Fifty Years Ago

It was July 22, 1972, exactly fifty years ago, when I received my first order to find my place on one of a set of yellow painted foot prints on the tarmac at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot (MCRD) in San Diego, where I would begin thirteen weeks of enlisted training as a United States Marine. The eight inches of my full head of hair that was shaved off in my first official act as a military man, only weeks before had provided good cover for my hippy persona as I sat in the middle of a busy downtown street at university, politically protesting our nation's involvement in Viet Nam. For some, my enlistment was quite a turn-around. In my heart, I think I always knew I was destined to be a United States Marine.

My father was a Marine during the Second World War, serving honorably for three years in the South Pacific theater in several heated campaigns. I was proud of his service. Quite a few of my direct ancestors had volunteered to serve our country, all the way back to the Revolutionary War. I was not about to be the one to break with tradition. Besides, my draft number was 24 and when I made a plan to drop out of college after my second year, I knew the draft board would be coming after me and probably stick me in the Army... which would have been totally unsatisfactory. While I sincerely had an issue with our military intervention in Southeast Asia, I had no taste for abandoning my responsibility by heading to Canada, so I did the next most honorable thing – I enlisted. Military enlistment was by my choice, so my aim was to serve with honor.

My parents drove me to the bus station in Pittsburgh where I would cut my apron strings and take my first step into a larger world unknown to me. At twenty years old and naive, “a little man in such a big world” I was enlisting to stand for my country during a time of war. I had a lot of growing up to do. This is where it would begin.

Boarding a bus with sixteen other recruits and accompanied by our recruiter, I could only sit there and wonder about a world beyond my imagination that awaited me. I sat next to a black fellow who pressed me to tell him exactly how I managed to be the only recruit on the bus with a plane ticket to San Diego. Everyone else was bound for MCRD Parris Island, South Carolina. Looking sideways at this guy with a big smile, I just said “Everything is Negotiable.” San Diego was a condition of my recruitment. I would sign the bottom line when they showed me the ticket to California. My father had trained at Parris Island (PI). I knew about the sand flees and insufferable humidity there in July, and wanted no part of it.

As with most everything else so far in my life, I made up my mind that the Marine Corps was going to be an adventure. I had never flown on a jet aircraft before. I had never seen the Pacific Ocean. I had never been to California. This was an opportunity for adventure that I wasn't going to miss cashing in on. If they wanted me to wear the uniform, they were going to have to make me a Hollywood Marine. And so it was negotiated.

Marine Corps boot camp was one of the highlights of my entire life experience. Fifty years later, I still recall it very clearly, and must take the time to record many of the stories that remain a delight in my memory. It was all good – all formative – and instrumental in delivering me on the path I have followed since. While they trained me to kill in combat, I never had to put that training to use, nor hurt anyone in any way. But I was ready and willing. When my country needed me, I stood up and said “take me”. That has made all the difference.