Keep The Faith ---

The Dog first heard that phrase in the Marine Corps back in 1968.   It was a comment often said to someone heading out on a dangerous assignment or facing a tough challenge.  It was not necessarily a religious line, it was meant as encouragement to believe in yourself.*  

In the ‘80s, when working internationally, it came back to me as a good sig line on e-mail messages (telexes, in those days) or memos to friends and colleagues around the world.  If they asked about it, the answer was geared to them.   Different meanings for different people.  

Then it went low again until the demons and disasters of the late ‘90s came roaring in.   Resurrected it to give encouragement to people struggling through hellacious times.  Sad side was that those who needed to hear it most, derided it most.  

In the 2000’s, it came back, once more, as my sig line on work e-mails.  Just a bit of “Human Resources trying to keep it human”, as we would say.   I was chastised by a senior leader who said I needed to stop using it because it sounded religious.   (He was also the one who told me I shouldn’t advocate for Veterans Day because we would be seen as promoting war.).  I explained the background of the phrase to him, and he came to understand (and also supported the Veterans Day celebration) but I cut back using it anyway.  

Now, in these days, it seems needed again.  With nasty politics and wars all around us, a general negativity in media, and a national trend to find blame and fault before hope and good, it seems needed again.  A world where cynicism and sarcasm overtake optimism, respect and kindness.  The United State is anything but united, and people are not Americans as much as they are (you fill in the blank ).  

Anyway, it is certainly spiritual, but it is mainly aimed at you, as an individual, believing in yourself and your ability to get through things and find peace and positivity on the other side with yourself, your world, and other people.  Only you can do that — only you.  You can’t change the world, you can only control you.  You control how you react to people, deal with things, adapt to things.  You build the bridges to peace and happiness … and other people.  One at a time.  

Obstacles?   Adapt, improvise, overcome.  All controlled by you.  

And… as it always has been, “easier said, than done”, and not everyone believes it or will do it.  C’est la vie.  

But please…

Keep moving 

Keep breathing 

Keep smiling

Keep trying

Keep the faith

—————

*If you really want a religious connection, grab your bible and read 2 Timothy 4:7.  Ol’ Tim got it and fought the good fight.  

And, there’s a few musical connections, but find Bon Jovi’s “Keep The Faith” or Rod Stewart’s song “This”.  They understood too..  

And play this while you're doing it .... 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P7pBJVAQWYI

Life's A Coin Flip

You’ll sometimes hear people say that one moment in time, one event, changed the entire course of their life.   

Here’s one of mine.  

The Dog was in the Marine Corps less than a year, and working for the Information Services Office (ISO) at Camp Lejeune, N.C.   It was a typical afternoon in the office, we were all working on various stories or projects for the Camp Lejeune Globe or some similar journalistic endeavor.   

The phone on ISO Chief SSgt. Ed Grantham’s desk rang and it was HQMC looking for a “4312 Lance Corporal” to transfer to Fleet Home Town News Center, Great Lakes, IL.   There were only two of us there, me and a guy whose name I cannot remember.   Grantham asked us who wanted to go and neither of us did.  

So Grantham pulled a quarter out of his pocket and flipped it.   

I lost the toss and shortly thereafter got my orders to Great Lakes.  It was there that I met Bill Marcotte, who years later introduced me to the woman who would become my wife and the mother of our children.   

If I had won the coin toss, I would have had a completely different life.   

I’m glad I lost.   

Road Dog Reflections -- Riyadh #2

After returning to Denver from the first Riyadh trip, I swore I would never go back unless our organizational skills improved 1000% and someone actually had experience putting together an RFP was involved.   

Then sometime in 1983, the phone rang again.   Kuhlman & Yates were contacted about bidding for five Whittaker Hospitals in Saudi Arabia being put out for bid.   The story behind this termination of Whittaker is a fascinating story of early Saudi business.   Whittaker’s business came crashing down when their CEO and others expounded publicly on how much profit they were making off the Saudis.  There’s a lot of background to this, but the fact was that the Minister of Defense & Aviation (MODA), Prince Sultan bin Abdul Aziz was not one to accept embarrassment for himself or his country and Whittaker was summarily dismissed.  

This trip I was sent by myself.   I always thought that was because I bitched so much on the first trip about how piss poor the planning was on our part.   So, I was sent to Houston (IHS HQ) to meet with the staff there, and Mr. John Donnelly, who Yates had hired to consult on logistics and bid preparation.  Donnelly was a wonderful gentleman and very down to earth.  He had worked in government for years with the Department of Commerce, had international experience, and now had his own company.  

So, we spent a few days going over the RFP and assigning duties and contact points for me for the three to four weeks I would be traveling.  I was booked to fly business class from Houston to London to Riyadh.  I would be met and transported to the Marriott and then would meet our new Saudi agent, Prince Abdullah bin Faisal bin Turki al Abdullah bin Saud.   

On the morning I was to leave, we were meeting to discuss final details when Yates assistant came in and said I had an emergency phone call from my wife and I really needed to speak with her, “she’s crying.”     My first, and only, thought was that something happened to my Son.  When I got to the phone, the wife was sobbing and told me, “Larry committed suicide.”   Before I could register that it wasn’t my brother, she told me he had shot himself in the head, in their new baby’s room, and his wife was beside herself.  That’s when I realized that our next door neighbor was who she was talking about.   They had moved into a new home in Centaur Village shortly after we did and were wonderful people.  He had beach boy blond hair, and worked for the Federal Government.  She was expecting their first child.   They had a beautiful dog, Natasha.  I remember Larry had cut a square out of their privacy fence and put in a piece of clear plastic so Natasha could see out.   My wife did not want me to cancel the trip and come home, there was nothing to be done.  The neighbor's Mom was coming to take care of her, and the police, et al., were handling everything else.   So, with that on my mind, a few hours later I was off on a British Caledonia flight to Riyadh.  

When I landed in Riyadh this time, it was in the brand new King Khalid International airport in Riyadh.  It was amazing, so big and luxurious, which was nice; but the process of getting through customs was the same and the wait was the same.   After clearing customs, I went out to the receiving area and found my guy with my name on his sign.   This time he was middle-eastern (Palestinian) and his name was Nasser Bseiso, and he spoke very good English.  Nasser would prove to be a godsend many times over.  

Nasser was most congenial and drove me to the hotel, where he saw that I was checked in and we had tea and sweets.  He had a schedule worked out and told me he would be picking me up the next morning for the bidders conference, then we would do some touring and later we would have supper and meet with Prince Abdullah.  I was overwhelmed with the difference from our first trip and was feeling pretty good when I finally got to bed.  I called my wife and she was much better, and I talked with my Son.   I called the office and told them that so far I was very impressed and optimistic.  

The next morning Nasser was there and we had breakfast in the hotel restaurant.   He had my entire itinerary with him.  Travel schedules to Jeddah, Khamis Mushayt (Abha) and Tabuk.  While I would be traveling as part of a larger bidding group, he would be accompanying me to insure everything was taken care of.  I also  found out that he had family in Dallas, and owned a Dunkin’ Donuts shop there.  His sons were there and taking care of things.  

The day went well.  We met people from MODA, and people from all the healthcare companies involved in bidding the project.   This included the big ones, HCA, NME, AMI, IHG (UK), and other smaller ones.   I remember thinking that they all looked different styles — HCA was well put together, well-dressed, and polished.  NME was “Southern California”, casual, leather coats, etc.   AMI was middle management, and IHG was…. well, British.   It was a fun group and we all seemed to hit it off fairly well for a group that would be traveling together for the next couple of weeks.  

That evening, I had dinner at Nasser’s house with his wife and some others I can’t remember.   I was stunned at the amount of food on the table and left stuffed with a new found love for middle-Eastern food.  This was the first of several meals I would have with them over the years to come.  

After dinner, we went to Prince Abdullah’s office, which as I recall was on a pretty nondescript street in a nondescript building with minimal signage.   We were escorted in to a waiting area, given tea, and shortly were escorted into Prince Abdullah bin Faisal bin Turki al Abdullah al Saud’s office.   It was comfortable but by no means “Saudi gaudy”.     He knew about me, and our organization, and was particularly fond of John Donelly whom he had met before.   We spent a few evenings having tea and talking about the world and our respective countries.   The Prince was a year younger than me, educated in Britain and a truly nice man, not self-absorbed or glitzy like a lot of them were then.   He went on to become the head of the Royal Commission on Jubail and Yanbu; and up until 2004 he was Governor of the Saudi Arabian General Investment Authority.   I spoke with him several times after that visit and saw him a few times while we lived there and he always remembered me.   

I won’t ramble on with details of hospitals, etc., but will just highlight some memories.   Khamis Mushayt & Abha were beautiful and in the mountains of Saudi Arabia.  It wasn’t all traditional looking Saudis because there was a good number of Yemenis living there.  We stayed at the Abha Intercontinental Hotel which was a 5-star hotel at the top of a hill in the middle of nowhere. The hospital facilities were lovely, well-managed and totally lost at the idea of being removed because Whittaker screwed up their contract.   I remember all of us “bidders” spending time assuring the current staff that whatever happened there would be no whole scale replacement of staff or physicians.   Transitions and opportunities would be process-driven and everyone would be considered for continued employment.   

Jeddah was the most cosmopolitan city I could imagine for Saudi Arabia.  It could have passed for any emerging large city with traffic and people.   Facilities there were also excellent, and conversations were very similar.  

Tabuk was memorable because that was pretty close to the Jordanian border and also connected to the Royal Saudi Air Force base.   The hospital was well managed and seemed efficient.   The thing I remember most is that they had the most well-developed Recreation Department I had seen anywhere.   They had every thing on that campus and a marvelous in-house cable TV system.   When I asked about it, the response was “there’s nothing out here but heat and desert, we need to make it a nice place for people to be.”   I also remember hearing that, at one time, the Israeli Air Force has flown below the radar in Saudi air space and “bombed” the Saudi airbase with pig carcasses before the RSAF could scramble any jets to intercept them.   A subtle Israeli message that I heard again years later.   

I also remember that when we were in Tabuk, Nasser left me alone while he “had to do some business”.   When he came back, he was carrying several posters of Yasser Arafat and other items he’d gotten during his “business”.   I didn’t ask.   Should have.  

That visit was my awakening to the beauty of the Kingdom, and a 5 week immersion into its cultures and people.  Each stop, each hospital, each city, opened new vistas of beauty and people, it was fascinating to me.  As mentioned before this tour was where I came to know the people with HCA, NME and other big healthcare companies, and my future employment with HCA was initialized.   

This was also the last time I would work a bid for IHS.  After painstakingly gathering information and details of five hospitals and their existing infrastructures and challenges, and then transmitting it all back for inclusion into the RFP response.  Then, at the last minute, realizing that no one “back there” had noticed that the bids had to be submitted in Arabic, arranged with Nasser to get them translated (and learning the difference between “translating” and “interpreting”), printed, bound, and shipped to me at the Marriott in Riyadh on the day before they were due.  Then to get a phone call in the middle of the night asking me to see if I could get an extension on the bid submission because IHS couldn’t get the bid bond accomplished - which I did not do, thus finding myself with 20 copies of an RFP to dispose of.  That’s when I knew my time with IHS was over.   

Before I left, I had the opportunity to meet with the Prince again, and we debriefed on the process.   In his most gentlemanly, Saudi, demeanor he expressed his empathy and understanding.   We parted on good terms and he gave me a small ghuttra and ighal for my Son — and when I got home we took a picture of him wearing it and riding his big wheel, and sent it to the Prince.   We kept in touch for several years after that, and I did see him again when I got to Riyadh with HCA.  It was shortly after our last meeting that he was named Secretary General of the Royal Commission of Jubail and Yanbu, and he subsequently sent me a beautiful book on the project with a note and his card.   In hindsight, I wish I had kept in better contact with him than I did, not so much for connecting to an important person, but because he was a nice person, and someone who could have been a good “penpal” over the years. 

 In 2015-17 he would become the Saudi Ambassador to the US.  

Road Dog Reflections -- Riyadh #1

or “It was a clustrfu—, but a tremendous learning experience.”

June - July, 1981

My first trip to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, came at the request of E.V. Kuhlman (CEO St. Anthony Hospital System - Denver) and John Yates (CEO of Int’l. Hospital Services) who asked me to go with Doug Cleveland (Dr. Henry Cleveland’s son) and put together a bid to manage the Riyadh-Al Kharj Hospital Project for the Ministry of Defense & Aviation (MODA).  The “project” was the MODA hospital in Riyadh, along with some polyclinics and a larger clinical facility in Al Kharj.   

The wife was six months pregnant and I had concerns about leaving her.   But, as always, she encouraged me to go.  

We traveled over with David Legg (Houston contact of Yates) and Essam Obeid (Saudi agent).  They went First Class and we were in the back of the bus.   The two of them impressed me as a shady pair (which they ultimately were), but we went along and did have a good time and saw a couple of sights in London.  Sidebar memory of that was Cleveland asking for an English Muffin in the Mayfair Hotel restaurant and being told by the lovely waitress that there was no such thing.  

We arrived in Riyadh, at the old airport downtown (now an RSAF base, and home to the AWACs).   It was after midnight, and the airport was small, very hot (summer in Riyadh) and intensely overcrowded.  The customs agents went through everything we had, which really panicked Doug when they wanted to know what his aspirin were.  They smelled fear and went for it…which I think they really enjoyed.  Anyway, we finally cleared customs, found our way out of the airport and into wall-to-wall people with signs and pushing for taxis.   

We found our guy with the sign and were taken to a beautiful black Mercedes 500 and deposited in the back seat.   It was then that I noticed our large dark skinned driver had scars (tribal marks, I later found out) down both cheeks and spoke no English.  I wondered what it would be like to disappear in Saudi Arabia.  When I looked over his shoulder and realized that we were going 70-80 mph through the streets of Riyadh, I wondered what it would be like to die in Saudi Arabia.    

Never fear though, we arrived at the most beautiful Marriott Hotel I had ever seen, and were greeted with nothing but customer service and grace, and shown to our rooms.  It was around 2-3 am, and the lobby was full of people eating and sipping non-alcoholic beverages.  Ramadan had just begun, I was told.   I was more tired then curious, and I should have been curious - and also should have researched customs, culture, etc., better.   

It was the next morning when we learned what Ramadan meant.   There was nowhere to get anything to eat and we were hungry – at least for coffee.   After talking with the front desk clerk, and walking around the hotel and wondering what to do, one of the bellman told me to go to my room and leave the door open.   What the heck?  Sure, why not.   About 10 minutes later the door burst open and he came charging in with a tray of coffee and breakfast rolls.  Welcome to Ramadan in Riyadh.   He got a good tip, and a steady daily routine for the duration.   

When we found our way to the MODA hospital, we also found out that we were too late for the bidders conference (no, no one gave us an agenda or schedule, we were winging it….) and would not be able to tour the facilities.   I was steamed. Not with the Saudis, but with our logistics & planning and lack of both.  At that point, I realized this was a learning experience and cultural growth education.   Business practices aside, we came to know about everything closing 5 times a day for prayer, no eating from sun up to sun set, maniacal driving, tea and OJ as a way of business, and Bukra, Inshallah, ma’lesch, the "Saudi IBM".  

We did, however, get copies of the RFP materials and information and we asked a lot of questions of the people we met.   One of them was Brenda (I cannot remember her last name), who was the hospital librarian.  She was American and ultimately offered to give us a tour of the hospital.   However, we had to wear name badges (which she just happened to produce) and carry papers to look like we were doing something.  We wandered the hospital and saw enough to make some impressions.   

When the tour was over, Brenda invited us to join her and her husband for dinner that evening.   Her husband was an obnoxious Brit and during the meal proceeded to tell us that Americans were lesser people, and had never suffered enough to appreciate anything.   That didn’t sit well with Doug and soon the evening devolved into a wonderful argument.   We thanked Brenda for a lovely meal and entertainment and somehow found our way to a taxi and back to the Marriott.   

After a week or so of scrambling data and information and getting it back to Houston for the bid preparation, I received a call somewhere around 3 am, from Jerry Lowery (Yates VP) who told me that we would not be submitting a bid because they could not arrange the financing for the bid bond.   The bid bond was simply a financial guarantee that if a company is awarded the contract, they can deliver on it.   Standard SOP.   Another “duh” moment.   Another livid conversation with the home office about “planning”.  

So, Doug and I had several free days to spend in Riyadh, during Ramadan, until our flight back.  We rented a car and had a good time exploring Riyadh and buying souvenirs, and it really was a great experience both for learning and for cultural growth.  

I never realized it was the first ….

Marine Corps Boot Camp - September 26, 1968

(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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