Before I get too serious, below is something light I wrote a while ago regarding my little adventure in boot camp with two fellow platoon leaders. I worked hard to be one of the top graduates in boot camp but I also found opportune times to break some minor rules and cause some mischief. This is dedicated to a friend named Rhett Frandsen, a fellow entrepreneur who recently joined the Marine Corps in his ripe old late-twenties. Everyone thinks he’s crazy, but only a few good men can understand. Semper Fidelis. I studied Latin in college and semper fidelis means always faithful.

Butterfingers, Snickers, and Leathernecks

Johnson, Weaver, Huynh, Garcia, Dickerson, Troy, Hernandez, Green, Morales, Cassidy, Svoboda, Diaz. These are the names of some of the Marines I graduated basic training or boot camp with some years back.

I wonder what has become of them. We were young men from all walks of life. Are they still alive? Who died on the field of battle? What are they doing today? Are we a reflection of American society? A mix of college grads, high school dropouts, mechanics, accountants, artists, fathers, real estate agents, gangsters, lawyers, computer programmers, social workers, cooks, carpenters, taxi drivers, entrepreneurs?

The Marine Corps is always “looking for a few good men.” The men that I came to know while enduring daily physical and mental exhaustion were no different from the typical Americans I meet everyday. The only distinction was that they were willing to sign up for something 99% of the population would not even consider. I am not one for groups or groupthink, but for that sacrifice alone, those men deserve my eternal loyalty – Semper Fidelis, the Latin for “Always Faithful.”

One day nearing graduation from boot camp, I decided to break some rules. I approached two of my squad leaders and motioned for them to sneak out of the barracks with me. Ducking out of sight from our drill instructors, I held silent my pockets full of change.

“Young, what da hell are you gettin’ us into?” We always addressed each other by the last name.

“Stremple, McVay, we’re gonna get ourselves some candy today,” I said determinedly. For about three months, we had not come close to confectionery. The candy cleverly concealed in letters or care packages by family and friends was unfailingly detected and confiscated after the routine mail inspections for sweet contraband.

“Where da hell are you goin’ to get candy?”

“Have you ever seen the vending machine in the drill instructors’ quarters?”

“You gotta be out of your mind. I’m not goin’ near that place, I wanna graduate from boot camp,” protested Stremple.

“What about you McVay? You in?”

“Hell no.”

“You guys got no balls. Where’s the fun in followin’ all the rules?”

“You’re a crazy Chinaman.”

“Alright, alright, I got all this change in my pockets, we’re goin’ to do this. You guys keep an eye out and I’ll go in.”

“Are you fucking serious? You get caught and we’re in deep shit.”

“What do you want? Hurry and make your pick.”

“Snickers,” said Stremple with a little hope in his eyes.

“Snickers,” echoed McVay, “what are you gonna get?”

“Butterfinger,” I replied, “I love peanut butter.”

So we walked the five minutes from the barracks to the drill instructors’ quarters. With no one else in sight, I dashed inside and dropped my coins in the machine. I never thought about what I would do if I got caught. Collecting the Butterfinger from the bottom of the vending machine, I stuffed it with the Snickers bars inside my pocket and hurried to my accomplices waiting safely at a distance.

Now what? I hadn’t thought about what to do if we were successful. We couldn’t just eat our prizes out in the open. I spied a row of porta-potties down the road. We looked at each other with bitter beer faces but rushed towards the dreaded plastic johns. Before going in our individual porta-potties, I handed Stremple and McVay their Snickers bars.

Although the stink was typical of porta-potties, that Butterfinger was the best I ever tasted. Three months of deprivation will help you filter out your surroundings and focus on the impending sugar rush.

“Damn, this is good,” exclaimed McVay in the porta-potty to my left.

“Oh man, I miss candy. Young, you are a crazy Chinaman,” said Stremple to my right.

“Hell yeah, oorah.”

We didn’t get caught. Graduation came and we were the top graduates in the class. I got to lead the march and carry the company flag during the boot camp graduation ceremony known as “Pass-in-Review.” Stremple was first squad leader; McVay was second squad leader.

Semper Fidelis.