A lot has happened since my last entry...

It's been three years since I last updated this story. I was looking at the last entry and tears came to my eyes. I wrote about my arrival in scenic Meridien MI, and my introduction to Lovelle Winton. Over the course of my tour of duty in the USMC, Lovelle became one of/if not my best friend. It was never an easy friendship. He was headstrong, opinionated, had a shitty attitude, came from an abusive background and had serious scars. He caused me a lot of headaches. It almost came to blows on more than one occasion. To paraphrase Doc Holiday in Wyatt Earp "Lovelle Winton is an ignorant scoundrel! I disapprove of his very existence. I considered ending it myself on several occasions, but... self-control always got the better of me." But that's not the whole story. The whole story involves to young men who joined the Marines for totally different reasons. Both of whom enlisted to do a job they intended to base their futures on and instead had the Marine Corps decide that they each would better serve the Corps as Aviation Operations Specialists. I was five years older that Lovelle. We were both only children. My mother had passed away. His had put him in foster care. I guess as the saying goes we found a brother from another mother in each other. We followed different paths both in the Corps and later as veterans. I used to really look forward to him calling me to comment on my latest post or to talk about sports or the events of the day or to just generally complain about shit that was going that only another Marine would appreciate.

Lovelle passed away in January. He had a lot of issues, and the world didn't always care. Not a day has gone by that I haven't thought about him. I miss him. In a lot of ways, my story is his story. I have both dreaded and looked forward to starting to write this again because I know that the call won't be coming and that I'm now responsible to tell the story of a brother in a way that reveals how much I loved him and how much he pissed me off and made me laugh all while serving in the USMC at the beginning of the War on Terror. Lovelle, I will try to paint you in the best light possible, but honestly the warts and the bumps and the cracks are the things that make the time memorable and the friendship more important.

I also feel like this story both during my time in the USMC and the years that have followed as an educator, coach, husband, father, veteran and citizen will show that not everybody fits neatly into the categories and stereotypes we try to put each other in. I have let this story dwell in my head for far too long and I think it's time for it to be told. Stay tuned.

MOS School NAS Meridien MS

Josh Rabine, Victor Faraj and I were all assigned to go to Naval Air Station Meridien Mississippi for MOS school.  We got our travel orders and headed to the airport. Of course the plane was one of the twin prop puddle jumpers three seats wide.  Every bit of turbulence felt the drop off on a roller coaster.  The trip took about two hours.  We landed at what they called Meridien International Airport and by that I mean the single building that the smallest elementary school would be bigger than.  Baggage claim was a 10 foot conveyor belt.  We got our sea bags and then caught a cab.  Twenty minutes later we entered NAS Meridien, our home for the next eight weeks.  I don't know if I felt sorrier for us or the men and women who are permanently stationed here.  We report in to the barracks SNCO for room assignments and are introduced to a crinkled, nasty, sour and generally unpleasant man named GySgt Green.  Gunny Green sees us and is angry.  He snaps at us that nobody told him we were coming and we just ruined his day.  He storms into his office and starts yelling at nobody.  He comes back out and tells us he found temporary space for us by the grace of his heart. By the grace of his heart? He's the god damn barracks SNCO!! This is his JOB! Eight weeks here is gonna be fun! So we haul our gear up the hill and put the key in the door and as we're about to open it.. a tall kid wearing gasses and just a pair of shorts rips the door open and shouts "What the F@#$ do you assholes want???" This is my introduction to PFC Lovelle Winton. We tell him that we've been assigned to this room and he says, "Ah F@#$!!! Just my luck!!!" And just turns and goes into his room and slams the door. Ya, nice to meet you too! About an hour goes by and there's a knock on the door.  PFC Ramon Jorge the Barracks Leader has arrived to show us around.  This kid has a gigantic broomstick with the words Marine Corps shoved up his ass. Every turn is cornered. Every step is heel toe. Every phrase is ended with "Good to go?" I figure that he will probably have a heart attack before he even gets to his duty station or someone will just beat the shit out of him cuz he's WAY too serious.  

Now here's the good part.  I applied for Recruiters Assistance while I was on Boot Leave.  It was denied because they needed to get everyone through MCT during hurricane season.  Then when I got to MCT, I was placed on Guard Duty because my MOS class was starting later so we were at Camp Geiger for a month instead of two weeks.  Because we were on guard duty, we are a week late for MOS school.  The SNCO in charge of the school tells us that if the follow class instructor won't add us to the class then we have to wait 9 weeks to begin MOS School. Which means we'll be on barracks duty while we wait.  We did NOTHING wrong.  We have been jerked around since the beginning and now they are acting like they're gonna do us a favor by adding to a class that we shouldn't have been late for??? WTF?!?!?!  So we go to see the instructor with the head of the school.  He pulls the instructor out of the class.  This is my first meeting with Sgt Tim Campbell.  Sgt Campbell is from Missouri. He's tall, lean, blonde hair, glasses and notable southern accent. He's less than thrilled that more people are about to be added to his class.  "So let me get this straight, either I take them or they are stuck here for 9 weeks? Dammit! Look boys, I'm going to be honest with you, I don't want you. You're behind and I don't have the time to catch you up.  You'll have to learn what I've already taught on your time. Oh and we have a test in two days.  If you fail two tests, then you are dropped!"  Welcome aboard!  

7041 Aviation Operations Specialist

The last night of field ops at MCT they give the orders to MOS School.  I signed up to be a legal clerk which is MOS #4421.  My MOS school is at Camp Johnson in NC.  At least that's what I thought.  When they read my name and MOS, I heard "Connors, Shawn P. 7041. Meridien MS."  I'm standing there like, "What the F@#$ is a 7041??? And... Where the F@#$ is Meridien MS???"  I went to see the Platoon Sgt to find out what happened.  I tried to explain to him that there was a mistake, that both my MOS and MOS School were wrong, that my contract was to be a legal clerk.  He said, "Well Devil Dog, that's not what it says here so you're out of luck." Apparently he didn't like that I didn't accept that as his final answer. He also didn't like it when I said, "Fine.  Then the Marine Corps is in breach of contract and I can be discharged, and I'm not going to MS!"  He told me stand at the POA and then asked, "Did you have three options on your contract?" I said, "Yes Sgt." He smiled and said, "Well Devil Dog, the Marine Corps promised to give you one of the three options, not necessarily your choice.  Enjoy Mississippi!"  There is literally nothing I can do about this.  What nobody told me and perhaps should have told me was why this happened.  It turns out that when I took the ASVAB (Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery) I did really well on three sections that the Marine Corps takes pretty seriously which make up a GT score.  They switched my MOS because I had listed Aviation as my second option and my GT score was higher than the minimum for the MOS that they had a shortage in.  So long story short, I got switched because I was a square peg and the Marines had a square hole to fill.  But the Sgt's answer of "You signed the motherf@#$ing contract so deal with it" would become a recurring theme.  And nobody had told me where the F@#$ Meridien MS is!!!

MCT

If Parris Island transforms people into Marines, then Marine Combat Training (MCT) shows Marines what to expect in the Fleet Marine Force. Hurry up and wait! Marching from place to place in large unorganized clusters, waiting around for either a class or a drill. There is no time to build a team as we are only here for two weeks before we ship off to Military Occupation Specialty (MOS) school.  The new Marines all want to prove how hard they are or aren't.  The instructors show tremendous disdain for all of us because they are career infantry and look at all of us as gutless because we aren't infantry.  This is a special circle of Hell.  I've learned that being called "Devil Dog" by our instructors is just like being called a "recruit" by a DI. The arbitrary way they decide who does what is like how my freshman football coach picked our positions: height and weight.  Coach Turner walked in front of us, looked us from toe to head and back to toe and then said "Back" or "Lineman".  Just by looking at us.  Honestly, how in the hell can you tell if someone can pass, run, catch, block or tackle by looking at them from their feet to their head and back down.  I got picked to be a 60 gunner.  Do you want to know I got picked to be a 60 gunner?  Do you think it's because the 60 gunner needs to be an accurate shot? If you do, then you are wrong! Do you think it's because the 60 gunner leads a three man team and I was older and more educated? If you do, then you are wrong again! I got picked because the M60 is heavy and long and I'm 6'2 and weigh 195 lbs.  In simpler terms I was the only one strong enough to carry it! So for most of the time we were in the field I carried this heavy as weapon in the rear of the platoon with one guy who carried the ammo can  and the other guy who carried the tri pod for it.  We got to fire it once.  And it jammed. Then, and I'm not even kidding, a hurricane hit North Carolina for three days and they cancelled field ops and sent us back to the barracks to twiddle our thumbs cuz it's too dangerous to be outside in a hurricane. Can you spell irony??? I can... U.S.M.C.

Suddenly having a hard time...

There is a reality to life in the Marine Corps, and that reality is that every single person in the Marine is trying to one up some one else.  They say you salute the rank not the man.  When you are fresh out of boot, you are finally a Marine, but you quickly realize that you aren't special.  On the green cammie uniform, the rank insignia is a black lapel pin.  It is difficult to see from a distance. God forbid you don't genuflect when you pass someone who outranks you for the simple reason that you couldn't see a stripe or a rocker. And there is no saving you if you call a Staff Sergeant a Sergeant for the same reason. A safe bet would be to say nothing, but then some jackass with a hard-on for going flying off the handle on some boot will go ballistic.

When I got to Camp Geiger for MCT I was sent to Guard Duty for two weeks, which as I said before made a lot of sense since I couldn't get Recruiters Assistance cuz I needed to get to training immediately.  For two weeks my job was to have fire watch from 2100 to 0200. So for the rest of the day it's just sit around and wait.  I like how they decide who gets what duty.  There is no rhyme or reason for it. There is a Scribe who's job it is to plan the watch roster, do all the paper work and keep things in order. They gave that job to Private Young.  Private Young is a 5'4 black kid. He's 18 years old and reads a book entitled Why do All the Black Kids Sit Together in the Cafeteria?  So he in turn gave all the jobs out in a totally nonsensical way.  One last thought on Private Young.  He detests white people. Now this is the inevitable flare up.  Another Marine on Guard Duty, Private Smith, is a loud mouth redneck. Smith is white, is 6'1 and wears a Confederate Flag belt buckle and cowboy boots and a ten gallon hat.  Young was not graceful or polite.  In fact he was surprisingly vulgar.  These two get into an argument over watch times, that went something like this:

Smith: Hey Young, can we talk about switching the watch schedule?

Young: F@ck You white boy. You get what you get!

Smith: Well hold on son, we should talk about this..

Young: We're not talking about anything. It's my job to make the schedule, it's your job walk your post!

Smith: Boy, you should watch the way you're talking to me. I'm just trying to switch my time..

Young: Boy?!?! You're right we should talk about the watch schedule... Now you have a 12 hour watch!

Smith: Wait... Why?

Young: Cuz you called me "Boy" you cracker bastard!

Smith: Hold on, first of all, I didn't mean "boy" second I'm a PFC and you're a Private and you can't talk to me like that...

Young: I'll talk to you however I want and if you don't like it I'll smack you in the face with my dick!

Smith: You come anywhere near with that black dick of yours and I'll cut it off and stick it up your n@#$er ass!

(Punches thrown) 

Anybody want to guess what happened after that? It's gonna be a long four years.

The times they are a changing.

I said life goes on, and it really changes as well. To say I was indoctrinated in the Marine Corps is an understatement. When I ate I sat heels together and my left hand on my left knee.  I got up and ran everyday I was home. I called everyone including bartenders and waitresses "Sir or Maam". I didn't like people being behind me so I usually stood near the wall, constantly scanning the room. I shined my boots every other day. I got two haircuts in ten days. TWO! And was pissed cuz the barber didn't know how to due a proper high and tight.  Every shirt I wore said Marines on it and it was tucked in tight. I went down to UMass to see my fraternity brothers and learned a tough lesson.  I was in  terrific physical condition. But I had lost 50 pounds at boot camp.  I wasn't really used to myself at that weight. I played in a tackle pickup football game one afternoon and when I tackled my boy Nate, he rolled over me and crushed my head. I bit half way through my bottom lip. I needed stitches. So now I'm on leave and I have the remnants of a black eye from the Crucible and now I have a massive fat lip and stitches in my mouth.  I wasn't exactly feeling as bullet proof as I had been. 

Another lesson I learned (and quite frankly one I should have learned already but one that would repeat several times over the next four plus years) was that the Marine Corps operates on its own time frame and quite often with no rhyme or reason.  I went to see my recruiter and put in for a month of Recruiter Assistance and it was denied. Ok, that's fine. The reason was that they needed everyone to get through MCT cuz hurricanes were storming up the coast. (When I got to MCT I got sent to Guard Duty for two and a half weeks because my MOS School was backed up. When I finally get to MOS school, they almost wouldn't start my training cuz I was a week late!) So to sum up, if I had gotten Recruiter Assistance I would have gotten to MOS School right around the same time.  Hurry up and wait, Oorah.

Lastly, I want to say that my Heavy Hat told us a way to avoid fights with guys who want to try Marines.  This is important because a guy bumped into me at a party at UMass. I didn't think to much of it until he tapped me on the shoulder and the following conversation occurred:

Drunk kid: (Angrily) Hey Asshole, you bumped into me!

Me: (Calmly) I'm sorry. Which side did I bump into?

Drunk kid: (Confused) What? What do you mean? What does it matter what side?

Me: Well, it matters a lot. If I bumped into your left side, it was an accident and I'm terribly sorry. If it was your right side, then I was sizing you up and preparing to kick your ass all over this place. So which side was it?

Drunk kid: (Still confused) I'm not sure. Let me think about it.

Me: Ok

Several minutes go by and I get tapped on the shoulder again.

Drunk kid: (Angrily) I think it was the right side!

Me: (Calmly) It took you this long to come to that conclusion? You haven't thought this through. You're not in this Fraternity. I'm one of the founders. Every brother in here is going to back me up and you and your two friends are gonna get the ass kicking of a life time if you push this.

Drunk kid: Uhhh...

Me: UHHH?!?!?!?! That's the best you can do? Pledges!!! Escort this gentlemen and his friends to the door, they're no longer welcome here.

Pledges surround them and push them out. I don't know, maybe I should have kicked his ass. Still, it was fun to watch the wheels turn slowly behind his drunk eyes!

Life went on...

Boot camp was a transformation. It was a transformation of body and mind. I lost 50 lbs at PI. None of my clothes fit. I was away for 14 weeks. A lot can happen in 14 weeks. I got letters from family and some friends. I also didn't get any contact from some friends.  When I left, I felt like I was leaving everyone and everything behind.  It was scary. It was lonely. I cried at night during boot camp. Coming home I wanted to show everyone the transformation. I wanted to look the people in the eye who told me I couldn't do it they were wrong. I wanted to show them who I had become. But the funny thing about transforming your body and mind is that you don't feel comfortable in your old life and your old life doesn't feel comfortable with you. My family told I was too skinny. My friends told me I looked like a smaller younger me, like a little brother. Some people wanted to fight me, you know just to see what I learned. Some wanted to just avoid me, cuz at some point in their lives they didn't like the military so I was some one to take that out on. I wanted to make mend some fences with people that didn't want them mended.

The biggest difference was between me and my dad. When I told him that I was going to join the Marines after college, he looked at me like I had just kicked him in the nuts.  The conversation went something like this:

Dad: Do you purposely choose every path in life that I don't like?

Me: What do you mean?

Dad: I wasn't a good student, you were. I wasn't an athlete, you were. I never went to college, you did. I hate fraternities, you started one. I don't like actors, you've done 13 plays. I was in the Army and I hate Marines, now you want to be one? Why do you do these things?

Me: Didn't you always say that you want me to be better than you? This is how I'm trying to do that. Besides, you are my hero. You served this country and I want to as well.

Dad: Well, this is what I think of your decision. 1) As a father I'm against this. It's my job to keep you safe and I can't if you do this. 2) As a father I also taught you to follow your dreams, and I know this has been a dream of yours for years. 3) I'm a veteran. You owe this to me. You owe this to me, and to all those who went before you. So good luck.

I wrote some very honest letters home from boot camp to my dad. He saved them. He brings them up every now and again if he thinks my head is too big. But he purposely needles me about the Marine Corps and our traditions and gets really pissy when I do it back. He really hates when I say that ARMY stands for Aint Ready for the Marines Yet. But he loves to say Semper whatever you people say.  He seems angry at me for joining the Marines and is being passive aggressive about it. I love him and I'm not looking forward to saying goodbye again when I go to MCT. Just surprised by how small home seems and how much I want to stay.

September 10, 1999

Graduation Day.  I survived.  I made it.  I'm a Marine.  I am not going home a failure.  My driving force in this man made hell hole has been to prove not only to myself but to everyone who said I couldn't do this that they were wrong! I have friends back home who talk about doing things and never do. They are good people, but when I look down the road I see a time when they will sit at a bar and say " I think I could have been this or done that.. I think.." I didn't want to wonder, I wanted to know.  No mater what happens from this moment on, I know that I can and will make it through the hard times.  For all intents and purposes, I am 6'2 and bulletproof.  Fear isn't my enemy anymore.

Thirteen weeks ago, I wondered what the hell I was thinking.  Now I wonder why I waited so long.  When I got here I weighed 223 pounds.  Today I weigh 172 pounds.  I still have a black eye I got during the Crucible.  My grandfather asked me if I went to boot camp or a concentration camp when he saw me.

There are a lot of things I want to do now.  I want a beer.  I want a dip.  I want to go home and sleep in a bed without 80 other guys in the room.  I'm excited.  I can't sit still.

On the drive out the gate of Parris Island in broad daylight, I look back and realize how different it looks now.  The night I got here it looked like the gates of hell, now it looks similar to the entrance to UMass the last time I saw it.  It is a black dot on the map that is the journey of my life... just a black dot... well maybe it's a BIG black dot.  I'm going home, thank God almighty, I'm going home.

The More Things Change...

This past June I celebrated the 11th anniversary of getting home from Iraq.  The significance of getting home on June 6th is definitely not lost on me.  The last eleven years have been a roller coaster of both good and bad times.  Losing old friends, making new ones.  Losing jobs, finding jobs.  Agreeing with people, fighting with people.  Drinking far too much, failing to quit drinking.. ;)  I loved being a Marine.  I got out because I realized that I no longer fit into the Corps.  I can live with that.  I wanted to do other things.  I wanted to be something else.  I had further to go and the Corps wasn't going to let me get there.  That's not a slam on the Marine Corps or me.  I answered the call.  I can say I had and have what it takes.  

Eleven years have passed since the invasion of Iraq, or the War on Terror, or Operation Enduring Freedom, or Operation Iraqi Freedom, or Bush's Illegal War or W's Revenge Tour, or Imperialism, or Stomp out the Muslims, or Let's Steal All the Oil.  These are just some of the names it has been called.  I prefer to use the term my father used.. My step into history.  I wasn't on the sidelines of this, I was in the game.  This has caused me some issues since I got out and came home.  Sometimes I was jealous that my friends were ahead of me in terms of relationships, careers, things they could afford.  Other times I was angry when they'd say "We shouldn't be there!" But most of the time I really felt alone.  They didn't get it, they don't get it and they never will get it.  War isn't an abstract philosophy to me anymore.  It is a very real, very scary event that people die in far away from home for reasons that may or may not be true.  

Why do I bring this up?  Unless you are living on a deserted island somewhere, then you should realize that the global machine is cranking up again.  Russia is on the move, Israel and Palestine are at each other's throats, Iran is rattling its saber and Iraq and Afghanistan are as much a mess as they were 11 years ago and the rest of the world is just waiting to see what America will do.  Politicians come and go and with them come conflicts that require sacrifice.  But we keep sending the troops into harms way without properly equipping them to win the battle and return home.  We keep saying we'll support them no matter what and then sit by as veterans die because the VA is a bogged down bureaucracy. The VFW was a dying organization 15 years ago, now it's ranks are swelling with angry disillusioned servicemen and women.  The Marine Corps teaches us to improvise, adapt and overcome.  It seems obvious that we are doing something wrong if we are about to go back to Iraq for the 3rd time since 1990; we can't take care of our veterans;  the rest of the world wants to be like us and not listen to us.  

Today you are no longer Maggots...

After 12 weeks of pain, humiliation, sleep deprivation, and digging deeper than we thought possible we have arrived at the end of this chapter of our journey.  It is September 10, 1999 and it is Graduation Day.  We should be higher than we have ever been.  But that wouldn't be Platoon 2070's style.  We started Basic as the screw-up platoon and by God we will end as the screw-up platoon.  Before we leave to march over to the parade deck, our Heavy does a final walk through of the platoon.  As he is walking through the racks, he stops and looks both puzzled and confused.

He yells, "This rack smells like piss! Why does this rack smell like piss?!? Whose rack is this?"

It's Hawkins rack. He sounds off "It's my rack SSgt!"

The Heavy replies "Why does it smell like piss?"

Hawkins states "Because I pissed my bed every night SSgt!"

Metaphorically speaking this opened the floodgates! The Heavy went absolutely crazy.  He demanded to know who Hawkins rack mate was.

Umoren said "I'm his rackmate SSgt!"

The Heavy stayed on point. "Did you know he was pissing his rack every night?!"

Umoren replied "Yes I did SSgt."

The Heavy screamed "God damn it U-MORON, you're a God damn squad leader!! This should have been reported! Hawkins clearly has a mental issue and this should have caused him to be evaluated and kicked out of the platoon! You were supposed to report this!  Why didn't you?!?!?"

Umoron replied "Because we don't leave men behind SSgt!"

The Heavy didn't break stride, "Do you think covering up for someone's deficiency means that you have honor?  Marines have honor God damn it!! None of you has any honor! You're all a disgrace!" Then he stormed out of the squad bay.

Did I mention that today is graduation day?

10 years and a lot of ups and downs

My Marine Corps journey began on March 9, 1999 when I decided to enlist.  I have written extensively about boot camp and all the trials that it offered.  Much to the annoyance of some of my friends, I haven't gotten to the "good" parts yet or introduced any significant recurring characters.  There is a simple reason for this.  All the details are the good parts, and the significant character in this story is me.  This is my story.  I began writing it down because I wanted to pour it out and look at it to see what it revealed.  This story is more than a creative outlet.  It's a self study.  The Marine Corps profoundly changed my life.  It made me stronger.  It made me weaker.  It made me more confident.  It made me more self-conscious.  It cost me some friends.  It made me a better husband, father and friend.  It gave me nightmares.  Since I left the Marine Corps in September 2003, I have gotten married, had a son, and earned a Master's Degree.  I have also lost five jobs for reasons ranging from budget cuts to personality conflicts to not making it my whole life.  I guess it would be easy to look at either the successes or the failures and pass judgment.  I'm never late. I rarely take a day off.  I am honest.  I make mistakes and I own up to them.  For some reason, I don't think that my opinion matters.  This is a bi-product of my service.  I don't argue with bosses or offer my opinion when I disagree.  I'm starting to realize that this may be hurting me in the civilian world.  I think that I have been labeled as lacking for being willing to try to do things differently.  Once again I find myself at the end of one opportunity and searching for another.  I've been soul-searching.  I've been trying to remember that 6'2 and bullet proof feeling I had in September 1999 when I said I'll never be afraid of anything because surviving P.I. meant I could survive anything.  So, I think the time has come to get serious once again.  I hope you have enjoyed reading this blog and that you are ready to get hit with a lot more.  Five for Fighting wrote in the song "Chances" that "Chances lost are life's torn out pages", well you gotta take them before you can tear them down.  I have always loved Shawn Michaels of the WWE not because he's the Show Stopper, the Icon, or the Main Event.  I have loved him because he has failed as often as he's succeeded, sometimes worse, but he has always found his way back to the light. He sums up how I've been feeling lately...

Military Translations

Good to go! -- Ready! or Ya whatever!

I need (a) volunteer(s) -- I'm going to pick someone for a job that's going to suck and may be dangerous!

Be in formation at ____! --- It doesn't matter what time is stated, be 15 minutes earlier or you're screwed!

Oh?!?!? You want to move slow?!?!? --- Get ready to do something tedious very quickly!!!

Tell me a story.. --- Admit what you did and prepare to get your ass chewed!!!

You're a real ball of fire--- You are a waste of life!!

What was your class rank? --- No matter the answer the next question is going to be "So you mean to tell me that there are ____ people just walking into walls?!?!"

Do I have to kill you?? --- There is no correct answer, prepare for an ass chewing!!!

So and so said do this --- I want you to do this but I don't want to hear you bitch so I'm blaming someone else.

With all due respect --- This is an attempt to say "F@#$ YOU"

Let me see your ID --- I want to know if I can chew your ass

Once you get to MOS School, the Fleet, Overseas etc you'll see how it really is --- Your unit sucks and that other places are cooler.

Back when I was a... --- Back in my day everything was harder and crazier and I miss it!!!

No!! Your military right!! --- Hey Dumbass... That's your left side!!!!

Message to Garcia --- Get the job done and don't ask any F@#$ING QUESTIONS!!!

Stop/Loss --- DON'T MAKE ANY PLANS!!!!

First Civ Div --- the "real" world

Do you see any care in this eye? --- I don't care at all!!!

Mission Accomplishment comes before Troop Welfare --- Exactly how it sounds!!!

It never seems to end...

We went to the chow hall after the EGA Ceremony for a Warrior's Breakfast.  Since we arrived here on June 16th, we've eaten what we got and we've eaten fast.  Today is different.  Today we got to eat as much as we wanted and take as long as we wanted.  It might have been the best meal I've ever had.  SSgt Askew came over and sat with us and laughed.  I asked why he was laughing and he said because he knew we were well trained and then he asked us how he knew.  He then said because we didn't even realize that we were all sitting straight up, heels together, left hand on left knee and right hand shoveling food.  He was right, it had just become second nature.  I felt 6'2 and bulletproof.  It's hard to explain, I just had this sense that no matter what happens in the future I knew I could handle it because I made it through this.  An added bonus this morning was that I got to meet Capt Dale Dye.  He apparently comes to the Warrior Breakfast whenever he's in town to congratulate the new Marines.  

After breakfast we need to begin the preparation to graduate and leave the Island.  It starts right away.  We get back to the squad bay and it is time to clean the rifles which are filthy.  Everyone is exhausted from the 54 hour grind of the Crucible.  The Heavy brings out a solvent in ammo cans to clean the bolt carrier groups.   He tells us that this is how we'll do this from now on.  So we spent hours scrubbing our rifles and never really getting the grime off and there is far easier way to do it.  I wish I could say I'm shocked but it's all just par for the course.  After we clean the rifles, we bigin breaking down the squad bay.  We end the day prepping our uniforms.  When it is finally time to sleep, everyone just passes out.

On Sunday, I decided to go to church.  I haven't gone to church since I've been here.  I didn't particularly care for the guys who "found Jesus" while we were here.  These guys quoted the "yay though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death" lines a little too often for my taste.  I think going to war will be a lot closer to the valley of the shadow of death than boot camp.  Besides, Sunday morning was the only time we had all week to just read letters or write letters, so I took advantage of it.  Considering all of this I found church moving on this Sunday.  I honestly felt the presence of something greater than myself that morning.  I don't know if it was the comradeship of the other Marines, the sense of accomplishment, the relief, God's holy spirit touching me...  I don't know.  I just know that I tears flowed from my eyes and I wasn't sad. 

After church, we gave our rifles a quick cleaning and that's when all Hell broke loose.  Private Blyce (no longer Recruit Blyce) lost his bolt carrier group.  That means he lost the bolt, the cam pin, the firing pin and the bolt carrier.  That means his rifle will not work.  What it also means is that he can't turn his weapon in.  When the Heavy questioned him, he said he didn't know what happened to it.  This guy is literally the gift that keeps on giving.  He left the bolt carrier group in the solvent.  So that was easy enough to find.  Unfortunately for Blyce, he wasn't smart enough to just put his firing pin, cam pin and bolt in his pocket till he found it.  Instead he put the loose pieces into his rifle which fell out. We have swept and cleaned the squad bay twice in the time between cleanings.  The Heavy wanted an explanation.  Blyce who couldn't hit water if he fell out of a boat, couldn't give him one.  First he kept saying "This recruit doesn't know, Sir!"  We are Marines now and can say I and Drill Instructors are enlisted so you don't call them Sir!  When the Heavy screamed this at him, Blyce attempted to correct himself by saying "This Marine doesn't know, Sir!"  The Heavy responded to this by sending Blyce flying six feet through the air after an open palm thrust to the chest.  When Blyce got up the Heavy was on top of him and struck him again.  All the while the Heavy yelled "I'M NOT GOING TO JAIL BECAUSE YOU LOST YOUR WEAPON!!! BUT I WILL GO TO JAIL FOR KILLING YOUR DUMB ASS!!!" It never seems to end around here...

Patriot's Day

This blog is the story of my tour of duty in the Marine Corps.  During the four years I was in the Marines, we were attacked on 9/11, there were snipers killing people in Virginia, there were even Anthrax letters sent to Congress.  Those were scary times, but this nation found its way through it.  Yesterday the arm of terror touched Boston MA.  It's almost fitting that this event happened on Patriot's Day.  238 years ago, a group of men answered Paul Revere's famous cry and stood up to the British.  Most of those brave souls were killed that day but from their sacrifice arose a new kind of resolve and a new nation followed.  What happened yesterday will not stand.  Those responsible will be found, they'll be dealt with.  I only hope that justice will be swift.  To the people of the city and state that I love most, I say this, we have been sucker punched and we have been hurt.  One of those killed was the eight year old son of one of my fraternity brothers.  We will rise above this and when all is said and done, we will survive because nobody does this better than a Bostonian.  Keep the faith dear friends.

Semper Fidelis,

Sergeant Shawn P. Connors

United States Marine Corps

The Crucible III

The first day of the Crucible ended with a night march through the woods.  We went up and down hills and in between trees in total darkness.  No maglights or glowsticks or anything.  The only way to keep from getting lost was to keep your hand on the guy in front of you.  We moved fast.  The total distance of the march is three miles. All you could hear was guys tripping over roots and swearing to themselves.  When we finished, everyone is exhausted and covered in sweat.  The guys who are called for fire watch groan loudly because they know they'll only get 3 hours of sleep. There is no time for showers or anything other than taking our boots off and hitting the rack.  Snoring is heard almost immediately and that is impressive considering that the cots have plywood on them and no mattresses.  

Before anyone can get comfortable we are up and at it again.  Day two is hard and long and miserable.  But the end is finally within reach.  As tired as everyone is there is genuine sense of teamwork and helping each other out.  Whether it is simply an encouraging word or picking up a hurting team mates pack or carrying him over your shoulder, nobody is getting dropped now.  There is a fatigued humor setting into the recruits and drill instructors.  Staff Sergeant Askew has been saying for weeks that if any of us are feeling froggy that he'll happily take that recruit into the treeline and whoop his ass. While sitting and eating chow in the woods, Nash says to him with a giant smile on his face, "SSgt, we're in the treeline and I'm feeling a bit froggy?!?"  SSgt Askew's eyebrow goes up Rock style and then gets up and starts toward him as Nash laughs and runs away.  This exchange was unimaginable yesterday. 

We move through the field fire course and the day and night resupply sluggishly but get it accomplished.  As rack time approaches the Senior comes over with a box.  He starts handing out apples.  As we devour them he tells us to take out our cammies with the name tapes, rank insignias and emblems on them.  We get to wear them on the march back to the parade deck.  That may seem like nothing to you, but to us it means that our days as recruits are finally at an end.  Tomorrow morning we will become Marines!!!

We have nine miles left to go when we wake up on Saturday morning.  We stopped twice, once at 3 miles and once at six.  We didn't do cadences during the first six miles.  When we stopped at the six mile mark, I was sitting on my pack and watched the sun light up the Carolina sky with all the pinks, oranges and yellows that burned the image into my head forever.  At that moment I knew that something, call it whatever you want God, a spirit, a guardian angel, doesn't matter, had helped me get here and I realized that no matter what life throws at me from this moment on that I could handle it.  

The last three miles were spent singing cadences and joking.  The funniest exchange of boot camp came on this leg of the hump:

Sgt Cain: "Does anyone have to go to Medical?"

Rct Riddle: "I do Sgt Cain!"

Sgt Cain: "What the F@#$ is the matter with you Riddle? Did you get sand in your pussy?"

Rct Riddle: "No sir! I sewed it up before we left!"

Even the Heavy laughed at that!! 

Once we get back to the parade deck, the six platoons of Golf Company Second Battalion form up around the Iwo Jima Memorial.  The colors are presented.  The Company Commander tells us that the men immortalized in this statue are looking down from heaven and know that their Corps is in good hands: OURS!  The drill instructors hand out EGAs to us and congratulate us.  We are now United States Marines!  The journey to earn the title is complete!! 

The Crucible II

In the afternoon, we move to a field exercise where need to move the entire squad and equipment over a berm and across a wide open area during simulated fire.  A berm is a small hill that may or may not be fortified.  The berm in this case has been landscaped.  Instead of a gradual incline, it has a four foot high wooden wall cut into it. This makes it better for cover but harder to maneuver over the top.  We have been instructed to keep our weapons horizontal to the ground so that when ascend and descend the berm we won't impale ourselves or our team mates on it.  When it was my turn to go ever the berm, I quickly jumped up the wall and low-crawled with my eyes on the deck so as not to expose my face to fire.  I got to the far side and dove over the wall.  I dove right onto one of my team mates VERTICALLY positioned rifle which was barrel up!!! Luckily for me I hit it just under my left eye.  I thought I broke my cheekbone it hurt so much.  I was so incredibly mad at this because it just like the DIs always say, "Your lack of attention to detail and general carelessness will end up getting a fellow Marine killed or seriously wounded!!!"  We moved through the rest of the exercise with incredible slowness because we had to low crawl and drag equipment.  When we reached the objective we were all exhausted, dirty and drenched in sweat.  This is when we got a royal ass-chewing from our DI.  I gotta tell you there is nothing like getting chewed out when you are tired and frustrated and you have just completed a hellish task, especially when the person doing it has with held information that would have made it easier and is pissed that you couldn't figure it out on your own.  Once again I have come to realize that I wouldn't have been able to take this 3 months ago and it is one of the reasons I signed up in the first place, but that is no consolation at the moment. As mad as I was at my team mate who gave me a black eye...  I love him compared to our DI after what he did next.

Our next squad movement was an obstacle course.  Exhaustion is setting in.  The third obstacle was a large black dummy hanging on a six foot post that was six inches thick.  We had to strike the dummy with the butt stock of our rifles.  So you can picture this it would be similar to swinging a sledge hammer or using the rifle like a wrestler uses a chair.  When we got to the dummies, we had to hit them three times.  I guess my first strike didn't impress the DI.  He called me a pussy.  I didn't like that.  My second strike didn't impress him either.  He told me I should go back to my whore of a mother who'll tell me it's alright that I suck.  I hit the dummy so hard that I cracked the post and it fell over as I ran to the next obstacle.  The smug bastard told me it was pathetic that it took me three times to break it.  You really can't win around here.

The Crucible

Nothing has been easy for the recruits of Platoon 2070, Golf Company, Second Battalion MCRD Parris Island.  We are a ragtag group that has been the focal point of every DI in the Company.  We came in second in several of the competitions and last in several others.  We had 130 men in the men in the platoon on Training Day 1.  We now have roughly 78.  Some guys washed out, some tried to kill themselves, some just got hurt and rolled back.  The recruits who are left have forged a solid bond.  We may not like each other, but every man has earned the respect of his peers, for no other reason than we have all lasted in this marathon of madness.  We even survived a hurricane warning that was supposed to force us to evacuate PI before the Crucible.  Nobody was happy about this.  Everybody felt that if we didn't complete the Crucible that somehow we didn't complete the journey.  It seems that fate shines on the foolish.

The Crucible is a 54 hour simulated war where recruits get two meals, march over 40 miles and get a little less than 4 hours of sleep a night (if they are lucky).  The platoons are divided into squads and drill instructors are assigned as group leaders.  My group got a new DI fresh out of DI school as our leader (GREAT!!!!) The Crucible began at 0200 on Thursday morning.  We humped 6 miles to the bivouac site and set our gear.  It's 0600 now.  Then we go to an obstacle course.  Each obstacle is based on a what a Marine did to win a Medal of Honor and the equipment he used.  Civilians in the business or education field will know this activity as a ropes course.  The problem that my group has is that there are too many chiefs and not enough Indians.  Everybody has an opinion and we are all wrong.  We stumble through these obstacles for what seems like an eternity (4 hours) and we discover that most of would die in any of these situations because we lack the ability to improvise and overcome.  We eat a portion of our MRE's for lunch and get back to it.

We need to practice a casualty evac.  There are seven of us and six guys need to carry a wounded man on a stretcher in and out of the woods for a total of six miles.  We think it would be easier if every guy takes a turn on the stretcher and we alternate carrying positions since we have to carry the stretcher on our shoulders.  The smarter way would have been to carry the lightest guy the whole way, but why would we want to do it the smart way?!?!  McGee is the quietest guy in the group, the platoon, and possibly the United States.  I swear to God this kid would point and whisper real loud that we were under attack and once we were all dead would wonder why nobody heard him.  Why am I telling you this?  Well it's because while were marching with McGee on the stretcher and I was on the front right side where his legs were, I suddenly felt water running down my back and leg.  This was particularly peculiar since it was a bright and sunny day.  When I looked back it was running from McGee's boot.  I dropped the front of the stretcher and when I looked at McGee, I realized that he'd pissed his pants!!!  McGee PISSED HIS PANTS!!!  As mad as I was and as grossed out as everyone was McGee's explanation stopped us all.  First he claimed that he thought he could hold it. (WRONG!!!!) Then he claimed he was asking us to stop and everyone ignored him.  I swear if I had the time to kill him we could have completed the exercise for real.  (I found out later that McGee had been wetting his bed at least twice a week at bootcamp) When we got back, nobody told our group leader what had happened because nobody wanted to listen to the story again.

We're only halfway through Day One!!!

The passing of a legend

On Sunday, December 30, 2012 my grandfather Stanton R. Kelley passed away in his sleep.  I don't know quite how to put into words how much he meant to me.  He always made me feel like I was 10 feet tall and indestructible.  He was an eccentric character.  As he got older he could tell stories of WWII and Korea with stunning recall, but had trouble talking about recent events.  He was so proud of being a Marine that I honestly thought his birthday was November 10.  He was equally proud of being a Tufts Jumbo.  He would talk for hours about Marines he knew, or Tufts alumni or guys he knew at the prison.  He was well read and well spoken.  He had his vices and his hangups like we all do, but he was a funny, proud and loving man who will be dearly missed.

I don't like to use the word hero very often, because I think its overuse has cheapened it.  Athletes who play games, actors who play other people, politicians who just don't get it, these are not heroes.  Heroes are those who answer the call to service, who face impossible odds with a steal resolve, who continue to fight when the battle looks lost, who never give up, and when they get knocked down either by life or their own bad choices get up and try again.  Captain Stanton R. Kelley was one of my heroes.  The other is my father.

I joined the Marine Corps in June 1999.  My dad is an Army veteran and I didn't join the Marines to spite him.  I joined the Marines for the challenge and the brotherhood aspect that I knew they could offer.  I graduated from Boot Camp on September 10, 1999.  My grandfather came to Parris Island and I saluted him.  He told me "Welcome to my beloved Corps!" to which I responded, "No you're wrong, it's OUR beloved Corps!"  The salute was cool, but the fact that he came all that way with my Dad, my uncle and my grandmother was huge.  I think of all the stories he told me over the years about battles he'd fought and places he'd been and things he did.  I hope I'm as fortunate to live as long and as a colorful a life as he did... well maybe not quite as colorful ;-)

Captain Stanton R. Kelley, in the proudest tradition of the United States Marine Corps and Naval Service I wish you fair winds and following seas.  Semper Fidelis.

With love, respect and admiration,
Sergeant Shawn P. Connors USMC

Company Commander's Inspection

The end is in sight.  My leg is better.  I am still absolutely amazed by what happens around here.  We had our Company Commander's Inspection this week.  This was the first time we got to wear our dress uniforms.  No, not the awesome high collared dress blues but the greens.  Still, it was cool.  The funny thing about this inspection was the preliminary inspection.  Everything we do here has a purpose, even when the purpose seems ridiculous.  After we put our uniforms on, we had to stand on our foot lockers while The Heavy checked our belts.  Why were standing on our footlockers you ask? Well for two reasons: 1) By standing on our lockers our belts were at eye level for the inspection. 2) We were less likely to get our shoes and pants dirty if we weren't walking around.  Unfortunately for me, this was also where I got in big time trouble.  Throck was on the foot locker next to mine and he turns to me and says, "Tell me the truth Connors, do I look like a bag of ass?"  Now before I answer allow me to explain what he looked like.  As I've mentioned before, Throck looks like Drew Carey.  He lost 50 pounds before he came to boot camp.  He lost 50 pounds at boot camp and he was still about 15 pounds over weight.  His uniform wasn't cut right. His shirt and trousers were too tight and his trousers were too short.  When he put his belt on he had a muffin top above and below it.  His trousers didn't go to the shoe well like they're supposed to... they didn't even reach his shoes.  So to sum up; he's short, chubby, has super thick glasses, his uniform is too tight and short and YES he looked like a bag of ass!! I didn't even get a chance to answer him, I just started to laugh.  I laughed out loud hard.  I laughed so hard I was bent over and my tongue was sticking out and I couldn't catch my breath.  This was the FUNNIEST thing I had seen in ten weeks!!! Unfortunately I didn't see the Heavy coming toward me.  He got right up on me and hit me square in the chest with an open palm thrust so hard it knocked me right off my foot locker.  When I stood up he was right on me.  The brim of his cover headbutted me and he was nose to nose with me.  He had the pair of scissors he was using to cut web belts up to my throat and screamed at me "WHAT THE F@#$ DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!? LAUGHING?!?! YOU THINK SOMETHING IS SO GOD DAMN FUNNY THAT YOU'RE GONNA LOSE YOUR COMPOSURE AND STICK YOUR TONGUE OUT?!? HOW FUNNY IS IT NOW?!?!" I answer "Sir, this recruit is completely wrong, Sir! Sir, nothing is funny, Sir!"  In my head however I'm looking right into his eyes and thinking "GO AHEAD YOU SON OF A BITCH!!! STAB ME IN THE NECK!! GO AHEAD!! STAB ME!!! DO IT!!! YOU'LL GO TO JAIL AND I'LL GET TO LEAVE THIS HELL HOLE!!!" At this moment, it hit me that I've changed since I came here.  Ten weeks ago I would have shit myself if someone had done that to me instead of hoping he would just get it over with.  The Heavy told me to get back on my foot locker and that he'd make me pay later.  When I got back up, my rack mate Mike was staring straight ahead trying not to laugh until he made eye contact with me and then we were both chuckling under our breath.  What the hell has this place done to me?!?!

Team Week

Rifle Qual is now in the books.  We have three major events left till we get the hell off this God forsaken piece of hell.  Next up for the recruits of Platoon 2070 is Team Week.  There are six platoons in Golf Company divided into two series: lead and follow.  2070 is third deck follow series.  We were the last platoon to form and quite frankly we are the WORST platoon in the company.  I could speculate that this is because 2070 has more retarded, juvenile, alpha male wannabe, shitbirds than has ever been assembled but I think that would be an insult to the aforementioned groups.  Truthfully my platoon just doesn't click.  There is no unity.  There is no buy in.  There is no trust.  Now this scares the piss out of me because I just found out that I have been named the Chow Hall Scribe for the week.  That means that I am basically in charge of this rag tag bunch when we report to Mess Duty.  We have Mess Duty from Sunday to Saturday.  That means we get up at 0230 report to the chow hall and serve three meals to all the Platoons that are at the rifle range.  It also means that we have to prepare like 500 bag lunches daily.  To add to this indignity we also have to wear white trousers, a white shirt and a white paper hat, or basically ice cream suits.  Half the platoon failed to qualify at the range so we are supremely shorthanded.  The Marines who work in the chow hall are either psychotic or completely laid back.  (I will discover later on that these guys are all considered pieces of shit) Each is responsible for a section of the chow hall.  There are two mess chiefs, one black and one white, both are Lance Corporals.  These are the two guys that I have to deal with the most.  They boss me around and then I have to turn around and boss all the other guys around.  When we got back to the barracks at the end of the first day I passed out while the DI was still chewing us out.  I woke up still in the POA.  I couldn't believe it.  I slept for six hours without moving an inch.  This would happen again the next night.

There were advantages to working in the chow hall: 1) The DIs weren't with us, 2) It was air conditioned, 3) We had extra time to eat and could eat what we wanted, and 4) There was actually a little down time.  Now of course for every benefit there were drawbacks: 1) Our DIs weren't around but others were, 2) The mess guys could be total dicks, and 3) the days were super long.  At the end of the second day I slipped in a puddle of water and I thought I pulled my hamstring, and to say it hurt really doesn't do it justice.  So now I have to deal with the pure hostility of the Messmen, the stress of the long hours and now my leg is killing me. Over the first two days of team week we had gotten things down to a system.  On the third day the Platoon Guide came back from Graduation Rehearsal and decided he wanted everything changed.  When I explained to him that things were working he went like a little bitch to the Lance Corporal in charge.  I got ordered to report.  When I got there, the Guide was standing there smiling while the Lance Corporal started reaming me out.  I was so pissed but I didn't say anything.  This was the first time in my life that I was so angry and felt like I couldn't do anything.  I didn't blink.  My eyes welled up with tears.  At this point the Lance Corporal told the Guide to beat it.  He tells me to relax and says "Don't worry about it.  This happens all the time.  We all reach a breaking point and you just reached yours.  You weren't wrong by the way, that little asshole was."  After that he would bust my chops with a smile asking if I had found my woobie?

Ah well, things got a little easier except that my leg was killing me.  It was so bad I couldn't bend it anymore.  That night when we got back to the barracks, I noticed that I couldn't even see my knee anymore, it just blended into my thigh and calf.  I was petrified.  If something was wrong (which it obviously was!!) I might need to go to the hospital and potentially get bounced back in training.  OH HELL NO!!!  I wasn't going to tell the DI.  Over my dead body was I getting bounced in training!!!  Graduation is three weeks away!!!  My squad leader saw my leg and told the Heavy.  He came down and said, "So what's wrong with your leg? You got a little booboo?" The condescending prick!!!  When he looked at it, his jaw hit the floor and he ordered me to go to medical.  Well it turns out I didn't have a pulled hamstring.  I had an infection called cellulitis.  I had a fever of 103.5 and my left calf was a full two inches bigger than my right one.  The doctor accused me of trying to hide a serious problem, and finally accepted that I didn't realize how sick I was because of the long hours and stress.  I got put on bed rest for 48 hours and given 500 mg Motrin.  Apparently Motrin is the cure all in the Marine Corps.