Chapter Twenty-Two

 

 

“. . . a stone, a leaf, an unfound door; a stone, a leaf, a door. And of all the forgotten faces.

Thomas Wolfe

 

August came quickly, and by the middle of the month, Chris and I had moved on campus. Our room was part of a four-room suite on the fourth floor of the dorm named after former Governor John Christoph Blucher Ehringhaus, who had graduated from the University in 1902. We called it “E-Haus” for short. We explored the campus, visiting the Old Well for a good luck drink from the fountain, and walking by the Confederate statue of “Silent Sam”. The Undergraduate library, weight room, and basketball gym were all found and checked out. I spotted Michael Jordan, who had returned to campus to finish his degree after a few years in the NBA. Living on campus was a dream come true, and I was certain the next four years were going to be a great experience. I was so glad I had decided on UNC instead of pursuing the academy. I figured my Midshipman responsibilities would only take me a few hours a week and would have only minimal impact on my social and academic life.

The Captain that presented me with the scholarship at North Stanly didn’t have a lot to say, but he did notice my longish hair with the semi-mullet style of the 80s and commented that I better get a haircut before reporting to school. His hair was shaved on the side and back, with only a small scruffy patch on the top. It fit him but was definitely not my style. I found a barbershop and told the barber that I was joining the Naval ROTC unit and needed to get cleaned up. He asked me how short and tight I wanted it, and I told him to cut off the least that I could get by with and still be within regulations. While I was excited about being in the military, I still wanted to be able to blend in and not instantly be labeled and stereotyped. He complied, and I reported to the Naval Armory, where I was issued the uniforms of a midshipmen, and briefed on the schedules and activities in which I would be participating. I was issued a green canvas sea bag in which to put my newfound treasures. 

The Navy officers and staff I had met were helpful, friendly, and cheerful. They seemed to enjoy their job and I figured the post at Chapel Hill was probably good duty for them, and welcome break from other assignments. The armory was a beehive of activity. Midshipmen with neat, fresh haircuts like mine were coming and going quickly, walking with a sense of purpose, greeting each other, and carrying piles of books and uniforms. I was directed to go upstairs and report to the Marine Officer Instructor (MOI). Looking forward to my interaction with what I anticipated to be my welcoming Marine Family, I climbed up the creaking wooden stairs two at a time, set my seabag down beside a bench, and energetically popped in to the office with the familiar Eagle, Globe, and Anchor stencil on the door. The unholy hell that awaited me in that small office was unlike anything I had ever experienced to that point.

 The Major sitting behind the desk was built like a tank. His upper arms bulged under the neatly rolled up sleeves of his utility jacket, and his broad shoulders filled the uniform tightly. He had a face like a bulldog that seemed heavy with the weight of unimaginable burdens, and the same close-cropped haircut worn by the Captain I had met at my high school. I later learned it was called a “high and tight”, which was the standard haircut for any self-respecting Marine. He was reading a report and ignored my entry. I smiled and said “hello” in a cheerful voice and waited for him to respond. After an unnerving delay, his eyes slowly left the paper, and starting at my feet, scanned me all the way up, like they were measuring me for a coffin. He eyed me with a look of incredulity, not quite sure what to make of the person who had interrupted what must have been an important message from someone high in the chain of command. He turned his head to the left and barked, “Gunny!” A door opposite the door I entered from opened, and mountain of a man burst in. Charging right at me with wild eyes, he thankfully stopped before crashing into me. The tirade commenced. Before even finding out who I was, he gave me a crash course in how badly I had screwed up. While the Major returned to his document, Gunnery Sergeant Moore gave me detailed instruction on how to appropriately knock on the door (three firm knocks on the wooden doorframe, not on the door itself.) I was to announce myself, starting with “Sir”, then saying my name (now Midshipman Cavaliero) and adding “requests permission to enter.”, followed by another “Sir” for good measure. I was to stand there until acknowledged, and only when told to enter was I to step into the room. I was to center myself in front of the desk and stand there at attention (another lesson), until told to stand “at ease”. At that point, I was to spread my feet shoulder width apart, put my hands behind my back, and await further instruction or questions. While seemingly simple instructions, the shock of this unexpected introduction to military life completely threw me for a loop. With his deep voice booming and sometimes approaching menacingly close, the GySgt made me go through the drill over and over again. I bungled some aspect of the ritual every time. We stayed at this for what seemed like hours, until I finally got the hang of it, and successfully stood there in front of the Major’s desk. Then it was the Major’s turn. 

He didn’t talk fast and loud like the GySgt., but assumed a calm, forceful, and logical, but disgusted tone. He told me I was a disgrace and would be better off quitting and going home now rather than to continue to pretend I could be a Marine. He pointed out the fact that my shirt wasn’t tucked in, I wasn’t wearing a belt, my shoes were dirty, and my haircut was totally unacceptable for a Marine, or “unsat” in his words. He could clearly see the small scar on my left earlobe that had once been home to the gold lightning bolt, and he sarcastically questioned my manhood in the most vulgar language imaginable. He told me if I wanted to be a Marine, I should go get myself squared away, and then come back once I got my <stuff> together. I said, “Yes Sir!”, and turned around to leave, but before I got out the door the GySgt. called me back and continued the torment. I learned that there was a protocol for leaving the Major’s office, just as intricate and formal as the entry. This next lesson continued for an agonizingly long period and included additional colorful commentary on my ridiculous looks and lack of intelligence, but the lesson eventually completed, and I was dismissed.

 I picked up my uniforms and hurried out of the Armory. On the long walk by the bell tower and Kenan Stadium to the dorm, it occurred to me that those Marines were good at what they just did. Too good for it to have been an instant, unplanned reaction to me. They had done it before and were well practiced. I was still shaken, but I wasn’t about to give up that easy. I went back to the barbershop and explained that what I really needed was a Marine regulation haircut. He smiled knowingly and squared me away.  I went back to the Major’s office the next day, completed the choreography for successful admittance, and was called in. The Major seemed now to be casually interested in me, and with the GySgt sitting close by, invited me to have a seat, and asked me about my background and history. I was wary of triggering any new outbursts and kept my answers as inoffensively simple and to the point as possible. I didn’t mention my father’s time in the Corps, as that wasn’t a can of worms I wanted to open. I told him I wanted to be a Marine because I admired the history I knew of them and admired the qualities I observed, which was the absolute truth. Another young man about my age approached the office and was granted entry by the prescribed method, evidently, he had received the same instruction they had delivered to me a day earlier. In a freshman class of twenty something Midshipmen, we two were the only ones who were slated to become Marines. The Major explained that we were Midshipmen in training to be Marines, and even though we had signed Marine Corps enlistment papers committing us to eight years of naval service, it was far from certain that we would ever earn the title of Marine, much less become the officers who would eventually be qualified to lead Marines into battle. We would have duties over and above that of the other Midshipmen, and GySgt. Moore, upperclassmen, and other members of the staff would closely supervise our development. If we followed the program, stayed out of trouble, and put our hearts into it, the guidance provided would give us what we needed to succeed, but the result depended on us.

My education on etiquette continued over the following days. I was informed that when I was granted entry into an office, I had better know what I was going to say and spit it out promptly, so I didn’t waste time. Unnecessary detail, stories, stammering, and verbal tics were not welcome. If my host asked a question, it was to be answered directly and plainly with no equivocation or evasion. If the answer to the question wasn’t known, the answer was simple, “This midshipman doesn’t know, but will find out.”

Instruction was provided on how to respectfully interact with the staff, when to salute, and appropriate language to use. I was cautioned that the Marine officers should be approached with a mix of cautious reverence and fearful respect. If I met one in passing I was to give an appropriate standard greeting. “Good morning, Sir”, or “good afternoon, Ma’am”, and keep moving. I should not ask them how they were doing, because that was “none of your damn business.” If they wanted me to know how they were doing, or desired any conversation with me at all, they would make that fact clear. Unnecessary pleasantries or conversation were intrusions that kept them from their important work. I was also introduced to the unique language of the naval service. Walls were “bulkheads”, floors were “decks”, doors were “hatches”, and a hat was a “cover”. Running shoes were “go fasters” (because in them you could “go faster” than in boots), and bathrooms were “heads”. The Corps was a warrior culture, an exclusive club with its own language, history, and traditions unknown to outsiders.

There was a “dog tag” machine in the basement, which was used to stamp the thin metal tags worn around a service member’s neck. There were two tags on the chain. Each tag included the same information – name, blood type, branch of service, and religious preference. There were two tags, and my curiosity as to why was answered by an older Midshipman. “Before you go into combat, you take one of the tags off the chain and lace it up so it’s flat over the tongue of one of your boots. That way, if you manage to get your head shot off or your body blown in half it will be easier to identify you.” It sounded like a reasonable idea.

Classes started, and I worked to handle academics and military life. The other midshipmen became my fast friends, and together we navigated uniform inspections, close order drill, early morning drill team practices, and classes on naval history and more naval etiquette. The Navy officers who provided instruction to all the Midshipmen were full of fantastic tales from far off lands. Their colorful language was full of nautical terminology as well as words and phrases from ports of call they had visited. One of the first we learned was the concept of being in “deep kimchi”, with kimchi serving as a synonym in place of a crude term for human excrement. Evidently, kimchi was a nauseatingly foul mix of fermented cabbage and sea creatures that was loved by Koreans and hated by Americans. Among the midshipmen were other future Marines, referred to as “Marine Options” indicating their destination of the Marine Corps instead of the Navy, and they quickly assimilated me into their tight knit group. I learned that after our junior year, we would have to attend Officer Candidate School (OCS) in Quantico, VA, which sounded like journey to the deepest pit of hell. They said the welcome I got from the GySgt. and the Major were just a small taste of what was to come. The seniors who had gone to OCS the previous summer didn’t talk much about it, other than to generically report that “it sucked”. Being a part of the Marine detachment brought additional duties and requirements over and above those that the other midshipmen had. Physical fitness was a foundational requirement for Marines, and in addition to weekly formation runs, we were directed to put in mileage on daily individual runs. We were also “highly encouraged” to spend as much time in the weight room as possible.

Early on in our training came the torture known as a “hump”, or “forced march”. Since the days of the Greeks, soldiers moved to and from battles in tight formations of men moving as fast as they could go. The mobility and speed of a unit could be the key to victory, providing them the element of surprise or allowing the capture of a key piece of terrain like the Spartans did at Thermopylae. Fast paced forced marches over long distances had allowed General Stonewall Jackson to frustrate and defeat much larger Union forces in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia during the Civil War. Those lessons were not lost on Marines. From my earliest training days, we would fall into formation wearing full gear of boots, utilities, web belt with canteens, helmets, and full backpacks for these hikes. Humps starting at 3 miles in length and increased to distances of 25 miles years later. During officer training, humps were pure misery. Officers had to be able to lead their men, and you couldn’t lead from the front if you couldn’t keep up with the pace. We marched at a pace that resembled speed walking, and the only way to keep up was to lengthen out your stride, lean into it, and push mightily with your legs. To avoid gaps forming in the line, we had to stay within an arms distance of the Marine directly to our front. A rest break of 10 minutes was given for every hour of hiking. Once I eventually made it to the Fleet Marine Force (FMF, also referred to as “the fleet”), the hikes were a piece of cake compared to the agony of training humps. An early refrain from our active duty training staff was, “The more you sweat in peace, the less you bleed in war.”

When we would run in group formations we would sing running songs known as “Jodies”.

The songs had a practical purpose, the loud singing would strengthen lungs, build confidence and camaraderie as the deep, powerful voices singing in unison reverberated throughout the campus. The foundation of the name was an ode to the famous dark humor of the military. “Jody” was the typical civilian dude who would steal the girlfriend of a Marine serving in some far-off corner of the world.  A frequent subject of the songs, as well as taunt by instructors, was the increasingly intimate physical relationship between Jody and the young woman, often referred to as “Sally”. The lyrics had a sober and tacitly understood lesson, “Do your job and forget about the past. Your life is now the Corps.” Other songs recounted Marine adventures and achievements, inculcating the young men and women to the warrior culture with every step. Songs were simple, sung in a “call and answer” format.  A leader to the side of the formation would start by singing the first line. The formation would answer, repeating the line.

Standard beginnings would often turn into hilarious improvised riffs as the side by side columns snaked through streets and pathways and the miles added up.

 

If I die in a combat zone

Box me up and send me home

Pin my ribbons upon my chest

Tell my mamma I did my best

 

It was “highly recommended” that Marine Option Midshipmen become members of the precision Drill Team, meeting most mornings at 6AM to practice drill movements with 9.5 lb M1 Garand rifles, which were the same ones used in much of WWII and Korea by the Marines. The Drill Team participated in competitions and parades, where we would spin the rifles around, throw them in the air, flip them back and forth, and other movements designed to impress anyone watching. The rifles had to be cleaned and oiled frequently, and we learned how to take them apart, cleaning, lubricating, and treating the rich wooden stocks with linseed oil. At GySgt. Moore’s suggestion, I joined the pistol team, and spent long hours at the shooting range in the basement of the armory, learning the basics of marksmanship and preparing for competitions. On weekends and even holidays, we would often travel to Camp Lejeune, Parris Island, or other campuses with NROTC units for pistol or drill competitions. I realized that Naval ROTC, and specifically the Marine Corps, had become my life, and college was being fit in to the time that the Corps didn’t own. With the increased physical activity, and specifically the running, I packed on muscle weight. We went on long runs, calling “Jodies” as we moved along, and often threw in “Indian sprints”, where our typical two abreast formation would merge into a single column, and the person at the back would sprint the length of the column and end up in front. This would continue until the requisite level of exhaustion was reached. We also occasionally ran with the M1 rifles in formation through campus, calling cadences designed to mildly offend anyone with anti-military sentiments who might be within hearing distance. The miles racked up, and I felt great, except for my feet and ankles, which were swollen and throbbing with pain by the end of the day. I talked with some of the other guys, who told me it would get better as my body adjusted. After my experience with the asthma situation, I was cautious about disclosing any medical problem. The pain and swelling didn’t get better, in fact it got worse. I also noticed my shoes were wearing out at alarming rate in an unusual pattern. As instructed, I had replaced my ratty old sneakers with a pair of running shoes shortly after arriving on campus. Only a few months into the year, the new shoes were badly worn and misshapen on the on the big toe side of each shoe. The outside edge was pristine. When classes were dismissed for Christmas break, I went back home. I told Grandmother and Damps about the situation and that I didn’t see how I could keep this up for another semester, much less four years and a career. Rightfully concerned, they took me to a podiatrist. He examined me, and said I had a condition known as “excessive pronation”. I asked if it could be fixed, and he told me that while there was nothing he could do for the fundamentally flawed foot structure causing the problem, he could fit me with a set of custom orthotics that would adjust the angle that at which my feet rested in the shoes, balancing the pressure from my weight correctly. A few weeks later, the orthotics arrived, and I eagerly bought a new pair of shoes and slipped them in. It was an immediate improvement. While my feet and ankles still hurt after a long run, it wasn’t nearly as bad as before, and I was confident I could now train as hard and long as required.