Admin day 2: Drill Instructor School

It’s DI school, class 1-08, Parris Island, South Carolina folks, and tomorrow is the official kick off.

I arrived Friday morning after a sixteen hour drive from Corunna, MI and basically wasted the weekend away working on this website and screwing off. It wasn’t a mistake, necessarily. There’s really nothing a man can do to prepare for recruit treatment after ten years in the Marine Corps. Absolutely, freaking, nothing.

Monday was a cake walk. All we did was report in the classroom, fill out gobs of redundant paperwork, and take a few tests. The Nelson and Denny Reading Comprehension Test was one of them (suspiciously copyrighted 1981) and I scored the class high. Following a breakdown of the results, I discovered my official “Nelson and Denny Approved” reading age was 17.9 years. WTFO?! This didn’t say much for me, nor the class for that matter. Don’t hold it against us.

Tuesday we actually got lead around by one of the instructors, herding us this way and that through the humid South Carolina morning air, all the while bumping into each other like recruits fresh off the yellow footprints. We weren’t even being marched anywhere, just “Step it out!” “Stop! Fix my formation.” “Faster squad leaders!” “Stop!” and so and and so on until I was dumb all over again. The class resisted conducting actual drill movements to sharpen up the gaggle we were running, but enough of us knew we were better off just doing what we were told, shutting our man-pleasers, and gaggling away.

Tuesday was the day we established the class hierarchy. Being the only Gunnery Sergeant in the class of seventy-some odd Marines, I defaulted to Class Commander and the next seven senior Staff Sergeants were chosen as Assistant Class Commander and squad leaders. This wasn’t rocket science folks. It had nothing to do with my incredibly elevated reading age or dashing good looks in uniform. It simply had to do with rank. I can live with that. I spent most of Tuesday reveling in my new seating position, imagining the untold power I’d wield for the next 11.2 weeks, and generally enjoying my modified barracks room which I had all to myself.

Tuesday afternoon, things got real.

Following afternoon chow, I was required to get the class in formation and wait for a couple of the instructors to officially pick us up. It was no big deal; the Marines were formed up with plenty of time, covered and aligned, and most chatted softly with each other while we waited. Behind them, on the catwalks of all three decks of the Osprey Inn, DIs from various battalions around the depot begin to group. First, only a couple were hanging out near the breezeway. Then a few more appeared on the northeast end. And then a few more, like crows perching on telephone poles and wires next to nearby roadkill. Something was going down big, and my stomach did a barrel roll and I guessed I had been set up for failure. But it was too late to make changes, and it was for damn sure too late to strip down to my skivvies and run, screaming, away from the impending slaughter.

A half block away two DIs, DI school instructors, marched silently in perfect unison toward me. I called the Marines to attention, did an about-face, remained at the POA, and waited for the instructor to center himself on me to receive my report.

SNAP! POP! The instructor faced me. I popped my salute.

“Good afternoon Gunnery Sergeant! Gunnery Sergeant Kohler reports class 1-08 all present and acco-”

And that’s when all hell broke loose.

I don’t remember the details exactly, but a handful of witnesses helped round out the most embarrassing events. It went something like this:

Jayme: “Good afternoon Gunnery Sergeant! {motivated, feeling good about the salute} Gunnery Sergeant Kohler reports class 1-08 all present and acco-”

Instructor: “How about opening you stupid fat mouth Gunnery Sergeant! {eyes bulge, veins pop out of neck, fire shoots from mouth} Are you in the right place?!!”

Jayme: “Yes Gunnery Sergeant!!” {on the verge of soiling himself, waiting to be beaten by a fly swatter or perhaps yardstick}

Instructor: “No you’re not! You were told to form up on the basketball court!” {spittle arcs from hell-fire facial orifice, rotating in slow-motion through the air towards me}

{Jayme paints dumbfounded look on face, despite being told just that only forty-five minutes earlier, thinks maybe his brother wasn’t so crazy for joining the Air Force. Thinks he could run away faster without the damn dress shoes on.}

Instructor: “How about Aye Gunnery Sergeant or some trash!”

Jayme: “Aye Gunnery Sergeant!!” {still holding salute but now as shaky as a dog shitting peach seeds}

Instructor: “Failure to obey simple instructions! Get the hell to the back of formation! {daggers now flying from eyes}

{Jayme turns to run the back of formation in shame and exile.}

Instructor: “I don’t think so! How about Aye Gunnery Sergeant or some trash! Get back!” {horns magically sprout from forehead}

Jayme: {stops and faces instructor} “Aye Gunnery Sergeant!” {turns back around to find hole to crawl in, somewhere in the back of formation amidst seventy-some odd bodies, all of whom he would happily kill and pile on himself to hide from Satan incarnate}

Instructor: “Oh HELL no! {thus confirming his reign of the underworld} Get back!”

Jayme: “Aye Gunnery Sergeant!!” {voice falters and cracks, trousers remain amazingly unsoiled}

Instructor: “Louder!”

Jayme: {screaming to the heavens in code, hoping God will strike him dead on the spot} “AYE GUNNERY SERGEANT!!!”

Instructor: “Nope! Get back!!”

{Jayme begins circling wildly in a ten foot area, alternately screaming responses and weeping uncontrollably as he spirals to paralysis.}

{Jayme blacks out. Regains functional thought sometime later. Meanwhile, Drill Instructor Satan has found new snacks: the road guards.}

Various reports have indicated my encounter with the instructor lasted about ninety seconds. I disagree. I can’t prove this, but I’m sure entered some evil, fourth dimensional worm hole where time froze, all that was hopeful was lost, masturbation killed kittens, and Kenny G was on every station. Actually, compared to the instructor, that place sounds pretty damn good. I could stand to lose a few kittens.

But things always get better with time, and by “time” I mean after the next 11.2 weeks when I’m back home, cleverly ensconced in some horrendous North Dakota winter where even Satan doesn’t set foot.

It’s the eve of Training Day 1, DI school, class 1-08, Parris Island, South Carolina folks, and tomorrow I’m wearing clean underwear.