Boot Camp at PI, 1967: The Hell Before Vietnam

At Parris Island, I was in First Battalion. The First and Second Battalions lived in WWII era, or even pre-WWII, wooden barracks. Third Battalion had the new brick barracks everyone called “Disneyland.” Funny thing is, the last time I was back at PI, not that long ago, they were tearing those “new” brick buildings down. Said they were too old.

The barracks at the rifle range were newer too but laid out a bit differently. At one end of our squad bay was the Drill Instructor’s office, with windows that went halfway up so they could scan the whole squad bay at a glance.

At the end of our 5th week, we only did 8 weeks of boot camp in 1967, they packed us up and marched us to the rifle range. They were rushing us through, fast tracking us to Vietnam. We were cannon fodder. Around that same time, they stopped issuing dress blues. The Corps didn’t want to waste the money, figuring a lot of us wouldn’t be coming back to wear them. If your body was whole enough, maybe you got a set to be buried in. Anyway, off track.

So, end of Week 5, we hump out to the range. First week there, we snapped in and fired from the 100-inch line to zero in our M14s. This was mid-June, and it was brutally hot, always in the 90s or higher. We’d spend hours under the sun with no shade, snapping in on barrels painted with target symbols.

The DIs roamed around barking corrections. One of them noticed my forearms were roasted, sunburned so bad they were nearly purple. He grabbed me and dragged me to sick bay. The corpsman said I had second degree burns, bordering on third degree. They loaded me up with salve and sent me back.

On the way, the DI screamed at me the whole time, for not saying anything sooner. Like hell I was gonna be called a “sick bay commando”.

Doc also told me I couldn’t be in direct sunlight. The DI interpreted that as, “Fine, just keep your arms covered.” So, from that day on, I had to wear my utility shirt, buttoned to the neck, in that godawful heat.

Monday rolled around and we started firing live rounds, mostly to get a feel for the rifle and learn the range rules. That was the first time I had ever fired a gun. Hell, I was from the inner city, I’d never even held a rifle. Now I’m handed a high powered M14 firing 7.62mm rounds. Scared the shit outta me, the noise, the recoil, the whole thing.

Tuesday came, prequal day, and I bombed. Kept jerking the trigger and flinching from the blast. My coach was this beast of a man, must’ve weighed 300 pounds. His “method” was to jump square on my back and scream in my ear. All that did was make me jerk the trigger more and try to roll out of the way before he could land on me.

That night after chow, back in the barracks, I got called to the DI’s office. When I got there, he introduced me to our Primary Marksmanship Instructor, PMI, and then walked out. It was just me and Sgt. Willhite.

He started yelling, lecturing me on the importance of qualifying. He circled me a few times, and while I was standing there at attention, eyes locked forward, he came around and drove his elbow into my solar plexus. I doubled over, gasping.

“Stand at attention!” he screamed. Then he started hitting me. Closed fists. Hard. Over and over.

I don’t know how long it went on. Felt like forever. I’ve taken some solid beatings in my life, from my old man, from my brother (toughest kid in Dorchester), from street fights. But my nose never bled. Willhite got it bleeding good.

When he was done, he said, “Go to the head. Put your head back until the bleeding stops.”

This happened again. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. Same drill.

I don’t hold grudges, never have, but I’ve carried one for Sgt. Willhite ever since. If I saw him today… I’d hurt him. What stung more than the punches was that the DIs let it happen. They let that clown abuse us. They failed their oaths.

Come Friday, qualification day, we didn’t head to the range. Instead, they picked 10 of us and told us to pack our gear. We were pulled from the platoon for a week.

They took us to another barracks. No yelling, no screaming. Each of us got a personal coach. We started firing the day we arrived, and the coaches would walk us through our shots. They’d bet us small things, cigarette breaks, maybe a little perk, if we could correct something. And you know what? It worked.

By the end of that week, I wasn’t scared of the rifle anymore. On qual day, I missed Expert by a single point.

Every one of the 10 of us qualified. No yelling. No screaming. Just calm instruction, patience, and a little motivation.

When we got back to the platoon, we walked in proud as peacocks. The DIs praised the hell out of us. Only because 10 others from the platoon had gone Unk. The DIs wanted that damn rifle qualification streamer bad. Up to that point, the only streamer we had on our guidon was for 100 percent participation in the savings bond program. Shitbirds.

That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.