Recruit No. 50

Let me just preface this post with a fact: I have always, ALWAYS, slept like a rock.

.

I had been married for five years, had two adorable little girls, and one more (another girl) in the oven. It was the beginning of an incredible journey. And to add to it, I was taking night classes at Fullerton Community College. Now, ten years later and still hoping to someday graduate, I recently came across an essay that I wrote in my English 100 class on September 9, 1998:

Recruit No. 50

The morning of July 31, 1991 came all too soon for the newly gathered platoon of Fox Company. At 0430 our silent safehaven was shattered with the echoing chaos of a metal trashcan lid, an ear piercing whistle and the ominous, raw-boned voice, "Revile! Revile! Revile! Wake the (expletive) up and get your (expletive) out of your bunks!" Those were the unwelcomed words of our enormous, black, United States Marine Corps Drill Instructor. Eighty-six new recruits were just jolted out of their second hour of sleep. This was their first morning at Marine Corps Recruit Depot (MCRD), San Diego, California. "Good morning ladies and welcome to Marine Corps Boot Camp. Now take your lazy (expletive) to the foot of your racks, stand at the position of attention, and count off in numerical order. God help your rotten souls if you screw this up. Because for the next three months, I own each and every one of you (expletive). Is that understood?" "YES SIR!", bellowed the disoriented voices of the terrified recruits as they debated what they had gotten themselves into. Each recruit was scared half to death and oblivious to what lay ahead. "1 Sir, 2 Sir, 3 Sir,..." One by one, they began to count off. "48 Sir, 49 Sir,..." The barracks room was filled with a deafening, petrified silence as the Drill Instructor received no response from Recruit No. 50. "Where the (expetive) is number 50?"

.

Standing shoulder to shoulder was a barracks room full of 18 year old boys from every walk of life and every corner of America. Not one one of us was physically, or emotionally, capable of answering this fire breathing, temper spitting, enormous stature of rippling muscle, draped in the most perfectly tailored uniform, decorated with various insignia that reaped only of honor. With the intensity of an NFL lineman the Drill Instructor charged toward the top bunk where I, Recruit No. 50, layed in the deepest of sleep. "Recruit! What the (expletive) are you doing?" he screamed. Though my eyes had opened, my mind was still asleep. Without saying a word, I lifted my head and upper torso in a push-up like position, looked directly into those fierce brown eyes, turned my head and layed back down on my new government issued pillow, as if to go back to sleep. Demonstrating not the slightest bit of patience or understanding, the Drill Instructor sporadically inverted my entire bunk with one swift, thrashing movement. As I lifted myself from the cold hard floor and proceeded to stand at the foot of my inverted bunk, I came to realize that my life had forever changed...I had joined the Marine Corps.

.

.

Semper Fi,

.

Chip Schultz

.