america

A Story by wayne king

a mans journey from the uk to Miami , at the age of 15 vunerable and naive and all the trouble and adventures he gets into along the way , based on true storys told to me by my dad

We flew from Miami to Atlanta then onto North Carolina on a charter flight. It was a long journey considering that only a day earlier I had been on a 13 hour flight from the Manchester.

I was on my own; I didn’t really take any notice to anyone on the plane, not the families or the recruits. I didn’t really think about where I was going either, in hindsight I wasn’t at all prepared for what I was about to let myself into.

As soon as I got off the plane, I met Sergeant Hardgreeves ‘United States Marine Core’ he shouted so loud it echoed through the airport, he repeated it over and over. He squared up to me, assessing everything about me .He asked my name, ‘Get yourself over here Welch! to the wall’ and there I stood in the middle of the airport. Nose pressed against the wall, regimented and silent .He continued pulling recruits out from the masses .There was about 20-25 of us now. ’what the hell is this’ is what I remember thinking to myself , I knew he wasn’t joking and I guess that’s when the military realisation hit me .I was so embarrassed as this Sargent continued to scream at the top of his voice , I think we all where .Families and passers-by walked on horrified .That’s when it dawned on us all ,it was not going to be a smooth ride, we were on a rocky road to hell .

It was getting late by the time we had all been herded together. The airport was deserted as we finally began filling out into the darkness. We were led single file to a big old army bus .I was last one on ‘face down in the isle Welch, Wilson’. I looked up, it was surreal and inhumane .But we already feared this man, so we did what we were ordered to, no questions asked.

The bus journey was silent no one so much as breathed a word. And there we remained for what felt like hours , rigid against the rotten floor , face down .I could see through the buses window screen as we approached pitch black Paris Island .It looked like we were about to enter onto the set of a 40’s science fiction movie. Everything was silver. Massive silver gates that we lurched towards. Guards dressed head to toe in silver uniforms ,with wide brimmed hats .Silver watch towers and vehicles.

‘Get your a*s up off that floor’ the gates opened up. Next thing we knew the drum instructor was dragging us by the scruffs of our necks, and I was hurled off the bus. Every one of us where in a state of shock. We were welcomed by about a dozen screaming staff sergeants bellowing instructions and insults . Marching us to a large wooden hut, we were like cattle being herded to market.

There was a huddle of wooden chairs in the middle of the shack, with almost no lighting, three doors where visible. A room with a single wooden chair and a set of ancient sheers .A utility store room full of essentials; tooth paste and brushes, soap and combs. Then a final room with rows of precisely folded clothes and a set of boots each. Every single item even down to the toothpaste was stamped with a number, your number; it was like our new identity. We were not too loose or forget this number or we could be sure that we would suffer the consequences .Heads shaven; we were put into white tshirtsand green utility pants .All uniform and identical. They had successfully managed to wash and shave away any remnants of our former life’s and personality’s, and this was just within the first few hours of arrival. We carried everything under our arms that we would need to survive, we lined up and marched to our platoon barracks .And that went on all night that, all night.

Then comes the injections and the chain of command books. The bibles of the marine core, filling our heads with so called ‘knowledge’ and ‘loyalty’ for our cause. ‘I will never leave my post ‘, ‘I will not challenge authority’ and so on .That novel was to be learnt by heart .The brainwashing didn’t stop there either, TV’s showing mass killings , US victory’s and the strength and power of the unstoppable killing force that was the marines , these were forced upon us every day .From Monte Zuma to Bella Wood , and before Bella Wood , well I can’t even remember .Basically the constant indoctrination was all part of becoming a soldier . Me being an English man and all, they labelled me a suspicious foreigner, so I was watched very closely and was made to pay full attention. Of course all the videos showed the corporals what they wanted to see, only half a story, hence the propaganda unfolded.

We were robots, everyone in a state of shock, emotionless and ready to be programmed, well that’s the idea.

And after that you don’t know where the days ago, after the initial two weeks you think to yourself ‘S**t, did I just go through that ‘

And at the time you’re in shock. You’re marching, you’re drilling, you’re eating, you’re marching, you’re sleeping, you’re drilling. Every last thing was a mine field of rules and regulations. Even when we slept. Constant 24 hour surveillance took place. If you moved a fraction whilst in bed ‘begin !’ ,’attention’ 100 mountain climbers ,every single man. and then ‘why are your beds a disgrace, remake them’, ‘now 100 more’ Fun and games like this would go on all night. Someone moved, spoke or even a sneeze ‘begin!’, ‘attention’. Persistent bombardment. We were watched and tormented 24 hours a day. No rest, none at all .Church was the only break. Now I’m not a religious man ,but Jesus church was a godsend, a break from the March March March ritual. There in that church all the blacks would crumble to their emotions, tears welling up in their eyes as we sang ‘swing low, sweet chariot’ all of them longing to be home.

The chaplain himself, well he was no Christian, cruel and unforgiving would be an understatement, he gave no comfort, he was a true marine .If you ever had a problem you knew the worst you could do was pay him a visit.

Exercise in the midday heat was excruciating. That indescribable heat in the field’s .A haze of heat on the parade deck all day. So hot. And the rose garden, ey there’s a song ‘I never promised you a rose garden ‘, it was a living hell. Pushing yourself to the the edge everyday parade drills lasting up to 8 hours , next minute as we near the end ‘someone has been messing up , another hour should see them right’ now I don’t know if anyone ever did mess up , I never seen anyone place so much as a hair out of line , or was it just the sergeants relished the power and pain they inflicted .All I know is 78 sweltering bodies doing mountain climbers in a rock filled dirt pit the area of a small back yard was tough , extremely tough. Grit and dust pooling in your eyes and ears and your hands being constantly trampled by pummelling boots .The dust made it unbearable to breathe let alone keep working. And all the while we chanted

I was born on Paris Island

The land that god forgot

The sand was 18 inches deep

And the sun was blazing hot

And when I looked besides me

What did I see?

A hundred thousand royal marines lying next to me ….DEAD

My core ,huuraa

Marine core

‘Louder’

My core ,huuraa

Marine core

Louder and louder until our throats where bone dry and our tongues like sandpaper, lips cracked and bleeding. Some men had had enough and either passed out with the sheer exhaustion and heat stroke or just refused to go on .I admired their courage to make a stand, but they soon realised that it wasn’t worth becoming a martyr for.

In a matter of minute’s dozens of hardened marine officers returned with batons and truncheons. And by hell did they get round us , each and everyone .Just as we thought our bodies would never experience pain like it, we were beaten to pulps, yet we carried on .It was a case of having to.

Some men sank and some men swam , sinking was not an option .So we made bonds , after all a chain is harder to break .There were men from all walks of life, Cheq's, Poles ,Germans , me .Although they were all Americans , with those surnames you could tell exactly where they were from .

One guy in particular I stuck a strong bond with .His name was Campbell, a big black guy from the Bronx; he’d been forced to join when the lack of job opportunities and constant racial abuse had left him excluded from his community. Campbell had severe burns from the neck down, after a few days he had told me that a planned gang attack had seen him chased around his neighbourhood by a gang of 20 strong, when they had finally caught up with him, they had doused him with petrol and set him alight .Five years on and his body was still completely disfigured and even though he was very black his arms and neck where peppered with pink raw patches.

My time in platoon 7146 seen me befriending all kinds of guys .There was one native red Indian that went by the nickname of ‘chief’ although I never called him that myself .He like Campbell had sercome to racial backlash .So when I asked why he had signed up for the military I was not surprised when he told me ‘I want to be able to turn a gun on the America authorities’. Racism was a huge part of the marines at the time .A large majority of the white men where proud to say they were active members of the klu klux Klan. So it didn’t go down well when they saw me befriending the blacks .

Although I guess I was also just a minority, and seen as kind of an outcast .I talked very fast in a thick scouse accent, so I was difficult to understand and my English phrases confused everyone. Although as soon as I started singing mow town ‘bloody hell’ who knew singing a bit of Marvin Gaye in the wash room , would make me one and truly one of the blacks.