Recruiter Promises A Rose Garden-They can be Trusted, Right?

      Reform School or the Marines!

      My parents’ ultimatum rankled me. I told them straight out that I would not submit to either choice.

      Once I had found out that I was not allowed to come and go as I pleased, I privately made the decision to move to the YMCA in Norristown. The YMCA was set up to rent rooms and it also had shared communal shower and bathrooms. The fact that almost all of the people living there were old or down on their luck concerned me only a little. I knew that I could easily afford the rent from the wages I collected working at the Valley Forge Pharmacy.

      However, my parents convinced me that it would not hurt to hear what the Marine recruiter had to say.

      I must say, the recruiter painted a pretty picture; he pumped me up with all sorts of visions of adventure and acts of heroism. I was going to serve my country by fighting to save the world from the insidious commie threat. I was going to become a "lean, mean, fighting machine." If I joined, he assured me, I would not have to go to Vietnam until I was at least eighteen. 

      I was confused and more than a little disappointed to hear this, especially on the heels of the vision of the glory and heroism that he had so skillfully conveyed to me, convincing me that I would be a part of - if I joined.

      After all, my newly installed decision to join was because I wanted to serve my country in Vietnam, to serve my country, like my Father and Stepfather had done in their youth. The fact that I may not be allowed to go to Vietnam until I turned eighteen made me want to go there even more, as if going to Nam was reserved for those who belonged to a ‘Men only Club.’

      Suddenly I found myself reduced to begging and pleading with the recruiter for the opportunity to be sent into combat as soon as I graduated boot camp.

      In hindsight, I now know that he was like Tom Sawyer convincing an ignorant rube that only the most worthy of people get to whitewash fences.

      He assured me that I certainly would be allowed to fight for my country, and he gave me kudos for being so brave for a man of my tender years.

      As he pandered to my ego, all sorts of fun and heroic images and scenarios played through my mind.

      The Recruiter said, "Hell yes, a 'Gung Ho' Marine is always allowed to go into combat, regardless of age. The under eighteen-year old rule is to keep a new Marine out of combat until he turns eighteen.”

      The rule is there to make the mothers of America happy by keeping their "babies" from tough duty prematurely (He said babies with real contempt).

      The Sgt continued, “Any seventeen-year old who has the balls will be afforded the opportunity to engage in combat."

      His last speech snagged me -- hook, line and sinker. Any doubts that I had niggling in the back corners of my mind were swept away by his compliments and assertions that I was truly worthy to enter the world of men.

      It was decided I would train at Parris Island.

I was thrilled that I would indeed follow in the honorable steps of my father and stepfather. 

      We, decided that I would become a Marine recon ranger or go into aviation operations, the latter which would involve fixing and test-flying helicopters.

      My first choice was recon, as that would put me behind enemy lines doing the live-off-the-land/Super Boy Scout routine. In my cinematic mind, this would put me right up there with Audrey Murphy, John Wayne and Sgt. Rock.

      Aviation operations had been my second choice of course and only a distant possibility as per my conversations with my recruiter. I felt that this second choice of fields would still put me in a league with Jimmy Steward and Chuck Yeager. I couldn’t lose.

      The only requirement for these fields was that I had to score high on a wide variety of tests. These tests included aptitude, intelligence, and personality profile. 

      The recruiter assured me that if I was able to pass this battery of tests with the requisite scores, and if there was an opening at the schools for recon or aviation operations, I would get one or the other of these MOS’s. (Military Occupations).

      Along with this assurance, I had a written guarantee from the recruiter stating that, if I did not get these assignments I would have the right to drop out of the service.

      I was excited as any boy who sees that Santa had left him a motorcycle under the tree. My parents and I signed a contract agreeing to voluntary induction into the Marines as soon as I turned seventeen.

      In the meantime, as I waited impatiently for the year to end, I was to work, pay room and board, and follow my parent's rules. I bent these as often as possible. But with the exception of a few casual experimentations, I kept away from drugs and didn't steal or do anything really bad. I just wanted to be out late chasing girls and getting laid.

      As the day of my scheduled physical approached, my anxiety increased.

      The physical had me worried as I was so blind even with my glasses I had been unable to pass the eye exam for my Pennsylvania driver's license. I barely failed, but fail I did. Luckily, at the Pennsylvania DMV the different exams were held in different rooms by different examiners.

      I took advantage of this by passing the written and then on another occasion I had a friend take the eye exam for me. Needless to say, I did pass and I was given my license.