant and the recruits will be prepared for the next war and marines have never missed one. When it is time for us recruits to make our trip around the horn, we will pray the gunny will be there: and he will be. You can bet your cheeks on that one.
Fini