Joining the US Navy in the 90s, part 3 . "You need to grow some cojones!"

Previously in part 2

We were issued the basic uniform items; dungarees, a coat with detachable lining, boots, eventually a full seabag with loads of gear in it really. It was durable military grade stuff and I was impressed with it, kind of proud too. We set out to stencil each item with the stencil paper given to us. While it was important to have one's name on everything, the proceedings also gave the company commanders an idea of who how sharp we were; an overview of the peaks and valleys in the intelligence landscape. I didn't screw up any of my stenciling fortunately, but some of my shipmates put it in the wrong place. One feller even put it upside down. If you did it wrong you couldn't toss the shirt out. You simply took the same shirt and put the stencil where it needed to go. Then you had to walk around base with SR JACKASS on both sides of your chest, or in the case of that one feller, JACKASS, one on top of the other, one upside down. These days I couldn't give a quarter of a fuck if my socks match or not, but in that competitive environment where you wanted to please your company commanders, a messed up stencil job was like a billboard for one's incompetence.

We started physical training immediately and for some reason we all associated this with some kind of punishment. Sometimes the company commanders would yell something along the lines of "That's fucking it, we're going to kick the shit out you when we get back!". This invariably meant "When we get back we're going to do a fairly intensive workout to help you reach your physical peak, make you feel incredible and get you through boot camp with ease!". We only heard the first version in our heads. Besides the constant formation jogging/running around base, we would do pushups, situps and jumping jacks in the berthing. All the running was done in a massive drill hall. Trash cans were in place for those of us who wanted to puke. Some people, myself included, would do a dramtic dry heave to allow for a brief rest, or sort out some panic attack or other malfunction. One time I even walked up to our recruit spritual advisor, a nice enough hispanic american fellow from Colorado, and offered "I don't think I can do this!". He glanced me over. "You need to grow some cojones!" he replied in his soft voice. I deserved it. Even today I wish could travel back in time and slap the piss out of myself. There was no need for that drama. I was not in any kind of danger of failing. I was doing great but was too tense to see it. People did drop out, but I was still there, and not just barely either. I can even remember the moment when I realised that, "Whoa! I'm fucking doing this!" We were doing exercises, again as means of punishment, and I felt this intense euphoria and I smiled as I was doing my jumping jacks. My company commanders took notice in these changes in me, and in the whole division I suppose because things got more relaxed. Now we'd enjoy the occasional authorised commissary snack run, order in Domino's, and use the soda machines in the building. My poison of choice was a chocolate flavored concoction called Yahoo. Company commanders and recruits would talk to each other like men, sometimes for several minutes in a row. It was business as usual in all other regards though. What I loved about boot camp, halfway in I suppose, was that I was healthier than ever. I was in awesome shape. I felt optimistic about my undertaking. I was unrecognisable from the weakling that had arrived in Great Lakes a few weeks earlier.

When we weren't drilling or exercising, we attended lectures on naval history and other naval topics in classrooms that were either too hot or too cold. Poor air circulation led to constant nodding off. If you knew what was good for you, you stood up in the back. Sometimes the lot of us stood up. I loved the lectures because they were actually very interesting and I did well on all my exams. There was some incentive for this. If we flunked a test, scholarly or physical, we were sent back a week or two. That meant packing up all your shit and reporting to a new division. This was something I feared greatly. While I was learning to enjoy boot camp in some twisted limited way, I had no desire to extend my stay. I studied diligently for these tests and passed well above board. I wasn't athletic material, but I was never in danger of flunking out. I kept ahead of, or at least abreast with the goals.

Click here for part 4