Battles Won

A boot's story

Battles Won

I pity those who have never won. In great contests, or small. That isn’t my story. I’ve had a great victory. For me any victory over fear is a lifelong battle. Simple as I am, I have seen greatness. I stood next to it. It shone on me. I saw it first hand. Up close and personal. It has moved me to my core. It leaves lessons that stay, yet the decades flee.

I remember that scripture advises us to ‘Draw near to hear’. Fortunately, this I had done, and when it truly counted. The result is this story that I will share with you. Not one bit fabricated in whole or in part.

I went into the Marine Corps because my best friend joined. He had called me some months before saying he had made up his mind to join the Marines. This, from a total non-athlete; we were never picked for any team sport anything. Ever. I said: “Steve! You fat slob. You take the elevator to go up one flight of stairs!” It was no use, he had made his mind up, so in April of 1973, off he went. I was not turning 17 until November. And like that fool in his folly, I followed. Before joining, I had kept correspondence with my friend who advised me to be able to run for 1 ½ miles and do 40 sit ups in two minutes. He hadn’t mentioned being able to do 3 pull ups also to pass the introductory physical fitness test. At boot camp I wasn’t able to do the pull ups so I got sent to the ‘fat farm’, the physical fitness platoon, for a week. That humiliation completed, I was sent to a new platoon to continue boot camp. It was humiliating to be left back, just like in school. But we take the bad with whatever else is dished up for us, when youth is full of hope. Or when it’s too late to back out. This new platoon seemed like the last one, except now I came with a label: “Pick up”. Soon I realized it was a way to further victimize me during boot camp. The Marine Corps is filled with stories of heroic daring dos. Mostly to give the impression that such may be in store for you, you lowly recruit, should you survive the ordeals to come. Not certain for me

Boot camp is not sleepaway camp. And it is not the Boy Scouts. We are not allowed to ‘chat’. I get orders; I do the assignment, quickly, without comment. Learning about other recruits is limited to whispering to one’s bunk mates at ‘Lights out!’ Don’t get caught by the drill instructor, or you’ll wish you had no tongue. This is not to say that there were zero free moments, just don’t be seen or overheard by the ‘Heavies’. Ever.

One evening, on an occasion of ‘free’ time, when we can shine brass or shoes or do other uniform maintenance, I saw a recruit go to the pull up bar that’s affixed to a stanchion behind a row of bunk beds. While I shined something, a boot or a buckle, I thought this was curious, so I watched him. Others were unconcerned, they paid no attention. This is what I saw with my own eyes: He was in his skivvies (white T-shirt, boxers and black socks). He’s a not light skinned Black man, broad at shoulders and narrow at the hips. He walked to the chin-up bar, stood beneath it, and raised one arm and hand up to the bar. It was a few inches above his reach. Then, with arm raised and hand extended, he jumped the few inches to grasp the bar. Immediately, when his body stopped swaying, with his other arm limp at his side, he did twenty one handed pull ups. No swaying, no jerking, no movement other than straight up, straight down. In total silence. Twenty. He then he let go, lightly landing. With no break he immediately changed hands, and did the very same thing with the other hand. Such that I could not tell if he was right or left handed. Finished, he landed lightly again. When he turned to go back to his bunk I noticed, no sweating, no heavy breathing, nothing to indicate that he had exerted himself at all. I said nothing, but my brain was screaming, boiling, exploding on the inside. To myself I said “That is something I will never be able to do. If these people can do that, I’m a gone, gone, goner.”

In boot camp every platoon takes a turn at mess duty. Our turn came. Once at the mess hall the chief Messman asked,”Who here can count?” Forgetting my buddy’s admonition to be anonymous, I absentmindedly raised my hand, so had Ronnie Battles, the master of the pull up bar. We were chosen to be ‘stockroom’. This turned out to be by far the easiest work at the mess hall. That mess hall, or any other I later got a ‘tour’ in (30 days, if you’re lucky). We would sweep then mop a small bit of floor next to the stockroom, and wait until some recruit would come for sugar, coffee, other dry or canned goods that were needed by officers or the chief messman. We had lots of ‘free’ time. The loading dock was right next to the stockroom. Ronnie would step out to the dock, look out into the forest, a mile past our world, sigh, then begin to sing laments, softly. But so clearly, those gospels of black churches. I’d sit quietly on a milk crate, weeping at the sound of his laments. It’s as if I were hearing Angels cry. I had nearly no religion growing up. So, much of what he sang was new to me, unheard. Yet, I could feel the spirit comfort him, and it comforted me, too. Once, after he sang a song, I said, “Ronnie, I know I’m an idiot, but why are you here?” Looking up, away and so far from there, he said ”Lord, I don’t know!”

Even in struggle the hearts of some are filled with mischief. Such was the case with one young black recruit who could imitate the voice of the black drill instructor, to a ‘T’. One day, while Ronnie sang and I sat and wept, he happened to see us without our seeing him. Mischief boy then bellowed in perfect drill instructor speak,” Get on your face, pukes! Push-ups! Ready, begin!” I flung myself into the command, frantically pushing as many ups as possible. But Ronnie has no fear, instead of diving to the deck to do as ordered, he turns to face the DI. Seeing it was not a drill instructor, Ronnie stepped to the youth, and using the mop in his hand, lifted the young man by pushing the handle up at his solar plexus and hoisting the recruit against the wall directly behind him, with one hand. I had chanced a glance, as I was frantically pushing up and I saw that it was the DI imitating recruit. So I stopped. Then I saw his feet were about 6 inches off the ground. Between the imitator and I was Ronnie. Facing the youth, whose back is against the wall behind him. Ronnie had leaned over to whisper into the ear of this suspended, young man. Barely, I heard Ronnie say something that sounded like: “This is not proper behavior for a proud black man to be doing”. With that, Ronnie let him down, and the man was changed. He never again imitated DIs. Ronnie fetched him up from mischievous youth to honorable man in one personal ‘visit’. I can only imagine his career and how that man might behave today.

Now, somehow it became known that Ronnie had a singing voice. I had said nothing to anyone. One day on a particularly long run with each recruit carrying a backpack and gear, our drill instructor grew tired. His cadence calling was getting softer and fewer. Falling off. Finally, he just said, “Battles, get out there!” and promptly went aside to rest as we rumbled by. He wore leg braces. Maybe he had childhood polio. I was surprised to hear that command, but Ronnie was not. Not missing a step Ronnie jumped out to the front of our motley crew, spun around to face us, and running backwards, began singing the cadence. He sang loud and in a good voice, as if we were just beginning the run. An infectious rhyming cheer, not the monotonous drone of the Drill Instructors. My spirits perked up instantly, as had others. Soon the troops were heard saying to the troops ahead, ” Close it up! I want to hear him!” A moment before, so many were about to drop out of the run, which is the supreme sin in USMC. Now we were gathering back into a tight formation, like when the run began. In this way we return to our barracks area. Other DIs seeing out return were flabbergasted as we came in like victors after “D” day. Really, a tight group in complete orderly control. We had never returned so energized. So totally together. He fetched up running men from fall out boys. In one visit.

Every hero has a fall, a weak point in the armor, an Achilles’ heel. My hero, too. Ronnie would not fight with pugil sticks (metal bars with padding). Ronnie won’t fire a gun. He won’t pretend to kill. It wasn’t a problem, until it was. Then the time of marksmanship qualifying came for our platoon. This comes with a badge if you’re good enough to get the score. The rifle range was several miles from the barracks, Ronnie was told to stay at the barracks, an unheard of permission for any other recruit. No one is left at the barracks in boot camp, but Ronnie was. When we got to the rifle range we were told our duties: we will ‘pull targets’ for another platoon before we get our turn to shoot. It was windy season in Parris Island, SC. We had to wait nearly an hour before we could mount targets due to the blustering winds. That went well enough, none of us got shot. That day or the next was a Sunday. We were led into the rifle range chapel. There, the preacher said to the full house, around three hundred recruits “If any of you would like to sing a song next Sunday, just come to the Altar.” When the next week came Ronnie was back with us. That Sunday morning, before the rifle range, found us all at the chapel. Ronnie sat upstairs in the back most section, I was directly behind him. The preacher repeated his offer from the week before, saying “Would anyone like to sing?” Then came the chanting. Barely, I heard it first from some of the troops on the first floor, then more, then louder, then everyone; Battles! Battles! Battles! They were shouting for him! The preacher had a pained expression on his face, trying to remember a song called Battles. Ronnie sighed heavily, saying “Oh, Lord no.” He was from someplace near Parris Island, because Lord sounded like Laud. “Oh, Laud, no.” I then did something I am proud of even to this day. Gently, from my seat in the row behind I palmed his elbow. The courage to touch this incredible being came to me at that moment from the Almighty, of that I am certain. I palmed his elbow. Lifting it, beseeching him, I said: “Ronnie, they’re all calling for you.” With that he rose, and made his way down to the Altar. The preacher was relieved to see that Battles wasn’t a forgotten song, but a singer. He then stepped back from the altar, as Ronnie approached. Stone silence fell in that place of worship. Not a sound. Standing still and head bowed, for a moment at the altar, Ronnie prayed. He then raised his head and sang How Great Thou Art. OMG! He sang A Cappella, without any accompaniment. Pitch perfect. I was thunderstruck. I weep now recalling the power of his voice. Strong and clear. Righteous and humble in the same breath. Wiping away tears, while looking about the church audience, I noticed everyone was moved to tears. Not a dry eye, not the preacher, not the drill instructors. No one. Ronnie was the only one with a dry face. From these several platoons, across the various ranks, with men anonymous to each other, he fetched up a solemn, and worshipful congregation. In one visit.

At the end of the song the drill instructors, wet faced, quickly returned to their senses. Realizing that it was unseemly for the recruits to see them cry, they quickly donned their campaign hats, which we understood to mean every recruit under that DI must get up, right now, and leave. Form up in platoons, outside. Ending our church. Spirit remains, even while our congregation does not.

All heroes face tragedy. They must be brought low by wicked, small minds. So, this is the case with Ronnie Battles: When our boot camp was nearly finished, on that last day we knew we were going to be Marines. Not recruits anymore, we received high-n-tight haircuts. Beautiful on our tanned and muscled heads. All except for Ronnie, who got another baldy, recruit haircut. Suddenly, it dawned on me that Ronnie was not going to be a Marine. That sight hurt my heart so bad to see. Here, the finest human to ever pass through this hell hole was to be further humiliated, just because they could do it to him.

Then, finally, the time tolled for our end. It came too soon, too quickly in my yestermind. It was now time to board the bus to leave boot camp. We had come young, as children. Now, in sharp uniforms, some as I with marksmanship badges, boarded the bus as men. But Ronnie did not board the bus. I was heartbroken when I took my seat. I looked out the window, trying not to be red eyed weepy to the other bus riders. There, in the crowd, in the throng of uniforms and kinfolk, was Ronnie, baldly haircut in civilian clothes. Very near the bus. Then I realized I didn’t get an address for him, or from any other boot. I was disgusted with myself. Watching through the bus window, raging at myself for this breach, but for a brief moment only for, out of the throng of people came a most beautiful black woman. A princess or a goddess. Truly, a breathtakingly beautiful black woman, who then leaped joyously into Ronnie’s arms. From that moment to this I see them as true love united.

Although I would have loved to have kept contact with this wonderful man. This model of highest ethics. This specimen with no fault. This preacher most devine. I feel satisfied that his ordeal is over.

I lost contact with the greatest man I ever met, quite likely the finest person I will ever know, but I’m better off than you, dear reader; for you’ve only just heard of him. I was there, near him. I’m here to tell you Battles Won. Here, where heart meets hands, where memories thrive Ronnie’s message is King and the Marines are just forgotten.