Okinawa Prison (Part 10)

I remembered one night, a couple of weeks after my restriction ended I felt the need to relieve myself from the “oki goggles.” That being said those that know what I mean it is when you are confined to the Okinawa bases with very little females to look as as the majority of the populations were men. The women that made up the small percentage were most likely family members or spouses. Of the remaining females, the ones that looked good were always taken and people would do whatever for them. The remaining that were not taken were the ugly slut types that would have a different man every weekend. Eventually getting pregnant. While I was in Okinawa I took every opportunity I could to leave base. To do something. Anything. My usual outings were as followed: McDonald’s, Hoka Hoka Tei, CoCo Ichiban, Kokusai St, Mihara St, Naha, the arcade to name a few. I did what I could to “escape” the EGA even if it meant for a couple of hours.

One of the places I remembered very well was a place called Mihara St. or as many know it as “Whisper Alley.” Now those of you who have been there know what it consist of, rows and rows of hookers;bars and bars in between. I did not want to waste my time chasing tail on base so I did it the smart way and took a honcho out to the place of pleasure. Getting a libbo buddy to come out with you on a work day is very challenging but sometimes a little persuasion and some McDonald’s would usually do the trick so I would always go out on Wednesdays. One night I remember I went to the company’s shit bag room Lcpl. Nasti who was a funny dude to watch as he did not care about being on time to work, doing the right thing or following orders. This dude seriously did not give a shit and I kind of admired him for his bravery. I go knocking on his door and he comes out all drunk. “What up!?” he says. “Want a beer?” Is how I replied but I also implied that he had to come with me to Mihara so that I could get him a beer at the little hole in the wall bars while I did my thing.

“Mihara dori kudasai.” Mihara street please is what I told the honcho driver as he sped out of base. Lcpl. Nasti was burping and slurring in the back seat and I was speaking my Japanese to the honcho driver. We arrive in the zig zag concrete jungle at middle part of the island where all the apartments and condos end up leading you to this hidden hub of eutopia where you could actually have a good time drinking and look at some beautiful national women with out the repercussion of being in trouble of having a female in the barracks. I got Lcpl. Nasti some sake and some Orion beer and he was happy watching a base ball game on T.V. I went out to do my shopping and I did my thing for about 45 minutes. I get relieved of all the stress I had for the day and I go back to the (Izakaya) Japanese for little bar and I expect to see Lcpl. Nasti waiting for me to go back on base. What I saw was Lcpl. Nasti leading a little Japanese party with Japanese men and women in suits, eating sushi, beer in one hand, arms over each other while Lcpl. Nasti was standing up singing kareoke. I come in and he introduces me to the nationals and they bought five more bottles of sake for all of us to drink. Fast forward a couple of hours and Lcpl. Nasti is slapping me in the face and I am knocked the fuck out on the couch this time the T.V off, the chef cleaning up, the nationals gone and Lcpl. Nasti poiting to his watch. I look down and see that we have fifteen minutes to get back on base or else we get burned. We get a taxi and pay him extra to drive extra fast to get us back on base. We make it at 2356, four minutes before inferno time and we make it back to the barracks. I go to my room at around 0200 and pass out into a drunken spell. Two and a half hours later we get woken the hell up by Sgt. Nazi and all his Corporals and we are ordered to get our stuff ready for a stupid change of command ceremony that I totally forgot about. I get up, ground spinning, put my shit on and try to go out when my roommate points out that I am missing an alligator clip and motivatingly says he won’t “let me” get out of the room like that and he proceeds to get the NCO’s. They come in and start chewing my ass and telling me to find it but I could not find it as I did not have it. Finally one Corporal lends me a spare one and called me a “shit bag” for not being prepared.

Lcpl. Nasti also woke up late as he was drunk as usual and you saw a group of NCO’s gathered around him screaming to his face. He was just impervious as usual as he did not give a shit. We all finally get in formation after all our uniforms, LBV’s, canteens and rifle slings were inspected and we were waiting to stand by to march to the armory to pick up our weapons. The clouds were looking pregnant and we knew that there was going to be some serious rain to come and we waited inside in the first floor by the duty before we went out. “What that fuck are you doing motherfuckers!” Sgt. Burn said “get the fuck outside in fucking formation dick faces!” Is what he replied. We get outside in formation and just wait. We heard a thunder and “boom” is what we heard as it came with out a warning. The rain was hitting first a couple of yards behind us and the rain drops sounded like hail hitting the floor. We got soaked in 3 seconds from cover to boot and it was a rain that did not let up. We were getting so soaked that the bill of the cover looked like a little water fall falling in front of your face. All the Sgt’s were discussing inside what to do and decide who was going to march us to the armory. I guess a couple of them forgot to march or they did not do any Corporals or Sergeants courses. Anyways we were outside in this heavy ass rain for a long time while the Sergeants were arguing and had to call another Sergeant to march us to the platoon. As the Sergeant finally comes out I am freezing, miserable and sick to my stomach from last night’s escapade. As soon as I heard the “rrrrrrright, FACE!” I said to myself, “this is going to be one long day.”

Okinawa Prison (Part 9)

The infamous “Motard.”

The following was borrowed from the internet site Urban Dictionary-

Motard
A alteration of the USMC term Moto. This word is used to describe some overbearing marine who is extremely loud and obnoxious all the time. He is so motivated even in the shittiest situations that everyone wants to kick him in the teeth.

Motards yell all the time, wear clothes with USMC logos all over them, have a ridiculous amount of USMC tattoos, and use the word oorah!excessively. They also like to call cadence while they walk around when not marching a platoon. A motard is usually some private or private first class who hasn’t even been deployed.
Marine 1: “It is 0500 on a Monday morning, it is raining, it is fucking freezing, and we have been standing in formation for 45min. Can it get any worse?”

Marine 2: “Oh my god, that motard over there won’t shut the fuck up!”

Motard: “OORAH MARINES! I FUCKING LOVE PT AT 0500 IN THE MORNING! BY THE WAY I GOT ANOTHER moto TATTOO LAST NIGHT! OORAH!”

Yut yut! Oorah! Kill! Semper! Uhrrrr! Good to go! Tun Tavern! 1775! Do these words bring somewhat of a bad memory to you? Those words became part of a certain language that belonged to certain group of people. These kind of people had the same traits: stupid, motivated, pointed with their knife edge hand, had a high and tight, was usually from the mid west, had very little education, was all about criticizing uniforms, paid attention to stupid things, had no life. When I spent four years of my life unhappily in the Marine Corps I hated many things about it. But if I had to choose in a wide spectrum of choices things that I did not like with the USMC it would be too many; therefore I will not list them because I would write incessantly. If I had to choose one thing and one thing only that I hated in the Corps it would be the infamous “Motard.”

The motard was the epitome of how dumb the corps could make a human being. To me the motard is a loser usually from the mid west. This person grew up with nothing in his life. He did not play any sports, he did not travel, he did not hook up with beautiful women from around the world. He probably grew up in a farm town of about 250 population. The most this person would have to look forward to is a barn yard dance, a rodeo, or a tractor derby. This motard lived in his farm town his whole life and as a result has a very narrow aspect of life. He reserves no room for change and does not believe in the saying “different strokes for different folks.” Fast forward a couple of years, send this redneck to boot camp, give him a high and tight, give him something in his sad life to be proud of and now you have given birth to a motard.

To the motard the Marine Corps is everything. This motard had NOTHING in his life before and now he has “something.” This motard thinks that the USMC pays excellent because it is the most money he ever made in his life and now makes the decision that he is going to stay in for 20 years. Now this motard wants to prove that he is bad ass. He really wants to get promoted by being tough because he cannot do it intellectually. So what does the motard do? He starts doing dirty bitch shit like snitching on his fellow Marines that do things like underage drink, have women in the barracks, or even the ones that are dating junior ranks. This motard thinks that by snitching and correcting Marines on stupid shit will get him promoted.

I personally got out of the suck because of motards. I just could not stand them. They were so stupid. You have a nice state like CA were people are educated and professional and you have these idiots from farming towns across the nation coming over with their stupid proper civilian attires, high and tights, moto tattoos everywhere, their cars with excessive amounts of USMC stickers and they go out in town fucking everything up because they think that they are entitled because they went to boot camp or were deployed. I was embarrassed by motards because that was the image that civilians had on Marines. If a girl found out I was a Marine “and I tried very hard to hide it with my low reg and 5 o’clock shadow” she would automatically think things like “oh, you’re a devil dog? You must be stupid and just looking to fuck something. I’m not talking to you.” And on the other hand if I went to coast highway to get a hair cut vendors would approach me trying to sell me their shit thinking I was a stupid motard stupid enough to buy their stupid shit. I never wanted to be a civilian so bad.

Me and motards did not get along at all. Especially motards that go off the drill field or were going to the drill field. I remember one day I got a low reg haircut in Camp Pendleton. It was okay in Camp Pendleton as nobody said anything about it. Not even SgtMaj’s or Colonels. One time I remember I was driving down I-5 in San Diego CA to visit some family members down south and I had to stop at MCRD San Diego to get gas as it was the cheapest gas station there. I went to the gas station and this fucking old man with a mohawk, not even a high and tight, but a fucking mohawk was eye fucking me like I just had sex with his wife in his bed. I went to go put gas in my car and I could feel his stare burning through me. The motard said “who are you?!” I didn’t pay attention. “You in the blue shirt, who are you?!” I still did not turn around. “HEY IM TALKING TO YOU DEVIL DOG!” I turned slowly and said “You talking to me?” The motard then said “YES YOU NUM NUTS, I NEED TO TALK TO YOU DEVIL” I responded with “Oh, my name is not devil sir, my name is free_bird” he then proceeded to walk up and down looking at me and said “You have a shitty haircut devil dog!” I responded by saying “I just got it today sir” He then said “who you with!?” I said “Camp Pendleton” he then did the stupid DI look and screamed “OK smart ass, what unit you with!?” I gave him a fake unit and fake name and the motard proceeded by telling me “you stay right here Marine, I need to take down your name, rank, unit etc.” As the motard went to his truck to get a pen and paper I finished fueling my car and got in it and drove off. Simple as that.

I hate motards and I will always hate them. They are stupid and idiotic and perfect to be used as a tool for the government. The motard has no life as he never had one. He never learned anything in school and never had aspirations to do anything with his life. He never wanted to see the world or to travel. He never bothered to improve his English linguistic skills, never expanded his vernacular or even used proper syntax that educated people use. He always spoke with a southern country or Midwestern redneck accent and thought that if your were Mexican, black or Asian you were not American enough. To the motard his farm town was everything. He married his fat ass Midwestern girlfriend and now they live on base while the motard is at the shop screaming at Marines for having chipped chevrons his fat ugly redneck wife is at the commissary wearing some offensively revealing clothes that do not fit her and she is in the middle of the ice cream section screaming at her baby and not moving out of the way. This ladies and gentleman is 80% of the people that stay in the Marine Corps. The motards.

Stay tuned for part 10.

Okinawa Prison (Part 8)

What duty is it? CAMP SEVICES WHOOP WHOOP!!!!!

After I wrote part 7 of my series I gave a little insight about “motivation.” Now this time I was “motivated” to get the fuck out of my unit and go to camp services. I was a recently busted down private and I was sent to go to gate 1 camp services building. I went to camp services and what I saw blew my mind. In my group there was Major Ferguson who was in charge of us and was never at the office. The XO was LT. Taylor who was a cool ass LT that was always playing basketball with junior Marines. Our SNCO’s were SSGT. Barreto who was as laid back as you could imagine and SSGT. King who really did not give a shit about Marine Corps bullshit and she was always doing something with her kids. We had two NCO’s CPL. Monk who was a drunk and a partier but minded his own business. There was CPL. Ing who was actually from China and barely understood English. Now there were four other LCPL’s, one PFC and I was the only PVT. I arrived at this new duty station expecting to get fucked with. I came in and I was a ghost. Nobody paid me any attention. I got to meet the Major and he was a very nice christian guy that did not believe in slavery. I met the LT and started talking to him about the Lakers and the Celtics and he gave me a big insight about basketball, he even invited me to play one day. SSGT. Barreto had a sense of humor and when I cracked some jokes he laughed very hard. Now I saw the NCO’s were on the same level as the junior Marines as the junior Marines would not even refer to them by their rank. Only by name. My jaw dropped at how lax this unit was. I could not believe my mind. After I was introduced to the group I was dismissed on Friday at 1300! I could not believe it. I was dismissed early while my father unit was ordered to fielday and later run a boots, utes, flak run with 7-ton tow chains carried atop of the shoulders of squads of Marines. I saw that shit from far away and decided to go hang out at another Marines barracks just to avoid any flak.

I went out in town early as I did not sign the green duty book in the barracks and went out in town with out a libo buddy. I was a lot more comfortable that way as I went to Kokusai street in Naha and drank at an all Japanese bar with no motards in sight. I was in bliss. The following Monday my company was forming it up to form it up outside the barracks in the rain at 0445. I was still asleep. My roommates thought I was smoking crack because I was not getting ready but I told them that I belonged to another command and that I was TAD. Soon CPL. Briggs and CPL. Lovehandles came barging in my room and before they started to scream bloody murder I did a ninja roll off my rack, I somersaulted to my wall locker and whipped out my beautiful crisp TAD orders that I had in a waterproof plastic container and I exposed it to the two NCO’s faces just like someone would expose a cross to a couple of vampires. They quickly gasped and put their hands up to cover their faces and walked backwards and out they went. Later CPL. Briggs came back real friendly and told me that SGT. Nazi wanted to see me when they came back from PT so that I could clean a common area with the other Marines. I said “aye aye” and went back to sleep for another hour and a half while they went off to their 6 mile run. Guess what!? I slept in my cammies and only had my boots off and when I heard from a distance “ ALO RITA LAYO!!!!!! LEFTY RITA LO RIIIITE!!!!! LOOOOO RIIII LAYO!!!! WE LOVE TO DOUBLE TIME!!!!!! MMMMM YEAH, MMMMM GOOOOD!!!!!!!! MARINE CORPS!!!!!!!” I got awakened rudely and heard the foot steps from far away. I heard my company just like the Jews heard the Nazis marching in to Poland from far away with the Stuka planes and Panzer tanks. I literally felt the ground shake as my company was forming it up out side to do a cool down stretch. I jump out of my rack, put on my boots, took my cover in one had, my TAD orders in the other hand and I escaped out the fire emergency hatch that were at the sides of the barracks and I ran down the stairs and away from the enemy just like Rambo did in the movies.

Now let me tell you how great the chow hall is when nobody is there and you are the first one. I got the first dibs on pancakes, lucky charms, peaches, pears, nice hot omelets and I got to drink my favorite juice as it was fresh and in stock. I was eating all by myself in my favorite seat watching my favorite news channel with out fear of being late to company formation. I had to be at my new TAD unit at 0800 and not another minute early. I was eating my breakfast at 0700 and I made it out by 0730 while my father company was still cleaning the barracks for morning clean up. I caught the green line bus and made it to my new unit at 0750. Fully rested, fully fed, and I had time to get a cup of coffee. When I arrived I was even in more shock as nobody was there. I thought that I was at the wrong building and started freaking out and asked one of the Marines at the building if I was at the right one. He said yes and at the same time the Colonel from that building (not Col. Maximus) came in and I stood at attention and he said “carry on Marine” with a grin, shook my hand and patted me on the back. I was at the camp services office when I saw the PFC and LCPL’s roll in at 0810. TEN MINUTES LATE!!!!!!!! I thought that shit never happened in the Latrine Corpse but it did. For the first time I saw Marines come in late and not get killed for it. Later the CPL’s came in at 0820 all hung over with no desire to correct anybody but their own hangover. At 0840 the SNCO’s came in and just went to their desks to read their emails and did not even say a word. At 0900 LT. Taylor came in his basketball PT gear and went straight to his office to change over and talk on the phone. And who knows where the Major was. He was unseen. I was flabbergasted at how skate this unit was as everyone was just sitting down on couches smoking and joking.

Finally at 0930 the SNOC’s told us to look busy and gave us some 55 gallon trash bags and told us to go pick up trash around the beach line. Now let me tell you, Camp Kinser was extremely clean and there was hardly any trash at all. We all jumped in the little trash truck and drove to the beach. Then we were all walking by the beach just bullshitting, smoking and joking and laughing with no motard NCO in sight. It was bliss as it seemed like a vacation. What came next was surprise. We were off to chow at 1100 when the chow hall opened! And back to work at 1300! Two full hours of chow time and even some nap time. I was so happy to be in camp services and when we came back the office was empty and CPL. Monk told us to leave early at 1600! I was in total amazement and I thought to myself “I can get use to this!”

Stay tuned for part 9

Okinawa Prison (Part 7)

The truth about “Motivation.”

Let me give you a scenario. Say that you had a transport company that transported packages from CA to NY. You drive for hours on end non stop until you reach NY and then come back to CA. It takes two days to get to NY and two days to get back to CA. Driving four days straight on a truck will bring a toll to it. Now lets say that you had a green truck and a red truck. You really don’t want to waste your engine and tires etc. Now a rational thinker that is smart would alternate the trucks. One trip use the green truck and the next week use the red truck. That would save a lot of wear and tear for both trucks and your business would be lucrative. Now let’s look at how this business would be operated by the USMC way of doing things. The USMC would drive the red truck first and keep driving it. It sees how the red truck does a good job and decides to pile every king of job and work on it. It would drive that red truck to the fucking ground until it disintegrates and falls apart. The USMC would then junk that red truck and then commence to do the same thing to the green truck until it falls apart and it does not function anymore. The USMC will just junk the trucks and keep newer trucks shipping in and the cycle goes on and on etc.

That was the way I saw how the USMC treated it’s own Marines. When the higher ups would see a good Marine that had a good work ethic the higher ups would hold that Marine hostage and not let him take leave or go on libo or anything. If that Marine was good and he had a government license guess what? The higher ups will trap that Marine and have him do countless extra duties either in the barracks or at battalion. Meanwhile you have a “shit bag” Marine. This Marine does not do his work and does not like to PT. He is always late, his uniforms are shit and he has to get constantly reminded to shave, shower etc. The higher ups see this and say “we don’t want this shit bag, send him somewhere else. Give him a TAD or something, we don’t want him.” So then this “shit bag” gets assigned a cool duty like chow hall duty, camp guard, or armory duty. This “shit bag” works from 0730 to 1630 Monday through Friday with full chow time and weekends. This “shit bag” gets a cool duty where you just show up to work, do your job, then go home. Later when this Marine’s duty is complete he goes back to his unit and gets sent to another cool training like jungle warfare, mountain warfare, terrorism training, camp guard, or the range. Any of these cool training programs are way better than the unit as they do not know you and do not hold any grudges against you. Every time you go to a different training unit it’s a fresh start and you can get to know your higher ups on a personal level and vice versa. This causes your higher ups to respect you as a person rather than hold grudges for the mistakes you did in the past and you get to do a good job all over again. Pretty soon you have rapport with these new leaders and they motivate (not motardate) you to do your job as a professional.

Meanwhile the “shit hot” Marine that had aspirations to be a Sgt Maj like his dad or be a General one day, ran a 300 PFT, did all his MCI’s, shot expert on the rifle range, had a crisp clean uniform, always shaved, always got a haircut, respected his NCO’s, stood at parade rest whenever spoken two, was respectful to his fellow Marines, did not get drunk, PT’d on his own all the time, is kept hostage by the higher ups. This “shit hot” Marine is not allowed to go anywhere because his unit needs him. This “shit hot” Marine is constantly getting shit by the higher ups and is constantly getting endless duties for days on end. Pretty soon this Marine starts to get tired as any normal human being would. This Marine starts to see how the “shit bag” Marines never get duty because they were not forced to get a government license. Soon this Marine starts to get angry at why he gets more workload than the other Marines that do not give a shit. Soon this Marine starts to get angry at his superiors and request for some time off, leave, liberty or some other kind of duty. The superiors get angry and tell this “shit hot” Marine that he is not going anywhere. This “shit hot” Marine eventually loses his temper and fights back and argues with his higher ups. The higher ups see this and make it their mission to work this Marine to death and pile endless duties to this Marine for personal reasons rather than professional ones. Fast forward a year or two and this “shit hot” Marine is still a Lcpl with no NJP’s and never gets promoted because somewhere in the high office someone denies this Marine’s promotion. This Marine starts to see how his “shit bag” peers that didn’t give a fuck start to get promoted, and some of these “shit bag” Marines are fat and even had an NJP. Now lets look at the “shit bag” Marine that was TAD to the armory or to camp guard. He eventually gets promoted and eventually gets in charge. This “shit bag” Marine did it with very little effort. All the “shit bag” Marine had to do was show up to work and be able to pass his PFT and be able to shoot on the range. Throw in a couple of MCI’s (to which he already had the answers to courtesy of the cool NCO’s he befriended) and this “shit hot” Marine is bound to get promoted.

So you have a “Chesty Puller” Marine that is always working harder than the average Marine because he does a good job all the time. This Marine soon looses all aspirations to get promoted or to stay in because he just had enough of the bull shit. Meanwhile the “shit bag” Marine gets orders to a new unit as an NCO where nobody knows his past. He gets along with his junior Marines and even gets promoted to SGT because he stayed out of trouble. This Marine then hooks up with a money hungry babe out in town and gets married. Now this “shit bag” Marine gets to live off base, gets paid for being married and even gets his honey pregnant and gets more money for the kid. Soon this “shit bag” Marine sees how good he has it and guess what? He re enlists and makes a cool career out his military service with very little effort and is now in charge of other Marines.

Now lets look at the “shit hot” Lcpl that is now considered a “shit bag” because he hates the USMC. This former “shit hot” Marine gets tired of the bullshit, says “fuck the Marine Corps, I’m done” and gets out and never looks back. Wasted and burned out. Never wanting to talk about his military service ever again. This goes on and on all over the Marine Corps. Good Marines getting out and shitty Marines staying in. I quickly saw how the USMC treated it’s own and opted to be the “shit bag.”

I opted to be the “shit bag” because it was a lot easier. It was working smarter and not harder. Now don’t get me wrong, I did my job professionally but I did not give a shit about “espirit de corps.” I still ran my first class PFT and shot expert and did all my MCI’s but I would not do “extra” for no fucking reason at all. Especially not for the USMC. I learned the game and quickly adapted to the dark side. I became wise and saw through all the bullshit that the USMC would give it’s own people. To the eyes of the motards I was a “shit bag.” But through my own eyes I was just surviving and looking out for my best interest. I had to look out for myself as nobody else would. Nobody else would get me promoted or get me removed from a shitty unit other than myself. I would see how airmen in the Air Force loved their job and always extended in Okinawa. I would interview these airmen on gate 2 street in Kadena and they all showed me how they worked and executed their missions. They would go to work, work hard, go home and play hard and get rewarded for their effort. Marines just worked hard, worked hard, worked hard and then would go home to get fucked hard with no Vaseline. I quickly saw how the good got punished and the bad got rewarded. I quickly learned the saying “don’t volunteer for shit in the Marine Corps” and this was very true. I never volunteered for shit. If I was ordered to do something I would do my job and that was it, nothing more, nothing less and guess what? I got less and less duties and was ordered to do cool trainings in Okinawa. Even though I had one NJP I got promoted to E-4 and when I got out I was four points from Sergeant. The USMC begged me to stay in, offered me E-5, a duty station of my choice and $25,000. I still said “fuck no” to the career planner and told him that I would rather live under a bridge than to spend another minute in the suck.

Stay tuned for part 8 and I will tell you how Camp Guard saved me and my rank while my unit was constantly getting fucked with.

Okinawa Prison (Part 6)

The day I learned how to skate.

Wow! Now I am the lowest rank, in the shittiest branch, in the shittiest station of that branch. I was at the bottom of the totem pole with my recently NJP colleagues. We were restricted to the barracks, work, and the chow hall. That was it. No gym, no PX, nothing. We were like the new prisoners that were transported by a big bus into a big prison. All eyes were on us. All fingers were pointed at us as if we committed an atrocity of a crime. We were the restricted Marines of our battalion 3rd Marine Readiness Battalion 3rd FSSG Camp Kinser, Okinawa Japan, United States Marine Corps.

Restriction sucked. Period. I would of much rather been thrown in the brig. Now let me tell you what restriction consisted of. I had to sign in up at battalion every two hours. The battalion was at least two miles away from the barracks and I had to walk up there rain or shine and sign the paper that the SNCOIC had or else I would get burned. On the weekends you had to sign in at 0700, 0900, 1100, 1300, 1500, 1800, 2000, and finally 2200. On the weekdays I would sign in at 0700 if it was not a PT day, after work at 1800, 2000, and 2200. I had to walk and was not allowed to get rides, ride taxis, or even ride a bike. If the 1stSgt was a dick that day he would make us march to battalion, even walk up in fire teams. At 1800 everyday we had to do extra duties for the battalion which included sweeping, swabbing, cleaning the head and buffing the deck with a buffer for two hours. We had to do this for 60 days straight. Not to mention the PT, fielday and all the other extra bullshit that comes with a shitty unit. Work was the fun part as we would just sit all day looking for something to do and it was easy to look busy by picking up a broom and sweeping. It was going back to the barracks that sucked as the Nazis of the 4th deck were always looking for ways to administer their power.

We would walk to battalion every day. I remember it raining heavily to where my jungle boots would squish out bubbly water from the breathing holes in the side. I had to wrap my wallet in a trash bag so that it would not get wet. The ponchos were shit and they would not do a proper job in keeping the moisture out. Not to mention asshole NCO’s and SNCO’s would roll up in their car while they were warm listening to music and talk shit to us that our uniforms were not perfect or we were not marching in step and tell us to pick up the trash on the ground. Restriction was hard but Marines made it much, much harder. I don’t know if you guys know a term named “Stockholm Syndrome” but basically it’s when you are in a shitty situation for so long it becomes normal to you and later you become numb.

Being a boot ass PVT I was not used to the term “skate.” I never really knew how people skated or what they considered skating. To me I thought that skating was just a lazy person that did not want to work. But really skating is much deeper than that. Skating is when you “get” the Marine Corps and say “fuck you!” Skating is when the USMC pays money to make you do a job and you purposefully do not do it for spite of wasting the USMC money. Skating is when an NCO’s tells you to do something, you say “Oorah SGT.” pretend that you are going to do it, look back to see if the SGT is still there and then not do it. Eventually the SGT will scream and threaten but at the end of the day the SGT worked harder than the PVT and the mission did not get accomplished. I my friends learned quickly the beautiful art of skating.

I soon realized that the USMC was just an endless array of punishment, regardless of who you were or how well you did your job or how motivated you were. You were going to get punished excessively regardless. Somewhere in the Marine Corps Bible, under one of the Marine Corps commandments it says “thou shalt be punished for days on end for no reason.” I quickly got a whiff of the stink and quickly got into the “don’t give a shit” attitude. It was a lot less stressful to worry more about myself rather than my unit, Corps, or country.

The first time I wore my beautiful skates was when I got tired of marching with a platoon. I started going my separate way and would take a shortcut through the jungle by the PX and make it quicker to battalion. On the way I could hit the “roach coach” and buy me some refreshments and snacks for the 16 miles I had to walk to battalion. My NJP colleagues quickly saw what I was doing and decided to join my bandwagon. I was not rebellious, I just believed in working smarter and not harder and the USMC was all about the opposite. So I was like “fuck you USMC, I am getting mine.” After my couple of skates I went to the PX (I was only allowed to go there for haircuts). But guess what?! I would eat Pizza Hut, Taco Bell, Baskin 31 flavors and go to the PX video game section to play the up and coming games. As I walked out of the PX I saw a beautiful beach cruiser for sale. I saw a special that included a helmet with the bicycle. I bought the bike and started biking it to fucking restriction. WHOOOOOO! Was it a whole lot easier trekking those daily miles with my beautiful beach cruiser. It really had me thinking about how the invention of the wheel served society very well. Of course there was SGT. Nazi and SGT. Burn that would stop their cars and tell me to get off the bike and walk it. I would do it, but guess what? As soon as they were out of sight I would get back on, ring my bike bell and pedal to battalion.

After the first 30 days of restriction I was handling my punishment a lot better. I would use the excuse of my restriction to get me out of PT and fielday from my unit. When motherfuckers would form it up to play games they would tell me “where the fuck you going motherfucker!!!!” I would just show them my battalion sign in sheet and say “I need to go to restriction Sgt and execute my duties. Battalion is more important than Company!” I would pull that card all the time and I would get away with it. Later on me and my NJP colleagues kind of developed a clique just like the ones you see in prison movies. Later we all agreed on pitching in on taxis and riding them to restriction. This was sweet. We later started bringing snacks to battalion while we did our duties and we even got to play a little boombox while we cleaned the head. Especially if the SNCO was cool. I would use the “brown nose” method to butter up the SNCO and he would be nice and give us our duties and turn the other way. Sometimes we would just bullshit with the SNCO and get to watch whatever movies he was watching. Sometimes the SNCO was a motard that recently got off the drill field and we had to be on our toes, but I STILL managed to butter up the motard DI by simply asking him about certain drill movements and life on the drill field. I was so good at this that I even got the Colonel talking about his golden days in OCS and when he commanded a platoon in Desert Storm.

I was so good at skating that I could of seriously tried out for the Olympic figure skating team (just kidding). But I really saw the game and how it was played. I was a professional skater by now. After restriction was finally over I carried my civilian gear in my issued backpack and proceeded to change over immediately after I singed my last check in. We all called a taxi and proceeded to go to “whisper alley” to get some much needed pussy. We still managed to go to a small bar and responsibly drink without getting too wasted and went back to the barracks. I was in bliss but what came next was the lottery of bliss’. As soon as I came back to my unit my Msgt called me to his office and said that he gave me a Temporary Assigned Duty (TAD) with Camp Guard. These motherfuckers did nothing but guard armories, gates, and pick up trash (if there was any). Could you say “skate?” I quickly reached into my sea bag and brought out my beautiful skates and polished them ready for another adventure.

Stay tuned for Okinawa Prison (Part 7) and I will tell you about all the shit I got away with 😉

Okinawa Prison (Part 4)

Now last time I wrote about Okinawa, there were a lot of rules and implementations that had to be followed. The protocol here was a lot more strict since we were in another country and the threat condition was always in high alert. The garrison here to say the least was in full throttle and Marines would constantly get harassed for not cutting their hair on Sunday, having chipped chevrons, having Irish pennants, having a five o’clock shadow at 0500 before a PT run. Marines would even get charged if they had white socks in their boots. Marine Corps life on Okinawa was all about looks and detail and physical fitness.

 

There was also one thing in Okinawa that wasn’t really mentioned, enforced or corrected. There was a high case of RHIP (Rank Has it’s Privilege). On Okinawa if you were E-3 and below you were the equivalent of a slave that made the pyramids of Giza. If you were an NCO you were like a politician. SNCO’s were like kings and queens. And Officers were like the god’s that were worshiped. One thing that I don’t mind when following rules is when the one’s enforcing them set the example. What I do have a problem with is the one’s that are supposed to set the example do the total opposite and break the rules right in front of you, but they expect it to be okay due to the fact that they had the rank and the privilege. Don’t Marines lead by example? Does not the term “steel sharpens steel” take effect when telling Marines not to underage drink, have females in the barracks, be out past curfew?

 

In my company, the kings (NCO’s) were a handful, but a handful that knew how to use it’s power to the fullest. I’ll introduce you to them, our platoon Sergeant, lets call him Sgt. Burn, was a Marine that spent his whole career in division and knew how to fuck with Marines and punish them. The other Sergeant was Sgt. Nazi, this Sergeant was not stupid, he was quite intelligent. But like a lot of Marines wanting to show off their power, he was a burn happy Sergeant that would use his intellect to catch you doing something illegal and burn you to the stake for it (kind of like he was hoping to catch you). We had Cpl. Asshole, this Marine was a big rule breaker and he just got busted down from Sergeant for cheating on his wife and he was on a mission to burn Marines. The other three Corporals were Cpl. Lovehandles, this Corporal was a piece of work as he was a fat body that could not PT for shit, but yet he was trying to make up for his lack of fitness with being extremely anal retentive and looking for dirt in your room. And  you had Cpl. Briggs, this Marine was a true hater, a southern redneck, and a true to heart racist. And not to forget we had Cpl. DirtySanchez, this Marine was an underage NCO that would constantly underage drink and be off base past midnight constantly.

 

Rule breaking was very common in Okinawa. For example Sgt. Burn would have his Japanese girlfriend spend the nights in his barracks room constantly (that was against the rules). Sgt. Nazi would constantly be hazing his Marines and making them do stupid shit like IP their uniforms on the weekends, work through chow, he would fuck his female Marine girlfriend in the barracks (illegal) and would constantly have liquor in his room (illegal). Cpl. Asshole would put his hands on Marines when they were drunk, and he would go to other barracks of nearby companies to fuck their female Pfc’s and Lcpl’s (also illegal, something about fraternization or some shit) and he would constantly barge in junior Marine’s rooms without permission and start shit. Cpl. Lovehandles was a piece of work. This guy was fat as fuck and he would always be in trouble with the company higher ups because he would not lose weight and he looked like crap in his uniforms (not trying to sound motard, but he looked shitty) and he would fall out of every single PT run (again not leading by example). Cpl. Dirtysanchez was a 20 year old Marine that would always hang out with his best friend who was a Lclp. (again fraternization) and they would always go out in town and underage drink, stay past midnight and bring their girls back to the barracks with liquor bottles. And finally, my favorite was Cpl. Briggs, we knew to stay away from this guy, especially if you were not white (I am of Latin descent ) as he was always plotting a way to get you in trouble to burn you, not to correct you, but simply to hurt you. Especially if you were a minority.

 

One thing I noticed as I got to this shady unit was how all of the NCO’s had their preference when dealing with junior Marines. They had their little buddies. They had their little pets. If you were a woman, then automatically you were on their good side as they viewed you as someone that can give them something (sex). I noticed that all the rules of not underage drinking were being broken all the time. I would constantly see these pets (preferred juniors) drunk, and underage. I would constantly see these people partying in the pavilion and drinking with each other. I would constantly see Marines (junior and senior) jump the fence after midnight with their Japanese girlfriend’s.

 

As a little background about myself, I am of Latin descent. In my culture we like to drink from time to time. I grew up like that. When I joined the MarineCorps my alcoholism increased due to the stress and always watching people around you drinking and having fun. When I got to Okinawa I was 19 and strictly ordered not to drink. But it is hard to do especially when you see people stumbling down the hallway with a bottle of Jim Beam in one hand. It was hard to do when you would walk down the hallway and you would see Marines holding another Marine upside down while he’s drinking from a keg and everyone is shouting “chug, chug, chug!” I couldn’t take it anymore and thought to myself, “well, if he can do it, then I can do it.”

 

I was bored on one of the few days off that we had and I decided to go visit another Marine in another barracks. This Marine was of age and he pulled out a bottle of liquor and offered me a drink so that we could have a conversation heart to heart. After the bottle was finished I was tired enough to go back to my barracks room and go to sleep at around 2130. I made it up to the fourth deck, into my room, into my rack and I went to sleep.

 

Cpl. Asshole had a problem that day. I think Cpl. Asshole’s ex wife (Mrs. Asshole) gave him a wrong phone call or a wrong letter and he was hurt. Cpl. Asshole was drunk as a skunk as well and he was on a mission to destroy Marines with his wrath. Cpl. Asshole started going down the hallways drop kicking doors open to start shit with junior Marines, he would “Spartan kick” the doors wide open and make Marines that were watching T.V., playing video games, reading etc. To stop what they were doing, stand at parade rest and recite the general orders. If Marines failed to recite all of the orders they were ordered to fielday, get in their Charlies, do push ups etc.

 

My room was the last one on the deck and my room was going to eventually get kicked open and we were going to get fucked with. Now I don’t know how you guy’s react to being rudely awakened after a couple of shots of hard liquor but it is not fun. You are distorted and cannot think very well. Kind of like a bad dream. My other roommates were not in the room at the time and I was sound asleep in my bed. “BOOM!” Was the sound that I heard in my half awake, half asleep state of mind. “GET THE FUCK UP PFC!” Is what I remember hearing. I thought I was in a bad dream and could not properly respond to a stranger in the dark. “STAND AT FUCKING PARADE REST!” Is what I heard in the concoction of words with a southern accent. “YOU’RE COMING WITH ME!” Is the last thing I understood.

 

So what happened was Cpl. Asshole kicked my door open and he saw that I did not wake up immediately. He proceeded to keep screaming at me and kicked me in the back and I still did not wake up. When I finally woke up he saw that I was drunk and then he decided to play “Marine” this time. He told me to get dressed. He didn’t walk me to the Sergeant. He didn’t walk me to the duty NCO at the bottom of the barracks. No, he told me to get dressed, he took me outside of the barracks and walked me straight the whole two miles to Battalion with the Staff Duty SNCO to get me documented for underage drinking and get me NJP’d. He took me to where the “birdman” worked. He took me to a Staff Sergeant that just got off the drill field and was wearing a crisp, clean high and tight. Cpl. Asshole wanted to make sure that I got burned to the stake.

 

Stay tuned for part 5 of my Okinawa Prison when I saw Col. Maximus and got the ultimate punishment. The deared and feared  NinJaPunch on Okinawa.

Okinawa Prison (Part 3)

To sum up the Marine Corps in Okinawa in a few words would be like this: Marine Corps life on Okinawa was a perfect mixture of MCRD, OCS, CCU, and brig put together, with a sprite of insane asylum.

The salty Marines that were on the island for a while were not like your average Marine that you would find on Camp Pendleton, Camp Lejeune, Marine Barracks Washington DC, or Kaneohe Bay HI. These Marines had a little bit of freedom. These Marines at the end of the day could get in their cars, drive off base and see what it was like to be a normal person, even if it was only on the weekends Marines stateside can have that release from the eagle globe and anchor and at least drive away to a far away happy land, even if it took 6 hours. Marines on Okinawa were stuck on base and stuck to their barracks. Marines on Okinawa were in “fuck fuck” mode 24/7. If there was a typhoon, Marines would be locked down in the barracks and not allowed to leave period. If a Marine had to go to the chow hall he would have to wear a flak, kevlar and H harness. Even to go out and smoke or else you would be written up by the Camp Guard rolling around in their humvees.

We were pretty much stuck with each other and there was no escape. If you did not like a Marine, too bad so sad, you literally had to put up with him 24/7. The women to men ratio was about 28 men to 1 woman, so you know how bad it got and how low standards would drop. You ever remember a nasty female Marine that got hit on after a while when there are no other women around? Okinawa was ten times worse. If a woman looked like R Lee Ermey, that woman would have constantly around her about eight Marines that would do whatever she wanted. There was no pussy on Okinawa to make matters short. I remember my standards dropping so low that I tried to get with women I would never, ever in a million years get with stateside.

The barracks was much like a prison. It was not like the barracks you see on Camp Pendleton or Lejeune that looks like a cheap Motel-6 with the doors on the out side. The barracks on Okinawa had the doors on the inside, kind of like the projects in a big inner city with one way in and one way out. Right in the front was a motivated Marine with a green military notebook always checking Marines on their way out. Marines had to sign out and in on that green military notebook and if a Marine was not signed back in after midnight (he he) the Sgt would start drop kicking all the doors, wake everyone up, get us in the common lounge and chew our asses for not “looking out for our own.” As if it was really our fault that a motherfucker decided not to come back. We would stay up all night looking for this motherfucker and the Sgt would not let us sleep until that dumb ass was found. If it got really bad the CO and 1st Sgt would come to the barracks and chew our asses even more.

The barracks was much like a prison. Every deck had a fire watch of two people. One on the desk and the other one walking up and down the hallway. Of course, both of these idiots had to wear full battle gear (flak, kevlar, H-harness with two full canteens etc.). Every time a higher up would come we had to stand up and say “good evening sir/mam Lcpl. Idiot reports barracks whatever all secure at this time etc. etc. there are no unusual activities to report at this time sir/mam!” This had to go on forever and if a motivated Ssgt that just got off the drill field and came in as the SNCO of the day (you know the rest, I’ll leave it up to your imagination) there was hell to pay.

There was no escape from this prison, and yet Marines STILL managed to get caught underage drinking, fighting, stealing, or fucking in their rooms and would get burned to the stake. The higher ups would always put Nazi style rules on us and really breathe down our necks and Marines would find a way to fuck up and get the whole company in trouble. Some got in trouble cause they were stupid. Some got in trouble because they were alcoholics. Many got in trouble because they just flat out stopped giving a damn. Somewhere deep inside their hearts they just gave up playing the game, picked up a bottle of booze and got in trouble. This was the reason why so many of us had to pay the piper. It was not strange for us to do a field day for someone else’s mistakes. It was not rare for us to play that boot camp game (2 sheets 1 blanket) when a Lcpl said “fuck you” to the Cpl.

One day I remember a Marine came in after midnight one night. Me and a couple of other Marines got pretty drunk that night. The CO came the next day at 0500 and took us on an OCS style run for like eight miles or so. Now you can imagine how I felt running at 0500 for that distance with no sleep and a lot of alcohol in my system. It was hard not to puke but when the motherfucker in front of you, left of you, and right of you are puking their guts out and you smell it. You have no choice but to join it. Okinawa sucked bad, but it sucked even worse if you got in trouble.

Stay tuned for part 4 of my Okinawa prison experience when I saw the bird man and got my ass NJP’d in Okinawa, you will not believe the shit I put up with. Stay tuned.