Honor Man

There are a lot of ways to get yourself in trouble in the military.  Talking back to a ranking individual; failure to follow an order; unauthorized absence; desertion; and more, too numerous to mention.

But there was one that came very close to stalling or ending my military career before it had really gotten started.  It came too close for comfort…and I’ve been paying for it ever since.

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It all started partway through boot camp.  Despite not being an athlete in school I was among the best physically.  Even though I had been a lackadaisical prep-school student I was one of the high scorers academically.  I was one of the all-around top performers in my platoon, consistently outscoring the majority of the other recruits. Oh, there were a few who were close at some things, but there was one who I saw as my competition for the blues.

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In every platoon that goes through Marine Corps boot camp, there is one who is chosen as the Honor Man.  That young recruit distinguishes himself in every aspect of training.  For earning that honor, he is awarded a meritorious promotion and a full set of dress blues – the beautiful Marine Corps dress uniform.

I had gotten to know the young private soon after we had joined to form platoon 1109 at Parris Island, South Carolina in September of 1977.  The years have dimmed my memory of his name, but it was something like Goodry, so I’ll call him that.  He had sought me out, having heard that I was guaranteed PFC for my year of college.  He immediately saw me as competition for the Honor Man spot.  You know the old bromide: “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”  Well, substitute competition for enemies and you describe us.

Goodry was an honest, open young man.  He told me from the start that he intended to be the Honor Man for our platoon, but he encouraged me to try to beat him.  He didn’t say it in that cocky way that some guys have.  No, he showed me over the next three months that he knew my competition would cause him to “step up his game”, to work harder and give his best, no matter how tired or worn out he was.

I could tell he was “for real.”  He would encourage me to do better, even if it caused me to outperform him.  If he got 19 chin-ups during our PFT (physical fitness test) he would hear someone yell out that I was at 19 and he would shout at me, curse me, insult me, whatever he could until I completed my 20^th, which earned me a perfect score on that part of the PFT. 

In this case, perfect meant the maximum the Marines would count.  More than that was just a waste of energy, and could cause the recruit to score lower on other parts of the test, which consisted of chin-ups, sit-ups, and a three-mile run.

We would both get 80 sit-ups in two minutes, which was perfect, then neither of us would get a perfect run, but I would consistently finish ahead of him.

Oh, there were other ways that he outperformed me.  For one thing, he looked like a poster Marine.  Think Ivan Drago from Rocky 4 and you have the idea.  In contrast, I was short and stocky.

We both felt that we were basically neck-and-neck in the competition for Honor Man and we each worked hard to top the other…and we loved it, happily cheering and encouraging each other.

Then came the day when I lost my place at the top of the competition, and very nearly lost my place in boot camp as well.

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It started with an easy run of a few miles, from our barracks out to the confidence course.  From a distance the confidence course might remind someone of a cross between a carnival and a water park.  However, it is anything but.  It was created to make muscles scream and hearts pound.  It forced recruits to face their fears and mental limits without seriously endangering their safety…at least for the most part. 

Yeah, for the most part.

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The very first obstacle was the appropriately designated Dirty Name.  Really – the Dirty Name.  It consisted of three sets of three logs, each set was comprised of two vertical posts holding up one horizontal log.  The three sets were placed about four or five feet apart.  The top of the first horizontal log was about four feet above the ground.  The second was about eight feet, and the third was around 12 feet high.

The idea was to run to it and jump up on top of the first set, then leap and climb up to the top of the second, then do the same to the third.  Finally, the recruit had to climb over and hang from the highest log before dropping to the ground and running off to the next obstacle.

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The first time through the course I loved it.  More than that, I learned how to do each obstacle and knew the next time through I would do it faster and better.

The second time around, the drill instructors wanted to make it more challenging so they divided our platoon into three groups and lined us up at the starting line.  After the drill instructor started us, the first person in each group would run to the first obstacle, the Dirty Name, climb as quickly as they could to the top and, as they dropped to the ground, the next person on their team would start, and so on.

I was the second person for my team.  The man in front of me was one of our less agile men.

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When the DI yelled, “Go!” the three recruits sped to the Dirty Name and started to climb.  My teammate struggled.  I could feel my team falling behind, but I also knew that I was much faster than the men I was watching as well as the second men on the other teams.

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My teammate dropped to the ground well behind the other two teams’ men and I took off, determined to catch up for my squad.

The other teams’ second men were already trying to climb up on the third log.  I jumped into the air at a run, barely touched the first log and leaped up to grab the second horizontal. My body twisted as I threw my leg over the log and stood up on it in a flash. 

The other two men were already sliding to hang off the third log before dropping.

I repeated my leap, grab, and throw-my-leg technique but slid around the log and hung only long enough to be sure I’d drop straight down.  The other men had released their grips on the log as I spun around it so I would hit the ground just a split second after them.  I had made up all but about a half-second of the several seconds our first man had gotten us behind.

I released my grip on the log as the man next to me hit the ground.  That’s when things went wrong.

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The man beside me lost his balance when he landed and fell over my way.  I saw it happening but there was nothing I could do.  My left foot hit his back and pushed sideways, kicking my right foot outward.  When I hit the ground, it was with my entire weight on the outside edge of my left foot.

All I remember about the instant I hit the ground is a loud pop coming from inside my body and pain – searing pain.

I really don’t remember much about the rest of our time on the confidence course.  The next thing I remember is being told to get in the ranks for the long run back to the barracks.

After we got to the barracks, the walk to sickbay didn’t help the pain any, and the corpsman who saw me just wrapped the ankle and sent me back to my unit with a note to return to the hospital the next day.  On that next visit, the doctor told me I should have never run back to the barracks on that foot and that the medic who had seen me first had treated the injury wrong.  He should have put on a half-cast and ordered me on limited duty for a while.

He applied the cast, gave me crutches, and put me on limited duty.

I felt my chances of getting Honor Man dwindling away. 

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I put effort into doing everything I was allowed to do perfectly.  My friend and rival for Honor Man offered encouragement but there just wasn’t much he could do to help me physically.

When the platoon went out for PT I would stay in the barracks and shine my brass and iron my uniform.  I worked hard polishing my boots, using two kinds of polish, water, and a baby diaper.  I polished until they shone like patent leather.

Then came my lowest day in boot camp.

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My senior drill instructor left his office and walked down the center of the room.  I tried not to draw his attention but he looked directly at me and stopped in front of me.  I was supposed to go back to the hospital the next day.  The senior drill instructor told me that, if the doctor did not put me back on full duty, I would be recycled.

That meant I would be dropped from my platoon and sent to one that was at an earlier phase in their training.  It meant that I would have to stay on Parris Island that much longer, and it meant my chances for Honor Man would be virtually nil.

I didn’t sleep much that night.

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The doctor examined me and said that, in his opinion, I should extend my limited duty but that he wanted to hear my thoughts on the matter.

In those days when I felt nine feet tall and bulletproof, I figured real men wouldn’t let a few torn ligaments stop them.  Heck, John Wayne could be blown in half and still defeat an army of bad guys.

Besides that, I wanted to go home on leave when the rest of my platoon graduated, not stay behind for several more weeks.

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The doctor put me back on full duty.  I tried to keep my limping at a minimum as I marched with the platoon.  Of course, I had to run too.  Our final Physical Fitness Test was coming up.

For that test, I aced the chin-ups and sit-ups, then lined up for the three-mile run.  When the whistle was blown, I took off at a ground-eating pace, ignoring the pain in my ankle.  Before long, it warmed up.  Maybe it was just numb at that point but I was able to run more or less normally.  I pulled ahead of my rival for Honor Man and never saw him again.  One of my drill instructors was also taking the test.  After a few laps, I moved up behind him, which meant I was a full lap ahead of him.  In boot camp we had been taught to treat our drill instructors exactly as we would later treat only officers, so I did as I had been trained.  Easing out to pass the staff sergeant, I yelled loudly, “By your leave, SIR!”

To prevent damage to sensitive ears I won’t repeat his response but, basically, I believe he resented the fact that I had required him to use some of his precious breath to respond to me rather than gasp for air.

I passed him.

My three mile run was completed in about 18:30.  An 18 minute three-mile would have been perfect, but my time was good enough for a first class PFT.  I had finished ahead of Goodry, and well ahead of my drill instructor too.

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Graduation day was approaching and the drill instructors made their announcements.  They detailed who had distinguished themselves in boot camp and how.  When the senior drill instructor got to the men who had been guaranteed PFC (private first class) for college experience, I was called up to get my stripe.  He sent the recipients back to their seats preparatory to announcing who had earned PFC meritoriously, but told two of us to stay.

He said clearly, “Some men come to boot camp guaranteed PFC for their college experience.  Others perform so well while they are here that they earn meritorious PFC.  But some men are guaranteed PFC and still choose to work hard and excel…enough that they would have earned PFC meritoriously even though they already have the guarantee.  That takes a special kind of Marine.”

He had my friend and me stand as he handed out the stripes, then sent us all to our seats.

Next came the big announcement.  Honor Man.  Senior Drill Instructor enumerated all the things they took into account as they made their decision, then he paused…

…and announced my friend and rival.

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No one cheered for Goodry louder than I did.

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I am posting this on November 10, 2019 – the 244^th birthday of the Marine Corps.  Tomorrow is Veterans’ Day.

Today I want to say, “Semper Fi,” to all my jarhead friends out there.  In a tiny bit of a head start, I’d also like to tell all my fellow veterans of the U.S. military, thanks for your service.  This country is the Land of the Free because it is the Home of the Brave.

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