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*** Danger Will Robinson! Salty language below! ***
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Boot Camp
Platoon 1117

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When we washed our clothes, we had to use this big long concrete basin outside.  We were issued scrub brushes and that's how we washed them.
In the heads (restrooms), anyone with any modesty could forget it.  There was a big room with stools along both side of the wall.  No stalls or barriers.  You did your thing right out there in front of God and everybody.
I suppose it was this way to deter any unauthorized physical activity in the groin area.
While undocumented, it's been known that the sound of the Marine Corps Hymn can cause erections in Marines. Don't need no Viagara here.
The DI's and PC had this thing about ownership of the MarineCorps. 
Anytime someone would screw up, he would get the verbal barrage -
"Just who in the hell do you think you are maggot?  This is my fucking Marine Corps.  You ain't gonna come in here like some fucking slimeball and fuck up my MarineCorps."
Excerpt from my letter of December 31, 1968
Before we were allowed to fire our rifles  at the rifle range, we had to do "snapping in" exercises.
"Snapping in" consisted of pretend firing from a variety of positions - prone, kneeling, sitting, and off hand (standing up).
They had it down to a science -  
Unhook the sling from the rear of the rifle and take the loop in the sling and place it around your bicep.  Then tighten up the sling so there's very little movement in the barrel of the rifle. 
I was left handed, so the sling went around my right arm and it  served as sort of an anchor to keep the barrel from moving.
The rear of the rifle had a hinged butt plate that you raised and placed over your shoulder.
Using this method In the prone position (laying down), you could almost be guaranteed to hit the target once you got it sighted in the first time.
The rifle instructors would come around and kick you or try to rock you  back and forth with their feet.  When they stopped and your body returned to it's original position, you could almost pull the trigger blindfolded  and still hit the target because your  aim hadn't changed.
It's like you became as one with your rifle.  With the sling and butt plate, you and your rifle were one solid object.
Some guys developed "sling palsy" from the sling being so tight around their arms for extended periods.  It cut off the blood supply to your arm and your arm fell asleep.  Usually it went away after a few minutes, once you loosened the sling. 
We're in alphabetical order so, from left to right are: David Wareham, A. Waltman, Gary Volkmann, me, Phil Teer, & Steve Tabb. We're in line for shots. I remember two kinds of shots.  There were the ones with guns on the shoulder and the ones with a big ole needle in the butt.
"All right you bunch of maggots.  Tighten it up. I want that line asshole to belly button, God dammit."

November, 1968
Our actual rifle qualification day really sucked.
On that  December day it was cold and drizzling rain.
We were in our positions at the range by 4:30  or 5 a.m.
It was still dark and we had to wait for daylight before we could fire.
So, we stood there in the dark, slings on our arms, rifles ready to fire, and freezing and shivering our asses off and getting wet.
Once the first light of day broke, the range officer said -
"All ready on the right.  All ready on the left. Commence firng when your 'Able' targets appear."
Qualification meant firing from 100, 200, 300, and 500 meters in the various positions.
One set was rapid fire - We were supposed to load two magazines with 10 rounds each.  We had two minutes to fire one magazine, change magazines, and then fire the next ten rounds.
Our P.C., who was known to take a few short cuts,  told us to load one magazine with 18 rounds and the other with two rounds. That way you could fire off at least 18 rounds before you had to change magazines.  If you got screwed up changing magazines, at least you only lost two rounds instead of ten.
The range instructors  were walking around, making sure everyone was changing their magazines, so you couldn't just load 20 rounds in one magazine.
While we were at the rifle range at Camp Pendleton, we had our turn at mess duty.
Letter from December 8, 1968
While on mess duty, we still had to do our regular training, in between serving meals.
There was a gravel area by the messhall where we would do some of our physical training.
The P.C. was pissed at us for something on one day and he had us doing pushups with our rifles.
We had to wrap our fingers around our rifles, with our knuckles in the gravel, and do the pushups. 
We did them "by the numbers". The P.C. would tell us when to go up and when to go down.
When we would go up, he would hold us there for a long time with our fingers wrapped around our M-14s and our knuckles grinding into the gravel. 
And we still had to keep our rifles from touching the gravel. If we let the rifles touch the gravel, that brought more punishment in the form of more pushups and holding the "up" count longer.  Once our rifles touched the gravel, it was also an automatic rifle cleaning and inspection when we were done.
When we were at MCRD, in quonset huts, we would have to get in a formation in front of the huts and walk  to the showers. 
We secured our huts with padlocks on the outside.
The drill instructors didn't always count how many were in the shower formation. 
We would take turns - three or four of us each time - in our hut and hide behind our racks (cots) when the rest went to shower. Once they padlocked the outside, we were OK. We would get out from behind our racks and play cards until the rest got back.
One time, the guys that had the fuel oil to fill up the heater tank came in with the P.C. and we had to hurry up and hide behind the racks when we heard the padlock opening and pray to god that the P.C. didn't find us.  We would have paid dearly.
I am almost directly under the white sign, looking back.  In the lower left corner, looking down is Brian Swirtz. We are in line, getting issued our dress green uniforms.
December, 1968
For those individuals who were having trouble with boot camp, there were a couple special platoons to which a recruit could be sent.
If it was an attitude problem or general screw ups, there was "motivation" platoon.  The guys in motivation platoon did twice as much P.T. (physical training) and drilling (marching).  Took a little a longer to brainwash them.
Then there was the "pig" platoon for those that liked their second helpings of dessert (overweight). They were put on a strict diet and did more P.T. than the regular platoons.
Just goes to show that not everyone is appropriate Marine material.  The Platoon Commander informed us that "the 3 peter puffers from Platoon 1119 were promptly discharged." They had been caught in the stairwell of the barracks.
From a letter on December 24th.
In the Corps, they also taught us how to properly say multiple syllabled words.  Like "outstanding' or "fantastic".  You couldn't just say them as they were spelled.  You had to insert "fuck" after the first syllable.
Outstanding became outfuckingstanding.  Fantastic became fanfuckingtastic.  Motifuckingvation. Sometimes you used "fuck" between other words.  "All fucking righty then."  "Go the fuck away."  "Get the fuck over here."
It's like they issued the word "fuck" to us along with our other gear.
And it seems like after you're in the Corps for a while, you have to talk like you have a mouthful of gravel. You have to reach in your throat, way down to the testicular area, and come up with your words.
A few days before our final P.T. test, our D.I.s and P.C. would give us honey and wheat germ every night.  They reasoned that we would need all the help we could get come P.T. day.  They told us how much the honey and wheat germ would increse our strength and endurance. To hear them tell it, we would all be supermen on P.T. day.
Oh well................
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