Running Barefoot

We can’t use I, me, or my. We have to say ‘this recruit’ when we are referring to ourselves. Everybody keeps slipping. I am now Recruit Yates - no first name. The sergeant said the Marines is not about the individual, but the team. We should be all about our unit. We are now four zero four four. The number four is sacred among the Navajo - There are four sacred mountains that frame the Navajo lands. So I think the repeating four can only be good luck.

They immediately took us to get what they called ‘cranial amputations.’ The drill instructor made a big deal of it when it was my turn to get my hair cut. I easily had the longest hair of anyone there, and I knew it was going to get shaved off because my recruiter told me what to expect. They shave us almost completely bald. There’s just this stubble. I want to keep rubbing my head, but I don’t want to call attention to myself. I have a feeling the less attention I call to myself, the better off I’ll be. Anyway, it was still hard to see all that hair fall to the floor. It made me think about Samson in my dad’s bible. He lost all his power when they cut his hair.

Then we got our gear for the 13 weeks we are going to be here. We even got a little towel that has all the M-16 parts diagrammed on it, so that we will know where to place them when we clean our weapons. By this time it had to be after 4:00 in the morning, though I’m not sure because none of us are allowed to have watches. I hadn’t slept since I’d reported at dawn the day before, and I was feeling it. They took us into our barracks. The racks (that’s the term for the bunks here) had naked mattresses on them. The same guy that stuffed his Snickers in his mouth headed straight over to lie down. The drill sergeant was in his face telling him to ‘toe the line’-which means to line up next to the white line with your toes up to it. He taught us how to walk in formation and then we marched to the chow hall. We aren’t allowed to talk while we are in the mess hall, which is fine with me-except the drill instructor shouts the entire time. We have to hold our trays at a certain angle, heels together, thumbs on the outside. It’s so much to remember all the time, but you better believe some one will let you know right away if you’re doing something wrong. We had about ten minutes to eat before they were marching us back out of there.

We actually didn’t get to sleep until 8:00 that night. We learned to march, how to lift our feet, how to stand in line, that stuff. After that we were brought back to the barracks and we had to learn how to make our beds, Marine style. We were woken up in the middle of the night, to a drill instructor screaming, “toe the line, toe the line.” One guy stayed asleep through it all - and the drill instructor pulled his blanket off and screamed in his face until the kid literally rolled off onto the floor. Luckily, he was on a bottom bunk. Another kid laughed when he did, and the drill instructor turned on him saying “Give me an hour, and I promise you won’t be smiling, Recruit!” We get dressed one piece of clothing at a time-forcing us to follow orders exactly. When we are told to hydrate we have to drink our whole canteen of water and turn it over above our heads to prove it’s gone.

One high point. I got a perfect 300 on the initial strength test. That means I did 100 sit-ups, 20 dead-hang pull-ups, and I did the three mile run in 17:58 seconds. I’ve been working hard and I wanted to be the best. It’s hard to know if they were impressed or if I just drew unwanted attention. I guess only time will tell. One D.I. kind of sneered at me and told me they were just going to have to work me harder than the others.

On the fourth day here they moved us into our new barracks. We were introduced to the drill instructors that are assigned to our platoon from now on. Staff Sergeant Meadows is the Senior D.I., Sergeant Blood (his name is perfect, trust me) and Sergeant Edgel are the other two over our platoon. Sergeant Blood is constantly bellowing (learned that word from you). I have never heard him speak quietly. He is everywhere at once, moving, screaming, moving. We aren’t allowed to make eye contact, and it’s probably a good thing because I would be dizzy trying to keep up. We have to stare straight ahead. We are constantly yelling, “Yes Sir!’ which I hate. I don’t mind the Yes Sir! part, it’s the shouting that gets old, but I had Sergeant Blood get right in my face, spitting in my eyes the whole time, telling me he couldn’t hear me. I wanted to shove him off so bad.

A few guys have cried already. I don’t care what happens to me here, I will not cry. I can’t imagine having any self-respect left if I did. I won’t quit, I will be the best, and I will not bawl or whine like some of these guys. It’s embarrassing. One kid started crying after we yelled “Kill. Kill. Marine Corps!” Which we do a lot. This kid just freaked. Senior D.I. Meadows pulled him out and talked to him for a while. I don’t know if the guy is going to make it. This is the same kid that tried to eat his candy bar and laid on the bare mattress last night without permission. His name is Recruit Wheaton, but a couple of the other recruits are already calling him Recruit Weepin.’

My bunkmate is a big white kid named Tyler Young. He’s from Texas but he talks like he thinks he’s black, which irritates the guys that actually are black. I kind of like him though. He’s good-natured and always smiling. He talks too much, but I think everyone talks too much. He asked me if I was Mexican. I just said no. Another guy in our platoon who is Hispanic piped up and asked me what I was. I told him I was a recruit. Sergeant Blood overheard and he seemed to like that answer, but the guys seem suspicious of me now, like I’m holding something back. It’s not that I’m ashamed that I’m Navajo - I’m just really tired of that being what everything is always about. You won’t catch me talking about my ethnicity here - Navajo or White.