Marine Corps Recruit Training Depot, Parris Island, South Carolina - 1993
Platoon 2080 had come a long way after enduring First Phase of USMC Boot Camp, the initial rigorous month of training in the Paris Island heat and humidity was now in our rear-view mirror. Our physical and mental beings had been, at this point, partly purged of civilian nastiness; the way we walked, talked and perceived the world around us had been changed forever. We were students of bushido, the "way of the warrior" - modern-day samurai pupils, immersed both day and night in the arts of combat. The Drill Instructors were training us how we would be expected to fight - in a word: relentlessly.
We would wake at zero dark thirty, to the now familiar barrage to the senses:
Hearing: Drill Instructors screaming at us, "Get on line, get on line...expletive, nasty thing...expletive. I will bust your heart!"
Smelling: The squad bay aroma was a combination of wool blankets, CLP (gun oil), Aqua Velva, and the predictable and unmistakable scents of maleness: farts, sweat and testosterone. Throw in a whiff of the the surrounding tidal swamps and the characteristic above-ground plumbing and you get the idea.
Tasting: this sense having an intimate relationship with olfaction, take that to mean everything tasted like the corresponding smelly descriptions. Beyond that, there was the metallic taste that came along with cotton mouth and the nasty ass food we called chow. Then there was what could be called "the Paris Island Milieu," our every experience on that godforsaken island, rapidly inspired and expired through such heat and humidity, we might as well have been breathing through straws. All this left such a distinct gustatory impression, that I am certain every Marine returning to Paris Island will find it familiar on his taste buds, and relive the experience in full.
Seeing: Sight alignment and sight picture, of course; the windage flag; ginormous cockroaches, cruising the squad bay, and fire ants that would swarm and devour your spit when you were pulling targets in the butts. Everything was green, brown or black, the colors comprising camoflage - the only exception being the frequent glimpse of scarlet and gold of the USMC emblem: the eagle, globe and anchor, which was all but forbidden to us at the moment, for we had not yet earned the title "Marine."
Feeling: Physical pain from the rigorous training, mental anguish from missing "Suzy," our families and the comforts of home. Eventually, a familiarity with the intense recruit training regimen, which instilled in each recruit a feeling of pride, accomplishment and a growing appreciation for the men around you, who you relied upon to accomplish every task.
Pardon me for the lengthy description, entire books could and have been written on the above experience. But it is very important to appreciate the environment which sets the stage for the moral of this story.
"Losers Look At The Ground"
We were now entering 2nd Phase of Recruit Training, and among other duties during this period, Platoon 2080 was tasked with the mission of "mess duty" at the 2nd Battalion chow hall. Mess duty essentially had us functioning in every menial task inherent to a food service institution. We would cut fresh fruit, scrub pots and pans in the "scullery" and serve other recruits chow. The chow hall was always crazy busy, regardless of whether we had actual diners in-house, as there was constant prep work and cleaning to be done.
Platoon after platoon of recruits would cycle through in the usual manner, via close-order-drill. The barking commands were predictably issued by the Drill Instructors, their raspy voices harassing, "AhLEFT, rrIGHT, AhLllaft RIGHT, aCOLUMN RighTT - MARCH! PlaTOON, HALT." Knowledge was drilled during the wait to enter: "First General Order? Sir, the First General Order is..."
In came first squad, then the others in sequence. Trays were grabbed and recruits would sidestep mechanically through the chow line, as we dished out servings of eggs and creamed beef, stuffing and "turkey." Our mantra to them was always, "stay motivated, recruit," which always seemed to inspire some hope that times would indeed get better.
On this particular day, I was working in the scullery, assisting my fellow recruits in washing trays. As the giant machine churned, steamed and came to a halt, we would open it up, dry and stack the trays and then carry them out to their carriages on the chow-room floor, for the recruits to grab. I loaded up a stack of perhaps thirty trays and bumped open the scullery door, feeling good about having a job to do; completing this non-combat training task was a respite from the heat and mud. Satisfied to have struck a rhythm in my work, I swung around the corner and my employee-of-the-month attitude was clothes-lined by the ominous presence of my Senior Drill Instructor, standing in the threshold of the hatch (doorway). I averted my eyes, as the thirty-odd trays that I had previously wielded with ease grew painfully heavy.
Staff Sergeant Hanke was a pretty short Marine, 5'5" is giving him credit, I'm certain. He was small in stature but giant in character...in all qualities Marine. He had all the attributes of the Marine Drill Instructor. He was of impeccable physical fitness...could run three miles in 16 minutes and change; climb two ropes at the obstacle course simultaneously, one in each hand. He had tremendous "command presence," the type of man who had everyone on the island's respect - by my observation, especially that of his peers, which spoke volumes. To Platoon 2080, SSgt. Hanke was on the level of supreme being. And I, Recruit Oberst, the scullery lacky, had stepped into his kill zone.
My gaze rebounded from his eyes directly to the floor, as I made for the tray rack -
away from him! But my retreat was immediately arrested by the Senior Drill Instructor's bellow, "Heyyy, Oberssst! Commmere, YOU NASTY THING!" He stared through me, his icy eyes popping out, along with several serpentine veins on his forehead. "LOCK YOUR BODY, FREAK!"
Yes, Sir!
"Hey, Oberst" (talking now, his voice still a raspy uhhhhhhhhh, but instructive; matter-of-fact, not demeaning), "know who looks at the ground, Oberst?"
No, Sir!
"Loozers."
I fought back a smile, then a frown...some shit in between, as I anxiously considered the fear and intimidation I felt, just a minute earlier by the man's mere presence. Then I responded to the Senior DI's challenge, defiantly-locking my eyes to his, and I found not the face of a man trying to demean me, but the countenance of a samurai sensei, demanding fearlessness from his pupil...wanting it for me. Insisting it!
"Are you a LOSER, Oberst?"
No, Sir!
And so a valuable lesson was taught
. Traveling my chosen path
, I would be expected to face my fears, and overcome them. The importance of a firm handshake and a sincere look in the eye was now analogous to knowing the enemy, respecting your opponent and stopping only upon mission accomplishment. I consider it a hygiene, like bathing or brushing my teeth; only with such regularity can its integrity be upheld. And in looking fear in the eyes, we neutralize its momentum; take away its power. Like the animal that has you on the run or the fighter that has you on the ropes, fear relies upon your fleeing so it can chase you down. Never turn and run from life's problems.
I have put the valuable lesson of "Losers Look at the Ground" to work more times than I can count in the dozen years or so that have passed since my days at Paris Island. I also never miss an opportunity to seize the teachable moment, when I see others struggling with their own problems. To this day, when I see a friend solemnly looking at their feet, depressed about some impossible situation that has befallen them, I remind them "You know who looks at the ground?" Most of them have heard this story a million times and they chuckle and straighten up immediately. In so doing, I relive the day when
I was called on the carpet to answer that rhetorical question, "Hey Oberst, you know who looks at the ground?" the day I was called a loser to bring out the winner in me.
