Boot Camp

The few months that remained before shipping out to boot camp (do not, ever, refer to Marine Corps Boot Camp as “Basic Training”, that term is used by the Army and Air Force and is unacceptable to Marines) consisted of weekly PT (physical training) with my recruiters and the other poolees as well as a lot of time with friends that I wouldn’t be seeing for awhile once I left.  Sundays were no longer an issue for me, as I now had a definitive answer to the mission questions.  I have to admit that I took some pleasure in the expression on some of the church member’s faces when I told them that I was going into the Marines instead of on a mission.  I know that they all had the best of intentions and that there was no malice in their inquiries, but as I mentioned before I had grown tired of the questions.  It was my own mini rebellion. I wasn’t going to do what everyone expected of me.  I was doing what I wanted to do.

On October 8^th I said my goodbyes to Kara, then all of my sisters.  For those of you that know me well enough it shouldn’t be a surprise that there were tears shed with these goodbyes, I have always had and will always have a soft spot in my heart for the women/girls in my life. I left a few mini tapes and a tape recorder with Jen that I had recorded stuff on for Kara for her birthday since I wouldn’t be there for it.  My parents and my best friend, Aaron Brown, brought me down to the recruiter’s station to drop me off.  We took a few pictures, said our goodbyes and they left.  From there SSgt Stuttler took me to the Red Lion Hotel, out near the airport and checked me into a room for the night.  The following morning I was to take a bus to Denver International Airport and board my flight to San Diego.  I had my plane ticket, brief instructions on how to get to the Marine Corps Recruit Depot once arriving in San Diego, and the clothes on my back.  That’s it.  I did have a roommate in the hotel. He was a bigger guy, a few inches taller than me and probably 50 lbs heavier (I weighed in at a svelt 180lbs at the time).  I learned that he was shipping out to Air Force basic training.  We chatted a bit, but for the most part we kept to ourselves.  I do remember specifically that he smelled, not surprising really as he looked like a really big version of the smelly kid in class when you were growing up.  It was a combination of BO and rotten feet, which are two distinct smells that I would not recommend combining if at all possible. I can still picture him perfectly in my mind, and I think it’s because of the smell.  Don’t they say that memories tied to scent are stronger and last longer?  Either way the only other thing I remember about him is that he had a yellow bag of generic disposable razors that he was bringing along with him to basic.

The morning of the 9^th all of us that had stayed at the hotel took a shuttle bus to the airport, and those of us that didn’t have a flight immediately waited there.  I don’t remember exactly when I flew out, but it had to have been in the evening because it was almost dark when we landed in San Diego.  There were a few of us that were headed to the same place, though I don’t remember any of them specifically.  That flight was filled with nerves and excitement about the unknown.  We landed and, with no bags to worry about, went to the USO in San Diego Airport to await the bus that would take us to MCRD (Marine Corps Recruit Depot).  MCRD is located north of the airport, there is literally a chain link fence with barbed wire on top that separates the depot from the runways so the bus trip is not long from the USO to the Depot.  A Marine Corps Drill Instructor (do not, ever, refer to a Drill Instructor as a Drill Sergeant, that term is used in the Army and Air Force and is unacceptable to Marines) rode the bus with us and made sure we were all silent with our heads down on the brief trip onto the Depot.  When the bus stopped and the doors opened all hell broke loose.  Multiple Drill Instructors boarded screaming their heads off for us to get out where we were met by more DI’s (not the recommended way to refer to Drill Instructors, especially in their presence, but to save time I will probably use this abbreviation going forward) and the infamous yellow footprints.  The yellow footprints are arranged in uniform columns and rows, the feet are placed at a 45 degree angle and you are to quickly find a set and stand at attention while everyone gets settled.  Settled is a term I use loosely here, as for the next 13 weeks you are never quite “settled”. 

Forgive me now if I present that night’s events out of order.  It was a long time ago and I’m sure that there will be some details I will forget, the order of events being one of them.  So if you read this and remember things differently you are probably right, but it was twelve years ago so some slack is appreciated.  Haircuts are first, we were quickly shuffled into a hallway leading to the butcher, I mean barber, to get our heads shaved.  I showed up with my hair pretty short to start so this was not terrible, there were some guys that had chunks of their scalp taken off by the guy shaving their head.  A couple ended up never growing hair on these spots again.  I imagine the interview for this position going something like this, Interviewer: “Are you familiar with hair clippers?”, Applicant: “No”, Interviewer: “Can you push a button/flip a switch?”, Applicant: “Yes”, Interviewer: “Perfect, when can you start?”.  The speed with which they move you through those first haircuts is impressive, but it is not surprising that there are a few casualties along the way.  Next is into a room with rows of tables with dividers where you will then strip down to your underwear and have all of your personal belongings that came in with you taken to be stored until you graduate. 

That night we were split into our platoons, just over 500 recruits graduated in my company at boot camp, so there were more than that when we started.  We were to be Bravo Company for the entire evolution.  There were 120 or so recruits in my platoon through the first week of boot camp.  We were designated platoon 1017, and that is the platoon I remained with throughout boot camp.  Once we had all received some PT gear (workout clothes) we were moved into a large room together where we all were required to submit to a urinalysis.  I remember this night because we also all had to try and learn how to speak as a recruit.  This means you are no longer “I” or “me”, you are now “this recruit” or “recruit Mahan”.  You don’t ask questions, you request knowledge (this recruit requests knowledge, sir). Or you request permission, “recruit Mahan requests permission to make a head call”.  Here is a sample of the exact first phrase everyone in my platoon that first night said in recruit speak: me- “Recruit Mahan requests permission to speak with Drill Instructor Sergeant Walker, sir!” DI Sgt Walker – “WHAT DO YOU WANT?” me – “Recruit Mahan requests permission to make a head call, sir!” DI Sgt Walker – “GO!!!” It is worth mentioning that just getting those two sentences out took me two attempts, and when you start to fumble through what you are saying you are sent away, which means back to the end of the line to wait your turn to try again.  Some guys probably hit double digit attempts before successfully completing that interaction, and while I don’t remember specifically I would not be surprised if at least a few peed themselves trying to get it right.  Drill Instructor Sgt Walker is the actual name of the DI in receiving.  He was a terrible troll of a man with large ears that stuck out and distracted from his misshapen, shaved head.  He ended up as one of the permanent DI’s for another platoon in my Company.   The Drill Instructors in the receiving platoons are new DI’s, and they seem to take extra joy in making recruits miserable and giving them a hard time. Yelling is the only thing they do, and they do it well.  The rest of that week is a blur of  classes, getting gear issued, and completing the process of signing your life away.  I do recall at one point this week we were given one last chance to come clean about anything in our background that might come up either in background checks or the piss test.  It was a speak now or suffer the consequences when we find out later that you lied kind of talk and I debated mentioning a couple of things.  One, I had injured my right knee my senior year wrestling at State, and hadn’t mentioned it in my medical history.  And second was that I was unsure about whether I would pop on the piss test for marijuana.  No, mom and dad, I did not smoke weed before going into the Marines, but I did go to an indoor Weezer concert shortly before shipping out.  This was right after the song “Hash Pipe” came out and, needless to say, when that song started the room went up in smoke.  I opted to take my chances and hoped that nothing would come up on the test.  Nothing did, and now that I am a little less naïve I understand that it is almost impossible to pop on a urinalysis from second hand smoke. 

After the week in receiving we were moved to our “permanent” home/squad bay and we got to meet the Drill Instructors that will be with us for the rest of boot camp.  When our company left receiving an additional platoon was added to because there were so many of us, which brought my platoon down to around 80 recruits and put Bravo company at 7 platoons.  Most platoons in boot camp have four drill instructors; a Senior Drill Instructor that is typically a Gunnery Sergeant or Staff Sergeant, the Lead hat is typically a Staff Sergeant, but is in some cases a Sergeant, and then two others that are almost always Sergeants.  We only had three drill instructors.  Senior Drill Instructor Gunnery Sergeant Thomas was in his late thirties and could still outrun any of us in the platoon.  He was the “quiet” DI and more of our interactions with him were spent learning.  When he did yell or get after you it meant more because it didn’t happen as often.  He also established a rule for the other drill instructors under him, no swearing, which if you have ever met a Marine is no small feat.  But to their credit and to my surprise our drill instructors did not swear at us.  There were all sorts of creative ways of getting their point across, but they rarely if ever swore at us.  Next in line was Drill Instructor Gunnery Sergeant Allford.  That’s right, two Gunnery Sergeants.  This was Gunnery Sgt Allford’s second time on the drill field.  He had been a drill instructor earlier in his career as a sergeant and was back for another go at it.  He was actually being groomed to become a Series Chief Drill Instructor, but this was his first cycle back on the field and he was assigned to our platoon to get him back into the swing of things.  I learned the most from Gunnery Sgt Allford throughout boot camp.  He yelled more than our Senior, but he had a different approach for his second tour.  In addition to the standard required training that we went through with him, he took the time to tell us more about actually being a Marine.  You did not want to cross him though, as his approach to discipline was methodical and grueling.  Drill Instructor SSgt Ambuehl rounded out the group.  He was insane.  His voice was gone, just a harsh, scratchy almost painful sound came out when he spoke or yelled.  He’d been around and was going to be a Senior Drill Instructor for the cycle after ours.  SSgt Ambuehl was the muscle of the bunch, he IT’d us the most of anyone (IT stands for intensive training if I remember correctly, but what it means is you’re in trouble and going to be hurting from the physical training that is about to happen).  He also was the most difficult to keep a straight face with, as some of the stuff that came out of his mouth was so insane and ridiculous that it took everything in you not to break a smile.  And you didn’t dare smile, especially when a drill instructor was around, much less speaking at you.

These men were the most intimidating, formidable I had ever met, and after one week in receiving/processing we belonged to them.  One of the first things we did after being taken to our squad bay was the IFT, or Initial Fitness Test.  This consisted of only a 1.5 mile run, pull-ups and crunches.  Every fitness test after this one is the PFT (physical fitness test) which bumps the run up to 3 miles.  A perfect score is a 300, 100 points for a 9 minute run in the IFT and 18 minutes on the PFT, minus 1 point for every 10 seconds after the established goal, 20 dead-hang pull-ups at 5 points each, and 100 crunches in two minutes.  I scored a 293 on the IFT with a run time of 9:20, 19 pull-ups and 100 crunches.  We got back to the squad bay and took a quick rinse.  Not a quick shower like you would take at home, but a rinse in which we all strip down to our skivvies, get in line and walk through the group showers, rinsing as we go.  Once done we went out to the squad bay and were to be taught how to make our racks (make our beds).  Before that class started about ten recruits were called to the quarterdeck of the squad bay, which is an open area at the front of the squad bay. I was one of the ten.

Before I left for boot camp I had asked my recruiter if one of his recruits had ever been the honor graduate from boot camp.  His answer was no, and I told him I would be his first.  Being the honor grad means you are first in your class, and also means a meritorious promotion.  Since I was already a contract PFC for being an Eagle Scout, that would mean graduating boot camp as a Lance Corporal and a free set of dress blues.  The only advice that every recruiter told me was to never be the first Guide, he always gets fired.  The Guides are the lead recruit in each platoon, followed by 4 squad leaders and squad members after that. 

So there we were, ten of us standing on the quarter deck wondering what was going to happen to us with all three DI’s staring us down.  DI Gunnery Sgt Thomas began by telling us that we all had the highest IFT scores out of the platoon, then asked each of us individually what our MOS was.  I don’t remember them all, but there was an admin clerk, legal clerk, infantryman, then he got to me.

“This recruit’s MOS is a Cryptologic Linguist, sir!”

“What is that?”

“A linguist in signals intelligence, sir.”

After getting through all of us we were sent back to the rest of the group while the DI’s discussed things in their office.  They came out and started teaching us how to make our racks, and the Senior called me up to the quarter deck again.  He brought me outside and was carrying our platoon’s guidon (our flag).  I stood at attention while he leaned on the guidon.  After what seemed like eternity, he asked me if I knew what the Guide was.  I told him I did, all the while my recruiter’s voice running through my mind telling me never to be the first Guide.  He then asked me if I wanted to be the Guide for our platoon.  I quickly told him yes, sir.  I was panicking in my mind, I’m not supposed to be the first, the first always gets fired.  This changed things, I decided at that moment that if I was going to be given this opportunity now, I would not let it go.  I would simply have to be the Guide the entire time.  Gunnery Sgt Thomas then went on to tell me that he expects that even though this is all just as new to me as it is to every other recruit, I would now have to do everything faster and better than every one of them, and that I was responsible for everyone else in the platoon, so if any of them screwed up it was my fault and I would be disciplined along with them.  He brought out four of the other original ten, making them my squad leaders, and we all went back in and were introduced to the rest with our new titles.  Being the Guide I had the pleasure of having my rack be at the front of the squad bay, right in the middle where everyone else could see.  I remember how intimidating it was in the beginning, being on an island out in the middle with everyone looking at me wondering why I was there instead of them.  It was not going to be easy to keep this job.

It All Starts Somewhere

In May of 2001 I’d been out of high school for one year and I really needed to do something with myself.  Something big. Different.  Something to get me out of mom and dad’s hair, and, to be honest, to get them out of mine. I debated just moving out, finding someone locally that needed a roommate.  Strangers would probably be best, a lot easier to hold them accountable than friends.  But something kept me from doing it.  A little voice in the back of my mind telling me that if I just moved out, tried to be the grown up I thought I was I’d be back. So I weighed my options.  College was out, I hadn’t even taken the ACT/SAT’s because I knew that that route was not, at the time, for me (at least I was smart enough at 19 to realize that college would have been a tremendous waste of time and money I didn’t have).  Then there was the calling that so many young men my age, with my upbringing, take on…  Serving a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.  The pressure, most of it admittedly self-imposed, that I felt trying to push me towards this end seemed excruciating at times.  My parents never pushed the issue, I feel like they knew just as I did that a mission for the church was not in the cards.  However, at 19 years of age and with all of my peers preparing or leaving on their missions I faced a deluge of questions about my plans every Sunday at church. “Getting ready for that mission, Adam?”  and “Do you think you’d rather a foreign mission or English speaking?” or “When do you think you’ll be ready to submit your paperwork?” were just a few of the recurring queries I’d prep myself for on a weekly basis.  You see, it is clearly stated that going on a mission, while highly recommended, is not required of a young LDS man, but ask any 18-19 year old Mormon boy and he will tell you that it is the expectation.  This is one of the things that I am most grateful to my parents for, they did not push.  They loved me because of the person I was (and am) and made it clear that they supported me regardless of my decision.  I realize how difficult this must have been for them. I was most concerned about disappointing them, really.  I had known for some time that I was not going on a mission, and I believe the only thing that kept me from faking it and going anyway was the fear of the disappointment and embarrassment that would result in my not completing a mission that I should not have been on in the first place.  The third option, one that I had considered my entire life, was to join the military.

Now, when I mentioned above that we needed to get out of each other’s hair, it’s not to say that we were fighting all the time, but there were those tense moments I’m sure almost anyone can relate to or imagine when picturing a 19 year old male living with mom and dad but seeking the freedom his age and life experience clearly require.  There was, in all honesty, also the desire to be self sufficient and not to be a drain on the family.  My folks had gotten me through 19 years and it was high time I took care of myself.  It seemed evident to me that the best shot I had at not only getting out on my own, but staying out on my own, would be through military service.  I just had to figure out how to have that conversation without feeling like I was crushing my parent’s hopes and dreams.  As is turns out, I didn’t have to.

As I said before, it was May of 2001 and I was out in our one car garage (read as storage room/workshop) cleaning or something.  To be honest I don’t recall what exactly I was doing out there on this particular afternoon, I’m sure it was immensely important and requiring great attention and focus.  At this time Dad was working at Sill-Terhar Ford, so I believe it was a Thursday since that seemed to be his standard weekday off.  He came out to the garage, looked me square in the eyes and asked, “Are you still considering the military?” Now there might have been some other initial small talk or pleasantries exchanged about the weather or what I was doing in the garage, but I only recall that question.  Those of you who have met my father won’t need to hear this so feel free to skip ahead, but for anyone that might not have had the pleasure I will briefly describe him.  Dad has worked hard his entire life at everything he does, he supported our growing and large family somehow, allowing Mom to stay home and do what was most important while we were in our formative years.  He has not always had the most glamorous of jobs, but he has always commanded tremendous respect from everyone who knows him and put himself wholly into whatever endeavor he chooses.  Dad does not waste words or fill the empty space between people with idle conversation.  When he does speak it is with purpose and you would be wise to listen.  That being said, it is entirely possible that he just lead with the question.

I could not believe my ears, we had discussed military service throughout my teenage years, but I could not recall it ever being that serious of a conversation.  It definitely had not been a recent one.  I quickly told him that, yes, I had actually been thinking about it a lot lately.  He told me that he and Mom would support me, should that be my decision, and asked if I had considered which branch to serve in.  I hadn’t gotten that far in my head yet. Up to that moment I was simply trying to figure out how to broach the topic with them.  He told me that he thought the Marine Corps would be the best fit, it would be the biggest challenge both physically and mentally and, knowing how competitive I am, probably where I should start my research.  I cannot describe to you the relief and excitement that I felt after having that brief interchange with Dad.  To know that the inevitable decision was made, and that it was not accompanied with disappointment, but with love and support was all I needed.  I contacted a recruiter, way down south, definitely not the recruiter that was assigned to my area.  His name was Staff Sergeant Scott Stuttler.  We met. I took the requisite tests, scored well, and was told that I basically had my pick of any job in the Marines!  SSgt Stuttler recommended going into Intelligence, so I looked over my job options in that field and saw that I could be a Cryptologic Linguist.  I had no idea what that first part meant, but I had always been good with language and thought that sounded like it might be a good fit.  More tests followed, as you have to prove some kind of aptitude for language before they assign you to that particular MOS (job).  Needless to say I passed, and actually of the three of us at my recruiting station that took the test I was the only one that scored high enough to get the job.  On June 7^th, 2001 I was sworn in and took my oath to serve my country.  I was given the option of when to ship out, and since boot camp in southern California during the summer didn’t appeal to me all that much, I chose October 9^th. 

If you know me even a little bit you know that someone very important in my life has been absent thus far in my story.  Kara Lommel and I celebrated one year of dating on June 9^th, 2001.  How she found out about my decision to join the Marines is still a topic of debate.  I am certain that before it was all said and done I had mentioned the Marines to her. She maintains that I did not tell her or discuss it with her until after the decision was made.  It is entirely possible that I made no mention of it, but I’m still not willing to admit to that.  My decision was not the news Kara was hoping to hear, and since I had apparently blindsided her with it she was even less happy than if we had discussed it throughout the process.  However, that may have all been overshadowed by the fact that during this same conversation I broke up with her.  I’m sure I used all the clichés you can think of, but the reality was that I had known people that tried long distance relationships and they never seemed to work.  It seemed, at the time, that this was the best decision for both of us, just to cut it off, rip off the band-aid in one quick movement and it would hurt less.  We still hung out and went out periodically throughout that summer, and by the end of the summer it was clear that we needed to be together.  I asked for her to forgive me for breaking it off and we got back together.  This was, clearly, the best decision I’ve made in my life.  Her love and support carried me through two deployments, many, many months apart, and has given me the greatest gift I could ever imagine in our daughter, Paisley.  We’ll get to all that in good time so I won’t go into detail just yet.

September 11^th, 2001 changed a lot of things for our country, and forever changed what was going to be my future.  I, like so many people, remember that morning exactly.  At the time I was working at Enhanced Images as an auto detailer.  Work started at 9am and I didn’t listen to the radio on my way in.  It was a Tuesday morning, and when I got in Dean Kallas, my boss, asked if I had heard about “it”.  I thought he was talking about Ed McCaffrey breaking his leg in the Broncos’ game the night before and I said yes.  Then I saw the TV.  It didn’t really sink in or hit me right away the potential effect this event would have on my future.  Looking back I don’t think it is possible that I could have comprehended the impact on the course of my young life the attacks on 9/11 would have.  I don’t remember talking about it with Mom or Dad, we really didn’t talk about it.  There were too many unknowns and what if’s to even know where to start.  The Broomfield Enterprise, our local newspaper, called Mom and Dad to see if we would do an interview.  They knew I was leaving for the Marines because Mom had put an announcement in the paper for a going away open house before I left.  Mom couldn’t do it, so she told Dad to take the interview.  For my part I only remember one question, they asked if I wished I hadn’t signed up since the attacks had happened.  My answer was quick and sure, no, I hadn’t signed up for the United States Marine Corps without considering that there was a chance something would happen that would put me in harm’s way, and that I was ready to serve in whatever capacity was required of me.