BY CHRIS GUSTAFSON
At 17 years old, high school completed, full of the worldly knowledge that all teenagers possess, I joined the United States Marine Corps. My parents signed me over to the federal government with little hesitation, although I should have been more suspicious of what awaited me when my mother began crying (and not the normal, happy-he's-out-of-the-house type of crying I was sort of expecting). A few months later, hell began as a Marine sergeant corralled a group of us as we sauntered off the flight in San Diego.
Once the shock began to wear off-about two months into boot camp-it dawned on me that I was still in school. We were learning daily, though with physical punishment as reinforcement for the subjects of the day. One subject that was always good as an impromptu quiz from the drill instructor torturing us for the day was our 11 General Orders. Even today, I can remember standing at attention as the inspecting officer turned in front of me, barked at me to recite a general order, and stood there watching me stutter and sweat. Ah, memories!
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