Introduction

In late May of 1996, I was finishing up my junior year of high school. This meant that it was time for me to begin thinking about college. I knew that I was going to go to college, but I didn’t know where or, more importantly, how I was going to pay for it. I hadn’t exactly been a stellar student, content to do the minimal amount of effort in order to get whatever grade I deemed acceptable. In fact, I put a great deal of work into figuring out how little work I could do and still pass. For example, in my Calculus class, rather than paying attention to the teacher, I created a program on my calculator to tell me just how much or little effort I needed. I entered all of the grades I’d earned thus far, and then the program would ask me what grade I was trying to earn. I would enter a value and it would tell me the grade I needed on the remaining assignments for that quarter. Some might say that I should have spent that time paying attention to my teacher. They would be correct; I should have. The point is that, by the end of my junior year, I had pretty much made laziness and inactivity my primary vocation. So, as I began to think about heading off to college in a year, the notion of earning scholarships seemed unlikely.

That’s about the time that I got a call from a Marine recruiter. He introduced himself to me and asked me my favorite fast food place. I told him Taco Bell, and he offered to take me there for dinner and talk to me about the Marines. I had stopped listening after he offered free tacos, and said yes immediately. He picked me up and took me to Taco Bell. During our dinner, he asked me questions and I ate tacos. After dinner, he took me back to his office. When we got there, we sat down, and he took out a stack of about fifteen plastic cards. Each card was a different color and was embossed with something like: “Travel,” “Money,” “Adventure,” “Discipline,” etc. He told me to look through the cards and choose the three that were most important to me (It’s worth noting that there were some conspicuous absences in the cards. There was no card for “sleeping in” for example, or “playing video games.” Apparently, those aren’t high on the Marine Corps’ priority list). I forget what all I chose (I know that “money for college” was one and that “adventure” was not), but SSgt. L_____ promptly explained to me how the Marines would perfectly meet those desires. Even at the time, I remember thinking that this was an obvious, pre-constructed sales pitch, but it worked. By the time I was dropped off back at home, I was ready to talk to my parents and enlist.

For several years, whenever anyone asked me why I chose to enlist, I told them that I enlisted in the reserves to pay for college and chose the Marines because they’re the best. This is not true. Don’t get me wrong, I did need money for school and the Marines are definitely the best (this comes from a completely unbiased former Marine, so you can trust me). But the real reason I picked the Marines is that they were the first to call me. In a way, I was just like most battles in American history: the Marines got there first and did all of the work (again, I’m completely unbiased).

Enlisting involved a few steps. The first step was to take the ASVAB test, an aptitude test that everyone enlisting into any branch must take. Based on your performance, you will then be able to choose what your job, or MOS (military occupational specialty) will be while enlisted. I took the test and based on my performance, my recruiter told be I could choose from most of the jobs offered. He suggested that I choose two options, that way I would be able to pick the second one if the first wasn’t available when I went to enlist. I chose three. In order of preference, I chose small arms repair, combat engineering, and cook.

The second step in the enlistment process was to go to the recruiting depot and, after a series of forms and some medical examinations, to enlist. While I was there, I met with a Corporal to choose my MOS. Unfortunately for me, all of my choices were unavailable. The Cpl. told me that there was a brand new job that he thought would be just right for me.

He said, “Well, I see that you chose combat engineering, so I guess that means you want to be where all of the action is, right?”

Now, I wasn’t about to say, “Actually, I’d kind of like to stay as far away from danger as possible” to a Marine, so I said, “Yes.”

He then went on to tell me I could enlist as a mortarman. I would be with an infantry unit and, in addition to carrying all of the gear that a typical combat Marine carries into the field, I would get to carry 40 or so pounds of mortar components. I couldn’t have thought of anything less “up my alley,” so naturally, I said that sounded great. As I did, he asked, “Are you sure? You’re not going to come to me in a couple of weeks and tell me you want a different job?” I assured him that would definitely not happen (I stayed true to my word on this. Instead of going to him, I went to my recruiter and had him change my job. He put me in supply. Much better.).

The only thing between me and enlisting at this point was a final physical evaluation. It was pretty straightforward, up to the end. When I was putting my shorts and shoes back on, the Dr. asked me if I had any questions. I said, “Well, I have heard that you can’t enlist if you have flat feet. That’s not true, is it?”

“That’s absolutely true,” he replied. “Do you have flat feet?”

“Uh, no,” I stammered, failing to convey confidence. (Note: I have very flat feet)

“Take off your shoes”

I took off my shoes so that the Dr. could inspect my feet. As he did, I stood with all of my weight on the outsides of my feet, trying as hard as I could to make my feet look like normal, arched feet.

“You’re fine,” he said, after a brief glance.

With that, I was ready to enlist. I went into a room with several others and we took our oath. All that was left was for me to wait for my ship out date.

Because I enlisted nearly a full year before actually going to Boot Camp, I was placed into the Delayed Entry Program. This meant that once a month I would spend a Saturday morning with other soon-to-be recruits. Sometimes we would go to a base and learn about the Marines, ride around in Humvees, or go through the obstacle course. Other times, we would go bowling. As far as I can guess, the main point of these get-togethers was to make sure that all of the “DEP-ers” were still aware of the commitment they’d made, and probably also to make sure we weren’t doing anything stupid, like getting hurt, or doing drugs, while we waited to ship out.

At long last, after nearly a year of being in the Delayed Entry Program (and graduating high school of course), I was ready to head off to boot camp…