thedrifter
02-08-05, 09:29 AM
Boys to Marines: Parris Island trip reveals how warriors are made
By Paul Dunn, The Daily Reflector
Monday, February 07, 2005
Fifty-six newly shorn heads ...
Most of them are face down, cradled on arms splayed over plastic school desks. The bodies, many in rumpled jeans and casual shirts, shift nervously under the florescent glare.
Except for the conspicuous sniffling of one recruit, the room is still.
Somewhere among the anonymous bodies sits former East Carolina University student William Joyner. Joyner, like the other 55 boys arranged in neat rows of six deep, is a United States Marine Corps wannabe, one of the newest recruits in the venerable institution's 250-year history.
Joyner and his newfound "brothers," some having yet to feel a razor drag over their peach-fuzzed faces, are about one hour into a three-month rite of passage that will test most of them as never before.
It's 1:30 a.m., Jan. 26, Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island, S.C. These recruits many haven't slept for at least 24 hours will be up until 9 p.m. before they hit their first military "rack."
Until then, they'll fill out mountains of military paperwork, receive clothing and other supplies, undergo medical exams and perform initial strength tests.
Then they'll exhale.
But there will be no moms, no dads, no sisters, brothers or friends to cheer them on.
There will be no sympathy, either.
And no turning back.
Fitting into the yellow footprints
The initial shock of the Marine Corps jolts like a 4 a.m. wakeup call.
As soon as the recruits' touring bus stops in front of the Parris Island receiving station, Staff Sgt. Patrick Wiley bounds through the bus door with jaw set and eyes steeled. Sitting at attention in the midnight gloom, small-town country boys and big-city studs stare straight ahead, at that moment a cold shower many will not forget.
"You're now part of the greatest military tradition the world has ever known!" Wiley yells. "This is Marine Corps Recruiting Station Parris Island. Get off the bus and run to the yellow footprints!"
Scampering out the door like startled jackrabbits, recruits land on pairs of yellow footprints painted on the asphalt four abreast, some 15 deep. The footprints represent the beginning of transformation from civilian to Marine.
Under the blush of amber street lights, the recruits listen barely breathing as Wiley's gravelly voice pummels them like buckshot.
You will do this. You will not do this. You will do this ...
At his command, the 56 strangers sprint to the stainless steel doors of the Parris Island receiving station, the final stop before they cross the Marine threshold.
The recruits line up two-by-two, until another command sends some of them rushing into the building and into a side room with a single barber chair.
Some recruits arrive on the island with hair already shaved. Others cling to the last tendrils they'll see for about four years, a typical length of enlistment.
In 30 seconds, their locks and their individuality are gone.
Through the drill instructor's eyes
Wiley walks like a tank rolls only faster.
No wasted effort, no hesitancy. Wiley's nearing the end of another 18-hour day, but you'd never know it by the directness in his step or the power in his voice. He shows no mercy to the 56 raw recruits he'll soon call "brothers," though he empathizes with them.
"Tonight is a foundation to show them (recruits) the professionals they need to be," Wiley says. "Right now, some of them are shaking uncontrollably. It's the fear of the unknown, an adrenaline rush."
Wiley's been through this many times before. About 1 hours after our conversation, in fact, he was to greet a second busload of recruits, like their predecessors, young, scared and alone in a crowd.
"This is one of the toughest nights for them, and one of the most vital parts of their instruction," Wiley says. "From this time forward, their lives are changed, but I don't feel sorry for them."
A phone call home
Some recruits are barely through Parris Island's doors when Wiley directs them to a bank of beige-colored telephones on a wall. The boys are to call home, telling anxious moms and dads they've arrived.
But this is no Christmas holiday conversation. Wiley tells the boys what to say, reciting the precise lines with them before they dial the numbers.
The recruits are lined up nose to neck, waiting their turns, silent.
Tonight, the first recruit in line dials three different times, to no avail. Recruits behind him aware of the drill instructor's footfalls are beginning to look uneasy. Finally, first-in-line gives up, and second steps forward. He has more luck someone answers on the first try.
First-in-line will get a second chance, but not until after his haircut.
Step up for underwear
Before they're issued camouflaged fatigues, "covers" (caps), boots, belts or anything else, recruits receive two pairs of underwear briefs. From a single-file line, they march past plastic containers on tables filled with underwear in every imaginable size.
As they near the head of the line, they're instructed to yell out their waist size. Behind the tables, enlisted men haphazardly fling packs of underwear at them.
"32, sir!" "34, sir!," "30, sir!," recruits shout.
Then, "18, sir!"
"What!?," yells a Marine behind the table.
"Your waist size, recruit!"
"Oh, sorry, sir," the slight boy replies. "I guess about 27."
Before he can raise his hands, the 27's hit him in the chest.
The end of the beginning
It's 2 a.m.
The other six media types from North Carolina and Kentucky and I leave the receiving building.
I've been up since 4:30 a.m. the day before, but the yelling and commotion has shocked the fatigue out of me.
As I walk toward the waiting Marine van that will escort us back to our Beaufort, S.C., hotel, I think: "Wow, are those boys in for a rude awakening."
As you read this, ECU's William Joyner should be on his fifth day of physical training.
Already this morning, he's been up for about three hours; he's made his rack, slipped on his fatigues and eaten breakfast. If he's followed the normal recruit routine, he's outside on the training course scaling a wall, climbing a rope or running in the sand.
Most likely, a sour-pussed drill instructor is on his tail as he is on every recruit's.
"Go! Go! Go! Faster, Joyner! Can't you do any better than that!?"
Joyner, probably hoarse from bellowing the same two words every few minutes since he arrived at Parris Island, juts out his chin and yells them again ...
"Aye, sir!"
If Joyner says the words with enough conviction, Mr. Drill Instructor moves on to someone else. If not ...
The Drifter's Wife
Ellie
By Paul Dunn, The Daily Reflector
Monday, February 07, 2005
Fifty-six newly shorn heads ...
Most of them are face down, cradled on arms splayed over plastic school desks. The bodies, many in rumpled jeans and casual shirts, shift nervously under the florescent glare.
Except for the conspicuous sniffling of one recruit, the room is still.
Somewhere among the anonymous bodies sits former East Carolina University student William Joyner. Joyner, like the other 55 boys arranged in neat rows of six deep, is a United States Marine Corps wannabe, one of the newest recruits in the venerable institution's 250-year history.
Joyner and his newfound "brothers," some having yet to feel a razor drag over their peach-fuzzed faces, are about one hour into a three-month rite of passage that will test most of them as never before.
It's 1:30 a.m., Jan. 26, Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island, S.C. These recruits many haven't slept for at least 24 hours will be up until 9 p.m. before they hit their first military "rack."
Until then, they'll fill out mountains of military paperwork, receive clothing and other supplies, undergo medical exams and perform initial strength tests.
Then they'll exhale.
But there will be no moms, no dads, no sisters, brothers or friends to cheer them on.
There will be no sympathy, either.
And no turning back.
Fitting into the yellow footprints
The initial shock of the Marine Corps jolts like a 4 a.m. wakeup call.
As soon as the recruits' touring bus stops in front of the Parris Island receiving station, Staff Sgt. Patrick Wiley bounds through the bus door with jaw set and eyes steeled. Sitting at attention in the midnight gloom, small-town country boys and big-city studs stare straight ahead, at that moment a cold shower many will not forget.
"You're now part of the greatest military tradition the world has ever known!" Wiley yells. "This is Marine Corps Recruiting Station Parris Island. Get off the bus and run to the yellow footprints!"
Scampering out the door like startled jackrabbits, recruits land on pairs of yellow footprints painted on the asphalt four abreast, some 15 deep. The footprints represent the beginning of transformation from civilian to Marine.
Under the blush of amber street lights, the recruits listen barely breathing as Wiley's gravelly voice pummels them like buckshot.
You will do this. You will not do this. You will do this ...
At his command, the 56 strangers sprint to the stainless steel doors of the Parris Island receiving station, the final stop before they cross the Marine threshold.
The recruits line up two-by-two, until another command sends some of them rushing into the building and into a side room with a single barber chair.
Some recruits arrive on the island with hair already shaved. Others cling to the last tendrils they'll see for about four years, a typical length of enlistment.
In 30 seconds, their locks and their individuality are gone.
Through the drill instructor's eyes
Wiley walks like a tank rolls only faster.
No wasted effort, no hesitancy. Wiley's nearing the end of another 18-hour day, but you'd never know it by the directness in his step or the power in his voice. He shows no mercy to the 56 raw recruits he'll soon call "brothers," though he empathizes with them.
"Tonight is a foundation to show them (recruits) the professionals they need to be," Wiley says. "Right now, some of them are shaking uncontrollably. It's the fear of the unknown, an adrenaline rush."
Wiley's been through this many times before. About 1 hours after our conversation, in fact, he was to greet a second busload of recruits, like their predecessors, young, scared and alone in a crowd.
"This is one of the toughest nights for them, and one of the most vital parts of their instruction," Wiley says. "From this time forward, their lives are changed, but I don't feel sorry for them."
A phone call home
Some recruits are barely through Parris Island's doors when Wiley directs them to a bank of beige-colored telephones on a wall. The boys are to call home, telling anxious moms and dads they've arrived.
But this is no Christmas holiday conversation. Wiley tells the boys what to say, reciting the precise lines with them before they dial the numbers.
The recruits are lined up nose to neck, waiting their turns, silent.
Tonight, the first recruit in line dials three different times, to no avail. Recruits behind him aware of the drill instructor's footfalls are beginning to look uneasy. Finally, first-in-line gives up, and second steps forward. He has more luck someone answers on the first try.
First-in-line will get a second chance, but not until after his haircut.
Step up for underwear
Before they're issued camouflaged fatigues, "covers" (caps), boots, belts or anything else, recruits receive two pairs of underwear briefs. From a single-file line, they march past plastic containers on tables filled with underwear in every imaginable size.
As they near the head of the line, they're instructed to yell out their waist size. Behind the tables, enlisted men haphazardly fling packs of underwear at them.
"32, sir!" "34, sir!," "30, sir!," recruits shout.
Then, "18, sir!"
"What!?," yells a Marine behind the table.
"Your waist size, recruit!"
"Oh, sorry, sir," the slight boy replies. "I guess about 27."
Before he can raise his hands, the 27's hit him in the chest.
The end of the beginning
It's 2 a.m.
The other six media types from North Carolina and Kentucky and I leave the receiving building.
I've been up since 4:30 a.m. the day before, but the yelling and commotion has shocked the fatigue out of me.
As I walk toward the waiting Marine van that will escort us back to our Beaufort, S.C., hotel, I think: "Wow, are those boys in for a rude awakening."
As you read this, ECU's William Joyner should be on his fifth day of physical training.
Already this morning, he's been up for about three hours; he's made his rack, slipped on his fatigues and eaten breakfast. If he's followed the normal recruit routine, he's outside on the training course scaling a wall, climbing a rope or running in the sand.
Most likely, a sour-pussed drill instructor is on his tail as he is on every recruit's.
"Go! Go! Go! Faster, Joyner! Can't you do any better than that!?"
Joyner, probably hoarse from bellowing the same two words every few minutes since he arrived at Parris Island, juts out his chin and yells them again ...
"Aye, sir!"
If Joyner says the words with enough conviction, Mr. Drill Instructor moves on to someone else. If not ...
The Drifter's Wife
Ellie