The Joys of Boot Camp: Part 1

Many people have a certain image in their mind of what exactly boot camp or, in the case of the U.S. Navy, what is referred to as “recruit training” is like. Whether some glamorized version found in movies or something they’ve seen in documentaries, the truth lies somewhere in between. Then again, I can only really speak my experience so you’re welcome to believe whatever you’d like.

From the processing center in Baltimore, MD, a group of us boarded a bus to the airport and flew to O’Hare International Airport. Once in the terminal, we got our first taste of boot camp – a U.S. Navy petty officer who was not happy about drawing the late night duty and all too happy about yelling and then lining us up so we could board the bus which would take us to Recruit Training Center Great Lakes, Illinois.

Great Lakes or “Great Mistakes” as it’s commonly called is now the Navy’s only training base for recruits. A large base with a highway running through the middle of it (we’ll get to that later), its only purpose is to churn out young sailors to serve in the fleet. Before that happens though, you need to be scared, molded and shaped into being a sailor.

After filing out of the bus, we were walked as a group into one of the larger buildings on base to start our boot camp experience. We were told to line up alphabetically and then brought into a room and seated at school style desks to fill out more forms. The petty officer in charge of this station clearly loved seeing new recruits.

“I want every recruit in this room from Kentucky, Virginia, West Virginia, Alabama, Mississippi, Tennessee and Georgia to stand up and count off to 32!” he barked. A large portion of our 80 recruits stood up and promptly counted off as ordered. The petty officer smirked, “You know what you have there, gentlemen? That’s a full set of teeth standing right there.”

He glanced at one particularly tall and largely built recruit who was now standing amongst the group of recruits. “Goddamn! You’re a corn fed motherfucker, aren’t you?” The recruit, a Virginian named Watts, responded in a deliberate, slow drawl. “Yes, sir I am.” The petty officer smiled and instructed all of the still standing recruits to be seated. They complied.

A female lieutenant commander came into the room and we were all snapped to attention for the first time. “At ease,” she said and we were all instructed to sit down. She casually began going through each recruit by last name and conversing with many of them as we all sat in awe of our first officer. She came to me.

“Kaminski.” I stood up and quickly responded, “Yes, ma’am.” She looked me up and down, “Are you aware we have a baseball park named after you in town?” (She was referring to the similar sounding home of the Chicago White Sox, Comiskey Park.)

“Yes, ma’am,” I nervously responded. “Well, I’m not much a baseball fan anyway,” she said offhandedly. “Go ahead and take your seat.”

From this room, we were sent to the supply outfitting station. In a single file line, we told members of the supply depot our names. As we had all been measured for uniforms in Baltimore, each man received a pre-made stack of uniforms, boots (or “boondockers” as they prefer to call them) and toiletries, sheets, a wool blanket and was sent to stand in front of an empty cardboard box. At that point, each recruit was ordered to remove each part of their civilian clothing – everything from shirt, pants and shoes down to even their underwear – and place in the box in front of them. From the pile of newly issued clothes you were to put on a fresh pair of underwear and navy blue sweatshirt and sweat pants set emblazoned with a large white “N” for Navy.

Each recruit sealed their cardboard box containing the last shreds of their civilian life and wrote their mailing address on it to be shipped home. Years after this moment, my mother recounted how receiving this box from Great Lakes, Illinois seemed odd and unexpected to her. Not knowing the contents, she immediately opened it to find the clothes I had been wearing when I left home earlier that week. She got choked up when she saw it, even though she had been though the same experience with my brother just about three years before.

Once we were all neatly uniformed into our sweat suits, we were marched to a temporary sleeping compartment for the night, told to handle our business in the bathrooms and get to sleep. Whether we liked it or not, it was past “lights out,” a time when the military is kind enough to turn off the lights for you because they don’t trust you to get enough sleep on your own.

The next morning came early. Make that very early. And in a very Hollywood-like, stereotypical fashion. We were all awoken by a Navy company commander (the Navy’s version of a drill sergeant) waking us up by banging a nightstick around the inside rim of a metal trashcan. It was very loud and, well, very motivating.

We were introduced to our company commanders, Boatswain Mate First Class Bill Chester and Electronics Technician Second Class Erin Green. Each wore distinctive red ropes attached to their uniforms where their left shoulder and shirt sleeve met, denoting that they had each successfully shown that they were ready to train recruits.

Chester, the senior company commander, was obviously a man who had spent a lot of time at sea. His face seemed to be lined and weathered by the salt air – and he had an attitude and booming voice to match. Green, was more junior and, to our surprise, a woman. Either way, both were experienced enlisted sailors tasked with preparing us to join the fleet.

As you could imagine, our first full day at boot camp was a busy one. One of our first stops was to the barbershop. Being a barber in the military has to be one the cushiest gigs in the known world. There are no special requests and no complaints. You don’t even have to wield a pair of scissors – just mow scalp after scalp with an electric trimmer.

I can tell you from experience that the first time you lose all of your hair, it’s odd. Like a boy discovering that the thing between their legs has sensitivity, you can’t keep your hands off of it. The company commanders know this because they are the ones constantly yelling at you things like, “Quit touching your damn head, Kaminski!”

After receiving our fashionable, new haircuts, our group was led to a bank of phones and instructed to call home as this would be our only opportunity to tell our family members we had safely arrived until graduation. I called home, but apparently my mother was out (most likely putting together plans for what to do with a recently vacated room in our house). We were instructed that if we did not get through to someone, we would be given one other opportunity later on to reach out to someone and let them know we were still alive.

One of people I immediately become close with in my company was a fellow recruit named Bill Faust. He looked kind of like a human version of Mister Peabody from the Rocky & Bullwinkle Show. His father was actually an Army colonel, but Bill chose to enlist in the Navy instead.

Bill was an incredibly talented artist, able to sketch or draw anything in an instant, with his own style and unique sense of humor. I think what I liked about Bill the most was his childlike wonder at everything. People would ask him questions and he would respond in the sweeping, varying tones of someone who was just discovering something for the first time. He was also exactly the opposite of anyone you would think to see in the military.

Later on my second day, I was permitted to make another call to home or another family member to let them know I had arrived safely. Instead of my calling my familial home, I called my father at work. The owner of a small janitorial supply business, I was confident he would be there. The dial tone rang through and I finally heard his familiar voice. “Dad, it’s Scott.” I stammered. “How are you son?” he asked sympathetically. “I don’t think I’m gonna like it here,” I whispered cautiously into the receiver to him. He laughed. “You’ll be fine, son,” he said reassuringly. I was given a sign to wrap up the call. “I have to go. I’ll call you when I can. Love you, Dad,” and then I hung up.

As I was about to learn, I hadn’t seen anything yet.

- Scott Kaminski

* - All names have been changed.