I knew that I'd made a colossal mistake within the first five seconds after our train arrived at the Yemassee, South Carolina depot. It was a mistake with the crack and sizzle of a thunderbolt that streaks across the sky and singes the seat of your trousers.

As the Atlantic Coast Line train screeched to a halt, the bright overhead lights flashed on. I blinked and rubbed my eyes as two Marine Military Policemen (MPs) dressed in starched khaki uniforms and red armbands leaped aboard my rail car.

" All Marine Corps recruits will stand up and get off the train," they bellowed, "all Marine recruits for Parris Island! Get up and get off the train! Now!"

The MPs rushed down the aisle beating the tops of the cloth seats with their billy clubs, causing clouds of dust to rise in the eerie light.

My body developed instant paralysis and my heart leapt in my chest. The MPs stormed down the aisle, making direct eye contact with each passenger. One MP looked left; the other looked to the right.
" Are you a Marine recruit," one MP demanded, shaking a dozing young man. The recruit rubbed his eyes and mumbled a sleepy "yes." He was instantly jerked to his feet and propelled down the aisle. One after another, the half-awake recruits were yanked to their feet and shoved toward the exit steps, their duffel bags and hats sailing after them.

The elderly Miami-bound couples hugged each other and looked on with gaping mouths as the MPs continued clubbing the seat tops, driving the recruits toward my end of the car. The recruits bumped into seats and into each other, struggling to reach the exit, accompanied by groans, occasional whimpers, and barely audible curses.

As the MPs neared my seat, something must have vacuumed all the air out of the railcar, because I had to fight to suck in each breath. I felt dizzy and light-headed as I dragged myself to my feet. My crewneck sweater collar squeezed my neck like a noose and I felt my pulse pounding against the fabric.

" On your feet! Get up and get off! Come on, hurry up, hurry up! Better get moving, Sonny, before you get help! You better not be the last one off! Move! Move!"

To encourage the recruits to take their "suggestion" seriously, the MPs physically assisted the recruits and their luggage off the train. All sixty of us exited the train and landed on the platform with our duffel bags in less than thirty seconds. This little impromptu stampede spoke volumes for their efficiency. That some of the luggage didn't belong to us didn't seem to matter.

I wondered if an eighteen-year-old could develop heart trouble or instant paralysis without a stroke. How about instant emphysema without ever smoking?

As the train spun its wheels in its haste to pull away from the platform, the MPs stampeded our ragged mob, herding us across the platform and onto a small parking lot next to a one-story cottage. The exodus resembled waves of small fish that instantly change direction when a predator threatens.

One minute after one in the morning and these guys are trying to set records. Unlike the Marines in the recruiting posters, none of them were dressed in blue uniforms, or carried swords or anything. No "glad to see ya,"no "Hi buddy," no handshaking, nothing. No, the message was clear: "the Marine Corps builds men, and we're starting this morning."

A lean, thin-lipped Marine stood waiting, tapping his pencil on a