Tears of an Assassin: An Unforgettable Trilogy

By DJ Power

TEARS OF AN ASSASSIN

Jim Coleman has no idea what to do with his life. He joins the Marine Corps in 1962 on a whim. He makes history by shooting perfect at Parris Island. Jim has become the only marine ever to accomplish this feat. This will unknowingly change his life in the Marines forever.
He meets a Naval Officer, Commander Forrest Damon who is the military liaison with the CIA in Washington. A new life begins as he goes on Temporary Duty with the CIA. Jim joins the most elite section of the CIA. It is so secretive that its only known by the most powerful and influential men in the government.
What does the CIA have in mind for him? Where will they send him? From Southeast Asia to the Caribbean. Surrounded by the underworld in the Deep South, Jim fi ghts his demons every day. Only he knows what is constantly in his dreams.
Jim tries to come to grips with his beliefs and teachings but it is so diffi cult. With every assignment, he goes deeper and deeper into the other life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503561830

DJ Power

DJ Power is an American author who has lived an incredible life. He was born in a suburb of Boston, Massachusetts, in 1943. He has held many titles throughout his life: businessman, entrepreneur, husband, father, grandfather, and the most importantly, United States marine. DJ joined the marines in 1963 and was on active duty for six years. He proudly served his country with two years of duty in South Vietnam. Tears of an Assassin is the first book of a trilogy by DJ Power. Currently he is living in Southern California with his wife of forty-five years.

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Copyright © 2015 by DJ Power.

Library of Congress Control Number:      2015905816

ISBN:        Hardcover           978-1-5035-6181-6

                  Softcover             978-1-5035-6182-3

                  eBook                  978-1-5035-6183-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 05/01/2015

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CONTENTS

Parris Island

Washington, DC

South Vietnam

Heckler & Koch HK54

This book is dedicated to my wonderful wife, Edna

My three sons, Rick, Brian and Stephen.

My two marvelous daughter in laws, Tally and Carolyn.

My four outstanding grandchildren, Katy, Ava, Eddie and Luke and to our wonderful neighbor Patricia, who was instrumental in me writing this book.

PARRIS ISLAND

I ’ve been back for a while now. No word from Virginia. When and where my next assignment would be. It really didn’t matter. I’d go anywhere. I had my three-month-old baby boy on my lap. A bottle in his mouth. We were watching the six o’clock news on NBC. Well, I was trying to watch it, and he was sucking on the bottle.

It was April 30, 1975. You knew it was spring by the sweet air. After the winter we’d had in Massachusetts, the warm air was really welcome. I’d been thinking of retiring for a while. I just hadn’t got the courage up to discuss it with my wife. I had enough money in the bank. I knew I could get a job. It definitely wouldn’t be what I was doing now. I could teach or work security at a big firm.

I could hear someone in the background saying, "Bulletin! Bulletin! Bulletin!" Then the NBC newsman, Chet Huntley, came on the screen. He was holding a paper and saying in a level voice,

Saigon has fallen. It has just been reported that the North Vietnamese have taken control of Saigon.

It had only been three years since the United States pulled the last troops out of South Vietnam. Three years and the country had now fallen to the North Vietnamese Communists. Just three years. What the hell were they doing? All this shit for nothing.

My son was now crying. I guessed in the wake of the news, I was yelling out load. I must have scared him with my tone. I put him to my breast and started to rock him till he stopped.

Back on the TV set were pictures of refugees streaming toward the United States Embassy. Everyone was trying to get out of the country. Marines stationed at the embassy were now in full battle gear. The pictures were showing smoke coming from the back of the building. Helicopters had been flying into the compound and landing on the roof. They were taking as many people as the chopper could hold. It was chaos. There were thousands more trying to get into the compound from the street. I sat there almost in shock but not surprised. The news out of South Vietnam was not pleasant these past few months. My contacts in Washington told me that it was just a matter of time that it would fall. I just didn’t think it would be this easy. It looked as if they just gave up.

After a few minutes, trying to digest this news, I decided to put my son to bed. Getting out of my chair, I walked upstairs to his room. I was starting to feel a little funny. Not sick but a little dizzy. My wife had decided to go out to dinner with her girlfriends. I was going to babysit all night. Anytime I was home, she’d go out, and I’d watch my son. As I was tucking him into his bed, a great amount of nostalgia and remorse came over me. Here I was, standing over my son. A grown man. Former Force Recon sniper with the US Marine Corps. Now I was working for British Airways as a purser. I did have a side job. Standing here over my son, crying like a baby. Tears flowing down my cheeks, which I couldn’t control. Wailing away for what? I kept thinking of all my buddies that had died in Vietnam. The mothers and fathers I had seen when I came home. The wives and girlfriends that were at the grave sites. I was an escort bringing gallant marines back home on their final journey.

After I had changed my son and tucked him in for the night, I went to the bathroom. I needed to clean myself up. Bending over the sink. Putting cold water on my face. I straightened up and looked at my face looking back at me. What had I done so far in my life? Was I proud of what I’d done in my forty-two years? I really didn’t have an answer.

After checking the baby one more time, I went down to the TV room. I started to fiddle with the television to see if I could get any other news about the fall. I then went to the kitchen and picked up the phone. I dialed the number they had given me for emergencies. The phone started to ring, but it seemed no one was answering. Just as I was going to hang up, a voice came on.

Please type in your code number on your phone.

I started to type it in, 8055294433, and I hit the #.

One moment for your connection.

It seemed to last a very long time. I started to imagine them running all over the place. Ensigns and enlisted trying to find out the latest on Saigon. Just as my frustration was hitting an all-time high, that beautiful voice came on the phone.

Jim? What can I do for you this evening? Delores Elder said with a purr. She was an in-house agent that worked evenings.

"Delores, what do you know about the fall of Saigon?

Nothing much. All the brass have been called in from all over. They’ve been huddled in the war room. It looks as if it’s going to be a very long night.

Can you do me a favor? When they break up, would you ask the admiral to give me a call at home? I’m babysitting this evening. I’m by myself. It’s kind of important, so please don’t let him blow you off.

I will tell him it’s urgent. I’ll also tell him he better get to you right away. Then you can take it from there. He’ll definitely not be happy with this. Now I’m giving him orders from you. Stand by for the explosion.

I thanked her and hung up. Standing by the phone in the kitchen, I tried to think of someone else. Whom could I call? I was coming up blank. I really didn’t know why I wanted to talk to anyone. It just seemed important that I did.

Again I went back to the TV room. Sat almost on the set and scanned the stations. No news. Nothing at all about Saigon. With nothing on, I turned it off. I picked up a magazine and started to thumb through it. I wasn’t interested in anything, so I put it down. I sat there for a minute trying to think of what I was doing. Then I turned off the lights and closed my eyes. What a life I’d had. It all started about a dozen years ago by a chance encounter.

I graduated high school in June of 1960. After graduation or even before, I had absolutely no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I knew I didn’t want to go to college. That fact was, I hated school. The only reason I stayed in school (besides my mother constantly on me about my grades) was, I could play all the major sports. As long as I kept my marks at an above-average level, I could play. To keep them there was always a problem with me. I had what the school guidance counselor was telling my parents an attention disorder. Couldn’t keep my mind on anything for a long time. Another problem with school was, I always had problems with authority. I was never in serious trouble in school, but I seemed to be relegated to detention. So when I got out of school for good, I just couldn’t see me going to college. I had many offers from national schools because I was pretty good in basketball and baseball. When they saw my marks, the offers quickly went away. I even got a tryout with the St. Louis Cardinals. They came to a decision, and I was stunned. I was good enough to play in the minors. The majors were a different story.

I got to stay home after graduation doing nothing for a week. My dad said I had to get a job. Only job I ever had was working in my dad’s office at the Boston Edison. It didn’t sound as if he was going to get me in this time. I had some problems there with the bosses. Me knowing my father was the vice president probably didn’t help my disposition any. I decided that I’d go through the paper in the morning. I would look at the want ads and come up with something. I was determined to get a job.

I had just come home from my tenth interview. It didn’t look promising on me getting this either. My brother, Bob, had just come home from college. He suggested I go see a friend of his that owned an engineering company in Holbrook. Bob would call him and see if he was hiring. The next day I was standing in the office of the president of Squires Engineering Co. His office was situated just outside the town of Holbrook, which was twenty miles south of Boston. It seemed that they had just got a huge contract: doing surveys and making records for a major highway from Boston to Key West. They needed bodies to work with the surveyors. I was going to be a surveyor’s helper. This meant I was there to drive the truck. Also, I would lug all the equipment to the point of operation for the day. I was outside all the time, and that was good. We worked down by the Rhode Island border. We were surveying a farmland that the state had taken under eminent domain. I didn’t know what that meant, but I was told the state of Massachusetts could take your land. Didn’t matter the reason. They would give you approximately 25 percent on the dollar for it. That meant it was about 50 percent of what it was really worth. To say some of the people were not happy would be an understatement. Many times we were run off property when the farmers came out with their shotguns and would fire over our heads.

I was working at Squires for a few months when one day we got a day helper. Albert had just got out of the marines. He was looking for work, and Squires put him on for a day at a time. He was a good-size guy. He was approximately six feet and a little over two hundred pounds. He said he was in the marines for four years. He had just returned from Japan, where he spent thirteen months. All he talked about was how wonderful a round-eye was treated by the Japanese girls. He would rave how everything was so cheap there. He went on and on about the corps and what it meant to be a marine, how you were looked up to by civilians, and how they had the best dress uniforms of any service. He just kept talking and saying that everything was great. Sometimes he wished he stayed in, but he still had time to reenlist. I would ask him questions like how do you join and where I would I go to do this. He said all big cities had recruiters. All I’d have to do was go there and sign my name.

We got back to the office earlier than usual. I went up to the reception area and looked for a phone book. I found the yellow pages, and I looked up Marine Corps recruiters. Nothing. Our receptionist came back, and she asked if she could help me. I told her I was having problems finding a Marine Corps recruiter. She took out the white pages and started to thumb through until she found it. It was under the United States, not Marines. It gave the address and the operating hours. They were going to close at 6:00 p.m. It was now four forty-five, and it would take at least an hour to get to Quincy. I went out and jumped in my car and sped off.

I pulled up in front of the post office. The recruiters’ office was down in the lower level or the basement. I parked and went down to the door. It was locked, but I could see someone in the office. I knocked, and a man in a uniform unlocked the door.

As I walked in, you would think I was the most important person that they had ever seen. Staff Sergeant Reynolds greeted me with the biggest smile and strongest handshake. He asked me to sit down, and we could talk.

What made you come here today?

I proceeded to tell him how I met Albert that day. I went into how proud he seemed to be an ex-marine. He stopped me right there and was rather stern.

There are no ex-marines. They are all former marines. Once a marine, always a marine.

I apologized for saying that. He said that I didn’t have to apologize but the marines was the only branch of the service that actually felt like that. He said that was one of the strongest selling points in joining—the camaraderie and the brotherhood. He said no matter if you met a marine from World War II and I was in now, he would treat me just like we were in together. Again he said, Once a marine, always a marine.

What would you like to learn while you’re in the marines?

I didn’t know you could get training in a job while you’re in the marines.

He then went over all the different jobs that they had. He mentioned the Air Wing. He explained that the Marine Corps had fighter planes and helicopters. He said, If you sign up for the Air Wing, it’s guaranteed. They can’t put you someplace else like infantry. You can only go to the Air Wing. He said the bad thing about the guarantee was that I couldn’t get out of it either. I thought that was pretty good. Infantry meant being shot at, and I didn’t want that. I told him I’d take the Air Wing and the guarantee. We filled out all the paperwork, which took a long time. I signed where he told me to, and then he said the magic words.

Welcome to the Marine Corps, Jim.

He went on to explain boot camp. He said I’d be sent to Parris Island. He said I’d probably hear a lot of negative things, about how hard it was and what the drill instructors would do to you. He said I had to remember that hundreds of thousands of recruits had gone through there. If they made it, then I’d have no problems. He said that he would schedule me for a physical next week. It would be at the Boston Navy Yard. He told me he’d be in touch and that he would drive me in. I got up and shook his hand, and again he welcomed me to the marines.

Walking back to the car, I started to think what happened here. Did I make a mistake? Should I have talked this over with the folks? I got in, turned the car on, and proceeded to drive home. On the way, I was trying to think of an easy way to break this news to my parents. I would say I had just joined the most elite branch of the service. One thing about my mother, she always knew when I either had something on my mind or I was hiding something. She knew this time. As I walked into the kitchen, she turned and looked at me.

What’s going on with you? Did you lose your job? I knew it, Bob. He couldn’t even keep a job for more than a couple of months, she said as I walked into the living room.

Can I turn the TV off? I asked with a little smile on my face.

Sure, what’s up? My dad had this quizzical look on his face.

Well, I just did something that will probably change my life. I thought you and Mom would like to know what it is.

My mother had a way with words, and from the kitchen I heard, Oh, dear Lord. Did you join the priesthood?

I didn’t join the priesthood. Would you want me for a priest? I joined the Marine Corps today.

Sure you did, she said. What did you do that for?

I didn’t go into detail about meeting Albert. I did mention him and a few things he told me. I didn’t tell them everything, especially about the girls in Japan and how he was so proud to be a marine. I thought it sounded kind of cool, so after work, I went to the recruiting station in Quincy. I talked to this Staff Sergeant Reynolds, and he told me all about the corps. After he finished talking, I joined. I was a United States Marine, or I would be after boot camp.

Now my father, who graduated from both MIT (electrical engineer) and Harvard Business School, hadn’t said a word. He just kept looking at me in what I would say was disbelief.

"Are you serious about this? You know this isn’t like joining the Boy Scouts. It’s not some club that you can quit anytime you’d like. Don’t you remember last week when we watched that movie that Jack Webb was in? The D.I.?"

Yes, I remember that. I also remember what I said at the time. I said that ‘anyone who joins that service has to be crazy.’ I remember that. I don’t really know what I want to do with my life. I don’t even know where I’m going to be in the future. I might as well go into the marines. Maybe I can learn a craft or trade while in there. I may even want to go to college when I get out.

That was the last of the conversation for that evening. In three days, my mother finally believed that I joined. Staff Sergeant Reynolds called looking for me. When he found out I wasn’t home, he started talking to my mother. He had scheduled me for a physical on Monday morning at eight. He also said that he would be driving me to the navy yard. He would be there as long as it took for me to finish. Then he would drive me back. He also told my mother that it was tentative that I was leaving for Parris Island on May 31. He said that while I was away, my mother could contact him at any time to find out how I was doing. Now I was never a recruiter, but I knew that they could not find out what an individual recruit was doing. By saying this, it sounded great to a worried mother.

The day came for my physical. I wasn’t worried a bit. This should be a piece of cake. Passing was the only option, and I knew I would. After passing this physical, what was left was looking forward to going to hell. Which went by the name Parris Island.

Everything was going fine with the physical until I had to take the eye test. Seeing from a distance was no problem. Even the examining doctor said that it was very rare that someone could see the very small letters on the chart. When they gave me the close-up test, he said then that I could be declared legally blind. Without glasses, I had major problems. I told him I wore glasses but not full-time. I never had any problems with my sight. He told me to get dressed and wait in the reception area. The navy doctor who administered the physical, the eye doctor, a full-bird colonel, and a captain, along with Staff Sergeant Reynolds, went in the back office.

They were in there about twenty minutes when Staff Sergeant Reynolds came out. He had this terrible look on his face. He motioned me to step into the office.

You did very well with your physical, Mr. Coleman. There was one part of the test that you flunked. You flunked very badly, the captain said.

Now you have a choice. We want you to think this over before you make your decision. You can get out of going into any branch of the service by being declared 4F. The other option being that you can sign a waiver regarding the eye test and still become a marine.

I’m sitting there looking at all these officers. I was thinking a few of things. I’d told almost everyone in my hometown that I was going into the Marine Corps. Now to be designated 4F was like being branded a coward. At least in my mind, it was. The other was, why would I spend a whole day here taking a physical and then ask to get out?

I’ll sign the waiver. Before I do, I have one question. They won’t try to kick me out in Parris Island, will they?

After being assured by the colonel and signing the waiver (it wasn’t something they printed up just for me; they had a bunch of these), I was officially sworn into the marines. They all said that I would absolutely enjoy boot camp. Then they mentioned going to Camp Lejeune right after boot camp. I didn’t know what they were talking about, but it didn’t matter. All I was interested in was, when was I going to Parris Island?

The date was finally finalized. It was definite that I was going on the thirty-first of May. The day before I was to leave, my father and I went to the Red Sox game. It was something we did a lot when I was growing up. The following day my father drove me to the navy yard. I would wait there until the whole group that was going to Parris Island was formed. A navy vehicle brought us to the Eastern Airline terminal at Logan Airport. We flew to Charleston, South Carolina, arriving about 8:00 p.m. We sat around the terminal for four hours until the Greyhound bus picked us up. I slept for the two hours that it took to get to Beaufort, South Carolina. Then it was fifteen minutes to our final destination, MCRD Parris Island.

We finally arrived in front of the recruit assembly area. As the bus came to a stop, the front door of the bus opened. A marine dressed in a light-tan uniform came aboard. The only item on him that made him stand out was his hat. He looked like Smokey the Bear. He didn’t yell. In a soft voice, he said, Gentlemen, please get off the bus in an orderly manner. You are to stand where there are yellow footprints. You also must stand at attention. The quicker you do this, the quicker everyone can go to bed. Now everyone, please stand up. Follow the person in front of you off the bus. Thank you for your cooperation.

That was the last thank you I heard for more than sixteen weeks. I was in the back of the bus. I would be one of the last ones off. I could hear screaming and yelling as we came closer to the front. Harry Gelson, a friend I made that day in Boston, was right behind me. I remembered him turning to me with this awful look on his face and saying, What the hell did we get ourselves into?

As we came off the bus, there were eight drill instructors standing in front of us. They were screaming. I didn’t really know what they were saying. Maybe orders. They were right in our faces with their noses touching ours. If you didn’t move fast enough, they would push, pull, or just knock you down. Once we were in some kind of order, we were hustled into an old barracks. The leader, whom I later found out was our senior drill instructor, screamed, It’s now 0200 hours. You’ll be up at 0530 hours. I would suggest you get some sleep. This morning will be a day you all won’t forget. Truer words were never spoken.

There were probably fifty bunk beds in this huge room, which they called a squad bay. When the leader told us, we all ran to a bunk and jumped in. They shut off the lights and left. All of sudden you could see in the shadows someone walking around. This guard was there to make sure we didn’t run away.

It came quickly. As the lights went on at 0530, cans were thrown. Whistles were blowing, and the ever-so-present screaming had commenced. No shower, no brushing your teeth, and we were still in our civilian clothes. Breakfast was a banana and a quick glass of orange juice. Breakfast lasted for about three minutes. First lesson to learn today. When the drill instructor entered the mess hall, got his food, and sat down at his table, that was when the recruit started eating. When the drill instructor was finished eating and got up from his table, the recruit, whether done or not, put his tray in the rightful place. He then would be outside waiting for the drill instructor at full attention.

From the mess hall, we marched or something like that, to the barbershop. Now they only cut the recruits’ hair one way: shaved. I was lucky because all through my teens, I had a crew cut, so there wasn’t much to cut. There were some recruits that actually came down here with extra-long hair. There were six barbers in the room. They all asked the same question, How would you like it cut?

They then would run the clippers right up the middle of the recruit’s head. Each haircut took all of thirty seconds. From the barbershop, we marched to a silver shed or warehouse. They were going to issue our complete sets of uniforms—not just what they called utilities (working clothes), which were the only uniform we wore in boot camp. It was going to be all our uniforms. These uniforms would be with us for all the time we spent in the marines. This procedure, unlike the barbershop, took some time. Everyone knew a marine always had to look sharp. If a uniform didn’t fit, he wasn’t looking sharp. There were fifteen tailors in this building. They measured everything—from nine trousers, four jackets, seven shirts, one set of boots, one set of dress shoes, or anything else we would need. The only uniform we weren’t measured for was the best, dress blues. They were not issued in boot camp. They were awarded to outstanding recruits upon graduation. Marines could order them at any time at their permanent duty stations.

This was our typical day in Parris Island: At 0500, revelry—you had to make your bunk, wash your face and hands, take a leak, and brush your teeth. You had five minutes to accomplish all this. At 0515, we were all out front of the barracks ready for our morning run. We would run down the street to a paved area, which looked like a parking lot. We would run around this area for approximately thirty-five minutes. Then we run back to the barracks. At 0600, it was chow time. Again, it was up to the drill instructor. He would decide how long he wanted to spend in the mess hall. At 0620, we would return to our barracks to clean our squad bay. The squad bay was your home away from home. Everything that didn’t happen outside happened in the squad bay. The main purpose of the squad bay was, it was where you’d sleep. You’d also shower and write letters home there (this was mandatory). The squad bay was also where you’d take all the punishment that was dished out. It was either directed at you or your squad. Thus, the squad bay must be always spotless. In the beginning of boot camp, the squad bay was never clean enough for any of the drill instructors. There were three drill instructors assigned to our platoon: a senior drill instructor, usually an E-6 staff sergeant, then two junior drill instructors, one an older, nicer type, usually an E-5 sergeant, and the third was usually a real hard ass, always an E-4 corporal who, it seemed, would kill you and your family at a drop of a hat. I said family because out junior DI would always say, I’ll kill you and your motherfucking family.

Our senior drill instructor was Staff Sergeant Murray R. Cole. His favorite sport in the squad bay was to kick over the trash cans. In marine vernacular, it would be shit can. After he did this, he would make us clean and scrub anything and everything. The one junior drill instructor, the nice one, was Sergeant William Lynch. He would have us clean it all over again without kicking or screaming. He would yell, not scream, Do it over again. The third drill instructor, Corporal R. T. Johnson. He must be the meanest DI on the island. He was from Philadelphia and as black as coal, so black he was almost purple. His favorite trick would be to pick up and then tip over every footlocker. Not only would he do those but shit cans or anything else he could get his hands on. While doing this, he was screaming at the top of his lungs with every other word being motherfucker. I really hated him, but I always said, If I had to pick one person to be in a foxhole with, it would be R. T. Johnson.

At 0800, classes would start. We learned everything about military life, equipment usage, and how to break down all sorts of weapons. The most important classes were the ones about Marine Corps history. We started from the beginning. There were two battalions of volunteers on November 10, 1775, in Philadelphia. They seemed to be drinking at a place called Tun Tavern. Now this infantry, now called marines, was born. It was a force capable of fighting for independence both at sea and on land.

After the basic history lesson was done, we moved on. We’d study every skirmish of World War II that we were ever involved in. These classes lasted for four weeks. There were tests every Friday, and if you didn’t pass, your ass belonged to the drill instructors.

They knew how to inflict pain worse that anybody would ever believe. One of Corporal Johnson’s favorite was getting everyone in the shower. He would then have you put your back and heels against the wall. Then you would slowly come down the wall, remembering to always keep your back and heels against the wall. At a spot that I believed only he knew, he would scream, Stop! Within ten seconds, your whole body would ache terribly. You would straighten up immediately without fail. When everyone did this, he had you. Another favorite of all the drill instructors would be having us go in the showers again. It must have been their favorite place to punish anyone. They would have you do what they called bends and thrusts. This was a basic exercise we used out in PT, but in the shower, it was altogether different. You would start by standing at attention. Then you would squat down, placing your arms straight out. Then, leaning forward, you put your palms in front of you on the deck. The next move was thrusting your legs out behind straight then bringing your legs back into the squat position again. The final move was standing up at attention again. Every drill instructor would have you do at least one hundred of these in a session. It didn’t sound difficult. Now they would turn on the hot-water showers. The heat and all the recruits caused for a very hard time breathing. It seemed that we never were able to finish one hundred bends and thrusts.

We were taught the most important lesson early in our classes. It was possibly the most important in the Marine Corps. There were no individuals, and everyone worked together as a team. Now to get this across to everyone and have no one ever forget, they also had a tactic. For example, if a recruit flunked or didn’t get a passing paper in one of the many tests, it wouldn’t just be the recruit that suffered, it was everyone in the platoon. If anyone failed or didn’t pass more than once, that recruit was spoken to in a very harsh manner by his fellow recruits. The reason behind this was that everyone was one and one was everyone. As a marine, everyone pulled together. I didn’t think anyone ever failed more than once after being spoken to.

After we had lunch, we would practice marching on the running parking lot. Everyone would fall out with our rifles and helmet liners. We would do all sorts of maneuvers in the hot sun for three hours.

After our afternoon marching session, we would have physical training. This would include rope climbing, running, and my favorite and nemesis, the twelve-foot wall. As far back as I could remember, I’d never had much power in my arms. Every time I’d get to the wall, it would be the same old thing. I’d jump getting my fingers on the top. Then I would try to pull myself up. Failure over and over. I just couldn’t get over it. I never knew why, but I was never punished for that. I just got yelled at. At the end of the eleventh week, there were tests in all physical fitness, the obstacle course being one of them. You had to get over the wall, but in this test, it didn’t matter how. The drill instructors would have the two best recruits assist the ones who couldn’t get over the wall. They would put their hands together. As you stepped into the hands, they would throw us over. The course had to be done with everyone finishing in twelve minutes. Without their help, I’d probably still be there.

Another timed event that was really important was the six-mile run. We would go out to this course, dressed in full utilities, with a weighted pack and rifle. We would have to run six miles in under fifty minutes. That meant that everyone had to average an 8 ½ minute mile. Now I could always run long distances. After the first few runs, I was designated with two other recruits to be at the rear guard. What this was was that we had to make sure the slower recruits didn’t fall out. We would push, carry, and do whatever to make sure they made it. The last timed run at the end of boot camp was the most important. If one recruit didn’t make the time, then the whole platoon failed. On the first run with us being in the rear, four recruits didn’t make time. It wasn’t the platoon who suffered; it was the four of us. We didn’t do our job. We let one of our fellow recruits fail. This was unacceptable, and we were punished. As the rest of the platoon had the smoking lamp lit, the drill instructors had us in the shower. This time we were naked with the hot water pouring out of the showerheads. They had us doing PT until we almost passed out. After that fiasco, we made sure everyone finished the run. We would almost carry a few across the finish line. The final run. No one failed. We all made it to the finish with time to spare. It all came down to working as one, and it really worked.

The physical part of boot camp was easy for me, but the mental was another story. The drill instructors were always playing mind games. This went on for six weeks. It stopped when we were ready to go to the rifle range.

Everyone was looking forward to the three weeks on the range. For someone who had never fired a weapon in his life, I was apprehensive. To be honest, I was scared to death. I remembered my father’s words: Listen to the instructors. Do what they tell you, and you won’t have any problems.

Easier said than done. This was what you joined the Marine Corps for—to be able to fire that piece of wood you’d been lugging around for six weeks. But before the firing range came, there was a week of mess duty.

All recruits had to spend a week either at the main mess hall or the BOQ (bachelor officers quarters). They also sent a few to the staff NCO quarters. I was lucky and got picked to go to the BOQ. It was on the other side of the island. It looked like an old schoolhouse, which had a kitchen. There were three floors. The main floor had the living room, dining room, and TV room. The other two floors had individual quarters for the officers. The ones who lived here had the rank of second lieutenant to major. Rank had its privileges. The lower the rank, the smaller the room. The higher the rank, the nicer the room. Outside in another small cabin were the quarters for four recruits.

Besides cleaning and polishing all the wooden equipment and the wood floors, we were to build something special: a Japanese-style frame that would hold the sign for the BOQ. Now this wasn’t any small frame but one that was fifteen feet high and twenty feet wide. We had to have this finished within a week. One good thing was that it was already cut. We just had to put it together and then paint it. All this and we had to do our other duties with it. The frame was to be painted in black and red. We would do our chores early into the early afternoon. Then we would spend the rest of the day on the frame. We finished this with a day to spare. They brought the Seabees in to secure it into the ground.

After the week at the BOQ, we went back to our recruit barracks. We had a day to pack everything we had and get ready for a ten-mile forced march. We made the march in three hours. To a man, none of us were tired. We were here in our new barracks at the rifle range.

Everything seemed to change as we got to the range. For some reason, the drill instructors weren’t as vocal as usual. That night, for some reason, the senior drill instructor was on duty. He called us to the front of the squad bay. He had us sit down on the floor in front of him. He said that we could ask him any questions regarding the range, if we were curious what was going to happen for the next three weeks. Then not waiting for a question, he went into what exactly would go on for the next three weeks. To be treated like half a person was something none of us were expecting. He told us that this training was the most intense of all the twelve weeks we’d be here—that there were range instructors who were in charge. The drill instructors would be there, but the range instructors were the bosses. If there would be a problem with a recruit, then our drill instructors were allowed to step in. They had to be requested by the range instructors. He was very emphatic in telling us to pay close attention to the instruction. We were to do everything the range instructor told us. He then asked how many of us had never fired a rifle or weapon before. The amazing thing was, besides me, there were two recruits who raised hands. They both came down from Boston on our flight. The senior said that we could be excellent riflemen or the worst. It was up to us to listen to all the instructions. We stayed talking to him for two hours. When we had no more questions, he sounded disappointed. It was now time for our showers and to bed. At the rifle range, revelry came at 0400 hours.

The first day on the rifle range was altogether different than any other part of our training. The range instructors seemed to treat us as if we