Barry Scanlan
US Marines
Barry was stationed at 29 Palms in the early 1970s. Following his service, he received a graduate degree in education and was a schoolteacher and, eventually, a Teacher on Special Assignment. In this role, Scanlan coordinated school safety programs, trauma response teams for student and staff deaths or suicides, drug and alcohol counseling, support for vulnerable populations, and anti-bullying measures. Scanlan is from a family of veterans, with his father serving as a paratrooper in combat in WW2, and both his older brothers serving during the Vietnam War, one of whom is suffering from Agent Orange at this time. Upon retirement, Scanlan and his wife moved to the Mojave Desert, a place he never forgot. He is an artist and has had shows in New York, Louisiana, Minneapolis, and other places around the country.
How I Lost Blood To A Horsefly And Learned I Was Fatless
My name is Barry Scanlan. I’d like to thank Mil-Tree and Hi-Desert Artists for inviting me to be part of this show.
I was in the Marines from 1972 to 76, stationed just down the road at 29 Palms. Before that, I was in bootcamp. And before bootcamp I was a scrawny 117 pound kid. We all certainly know the military is a very serious place, but there is humor, as well.
The title of my story is “How I Lost Blood To A Horsefly And Learned I Was Fatless”.
Parris Island boot camp put 23 pounds of solid muscle on me. In 94 days, I learned to shoot to kill with my M-14 rifle, how to fight with a K-Bar knife, and how to stab with a bayonet. I could run for miles and miles with 60 pounds of gear on my back, including my rifle and ammo. I could do 100 sit-ups in two minutes and pump out 20 pull-ups.
I was a 140-pound, tiny, incredible Hulk.
Often, we were in physical training, which meant running and doing various exercises, such as mountain climbers, side straddle hops, pushups, and running in place.
Between exercises, the entire platoon would be standing at attention. It was July on Parris Island, South Carolina, a good time to be an insect that bites humans. And we were wearing PT shorts.
We were sweating like dogs and getting an earful of encouragement from the three drill instructors.
—-YOU FUCKING DICKWEED PUSSIES!
___I’VE NEVER SEEN SUCH BAGS OF SHIT IN MY LIFE! FUCKING SHITBAGS!
Picking out a recruit, a DI shouts___WHAT YOU LOOKING AT ASSFACE? Then, with a hard whisper one inch from the face of the miscreant, ___Are you looking at MEEEE you scrotum mouth motherfucker?
___SIR NO SIR!
___Well I’ll be fucked! I could have swore you were looking at ME! ARE YOU CALLING ME A GODDAM LIAR?
___SIR, THE PRIVATE WASN’T LOOKING AT ANYTHING! SIR!
___DROP AND GIVE ME 50 PUSHUPS YOU ASSBAG FOR BRAINS!
As assbag for brains did pushups, a very large horsefly, the huge kind with a blue eye and a purple eye, landed on my thigh. I had to stand completely still because the drill instructor was standing right in front of me and watched the horsefly do its thing. The horsefly sawed a little hole into my leg, drank my blood, and then flew off. The DI looked at my leg and then at my face. He laughed and moved on. I quickly looked down at a couple drops of blood running down my leg.
Aside from losing blood to insects, the Marines fed me well, and I turned that food into muscle. No fat.
I know I was fatless because I had to do this training called “drown-proofing”. Drown-proofing is a method of staying afloat in the water in case you don’t happen to have a raft or other floatation device. A person can theoretically survive in water even without knowing how to swim. Evidently, from what the drill instructor said, 99% of white people and 70% of black people are floaters. He didn’t mention Asians, Native Americans, or Hispanics. Since this was 1972, maybe he felt the United States only had two legitimate races.
If you are a floater, that is good. At least as far as the Marines are concerned. But if you are a “sinker,” that pisses the Marine Corps off. A sinker is a person who doesn’t have much fat in their muscles, not allowing any air in the cells for buoyancy. In other words, if the ship sinks, you are probably going to drown for sure. And if you drown, you won’t be any good at killing the enemy, which pisses the Marine Corps off.
This is how I found out I am a sinker: The DIs told us to hold the side of a pool, an Olympic-size pool, take as big a breath as we could hold, then let go. I sank like a rock, 14 feet straight down. I stood on the bottom of the pool and looked up at my comrades, who were bobbing near the surface. After about ten seconds, I thought I better go back up and see if I did good. As I surfaced, the drill instructor grabbed me, called me various names, like fuck head, ass bag, shit for brains, dick nose, shit fuck, and scrotum face, and told me to get to the shallow end of the pool.
Out of 80 recruits in my platoon in boot camp, ten of us ass bag, shit for brains, dick nose, scrotum faces were deemed sinkers. The DIs made us float as best we could in the shallow water. They called us names and occasionally poked us with these long pokers meant to save a Marine who might be drowning in the deep end of the pool.
By October, the platoon had shrunk to 70 men; almost all of them became grunts, combat rifleman, which is the heart of the Marine Corps. But I was sent to California after boot camp to Marine Corps Base Twentynine Palms, to learn how to fix combat radios. I was in the Marine Corps for four years. And now I’m here with you guys. Thank you.