F
Field Ethos
Guest
By Chad Adams
It was December 1998, and it was about as cold as it gets in North Carolina. I, along with around 300 boots fresh off earning our coveted Eagle, Globe & Anchor, had just assembled in the woods of Camp Geiger. This was Marine Combat Training.
Otherwise known as MCT, the Marines’ month-long basic combat school targeted non-infantry Jarheads—the POGs. With roughly two weeks of that training a field exercise, we learned, among other things, the fine art of digging fighting holes to set a perimeter defense and executing patrols—hopefully well enough to not get everyone killed in the process should we ever deploy for real.
Unlike the hard chargers out there like real-deal Terry Houin, POGs get a very condensed version of the School of Infantry, where the Marine Corps 0311 first learns to fight. Instead, MCT brings in most of the other Military Occupational Specialties (MOS), meaning guys and gals alike from every echelon of the Corps. It was in this setting where we formed it up and humped all over North Carolina playing war.
During our particular course of battle, it got pretty sporty as the thermometer dipped to 17 degrees. Zipped head to toe in a sleeping bag, I engaged “enemy targets” from my poorly dug fighting hole, all while seriously contemplating my recent life choices. The Marine Corps owns a deserved distinction for prowess in battle. But among this group of administrators and box pushers, I sure wasn’t seeing it. We weren’t pushing real hard to even look out of our holes to be honest. Even my NCO, an infantry Marine on teaching duty, retreated to his tent and was rarely seen during the coldest nights. Basically, it was a shit show.
That’s not to say some bonds weren’t being formed—an important cog in the wheel that is a fighting unit.
As such, one evening we mustered for food, formed in our platoons and waited to line up for a rare evening hot chow, much preferred over the tired rotation of MREs. That’s when an explosion of yelling and shrieking detonated across the tree line.
An instructor had peeled off to hit the head in a porta-john—the only ones for miles, affixed in a column off to the side of our field mess area. And when Cpl. Whoever opened the door, there he found a pair of co-ed battle buddies doing the unthinkable.
Yep, they were getting it on in a porta-john.
Mind you, those mobile water closets see a lot of action during MCT. Many a Jarhead timed their morning constitution with the few minutes we found the bliss of proximity to an actual toilet seat. In other words, they got hammered with ass after ass during our scheduled hot meals. Much like, assumingly, at least one of our MCT Marines in that john.
To make matters worse, we had been in the field for maybe over a week at this point. So, everyone’s juices were really starting to marinate nicely. You can use all the wet wipes you want, but it takes a proper shower to be horizontal fighting ready, in my humble opinion.
Any way you cook it—and those Marines had been basting after marching and digging and fighting all over Camp Geiger—this was some nasty shit.
This, of course, was what the investigative NCO led with, marching the offenders before the platoons in formation.
“What in the actual fuck?” The good corporal led the two privates before the crowd, their scarlet letters all but glowing. “How fucking nasty to do you have to be to get ass—in the field—in the porta-shitter?
The other NCOs—there were a couple assigned to each of the five or six platoons in this training evolution—now descended like drunken monkeys. They verbally tossed one grenade after another, a vile vaudevillian barrage of insults only life in the suck could inspire. It was breathtakingly savage.
I vaguely remember the male offender hugging a tree late into the night. A diabolical punishment that required the Marine to straddle his arms and legs around the, ahem, hardwood, holding himself in place. Every time an appendage touched the forest floor, the time reset anew. If the rifle dropped, bonus time. On and on it went …
What punishment befell the fair Marine maiden, I can’t be sure. But by the looks of our camo-clad koala bear, she had suffered enough.
But make no mistake, there was no hazing whatsoever during Marine Combat Training.
The post Doing the Nasty appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
It was December 1998, and it was about as cold as it gets in North Carolina. I, along with around 300 boots fresh off earning our coveted Eagle, Globe & Anchor, had just assembled in the woods of Camp Geiger. This was Marine Combat Training.
Otherwise known as MCT, the Marines’ month-long basic combat school targeted non-infantry Jarheads—the POGs. With roughly two weeks of that training a field exercise, we learned, among other things, the fine art of digging fighting holes to set a perimeter defense and executing patrols—hopefully well enough to not get everyone killed in the process should we ever deploy for real.
Unlike the hard chargers out there like real-deal Terry Houin, POGs get a very condensed version of the School of Infantry, where the Marine Corps 0311 first learns to fight. Instead, MCT brings in most of the other Military Occupational Specialties (MOS), meaning guys and gals alike from every echelon of the Corps. It was in this setting where we formed it up and humped all over North Carolina playing war.
The Fine Art of Marine Combat Training
During our particular course of battle, it got pretty sporty as the thermometer dipped to 17 degrees. Zipped head to toe in a sleeping bag, I engaged “enemy targets” from my poorly dug fighting hole, all while seriously contemplating my recent life choices. The Marine Corps owns a deserved distinction for prowess in battle. But among this group of administrators and box pushers, I sure wasn’t seeing it. We weren’t pushing real hard to even look out of our holes to be honest. Even my NCO, an infantry Marine on teaching duty, retreated to his tent and was rarely seen during the coldest nights. Basically, it was a shit show.
That’s not to say some bonds weren’t being formed—an important cog in the wheel that is a fighting unit.
As such, one evening we mustered for food, formed in our platoons and waited to line up for a rare evening hot chow, much preferred over the tired rotation of MREs. That’s when an explosion of yelling and shrieking detonated across the tree line.
An instructor had peeled off to hit the head in a porta-john—the only ones for miles, affixed in a column off to the side of our field mess area. And when Cpl. Whoever opened the door, there he found a pair of co-ed battle buddies doing the unthinkable.
Yep, they were getting it on in a porta-john.
Get Some, Marines
Mind you, those mobile water closets see a lot of action during MCT. Many a Jarhead timed their morning constitution with the few minutes we found the bliss of proximity to an actual toilet seat. In other words, they got hammered with ass after ass during our scheduled hot meals. Much like, assumingly, at least one of our MCT Marines in that john.
To make matters worse, we had been in the field for maybe over a week at this point. So, everyone’s juices were really starting to marinate nicely. You can use all the wet wipes you want, but it takes a proper shower to be horizontal fighting ready, in my humble opinion.
Any way you cook it—and those Marines had been basting after marching and digging and fighting all over Camp Geiger—this was some nasty shit.
This, of course, was what the investigative NCO led with, marching the offenders before the platoons in formation.
“What in the actual fuck?” The good corporal led the two privates before the crowd, their scarlet letters all but glowing. “How fucking nasty to do you have to be to get ass—in the field—in the porta-shitter?
The other NCOs—there were a couple assigned to each of the five or six platoons in this training evolution—now descended like drunken monkeys. They verbally tossed one grenade after another, a vile vaudevillian barrage of insults only life in the suck could inspire. It was breathtakingly savage.
I vaguely remember the male offender hugging a tree late into the night. A diabolical punishment that required the Marine to straddle his arms and legs around the, ahem, hardwood, holding himself in place. Every time an appendage touched the forest floor, the time reset anew. If the rifle dropped, bonus time. On and on it went …
What punishment befell the fair Marine maiden, I can’t be sure. But by the looks of our camo-clad koala bear, she had suffered enough.
But make no mistake, there was no hazing whatsoever during Marine Combat Training.
The post Doing the Nasty appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
