Traveling to Quantico from State College
I wake up on Sunday morning, 6 AM, June 3rd. I'm supposed to be at the airport by 7 AM. I rush into my parents bedroom to get them up, since they thought we were supposed to be at the airport by 8 AM. Miscommunication, as usual. I shave quickly, grab my bag, throw 2 protein bars into my pocket and we're out the door. On the way to the airport, I'm nervous and anxious. My mind is racing and I'm just thinking about what's ahead. My parents let me out at the front entrance to the airport and they go and park. I go into the terminal, meet up with my recruiting Captain and Staff Sergeant. They give me my plane ticket and explain my travel plans. My parents come in, say their goodbyes to me and talk with the Captain and Staff Sergeant. The Captain reassures my mom that i'll do fine and be alright. He says he'll be in Quantico himself, in week 3. It's time to go. I go through security where they confiscate my toothpaste and shaving cream. Everything else makes it through, even (luckily) my deodorant (it's a solid stick, not a gel).
I'm now at the gate, waiting to board the plane. I'm with two other Officer Candidates. I don't know them. They seem weak and are unlike me. Not hard. Not serious. Not Marine-like, or at least, what I thought was supposed to be Marine-like. Later, it would turn out that I was right, as the both of them would DOR (drop on request). As we were waiting together, someone spotted my shaved head, our outfit (khaki pants, button-down shirt, and brown shoes), and the three of us holding our USMC Orders. The man introduces himself as a former Marine and gives us his story. He seems nice, encouraging, and eases the tension of the waiting. Tells us he loved the Corps and only left because of his wife. Told us not to get married.
Plane arrives. We board the plane. Less than a 1 hour flight to Philadelphia. I haven't flown since I was 14. I'm kind of nervous about any kind of turbulence. I'm sitting next to a large African American man named Darryl. Darryl asks me if I'm nervous. He says I look nervous. I tell him where I'm about to go. I explain to him that I am a student at Penn State and I tell him about the PLC program and that I am a USMC Officer Candidate. Darryl tells me that he is a Harvard Graduate Student studying education policy. We have a nice, long conversation about things and Darryl assures me that everything will be alright. Darryl seems more confident than I am. Darryl seems impressed that someone about to "join" the military might actually have a brain in his head. My intention was to impress this Harvard student, as there is no better way to prove that the military is smart than by impressing that image into the mind of a Harvard man.
The plane lands in Philadelphia and the two other Candidates and I make our way to the next terminal. We arrive there to find many other Candidates. The plane doesn't come for a while so I go to the bathroom, then buy a green apple and a bottle of water. I eat one of the protein bars. We all board the next plane, headed for Washington. This plane has more turbulence than the last one and it makes me feel sick, or at least I think it does, maybe it is the mystery of what is about to unfold. We arrive at Washington and make our way to the "reception" area where a Corporal tells us to get into line and to remove our dress shoes and put on "Go Fasters" (running shoes). Another Corporal has a roster and checks us off. A few hundred of us throw our bags into the stowage area under busses, and then we board the busses.
In-Processing
Everyone is quiet on the bus. At first we are all wide awake and looking for any kind of road sign that refers to Officer Candidate School. The television on the bus is showing Fox news and a story about a terror plot; an eery reminder about why we're actually going where we're going. The anxiety wears off and I accept my fate; I fall asleep. After maybe 30 minutes my neck hurts. I wake up. I decide to stay up now. We enter Quantico town. We pass through gates and stop at a booth where a Marine asks the bus driver, "how many?" The driver responds and we continue through. We are let off at a building, presumably the administrative headquarters of OCS. We get into an already-formed line and wait our turn to snake around and finally into an office where we are asked our name. We are told our Company name and Platoon number. It is written on the top of our hand in black marker. I am assigned to Alpha 4. A-4.
We line up according to our company and platoon. We are marched to the Squad Bay to drop off our bags. This would be our actual Squad Bay but not our official bunks. The first 2 nights are not supervised at night. We shower when we want and sleep where we want. The first two days are terrible. It is just line after line outside of these huge warehouses that contain bins of gear. We are issued all sorts of gear; from canteens, war-belts, ponchos, packs, to toiletries and name-stencils. We haven't seen our instructors yet. Everything is being run by Corporals and Sergeants at this point. Eventually, we make our way to Larson Gym, across The Bridge. Again, we get into lines and wait our turn to collect a bag full of essential gear; like sunscreen, rifle cleaning gear, and our olive drab PT gear. Once we get our PT gear, we are told to change out of our button-down shirts and into the olive drab tshirts. This is our uniform for the remainder of the day and the entire next day.
The next day is spent getting medical screenings which included every kind of shot known to man (about 6 or 7 total), a USMC haircut, and still more gear issues. The sun is hot. We spend most of the day directly under the sun. Most of the time we sit on our campstools, waiting in huge lines, reading our Candidate Regulations (Knowledge). The routine is; wait in line, sweat profusely while SITTING on a stool, drink a canteen, refill a canteen, make a head call (go to the bathroom), read Candidate Regs, talk to surrounding Candidates, ask about PFT run times, speculate about pick-up, worry out loud, get sunburn, get yelled at by Corporals and Sergeants who tell us not to talk. Repeat.
During all of this time, chow (meals) consist of "boxed nasties" which are cardboard boxes filled with a turkey and cheese sandwhich, an apple, raisins, chips, and Oreos. Normally I am very health-conscious, but in this environment I don't care and eat anything and everything I am given. Maybe it is the heat. Maybe it is the fact that we only eat 3 times a day and every 4-6 hours. Whatever the case, I eat the chips and I eat the cookies. I figure that I will need it for the PFT the following day.
Day 3 - PFT, The Colonel's Speech, and Pick Up
Wake up is at 5 AM. We get up and quickly put on our PT gear, plus our cammie trousers. We get in our platoon formation on the parade deck, then march to Bobo Chow Hall for breakfast. Some platoons are eating now, some are doing the PFT now. I eat a small breakfast and make sure not to have dairy since I will be running. Eating is a blur, as we aren't given much time and we're constantly being yelled at to hurry up and finish. We also have to eat by the numbers, and food is consumed at an uncomfortably fast pace. We finish eating and march back across the Bridge and to the parade deck. We take off our cammie trousers and are now in our full PT outfits.
We get in line for pull ups. I'm one of the last in line to go. I get 15. Arms still hurt from the shots. Not a good excuse, but they did hurt, all the same. 75 out of a possible 100 points for pull ups. Not bad, but not great. Next, sit ups. 2 minutes to get between 70 and 100. I get 95. Now, the hardest event: the 3-mile run. We have 24 minutes to do it for the lowest possible score, and 18 minutes or faster is 100 points. As we begin, I don't think I'm doing well. I make my move at about half way through lap 1 of 3. I begin to pass Candidates as we move into the woods. The PLC Juniors have already been at Quantico for 3 weeks at this point and there are platoons scattered in the woods, doing some sort of military exercise in full uniform. I smell gun powder as we pass through the woods and hear the pops of the blanks being fired from the M-16 A-2 service rifles. I try not to think too much and just keep moving forward. Sometime during lap 2 I consider stopping for a moment. I don't ever stop, but for some reason I always think about doing so when I run. I keep passing Candidates. I get nervous when a couple Candidates pass me. Finally, lap 3. By the last 1/3 of lap 3 I decide to just pull out all the stops and go as fast as I can. I pass a few Candidates but then my speed dies off as I wrongly estimated the remaining distance. There is still a lot of road left to run. I fall back to a normal pace for a while. Now I can see the finish, and there are Lieutenants and other Officers watching from a distance as we come to the finish line. This motivates me. I pick up speed. I begin to sprint. I am moving very fast now and am breathing really hard. It's about 9 AM and it's hot. I can see the electronic timer at the finish line. To my surprise it reads: 18:28. There is a Candidate within sprinting distance of myself and the finish. I go as fast as I can and I pass him just before the finish line. I think it impressed the on-lookers. My finish time was 18:38 and I came in the top 25 of a few hundred Candidates on the run. I am pleased, especially considering where I've come from, physically. I score a 266/300 on the PFT. Above average for sure, but not remarkable. 5 more pull ups would have given me a 291 and a Force Recon qualifying score, but it's still a first class PFT and nothing to be ashamed of.
I went to report my time to one of the staff members, but each Platoon had a different person to report to; however, I couldn't find mine. I remember scrambling around looking for the guy who collected the Alpha-4 scores, and I think this was just part of their mind game as each staff member would just refer me to another one. It went on and on like that for maybe 15 minutes. A lot of confusion, anxiety and worrying that the staff member would challenge my time because I was so far back in the reporting line. Just another anxious OCS moment. Everything worked out eventually.
After the PFT we went back to our Squad Bay. We changed into our full uniforms, minus boots. Cammie blouse, trousers, a cover, and go-fasters. I was now on my way to the classroom/auditorium where the Commanding Officer (Colonel Chase) would address the incoming OCS class.
The Colonel was now speaking and I nearly fell asleep, even though the moment should have been gripping. Each platoon's staff was introduced. Our staff looks menacing, more so than any of the others. We have 3, large African American Gunnery Sergeants. They look like they mean business. The Colonel finished introducing the staff to us and then said, "if anyone wants to walk out right now, you may do so." Nobody moves. We are told to go back to the Squad Bay and get all of our belongings. I grab all of my gear and head down to the parade deck with the rest of the platoon. We line up in 3 squads. I am in 2nd squad. The Gunnery Sergeants are now standing in front of us. They are calling our names and we run up to them and shout, "here, Gunnery Sergeant!" Then we fall back in line. After we've all checked in like that, the Gunnery Sergeants tell us to dump our gear. "Dump it out, dump it all. You have 10, 9, 8765, 4, 3, 2, 1. PUT IT ALL BACK IN YOUR SEA BAG AND GET UPSTAIRS. YOU HAVE 10, 98765, 4, 3, 2, 1. YOU'RE DONE. PICK UP EVERYTHING AND GET INSIDE. AYE, AYE, GUNNERY SERGEANT!?" I yell, "Aye, Aye Gunnery Sergeant." A phrase I would get used to saying hundreds of times a day from then on.
Pick up wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. I was able to pick up just about all of the gear I dumped out and somehow carried it all back upstairs. I was one of the lucky ones. Later on that night, after the lights went out, Candidates were frantically going through their bags to look for their belongings. Luckily, I had just about all of mine and was able to, for the first time, get about 4 hours of decent sleep.
