Yellow Footprints

August 23, 1995. Wednesday. There was no bus trip for me. My recruiter drove a handful of us down to P.I. in a van. Before hand we stopped by his apartment to make sure we were ready. My first shave came rushed in the bathroom with the recruiter's razor. My facial hair grew very slow at that time which helped me later on in boot camp.
In a shuttle on the way down to Parris Island. Nighttime. They always take you down there at night. It disorients you. Once you pass through the gates it all goes quiet. It becomes serious. It becomes real. He
dropped us off at a building where someone ushered us inside. We completely bypassed the infamous "Yellow Footsteps" that have become synonymous with introduction to Marine Corps Recruit Training. The was a room with desk, like a classroom. We sat down with our heads down. Like when you fall asleep in class.  I was selected to go out and swab the deck. I thought in my head that if I did a good enough job then this would give me some advantage once this thing kicks off. This was not to be. Once finished I returned to my desk.

I awoke with the sounds of shouting. While taking a little nap, the room had managed to fill with a large number of other people who were now being rustled up like cattle, and soon to be whisked around to a whirlwind of different places in order to be checked in to "the system".
Everything was so sudden and shocking that to this day it is still a blur to me. I remember standing in line waiting to get my head shaved. One, two, three, four, sometimes five, sometimes six passes with the clippers and you were done. I remember shaking like a leaf. Reality went from 0 to 60 in the blink of an eye. From one place to another, being yelled at the entire time. That which made us individuals was being systematically dismantled. I would later find out how important this was. One of the first things we learned was that anyone not a recruit was a "sir" or a "ma'am". Recruits were called recruits. There was none of this sergeant, sarge, or private b.s. We had not yet earned the right to refer to these Marines by name. Also, we had not yet earned the right to refer to ourselves in the first person, only as "This recruit" and it's variations. There was no "I, me, us, we, them". I remember getting a shot in the arm with that metal gun looking device seen in pictures of a line of young men getting inoculated... oh wait, that was me. It made this high-pitched squeak sound and it felt like something ice-cold was being shot straight into my arm. You just took your shots and moved on. I remember getting a  shot in the hip/butt area that felt like a wad of peanut butter was in there. We had to sit on the floor in these lines and rock from side to side to massage the spot, get the medicine moving, and to prevent it from leaving a big bruise.
I remember being soooooooo tired as we sat there waiting to go into an admin room as they began building our SRB's (Service Record Book). I don't remember a thing they said 'til this day. I remember going down the line getting uniforms, boots, underwear, sundries. They would "guesstimate" your size, saying things like "You look like a small-long! Lemme get a SMALL-LONG!" He would get passed   the appropriate size uniform which he would then throw at you.
"What size you wear?" was another guy's question in reference to boots and shoes. I think I ended up with a pair that were one size too big. I remember having a seabag full of stuff, and having to take it to our temporary squad bay. I remember putting on the brown skivee shirt, camouflage trousers, socks, and boots. Lacing them up I suddenly felt this power. In that moment I was Guile from Capcom's "Street Fighter II". In my mind Guile's stage music played. I did a little foot sweep. "Aww yeah! This is the shyt!" I thought to myself The Drill Instructor said to us "Don't get to comfortable here." We would be picked up by our actual D.I.'s later. I made the mistake of getting comfortable. "This ain't too bad." I thought to myself. "The D.I. isn't as near as mean and hardcore as I thought he would be." How wrong I going to be? I would soon find out.
We had to bag up all our civilian clothes in these brown paper bags that we were to get back upon completion of recruit training. We were each given a small blue drawstring pouch called a "money/valuables" bag, in which we were to place any money, jewelry, or other small items that we deemed to be of value. This bag was either locked up or on your person.
It wasn't more than a few days before we were marched over to our permanent barracks. Our squad bay was on the top floor of a 3-story building overlooking a parade deck/grinder, some magnolia trees with the hanging moss (it's the south, of course), and what looked like 2 large sandboxes. 3rd Battalion, they would say "You guys were waaaay back in the woods!". "Yeah, where no one could hear you scream."  would be our response. 3rd Battalion happened to have the honor of being out of range of the eyes and ears of basically all other elements. 1st and 2nd Battalions where closer to military and civilian traffic areas, so they had to be more conscious of what they did and what went on. Us on the other hand were at the mercy of our Drill Instructors. The squad bay was smaller than the temporary one we had just left. There were about 20-25 old metal bunk beds on each side of the room, port and starboard, and there were two black parallel lines running up the middle of the room the length of the squad bay between port and starboard. This was the "D.I. Highway". You learned very quickly to stay off of it. There was also an area that used to be for working out with weights and such. The exercise equipment had been removed from what I believe were reasons of outward aggression. The restroom, now referred to as the head, was spotless, I mean ABSOLUTELY spotless. How does the head remain in this condition? We would soon find out.
We stood at attention in front of our racks (beds) as we listened to this stocky little guy with piercing blue eyes told us that he was the Senior Drill Instructor, and the basics on things. Behind him stood three tall, thin, stone-faced individuals that looked like the Marines you see on the posters. I noticed the Senior Drill Instructor had on a black belt while the other three had on green belts, although their hats (covers) were the same. The Senior D.I. introduced the three Marines behind him as his Drill Instructors who would be training us to become Marines. When he announced each one by name they would stand at attention, take a step forward, then take a step back and go back to their original position once the next person was called. They all looked extremely sharp and moved with such precision that you wondered if it would be possible to become like them.
When the Senior D.I. finished his speech he turned over control to the Drill Instructors and went into his office/quarters. All hell broke loose. The D.I.s descended on us like a pack of rabid rottweilers. Everyone's running this and that way, D.I.s are about an inch away from your face screaming at you in some language that you can't understand, people are stuttering and stammering over each and every word, not to mention all the shouts of "AYE SIR!" and "YES SIR!". You'd have this D.I. with these guys over here on the quarterdeck doing push-ups because they flinched or moved in some way while the Senior D.I. was talking. Another D.I. ripping someone to shreds because their uniform is not correct (unsat), and the third D.I. just going from person to person screaming at them for no apparent reason. It was pure chaos.
We were told that if you were going to try to escape during the night (yes, escape), that you would have to make a swim for it to the mainland since there was only one way in and out of the island.... Oh, and because it was mainly swampland around, there's always the threat of alligators. There were times at night where you would lie in your rack and weigh your options.