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The spark that ignited my interest in the Marine Corps began in late 1975, during my senior year of high school. My friend Ronnie had invited me over to his house one afternoon, and while we were hanging out, he pulled out a stack of glossy photos. They were snapshots of young recruits in boot camp, caught mid-action: climbing ropes with ease, charging through water, and clashing with pugil sticks like warriors.
I was hooked. Their strength and agility were mesmerizing, and for someone like me—already invested in physical fitness—it felt like I was staring at the ultimate challenge. Ronnie must have seen the light in my eyes because he said, “You’ve got to meet my recruiter.”
Enter Staff Sergeant Ryder, a sharp-eyed Marine who radiated confidence and discipline. With his encouragement, I signed up for the delayed entry program. It was a ticket to something bigger, and I couldn’t wait. The date was set: shortly after my high school graduation in June 1976, I’d leave Stockton for the Marine Corps Recruit Depot (MCRD) in San Diego.
When the day came, I stepped onto an airplane for the first time in my life. Excitement mixed with a growing sense of unease as I imagined what lay ahead. But nothing could have prepared me for what hit me the moment I arrived at MCRD.
The first thing they did was strip us of any sense of individuality. That started with our hair. The infamous “30-second haircut” was over in a flash, and the stranger staring back at me in the mirror had a bare scalp and wide, unrecognizable eyes.
A few days later, we met the men who would become both our tormentors and our molders: the drill instructors. There were three of them. Sgt. Frias, a compact Hispanic man with a wiry frame, stood at 5’5” but had a presence that loomed much larger. Staff Sgt. Day, about my height and Caucasian, carried himself with a no-nonsense air. And then there was Sgt. McGee, a tall, chiseled African American man with piercing eyes that seemed to see straight through you. These men weren’t just in shape—they were walking, barking testaments to the Marine Corps’ physical perfection.
From day one, it was clear that being a Christian wouldn’t win me any points. Once, Sgt. Day caught me praying in the squad bay. With a sneer, he launched into a loud, mocking story about a Christian Marine, ensuring every recruit within earshot knew he was targeting me. I stayed quiet, focusing on my faith, but I could feel the eyes of the platoon on me, some curious, others amused.
Our days were grueling, beginning at 5 a.m. sharp. After a chaotic lineup and a rapid-fire hygiene routine, we'd make our beds. If I recall correctly I was on top of a bunk bed. Meal times were their own kind of punishment. In the chow hall, we were like wind-up toys, marching stiffly with locked arms and unblinking eyes. “All the way in, private! All the way in!” the drill instructors barked as we shuffled forward to grab our trays. The same order followed us to our tables, where we were expected to eat with robotic precision—eyes down, mouths moving, no talking, no looking around. Anyone caught breaking the rules forfeited their meal.
Hunger was a constant companion. Dehydration, too. They allowed one glass of milk per meal, but water was a luxury we couldn’t afford. In the blazing afternoon heat, with temperatures climbing past 90 degrees, I became resourceful, hoarding peaches, applesauce, or anything with even the slightest bit of liquid to sustain me. “Eating like a duck,” they called it—duck in, duck out—and we lived by it.
After chow the schedule varied but never let up. Some days we practiced hand-to-hand combat or martial arts. Other days were devoted to weapons training, classroom instruction, or pugil stick battles that left us bruised and breathless. And then there was the drilling—relentless, endless drilling. Wherever we went, running was mandatory, as if standing still was a sin.
The drill instructors had a sadistic sense of humor. I remember one afternoon in the sand pit—a hot, gritty patch of hell—when they commanded us to grab handfuls of sand and throw it in the air. Over and over, we obeyed, sand raining down on our sweat-soaked bodies, sticking to our hair and eyes. They grinned, clearly enjoying the spectacle.
Then there were the forced marches. These weren’t leisurely strolls. We were pushed to walk at a blistering pace, staying no more than an M16’s length from the recruit in front of us. If you fell behind, a drill instructor was instantly in your face, spitting venom. “Tighten it up! Tighten it up!” they roared, their voices drilling into your skull as much as the sun burned your back.
By the time I collapsed into my bunk each night, every muscle ached, every ounce of energy drained. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when I thought about those glossy photos Ronnie had shown me. He’d conveniently left out the parts about sand pits, dehydration, and drill instructors who seemed to delight in breaking you.
But even in those brutal early days, I felt something shifting inside me. I didn’t know it yet, but the Marine Corps wasn’t just tearing me down—they were building me up into something I didn’t yet have the courage to believe I could become.
Close-order drilling was another activity that we practiced hours on end. They were designed to instill discipline, and to maximize fighting effectiveness. Cadence, precision and synchronization were drilled over and over again. We had to maintain precise spacing in our ranks. We learned to follow commands: “Left Face! Forward March!” General posture was face forward, chest out, shoulders back. We also practiced things like forming columns, flanking and wheeling. If you have ever been to a military parade, you have seen the fruits of this discipline and teamwork on display. This was some of the less strenuous training we did.
On the other hand, infantry training duty had us going up and down hills in full gear. One time our 1st Lieutenant didn't think we were performing up to snuff. Never mind that we had guys falling out with heat exhaustion. (I never looked back to see what happened to those guys?) He just pushed us to go faster, faster. When we did stop, you can bet no one pulled out their canteen to get any water without being instructed to do so. Those that were stupid enough to do that one time were harshly disciplined. Of course, I understood that it was our instructor's job to break us if they could; to weed out those that couldn’t hack it. When we finally finished our march, and hit the showers, we were told, “I don’t want to see anybody drinking that water!” Well, you can imagine that mouths were filled with water anyway - until the drill instructors caught us and marched us half naked out of the stalls, to stand at attention until what seemed like an eternity.
Fear of doing the wrong thing hung over our heads every hour. You never knew when the wrath of a superior might come down on you. One night they called the “fat bodies”, those that were particularly out of shape, down to the drill instructor’s area. These were the guys that were put on a special diet to help them lose weight. The Platoon leader would call these guys out and put them up as though they were pushing them for Squad Leader. In reality, most of them were just making a mockery of these guys. But I remember one of these guys persevered and rose to the occasion. As a reward for proving the Platoon Leader wrong, he got a good old fashioned pillow beatdown in the middle of the night from the rest of the squad. I learned that peer pressure was a formidable force at the Corps.
When I came into the marine corps I was 5 '9.5 " and 148 pounds. I was the type of guy who could never gain weight. I came out of the corps at about the same weight, but I was in the best shape of my life. I thought I would breeze through basic training because I was relatively athletic, but I was wrong. My skinny legs especially gave me trouble, because they turned out to be a lot weaker than I thought.
One time, Sgt. Day caught me on a march, and I had obviously displeased him. “Private Pruitt”, he barked at me…”
He was looking right at me, intensely, and for some reason, I found his facial expression amusing… and cracked a smile.
His face screwed up tight, and I thought he was going to blow a gasket.
“DO YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY, PRIVATE?” he screamed. “You see me in the squad bay afterwards.”
I managed to get out the obligatory, “SIR, YES SIR!”
Later I found myself in the squad bay with several other recruits who were not holding their rifles properly, or were not marching fast enough, or simply had the misfortune of ever being born. The squad bay was a tight little area with a tile floor, maybe 10’ x 10’. We were all crammed together, and the Sarge made us begin to exercise, doing pushups, jumping jacks and squat thrusts as fast as we could. It didn't take long until sweat was flowing freely from our foreheads. If anyone started to lag, the Sgt. would call them out yelling,” thank you private so and so,” to which all of us would parrot, “thank you private so and so.” It was comically absurd. I remember this vividly, because whether I messed up or not, it seemed like I participated in this ritual almost nightly.
Physical Training was a daily occurrence (except for Sunday) in my squad, 3057, as well as the entire platoon. I remember being told that the 3rd battalion had the most rigorous pt among the ranks. The cadence we sang during pt each day is forever etched in my brain.
Platoon Leader - When I die, gonna go to Heaven
(Company - When I die, gonna go to Heaven)
Platoon Leader -‘Cuz I lived my hell in 3057
(Company - ‘Cuz I lived my hell in 3057)
Boots, shorts, white t-shirts and canteen were standard for pt. The canteen, however, was only for emergencies, like heat stroke. After a run, it was placed back in our footlockers, not a drop enjoyed. To this day, I can go for long periods of time without water due to that training, but during boot camp that’s practically all I thought about!
Rifle training was another frequent occurrence at boot camp. The Marines were the most stringent of all the armed forces when it came to rifle marksmanship. One time we were at rifle training and we were told to put in our flag safeties. These were little rubber devices that were inserted into the rifle to keep it from firing. Myself, along with a few other recruits neglected to insert these. Upon inspection, we were pulled out and made to run down a steep hill as fast as we could, grab a rock, and run back up the hill. At the top of the hill I presented my rock to the D.I. He replied, “This is a pebble. Bring me a bigger rock! Bring me the biggest rock you can find!” I think the next rock was big enough to satisfy him, but the entire ordeal ensured I never forgot to put my flag safety in again.
Eventually, rifle pre-qualification day arrived, and I fell short—way short. We worked through every shooting position: standing, kneeling, squatting, and prone. At 200 and 300 meters, my shots were all over the place. The furthest test, the prone position at 500 meters, felt impossible. I didn’t even qualify that day, and I could see the disappointment in my drill instructors’ faces.
But when qualification day came, something changed. Determined not to fail, I tightened up my focus and gave it my all. By the time I aimed downrange in the prone position, everything felt sharper, clearer—even with my thick glasses, which were a source of constant ribbing since contacts weren’t allowed. I squeezed the trigger, and one by one, the rounds hit home. Ten shots. Ten bullseyes.
When I finally looked at my grouping, I could hardly believe it. Me, the recruit with the Coke-bottle lenses, had nailed it. Sgt. McGee, a man of very few words and even fewer compliments, approached me a week later. “Private, you did pretty good at the rifle range,” he said simply before walking off. I watched him go, a rare smile creeping across my face. “Huh,” I thought. “That was nice.”
Amidst the relentless grind of boot camp, mail call was another rare bright spot. Each evening, the platoon would gather as the drill instructors hurled our letters at us—literally. The mail wasn’t just paper; it was hope. Letters from wives, girlfriends, and friends back home felt like a lifeline. But not all letters were welcome. Sometimes, a recruit would receive a dreaded “Dear John” letter, news of a breakup or divorce request that crushed their spirit. On those nights, the rest of us would rally around them, trying to lift their spirits.
For me, the letters were a source of strength. Most were from my great-grandmother and friends, filled with prayers and encouragement to see me through those grueling 13 weeks. Their words reminded me of what waited for me outside those gates and gave me a reason to push forward.
Sundays provided another brief reprieve. Chapel services were short—an hour of preaching and singing—but for me, they were a lifeline. This was the one place where my faith wasn’t questioned or mocked. Some recruits skipped it, but I never missed a service. Those Sundays weren’t just spiritual refreshment; they were a chance to breathe before the chaos of the week began again.
Boot camp wasn’t just about physical endurance; it was about discipline. We learned to break down and reassemble our rifles until the parts felt like an extension of our hands. Laundry day meant scrubbing our uniforms with a stiff-bristle brush. Polishing boots was an art form, a spit-shine so precise it could reflect your face like a mirror. I wasn’t the best at it, but I got the job done well enough to pass inspection. We even had to clean our brass belt buckles until they gleamed, because in the Marine Corps, appearance was a high priority.
By the time I reached week 13, I thought I’d seen it all—but nothing prepared me for the Gas Chamber. It was infamous, whispered about among recruits with equal parts dread and awe.
We stood outside the small, sealed room, listening as the drill instructor explained what was about to happen. “Follow orders, trust your gear, and you’ll be fine,” he barked. We checked the fit of our masks, ensuring an airtight seal, and then filed into the chamber.
Inside, the air was thick and still. Rows of benches lined the walls, but we didn’t have long to get comfortable. “Masks off!” came the command.
The moment I removed my mask, the gas hit me like a truck. My eyes burned, tears streaming uncontrollably. My throat felt like it was on fire. I started coughing and wheezing, desperate to escape, but the drill instructor’s voice cut through the haze. “DO NOT PUT YOUR MASKS BACK ON!”
I looked over at one of my buddies, doubled over and dry-heaving, his face contorted in agony. My vision blurred, and my head spun, but I held on. Finally, the order came: “PUT YOUR MASKS BACK ON!”
I didn’t wait to be told twice. As soon as the mask sealed around my face, relief flooded over me. My lungs cleared, and I could breathe again. Outside the chamber, we were debriefed. The lesson was clear: in the face of an attack, survival depended on staying calm, trusting your gear, and following orders.
It was a hellish experience, but like everything else in boot camp, it taught me that I was capable of more than I thought. Week by week, they pushed us to the brink, but I was still standing—and I wasn’t done yet.
The obstacle course loomed as one of the greatest challenges in boot camp, a gauntlet of physical and mental endurance designed to break you down—or make you stronger. It wasn’t just about climbing walls or navigating monkey bars. It was a battlefield simulation that tested every ounce of strength, courage, and grit we could muster.
By day, the course was a beast: high and low log hurdles, rope climbs that burned your arms, cargo nets swaying high above the ground, and the infamous wall climb that required a superhuman burst of upper-body strength. But the true test came one cold, moonlit night when the drill instructors decided to up the ante.
“Platoon, fall in!” one of them barked, his voice cutting through the crisp night air. Moments later, we were led into the darkness, gear strapped to our backs, M16 rifles clutched tightly to our chests. Ahead of us was the barbed wire crawl, a narrow passage littered with razor-sharp wire and the echoes of war.
The only way through was on our backs, inching forward in the dirt. The chill of the ground seeped into our bones as we shimmied along, our gear weighing us down. The pale glow of the moon barely illuminated the path ahead, but the sounds around us were terrifyingly vivid. Mortar rounds exploded nearby, grenades detonated in the distance, and the staccato bursts of small-arms fire filled the air.
“Keep your heads down!” the instructors shouted.
Simulation or not, the fear was real. Every nerve in my body screamed to move faster, but the wire above made haste impossible. To this day, I could swear the rounds whizzing overhead were real bullets. The adrenaline, the chaos, the overwhelming sense of vulnerability—it was a moment I would never forget.
By the time I graduated boot camp on September 8, 1976, I felt a mixture of pride and relief. The worst was behind me—or so I thought. After the ceremony, I was transferred to Oceanside, California, for my MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) training. The Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery (ASVAB) test I’d taken in high school suggested I’d excel in accounting, teaching, or real estate. None of those sounded particularly appealing. I didn’t like teaching, wasn’t great at accounting, and though I eventually gave real estate a shot, that’s a story for another chapter.
Instead, I found myself with the monotonous job of making entries into Marine record books. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was my assignment, and I threw myself into it as best I could.
It was during this time in Oceanside, about two months in, that I got word my friend Doug Somers was getting married. Doug and I went way back to Faith Baptist Church. He was a good man—a wounded Marine veteran who carried visible scars from his service. His hip had been blown apart, leaving him with a pronounced limp, and shrapnel had disfigured his nose. Despite all that, Doug’s mind was sharp, and his faith was unshakable.
Doug wasn’t just a friend; he was a mentor. His deep knowledge of the Bible and unwavering faith made a lasting impression on me, especially during those formative years. I admired him not only for his resilience but for his ability to find strength and purpose in the face of unimaginable hardship.
His wedding was a reminder of the bonds that carried us through, the friendships and faith that anchored us amidst the chaos. Little did I know, his influence would shape my own spiritual journey in ways I couldn’t yet imagine.
The wedding in Stockton, California, was a brief but memorable interlude. After a day or two of celebration, I was back on a plane to Oceanside, ready to dive into the next phase of my training. Life as a Marine had its rhythms, and one of them was the weekly ritual of hauling our uniforms into the city to have them pressed. We’d pile onto the bus, drop off our neatly folded attire, and then have a few hours to kill before picking them up a day or two later.
In those moments of freedom, the city became our playground. Some of us found solace in the cool, dark corners of the movie theaters. I still remember watching The Mechanic, with Charles Bronson and Jan-Michael Vincent, completely absorbed by the intensity of their performances. Another time, I caught Vigilante Force, starring Jan-Michael Vincent again, alongside Kris Kristofferson and Victoria Principal. For a couple of hours, the harsh realities of Marine life faded into the flickering light of Hollywood magic.
On one of these outings, I stumbled into a bookstore—a haven for a restless mind like mine. My eyes scanned the shelves until they landed on a book by Willie Mosconi, the legendary pool player. For an avid pool enthusiast like me, it was a treasure. Mosconi wasn’t just a champion; he was a master who had consulted on the classic film The Hustler, starring Paul Newman and Jackie Gleason.
Reading about Mosconi’s role in the movie was a revelation. Jackie Gleason, I learned, grew up hustling on the rough streets of Brooklyn, his skill so sharp that he performed all his own pool shots in the film. Newman, on the other hand, was a novice. But in true Paul Newman fashion, he rose to the challenge, installing a pool table in his apartment and practicing tirelessly for hours each day. By the time filming began, he was good—good enough to handle most of the trick shots. The ones he couldn’t? Mosconi stepped in, his expertise making the impossible look effortless. That book didn’t just teach me about pool; it sharpened my game on the base, giving me a rare edge in my downtime.
Of course, life in the Corps wasn’t all polished uniforms and quiet evenings with a cue stick. Tensions ran high, and sometimes they boiled over. I remember two Marines going at it one day, fists flying and tempers flaring. I stayed out of those fights whenever I could—at 5’9.5” and 148 pounds, I knew better than to throw myself into a losing battle.
But sparring? That was different. Once, I stepped into the ring with another Marine—a wiry, tough guy, just a little shorter than me. We suited up with 16-ounce gloves and headgear, and the bell rang. I held my own, but I was far from a polished fighter. My skills leaned more toward wrestling and a few clumsy karate kicks than the discipline of boxing. Still, the experience stuck with me, planting a seed that would grow years later when I finally joined a gym and started learning the sweet science for real.
I often think back to the great boxers I crossed paths with during my time. I saw “Yaqui” Lopez, the Indian warrior from Stockton, training at a YMCA gym where I worked out. And I watched Freddie Hutchins go down in a fiery bout against Alex Ramos at the Civic Auditorium. Those moments, scattered across the years, remind me how much grit it takes to step into the ring—or into life—and come out swinging.
I was hooked. Their strength and agility were mesmerizing, and for someone like me—already invested in physical fitness—it felt like I was staring at the ultimate challenge. Ronnie must have seen the light in my eyes because he said, “You’ve got to meet my recruiter.”
Enter Staff Sergeant Ryder, a sharp-eyed Marine who radiated confidence and discipline. With his encouragement, I signed up for the delayed entry program. It was a ticket to something bigger, and I couldn’t wait. The date was set: shortly after my high school graduation in June 1976, I’d leave Stockton for the Marine Corps Recruit Depot (MCRD) in San Diego.
When the day came, I stepped onto an airplane for the first time in my life. Excitement mixed with a growing sense of unease as I imagined what lay ahead. But nothing could have prepared me for what hit me the moment I arrived at MCRD.
The first thing they did was strip us of any sense of individuality. That started with our hair. The infamous “30-second haircut” was over in a flash, and the stranger staring back at me in the mirror had a bare scalp and wide, unrecognizable eyes.
A few days later, we met the men who would become both our tormentors and our molders: the drill instructors. There were three of them. Sgt. Frias, a compact Hispanic man with a wiry frame, stood at 5’5” but had a presence that loomed much larger. Staff Sgt. Day, about my height and Caucasian, carried himself with a no-nonsense air. And then there was Sgt. McGee, a tall, chiseled African American man with piercing eyes that seemed to see straight through you. These men weren’t just in shape—they were walking, barking testaments to the Marine Corps’ physical perfection.
From day one, it was clear that being a Christian wouldn’t win me any points. Once, Sgt. Day caught me praying in the squad bay. With a sneer, he launched into a loud, mocking story about a Christian Marine, ensuring every recruit within earshot knew he was targeting me. I stayed quiet, focusing on my faith, but I could feel the eyes of the platoon on me, some curious, others amused.
Our days were grueling, beginning at 5 a.m. sharp. After a chaotic lineup and a rapid-fire hygiene routine, we'd make our beds. If I recall correctly I was on top of a bunk bed. Meal times were their own kind of punishment. In the chow hall, we were like wind-up toys, marching stiffly with locked arms and unblinking eyes. “All the way in, private! All the way in!” the drill instructors barked as we shuffled forward to grab our trays. The same order followed us to our tables, where we were expected to eat with robotic precision—eyes down, mouths moving, no talking, no looking around. Anyone caught breaking the rules forfeited their meal.
Hunger was a constant companion. Dehydration, too. They allowed one glass of milk per meal, but water was a luxury we couldn’t afford. In the blazing afternoon heat, with temperatures climbing past 90 degrees, I became resourceful, hoarding peaches, applesauce, or anything with even the slightest bit of liquid to sustain me. “Eating like a duck,” they called it—duck in, duck out—and we lived by it.
After chow the schedule varied but never let up. Some days we practiced hand-to-hand combat or martial arts. Other days were devoted to weapons training, classroom instruction, or pugil stick battles that left us bruised and breathless. And then there was the drilling—relentless, endless drilling. Wherever we went, running was mandatory, as if standing still was a sin.
The drill instructors had a sadistic sense of humor. I remember one afternoon in the sand pit—a hot, gritty patch of hell—when they commanded us to grab handfuls of sand and throw it in the air. Over and over, we obeyed, sand raining down on our sweat-soaked bodies, sticking to our hair and eyes. They grinned, clearly enjoying the spectacle.
Then there were the forced marches. These weren’t leisurely strolls. We were pushed to walk at a blistering pace, staying no more than an M16’s length from the recruit in front of us. If you fell behind, a drill instructor was instantly in your face, spitting venom. “Tighten it up! Tighten it up!” they roared, their voices drilling into your skull as much as the sun burned your back.
By the time I collapsed into my bunk each night, every muscle ached, every ounce of energy drained. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when I thought about those glossy photos Ronnie had shown me. He’d conveniently left out the parts about sand pits, dehydration, and drill instructors who seemed to delight in breaking you.
But even in those brutal early days, I felt something shifting inside me. I didn’t know it yet, but the Marine Corps wasn’t just tearing me down—they were building me up into something I didn’t yet have the courage to believe I could become.
Close-order drilling was another activity that we practiced hours on end. They were designed to instill discipline, and to maximize fighting effectiveness. Cadence, precision and synchronization were drilled over and over again. We had to maintain precise spacing in our ranks. We learned to follow commands: “Left Face! Forward March!” General posture was face forward, chest out, shoulders back. We also practiced things like forming columns, flanking and wheeling. If you have ever been to a military parade, you have seen the fruits of this discipline and teamwork on display. This was some of the less strenuous training we did.
On the other hand, infantry training duty had us going up and down hills in full gear. One time our 1st Lieutenant didn't think we were performing up to snuff. Never mind that we had guys falling out with heat exhaustion. (I never looked back to see what happened to those guys?) He just pushed us to go faster, faster. When we did stop, you can bet no one pulled out their canteen to get any water without being instructed to do so. Those that were stupid enough to do that one time were harshly disciplined. Of course, I understood that it was our instructor's job to break us if they could; to weed out those that couldn’t hack it. When we finally finished our march, and hit the showers, we were told, “I don’t want to see anybody drinking that water!” Well, you can imagine that mouths were filled with water anyway - until the drill instructors caught us and marched us half naked out of the stalls, to stand at attention until what seemed like an eternity.
Fear of doing the wrong thing hung over our heads every hour. You never knew when the wrath of a superior might come down on you. One night they called the “fat bodies”, those that were particularly out of shape, down to the drill instructor’s area. These were the guys that were put on a special diet to help them lose weight. The Platoon leader would call these guys out and put them up as though they were pushing them for Squad Leader. In reality, most of them were just making a mockery of these guys. But I remember one of these guys persevered and rose to the occasion. As a reward for proving the Platoon Leader wrong, he got a good old fashioned pillow beatdown in the middle of the night from the rest of the squad. I learned that peer pressure was a formidable force at the Corps.
When I came into the marine corps I was 5 '9.5 " and 148 pounds. I was the type of guy who could never gain weight. I came out of the corps at about the same weight, but I was in the best shape of my life. I thought I would breeze through basic training because I was relatively athletic, but I was wrong. My skinny legs especially gave me trouble, because they turned out to be a lot weaker than I thought.
One time, Sgt. Day caught me on a march, and I had obviously displeased him. “Private Pruitt”, he barked at me…”
He was looking right at me, intensely, and for some reason, I found his facial expression amusing… and cracked a smile.
His face screwed up tight, and I thought he was going to blow a gasket.
“DO YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY, PRIVATE?” he screamed. “You see me in the squad bay afterwards.”
I managed to get out the obligatory, “SIR, YES SIR!”
Later I found myself in the squad bay with several other recruits who were not holding their rifles properly, or were not marching fast enough, or simply had the misfortune of ever being born. The squad bay was a tight little area with a tile floor, maybe 10’ x 10’. We were all crammed together, and the Sarge made us begin to exercise, doing pushups, jumping jacks and squat thrusts as fast as we could. It didn't take long until sweat was flowing freely from our foreheads. If anyone started to lag, the Sgt. would call them out yelling,” thank you private so and so,” to which all of us would parrot, “thank you private so and so.” It was comically absurd. I remember this vividly, because whether I messed up or not, it seemed like I participated in this ritual almost nightly.
Physical Training was a daily occurrence (except for Sunday) in my squad, 3057, as well as the entire platoon. I remember being told that the 3rd battalion had the most rigorous pt among the ranks. The cadence we sang during pt each day is forever etched in my brain.
Platoon Leader - When I die, gonna go to Heaven
(Company - When I die, gonna go to Heaven)
Platoon Leader -‘Cuz I lived my hell in 3057
(Company - ‘Cuz I lived my hell in 3057)
Boots, shorts, white t-shirts and canteen were standard for pt. The canteen, however, was only for emergencies, like heat stroke. After a run, it was placed back in our footlockers, not a drop enjoyed. To this day, I can go for long periods of time without water due to that training, but during boot camp that’s practically all I thought about!
Rifle training was another frequent occurrence at boot camp. The Marines were the most stringent of all the armed forces when it came to rifle marksmanship. One time we were at rifle training and we were told to put in our flag safeties. These were little rubber devices that were inserted into the rifle to keep it from firing. Myself, along with a few other recruits neglected to insert these. Upon inspection, we were pulled out and made to run down a steep hill as fast as we could, grab a rock, and run back up the hill. At the top of the hill I presented my rock to the D.I. He replied, “This is a pebble. Bring me a bigger rock! Bring me the biggest rock you can find!” I think the next rock was big enough to satisfy him, but the entire ordeal ensured I never forgot to put my flag safety in again.
Eventually, rifle pre-qualification day arrived, and I fell short—way short. We worked through every shooting position: standing, kneeling, squatting, and prone. At 200 and 300 meters, my shots were all over the place. The furthest test, the prone position at 500 meters, felt impossible. I didn’t even qualify that day, and I could see the disappointment in my drill instructors’ faces.
But when qualification day came, something changed. Determined not to fail, I tightened up my focus and gave it my all. By the time I aimed downrange in the prone position, everything felt sharper, clearer—even with my thick glasses, which were a source of constant ribbing since contacts weren’t allowed. I squeezed the trigger, and one by one, the rounds hit home. Ten shots. Ten bullseyes.
When I finally looked at my grouping, I could hardly believe it. Me, the recruit with the Coke-bottle lenses, had nailed it. Sgt. McGee, a man of very few words and even fewer compliments, approached me a week later. “Private, you did pretty good at the rifle range,” he said simply before walking off. I watched him go, a rare smile creeping across my face. “Huh,” I thought. “That was nice.”
Amidst the relentless grind of boot camp, mail call was another rare bright spot. Each evening, the platoon would gather as the drill instructors hurled our letters at us—literally. The mail wasn’t just paper; it was hope. Letters from wives, girlfriends, and friends back home felt like a lifeline. But not all letters were welcome. Sometimes, a recruit would receive a dreaded “Dear John” letter, news of a breakup or divorce request that crushed their spirit. On those nights, the rest of us would rally around them, trying to lift their spirits.
For me, the letters were a source of strength. Most were from my great-grandmother and friends, filled with prayers and encouragement to see me through those grueling 13 weeks. Their words reminded me of what waited for me outside those gates and gave me a reason to push forward.
Sundays provided another brief reprieve. Chapel services were short—an hour of preaching and singing—but for me, they were a lifeline. This was the one place where my faith wasn’t questioned or mocked. Some recruits skipped it, but I never missed a service. Those Sundays weren’t just spiritual refreshment; they were a chance to breathe before the chaos of the week began again.
Boot camp wasn’t just about physical endurance; it was about discipline. We learned to break down and reassemble our rifles until the parts felt like an extension of our hands. Laundry day meant scrubbing our uniforms with a stiff-bristle brush. Polishing boots was an art form, a spit-shine so precise it could reflect your face like a mirror. I wasn’t the best at it, but I got the job done well enough to pass inspection. We even had to clean our brass belt buckles until they gleamed, because in the Marine Corps, appearance was a high priority.
By the time I reached week 13, I thought I’d seen it all—but nothing prepared me for the Gas Chamber. It was infamous, whispered about among recruits with equal parts dread and awe.
We stood outside the small, sealed room, listening as the drill instructor explained what was about to happen. “Follow orders, trust your gear, and you’ll be fine,” he barked. We checked the fit of our masks, ensuring an airtight seal, and then filed into the chamber.
Inside, the air was thick and still. Rows of benches lined the walls, but we didn’t have long to get comfortable. “Masks off!” came the command.
The moment I removed my mask, the gas hit me like a truck. My eyes burned, tears streaming uncontrollably. My throat felt like it was on fire. I started coughing and wheezing, desperate to escape, but the drill instructor’s voice cut through the haze. “DO NOT PUT YOUR MASKS BACK ON!”
I looked over at one of my buddies, doubled over and dry-heaving, his face contorted in agony. My vision blurred, and my head spun, but I held on. Finally, the order came: “PUT YOUR MASKS BACK ON!”
I didn’t wait to be told twice. As soon as the mask sealed around my face, relief flooded over me. My lungs cleared, and I could breathe again. Outside the chamber, we were debriefed. The lesson was clear: in the face of an attack, survival depended on staying calm, trusting your gear, and following orders.
It was a hellish experience, but like everything else in boot camp, it taught me that I was capable of more than I thought. Week by week, they pushed us to the brink, but I was still standing—and I wasn’t done yet.
The obstacle course loomed as one of the greatest challenges in boot camp, a gauntlet of physical and mental endurance designed to break you down—or make you stronger. It wasn’t just about climbing walls or navigating monkey bars. It was a battlefield simulation that tested every ounce of strength, courage, and grit we could muster.
By day, the course was a beast: high and low log hurdles, rope climbs that burned your arms, cargo nets swaying high above the ground, and the infamous wall climb that required a superhuman burst of upper-body strength. But the true test came one cold, moonlit night when the drill instructors decided to up the ante.
“Platoon, fall in!” one of them barked, his voice cutting through the crisp night air. Moments later, we were led into the darkness, gear strapped to our backs, M16 rifles clutched tightly to our chests. Ahead of us was the barbed wire crawl, a narrow passage littered with razor-sharp wire and the echoes of war.
The only way through was on our backs, inching forward in the dirt. The chill of the ground seeped into our bones as we shimmied along, our gear weighing us down. The pale glow of the moon barely illuminated the path ahead, but the sounds around us were terrifyingly vivid. Mortar rounds exploded nearby, grenades detonated in the distance, and the staccato bursts of small-arms fire filled the air.
“Keep your heads down!” the instructors shouted.
Simulation or not, the fear was real. Every nerve in my body screamed to move faster, but the wire above made haste impossible. To this day, I could swear the rounds whizzing overhead were real bullets. The adrenaline, the chaos, the overwhelming sense of vulnerability—it was a moment I would never forget.
By the time I graduated boot camp on September 8, 1976, I felt a mixture of pride and relief. The worst was behind me—or so I thought. After the ceremony, I was transferred to Oceanside, California, for my MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) training. The Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery (ASVAB) test I’d taken in high school suggested I’d excel in accounting, teaching, or real estate. None of those sounded particularly appealing. I didn’t like teaching, wasn’t great at accounting, and though I eventually gave real estate a shot, that’s a story for another chapter.
Instead, I found myself with the monotonous job of making entries into Marine record books. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was my assignment, and I threw myself into it as best I could.
It was during this time in Oceanside, about two months in, that I got word my friend Doug Somers was getting married. Doug and I went way back to Faith Baptist Church. He was a good man—a wounded Marine veteran who carried visible scars from his service. His hip had been blown apart, leaving him with a pronounced limp, and shrapnel had disfigured his nose. Despite all that, Doug’s mind was sharp, and his faith was unshakable.
Doug wasn’t just a friend; he was a mentor. His deep knowledge of the Bible and unwavering faith made a lasting impression on me, especially during those formative years. I admired him not only for his resilience but for his ability to find strength and purpose in the face of unimaginable hardship.
His wedding was a reminder of the bonds that carried us through, the friendships and faith that anchored us amidst the chaos. Little did I know, his influence would shape my own spiritual journey in ways I couldn’t yet imagine.
The wedding in Stockton, California, was a brief but memorable interlude. After a day or two of celebration, I was back on a plane to Oceanside, ready to dive into the next phase of my training. Life as a Marine had its rhythms, and one of them was the weekly ritual of hauling our uniforms into the city to have them pressed. We’d pile onto the bus, drop off our neatly folded attire, and then have a few hours to kill before picking them up a day or two later.
In those moments of freedom, the city became our playground. Some of us found solace in the cool, dark corners of the movie theaters. I still remember watching The Mechanic, with Charles Bronson and Jan-Michael Vincent, completely absorbed by the intensity of their performances. Another time, I caught Vigilante Force, starring Jan-Michael Vincent again, alongside Kris Kristofferson and Victoria Principal. For a couple of hours, the harsh realities of Marine life faded into the flickering light of Hollywood magic.
On one of these outings, I stumbled into a bookstore—a haven for a restless mind like mine. My eyes scanned the shelves until they landed on a book by Willie Mosconi, the legendary pool player. For an avid pool enthusiast like me, it was a treasure. Mosconi wasn’t just a champion; he was a master who had consulted on the classic film The Hustler, starring Paul Newman and Jackie Gleason.
Reading about Mosconi’s role in the movie was a revelation. Jackie Gleason, I learned, grew up hustling on the rough streets of Brooklyn, his skill so sharp that he performed all his own pool shots in the film. Newman, on the other hand, was a novice. But in true Paul Newman fashion, he rose to the challenge, installing a pool table in his apartment and practicing tirelessly for hours each day. By the time filming began, he was good—good enough to handle most of the trick shots. The ones he couldn’t? Mosconi stepped in, his expertise making the impossible look effortless. That book didn’t just teach me about pool; it sharpened my game on the base, giving me a rare edge in my downtime.
Of course, life in the Corps wasn’t all polished uniforms and quiet evenings with a cue stick. Tensions ran high, and sometimes they boiled over. I remember two Marines going at it one day, fists flying and tempers flaring. I stayed out of those fights whenever I could—at 5’9.5” and 148 pounds, I knew better than to throw myself into a losing battle.
But sparring? That was different. Once, I stepped into the ring with another Marine—a wiry, tough guy, just a little shorter than me. We suited up with 16-ounce gloves and headgear, and the bell rang. I held my own, but I was far from a polished fighter. My skills leaned more toward wrestling and a few clumsy karate kicks than the discipline of boxing. Still, the experience stuck with me, planting a seed that would grow years later when I finally joined a gym and started learning the sweet science for real.
I often think back to the great boxers I crossed paths with during my time. I saw “Yaqui” Lopez, the Indian warrior from Stockton, training at a YMCA gym where I worked out. And I watched Freddie Hutchins go down in a fiery bout against Alex Ramos at the Civic Auditorium. Those moments, scattered across the years, remind me how much grit it takes to step into the ring—or into life—and come out swinging.
Brother Carlton ministers the gospel to the Los Angeles area. Formerly a Hollywood actor, SAG member, and property cleanup expert, he now spends most of his time studying the Scriptures and helping small businesses grow more profitably using world-class tactics and strategies. He also offers business coaching and inspirational speaking to help entrepreneurs and individuals achieve greater success. If you're a business owner looking to increase revenue, attract more customers, or need a dynamic speaker for your next event, contact Carlton at [email protected]. Put help in the subject line.
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