The next day, I was on my way to downtown Miami and to the Marine recruiting office. When I burst excitedly through the office door with my papers in hand, the Marine gunnery shook hands with me. I informed him that I now had the required resident visa and was ready to join the Marines. The recruiter mentioned that I would have to fill out some forms and take an evaluation test. I thought to myself--No Sweat--then he asks me for my Social Security Card. My response was that I had just arrived in the U.S. the day before and had no opportunity to apply for a Social Security number.

     After making a phone call to the Federal Building for further information, the recruiter told me that my application for a Social Security Number would take four to six weeks to process. He surely must have noticed my expression of sorrow, anger, and other desperation, because he told me there were other options to solve the problem and went into another room.

     As I sat there in the Marine recruiting office all alone, another sergeant came through the front door. Since he was also dressed in a nice khaki uniform, I assumed that he must be another Marine recruiting sergeant. His friendly greeting was :Hi, buddy; how is everything?" After pouring my heart out to him about how desperately I wanted to be an airborne Marine, he surprised me when his reply was that he could get me in uniform next week. I was so happy when I heard him say those word to me.

     In my young, idealistic, naive mind, I was aobut to experience a dream come true. Euphoria must have narrowed my senses, because my response to the recruiter when he said, "Just Follow Me," was t simply walk out of one office and into another one. I sat down in front of his desk; and before I had a chance to observe my surrounding, he put a stack of forms in front of me. I did have the sense to emphasize the fact that I wanted to be a paratrooper in a recon unit--Marines, of course--but I failed to mention the word Marines to this recruiter. I assumed that he was a Marine recruiter, since he was dressed exactly like the other recruiter I met with initially. The recruiter began to talk about going to airborne school, and I started signing every form he put in front of me. I even took a two-hour aptitude test to determine my specific abilities. While taking the test, the recruiter brought me some sandwiches and soda and told me to just take my time on the test. There was so much going through my head at the time, but I was thinking, "Wow, this sergeant is something else. He doesn't yell or swear like the NCOs in the Latin countries, and he even gave me something to eat!"

     After I had finished with all the necessary paperwork and competed the aptitude test, the recruiter was nice enough to put me up for the weekend after all, it was Friday, and I couldn't get my uniform until next week. He instructed me to go to Biscayne Boulevard, which was three blocks from the recruiting office, where there was a hotel just across from the ocean. Here I would stay for the weekend, not worry about paying for anything, and enjoy free meals. He never even asked me for my Social Security Card and gave me $10.00 to boot. His final words were that he would pick me up at the hotel promptly at 0500 hours Monday morning to take me for my physical exam. He also assured me that if the physical went okay, then I should be on my way by Wednesday to training camp.

     When I arrived at the hotel, I gave the desk clerk the envelope of paper that the recruiter had given me. In return, she gave me a room key and a room number where I was to stay. Once inside my hotel room, I immediately wanted to call my parents back home in Peru and tell them that my boyhood dreams were finally becoming a reality. Now that I look back on those moments of elation, I cannot explain why I did not realize that something was "out of place" with the "second" Marine recruiter's office. The old saying "Love to Blind" may be true, but Idealism and Naivety are also blinding.

     Bright and early Monday morning, I was eager to take the next step toward becoming an airborne Marine. The recruiting sergeant pick me up at the hotel as promised and drove me to Coral Gables for my induction physical exam. He politely dropped me off in front of a two-story building and said he would return at 1700 hours that afternoon.

     There must have been 300 kids standing or sitting inside and outside the building, as well as milling around in the large awaiting room. A few inductees were watching a television inside a small adjoining room. I can still recall some of the questions everybody was asking each other: "Hey, Pal, where did you get drafted? Hey, Amigo, where were you working? Hey, Buddy, where you in school when you got drafted?" Some of the exclamations expressed indicated a common consensus of opinion regardless of ethnic background: "I hate this! It's just not fair! I had a steady job!"

     In such a packed place, rumors reverberated through the building at the speed of lightning. One rumor was that a kid whose father was a Colonel in the US Army refused to pull the necessary strings to get a student deferment after receiving his draft notice. His father had chastised him so badly that the kid answered his call to duty, reported for duty, and was there along with the rest of us.

     My turn in the "rumor mill" began when two Puerto Rican guys asked me what I was doing when I got drafted. They found it impossible to believe that I had come all the way from Peru just to VOLUNTEER for the Marines. Their reply was "You are nuts, Man! You have to be the dumbest S.O.B. in the world." Others around us starting listening to our conversation, and the rumors began. Some kid came up to me and remarked, "Hey, Buddy, if the people in Peru are so dumb like you, why don't you tell them to come here and join the service so people like us can go back home!"

     I remember taking everything as a joke, although inside my mend, I wondered about the overall opinion of those American young men. If you had uttered such words around the sergeants of South American countries, you would have been vigorously slapped, then forcefully pushed against the wall; and no one would have dared raise his voice in your defense. At 0630 hours, the sergeants began passing out white boxes that contained our breakfast. Inside the box, there were two ham and cheese sandwiches, one small carton of milk, one small carton of orange juice, one apple, one banana, a package of crackers, chewing gum, and other condiments. This gesture was also new to me. here are American kids saying negative things about their career military men and service to their country; and by the same token, these career military sergeants are passing out free boxes full of goodies. The American kids might not have appreciated it, but i certainly was thankful. In South America, if you received two small pieces of bread and one small cup of oatmeal, it would be considered a feast!

     While we were eating, I commented on my concern for the lack of respect and appreciation shown by those around me. Some of the guys exclaimed, "They are feeding the pigs for the butcher shop, stupid!" This comment brought a round of boisterous laughter from the people around us. By 1500 hours that afternoon, I had passed through all of the medical stations and the allegiance swearing ceremony. I waited in the TV room for the recruiter t return for me. When he arrived, the recruiter went straight to an office and came out with a fat, manila envelope. He commented to me, "You are on your way to training, Buddy. Everything is okay with you."

     On the way back to the hotel in Miami, the recruiter gave me an envelope containing an airplane ticket to Columbia, South Carolina. I was the happiest person in the whole world, but still wanted to ask the sergeant about my unsettling questions concerning the attitude of the American kids. Some things are getter left unsaid, I decided. After all, I did not want anything to go wrong and interfere with my chance to be an airborne Marine.

PART III

     There were about 20 to 25 of us on the plane from Miami to Columbia, South Carolina. Most of the other guys I was with were actually draftees from the Miami area. I was excited about the trip and was talking with some of the guys seated around me on the plane.

     After a while, a beautiful blond girl seated next to me asked me what I was so happy about. I explained that I was on my way to become a Marine. She commented that she felt sorry for me, because her boyfriend had also been drafted and sent to Vietnam. Before I had the chance to tell her that I had not been drafted, some of the other guys started laughing and told the girl, "He’s the dumbest person in the world. He’s only been in the United States for a month and has already joined the service." I felt proud that I had joined the military, just smiled, and confirmed that it was true.

     Our plane arrived at Columbia between 2100 and 2300 hours. I clearly remember how stormy it was, with lightning and torrential rain. A buck sergeant dressed in khakis and a raincoat gathered us up and took us to a parking lot, where three Army busses were parked. The sergeant seated us on one of the buses and told us to wait until the rest of the buses were loaded. After the buses we full of trainees, we headed for the base at Ft. Jackson. As we rode through downtown Columbia, I tried to see some of the city; but the windows in the bus were so fogged up, all I could see were the city lights. We finally reached the gates of the base at about midnight.

     Inside the gates of Ft. Jackson, the buses pulled up to an old wooden barrack. We were shuffled off the buses and into the building to a room with school-type desks, where we sat for hours filling out mountains of paperwork. At about 0500 hours, we were finally assembled outside into some sort of formation and escorted to our first breakfast in the military. To me, the inside of the mess hall looked like a civilian restaurant—with so many things to eat! My mind could not comprehend all the glorious food before me—cereals, juices, milk, bread, and fruit. The cooks were even asking how I wanted my eggs prepared. It was amazing! Where I came from, even the military officers did not have a mess hall like this, not to mention the meager eating facilities for the troops.

     After breakfast, we assembled outside the mess hall and were given about fifteen minutes for a bathroom break. From there, we were escorted back to the building where we first arrived. We gathered up our belongings and continued on to a small open field. Here we joined other trainees and were seated in front of a large podium. A captain came to the podium and gave about a twenty-minute pep talk, thanking us for obeying the call to duty and welcoming us to Ft. Jackson. The captain’s speech was followed by a rousing address by a first sergeant, who instructed us on how to make our stay at Ft. Jackson while continuing our training in the Army. He ended by asking if there were any questions from our group. Being the naïve recruit that I was, I innocently raised my hand and said, "Sir, there must have been some mistake—I signed up for the Marines."

     Everyone around me turned their eyes in my direction, and I began to hear some commotion behind me. I turned my head to see a couple of drill sergeants pushing people to the side as they walked toward me. These guys weren’t polite at all—just shoving people left and right without even saying as much as "Excuse Me". I instantly came face-to-face with one of the drill sergeants, whose nose was almost touching mine. In a not-so-friendly tone of voice, he yelled, "Who the hell do you think you are? Do you consider yourself special?" I managed to reply, "No Sir! No Sir!" The drill sergeant yelled, "Don’t you call me sir, you shithead." At this point, I looked in the direction of the podium, hoping that someone would rescue me from the situation I found myself in. The first sergeant was no longer at the podium, and everyone around me was standing stiff as a statue, looking forward. It was just me and drill sergeants alone on that field.

     Within the next half hour, I must have learned all the swear words in the English language. If I attempted to talk, I was interrupted with a strict, "Who gave you permission to talk?" If I didn’t answer, I was asked, "Did you swallow your tongue, you shithead?" As the drill sergeants continued to yell at me, they were constantly pushing me. I was asked, "Why do you want to be a Marine?" Before I could open my mouth to utter a single word, the swearing and name calling rained down on me again. I finally managed to say, "I shall stay here." In my mind, I thought that those sergeants had the power to throw me out of the military; and I definitely didn’t want that to happen. The most vivid memory I have of basic training was bivouac week and the day we left on our "camp out".

     During the day, we had been six miles out at the last rifle range. By the time we got back to the company area at about 5:00 in the evening, we were all dead tired and looking forward to a meal and some rest. When the drill sergeant instructed us to reassemble after chow in formation with our combat gear at 1900 hours, we figured that we would undergo some sort of inspection. We soon learned that we would suffer a bit more fatigue before being allowed to rest.

     At formation, we were told how to proceed in a tactical road march. Most of the drill sergeants got into a ¾-ton truck and left. Two sergeants stayed behind with us and took us off through the woods, marching in two columns on either side of the road. Shortly into our first hour of the march, it started thundering and pouring rain.

     The downpour was so heavy that by the time we managed to put on our ponchos, we were already soaked. It was pitch-black dark, and all we could do was try to follow the boots of the ones in front of us. Over the noise of the storm, I could still hear some of the other guys complaining about the Army, about Ft. Jackson, about the rain, about the draft, and just about everything they could think of.

     Once we arrived at our destination in the woods, we were told to set up our pup tents and get some sleep. There was already a large tent set up for the drill sergeants, complete with cots, lights, and the whole works. The rest of us—over 200 trainees—were left to pair-off under the stormy dark of night and pitch our own tents. The drill sergeants retired to their cozy tent, and the complaining started up again. I listened to a lot of expletives and yelling being tossed back and forth, until I heard my name mentioned. "Only somebody that is born surrounded by shit would enjoy what we are going through—like that f-ing Urlich." Another voice from the darkness asked, "Hey, Urlich, were you running from the police in your country when you decided to hide in this Army? It makes no sense that you volunteered, man. With all that we are going through, you are actually enjoying this shit." Yes, I was enjoying Army life, but not particularly at 1:00 in the morning in the middle of the woods in a storm. The comments, after all, were not necessarily aimed at me. It was only a way for my fellow trainees to vent their anger and frustrations during a trying situation. We finally managed to get our tents put up and settled in soaking wet for a little rest during the remaining four hours we had left of the night.

     On Graduation Day from Basic Training, everyone was anxious to find out what school they would be going on to for further training. The whole company was dressed in khaki uniforms and assembled in a small field behind our barracks, awaiting the drill sergeant to pass out orders. A rumor was circulating that if you had been drafted, you automatically would be assigned to infantry school; and if you had volunteered, you would be sent to another specialty school. Once the drill sergeant started yelling out names and passing out orders for the various training schools—infantry, cook, armor, transportation, medic, signal, etc.—I was anxious to learn my assignment. When the drill sergeant called my name and said, "Signal School", I was disappointed to say the least. It was still my wish to become an airborne ranger. At that moment, I wanted to complain about my assignment; but the lesson I had learned the last time I complained about a mistake being made kept my mouth shut for me. Others around me complained openly, swearing about their orders and commenting, "I have two years of college, and I get f---ing infantry school." "Urlich is single, and I’m married with a kid, and I get infantry school." "Who can understand this f---ing Army and its lifers?"

     During that time, Ft. Jackson was a major training facility for most of the schools, except medic, aviation/helicopter mechanic, or armor. So, most of us stayed at Ft. Jackson. The group that I had been assigned to—signal school—went to our new home in the brick buildings close by the main entrance. While in radio operator school, I met my good friend, Paul, from Rock-A-Way Beach in Long Island. He was a redheaded kid with a great personality. The rest of us called him "hippie" because he was always defending the "hippie" lifestyle that was raging across the country. He would never swear and was one of the few in the outfit that never criticized me for joining the military. Often, he would say to me, "If that’s what you want, then let it be. Peace and love, brother." Paul harbored some anger about being drafted, but considered himself fortunate to end up in radio school instead of the infantry.

     The radio school began classes on August 1, 1967. Every morning at the second company formation (0700 hours), I would observe ten duce-and-a-half Army trucks pass close by my building full of infantry trainees on their way to daily training exercises. For almost three months, I watched those same ten trucks go back and forth—with the last formation at 1700 hours.

     Radio Operator School would have been a picnic if we didn’t have to learn Morse code. For four hours each morning and four more hours each afternoon, we wore headphones and listened to the dee-dah-dahdeedee. One of the graduation requirements was to be able to receive 26 words per minute, with each word having five characters. By the end of the second month, four of us were sick of radio school. We wanted to get out of that training so badly that we decided to go to the infantry school orderly room and volunteer. I still yearned to be an airborne ranger, and this just might be my opportunity to finally be in the airborne infantry.

PART IV - The Conclusion