United States Marine Corps

It wasn’t April Fool’s Day, I checked. But it was early April in 1964; I would be graduating high school and moving on to adult hood all in a matter of less than two months. I was more excited than a seven year old on Christmas morning. On this Saturday morning I was en route to a quick breakfast and headed out for a sandlot baseball game at Burnett Park, something that we (friends) did often. My room was separate of the main house and I entered the house from a side door that went through my brother’s room, the hall, living room and into the kitchen. My short trek to the kitchen was halted abruptly by my Father, sitting in his chair, paper and coffee in hand. “Good morning,” “Good Morning,” was all I could come up with. With five sons at home from ages 17 to 2 he was almost always working, so to us Saturday was a work day. The last time I saw him at home when he was usually at work was when I got caught ditching class and going surfing. Never got caught again, I valued my life.

“So son, what are you up to today?”
“I was going to have some breakfast and head for Burnett Park.”
“Oh.” “Which college do you think you will be attending after you graduate?” Where did that come from and I didn’t even know he noticed. I had been told for years that his job was to get me through high school.
“Well I’m not really sure, haven’t thought about it much graduation is still almost two months away.” Seemed like enough time to plan for college. I really didn’t like school so going on was not high on my list anyway.
“Okay, well you and I are going down to the Post Office later, so hang around.”
“Yes sir.” Why would I want to go to the Post Office on a Saturday? I guess he didn’t hear I was going to Burnett Park. Oh well, I needed to make a couple of phone calls, the 2nd baseman was going to me missing.

It was a silent ride but once I realized that the Post Office was closed and the only thing open on a Saturday in the Post Office building were the “recruiter’s offices” the internal screaming was deafening. All he knew was that I was sitting in silence, little did he know. Too late but you could have said you applied at City College and this would have never happened. I don’t think from that moment on did I allow a question to catch me off guard, and the lesson to pause and contemplate an answer using some form of common sense and good judgment has been my beacon and compass to avoid being categorized as stupid.

The elevator ride to the 3rd Floor seemed to take quite awhile. Surprisingly the internal screaming did not echo throughout the vacant foyer and halls of the building. The doors opened and the signs over the open doors with the uniformed open arms of decorated, creased, pressed and shined men who didn’t know what college they were going to stood before me. United States Army, United States Navy, United States Air Force, United States Coast Guard, National Guard. All of these doors would be passed, at rather a quick pace I believed. Of course, I am 5’ 7” and my Father was 6’4”, at least, so his stride was a little longer than mine, so basically I was jogging to keep up. There was no mistaking his destination as my eyes made the focus on the sign at the end of the hall; United States Marine Corps. My father was a decorated WWII Marine Corps Veteran and the embodiment of “Once a Marine, Always a Marine.” Much of my disciplinary training came from a very thick Marine Corps Garrison Belt.

The Recruiter was very accommodating, to my Father, I think he looked like a Vulture circling some fresh road kill to me. As I think back he couldn’t have been over 25 but I became his relative almost immediately.
“So son, what do you think you would like to do in the Marine Corps to help defend the freedoms of your Country?” There were more posters in this room than there were Playboy Playmates, and just like the Playmates each one depicted a different choice that would make a decision extremely difficult. Okay I was somewhat impressionable. Hey I was here to please my Father, I wasn’t sure if I had ever done that and it would be years before I found out. My attention kept going back to the poster representing an Aviation Mechanic.
“I really think I would like working on planes.” as I pointed to the poster.
“Son, that’s a helicopter.”
“Yes sir, those too.”
“Well that takes a little extra commitment and you have to pass a special test to see if you would qualify to attend a special school.”
"Yes sir. Where would I have to go to take the test?”
“Oh, we can do that right here.” How convenient I thought. I was thinking I could delay this a little longer…wrong!

It really didn’t take that long to take the test nor was it very difficult. I’m thinking being a mechanic on planes or helicopters couldn’t be much different than working on cars, something I had been doing at my Father’s side since I was eight. I did think the test would be more difficult, especially the written part. But I found that identifying nuts from bolts, square from round and tall from short wasn’t really that difficult. I scored extremely high I was told and would have no problem qualifying for Marine Aviation. It was only a four year commitment, so what did I think.
“He thinks that is great.” My Father replies, “Sign him up.”

My Father, whom I never really considered a planner, although a very organized person, never a planner, hell he had sons 17, 12, 8, 7 and 2 for Pete’s sake, had my Birth Certificate, Social Security Card and a pen. Good grief.

Now I’m thinking, I can’t go to Boot Camp, I’m still in high school, haven’t graduated and I’m only 17. Have you ever heard of the Delayed Entry Program? I hadn’t, but apparently the person I didn’t consider a planner had, and he was assured by my high school that I had the credits to graduate and all he had to do was sign on the dotted line giving the Marine Corps his approval as my parent. Apparently he had also planned for one more thing; something I don’t think the Marine, creased, shined and starched had planned on this Saturday morning. With the paperwork complete the Recruiter moved it across his desk and presented it to my Father for his signature. My Father signed, with a smile I had never seen, and returned his pen to pocket. He pushed the papers back toward the Recruiter and was stopped with a slight waving motion from the Dress Blued Marine. Mr. Page we are going to need your wife’s signature on the forms.

With the sternness I was very familiar with, in the commanding voice of a former gun tub Sergeant aboard the USS Intrepid and summoning on all of the Marine that he was and would always be he looked this larger than life man in the eye, took all of the wind from his sails, took him back to boot camp as a lowly Private from his current position as a Staff Sergeant and in no uncertain terms informed him, “No, no you won’t.” “Yes sir, no problem.” was his quick and obedient reply, what a wuss. Before the end of the year I would be a United States Marine. I knew that failure to do so was not an option. Little did I know, well maybe a little; Once a Marine, Always a Marine. Semper Fi.