“I’m killing time while I wait for life to shower me with meaning and happiness.” — Bill Watterson, “Calvin & Hobbes”
Once, very early in
my military service, a lapse of discipline resulted in a day scrubbing garbage cans. I didn’t enjoy my day of mess duty, but it was a mild punishment.
I don’t think the sergeant wanted to explain why I’d been put in the position to mess up in the way that I had. We were at Camp Pendleton for three weeks of rifle training. The range was some distance from the barracks.
For some unknown reason, one day the sergeant chose not to march us back. Maybe he wanted to duck into somewhere he’d didn’t quite belong. Or didn’t belong with a platoon in tow. For whatever reason, he picked one of us to march the group back to the barracks. Then we were to clean our rifles until he arrived back a few minutes later. His selection of a recruit to do the marching must have been random — I can think of no other explanation. He picked me.
The marching went well for a while. I was OK at it, as I suppose anyone who had been marching every day for some time would have been. It was rather fun to have 79 guys responding to my commands. But my first experience marching a platoon turned out to be my last.
Our DI barked out an expletive-laden set of instructions, which reminded us to look like Marines, not civilians, and to maintain military bearing, a concept he felt was quite important at all times.
In marching, commands are two part. There is the description of what the order is, and the command to do it. The second part is just a one syllable sound, meant to be “March,” but more often just a grunt sound, like “Huh.” “Column Right,” for example, would constitute what to do. “Huh,” or “March,” would be the command for the precise moment to do it.
My voice was loud — unsurprisingly to those who know me — and rhythmic, perhaps more unexpected.
There is a marching command called “Change Step.” This involves moving the right foot half a step, to just behind the left foot, which is immediately moved a half step forward. This is used when blending two groups together into one large group, to get one column, platoon, company, or whatever, in step with another.
I always sort of liked the Change Step maneuver. I guess, though this was certainly never said, it was sort of like skipping. Put in charge of a platoon, with no one watching, I gave the order, “Change Step: Huh,” and 79 recruits performed a perfectly timed Change Step. It felt a little intoxicating. I gave the command again. And again it was flawless. We were marching along, with no one in sight in any direction, as we made our way back to the barracks. I said, “Change Step: Huh Huh Huh.” The platoon executed three perfect consecutive change steps.
We’d been marching for weeks. I fooled around with the serial change step commands a bit, and no one seemed to mind the break from the boring routine. After one such moment, I said, “Again, multiple change steps, on my command — Diddy Bop: Huh.” Diddy Bop was what we were told civilians did, walking in an undisciplined fashion. I’d now invented a new marching command — serial change steps on the command of Diddy Bop. The platoon would march along in change step mode until the command was taken off, with the command: “Forward: March.”
This was going very well, I thought, it seemed like we were having fun with it. There were no mutinies. We did it a few more times. Then we got to the road.
Camp Pendleton is huge, and there is a public thoroughfare going through it, north and south. There were 79 Marines in uniform, carrying slung rifles. We had to cross a major road, open to the public, on Camp Pendleton; it was a route between San Clemente and Oceanside. All traffic always was required to stop for Marines in formation.
As we approached the road I gave the command, “Road Guards: Out.” Two designees ran ahead, and stationed themselves at Parade Rest to stop the traffic. When the platoon hit the pavement I gave the new command. “Diddy Bop: Huh.” The platoon marched across the road in change step — in front of a number of stopped cars. The entire width of this rather broad road was done completely in continuous Change Step. After crossing the road I followed with: “Forward: Huh.”
I thought it was very funny, but of course I didn’t laugh or even smile. Maybe some of those civilians enjoyed it, too. It was a chance to see the Marine Corps in a more lighthearted moment, whimsical perhaps, not so being serious at every single moment.
But one guy didn’t enjoy our performance. He jumped out of his car. He was in his 40s, in civvies, but his hair was very short. He looked to be in excellent physical condition. His face was the color of a ripe red pepper, and a vein was throbbing in rapid rhythm on his neck. I was told to halt the platoon. I did. “Platoon : Halt.”
He identified himself by rank, and it was well up the officer hierarchy. He certainly sounded like a Marine officer. He screamed and used inventively coarse language. He wanted my name, and the name of the Sergeant that let such a piece of shit as me march a platoon. He was spraying spittle. He berated me for a while. Somehow I’d seemed to have given offense. I marched the platoon back to the barracks. Conventionally.
Was it worth it? Hard to say. I thought my day of KP was rather light punishment, considering the horrible severity of the offense. I suppose they couldn’t really bust me a rank, since I was at the absolute bottom as a Private E-1. It wasn’t an actual crime, so time in the brig might have been a bit harsh.
I was 19 years old, and I’d acted like it.
