Hey Oz, you tough motherfucker, I've got a little story for you:
When I was in boot camp we were a platoon of about 80 miserable, wannabe, tough guys like yourself. But there was one dude in our platoon who was fucking tough. He was some scarred up, tattooed, rehab'ing LA gang banger. He was about 25, hard as nails, mean as shit, and about two weeks into boot camp he decided that he had all he could take out of our Drill Instructors. One evening, he announces to all of us that the next time the DI's yell at him he's gonna tell 'em where to stick it.
Well, we were all pretty shocked. Our DI's looked pretty tough too, but none of them were as big as this dude. And this guy just looked like he was some kind of heavyweight boxer (turned out he had been an amatuer for a while). So the whole platoon was completely nervous, wondering if this guy got into it with the DI's, if he might not just kick one of their asses.
The next morning rolled around and we had our formation and were marching to the chow hall, and sure enough this turd is loping along like a bag of shit and one of the DI's lights him up.
"Fuck you!" the guy says to the DI.
We were completely stunned. It seemed like an eternity passed before he said anything.
"Am I bothering you, Ramirez?" the DI asked.
"Fuck yeah you are," Ramirez replied caustically.
"Well, why didn't you say so Ramirez?" the DI cooed. He then spoke softly to Ramirez as he led him out of formation and told him to relax and have a seat on a planter in front of the barracks. Ramirez smelled a trap, you could see it in his face, but he didn't know what to do so he just sat down there.
The DI snapped back to life and immediately turned on us.
"2010, GET IN THE MOTHERFUCKING DIRT. YOU ARE GOING TO BEND LIKE MOTHERFUCKERS!!!!!" he yelled, and the other 79 of us were rushed down into a dusty pit to do bend and thrusts, mountain climbers, push-ups, sit-ups, monkey fuckers, etc. The DI had us down there for what seemed like an eternity without saying anything. Then, once we were drenched in sweat which had congealed into mud on our skin from the clouds of dust, and sucking eggs like it was nobody's business, he spoke up again.
"I cannot control Recruit Ramirez any longer," he addressed us. "But tonight, while I am asleep in my duty hut with the door closed, perhaps all you recruits could get together and talk it over with Ramirez.... Perhaps you all could convince him of the virtue of obeying orders."
We were desperate to get out of that dust pit, and our "YES SIR!" could've been heard for miles. It certainly made it to Ramirez's ears, because he suddenly looked very pale and weak.
He shot up off that planter like a rocket and assumed the position of attention. "REQUEST TO REJOIN THE PLATOON, SIR!!?!?!" Ramirez cried out desperately. Now he had him.
Ramirez had to march behind the platoon for the rest of the day with his headgear on backwards, or some shit. That night, when we had our little 30 minutes of down time, he came around and personally apologized to all of us and promised to become the best recruit he could be. Nothing ever happened to Ramirez physically, but all of us learned an important lesson that day:
You cannot beat these guys. That evening I said to myself, "Scott, you've got four years of this and you better stick to the rules, because if you don't they're gonna own you." Every year I was in I only became more convinced.
If you want to keep that attitude, Oz, then you better go join a street gang. If you try to take that into the military, they are going to fuck your life up real good for you. I suggest you think real hard before you go in about whether or not you're mentally prepared for it.
7th Marines, 1990-1994
Desert Storm/Desert Shield
Presently - 20th SFG(A)
El Diablo sabe mas por viejo que por diablo.