Dave Easton

The Bucket

I don’t know about the rest of the Marine Corps, but speaking for the members of recruit platoon #65, we will never see a bucket that doesn’t stir a host of memories. Of course it has to look like the buckets we were issued at Parris Island. They were the good old fashioned, galvanized metal type with a sturdy wire handle, and they became a big part of our daily existence and a valued piece of equipment.

Our buckets were given to us as we were herded through the line where we were issued clothes, shoes, towels, and all manner of things. As I recall, the instructions were to place only specific items in the bucket. Since everything we were given was going to the same place, I suspect this was just a ploy to give the D.I. something to holler about if they found an unauthorized item in a bucket.

Once the issue was complete, we were formed up in ranks. We each had a sea bag on one shoulder and a bucket hanging from the opposite hand as we were marched back to where we were billeted.

We lived in tents because there were so many recruits on the base early in 1951 there were no barracks available. The boot camp cycle itself had been shortened to eight weeks to meet the needs of the Corps in responding to the Korean conflict. What was given up in duration was made up for in intensity.

The tents accommodated six men on cots around the perimeter. There was a wooden floor with an oil-fired potbellied stove in the center. There was a so-called company street between the two facing rows of tents which housed our platoon. Anywhere else the street would have been called a boardwalk, but if the D.I. said it was a street, by God, I’ll have to fight the first man who says otherwise. This street frequently iced over in the January mornings in South Carolina. This made it somewhat treacherous when falling out early in the mornings. Since reveille went at 0400 hours, we learned a lot about early in the morning.

Buckets were the only authorized seating in our tents, nay, in our existence. Cots were made up immediately upon arising at 4 a.m., and it was forbidden to sit or lie on them again before lights out at 10 p.m. It didn’t matter what the size or shape of your hind end was—if you were to sit, your ass better fit the bottom of your bucket.

When we were scheduled for a class or a lecture, the word was always passed to fall out with buckets. The buckets were our seating in class. Given free time to write letters, shine shoes, clean weapons, etc., all of the above were done sitting on your bucket.

Buckets also held sand, and by coincidence, South Carolina seemed to be made up mostly of sand. I suspect it was so to provide a home for the sand fleas that lived there and fed on Marine recruits. In any case, if the platoon or an individual “boot” incurred the wrath of the D.I. it frequently resulted in an impromptu exercise session. These sessions involved a bucket of sand being hoisted, lowered, or carried in an assortment of uncomfortable positions for inordinately long periods of time. Of course, at the end of each such session there would be a bucket inspection to satisfy the drill instructors that every single grain of sand had been put back on the surface of South Carolina and that not a single grain remained either inside or was clinging to the outside of any bucket in the platoon. The discovery of a “dirty” bucket would usually result in a repeat of the exercise session, followed by another inspection. This could go on as long as the D.I. wanted it to.

The bucket also played a role in demonstrations conducted to educate us on the folly of not following orders.

We were given orders to shave every morning. It was totally irrelevant if you had a beard or not, you would shave. The Drill Instructors philosophy on this was that despite all the odds against it happening, he just might make men and Marines out of a few of us, and we would then need to know how to shave. There were those among us who either didn’t take this philosophy to heart or were entirely too casual with the result of their morning effort. If a D.I. decided that either of the mortal sins described above had been committed, the sinner was sent to his tent with orders to return with his razor and, yep, his bucket.  On the double! The platoon was put at “parade rest” while the guilty party was called front and center. There his bucket was placed over his head and with his non- dominant hand he was ordered to take a strain on the handle. He was then ordered to reach up under the bucket and commence shaving. After a stroke or two, the next command given to the shaver was “mark time, double time, march.” When their faces healed these guys were faithful shavers for the rest of their time in Boot Camp.

The bucket also played a role in demonstrating the perils of non-compliance with or disobeying an order. In boot camp it was forbidden to smoke unless the D.I. gave express permission for each cigarette. He would do so by calling a formation and announcing “The smoking lamp is lit, smoke ’em if you got ’em.” Again, there were doubters among us that this was really a rule, and if so, it certainly didn’t apply to them.  Uh-huh, did too. Being caught smoking without permission also resulted in the violator being sent for his bucket. Instead of his razor he was to bring a full pack of cigarettes. Again, the platoon was put at parade rest, the smoker was called front and center and his bucket was placed over his head. He was then ordered to smoke twenty consecutive cigarettes under the bucket.

What surprises me today is that I have absolutely no recollection of what I did with that bucket when I left Parris Island. I do believe if I could lay my hands on it I might have it bronzed and mounted on a base. The inscription would read something like: “This is my bucket. There are many like it but this one is mine, etc., etc.”