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"Mind if I join you, Marine?" asked a male voice from over my shoulder.
Shields up! I thought to myself as the speaker came into view and deposited his coffee on the other side of the small table I was sitting at in the air terminal in Dallas.
"Depends what you're selling," I said, hoping the intonation in my voice made it clear that while I wasn't being unfriendly, neither was I exactly pining for someone to talk to.
"Oh, don't worry, it's nothing like that," said the newcomer, as he sat down. That's what they all say, I thought, but held my peace. My visitor was a couple of decades older than me, wore a business suit and carried a leather case. There were laugh lines around his eyes. "People been giving you a hard time?" he asked.
I thought about the "flower children" who saw me off, so to speak, in New York that morning, and how they appeared to truly enjoy feeling superior as they cast every variety of aspersion in my direction—"baby killer" was perhaps the least offensive epithet they threw at me and my uniform. Then there were the Hare Krishnas who had accosted me and the rest of the passengers on my flight upon landing in Dallas, but they seemed like a harmless bunch.
I shrugged and said: "Not a lot of people seem very friendly toward Marines, I guess."
"Tell me something new," said my companion, and stuck out his hand. I've since forgotten his name, so I'll just call him "Mac."
We shook hands, and by and by, Mac told me he'd served in "The Crotch" at about the time I was born (except he called it "the Green Weenie," in the slang of his era). Spent time in Japan during the Korean "kerfuffle," as he put it. He had a way about him, and after a few minutes, it was as if we were old friends.
He eyed my PFC stripe and asked: "You just graduate?"
"No," I replied, resisting the urge to add "sir!" to my reply. "I finished boot camp six weeks ago. Since then, I've been at infantry training, and now I've got orders to report to my first duty station."
We were both silent for a minute or so. Frankly, I half expected him to start lecturing me about "The Old Corps" and how he and his buddies were in every way superior to the sad excuse for Marines Parris Island was currently churning out for the jungles of Vietnam.
"So," said Mac, to keep the conversational ball rolling, "did you get any good advice in boot camp?"
Pleasantly surprised by the direction the conversation had taken, I laughed and asked, "Does telling me I better get my head and ass wired together count?" He laughed in reply.
"No, I don't mean that," he said. "I'm curious to know if any of the DIs took you aside to give you a tip, some advice, or some help. Something not out of the book; something intended for your ears only."
I thought for a moment or two and blew out a long, slow breath. Then I said: "Well, while our platoon was out at the rifle range, our lieutenant announced that anyone who fell out of this one particular Monday morning PT run would get recycled, and since I was usually among those who fell out of such runs, I guess you could say I got some advice from my Senior Drill Instructor about what to do." Getting 'recycled' meant being sent back to repeat several weeks of training and it was, to quote Shakespeare, "a consummation devoutly to be avoided."
"Oh, yeah?" said Mac. "What'd your DI say?"
"He told me there was nothing physically preventing me from completing the run," I said, "and that my problem with running was sitting squarely between my ears."
"So what happened?" asked Mac.
"I really didn't believe him, but I figured I had nothing to lose, so I started to brainwash myself," I said.
"Wow. How'd you do that?" asked Mac, taking another sip of his coffee.
"I just kept repeating stuff like 'I will run… I will finish…' in every spare waking moment, up to the morning of the run," I said. "I probably sounded like one of those Krishnas over there," I continued, waving in the general direction of a flurried flash of saffron I'd spied a few moments earlier.
"And…?"
"I finished that run and all the runs after that," I said, and then asked, to change the subject: "Did you get any good advice when you were in boot camp?"
"Actually, I did," said Mac, "but my problem was, I was too undisciplined to pay attention. I thought it was a waste of time, and I guess, in the end, it was a waste of my DI's time, too, because I ended up stumbling through boot camp by the skin of my teeth, and then having to learn all of it later, the hard way."
"So, why did you want to know about my experience?" I asked.
"Basic reporter's curiosity," came the reply. "I'm a newspaperman, these days," said Mac, "and after getting enough answers to my question, I'm convinced there's a link between listening to good advice and moving ahead"—and here, he leaned forward and tapped my PFC stripe.
I looked at my stripe, then at him, and raised an eyebrow. "That seems pretty obvious," I said.
"It should be," said Mac, "but in real life, few people act like they believe it. I think it's because most people actually resent advice, so they would rather blow it off than follow it and possibly benefit from it. Which is not to say that all advice is necessarily good, or that following anyone's advice guarantees any kind of reward," Mac continued, "but if I had a nickel for all the people I've met who systematically ignore advice and insist on making their own mistakes… well, right now, I'd be on a beach somewhere, sipping a Mai Tai."
Mac then shot his arm out of the sleeve of his suit jacket and looked at his watch. "It's time I got going, Marine," he said, and rose. I told him it had been a pleasure to make his acquaintance, which it was.
"Fair winds and following seas… semper fidelis!" he replied, and turned to walk away. A few moments later, he was lost from view.
Shields up! I thought to myself as the speaker came into view and deposited his coffee on the other side of the small table I was sitting at in the air terminal in Dallas.
"Depends what you're selling," I said, hoping the intonation in my voice made it clear that while I wasn't being unfriendly, neither was I exactly pining for someone to talk to.
"Oh, don't worry, it's nothing like that," said the newcomer, as he sat down. That's what they all say, I thought, but held my peace. My visitor was a couple of decades older than me, wore a business suit and carried a leather case. There were laugh lines around his eyes. "People been giving you a hard time?" he asked.
I thought about the "flower children" who saw me off, so to speak, in New York that morning, and how they appeared to truly enjoy feeling superior as they cast every variety of aspersion in my direction—"baby killer" was perhaps the least offensive epithet they threw at me and my uniform. Then there were the Hare Krishnas who had accosted me and the rest of the passengers on my flight upon landing in Dallas, but they seemed like a harmless bunch.
I shrugged and said: "Not a lot of people seem very friendly toward Marines, I guess."
"Tell me something new," said my companion, and stuck out his hand. I've since forgotten his name, so I'll just call him "Mac."
We shook hands, and by and by, Mac told me he'd served in "The Crotch" at about the time I was born (except he called it "the Green Weenie," in the slang of his era). Spent time in Japan during the Korean "kerfuffle," as he put it. He had a way about him, and after a few minutes, it was as if we were old friends.
He eyed my PFC stripe and asked: "You just graduate?"
"No," I replied, resisting the urge to add "sir!" to my reply. "I finished boot camp six weeks ago. Since then, I've been at infantry training, and now I've got orders to report to my first duty station."
We were both silent for a minute or so. Frankly, I half expected him to start lecturing me about "The Old Corps" and how he and his buddies were in every way superior to the sad excuse for Marines Parris Island was currently churning out for the jungles of Vietnam.
"So," said Mac, to keep the conversational ball rolling, "did you get any good advice in boot camp?"
Pleasantly surprised by the direction the conversation had taken, I laughed and asked, "Does telling me I better get my head and ass wired together count?" He laughed in reply.
"No, I don't mean that," he said. "I'm curious to know if any of the DIs took you aside to give you a tip, some advice, or some help. Something not out of the book; something intended for your ears only."
I thought for a moment or two and blew out a long, slow breath. Then I said: "Well, while our platoon was out at the rifle range, our lieutenant announced that anyone who fell out of this one particular Monday morning PT run would get recycled, and since I was usually among those who fell out of such runs, I guess you could say I got some advice from my Senior Drill Instructor about what to do." Getting 'recycled' meant being sent back to repeat several weeks of training and it was, to quote Shakespeare, "a consummation devoutly to be avoided."
"Oh, yeah?" said Mac. "What'd your DI say?"
"He told me there was nothing physically preventing me from completing the run," I said, "and that my problem with running was sitting squarely between my ears."
"So what happened?" asked Mac.
"I really didn't believe him, but I figured I had nothing to lose, so I started to brainwash myself," I said.
"Wow. How'd you do that?" asked Mac, taking another sip of his coffee.
"I just kept repeating stuff like 'I will run… I will finish…' in every spare waking moment, up to the morning of the run," I said. "I probably sounded like one of those Krishnas over there," I continued, waving in the general direction of a flurried flash of saffron I'd spied a few moments earlier.
"And…?"
"I finished that run and all the runs after that," I said, and then asked, to change the subject: "Did you get any good advice when you were in boot camp?"
"Actually, I did," said Mac, "but my problem was, I was too undisciplined to pay attention. I thought it was a waste of time, and I guess, in the end, it was a waste of my DI's time, too, because I ended up stumbling through boot camp by the skin of my teeth, and then having to learn all of it later, the hard way."
"So, why did you want to know about my experience?" I asked.
"Basic reporter's curiosity," came the reply. "I'm a newspaperman, these days," said Mac, "and after getting enough answers to my question, I'm convinced there's a link between listening to good advice and moving ahead"—and here, he leaned forward and tapped my PFC stripe.
I looked at my stripe, then at him, and raised an eyebrow. "That seems pretty obvious," I said.
"It should be," said Mac, "but in real life, few people act like they believe it. I think it's because most people actually resent advice, so they would rather blow it off than follow it and possibly benefit from it. Which is not to say that all advice is necessarily good, or that following anyone's advice guarantees any kind of reward," Mac continued, "but if I had a nickel for all the people I've met who systematically ignore advice and insist on making their own mistakes… well, right now, I'd be on a beach somewhere, sipping a Mai Tai."
Mac then shot his arm out of the sleeve of his suit jacket and looked at his watch. "It's time I got going, Marine," he said, and rose. I told him it had been a pleasure to make his acquaintance, which it was.
"Fair winds and following seas… semper fidelis!" he replied, and turned to walk away. A few moments later, he was lost from view.
