From the pages of Glocktalk:
Any Marine might enjoy this!!
Art Buchwald wrote an article in the January 9, 1994 Parade Magazine about his time in the Marine Corps and his relationship with his DI. I was going through some of my old newspaper clippings and I came across the article. If any Marine can read this without getting misty eyed, he ain't got a heart. I have taken certain editorial liberties in order to spare my old fingers, but I hope that I can capture the essence of the article.
Despite with others think, I earned my stripes as a Marine, and the Corps gets full credit for straightening me out. At 17 I was young, I was unhappy and, most of all, I was undisciplined. The Marine Corps was the right service in the right place at the right time.
It was a three-year hitch which I think about a lot, and also very painful---exactly how the Marines intend it to be.
In every marine's life, there is one man he remembers as long as he lives--and that is his Drill Instructor. The D.I. has to take raw recruits and turn them into fighting machines. He does this through threats, psychological terror, physical exercises and hazing--when no one else is looking. The whole process is built around fear.
The brainwashing never stops, morning, noon and night. No matter what you do right, you are told that you are doing it wrong. The D.I.s rip up your bed after you worked on it for an hour. Your shoes are never shined enough, your footlocker is judged to be a mess, and your replies to questions are never satisfactory. You are constantly told what a hopeless, miserable dingbat you are. Only the person who bore you could love you. The purpose of all this is to break you down and then rebuild you into the person the Marine Corps want--one who will never question an order, who all always worry about his buddy and who, someday, will walk as tall as John Wayne.
My Drill Instructor was Cpl. Peter Martin Bonardi of Elmhurst, N.Y.
Every Marine who goes through boot camp maintains in later life that his D.I. was the toughest, meanest man in the whole U.S. Marine Corps. It was no contest--mine was. Don't listen to other Marines. Trust me.
What made life even more difficult for me then for the other recruits was that I was a Yankee in a Southern platoon. Therefore, I was the perfect goat.
Bonardi never ran out of tortures. He made me clean the barracks head with a toothbrush. Then he forced me to march around with rocks in my pack, because I was brushing my teeth when he called everyone out for muster.
It doesn't take long before your D.I. becomes the most important person in your life. I was more afraid of him then any other thing. For example. When I saw the obstacle course for the first time I froze.
Bonardi tole us that we had the choice of doing it or going to sick bay and having his boot removed from the seat of our pants. It was his way of motivating us. I completed the obstacle course--not once, but twice. Bonardi never even said, "Thank you."
On graduation day, Platoon 911 marched together for the last time on the parade grounds. In eight weeks (My boot camp was 16 weeks, Deathrow) the D.I.s had accomplished their mission impossible. We may not have been seasoned Marines, but we looked like seasoned Marines. For the first time, Bonardi smiled before he said goodbye. I vowed I would never see him again. It turned out that I did.
In 1965, I received a call from George Hunt, the editor of Life magazine, asking if I was interested in going back to Parris Island to write a piece about it. I said that I'd like that, but it would be better if I could find my D.I. Pete Bonardi, and we returned together. Hunt liked the idea.
I called Marine Corps headquarters and asked for the last address on Pete Bonardi. They gave me the one in Elmhurst. I checked the telephone book and darned if he wasn't still at the address of 20 years ago.
I dialed, and a male voice answered, "Bonardi."
I said, "I don't know if your remember me or not, but this is Private Buchwald from Platoon 911."
"Yeah I do. I was sure you'd get killed."
"I'm sorry, sir, I'm still alive. I'm calling about returning to Parris Island to do a story for Live magazine and they thought it would be a good idea if you went with me. "
"I'm working at the World's Fair," he said gruffly.
"I'll get them to spring you for a week, will you go then?"
He agreed to go with me if he would not lose his job.
He hadn't changed. Physically, he looked the same. I was still in awe of him. When I was in therapy, I tried to examine all the different influence the Marines had on me. In dreams, I always had a Marine arraigning transportation for me, getting me out of jams and saving me from life-threatening adventures. I concluded that the Marine Corps figured very largely in the accounting. I also began to realize that the Marines Corps was the first father figure I had ever known. From early morning to late at night, they took care of all my needs. It was a love-hate relationship, as most father-son ones are. I mentioned this to a master sergeant who was escorting us, and he said, "fifty percent of all recruits coming through here feel the same way.
It was 25 years since I had been to P.I. Not much had changed. The only difference was that this time I was less frightened. I was also amused at the way Bonardi observed the scene. He was furious about how soft he thought the training had become
He was filled with nostalgia as we walked around. "Hey, do you remember when I caught you with your hands in your pockets? I made you fill them full of sand and sew them up, and you were carrying 15 extra pounds around for a week."
"Those were the good old days," I responded.
"You really were a yardbird," he said fondly.
For the article they put me in a platoon fo recruits who had no idea what I was doing there and never asked. I was issued the uniform, and I did many of the things the platoon was involved with.
A Life photographer stayed with me, and Bonardi went back to his old role. Some of the trauma returned. It was hard to believe that I once had been able to do all the various physical tasks on the schedule. The obstacle course now seemed like Mount Everest.
I made a pass it and fell in the mud. Bonardi yelled at me.
"Twenty five years ago, I would have hung you from that tree!"
"How could I have mad the course in the old days?" I asked him.
"Because I was always at your side, darling, saying things like, 'If you don't do it, you yellow dog from Brooklyn, I'll have you clean the deck with your tongue." What I always loved about Bonardi was that he used reason when he talked to you.
For a week I did as much as I could, but the fear wasn't there, because I knew I was leaving. I heard later that the platoon I had hooked up with at P.I. all went to Vietnam--the first Marines to arrive there. They were very, very, young--but then I thought so were we.
Bonardi and I finished our tour, and both agreed that the present D.I.s were a bunch of bleeding hearts and were turning recruits into debutantes.
We shook hands at the Savannah airport and said goodbye. We never saw each other again.
There is a final chapter to my relationship with my D.I. In 1991, I received a call from a man who said, "Your pal Bonardi is dying from cancer. He is in the hospital at Southampton, Long Island."
I called the hospital and spoke to him. He told me that he was very sick, and didn't think he was going to make the obstacle course. After I hung up, I remembered the photos taken by Life, which were in the files. I took out one of the two of us, nose to nose. I worte on it, "To Pete Bonardi, who made a man out of me. I'll never forget you." And signed it. His wife wrote to me and said that Pete put up in his hospital room so everyone could read it. The clincher was that just before he died, Bonardi requested that the photo be buried with him.
It was.
I can identify with Buchwald's story, so much so that I dedicate this little piece of plagerism to my old Drill Instructor, Sgt. Joseph Q. Cothern late of Chillocothe Ohio. May he rest in peace. I learned to be a man from him.
Thanks Joe. I hope you would be proud of me.
Deathrow
Any Marine might enjoy this!!
Art Buchwald wrote an article in the January 9, 1994 Parade Magazine about his time in the Marine Corps and his relationship with his DI. I was going through some of my old newspaper clippings and I came across the article. If any Marine can read this without getting misty eyed, he ain't got a heart. I have taken certain editorial liberties in order to spare my old fingers, but I hope that I can capture the essence of the article.
Despite with others think, I earned my stripes as a Marine, and the Corps gets full credit for straightening me out. At 17 I was young, I was unhappy and, most of all, I was undisciplined. The Marine Corps was the right service in the right place at the right time.
It was a three-year hitch which I think about a lot, and also very painful---exactly how the Marines intend it to be.
In every marine's life, there is one man he remembers as long as he lives--and that is his Drill Instructor. The D.I. has to take raw recruits and turn them into fighting machines. He does this through threats, psychological terror, physical exercises and hazing--when no one else is looking. The whole process is built around fear.
The brainwashing never stops, morning, noon and night. No matter what you do right, you are told that you are doing it wrong. The D.I.s rip up your bed after you worked on it for an hour. Your shoes are never shined enough, your footlocker is judged to be a mess, and your replies to questions are never satisfactory. You are constantly told what a hopeless, miserable dingbat you are. Only the person who bore you could love you. The purpose of all this is to break you down and then rebuild you into the person the Marine Corps want--one who will never question an order, who all always worry about his buddy and who, someday, will walk as tall as John Wayne.
My Drill Instructor was Cpl. Peter Martin Bonardi of Elmhurst, N.Y.
Every Marine who goes through boot camp maintains in later life that his D.I. was the toughest, meanest man in the whole U.S. Marine Corps. It was no contest--mine was. Don't listen to other Marines. Trust me.
What made life even more difficult for me then for the other recruits was that I was a Yankee in a Southern platoon. Therefore, I was the perfect goat.
Bonardi never ran out of tortures. He made me clean the barracks head with a toothbrush. Then he forced me to march around with rocks in my pack, because I was brushing my teeth when he called everyone out for muster.
It doesn't take long before your D.I. becomes the most important person in your life. I was more afraid of him then any other thing. For example. When I saw the obstacle course for the first time I froze.
Bonardi tole us that we had the choice of doing it or going to sick bay and having his boot removed from the seat of our pants. It was his way of motivating us. I completed the obstacle course--not once, but twice. Bonardi never even said, "Thank you."
On graduation day, Platoon 911 marched together for the last time on the parade grounds. In eight weeks (My boot camp was 16 weeks, Deathrow) the D.I.s had accomplished their mission impossible. We may not have been seasoned Marines, but we looked like seasoned Marines. For the first time, Bonardi smiled before he said goodbye. I vowed I would never see him again. It turned out that I did.
In 1965, I received a call from George Hunt, the editor of Life magazine, asking if I was interested in going back to Parris Island to write a piece about it. I said that I'd like that, but it would be better if I could find my D.I. Pete Bonardi, and we returned together. Hunt liked the idea.
I called Marine Corps headquarters and asked for the last address on Pete Bonardi. They gave me the one in Elmhurst. I checked the telephone book and darned if he wasn't still at the address of 20 years ago.
I dialed, and a male voice answered, "Bonardi."
I said, "I don't know if your remember me or not, but this is Private Buchwald from Platoon 911."
"Yeah I do. I was sure you'd get killed."
"I'm sorry, sir, I'm still alive. I'm calling about returning to Parris Island to do a story for Live magazine and they thought it would be a good idea if you went with me. "
"I'm working at the World's Fair," he said gruffly.
"I'll get them to spring you for a week, will you go then?"
He agreed to go with me if he would not lose his job.
He hadn't changed. Physically, he looked the same. I was still in awe of him. When I was in therapy, I tried to examine all the different influence the Marines had on me. In dreams, I always had a Marine arraigning transportation for me, getting me out of jams and saving me from life-threatening adventures. I concluded that the Marine Corps figured very largely in the accounting. I also began to realize that the Marines Corps was the first father figure I had ever known. From early morning to late at night, they took care of all my needs. It was a love-hate relationship, as most father-son ones are. I mentioned this to a master sergeant who was escorting us, and he said, "fifty percent of all recruits coming through here feel the same way.
It was 25 years since I had been to P.I. Not much had changed. The only difference was that this time I was less frightened. I was also amused at the way Bonardi observed the scene. He was furious about how soft he thought the training had become
He was filled with nostalgia as we walked around. "Hey, do you remember when I caught you with your hands in your pockets? I made you fill them full of sand and sew them up, and you were carrying 15 extra pounds around for a week."
"Those were the good old days," I responded.
"You really were a yardbird," he said fondly.
For the article they put me in a platoon fo recruits who had no idea what I was doing there and never asked. I was issued the uniform, and I did many of the things the platoon was involved with.
A Life photographer stayed with me, and Bonardi went back to his old role. Some of the trauma returned. It was hard to believe that I once had been able to do all the various physical tasks on the schedule. The obstacle course now seemed like Mount Everest.
I made a pass it and fell in the mud. Bonardi yelled at me.
"Twenty five years ago, I would have hung you from that tree!"
"How could I have mad the course in the old days?" I asked him.
"Because I was always at your side, darling, saying things like, 'If you don't do it, you yellow dog from Brooklyn, I'll have you clean the deck with your tongue." What I always loved about Bonardi was that he used reason when he talked to you.
For a week I did as much as I could, but the fear wasn't there, because I knew I was leaving. I heard later that the platoon I had hooked up with at P.I. all went to Vietnam--the first Marines to arrive there. They were very, very, young--but then I thought so were we.
Bonardi and I finished our tour, and both agreed that the present D.I.s were a bunch of bleeding hearts and were turning recruits into debutantes.
We shook hands at the Savannah airport and said goodbye. We never saw each other again.
There is a final chapter to my relationship with my D.I. In 1991, I received a call from a man who said, "Your pal Bonardi is dying from cancer. He is in the hospital at Southampton, Long Island."
I called the hospital and spoke to him. He told me that he was very sick, and didn't think he was going to make the obstacle course. After I hung up, I remembered the photos taken by Life, which were in the files. I took out one of the two of us, nose to nose. I worte on it, "To Pete Bonardi, who made a man out of me. I'll never forget you." And signed it. His wife wrote to me and said that Pete put up in his hospital room so everyone could read it. The clincher was that just before he died, Bonardi requested that the photo be buried with him.
It was.
I can identify with Buchwald's story, so much so that I dedicate this little piece of plagerism to my old Drill Instructor, Sgt. Joseph Q. Cothern late of Chillocothe Ohio. May he rest in peace. I learned to be a man from him.
Thanks Joe. I hope you would be proud of me.
Deathrow
![[wink]](/xen/styles/default/xenforo/smilies.vb/002.gif "Wink [wink]")
