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My Boot Camp Memoirs
By Marc "Devil Dog Of The Web" Iseli / Updated Dec. 2025
MCRD was rocking those ancient white wooden barracks with all the charm of a sauna and none of the luxury. No AC, just the sweet, sweet embrace of swampy heat. We’d sit in classrooms hot enough to cook an egg on your forehead, and half the platoon would nod off. The DIs’ solution? Sand pit time. Out we’d go, straight into the blazing sun, where sand flies treated us like an all-you-can-eat buffet. Best part? If one guy screwed up, we all got to suffer together. Teamwork, Marine Corps style.

Somehow, I managed to fly under the DI radar and avoid getting smoked for most of boot. At one point, the DI actually trusted me to leave the squad bay solo and deliver a message somewhere out in the wilds of the base. I have no idea how I found the place, but I did, and I even made it back alive. Not sure if that was standard operating procedure or if I was just the designated guinea pig for a new lost-and-found program.

School Circle was basically a full-contact sport. Seventy recruits crammed in the back of the squad bay, and when the DI yelled 'school circle,' it was a mad dash to sit cross-legged and upright before you got trampled by your own fire team. Getting online and screaming 'Aye, Aye, Sir!' until your voice sounded like a broken radio was just another day in paradise.

Every Marine thinks their boot camp was the hardest, but ours had DIs who could have moonlighted as pro wrestlers. Back then, DIs could actually lay hands on you, and I saw more than one recruit get tuned up for not moving fast enough. PT in boots was standard; sneakers were for the Air Force. The whole platoon would get herded into the showers, and the DI would dump ammonia down the drain just to spice things up. Years later, I found out that was a classic DI move. Our DIs, Sgt Storm and Sgt Moura were about nine feet tall and had the temperament of caffeinated chihuahuas. Most DIs mellowed out by the end, but Sgt Moura was a combat vet who had a personal vendetta against anyone headed for the airwing, and he made sure you knew it.

First day at Elliott’s Beach for combat training, and we got a crash course in tent assembly, which mostly involved cursing at tent poles. That night, the sky opened up, but thanks to my trusty rubber bitch, I stayed dry while everyone else learned the joys of trench foot. We were supposed to put on a dog-and-pony show for the base commander, and during practice, I nailed a wall jump with a full ammo belt and rifle. The senior DI was actually impressed and told me to do it again for the big show. Naturally, when it counted, I botched the landing and pancaked right onto my canteen. The SDI was less than thrilled. Showbiz is brutal.

I was in the running for PFC and a shiny set of dress blues, but they gave it to some other boot named Holobinko. Years later, I ran into him in the Philippines and found out he’d gone full Mustang and become a Marine Officer. Turns out the DIs actually knew what they were doing. He deserved it, and I got to keep my underdog status.

Final thoughts: Right before we got our freedom papers, the Corps dropped the bomb that John Wayne had kicked the bucket. For Marines, that was like losing the high priest of ass-kicking. To keep us from crying in formation, they herded us into the theater for The D.I. with Jack Webb, a flick so ancient it probably made the DIs wish they could haze us with black-and-white film reels. Graduation day finally rolled around, and there we were, strutting across the parade deck like a flock of overcooked ducks, families in the bleachers pretending we were heroes instead of half-baked recruits. Command barked 'about face,' and just like that, three months of institutionalized misery were in the rearview. We did the obligatory photo in front of the Iwo Jima statue, then it was liberty or death. My sphincter was wound tighter than a boot camp rack, and I was ready to stab the next idiot who looked at me sideways. We thought we were hard chargers fresh out of boot. Then I got my orders to VMFP-3, and the universe laughed in my face. It was all downhill from there.

Alright, you glorious Rat Phixers and Phlyers, if we ever survived a TAD, a Det, or a BOHICA, who haven't, and you didn’t think I was the biggest gaff off in the squadron. Got a sea story, or some grainy photos your ex didn’t set on fire, and they’re only slightly illegal? Send ‘em by email, snail mail, or safety wire it to a carrier pigeon. I collect ‘em all, just nothing that would incriminate me.
80svmfp3@gmail.com

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