I Ain't Marching Any More or Less — Trumps' Parade

I Ain't Marching Any More or Less — Trumps' Parade 9/18/18
By Charles E. Kraus

Been shining my jungle boots and ironing my old uniform all summer in preparation for President Trump's Veterans Day parade.   I haven't actually worn therm for forty-eight years.  But they seem as pristine as the day I left the service.

Evidently, I can put them back in the closet.  It appears the event is canceled. Upon reflection, I think this may be a wise decision. 

I'm reasonable certain most members of of our active military would also prefer to sit this one out.  The President may have helmed a parade or two, positioned in an open convertible, waving at the masses.  The people who preceded him up and down the route, in the heat, in the cold, had a different focus.  You think it's fun to spend hours marching down the street?  Marching requires concentration, awareness, stamina and the ability to postpone a bathroom call that would make such a difference in your life.

The only genuine parade-like marching I've ever done was when graduating from bootcamp.  That took place at the Great Lake Naval Training Center, in a gigantic drill hall.   Hundreds of us newly minted sailors, theoretically in lockstep, strode the field at a fast clip. We pivoted left again and again as we reached each corner until we'd used up the four sides of the arena.

The bleachers were filled with families and friends who had come to our 'graduation.'  For many, it would be the only gradation in their lives.  It was a big deal -- pomp and circumstance at the enlisted person's level.  Bands played, people cheered, the place seemed to be bursting with pride.

Each of the numerous Companies assembled on the field was comprised of 75 men.  We were volunteers, ordinary average regular folks who'd been subjected to eleven weeks of intense harassment, intimidation, training and some drill instruction.  Finally, we were being released into the "real" Navy.

When it came to marching, we could approximate reasonable formations, advance row by row without bumping into the people in front of us, reverse course on a dime and more or less appear to be marching.  But a tentative aspect hug over such promenading.  Even after hours and hours of drilling, a novice's uncertainty lingered in our hearts.

As each company approached the bleachers, its Recruit Petty Officer In Charge (RPOC) prepared to order a pivot.  At his command, all 75 men, hopefully in unison -- were to swing left on the balls of their feet, creating a united right angle adjustment to the direction in which they had been were heading.  The choreography required your right foot to be extended as you went into this turn.

The proceedings were synchronized.  No one, no row, no section, no company, could stop, or even hesitate,  without effecting those behind.  In back of your unit was the next, and the next, all moving forward.  It felt as if we were being pursued and needed to keep stepping ahead or be run over.  There was no pause button.

The fear of not making the turn in a timely fashion, of creating what could be a thousand man pileup, became more and more intense.  We were reaching the last possible opportunity to avoid the bleachers..  The pivot only happened when the RPOC gave the command.  "To the left, hut!"  Was he going to time it correctly?  Would the “hut” come a fraction of a second too late to keep us from trampling the spectators?

I experienced the gut sensation you get a split second before an imminent car crash.  Of being out of control.  The wall was getting closer and closer.  There was nothing we could do to avoid a smash up.  But then, "To the left, hut!" was sounded inches from catastrophe.

We pivoted and marched on.  If you think we were frightened, you should have seen the looks on the faces of the guests seated directly in front of us.