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Step'n On Yellow Footprints
MCRD Parris Island, South Carolina
By Marc "Devil Dog Of The Web" Iseli / Updated Dec. 2025
My grand adventure as a future Marine kicked off on May 29th, 1979. I got tossed onto a bus in Beaufort, SC, for the scenic five-minute ride to Parris Island. We rolled up at midnight, because of course we did, and the doors flew open. Enter one six-foot wall of muscle, aka our Drill Instructor, who immediately started screaming at us to get on the yellow footstep. Welcome to the show. We got the classic speech about joining the world's finest fighting force, which sounded a lot less inspiring when you’re running on zero sleep and wondering what the hell you just signed up for. Then it was through the doors and straight into the sleepless meat grinder known as receiving.

First stop: the barbershop, where they scalped us in about two seconds flat. A few boots lost their chow in the head right after, probably still hungover from their last night of freedom. Then came the paperwork parade, signing your life away on forms nobody reads. Eye exams, and if you drew the short straw, you got issued those sexy BCGs, birth control glasses. Dental check, a round of mystery shots and probably the origin of half our medical issues to this day. Finally, they handed us our seabags, and we prayed we wouldn’t be doing the seabag drag, of shame for failing out. Uniforms got crammed in, we got herded into formation, and after a few days of zombie shuffling, we finally got assigned to our barracks for the next three months of fun and games.

They stuck me in 3rd Battalion, Platoon 3033, which was basically the Marine Corps’ version of exile. We were so far from the 1st and 2nd Battalions you’d need a map, a compass, and maybe a Sherpa to find us. We had our own chow hall, church, drill field, five barracks, and a headquarters that looked like it was built by the lowest bid. Nobody told us we were the guinea pigs for the new post-Vietnam jungle cammies, so we ditched the Gomer Pyle clown suits for RDF woodland with cargo pockets big enough to smuggle a squad mate. Those pockets turned into boat anchors during swim quals, which was great if you wanted to drown with style. We still had the old covers, starched so stiff you could use them as a weapon, and jammed onto stovepipes like we were auditioning for a Marine Corps fashion disaster. Camo covers? Not for us, not in 1980. We were trendsetters in misery. We did not get the camo covers later, in 1980.

If you’re looking for the worst time to survive Marine Corps boot camp, try June through August in SC. It’s like training inside a blast furnace, but with more humidity and less mercy. Every morning, they’d force-feed us salt tablets and make us chug a canteen of water, which was basically prepping us for a career in competitive sweating. One poor soul started convulsing, so the DIs had to play lifeguard and resuscitate him. The DI got a medal, the recruit got a one-way ticket home, and the rest of us got to stand at attention and sweat through our chrome dome helmets, which doubled as solar ovens.

Visit My Photo Album
Photos of MCRD Parris Island, 1979.

Boot Camp Videos
The Beginning Of Becoming A Marine.
Becoming A United States Marine Corps Includes A Thirteen-Week Process.
Meet Your Drill Instructor
Marine Corps Drill Instructors Meet Recruits For First Time.
GAS CHAMBER
Recruits On Parris Island Train In The Gas Chamber.
Parris Island & Graduation Ceremony
Recruits On Parris Island Train In The Gas Chamber.

Notable Events
John Wayne Died
By Marc "Devil Dog Of The Web" Iselii / Updated Dec. 2025
11 June 1979, Somewhere around week four of Boot Camp, our DI marched in, face as if he’d just lost a bar fight with a mop bucket, and announced that John Wayne had punched his last ticket. The old man was basically the Corps’ unofficial mascot, never mind that he spent WWII storming Hollywood sound stages instead of beaches. Still, the brass loved him for playing Marines on the big screen and shaking hands with the real ones overseas. Semper Fi, Duke.
The Day Disco Died
By Marc "Devil Dog Of The Web" Iseli / Updated Dec. 2025
July 12, 1979, Thank Neptune, I dodged the polyester suit era, my skin’s still grateful. I’ll admit, some of the tunes slapped, and every time a disco beat sneaks up on me, I’m back in the barracks, dodging fashion crimes and questionable dance moves. Disco officially got fragged at Comiskey Park’s Disco Demolition Night, and honestly, the Corps could’ve learned a thing or two about crowd control from that fiasco.

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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