Man has had weapons since we picked up our first crude spear. The Marine Corps demands that we have more than weapons proficiency. The defense of our Nation demands it. Our Beloved Corps trains the individual to be the weapon. Recruit Training smashes the soft shell away from you and reaches deep down inside to bring out the fierce Warrior.

Parris Island 1983. Once you are on the Yellow Footprints, you really can’t tell what year it is. Generations of civilians have raised their right hand and taken their place to be ruthlessly hammered and tested. The chance to Earn the Title of Marine.

In looking back, it is easy to stir up words of inspiration and patriotism. But when you are a kid, the harsh reality still stands before you.

After a blur of timeless nights and days, Receiving Barrack drops you into your Training Platoon. The Company Commander welcomes you aboard with a challenging but friendly speech.

Standing silently behind the Company Commander are perfectly groomed machines wearing Smokey Bear covers. Their appearance and bearing radiate confidence and efficiency. These ominous machines are coiled tight and razor sharp.

And before you know what is happening the Company Commander gives the order, “Drill Instructors, train your platoon!”

In a flash the perfectly groomed machines roar to life! These Drill Instructors seem to magically swarm over 70 former high school kids all at once. The spartan squad bay echoes with their ferocity.

We stand in front of them clad only in thin boxer shorts and shower shoes. Our individuality was shorn away with what hair we used to have. We are now only two lines of ragged civilians.

In nervous shock I can only listen as the ruthless machines tear into another unfortunate soul. The Recruit is so rattled that he can only make a strange clucking noise when he tries to sound off.

Suddenly one of the Drill Instructors appears out of nowhere right before my eyes. He’s yelling something about my few little chest hairs being unsightly. That on top of the clucking noises down the way brings a wry little smirk to my face.

The instant retribution is, “Oh, you think it’s a joke!” Then with excruciating slowness the Drill Instructor rips out each chest hair one by one. Playtime is OVER! How am I going to endure these endless hours of nightmare? I’m thinking, “What the hell have you got yourself into?”

We take our first Physical Fitness Test and I cannot believe I fail! All I needed to do was 32 sit-ups. I could only crank out 29. The pull-ups and the 3-mile run were no problem.

The lack of 3 more sit-ups wins me an extra 21 days in Physical Conditioning Platoon. If First Phase is Hell, then PCP is Purgatory. Time really stands still. No military training, just endless days of basic exercise to purge any physical weakness.

Finally its over and I once again rejoin a training series. Four of us were assigned to Platoon 1064, including another Tennessee native named Guinn. He got to PCP after pulling a muscle on the three-mile run. Fate had it so his rack was across from mine.

We buddied up on book knowledge and testing. In the few moment we had in ‘Free Time’ we compared notes on Tennessee and where to find the best corn liquor.

Training proceeded with the usual crushing schedule. Our platoon’s tragic comedy of errors ensured that we spent half of the day with sweat pouring off our bodies.

1064 had different Drill Instructors but they had the same ruthlessness to them. No pity or mercy was given during our training. Time progressed slowly for us maggots. But for them, they had only 13 weeks to instill lessons that would last us a lifetime.

So they kept turning our rawness and found new places to hammer. Any imperfections and character flaws were immediately struck, re-forged and struck again.

Near the end of boot camp we had a particularly harsh day. It’s hard to remember that you volunteered for this when you absolutely have no more energy, no more strength and no more motivation.

Some folks call it gut check time. That’s close enough to describe it. When you have to reach deep down farther than you have ever gone for one more ounce of determination. One more minute to hang in there and tough it out.

Then that magic transformation happened. I will remember that exact moment until the day I die. It was that afternoon when our Drill Instructor was pushing us as hard as he could. Guinn and I looked at each other with grim determination.