Welcome to the Fleet
“Let me simplify the problem; we’re surrounded. Welcome to the Fleet.”
Though intended as humor, this quote sums up my military career. I served six years in the Marine Corps reserve, from 1981-87. I started out as an Admin Clerk-typist at a heavy artillery unit. I was the only female. Women Marines were still treated with a lot of suspicion and resentment, and probably more than a little jealousy, by male Marines.
At my first drill weekend the Executive Officer gave me my Welcome Aboard briefing, before launching into a stern warning, “I’d better not hear you’ve been caught climbing out of a backseat with one of my Marines,” he said, waving toward the parking lot. “I’m not going to stand for that kind of behavior.” I blinked, shocked and offended. This man had just met me and basically called me a whore; he didn’t even know me!
Also, during that first drill weekend, when we broke for lunch, I headed to the chow area. The talk quieted noticeably when I stepped into the courtyard and there was a parting of the seas, as it were. Roughly 120 Marines stood aside to allow me to pass to the head of the line. “Ladies first,” a voice from the rear of the crowd mocked. “I’m not a lady, I’m a Marine, just like you,” I said, taking my place at the end of the line.
Welcome to the Fleet.
One weekend my Battery traveled in a convoy of open-bed deuce and halves, eighty-four miles to the artillery practice range on Camp Pendleton. The wind whipped, limiting conversation, as we flew down Interstate 5. Dropping me off at the base Admin office, the rest of my unit headed to the range. Hours later we returned to Los Angeles after dark. The wind was still wicked but now it was cold too. I hunched in the open bed of the truck with a group of Marines who were also trying to stay out of the wind. While griping that we hadn’t been issued field jackets, someone found a lone field jacket folded beneath a tarp. Immediately the jacket was passed to me. “Ladies first,” no one said it out loud this time, but it was implied and echoed in my head. I refused the jacket, suggested we share it. And that’s what we did. Each of us wore the jacket for a set amount of time, before passing it to the Marine next to us. Each time I put the jacket on, it had been pre-warmed by the Marines who wore it before me.
Welcome to the Fleet.
Over the next couple years, I worked hard, maybe twice as hard as a male Marine felt they had to. In an attempt to prove my right to serve, I tried to do my job at the highest level. Often going above and beyond what was required, I routinely put in extra hours. I worked after others had left for the day and drove to the Battery Admin office off-hours, prepping for upcoming drills or quarterly inspections. Also, I was meticulous about my uniform and my personal appearance so no one could find fault in those areas and always, I refused any special treatment or accommodation. While I worked to prove myself worthy of my title of United States Marine, I regularly dodged sexual advances and gross insults in equal measure. Gradually I acquired a small cadre of Marines who seemed to accept me, grudgingly. They were the exceptions, however, and not the rule. “Will I ever be viewed as a Marine?” I wondered.
Welcome to the Fleet.
One drill weekend, I’d been in the Reserves almost a year, I took a phone call from the guard at the front gate. He informed me I had a visitor. Visitors were rare and I was puzzled, wondering who would come to see me. At the gate I recognized a former clerk with whom I’d worked in the Admin office. This Marine joined the Los Angeles police department and was undergoing basic training at the police academy. It seems he had a weekend off. I asked him how the police department boot camp was going and he said, “They all think it’s so hard!” We both laughed. He told me a little more about his training before I asked, “What are you doing here?” His response floored me. “When you first arrived at the Unit, I couldn’t stand you. I didn’t think women belonged in a heavy artillery battery.” I nodded. He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. He continued, “But then I saw how seriously you take your job, how hard you worked, that you’re always squared away and never expect special treatment. I came back to ask if I can take your picture. Those guys at the academy are always asking me what it’s like to be in the Corps and I want to show them what a REAL Marine looks like.” I rubbed the toes of my spit-shined boots on the back of each leg, wiping the dust off and stood at Parade Rest in front of his car. He took the picture. We shook hands. The guard opened the gate and I walked back to my office.
Welcome to the Fleet.
On a training deployment, our battery flew to Camp Lejeune in North Carolina to participate in a sort of heavy artillery Olympics. Groups of Marines from all over the United States, active and reserve competed on the range, firing their 105mm and 155mm cannons at distant targets while being graded for speed and accuracy. One platoon of Marines, myself included, remained on Mainside, Of course I stayed in separate barracks. Each day I walked, alone, between the barracks and the Admin office and from the Admin office to the chow hall. One day after lunch, I returned to the Admin office, walking the trail that led through the woods. I walked those paths every day. Suddenly, a Marine in a ghillie suit appeared in the thick woodland foliage, stepping onto the trail. I stopped. He was followed by another Marine and then another. Soon a squad of ghillie-clad Recon Marines blocked my path. Faces streaked in camouflage grease paint and carrying large-bore rifles across their chests, they stood between me and the safety of daylight and witnesses. “What have we got here,” one of them taunted. “Looks like a baby Marine,” answered another, in a squeaky falsetto. The ghillies moved closer, surrounding me. I could smell them. They stunk. They continued their taunts; my cover was snatched from my head. From behind me a hand gripped my hair, in its regulation bun, yanking my head back. I was shoved from behind and I stumbled into groping hands that pulled at my uniform. “What have you got under there?” a voice menaced, while laughter erupted. I shoved their hands away while my mind raced, “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!!”
We heard voices coming down the trail, the ghillies turned. I recognized the approaching Marines; they were from my unit. The two groups squared off, staring at one another. I scooped up my cover while rearranging my uniform and stepping away from the ghillies. “What’s going on?” one of the heavy artillery Marines, spoke up. “Fuckin’ reservists!” the lead ghillie spat. The groups passed one another on the trail, “glaring and swearing”, exchanging profanities and threats. We all walked back to the Admin office in silence. I didn’t tell anyone what happened and I never went back into those woods.
The morning after I was attacked, I sat typing at my desk, a stack of service record books beside me. Our Admin Chief called me from the next room; I noticed that the office was suspiciously devoid of clerks. I stood in front of the Staff Sgt’s desk, and he leaned back in his swivel chair. “Tell me what happened yesterday,” he said. I told him. He listened. When I finished, he leaned over his desk, fixing me with a steely glare. “Don’t you ever, EVER, put yourself in that position again! Do you hear me? I am not taking the goddamn hit over our ONE AND ONLY woman getting attacked in the woods!” he roared. I stared at him, hoping I looked respectful. He continued his rant and I wondered incredulously, “He blames ME for that assault!!”
Welcome to the Fleet.
Four years later I was a Sergeant and an Admin Chief; the clerk-typists worked for me now. My six-year enlistment was coming to an end, and I reported to the Executive Officer for my retention lecture. I listened impassively while he rambled on and on about my various awards and accomplishments, the highlights of my career. “You are a valued member of the Corps…” the XO droned on. I tried to look like I was paying attention, but my thoughts drifted back to a few months earlier, when I issued a charge sheet against my husband’s Platoon Leader, a Staff Sergeant, that threatened me, in front of my entire office, for refusing to go out with him while my husband was deployed. “… and we’d hate to see you go.” The XO finished his spiel. I told him I’d think about what he said, wondering if I looked as bored as he did. I returned to my office.
Welcome to the Fleet.
One month later, when the day’s work was finished and another successful drill weekend completed, I said goodbye to the clerks, shut the lights off and locked the Admin office’s door. I was crossing the parking lot when a LCpl bellowed, “Hey Sgt Allison, when you gonna let me drive your Land Cruiser?” I chuckled, waved, got in my car and drove the hour to my home. At home, I took my uniform off for the last time. I folded it and sealed it in a box.
Goodbye to the Fleet.
Allison R. DeVonna is an award-winning writer/speaker whose works have been published both in print and online publications since 2009. She grew up in California, served six years in the Marine Corps reserve while raising her family in the American Midwest and is now retired to Florida with her husband of 43 years. She is a grandmother, active in her church and serves on the board of a local women veterans’ organization. She enjoys painting, reading, working in her flower garden and continues to write daily, all while striving to provide her bulldog with the life he believes he deserves.
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