Private Puddle

I still don’t understand how he did it. And, I don’t really wanna know.

Sort of. (I know what I wrote)

When you’re in Boot Camp all you want to do is survive. At least that’s all I wanted. Survive. Make it through the day. Get some sleep. Wake up. Repeat. That’s all. It doesn’t seem that much to ask. But, if you know how big your platoon was when you started, knew how many had washed out, been broken, left for another platoon (for various reasons), and how many had been picked up into your platoon for those previously mentioned reasons, well, you might realize that just wanting to survive the United States Marine Corps Boot Camp is a lot to ask.

There is a reason that we are ‘The few. The Proud.’ Not everybody makes it. And the best part is that the Drill Instructors let you know, at every opportunity that they can—which is all the time—that if you just screw up one more time, you’ll be dropped (or worse), you freak out about everything. Everything. You also keep that inside because The Marine Corps does not issue feelings. They tend to get in the way of killing the enemy. So, yeah. There’s that.

What’s my point? My point is this: Final Inspection.

Final Inspection is just what you think it might be. It is the final inspection of every recruit in your graduating Company. You are in your service uniform—that you have been preparing for weeks. You have your M16—which you have also been preparing (cleaning. you’ve been cleaning it) for weeks. 

The M16 A2 service rifle was spotless. It had to be. No carbon buildup anywhere. No excess CLP (cleans, lubricates, protects) anywhere—but there needs to be some, just enough. When the Inspector gets to you and looks over your M16, he (or she) better not find anything wrong with it. Anything.

Your service uniform. We were inspected in our Alpha’s. There are several versions of military uniforms, such as the Blues, Service, and Utility. Within each of these, there are multiple designations as well. Typically, there are Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie. Depending on which larger group you are wearing, there may or may not be larger amounts of subgroups. Then there are the covers (what civilians would call a hat). The covers are not that wide in variety. Basically, you have the Barracks, Garrison, and Field.

The Field cover goes with the Utilities. The Garrison is with the Service. The Barracks are with both the Service and Blues. Why am I going into all this? Honestly, I’m not 100% sure. I think I just accidentally ranted. Apologies.

For my platoon’s inspection (Hotel Co., Platoon 2023) we were in Alpha Service with Barracks cover. That meant we were dressed from top to bottom in all the layers: The shiny, patent leather, black shoes that don’t breathe. Obviously the trousers. Long sleeve shirt. Necktie, with full Windsor knot. Blouse (what you civilians would call a jacket or coat) with belt. And the Barracks Cover (they resemble what a policeman might wear. I’m sure you’ve seen ‘em). And, the best part was that with all that on, in the month of September of 1994, when standing out on the hot Parade Deck (asphalt), in California, where the temperature seemed to skyrocket extra high that particular day, sweating wasn’t an option—especially after three hours of just standing in the out of doors. Between the humidity in the air and what was running down our spines, we were all rapidly dehydrating.

And this is where the story really begins.

Now that you know where we were and what we were all in, I am hoping you can visualize the scene. What seemed to be miles and miles of recruits in their Alpha’s, covers on our grapes (our heads), at Parade Rest (feet apart, right arm extended with hand on rifle barrel, left hand placed at the small of our back’s with the palm out, and all our faces looking directly ahead. never look around. never), and the sun extra hot. Brutal…

There were four rows of recruits from our Platoon (when I was in, the recruit platoons were larger than in The Fleet) all in this stance. All we had to do was be perfect. Absolutely perfect. You only moved when it was your turn to be inspected. You only spoke when you were spoken to. You never moved your head. It didn’t turn. It didn’t twist. And your eyeballs stayed glued directly in front of you. If you didn’t move your head, do you think you could move your eyes? NO! No, you could not look about for any reason.

Now, you may be asking yourself: Self, why am I still reading this? Well, because it will be worth it. The ending is funny. Also, you may be asking yourself why I mentioned the scary Drill Instructors and all that crazy stuff about surviving Boot Camp. That is all because of Final Inspection. We were all told that if this inspection went poorly enough—for any one of us—that recruit wouldn’t graduate. Maybe that was actually true. Maybe it wasn’t wholly true. I didn’t know. I also—at that point in Boot Camp—didn’t care if it was or wasn’t. I just wanted to pass.

We all did. Which is why when what happened happened, I was so confused that I almost forgot all about what I wanted: To graduate.

Seeing something and hearing about it is not the same. If you told me a story that was unbelievable then it would—by that title alone—be not able to be believed. Thus, unbelievable. But, if you witness, firsthand, an unbelievable sight… Well, then, you have no choice but to believe it. You saw it. With your own eyes. It’s now just a-really-incredibly-difficult-to-believe story—even for you (I know what I wrote).

Due to my tremendously average stature (I’m 5’9”), I was set near the end. Fourth Squad, fourth from the last recruit. I stood there, without moving for so. long. So long… And, as I stood there, I witnessed the unthinkable: Movement. The head of the recruit just in front of me, and slightly to my right, was starting to look about. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No.

NO!

Oh, no. We all knew that any individual might fail the Final Inspection and be held back, but we also—collectively—were afraid that the entire Platoon might go under if any breach was severe enough. Like maybe looking around? Maybe? This recruit…! What was he looking for? Probably D.I.’s (Drill Instructors). But, why?

While a Drill Instructor has the ability to materialize out of nowhere and then vanish—without a trace (like Batman)—just to scare you to death when they yell at you from out of nowhere about the screwup you just made. It is both amazing and terrifying. I do it all the time at the middle school where I work. Not the yelling, just the materializing and vanishing thing. The kids both love and hate it. Same kids. The ones that love it hate. They are both impressed and freaked out by it. Sorry, tangent.

The recruit must have been looking for a D.I. With none in the perceived area, the recruit began to slowly move his left arm. I was watching (because he was in my front field of view) it move and I still couldn’t see it moving (I know what I wrote). It was that slow. Then, his hand dropped below the edge of his Service Blouse (the bottom edge of said blouse is near the edge of the human bottom, in line with a trouser pocket), and then said hand worked its way into his pocket, up to his wrist. His whole hand was now in his pocket. WHY?!?!?!

Some of you may be wondering what the big deal was. Fair. Let me tell you what the big deal was: There was nothing in his pocket! We don’t keep things in our pockets! It’s not allowed. So why risk getting dropped from graduation because of possible pocket lint (which he shouldn’t have because nothing is allowed in the pocket and we’ve been prepping our uniforms for weeks)? Why?

Based upon the subtle movement of that left arm, I figured something seriously life-threatening must be taking place for him to risk everything. And, there was really only one thing in the area of where his hand was that could become a target for a threatening to his life. So, there had to be a transdimensional-leach or some other horrific parasitic monster that would require risking possible death, or worse: Being sent back to another unit to repeat all or just a portion of Boot Camp. I hoped it was death—for his sake.

Before I even realized it, it was already there: The puddle. Slowly, but rapidly, growing in diameter was a wet spot forming underneath the heel of the recruit’s left patent leather dress shoe.

You read that correctly.

Yes, underneath the left heel of that recruit’s shoe heel, there was a darkness of moisture that should not be there. It didn’t take long for me to realize what it was. As soon as I did, I looked about (moving only my eyeballs) to see if his trouser leg might show a wet spot or two. The puddle was bad enough, but his uniform too…? Nope. In fact, he had moved his hand into his pocket so smoothly that the trouser leg hadn’t even moved. Was this some sort of a practiced ritual? I couldn’t believe it. I was witness to the proceedings, but still…

Then, just as it did moments ago—albeit in reverse—the hand moved out of the pocket and returned to the recruit’s lower back. Nothing had changed. The only difference between before and after was that 12-inch diameter dark spot under his left heel that was rapidly reducing in size, due to the heat. Soon, the evidence would be gone. He might make it unscathed.

Then, from somewhere close behind me, I hear the whispered words of what could only be at least two D.I.’s (as the inspection team was far to my right), “You see that?” “What? Oh.” “Looks like someone had a hydration issue.” “Excess sweat?” “Impressive.” “You know who that is?” “No.” “Hmm…” And then they were gone.

To the best of my knowledge, nothing ever came of that incident. I know, for my part, I never asked the guy about it. Seriously, what is there to say, “Excuse me. How was it that you were able to run that stream of urine down your leg and out your shoe without anyone but me noticing?” Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen. Although, honestly, I was curious. It was impressive.

Way to go Pvt. Puddle.