Parris Island Daze Chapter 1

Chapter 1 Let The Games Begin
Lightning Strike in Yemassee
October 2, 1958
Continued

clipboard. "You have arrived at Yemassee, South Carolina," he snarled. "Major General Rufus Hauling, Commanding General of the Marine Corps Recruit Depot at Parris Island, welcomes you. You will be transported presently by bus to the Island."

Our greeter stalked around our midst, counting and scowling. As he passed, I noticed his two stripes were new, but didn't cover a larger space on his sleeve that once had been covered by three stripes. Not a good sign. Evidently he, too, had been recently scorched by a thunderbolt.
Greeter stopped in front of a recruit and grabbed one of his hands. "Take your hands out of your pockets, Skippy! You playing pocket pool?"

Greeter circled the herd, shoving, screaming, and correcting the posture of the recruits. Resuming his place at the head of the group, he mechanically continued his welcoming lecture.
"You will stand up straight! No talking! No chewing gum! No smoking. No moving around. Keep your eyes to the front!"

He abruptly turned and strutted into the little cottage, no doubt to inform the general we had arrived. The MPs guarded both sides of the mob, tapping their billy clubs in their palms, making sure none escaped.

We stood at mob attention, cursing ourselves for not having joined the Coast Guard. Or maybe the Army; at least the Army's recruiting poster said they wanted us. There we stood, one o'clock in the morning, tired, without a neighborly face in sight, and in the hands of testy overachievers.

I tried to will my thudding heart and breathing back to normal. Okay, calm down, calm down. Maybe these guys were pissed about having to leave a nice warm bed, get all dressed up, and collect a bunch of civilians. They hadn't actually beaten us with the billy clubs. No one had been bodily thrown from the train, although I did play pinball with the exit stairs and missed a couple of steps as they "encouraged" me to get off.

Maybe they were just eager to get started. Maybe they were looking forward to returning to their soft warm bed partners. Maybe they just didn't like civilians. I prayed they weren't going to be our drill instructors and that the next bunch of Marines would be human.

A mist began to fall, but the herd members were still too much in shock or too lost in remorse to notice, or care. Careful not to get their creased uniforms wet, the MPs stepped back under the depot overhang.

After a few halfhearted spurts, the rain came down with conviction and continued for a half hour or so. It trickled off my hair and down my neck, sending a stream of chilled water coursing down my back. My body shuddered and my back tensed with the shock. Or was it fear?

When the rain slacked off to a drizzle, our greeter waltzed out, looking vaguely surprised.
"Why didn't someone come in and tell me it was raining out here," he asked, glancing at his clipboard. "You people didn't have to stand out here in the rain!" He didn't look very broken up about it.

First, he says no moving about, then no talking. Now he says why didn't someone move around, talk, and generally throw a fraternity party in the darned little building? These people were impossible to please.

A beat up Greyhound bus lurched out of the dark swamps and Greeter stuffed all sixty of us in it. This surprised me, as I thought buses carried only forty or so.

After seeing the recruits safely on the bus, the MPs retired to their pickup trucks and spun gravel in their haste to get back to their bed partners. Almost like they didn't want to be witnesses for what might happen next.

The bus took off in a cloud of diesel smoke and bounced along in the darkness. I tried to see out between elbows and duffel bags, but could only glimpse foggy swampage and a bridge over a creek. Greeter barked that there were sharks and gators in the water and several recruits had tried to swim it, but no one had made it yet.

The bus was as silent as a cattle rustler's hanging on a foggy morning. No one dared speak with the short-tempered Greeter perched on the front step, glaring out the windshield. We resigned ourselves to the trip, breathing in fumes of damp clothing, tobacco, and disinfectant.

I wondered if we were passing the swamp where six recruits had drowned two years ago during a night punishment march. My father, who worked in a Pennsylvania steel mill, had heard from his buddy that a Drill Instructor (DI) had smashed out all of his son's teeth with a rifle butt. Probably for falling asleep at 1 a.m.

The bus droned on and on, deeper and deeper into the gloom of moss covered live oaks and swampy marshes, deeper into the Transylvania of the South.

It worried me now that I didn't memorize my eleven "general orders." The recruiting sergeant had told us we had better learn them on the train before we showed up. I did know one of them, though; one of the four shortest ones. I'd be all right if they started with number eight: "To give the alarm in case of fire or disorder."

Judas Priest. What had I gotten myself into?

The seat of my pants was still trailing a thin wisp of smoke from the thunderbolt as I was spirited into the United States Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island.