Dog Tags by Jim Zieler

After the first week in what is referred to as “receiving barracks” we were all assigned to our final platoons. When I got to my platoon, there were about 80 other Marine recruits who were far from being Marines, but at least most of us looked like we belonged there. Most everyone had that confident and wild-eyed look about them when you looked into their eyes. One of these recruits in my platoon just stood out a little to me. His name was Arnett. The reason he stood out was to me he looked different from the rest of us. Arnett was quiet, unassuming, and reserved and wasn’t very athletic looking at all. There was nothing in his eyes that showed much confidence or the madness needed to endure what we were about to endure. In fact to me, he looked a little weak and even fragile. I was sure, if anyone washed out of boot camp, it would be Arnett. I couldn’t imagine why he would want to voluntarily enlist in the United States Marine Corps and endure some of the toughest mental and physical training with the hope of becoming part of the world’s most elite fighting force. Arnett didn’t fit the description of the typical Devil Dog you see on the recruiters’ posters.

All the research I did and the Marines I talked to before leaving for boot camp told me that no matter what my religious affiliations were, and no matter if I liked going to church or not, church was one part of boot camp I must take advantage of. Not necessarily for religious purposes, but because church was the only place you could be where somebody wasn’t in your face screaming at you. In fact, church was so quiet you could even catch a nap if you were subtle about it or you could write a short letter or two back home. Sleep was far too difficult to come by at night and too valuable to waste writing letters so church was the best place to catch up on both. All I knew was that I was convinced I was going to church when I got to boot camp. I decided I was going to be a religious man.

At the time of my enlistment when I was 17 years old, I was far from religious but I had already attended several churches, looking for the right one. I was raised a Catholic, just like generations of my Irish Catholic ancestors were. In high school, I decided there must be something more and I began going to other churches, then back to the Catholic Church. I visited many churches but eventually became an active, baptized member of a local Christian church. I eventually stopped going because of doubts I developed, but that was my last real association with a church.

As the first Sunday at the United States Marine Corps Recruit Depot rolled around, I couldn’t wait to finish morning chow and get the announcement to line up for church. As we all stood in formation at attention on the parade deck the drill instructors walked up and down our squads screaming in our faces that none of us sorry excuses for human beings deserved to go to church because we were nothing but godless heathens. This went on for some time. Finally, one drill instructor screamed that if any of us heathen maggots did not want to attend church, we should step forward. Those who didn’t want to attend would be allowed to return to the squad bay (barracks) with an assurance they wouldn’t be harassed. Either everyone knew that was not true or all the other recruits were suddenly religious like me, because nobody stepped forward. All of us were looking forward to some religion that day. 

The screaming then began from another drill instructor who walked up and down our squads, counting us off saying, “Catholic, Protestant, Catholic, Protestant…” I figured it out pretty quickly that these were our assignments for church; which religious service we were assigned to attend. When the drill instructor got to me he yelled, “Protestant.” Even though I thought, “Anything but Protestant!,” I was not even remotely thinking about how I was going to argue that generations of my Catholic ancestors would roll over in their graves if I was to step foot in a Protestant church. For me though, at that moment in time, there was no fight, no opposition. The thought of any church was a welcoming thought. The thought of questioning a drill instructor’s orders would be insubordination and beyond insane.

After everyone was “assigned” a religion we were given the command, “Fall out!” This command simply meant to sprint to whatever assignment you were given, 100 miles per hour, no questions and no looking back. More importantly, we were made to understand that we better be halfway to our destination before the entire letter “F” of FALL OUT left the drill instructor’s mouth. Even just a week into boot camp I had mastered the ability to get gone, long before the “F” of the order rang out. As I sprinted away I could hear two drill instructors screaming at what sounded like a single recruit as 80 of us others ran in two different directions. I was assigned as the first squad leader and had responsibility for the twenty recruits in my squad. As I ran towards the place where the Protestant services were being held, something told me to turn around to see what was going on. This was much like watching a train wreck about to happen where you know better than to look at it but somehow you can’t make yourself look away. I started to doubt the need to turn around and look but something stopped me in my tracks and made me turn around to look. I found myself standing there, looking at one of my fellow recruits with two drill instructors, inches from his face screaming and berating him, asking what his major malfunction was. It was Arnett.

Arnett wasn’t just another recruit, he was in my squad and I was his squad leader. I can’t say that I stood there and watched solely because I felt a sense of responsibility for him. At that point it was something that kept me frozen, unable to look away. Fortunately for me the drill instructors were so focused on humiliating  Arnett they didn’t notice me standing there looking on. As they continued screaming at him just inches from his face, one on the right and one on the left, sometimes driving the brim of their campaign covers (Smokey bear hats) into his nose and face, all I could think of was, “Just shut up and go Arnett.” At first I didn’t understand why he was still standing there while the rest of us fell out. What could possibly be going through his mind? All I knew at the time was Arnett was in deep. Real deep.

Soon it became apparent what the disagreement was. Over the bellowing of the drill instructors I finally heard Arnett shout, “Sir, the private is a Mormon, sir!” I was almost in shock. There we were not even a full week into training where it seemed most of us wouldn’t even survive and Arnett, who didn’t even belong there anyway, was making a stand on religion. My emotions at that minute were a combination of anger and fear. Anger because when one recruit screws up, the whole platoon, and especially his squad leader pays the price.  Anger because Arnett wasn’t giving in and I just wasn’t sure how far these drill instructors were going to take this. Even then, still frozen, I couldn’t look away.

As I continued to watch, the drill instructors started to do what was affectionately referred to as “thrashing” a recruit. That usually meant ordering them to do bend and thrusts (up downs), push-ups, sit-ups, and mountain climbers at such a fast pace a recruit would form a puddle of sweat on the ground in front of his face in short time. Thrashing a recruit on Sundays was not an acceptable practice by rule, but there was no doubt those drill instructors didn’t mind making an exception for Arnett. After a few minutes, one drill instructor would shout the command, “STOP!” At that second, the recruit was to return to the position of attention and freeze. As Arnett would stand there completely motionless, except for his heavy breathing, the drill instructors would start in on him again, one on each side, like windmills in a tornado. As soon as they were quiet, Arnett would respond, “Sir the private is a Mormon, sir!” As soon as he would say that, the thrashing started all over again.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. After the first few rounds of this, fear left me and my emotions turned completely to anger. After a few more minutes, the anger left and I only felt puzzled. Why on earth would Arnett disobey a direct order? Why wouldn’t he just comply and take the fight on another day? After the last few rounds, all I could feel was absolute respect and admiration. Arnett stood there like an oak tree and didn’t budge. Everything those drill instructors threw at him didn’t shake him a bit. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. 

After what seemed like an eternity, our company commander walked up to the drill instructors and I assume asked what was going on. After a brief discussion, Arnett was ordered to follow the company commander and the drill instructors marched away. I wasn’t sure if they were taking him to the brig (jail) or what was going on. What I found out later was the company commander arranged some type of “Mormon” services for Arnett that day. The same type of services he attended week after week for the rest of our stay on the recruit depot. 

Before I was discovered, I double-timed (ran) and found the Protestant services and slipped in without much attention. I remember taking lots of naps and writing lots of letters home while I was there. I don’t think I missed any services, but I realize it was for far different reasons than what Arnett went to church for. To this day and to my disappointment, my dog tags list Protestant as my religion.

The fall-out from that incident didn’t stay with Arnett as long as you might think. Right after the incident all the drill instructors started to refer to Arnett as the “Jesus Private” and would order him to pray out loud for the platoon before lights out. Although this was really intended to be a show of disrespect to him and his religious stand, Arnett never seemed to mind. I know, that just like me, those drill instructors learned a valuable lesson about just who Private Arnett was. There was a great deal of respect earned in the hot sun on the parade deck that Sunday morning. And one very important question was answered about whether or not someone like Arnett belonged there.

Although it was another 5 years before I accepted the Gospel and joined the Church, I never forgot Arnett standing there, “bearing his testimony” to two drill instructors, and I guess to me too. When I think about how people talk about how uncomfortable it makes them feel to bear their testimonies in front of people, even strangers, I think of Arnett standing there in a puddle of sweat, as immovable as an oak tree. I’ve never seen such strength in one man. Just as they did with me and the other recruits, I watched the drill instructors break Arnett down mentally and physically over the next twelve weeks, farther than most normal people can endure. In the end they succeeded and he was changed into a hardened American fighting machine, a US Marine.  What the toughest training program in the world wasn’t able to do was change who he was or his testimony of the Church. I never saw Arnett’s dog tags, but I’ll bet they said he was Mormon.   

*names were changed