(That’s me — second row from the top, on the left end.)
I was a wimp, a wuss, physically unfit, dumb ass and have no idea why I enlisted in the Marine Corps. But I did and it is the best thing that ever happened to me.
I enlisted a week after I graduated from high school. Dad went with me to sign the papers because I wasn’t 18 yet. The recruiter was Sgt. Gary Iames, and I maintained contact with him until I got discharged. I went in on the 120-day delay program, which meant that even though I enlisted in June, I didn’t actually go to boot camp until September 26. That summer I spent some time in California and we made our annual trip to Birch Bay.
The big day came and it’s all a blur. I’m guessing the only reason I remember going to the airport is because there are pictures of me waiting to get on the plane. I looked like a complete idiot. In hindsight, I think that was one of those times in my life when I went on auto-pilot. I’m sure I must have been nervous as hell, but I don’t remember any of the details.
There was a group of us, and I THINK we had to meet at the induction center in Seattle for initial processing and receiving our brown envelopes (orders). We then were bussed to the airport, and most of us had parents waiting to see us off from there.
We flew into San Diego and were then directed to a bus to take us to MCRD San Diego. When we got there it was dark, and I’m assuming late evening. I remember a Drill Instructor coming aboard the bus and giving us a speech about shutting the fuck up and getting off the bus as quickly as possible and lining up on the infamous “yellow footprints”. His speech was also an introduction to the creative ways we were taught to include f-bombs into any word or sentence. “When I give you the word, you miserable fucks will pick up any shit you brought with you and get off my fucking bus. You will not leave anything behind you, and if you do I will find you and you will eat whatever I find. You will not walk, you will run. Your days of walking are over. You will not talk, you will not make any fucking noise whatsoever. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME MAGGOTS? YOU BETTER GOD DAMN ANSWER ME SO I CAN HEAR YOU, YOU SLIMY PIECES OF SLUG SHIT! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? NOW GET OFF MY GOD DAMNED BUS!! NOW!!!
When we hit the yellow footprints, most of figured out that our feet went on top of them, but I know a few guys got it wrong. Sad for them. We were screamed at, and called names none of us had heard before. I was immediately thankful that my recruiter told me not to bring anything with me but the clothes I was wearing, and to use a bathroom in the San Diego airport before going to MCRD. Some guys brought coats and bags and food. They were “politely” told their days of wearing civilian shit were over and any food they had, they had to eat right there. Of course, any information on using bathrooms came much later when we learned bathrooms didn’t exist anymore, we now used heads and you only used them when you were told to use them.
The ensuing process ran us through haircuts, uniform issuing, and the required call home. It was a total blur, we were all a combination of scared, excited, confused and lost. We were then moved though various other things and finally given time to rest for a couple of hours before the next morning.
Eventually, we were given to our platoon DI’s and set about being oriented to the Marine Corps. I was assigned to Platoon 2092. I cannot remember any of their names. We were billeted to live in the old quonset huts and the first day was just like in the movies. The DI came in, turned on the lights, and threw a metal trashcan down the center aisle and then ran up and down yelling and raising hell. He even flipped a bunk bed over on its side. The guy was good.
Sometime during the initial regimen of running and exercise I managed to hurt my left leg. I was unable to walk well, so after calling me a malingering slack ass, they sent me to sick bay where I was determined to have a stress fracture of my left leg. I was then moved out of the regular training and into a Physical Rehab Platoon for a couple of weeks and then a Physical Conditioning Platoon, which was also referred to as the fat farm. We spent most of the days running and exercising and the meals were all the lettuce you can eat. We ran, we did weight training, we exercised (PT), and we ran some more.
I’m amazed that I wasn’t discharged as a non-hacker. I fell into a routine and spent way too much time in those platoons. I found some sort of weird comfort in being there. Eventually, one of the DI’s called me into his office and gave me a talk about commitment and told me, in no uncertain terms, that I had to decide if I wanted to be a Marine or not. I was certainly smart enough, but I was lazy and showed no ambition. His final words were, “you need to decide”. I can’t remember his name either, and I truly wish I could.
So, I decided. I went back into regular training and was assigned to Platoon 2235. I reported to their barracks (new building and much nicer than those old quonset huts), and checked in while the rest of the platoon was at chow. I was greeted by SSgt. Ashford, who assigned me my rack and told me that I was a shitbird and he was no babysitter.
While Platoon 2092 had guys from Washington State, Platoon 2235 was primarily Texan and southerners, with a sprinkling of guys from other places. Mixing in didn’t seem to be a problem, personalities were all focused on getting through boot camp and as long as you held up your part and didn’t cause the group a lot of misery, everything else worked out. I kept to myself, didn’t really get to know a lot of guys and focused on tasks at hand.
(This is where I met Russ Stoddard. Since we did most things in alphabetical order, he was near me. He was from Ohio and was a little slow on the draw. Stoddard, Luna, Dorsey and Love were guys I kept in touch with. Russ was killed in Vietnam in March, 1970. I found out while I was working the Casualty Desk at Fleet Home Town News Center and he was on the daily teletype message I got from HQMC listing casualties and details. I had to get up and walk around for awhile after reading his, and I remember Bill Marcotte and me and a few others went to the NCO club that night to drink for Russ.)
Our three DIs, GySgt. Drakeford, SSgt. Ashford, and Sgt. Hess, were an interesting dynamic. Drakeford was the Senior DI and was the stern father-figure. Ashford was quiet (for a DI) and wasn’t overly physical, but looked like an angry bulldog. Hess was a complete psych job and loved to scream and hit and spit. The platoon quickly learned to adjust temperaments depending on the duty. I avoided Hess, but kind of liked the other two.
There was one memorable moment when I was lagging off and Drakeford was on me. He called me down, huffed and puffed and then looked me up and down and said, “Private Schrum I can’t make you do a goddamned thing, but I can sure as hell make you wish you did.”
I don’t know why, but those words stuck with me for my entire life. I realized later how profound that statement was, and particularly when applied to leadership. My job for the last 50+ years has not been to get people to do something, it has been to get them to WANT to do it. The famous management guru, Peter Drucker, put it another way, “as a leader you can’t motivate anyone, you can only demotivate them. They have to motivate themselves.” I used Drakeford as my opening line when discussing relevant things, and then followed with Drucker for those non-hackers who couldn’t understand Marine Corps style.
The physical training we endured came easier since I had spent so much time getting in shape. We ran 3 miles every morning, then did “PT” (physical training) amid the classroom work and other testing. We also got to do pushups and squat thrusts as punishment every time we did something wrong. The biggest challenge I had through all of it was doing pull ups. I could not do a pull up. I did the obstacle course, rope climbs, water jumps, runs, all of that, but never a pull up. After the second time, I really looked forward to the obstacle course.
Funny to look back on it now, but when I first looked at the rope climbs and the obstacle course I was scared to death. But being forced to do it, to push myself, to realize that getting over those obstacles was up to me and I needed to focus on the matter at hand and keep the ending in sight, got me through. I think it was through these challenges that I learned “it’s all going to end somewhere, you just need to get there.” — But climbing up those damned cargo nets, swinging over to a rope slide, and then finishing with I don’t know what still astounds me.
Funny (?) story on the rope climb. I really don’t remember how high they were, they were probably 30’ but we thought 40’. Up the rope, use your legs not your arms, tap the top and slide back down. Simple enough. Sure. We had one guy who got about half way up the rope and froze in place. He could not move. Drakeford and Ashford were at the bottom yelling their heads off and calling him every name imaginable trying to get him to move. But, nothing. The guy would not move. By now, we were all watching and waiting for the disaster and wondering if some or all of us should catch him when he fell. But, Drakeford finally uttered the immortal words, “Fuck this”. He walked over to one of the support poles and took his DI cover off and set it on the ground. He called the house mouse over to stand by it and not touch it, but don’t let it blow away. (Not sure how the mouse would have done that.). The Gunny then proceeded to go up the pole to the cross piece, out the crosspiece arm-over-arm to the guy’s rope. Climbed onto the rope above the guy, and then slid down on top of him, kicking him in the shoulders and arms to get him to go down. The kid finally started sliding down and when he got to the bottom he collapsed. The DI’s were on him and got him up and moving, and we all went back to the barracks. I don’t remember seeing that kid again, but I remember people looked at Drakeford with awe.
We spent the holidays in boot camp and I remember on Christmas we were told we could lighten up and find some entertainment. I can’t remember who was the duty DI, but his idea of entertainment was giving us time to polish our boots, write letters and then gather. He asked if anyone knew karate or judo or anything, and Private Lee volunteered to say he did. Lee was then allowed to show us his moves with other privates being tossed around the squad bay.
I can’t remember if it was Thanksgiving or Christmas, but I remember when we went to the mess hall for dinner, we were told we could have dessert. I saw that one of the guys was not going to eat his piece of pie, so of course I volunteered to take it. The DIs saw me and I was summoned to the duty hut when we got back to the squad bay. As I walked in, they were all there and Hess was pulling on leather gloves. I was asked about the pie, and why a fat fuck like me, who just got out of the god damned fat farm would want to eat pie? Providing no good answer, Sgt. Hess said he was going to help me get rid of it, and proceeded to punch me in the stomach. I have always had strong abs, so I reflexively tightened up and his hit sent me back but did not fold me over. That seemed to spur him on so he repeated the process a few times with the same result. By now, Drakeford had enough and told me to get down and give him 25 push ups. So I hit the floor and got a few out when I was told to stop. Drakeford then stood on my shoulders and told me to continue. I think I got maybe 2 or 3 out with him standing on top of me before I couldn’t do any more. I was then told to get up and all three of them got in my face about being a shitbird, dirtbag slimy piece of #### and having no fucking personal discipline. Then I was escorted to the door and shoved out. Funny thing is, I never considered that abuse and I did consider it an accomplishment for myself, because I remembered the words we Drakeford said to the platoon in the very beginning, “Whatever we do to you here is nothing compared to what the VC will do to you if you’re ever captured.” I think those words helped me through a lot of things in bootcamp and later in life.
We went to the Edson Range and I shot an M-14 for the first time in my life. The range wasn’t just shooting. We also kept up our PT regimen and running. It was also our introduction to Mount Motherfucker (google it). We humped it in marches and we ran it on the day after qualification. I made both trips, and on the run is when I remember entering that mental state that runners talk about. I lost myself and just felt out-of-body as I ran. I remember keeping up with our DI, which spurred him on to go faster, but I felt no pain and kept up with him.
On Pre-qualification day, I did not qualify and was promptly dressed down as a “non-qual” shit bag. Marines are all “basic riflemen” and if you can’t shoot, you aren’t a Marine”. — When the big day came to shoot for qualification as either an Expert, Sharpshooter, Marksman or Non-qual, I was a little nervous. We shot from 200, 300, and 500 yards. The 300-yard set included a rapid-fire section, where you had to fire your entire magazine of 20 rounds, within a set time (20-30 seconds?). I shot a perfect score, all of them right through the bullseye. The range coach called my Senior DI, Gunny Drakeford, over to see and he was stunned. I remember him stuttering and then saying something like, “good work, now get your grouping tighter.” I finished the day with a score of 217 points which made me a Sharpshooter. I was ecstatic, but a little let down because if I could have scored 220 I would have made “Expert”.
The following weeks, we had what was called a “practical test” which included first aid, map/compass reading, and other practical things we needed to know. I aced all of them.
The final physical fitness test was what I feared the most. It included pull-ups, sit-ups, leg lifts, squat thrusts, rope climb, and finished with a 3-mile run.
It was stated that if you fail one of them, you fail all of them and you’re out. I did 85 sit-ups in 2 minutes and scored 100%. I did a good number of push-ups, leg lifts and squat thrusts to more than pass those, and I climbed a 40’ rope in a fairly good time. I did zero pull-ups. When the run came, I had nothing to lose so I went all out and ran, not jogged, ran for three miles and finished in the top five.
The next day, Gunny Drakesford called me into his office and reviewed the testing with me. He said I failed the PT test, and then after an extended period of silence, he said he was making an exception for me because I did so well on everything else. I was stunned. I made it. I was going to be a Marine.
During our final platoon inspection, which was conducted by the Commanding Officer of MCRD and out Battalion Commander, Drakesford stopped them in front of me and called me “one of the most motivated privates” in his platoon.
As we were winding down, at one of final gatherings Drakeford and Ashford were telling us what our MOS (Military Occupational Specialty - our jobs) were going to be. The majority of the guys were some variation of 0300 infantry, but when he came to me he said, “Schrum, 4312 … what the FUCK is a 4312? Press Information Man? What the fuck is that? None of us knew. One thing I learned later was that other guys were generally assigned a 4300 MOS and went to Journalism School at Fort Benjamin Harrison for further training. Not me. Apparently my high school journalism class gave me enough training to put together who, what, when, where, why and how into a coherent paragraph during our testing in boot camp, so I got to go straight to the ISO at Camp Lejeune, N.C.
I graduated boot camp on February 5, my Mom & Dad came to see me graduate. Marching on to that parade deck and being called a Marine for the first time was one of the proudest days of my life. I have a picture with Gunny Drakeford that I carry to this day, but it was that DI in the PCP that lit my fire. I can see him but can’t remember his name.
February 6 we were loaded onto busses and sent north to Camp Pendleton and Infantry Training Regiment (ITR). We were housed in canvas tents with wooden floors and kerosene heaters. It was February in those hills and rainy and cold. The fun times continued. But I loved it, I was a Marine.
Semper Fi. Forever.
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