with an air rifle were always on point. We just needed a clean line of sight and a bit of imagination.
The author was at the head of the platoon during the final formation. His size messed up the height curve, so putting him up front kept the formation looking good.
From forts, to toy soldiers, we were classic 1970s kids, riding our Big Wheels at Mach 1 down the hills. Playing chase, our version of hide and go seek, just across a wider landscape. It was the perfect environment to stretch our legs and extend our imagination.
Influence-wise there as so many places to draw inspiration. Old war movies from World War II were at the top of the list. We could not watch enough of John Wayne storming the Sands of Iwo Jima or Audie Murphy going To Hell and Back. They were inspirations for us all. We ate them up faster than a handful of Pez candies.
I remember feeling a sense of pride the first time I mounted a Challenger 4x scope on my 766. It was a huge improvement over my irons. And gave me the ability to place my shots even closer to perfection. I was hooked. Give me a scoped rifle and I would rule the landscape.
One of the first things people mention with me is my size. For the rest of the world I am pretty short: 5-feet, 2-inches tall on a good day, currently weighing about 125 pounds. In my family, I was average. We were all short. What we lacked in size we made up in volume and character. My mom’s family is a big Italian Catholic organization, with my grandmother having 14 children. Needless to say, I was surrounded by my cousins. We were a roaming pack of wild dogs back in those days. Military style discipline was pretty much the only answer to maintain law and order. We conducted drills across three cities, from Bridgeport to Stratford, up to Shelton, as we commanded a fierce army of Italian Leprechauns.
Still, I was one of only a few to join the military. Most of us were tradesman. Carpenters, electricians, mechanics, so it made sense to follow the various businesses my uncles ran. Not me, I was determined to join the Marines. I had made that decision pretty early on, around 13 years old.
Going to trade school versus a traditional high school, it was easy to meet up with recruiters. They came in what felt like monthly and by my 17th birthday I was ready to join.
Enlisting was not as easy as it might sound. First off, I had to get a ton of waivers. When I was 15, I was crushed by a flatbed truck at my dad’s shop. He was having it painted to match his show car, so all the windows were taped up. The rocket scientist he had guiding him into the bay was pushing him right toward the wall. I was outside pumping gas for a customer when I saw the truck was going to hit the wall. I walked over to the door to tell him to drive right. Turning away, I was grabbed by the bed of the truck and pinned against the wall, injuring the femoral artery in my leg. I was bleeding internally and spent a decent amount of time in the hospital recovering. I needed a signature from all involved in order to enlist. Today, I have a 10-inch scar on my right side where they replaced my broken artery.
My next issue was little tougher to overcome. I was 5-foot-1 at the time and weighed 102 pounds. That is not quite tall enough or heavy enough to join the Marines. Quotas for recruiters being what they are, it was an obstacle to negotiate and they had a plan.
The morning of my MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station) visit, I was met with a dozen Dunkin Donuts, cinnamon my favorite, and a lot of water. I was the last potential recruit to enter the doctor’s office as most of the morning I was camped out at the water fountain drinking as much as I could fit past the donuts.
On paper, I made the cut by a half inch and one pound. Slim to say the least, but the story does not end there when it comes to my height. In fact, the story of my height will never end.
For me, boot camp started exactly like the movies. I arrived at Parris Island in the middle of the night. August in South Carolina was hot and humid with a light drizzle of rain followed by an immediate swarm attack of sand fleas. While I don’t recall a lot about the first few hours, the following day I would never forget.
As we received our series orders, I was excited to go to Hotel Company 3rd Battalion. The 3rd has a reputation going back to the 1950s. Every horror story you heard about Marine Corps boot camp from Parris Island involved 3rd Battalion. The swamp marches, drowning, gators on the O Course, all 3rd. See, they are off alone, somewhat out of sight of command. It allowed the Drill Instructors a certain independence that could be considered dangerous in today’s world. But if you are going to be a Marine, there is no better place to start. Hard helps. I remember chuckling when I’d hear recruits yelling, “eyeballs” as anyone approached the 3rd Battalion area. It was a warning system dating back to medieval times.
On the first full day as part of Hotel Company, I was lined up with the other wide-eyed recruits. The Drill Instructors were taking up their assignments replaying the “Steers and Queers” scene from An Officer and a Gentlemen. In this case, times it by a factor of 10, as there was a lot more recruits and even more Drill Instructors. All of the series were there lined up with each person being singled out for any reason they could find. Me it was obvious: “Who let the grade-schooler through the gates?” I expected to be singled out. It made sense.
The first Drill Instructor to grace my presence immediately started screaming about my height. Swearing at the recruiters for cutting corners and freaking out at my answer to the question, “How tall are you?” “Sir, 5-2,” I replied. Sure, I gave myself an extra half inch, just in case. Upon my answer his fake anger turned serious and he said in no uncertain terms I was out of his Marine Corps before I even started. I know it turned serious because he didn’t walk to the next guys to start over, he walked toward the company Gunny Sergeant. He was getting me kicked out. I had no words, as it really hadn’t even begun. Before I could process what was happening, he arrived with the Company Gunny, who wasn’t playing a Drill Instructor, but took on an even more serious tone.
The question repeated, “Son, how tall are you?” “Sir, Private Galli is 5-2,” which was the wrong answer. A few seconds of muted conversation and it was obvious; I was getting kicked out before given any chance to show my mettle. The group turned and started walking away talking to each other while heading toward the officers in attendance.
This is where the world gets surreal. It happened fast, unexpectedly, and can only be described as divine intervention. As the Company Gunny was speaking to a Captain, I was launched backward off the ground. A Drill Instructor, not of my series, yanked me out of line by the collar. Behind us was India Company 3rd Battalion. And being at attention in line I never once turned to look at them, but someone was paying attention.
The Drill Instructor, to this day I have no clue who it was, reached over, picked me off the ground by the collar and pulled me out of line. He went nose to nose with me and in firm muted tones asked me again, “How tall are you?”
I repeated my answer, 5-2. He sternly said, “No, how tall are you?” At this time the Captain, Gunny and Sergeant are walking back toward me. Seeing my time was short, I replied, “Sir, I have no idea what you want, I am 5-2.” He looked at me and said, “No, you’re 7-foot-6 and the meanest motherf****** on the island.” And quickly tossed me back in line without another word said.
Seconds later, which even today feels like five seconds at the most, the Captain squared up in front of me. Flanked on each side by the DIs. The Captain, right on cue, asked me that all-important question.
“How tall are you?”
“Sir, I am 7-foot-6 and the meanest motherf****** on the island,” I replied.
A
