Poke Me, Prod Me, Process Me

Early in the morning on August 22, 1994, I was scheduled to depart to join the Navy. In addition to my mother and father (my brother was still away doing his own stint in the military), three of my friends from high school – Ben, Mike and Sid – were at my house to see me off. To capture the moment, my mother and father had even borrowed a VHS video camera from a friend of the family (we could never afford such a luxury on our own).

At 5 a.m. that morning, my Navy recruiter Tom arrived to pick me up. My friends all wished me luck and told me I would be just fine. I suppose I looked like I needed that sort of encouragement at the time. In fact, the look on my face could probably be read simply as, “Oh my god, what did I actually get myself into here?”

My parents both hugged me and again re-assured me that I would be okay. I think my mother cried a bit at seeing her youngest son head off the join the Navy. Since I’m not 100% sure that she did, let’s just imagine she did and move on.

We set off to go to Penndel, PA first to pick up another recruit who was joining us. From there, we were going to drive to a recruit processing center in Baltimore, MD. There was one closer to my home right in Philadelphia, but I was sent here because I was, shall we say, a little on the chubby side. I guess the Baltimore office was a little more forgiving for someone with a diet and exercise plan as poor as mine. And besides, I was going to be doing a lot of push-ups and sit-ups in a day or two anyway, so what did it really matter?

Passing by Penndel’s Airplane Restaurant in the dark of the early morning, we picked up Eddie, the other recruit, and headed south to Baltimore.

It was at this Baltimore facility where I learned firsthand the term “hurry up and wait.” The processing center was really just a series of stations you were sent to in order for you to be checked out, checked in, poked, prodded, questioned and sent on your way to the next station. The hurry part was that you had to be at your next station as soon as they were ready for you. The wait part came because people obviously have different issues and speeds at which they work. Either way, it was going to be a long day.

One of the most embarrassing parts of the day for me was when the small group of recruits I was going from station to station were asked to strip down to our underwear (boxers for me… not a tighty whities fan) in order to measured for our individual height and weight. The military has a preset table of the minimum and maximum weight you should be for your given height. Having worked with the recruiters on this before, I knew that I did not fit within these guidelines – actually, I wasn’t even close. At 5’8” in height, the maximum weight the military expected me to be at the time was 176 lbs. It’s possible that I hadn’t weighed 176 lbs. since I was in the 6^th grade. At the time, I weighed 223 lbs.

The man at this station tasked with recording the height and weight of recruits worked fast and I was the last in the group to step on the scale. Recruits would hop on and off the scale quickly as he worked at an almost auctioneer-style pace, “Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.” Until he got to me: “Whoa! Fat boy!” Not fitting within the guidelines, he instead needed to measure my neck and waist to compute my body fat percentage. Having practiced this exercise with the recruiters (yes, that can be part of their job), I knew how to position my neck and suck in my gut for the best reading. I barely passed, but they would let me proceed.

From there, it was on to see the doctor. Most doctor visits are pretty standard. Everyone expects to get their blood pressure checked, have the doctor peer into your ears and then make you say “Ahhhhhh” when attacked with a wooden tongue depressor. This visit included two extra special checks. First, the doctor cupped my genitals and made me cough (always a good time). And then, made me lean over the table and spread my cheeks (not normally my expectation of a good time). Thankfully, this station was quick and relatively painless. To this day, I still wonder how he would have ever responded if someone asked him, “So, how was your day?”

The rest of the afternoon included lunch, more fun stations and a question and answer session with a Navy personnel specialist. “Do you squeak?” she asked me. “What?” I replied. “Do you squeak?” she repeated, as though it were the most normal question one person could ask another.

“What do you mean?” I asked quizzically. “Well, it’s just that every other recruit I’ve dealt with today has been in trouble with the law, had a drug problem, etc. You’re an Eagle Scout who doesn’t ever seem to have been in trouble. You’re clean,” she said. “Well, I guess I am. Or I just haven’t been caught yet.” “Good answer. And I recommend you don’t get caught. You can go off to wait for the bus now. You’re done.”

From there, I joined the other recruits to wait for the bus to take us to the Baltimore airport for our flight to Chicago and then on to boot camp. It felt odd to be traveling with no luggage. And, as I was soon to find out, a full head of hair.

- Scott Kaminski

* - All names have been changed.