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thedrifter
10-16-06, 07:27 AM
Emotions run high as families watch their kids become Marines

FRANK GERJEVIC
AROUND ALASKA

(Published: October 15, 2006)

"Your country is at war."

Drill instructors repeated that message more than once at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego in December. They said it to the recruits, and they said it to the families and friends of the recruits during two days of graduation activities.

War seemed a far cry from the Mission-style buildings and palms of the depot, from the warm sun during the wait for the recruits to finish their motivational run and stand according to platoons before their families and friends.

One of the drill instructors worked the crowd like an old pro, and he told about one of the other drill instructors who had lost an eye in Iraq and whose wife made him eye patches to match his different uniforms.

When the recruits arrived, mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers rose on tiptoes, craning to see a familiar face, to recognize someone they loved in those ranks, cameras ready, video recorders on.

"Do you see him?"

"There he is!"

Look, but don't touch. The recruits were still just recruits, and their families guests at the MCRD. It wasn't time to embrace yet.

Families and friends gathered in the auditorium, where the drill instructors were introduced and mothers were urged to hark back to their role as their sons' first drill instructors during leave. Keep them safe.

"Your son is a national asset now."

Old Marines were asked to stand; all veterans were asked to stand, to warm applause. Then came the time to go back out in the sun for the emblem ceremony, when the recruits receive the globe and anchor from the drill instructors -- when the recruits become Marines.

We watched from the bleachers as each platoon marched to its place. About 480 in all, young and lean, shirts and trousers creased and sharp, standing at rigid attention.

One young man tried so hard to keep ramrod straight while sobs shook him. He was about to pass from recruit to Marine; the wave was relentless as the drill instructor neared to give his emblem and shake his hand -- and there he was, red-faced and crying under the sweet December sun in front of God and everybody. He couldn't help it.

"He wasn't the only one crying," my son told me later. The sobbing young man was in Will's platoon. He managed the handshake with his sergeant and then resumed his war for control.

They'd earned the tears, and they'd earned the emblem. Who knew what all was in that wave of emotion he had to ride? My son told me that some of the recruits' stories were sobering -- abused lives you wouldn't wish on anyone. In the bleachers you could catch snatches of conversation, something like: "The turning point for my nephew was when he was in jail and decided he wanted to see the sun again."

Now they had their emblems. One crossing made. More to come. In that sunlit, fine moment they stood and, with silent force, old words crossed the country to the commander-in-chief: You better be right. These young men go to war at your word. You better be right.

But God, what a beautiful day that was. When the new Marines were dismissed for five hours of liberty on the depot, families and friends flowed out of the bleachers, and the recruits joined them and reunions commenced. What a fine crowd. Sisters and girlfriends, mothers well-dressed, a kid in spiked hair, T-shirts and old insignia, a big man with a graying ponytail. Your country is at war, but there's peace here this day with the Marines.

We walked in the sun and bought lunch at a buffet, where we ate outside at a table and Will gradually and naturally began what would be several days of recruit tales. Now he had some of the finest time a young man can know, a hard challenge met and the pause to enjoy to it.

That evening, as we were saying our goodbyes in front of his barracks, Will abruptly turned to salute as the flag was lowered for the night. Before we left we asked him if he wanted us to come to flag ceremony the next morning.

"I don't care," he said with the grin of a young man on the eve of 38 days leave. "Just be here when I'm ready to leave."

Frank Gerjevic can be reached at fgerjevic@adn.com.

Ellie