The Art of USMC
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by Gene Gryniewicz When Mike Curran first approached me to illustrate his, then, work-in-progress, I was of two minds.  On the one hand, I rejected the idea without so much as a second thought.  I could feel the little hairs at the back of my neck stand up on end ... I was of a different experience than Mike and the people he interviewed.  I had protested the military vigorously in my youth -- all military, any military ... though, mostly, the Vietnam-era military. "Hell no!  We won't go!" continued

On the other hand, I had second thoughts.  I read the mauscript of Uncle Sam's Misguided Children ... .   I was impressed that Mike had not written a glorifying treatment of the military industrial complex.  He had, instead, penned a sad/humourous memoir of survival.

I could deal with that.

The DIs were the bad guys -- not a John Wayne in the bunch.  More caricature than character.  And that's how I drew them.  All wide mouth and wild eyes.   "My!  What big teeth you have, Granma!"   Bullies with attitude.

And the little guys?  The Mike Currans and Michael Kerns were the new kids on the block.  More than a bit naive, but fast learners.  They seemed to be not so much trying to prove themselves as to endure the proving.  Can you say 'Survivors?'

My initial roughs were pencils only, eventually inked to a crisp black and white.   The pictures that accompany the book ... .  I tried to allow a sense of movement to envelope each picture; to make it more than a quick snapshot.

With the computer, however, and this website, I found I could take the pictures a little further ... then a little further still ... .  I added colour, and texture.  More of the movement with which I'd only dallied in black and white.  I/they gained depth.  Caricature grew into character.

AND HAVE A BLOODY GOOD DAY! We had one week to go before the General’s Inspection. That comes about two days prior to graduation from Marine Boot Camp. So for a week straight we got everything ready as a platoon and as individuals. As a group they would score us on drilling with rifles, marching, and the total scores in the physical arena. Then on a personal level they would check our rifles, ask us about the Code of Conduct, the rules of engagement, and who the Commandant of the Marine Corps was. Or bunks would be checked and our display of equipment and uniforms had to be just perfect for the IG. If I had thought the drill instructors were picky before...that was nothing compared to getting ready for this inspection. One reason that it was so important was because many of the drill instructors were lifer’s. That meant that the scores received during the inspection had a direct result on the promotions of many of the drill instructors.

So we were having our final dress rehearsal. The Platoon Commander, Sgt. Evans, did the walk through of the barracks. He was checking each and every bunk display. Eighty of us boots sat on our buckets studying the Code of Conduct while this inspection took place. If he called out anybody’s name..you knew they were in big trouble. "Pvt. Bell!", screamed Sgt. Evans. Of course the chorus of recruits repeated his call. You could hear more yelling and swearing as the recruit entered the hut. I was quite confident that my display was perfect...I had gone over it many, many times. Belt buckles were shined and turn in the right direction. My boots, shoes, and cover brim were spit shined to perfection. My dirty clothes laundry bag was hanging at the correct corner of the bunk. "Pvt. Kerns!" Evans shouted at the top of his lungs. I felt a chill; I definitely had goose bumps of fear. I was perplexed as I double-timed to the hut. I knew everything was just damn perfect.

I arrived in what must have been a world’s record for a sprint. "Sir, Pvt. Kerns, Sir!" I blurted out. I was bewildered. I was absolutely sure that I had prepared for this inspection perfectly. Because I wasn’t allowed to move my eyeballs, I used my peripheral vision to check out my bunk. I had a glimpse of my dirty clothes strewn all over my perfect display on the mattress.

My attention was abruptly brought back to the platoon commander by his death defying scream. "Do you want me to go to jail, Boy?" Besides shaking the only thing I recall was staring into his blood shot eyes and spit shooting from his lips into my face. Like a lawyer in court, he held up the evidence for me to see with his right hand. It was a pair of socks. Although they weren’t dirty, they were in my dirty clothes bag. Instinctively I realized what they were and what crime I had committed. That was the pair of socks that I was wearing the day we stenciled out our name with ink on all of our clothes. I forgot to take them off and mark my name on them. This oversight was on par with insulting this guy’s mother on national television.

"Well....do you?", he literally spit out the words. Before I had a chance to respond his left fist came arcing around from the side. I saw it just in time to turn to see what it was. That was a grave mistake. Instead of getting clipped on the cheek bone, I unfortunately sacrificed my nose.

Besides feeling an instant numbness in my nose I also felt the thud of my head hitting the steel support beam directly behind me. I never saw stars like most people talk about when they get punched. But I sure did see lights......different colors and different shapes everywhere. I think it was at that point that I began to dislike the State of California. I know it’s unreasonable but I equate California with boot camp....to me it’s all one thing lumped together.

The platoon commander must of had a twinge of worry about my condition. He perhaps was afraid that he broke my nose...miraculously he didn’t. But the consoling words pored from his mouth. "Get your ass outta my sight, Puke. Get ready for chow," he said for the first time without yelling at the top of his lungs. "And, Pvt., if anybody asks, you tripped over a foot locker like the clumsy son of bitch that you are!" I was shocked and still pissed off. I never had a drill instructor speak to me so nicely. Yet, I wanted this idiot to get his ass in a bind for a change.

We marched to the mess hall. I cleaned up my face a bit but left the shirt as bloody as it was...I didn’t wipe anything off. The Officer of the Day spotted me in line at the mess hall. He inquired about my appearance.

I may have been pissed off, but I’m not stupid. Getting this D.I. in trouble would have caused me more grief than I ever could have imagined.

"Sir! The private tripped over his foot locker, Sir!" I answered like a good little robot. He knew, and of course I knew, what happened. It was just another day at Marine Corps Boot Camp.

I enjoyed my work on USMC.   It proved precisely the challenge I'd hoped it would be.  Its pictures suffered the energies I put to them gladly, I think.  And they are stepstones, I think, also. to a greater understanding of -- at least -- my art.  Touchstones call them.