The land that God forgot

I pulled off I95 and headed to the coast today. It was a pretty drive, because this is a pretty area. It smelled familiar, and I rolled my windows down. I drove onto Marine Corps Recruit Depot Parris Island.

Now, this is the part, where as an "old Marine," I should rant on about how the Corps has gone soft and ain't what it once was and is headed straight to Hell in a handbasket. But, ladies and gentlemen, that simply is not the case.

The uniforms have changed since I was there. That appears to be it.

I parked at the PX and took a little stroll over past 4th Recruit Training Battalion (the only place in the Marine Corps that trains female recruits - there aren't enough to justify opening an equivalent battalion at MCRD San Diego). No platoons were on the parade deck, so I wandered around to the front of the battalion. A couple of recruits were outside doing something mindless (raking the Pit). When I walked back, I heard that oh-so-familiar sound. One of them, apparently, had done fucked up. As I drew even with the Pit, a DI was hard at work "refocusing a recruit." The recruit was face down in the sand, doing pushups, and the DI was about two inches from her face.

"Oh, very well. Just drag your nasty body in my sand. PUSH!"

I kept walking. I drove around the Depot. It had only been shortly before graduation that I realized how small Parris Island really is, when I finally noticed that in order to make us "hump" far enough, we were recovering the same ground again and again. I drove past the rifle ranges - busy. Two full weeks are spent on the rifle range. The Corps truly believes in it. It's part of why it's such a special organization. That little cross-eyed female Marine admin clerk? She can spit in the wind, adjust the sights on her service rifle, and drop a man at 500 yards. It's a skill, but more important, it's a mindset.

A group of recruits were clustered near the gas chamber - I saw no snot, so they must have been in the "preparation" phase. I passed a PT field that also boasted an obstacle course. Amusingly, it was right across the road from a playground. Heh.

I drove back to Mainside and parked by the main parade deck. Four or five platoons from 1st Battalion were drilling. The all looked reasonably good, so I assume they were late in training. There were some other folks watching the drill, and they gasped a little when an irate senior drill instructor referred to his recruits' feet using a less-than-PC adjective.

As I drove off the island, taking great joy in my ability to drive myself off the Island that I once spent months dreaming of escaping, I saw a group of very new recruits being run ragged. Most of the group was engaging in some sort of semi-organized scrambling around, but one had apparently sinned more greatly. He was running, in a dramatic, arm-flapping manner and being followed by a DI. It was not a happy picture. The recruit looked ragged. The DI looked perfect. Three months from now, the recruit will be a Marine, and he will look damn near perfect, too.

That's what they do there.

I was struck, wandering around, that a lot of the DIs looked young to me. And that figures. A lot of them are sergeants, E5s. A lot are staff sergeants, E6s. And there are a very few E7 gunnery sergeants on the drill field. On paper, most of the DIs would be my peers or my juniors. But not in reality. When I was in the Marine Corps, I knew I could never do that job. It takes a level of dedication and committment that I can never imagine mustering. The hours are long, the scrutiny is neverending, and the stress is ungodly. I still realize, perhaps even more keenly, that the drill instructors are far better Marines than I ever was. It takes an immense amount of confidence to hold yourself up as the standard of Marine Corps perfection. And they do it. Because they are just that good.

Anyway, a cool stop. I'm holed up just off the base in a random chain motel with internet access. My early start means I could still be on the road, but I'm tired, so I think I'll just chill in Port Royal this evening. I might drive up the road and try to find a place for dinner where I can watch the sun set over the salt marsh. The sunsets were always beautiful here, and I can only imagine how much nicer they'd be with a cold beer in hand.

An additional note. The goddamn sonuvabitch sandfleas are alive and well, too. And healthy and hungry. They chewed the shit out of me. I goddam hate sandfleas.