**Warning** I am going to apologize for two things before you read this: One being the terrible art. Obviously I’m a novice Microsoft painter so stop judging me, monkey. I also apologize for the graphic nature of the recounted conversation. If you are overly sensitive, I suggest you stop reading after the description of the bunk bed. You have been warned.
In August of 2005, I was nine months into my first enlistment in the Marine Corps. I had just graduated from my occupational trade school and was on my way to my very first duty station – the 6th Marine Regiment on Camp Lejeune in North Carolina. To say that I was nervous would be a huge understatement. You see, the 6th Marine Regiment is an infantry unit. At this point in my career, my perception of an infantry unit is where they eat wild boar fetuses when they aren’t wrestling jungle cats and sparring with grizzly bears – which I later found out was partly true.
Fortunately for me, there was another Marine I was in school with who had the exact same orders. We will call him Kevin. Kevin and I were able to reassure each other that everything would be ok as long as we acted exactly like we did in boot camp with a heavy emphasis on instant obedience to orders. Can’t go wrong there can you?
I remember we arrived in Jacksonville, NC on a Friday afternoon. The first thing we did was get dressed up in our Alphas as is customary when a Marine checks into a new unit.
So we get dressed up in our uniforms and we head to the base reception facility where everyone going to a unit on Camp Lejeune goes to check in. Apparently we arrived at the wrong time because the Sergeant in charge of all the new Marines (more affectionately referred to as ‘Boots’) was in a bad mood. In good Marine Corps fashion, he decided that this boot looked like a good target.
In combat training we learned all there was to know about a very common piece of communication equipment – the PRC 119. We knew it better as the Prick one-nineteen.
Since the United States has four military branches, and each one having a different rank structure, a common pay scale had to be used. For instance, an E-7 in the Air Force is a Master Sergeant, in the Army it’s a Sergeant First Class, in the Navy it’s a Chief, and in the Marine Corps it’s a Gunnery Sergeant. A Gunnery Sergeant is an E-7, but you would NEVER refer to one as such. It’s basically like stripping him of his title. A huge no-no in the Marine Corps.
So the Sergeant tells me to go down the stairs, take a left and go into the third office on the left and ask for a PRC E-8. Making the association between the PRC 119 and the PRC E-8, PFC Voshell thought he was on a quest for a radio. What didn’t connect in my little head was the fact that E-8 is also a way to refer to a Master Sergeant.
As my very first order in the Fleet Marine Corps, I carefully and diligently execute. I made my way downstairs and found the office he told me to go into. The room was small – Probably 8’X10’ with a desk in the middle and a couch in front of it. The room was occupied by one Marine – A Master Sergeant. He looked up at me with contempt and asked me what the hell I wanted. As confidently as I could, I told him that I was looking for a Prick E-8.
In retrospect, the Master Sergeant responded quite delicately given the circumstances. His look of contempt quickly turned to that of a ravenous wolf staring into the eyes of a helpless baby bunny.
“You better get the fuck out of here before I rip your goddamn head off!!!”
Needless to say, I exited the room in the most expeditious manner. It wasn’t until I got back up to the room where the Sergeant was laughing hysterically that I realized what I’d done wrong. Thanks for looking out Sergeant. Way to make me call a Master Sergeant a prick on my first day.
Fuck. Me.
Feeling optimistic about my very first – and very victorious day, Kevin and I decided to go to one of the MANY strip clubs in Jacksonville. Not having a car, we take a taxi to the closest one to base. Any Marines reading this will know what I’m about to say. The Dirtwood.
Photo by: Viva J-Vegas
Never having been to a strip club I was completely fascinated by the fact that the relatively hot naked chicks were INTERESTED in me! Or so I thought. In my drunken stupor I mistook their filthy little daddy-hating self-indulgent greed for interest. Oh well, at least I got a few anticlimactic and ultimately pointless lap dances.
About eleven lap dances later it was time to get these stupid boots back to base. We repeated this night at least one more time before we had to begin our work week. Reality was setting back in.
Every Marine has a certain kind of affection for Sundays. It’s the day when we’re herded through the barber shops like sheep in a wool harvest.
This is not an option. A Marine showing up to work on Monday without a fresh haircut is like a delivery nurse wearing this shirt; UNACCEPTABLE. It’s punishable by just about anything your boss can think of. And you’d be surprised at the possibilities.
Sunday morning arrives and we wake up knowing what lies ahead of us; a whole day spent in haircut lines waiting to be ruthlessly scalped by some dickhead who’s capitalizing on our misery. Either they don't know, or they don't care but having those clippers with no guard being scraped across you skin is definitely not one of the most pleasant feelings. You’re making a fortune off of us, asshole; the least you could do is not make me feel like I’m in a scene from Last of the Mohicans.
We wake up, go to the chow hall and mentally prepare for the day ahead of us.
We’re halfway through our meal when it hit me.
“FUCK, FUCK FUCK FUCK! Kevin! We don’t have money for haircuts!”
We didn’t even have enough money to buy a used happy meal between the two of us. We spent ALL our money on strippers. Talk about a cold empty helpless feeling. Not only were we going to show up on Monday without a fresh haircut, we were going to check into a new unit without one. Absolutely unforgivable. Those strippers took our haircut money and as far as we were concerned, our lives. With so much at stake, how could we forget? Fortunately for stupid little boots like us, chow was free on base otherwise we would have starved because we wanted to see some boobs. Worth it? Arguably.
So that Monday we check into our actual unit. The first person we go see is Gunnery Sergeant Heaps. To this day I have no idea why he responded the way he did; maybe he thought our story was funny or maybe he got laid that morning. Instead of making our lives a living hell as would have been completely justified, he pulled his wallet out and gave each of us money to get a haircut.
Gunny Heaps – to this day is one of the top five coolest Marines I’ve ever met. What a class act. He’s one of those Marines you’ll never forget.
So the great thing about the Marine Corps is that every few years you get a clean slate. At each unit you meet new people and get a fresh start in case you made an ass out of yourself at your last unit. It’s hard to explain but each unit has its own personality. It’s kind of like taking a random high school kid and sticking them in a random clique. Either you fit in, or you don’t. If you don’t, you end up being the butt of everyone’s jokes for the next couple years. The first two weeks are the litmus test in determining how the next couple years of your life is going to be. Unfortunately for Kevin, it didn’t go well. I don’t know why, but his personality just didn’t fit.
Well, Kevin and I were put in the same barracks room. We shared a 10’X12’ room with a bunk bed, two secretaries, two lockers, a sink and a pint-sized bathroom. There was very little room for privacy.
The bunk bed we slept on was very unforgiving. For every small movement you made, your roommate felt it twofold.
One night I’m lying in bed, very close to entering my REM cycle when I hear Kevin talking to his girlfriend, little Suzie Rottencrotch. Trying not to pay attention, I roll to my side and concentrate on falling asleep.
I soon realize that this is no ordinary “I love you and can’t wait to see you” conversation. The tone of voice is unmistakable. THEY ARE HAVING PHONE SEX. I’m right fucking here dude!
So then I start to feel the bed shake a little.
What do you do in this situation??? I froze.
Now that I’m fully aware of what’s going on, I have no choice but to listen.
“Oh yeah, I like that”
“Are you touching yourself?”
“Good. Me too”
“Oh yeah, call me daddy”
I. SHIT. YOU. NOT.
“No, not Kevin, call me daddy”
Am I really here right now? Is this real life?
I’ll spare you most of the conversation but I can’t leave the next part out. It wouldn’t do the story justice.
“Hey, Suzie do me a favor.”
“No, not Kevin, DADDY”
“Ok, stick your finger in your butt and pretend it's my d*&#.”
OK Asshole! You just crossed the fucking line! Being the nice person I am, he’s lucky I didn’t climb up there and punch him in his stupid little dick.
I never did say anything to him that night.
The next morning was awkward as hell for me. I got up and dressed and left for work as soon as I possibly could. Since I didn’t have the heart to make fun of him, I told everyone at work that morning so I didn’t have to. Trust me; they took care of the rest. Six years later and we still haven’t let it go.
Holy Christ! That story has made my day and has brought back plenty o' memories of messing with new soldiers. But I can't say that I've had to deal with the earthquakes. We did have a dude going at it in Kuwait on his cot which, funny enough, was next to Top's cot... Lucky for him, Top was asleep...
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