thedrifter
04-09-06, 09:27 AM
Boot camp
Local educators spend a week learning how Marines are made
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Story by Jeb Phillips Photos by James D . DeCamp
THE COLUMBUS DISPATCH
PARRIS ISLAND, S.C. — Not long after sunup, two buses full of educators roll through the gates and over the marsh. The Marine Corps invited them here to see boot camp as it really is.
"I’ve been thinking about this all night," a guidance counselor from Grove City High School said at breakfast. "I’m terrified."
The buses stop in front of the receiving center, where every recruit starts the 12 weeks of boot camp. The escorts tell the educators they have one last chance to get off like civilians. They all stay on.
Gunnery Sgt. Theresa Groves climbs on the first bus, and it begins.
"SIT UP STRAIGHT! When I tell you, you are going to get off my bus … getoffmybusrightnow! Get off TODAY! Faster! Faster! Right now! "
The words blur. She’s yelling twice as fast as a normal person talks, and suddenly a staff sergeant is yelling from the bus door, too.
"Stop running now and move fast! Fasterfasterfaster! "
It stops sounding like words and becomes noise. New recruits don’t need to know exactly what is being said, they just need to be scared of it.
Groves yells the educators through the doors — "You will walk through my silver hatches!" — and yells them into metal seats at metal desks.
"You are done moving!" she screams.
Then there is silence, and Col. Steven D. Hogg steps out. It’s over.
"Are we okay?" he asks.
The guidance counselors, school administrators and teachers seem to start breathing again, and a few laugh.
"Welcome to Paradise Island," he says.
Marine leaders decided about a decade ago that years of Full Metal Jacket were giving civilians the wrong impression of the Corps. Teenagers wouldn’t volunteer for something they thought was heartless.
So the Marines began inviting some of the people who have the most influence over high-school kids to Parris Island, the only location for basic Marine training in the eastern United States. The educators could judge for themselves and tell their students what they saw.
"There are no secrets here," said Brigadier Gen. Richard T. Tryon, the Parris Island commander, in a talk with the educators.
The educator workshops run 12 weeks per year on the island. Last week, about 75 people from West Virginia, Michigan, Tennessee and Ohio, including a dozen from the Columbus area, made the trip. The most knowledgeable among them had been in the Army for 14 years. Some of the rest did not know a sergeant from a colonel.
They saw drill instructors yell at 18-year-olds, they shot M-16s, they were chewed up by the island’s sand fleas, they asked how often people attempt suicide, they ate with frightened recruits, they wept seeing the newest Marines wearing their pins after 12 weeks on the island.
They judged for themselves.
Gunnery Sgt. Gregory Hoover, a Parris Island drill instructor, escorted the central Ohio group. His voice carries through a brick wall, and he introduced himself on Tuesday night this way:
"I’m getting paid for you to pick my brain. So pick my brain."
It sounded like an order, as did most things out of his mouth. Brianna Abbott, the Grove City counselor who was so nervous about the trip, started asking questions as soon as the bus started rolling to the hotel in nearby Beaufort.
"How many kids are in a platoon? " she asked.
"About 60," he said.
"Can the kids quit? "
"They can quit, yes. But we don’t let them quit."
A little later, Sherrie Stegmeier, college resource counselor at Dublin-Scioto High School, picked up the questioning.
"Do you ever have problems with your voice from yelling so much? Like nodules on your larynx?"
"Some drill instructors get hernias from yelling so much," he answered.
It became clear to the teachers that Hoover would answer anything, no matter how delicate. When he was giving a tour one day through a recruit barracks — where everything smells like sweat — he explained that someone always had to be in the bathroom with the recruits, because that’s where they could most easily attempt suicide.
"Does that happen often?" someone asked. Hoover hesitated for a second.
"Yes," he said. "There is about one per platoon."
The drill instructors always take an attempt seriously, he said, though it is usually a show, a way to demonstrate how much a recruit wants out.
The educators could ask questions and shoot rifles and try the obstacles — a woman from Michigan broke her ankle — and sing karaoke at night, but they came to see how boot camp might affect the kids at Pickerington High School or Westerville Central.
One morning, a group watched some recruits run the Confidence Course, a series of tests impossible for most of the people in the educator workshop. The toughest looked to be "Slide for Life," one rope that sloped down gently from a tall wooden tower. The recruits had to use their hands and feet to get down it, flipping into three positions. It’s all upper body strength and concentration. Few made it. If they fell, they dropped into a net or a pool, depending on how high they were.
Stegmeier and other educators watched as one recruit hung on by his hands, trying to swing his feet back up. His neck veins popped out, but he couldn’t do it.
"Drop off my rope right now!" a drill instructor screamed. The recruit did and splashed, and all Stegmeier saw was someone’s son.
"My mother’s heart is breaking that he couldn’t do that," she said.
The educators ate lunch with recruits twice. The recruits are never to use the word I, because boot camp is supposed to help them shed their individuality. So when asked how things were going, Curtis Britton, a 2005 graduate of Westerville South High School in his fourth week of camp, said, "This recruit misses his girlfriend a lot."
Abbott asked Alfonso Rojas, a recruit from Miami, Fla., in his eighth week, what he thought of the drill instructors.
"This recruit didn’t like them at first, and now he wants to be just like them," he said.
Abbott got his family’s phone number and e-mail address and said she would let them know that he was okay. Rojas said he appreciated that, and then his drill instructors began yelling that lunch was over.
"Thank you for what you are doing for our country," Abbott said as Rojas stood.
The main event for many of the educators was the Eagle, Globe and Anchor ceremony, the presentation of the Marine Corps pin to recruits on their 69 th day at Parris Island. If they have made it that far, they have earned the right to be called Marines.
The educators sat in the paradeground stands as 507 men and women marched out in precise formation. This same ceremony happens about 40 times a year. The announcer said, "They carry the future of the Marine Corps on their shoulders."
"Look how proud they are," Abbott said.
The ceremony was short. A speech or two, and the drill instructors passed out the pins as God Bless the USA played. The recruits fastened them to their hats, and several stood there and stared for a few seconds, as if the pin were the most important thing they that had ever been given. The educators stood and applauded.
An order was given, and the 507 new Marines yelled the Marine Corps hymn: "From the halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli …" Then their drill instructors dismissed them.
They broke formation. Relatives and friends in the crowd, who had not seen these Marines in 12 weeks, flooded the parade grounds. Abbott and Stegmeier cried.
The educators came on the trip to judge for themselves, and this is what they said on Friday night as they started coming home:
"I have a different view now. These people are special. They want people who can think, who can make decisions," said Eric Landversicht, the Bloom-Carroll district drug, alcohol and violence prevention coordinator.
"When you see one of these recruits — babies is the word that comes to my mind — putting team and country before themselves, it’s encouraging for the future," Stegmeier said.
"It was a very powerful, incredible experience. … I met people who are choosing to serve. It made my respect more personal. It really made me proud to be an American," Abbott said.
If her students ask her on Monday what she thinks about the Marines now, that’s what she will tell them.
jphillips@dispatch.com
Ellie
Local educators spend a week learning how Marines are made
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Story by Jeb Phillips Photos by James D . DeCamp
THE COLUMBUS DISPATCH
PARRIS ISLAND, S.C. — Not long after sunup, two buses full of educators roll through the gates and over the marsh. The Marine Corps invited them here to see boot camp as it really is.
"I’ve been thinking about this all night," a guidance counselor from Grove City High School said at breakfast. "I’m terrified."
The buses stop in front of the receiving center, where every recruit starts the 12 weeks of boot camp. The escorts tell the educators they have one last chance to get off like civilians. They all stay on.
Gunnery Sgt. Theresa Groves climbs on the first bus, and it begins.
"SIT UP STRAIGHT! When I tell you, you are going to get off my bus … getoffmybusrightnow! Get off TODAY! Faster! Faster! Right now! "
The words blur. She’s yelling twice as fast as a normal person talks, and suddenly a staff sergeant is yelling from the bus door, too.
"Stop running now and move fast! Fasterfasterfaster! "
It stops sounding like words and becomes noise. New recruits don’t need to know exactly what is being said, they just need to be scared of it.
Groves yells the educators through the doors — "You will walk through my silver hatches!" — and yells them into metal seats at metal desks.
"You are done moving!" she screams.
Then there is silence, and Col. Steven D. Hogg steps out. It’s over.
"Are we okay?" he asks.
The guidance counselors, school administrators and teachers seem to start breathing again, and a few laugh.
"Welcome to Paradise Island," he says.
Marine leaders decided about a decade ago that years of Full Metal Jacket were giving civilians the wrong impression of the Corps. Teenagers wouldn’t volunteer for something they thought was heartless.
So the Marines began inviting some of the people who have the most influence over high-school kids to Parris Island, the only location for basic Marine training in the eastern United States. The educators could judge for themselves and tell their students what they saw.
"There are no secrets here," said Brigadier Gen. Richard T. Tryon, the Parris Island commander, in a talk with the educators.
The educator workshops run 12 weeks per year on the island. Last week, about 75 people from West Virginia, Michigan, Tennessee and Ohio, including a dozen from the Columbus area, made the trip. The most knowledgeable among them had been in the Army for 14 years. Some of the rest did not know a sergeant from a colonel.
They saw drill instructors yell at 18-year-olds, they shot M-16s, they were chewed up by the island’s sand fleas, they asked how often people attempt suicide, they ate with frightened recruits, they wept seeing the newest Marines wearing their pins after 12 weeks on the island.
They judged for themselves.
Gunnery Sgt. Gregory Hoover, a Parris Island drill instructor, escorted the central Ohio group. His voice carries through a brick wall, and he introduced himself on Tuesday night this way:
"I’m getting paid for you to pick my brain. So pick my brain."
It sounded like an order, as did most things out of his mouth. Brianna Abbott, the Grove City counselor who was so nervous about the trip, started asking questions as soon as the bus started rolling to the hotel in nearby Beaufort.
"How many kids are in a platoon? " she asked.
"About 60," he said.
"Can the kids quit? "
"They can quit, yes. But we don’t let them quit."
A little later, Sherrie Stegmeier, college resource counselor at Dublin-Scioto High School, picked up the questioning.
"Do you ever have problems with your voice from yelling so much? Like nodules on your larynx?"
"Some drill instructors get hernias from yelling so much," he answered.
It became clear to the teachers that Hoover would answer anything, no matter how delicate. When he was giving a tour one day through a recruit barracks — where everything smells like sweat — he explained that someone always had to be in the bathroom with the recruits, because that’s where they could most easily attempt suicide.
"Does that happen often?" someone asked. Hoover hesitated for a second.
"Yes," he said. "There is about one per platoon."
The drill instructors always take an attempt seriously, he said, though it is usually a show, a way to demonstrate how much a recruit wants out.
The educators could ask questions and shoot rifles and try the obstacles — a woman from Michigan broke her ankle — and sing karaoke at night, but they came to see how boot camp might affect the kids at Pickerington High School or Westerville Central.
One morning, a group watched some recruits run the Confidence Course, a series of tests impossible for most of the people in the educator workshop. The toughest looked to be "Slide for Life," one rope that sloped down gently from a tall wooden tower. The recruits had to use their hands and feet to get down it, flipping into three positions. It’s all upper body strength and concentration. Few made it. If they fell, they dropped into a net or a pool, depending on how high they were.
Stegmeier and other educators watched as one recruit hung on by his hands, trying to swing his feet back up. His neck veins popped out, but he couldn’t do it.
"Drop off my rope right now!" a drill instructor screamed. The recruit did and splashed, and all Stegmeier saw was someone’s son.
"My mother’s heart is breaking that he couldn’t do that," she said.
The educators ate lunch with recruits twice. The recruits are never to use the word I, because boot camp is supposed to help them shed their individuality. So when asked how things were going, Curtis Britton, a 2005 graduate of Westerville South High School in his fourth week of camp, said, "This recruit misses his girlfriend a lot."
Abbott asked Alfonso Rojas, a recruit from Miami, Fla., in his eighth week, what he thought of the drill instructors.
"This recruit didn’t like them at first, and now he wants to be just like them," he said.
Abbott got his family’s phone number and e-mail address and said she would let them know that he was okay. Rojas said he appreciated that, and then his drill instructors began yelling that lunch was over.
"Thank you for what you are doing for our country," Abbott said as Rojas stood.
The main event for many of the educators was the Eagle, Globe and Anchor ceremony, the presentation of the Marine Corps pin to recruits on their 69 th day at Parris Island. If they have made it that far, they have earned the right to be called Marines.
The educators sat in the paradeground stands as 507 men and women marched out in precise formation. This same ceremony happens about 40 times a year. The announcer said, "They carry the future of the Marine Corps on their shoulders."
"Look how proud they are," Abbott said.
The ceremony was short. A speech or two, and the drill instructors passed out the pins as God Bless the USA played. The recruits fastened them to their hats, and several stood there and stared for a few seconds, as if the pin were the most important thing they that had ever been given. The educators stood and applauded.
An order was given, and the 507 new Marines yelled the Marine Corps hymn: "From the halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli …" Then their drill instructors dismissed them.
They broke formation. Relatives and friends in the crowd, who had not seen these Marines in 12 weeks, flooded the parade grounds. Abbott and Stegmeier cried.
The educators came on the trip to judge for themselves, and this is what they said on Friday night as they started coming home:
"I have a different view now. These people are special. They want people who can think, who can make decisions," said Eric Landversicht, the Bloom-Carroll district drug, alcohol and violence prevention coordinator.
"When you see one of these recruits — babies is the word that comes to my mind — putting team and country before themselves, it’s encouraging for the future," Stegmeier said.
"It was a very powerful, incredible experience. … I met people who are choosing to serve. It made my respect more personal. It really made me proud to be an American," Abbott said.
If her students ask her on Monday what she thinks about the Marines now, that’s what she will tell them.
jphillips@dispatch.com
Ellie