Faith Through the Storm: Memoirs of Major James Capers, Jr.

1

SOUTH CAROLINA

As the son of a sharecropper in South Carolina, I was born on August 25, 1937. My older brothers, James, Isaiah, and Eric, and my older sister, Rebecca, had all died during their short and tragic childhood; I grew up with my two other older brothers, Roosevelt and John, and my older sister, Rosalie.

My mother, Vurly, was the matriarch of the family, a tall, beautiful lady of African, Indian, and Irish descent and a gentle, domestic woman with a fiery temper when provoked. Her fervent Christian values and strong moral compass kept her children in line and commanded respect from her husband. She was diligent at enforcing discipline and sharing compassion.

My father was a comedian of a man, and I carried his name after the death of my older brother, but for some reason, my mother always called him Gene-Harry. Humble and arrogant were a mixture of personalities that only a storyteller, such as he, could pull off. He continuously performed uproarious anecdotes to alleviate the seriousness of life. Comical as he was, he was also very protective of his family and was tender and loving toward my mother. He was a rascal of a man, but his heart was made of pure gold.

My family lived in the vicinity of Timmonsville and Bishopville, both small, rural farming communities in Eastern-Central South Carolina. We farmed around these areas, and like most black families, we moved from one locale to another, depending on the crops and the kind of crop deals we could achieve. Sharecroppers worked for the farm owner, and at the end of the year, depending on how well we did, we shared the profits with the owner. We usually didn’t fare very well and had to buy new seed and prepare for the next year.

My family grew tobacco, cotton, and kept farm animals. We raised pigs and chickens, utilizing them as staples to keep the family going. We also grew our own fruits and vegetables, which were always plentiful. There was almost always plenty of food, but we didn’t have any money, sometimes taking a hog in lieu of cash to put food on the table.

As a young child, I was never fully exposed to the horrors of our circumstances. I knew that life was hard and that we were poor, but I was protected from the cruelty and hatred that the world offered the black community. My parents shielded my siblings and me from these conditions in every way they could. We were all expected to work and work we did.

Many of the problems that black people had during the time of slavery seemed to follow them for countless years. These years, sometimes called the Jim Crow years, were a time of what many would call mistreatment. Others, however, might call it a lack of good treatment. Either way, there was a difference between being a slave and being a sharecropper, but not many Negro families were aware of this because their lifestyles, in many ways, remained the same. The biggest difference was that they were no longer forced to work the fields, but they had to work the fields in order to survive because there were no jobs for black people. Blacks were no longer sold on the auction block, but they had no choice but to break their backs laboring in the cotton fields for the white farmers while they dreamed of a better future for themselves and their children.

My parents protected their children from the harshness and cruel reality of that apartheid system as much as they could. My father insisted that I go to school, even though my chances of being anything but a sharecropper were slim to none. He always hoped for something better for his children and encouraged us do our best. Many times, he did without for us. I remember him giving me his lunch some days on his way to work. My parents tried to protect us from the world in every way they could.

My father, James Capers, Sr., left South Carolina after he allegedly committed a crime and was wanted by the local sheriff. My mother took in extra washing to augment the family income but had some kind of disagreement with one of her patrons. My father was involved in an altercation concerning the issue and was soon a wanted man. To this day, I am not sure if the crime was serious enough for him to be hung, but my father believed it was serious enough for him to leave South Carolina in order to survive.

It was arranged for him to make his way to Baltimore, and he was received into a black neighborhood and was taken care of until he was able to get a job, get back on his feet, and send for his family. The night that my father left, he hugged all of us children and then kissed my mother softly on the cheek. He looked around, took a deep breath, and slowly walked to the door. He paused, looking out the front door into the deep, black darkness that awaited him, took one more final glance at all of us crouching silently in the doorway of our tiny shanty, then he turned and left, closing the door softly behind him. We heard him climb up into the old Ford waiting outside and listened as it roared to life and moved slowly into the dark uncertainty.

Just prior to him leaving, I became very ill. Several of my older siblings had died from sickness in their early life, and my parents feared that I would be next. Before my father left, he made arrangements with a white family to take me in and care for me and, evidently, to ensure my survival. My mother told me that they had agreed to the arrangement because of the tragedies that had befallen the children in our family. They felt sorry for my mother and father and their circumstances and thought they might have the resources necessary to nurse me back to health. They took me into their home and continued to raise and care for me. They tended to me until I was well and let me stay with them for a short while until my family arranged sufficient living conditions again. By the time I went back to my family, I had learned all sorts of new and interesting things, including some unrepeatable language.

I never knew what became of that family that I lived with while I was sick or ever saw them again. What I do know is that what they did was a tremendous act of faith and was a testament to human character. Those people were not much better off than my family, but they had the decency to take in a black child and care for him during a time when it could have cost them everything they had, including their lives. This type of thing was not considered socially acceptable in those days, but they chose to help our family instead of ignoring or mistreating us. I was the beneficiary of these kind-natured and loving people. I regret that I never got to say thanks or recognize them for their contribution to my life, and I have always known that their sacrifices contributed to everything I ever accomplished and to the man that I have become. History has a way of forgetting good people and the little things they do that make our country great, but I never will.

Whoever those people were, they were obviously involved in a modern-day underground railroad. Certainly, my father had no funds, no vehicle, and no method of transportation, but he ended up in Baltimore. We surmised that the family who took me in must have somehow arranged for my father to make his way through predominantly segregated South Carolina and Virginia and then up into Baltimore which was still basically segregated at that time. Once there, friends helped him sustain himself until he could save up enough money to send for us. I have often wondered who all these people were that helped our family in our time of need, and I wonder at the noble thing they did for my father, my family, and for others as well. I am fascinated when I think about these people who had secret meetings concerning the welfare of mankind. They were unsung heroes, but heroes just the same. My father remained in Baltimore among his family and friends for the rest of his life. There had been a warrant for his arrest in South Carolina because he defended my mother’s honor, and as far as I know, my father was still a wanted man until the day he died.

2

Escape to Baltimore

The rest of our family eventually arrived in Baltimore, but it was quite some time, however, before my father had enough money to bring us all together again. Mother worked hard to sustain our family in the absence of my father. She was the glue that held us all together and the pillar we leaned on through those lonely, troubling months.

When we left South Carolina, there wasn’t much to pack. We didn’t own very much, so that made it easier to leave quickly. I just remember a rusty, old Ford Model T picking us up and spiriting us away in the middle of the night, and we traveled slowly along dark, dusty back roads through North Carolina, Virginia, and on until we were reunited with my father in Maryland. I never knew who drove the car that night, but I knew we couldn’t have made it without him. My mother didn’t know how to drive, and it was a very dangerous trip to make in those days for a young black woman with three small children. Once again, my family was the recipient of great benevolence that allowed us to escape a life of poverty and be united again with hope for a better future.

Baltimore, Maryland was like another world to me. It was bursting with life, people living closer together in the city, and there were other kids for me to play with. I loved it because I had friends there. I treasured the customs, the churches, the music, and the people. It was a time of euphoria for me. The entire landscape was an explosion of color and culture, and there were tall buildings, bridges, sidewalks, and paved streets. There were shops, restaurants, and even movie theaters, and it was all at my fingertips, and I couldn’t wait to take it all in.

All the people in the neighborhood had one thing in common. They had come from the South, looking for the Promised Land. They were running from poverty, disease, and racial discrimination. We all spoke the same language with the same accent and talked about the days down home, sharing our burdens, our sorrows, and our hopes for a brighter future. There were some who got in trouble because they couldn’t make the adjustment to city life and were forced to go back to the South, but most of the families stayed there and got pretty good jobs, and put their children through school.

At that time, the schools were still segregated, and our area didn’t have the money to fund adequate schools, so the neighborhood did the best it could. The teachers were certainly not professionals with degrees in educating young men and women, but they did their best to prepare us for the tough times ahead and the kinds of harsh environments we’d find ourselves in.

I am deeply grateful to those teachers who molded and mentored me, instilling in me so many of the same morals, values, and principles that I hold dear today. They played an important role in making me the man that I am and preparing me to endure the saga of my own life journey. I attended Harvey Johnson Junior High School and eventually received my high school diploma from Carver Senior High School in 1956. I was the first person in my family to ever do so.

3

Lessons

In my family, we were never taught to hate white people, or any people for that matter. We were taught that all people were basically the same, but some people shared different opinions and views than we did. Those people were allowed to practice their beliefs in their respected area, just as we were allowed to observe our values in our neighborhood. This made sense to me as a young child, but as I grew older, I became more and more aware of my parents’ attempts to shield me from the cruel world around me.

My parents also did their best to guard us against the harsh realities of World War II. As hard as they tried, the effects of that devastating conflict were ever present. The country was at war, and many of the men were leaving to fight overseas, and many of the women were working in the plants making everything from aircraft and bombs to tanks and rifles. There were rationing stamps for meat, sugar, gasoline, and other necessities. Everyone was poor, but we didn’t know it because we were still better off than we had been in the South. Sometimes, the Western Union would bring a telegram to someone in the neighborhood telling them that a father or son had been killed in the war. We could hear the screams of the wives and mothers as the community rushed around preparing food for the family and the funeral.

I remember hearing that Pearl Harbor had been bombed. At only four years old, I was proud that we had declared war on Japan and were fighting back. I was frightened by the large spotlights and the air raid wardens in our neighborhood. The lights burned brightly up into the sky, and the sirens sounded off, and we couldn’t go outside or have our lights on in our house. I remember being scared that the Nazis might come and bomb us in our own neighborhood. It was a frightening time for the people in our community.

As I grew older, I began to become aware of a more ominous reality, which lurked just beneath the surface of the comfort of our lives. For the first time in my life, I became aware of the fights, brawling, and robberies that had become prevalent in and around our neighborhood. For the first time in my life, I noticed the gambling dens, the houses of ill repute, and that there was a bar on every corner. I was no longer a child, but a young man. Upon this realization, my whole world changed overnight, and I finally saw the world for what it truly was.

4

Dottie

Growing up in this environment as a young teenager was difficult in many ways, but the difficulties molded and plied me into a vessel of patience, inner strength, and discipline. I was a curious boy and wanted to learn everything I could about the world around me. The high school I attended was a vocational school that prepared its students to enter the job market with a sensible trade. They taught subjects like English and social studies, but no math or science. I studied carpentry because I loved building things with my hands and using rigid tools. In my spare time, I went to the Enoch Pratt Free Library to read and check out books on subjects that ranged from the arts and astronomy to problem solving and science fiction. I was especially fond of the classics and Homer and Plato. I wrote poetry on occasion, and I loved to read Popular Mechanics . The Enoch Pratt Free Library was originally allocated to allow free slaves the opportunity to improve themselves and their circumstances, and since I was not allowed in any public library, this archive of information provided me an opportunity to escape to foreign lands, meet interesting people, and broaden my horizons.

I had a number of friends in high school, mostly young guys I had classes with or that I wrestled with after school, plus people I had grown up with in my own neighborhood. One of my very best friends as a teenager was Oliver Campbell, affectionately known as Pittman. He was a little older than me, and he was tall, slender, and very athletic. He had a confident air but was never arrogant or brash. Pittman was funny, outgoing, had a heart of gold, grounded firmly in his Christian beliefs, and was honest to a fault and always smiled easily. We met in junior high and quickly became the best of friends. He was always the one person that I could depend on, and that I shared my hopes and dreams with. In high school, we were on the wrestling team and lifted weights together at a neighbor’s house. He was very artistic and intelligent, and that gave us a lot to share and to discuss. He impacted my life tremendously, and I will be forever grateful for his devoted friendship.

I didn’t have a lot of female friends in those days. I had some that I knew from my neighborhood and church, but our classes in school were separated by gender. The only time we really saw the girls at school was between classes and during short breaks. It was during one of these fleeting pauses in our academic endeavors that my life was changed forever. As I was rambling around the schoolyard on my way to another class, I noticed a soft breeze blowing in the trees and the picturesque scene of bright, stunning flowers in full summer bloom nestled gently along the red brick building of the schoolhouse. As I rounded a corner, my senses were overtaken by the most angelic summer fragrance I had ever encountered. My eyes caught up to the scent that was so mesmerizing, and I found myself frozen in admiration. Standing among a group of young men near the sidewalk was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen in my life. She wore a subtle, blue dress that clung loosely to her charming figure and rubbed softly against her soft dark skin. Her eyes sparkled like diamonds as her hair moved slightly in the breeze. It was there, while standing motionless and lost in time, that I knew she was my destiny. After what seemed like an eternity of standing immobile and petrified, I slowly resumed my stride clumsily and awkwardly until I managed to creep by her, still longing to speak, but too unsure to stop. As I returned to class, I remember being completely confused and unable to think of anything but her.

As soon as I saw Pittman, I confided in him of my chance encounter with the cherubim who was to so heavily impact my future. He smirked and chuckled kindheartedly, but he realized that this was new behavior for me. Neither of us had ever had any real interest in girls up to this point in our lives. He questioned me almost mockingly, but I assured him that there had never been any other, nor would there ever be any other. His smile gave way to a more serious expression as he realized how serious I was, and there was never again any question in his mind that it was to be her for me.

As soon as I got home that night, I shared the incredible news with my mother and sheepishly described the young girl and the feelings I felt for her. I told her of how I thought she looked at me as I passed by. Being sort of a mama’s boy, it felt only natural to share this experience with her, but also somewhat terrifying as I awaited her reaction. Mama was receptive, as usual, and she continued with her household duties, occasionally pausing, telling me how nice it was as she smiled gently and lovingly and touched my cheek as if relishing my childhood and innocence for one last breath.

As time went on, I made every effort to see my fair maiden whenever and wherever the chance presented itself. I looked for her in the hallways at school and during breaks, and it wasn’t long before our paths began to cross regularly. One day, I finally decided to introduce myself, and I learned that her name was Dorothy Lee. We became fast friends and visited on a daily basis. It wasn’t long before she requested that I address her as Dottie as most of her friends did. Sometimes, we shared our time at length, but we were never able to go on a date because she lived in East Baltimore, and I was now living in West Baltimore. The distance was considerable since I didn’t have a car. Nobody really dated in those days anyway, but as time passed, we became even more affectionate friends.

Dottie and I became such close friends and so fashionable a couple that it seemed there was an ongoing conspiracy among the faculty and student body to hitch us up straight away.

Soon we were seniors in high school and were contemplating graduation and our lives beyond high school. Pittman and I had decided to join the Marine Corps after graduation. With senior prom just around the corner, a large group of my friends and I planned to attend together. The fellowship included Pittman, me, and of course, the lovely and elegant Dottie. As we shared fare-thee-wells and hopes for each other’s futures, Dottie and I discussed my decision to join the Marine Corps.

5

ENLISTMENT/PARRIS ISLAND

Near the end of my senior year, a Marine Corps recruiter came to Carver Vocational High School as part of a recruiting team made up of representatives from the Army, Navy, and Air Force to encourage enlistment in the armed services. This was a fairly common occurrence as the services looked to enroll graduating seniors for the provision of the American military. Like most kids, I was impressed with the novelty of the uniform and the chiseled physique of the poised and assertive Marine noncommissioned officer standing before us; however, I remember wondering why I hadn’t seen any Negro service members.

The young Marine seemed more confident and more knowledgeable than any of the other recruiters we met. As youthful, macho guys we were all immediately fascinated with the Marine’s crisp, brilliant Dress Blues accented by numerous polished, shining medals, and handsomely featured ribbons. We were impressed with his take-charge attitude and professional demeanor. His presentation, breathtaking and mesmerizing, set our imaginations in full motion as we envisioned ourselves traveling to foreign lands and basking in the glory of countless adventures. Of course, at that time, we had no idea what it took to earn the right to wear that Eagle, Globe, and Anchor emblem, what it meant to dress in those striking Dress Blues, or what it cost to display those proud, time-honored awards.

It didn’t take long for Pittman and me to decide that the Marine Corps was the place for us. We had talked about the military frequently growing up and even considered joining the French Foreign Legion at one time. I frequently regaled Pittman with the tales of the French Legionnaires, their exploits in Indochina, and their eventual surrender and capture at a place called Dien Bien Phu in Vietnam. I never could have imagined that much like that legendary Legion, I’d find myself part of an elite military unit, fighting to defend an area called Khe Sanh just a number of miles from the brutal killing grounds of Dien Bien Phu. Figuring the Foreign Legion a bit of a stretch, we readily determined that the Marine Corps would suffice. Pittman and I contemplated joining the Marine Corps and how we’d ultimately seek our fortunes.

After school, I was impatient and enthusiastic to tell my parents about my decision, but I was also somewhat fearful of their disapproval. My mother had no idea of what I was talking about and certainly didn’t approve. She had heard the term leatherneck, which she associated with the expression roughneck. She didn’t want her baby to be involved in anything of that sort, especially if it meant leaving home. Father, being the wise, seasoned gentleman that he was, seemed to be far more understanding. He’d already come to grips with the reality that his namesake would soon have to leave the nest and fend for himself. Deep down, I know he was just as concerned as my mother, but he didn’t want to let his emotions cloud my perception or influence my decision.

Graduation came quickly, and it was soon time for me to depart on my grand adventure and said my heartfelt and tearful goodbyes to family and friends. My mother was especially tender. I hated leaving her, but I was firm in my convictions and certain that it was my destiny to become a Marine. My father, knowing I was leaving to search out my own providential purpose, took me aside and said, You’re going to have to be a man now. You know what you’ve gotten yourself into, and you can do it. You will be all right. You are a Capers, and you can do anything. You’ve chosen it now. I guess what he was saying was that I had made my bed, and now I was going to have to lie in it. He encouraged on, If ten men start up a flight of steps and only one makes it to the top level, you must believe and know in your heart that you are going to be that man. What you believe, will be so. Those were the words he left me with me as I boarded the train and went off to Parris Island, South Carolina.

Before we left the train station, the recruiters took us over to a restaurant to give us a meal. I noticed that the black recruits were not allowed to eat upstairs in the dining room with the white recruits. There were only a few black recruits, and we were told that the dining room was crowded, and they only had room in the basement. I had never really been exposed to overt racial prejudice, and I wasn’t even aware that was the reason we couldn’t eat together. In those days, segregation was still very prominent, even in the North. I assumed the restaurant probably had a policy of no colored, as it was referred to back then, and that meant we weren’t allowed to eat in the dining room. They prepared a place for us down in the basement where we had our lunch. I didn’t really think much about it then, and it didn’t make any difference to me at that point because I was going off to become a Marine. At that point, I was singularly focused on arriving, completing, and departing Parris Island. All the horror stories I had heard could not deter me. I was going to Parris Island, and that was that.

Before we boarded the train, I ran into a chaplain who gave me a Bible and said, You take this, son, because you’ll probably need it before all this is over, which unsettled me just a little bit. I was very familiar with religion, growing up in a religious family, but I thought this chaplain was trying to tell me something I was completely unaware of, and that was frightening to think about.

Our nation wasn’t at war at this time, but there were events going on around the world that made me uneasy. It was 1956, and the Great War had been over for about eleven years at this point. America was still digging out of the carnage in Europe and Japan, and there were many veterans who were still suffering from tragic symptoms that resulted from the Second World War. These indications were affectionately known as shell-shocked back then before Post-Traumatic Stress and other serious conditions were identified and before the Veterans Administration was created. I knew then that the military was a very dangerous place to be starting a career, and I think the chaplain was saying, Look around you, son, because your time is coming, and it certainly did.

In April of 1956, just prior to Pittman and me arriving at Parris Island, there was a tragedy involving a platoon of young recruits who were undergoing some remedial training in the swamp. One dark Sunday night, seventy-four men from Alpha Company, Platoon 71, entered Ribbon Creek, one of the tidal streams of Parris Island. Six of those brave young men never came out of that swamp alive. They drowned in those murky black waters, astonishing and infuriating a nation. Needless to say, this was a terrifying development for Pittman and me as we prepared to depart for this fabled island to begin our training.

The national media was up in arms and openly condemned the incident, and the Marine Corps was instantly caught up in extraordinary upheaval. It was eventually decided that Parris Island was in dire need of a professional overhaul. This was the beginning of countless alterations of training methods aboard the recruit depot and marked the end of an era. From that point forward, the need for ever more attention to the humanitarian needs of recruits would shape the entire Marine Corps; this eventually led to the coining of the adages the Old Corps and the New Corps, referring to the extreme changes that would continue to plague the Marine Corps and Marine Boot Camp indefinitely. Some of the changes were probably necessary, including the end of sanctioned violence and physical abuse being visited on Marine recruits. Sure, it still went on, much as it does today, but it was less prevalent and much more controlled.

After a long bus ride, we arrived at Parris Island, and the drill instructors attacked the bus in full force. Swiftly up the steps, swarming the isle they came as if floating on air strutting defiantly over and through us. They herded us off the bus yelling and screaming, cursing profanity, and snarling and spitting out commands, pushing us with their hard bodies in order to keep from putting their hands directly on us. Luggage flew through the air as bags were dumped and snatched in every possible direction.

The night was eerily dark, and there was a familiar, foul swamp stench in the air. As they huddled us hastily into a loose arrangement, we realized we were in big trouble as the drill instructors strolled spiritedly up and down each rank and file sizing us up and breaking us down. They eagerly displayed their sincere disdain with our very existence as they chanted of our worthlessness and nastiness shouting, Stand up straight, you filthy fucking maggot! Trying to configure us into something resembling a formation. Finally, a simple, steady cadence resounded as we marched haphazardly through the cold night. We marched and the torture continued while the drill instructors persisted at working themselves into a frenzy. These drill instructors should have received Academy Awards for their acting abilities because these guys just terrified us to death and came up with the most creative and unbelievable ways to curse us out. I’d never heard such vile language! Sure, I’d heard cursing before, but these guys were experts and were proficient in the art of intimidation.

This went on for at least another twenty-four hours as they issued us our gear, gave us haircuts, and took us to sick bay for vaccinations. Of course, all of this, along with sleep deprivation, and the many other scare tactics they used, served to shock our bodies and our minds. My drill instructors were Tech Sergeant Hall who had served in World War II as a Browning automatic rifleman and Staff Sergeant Brownlee who was one of the most fearsome Marines I’d ever run into then or since. He slobbered and spat yelling profanity, and a voice that sounded like a thunderous, sickening frog. Then there was Sergeant Stark, a good man who was a little bit softer on us than maybe he should have been, but we respected him. These men pushed us to our mental and physical brink and made sure we lived each day in a sustained state of shock.

Parris Island, although horrifying in many ways, was also very exciting for me. It was my first venture out into the world beyond my neighborhood. Boot camp was a different world filled to the brim with swamps, sand fleas, diverse weather, and above all, insane people. There was always something new and interesting to see or do. We were taught the basic fundamentals of the trades of war and learning how to work together, survive, and above all, kill. We’d been snatched away from our homes and families to be taught to kill quickly and violently. We learned to master the M-1 rifle, bayonet, pugil sticks, and the .45 caliber pistol because these were all tools of our trade, and our trade was death. We also learned close-order drill because it developed discipline and attention to orders. We got up early each morning for physical training and to help us become acclimated to the weather, environment, and working as a team.

I picked up everything we were taught fairly quickly as time passed, and the drill instructors tried to weed out the weaker members of the platoon. They were usually the thicker guys who couldn’t run as fast or overcome the obstacle course; ultimately, they were recycled to the next class each time until they lost enough weight to be competitive. This meant their stay at Parris Island was much longer than mine, and I remember thinking that I didn’t know whether or not they’d be able to stand it. Fortunately, I was able to hold my own.

I had never shaved my face until I got to boot camp, so Pittman had to teach me how to do it properly to keep me out of trouble. Also, I’d never smoked a cigarette before I got to boot camp either. Every so often, the drill instructors would yell, If you’ve got ’em, smoke ’em! The recruits who smoked were allowed five minutes to go outside, sit on a little bucket, and smoke a cigarette. Now I didn’t smoke, but I figured, hey, if it gets me a five-minute break, I’m going with the rest of these guys! So I started smoking at boot camp, not because I enjoyed it, but because it gave me a little break from my tortured existence.

It was the first time in my life that I had any real contact with what was a predominantly white group of people. I found some good friends in boot camp and became close to a lot of young white men. We were all in a situation together where it didn’t really matter where we were from, who we prayed to, or what color we were because the drill instructors were going to beat the hell out of all of us anyway. We had to depend on each other to survive and to succeed. I remember how we all signed each other’s books and exchanged our contact information as we prepared to leave Parris Island. It was the first time I ever felt like I was part of a family outside of my own, and for the first time in my life, I felt like I really understood what brotherhood was all about.

Overall, I think boot camp was probably one of the most valuable social experiences I had in my life. The drill instructors broke us down, made us learn how to work together and overcome our differences, and then built us back up as a team.

It was also the most significant learning experience I’d ever endured because for the first time, I took a measure of myself as a man, discovering I could achieve anything I set my mind to. I was the outstanding marksman for the platoon, had a first-class physical fitness test, and performed well in everything I attempted. I wasn’t the best in the platoon, but I certainly proved to myself and to those around me that I could pull my weight and then some. No one saw me as just a black person; they just saw me as another young man struggling to overcome the hardships we all endured on a daily basis.

As we got closer to graduation, Pittman and I started thinking of home and making plans for our return to the neighborhood. Boy, wouldn’t everyone be surprised to see us now! It was around this time that tragedy struck. Pittman had always been like a big brother to me. He was taller, stronger, and even better looking. He was my best friend and mentor since we were in junior high school. Pittman was going to be a poster Marine. Of this, I was sure. His tall, slender physique and iron jaw was the picture of health and physical fitness. As we rose early one morning, preparing for yet another grueling day, neither of us could ever have predicted what lay in store. During training that day, suddenly and brutally, Pittman went down hard. He was writhing with pain and holding his leg. A Navy Corpsman came and helped him to sick bay, and I didn’t see him again for several days.

Over the course of the next few days, I tortured myself wondering what had become of my best friend. I wasn’t sure where he was or if he was going to be alright. Not knowing was driving me insane. The drill instructors finally informed us that Pittman had hurt his leg but was going to be okay. Unfortunately, he was going to be recycled to another platoon, so he’d be able to heal properly. He wouldn’t be graduating with us. My heart sank at this realization, and I felt lost and confused. I began to contemplate ways I could get myself hurt so I could be with Pittman.

A few days later, I finally saw him in the mess hall and was able to steal away for a few moments to speak to him, informing him of my plan to get myself hurt, letting him know I wasn’t going to leave him behind. He just smiled that cool, confident smile and assured me that everything was going to be okay. He encouraged me to finish my training and go ahead and graduate as I was supposed to, informing me that he’d be graduating in just a couple more weeks after me, and then we could get together back home in the neighborhood. With just his smile and a few encouraging words, he swept away all the fear and uncertainty I felt, and I knew what I had to do. Pittman finally graduated sometime afterwards, but I didn’t see him again for several years.

Near the end of our boot camp training, the drill instructors pulled us all into a school circle and informed us of where we’d