My Gomer Pyle

by Bart Denny

I suppose my basic training stories are like anyone else's. But I’ve got a bunch of them—probably because I was a glutton for punishment. I went through Navy boot camp in Orlando, Florida, in 1987. That was the first—but definitely not the last—training pipeline I endured in my Navy career.

Someday, maybe I’ll tell all the stories about being screamed at by every variety of Navy and Marine Corps instructor imaginable. But for now, let me introduce you to my first bunkmate in boot camp: Seaman Recruit Flannagan.

Well… “Flannagan.” That’s not his real name. And I remember his name vividly. But, given now nearly 40 years to reflect on it, I see no need to humiliate someone who may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Meet Flannagan

More than any red-rope-wearing "company commander"—what the Navy called its version of the drill sergeant back then—Flannagan was the bane of my existence during the opening weeks of recruit training.

Shortly after I graduated, Full Metal Jacket came out in theaters. Watching it, I immediately saw it: Flannagan was Gomer Pyle (Private Leonard Lawrence, played by Vincent D’Onofrio). And I was Private Joker (Matthew Modine). Like the movie, our open-bay barracks held 60 to 80 guys in long rows of bunks. And like Pyle bunking above Joker, Flannagan slept on the top bunk—right above mine.

Flannagan was a little overweight and completely out of shape. More importantly, he couldn’t do anything right. He couldn’t fold clothes, make a rack (Navy-speak for “bunk”), salute properly—you name it. And yet, he bumbled through each day seemingly unaware of how badly he was doing.

The one thing Flannagan could do was shine shoes to a mirror polish—and he charged five bucks a pair, a decent racket in 1987. But his incompetence didn’t just cost him. Since bunkmates were expected to operate as a team, I got in trouble with him. If he failed an inspection, I caught heat, too.

Welcome to “I.T.”

At the end of each day, those who lacked “motivation” got sent to “I.T.”—Intensive Training. That meant an extra workout at the base gym, accompanied by shouting, sweat, and humiliation. This was the 1980s, before “I.T.” referred to Information Technology.

Thanks to Flannagan, I got a taste of I.T. early on—and it was not an experience I ever wanted to repeat. Thankfully, the company commanders seemed to notice I was trying hard. I only got sent once. Flannagan, on the other hand, was a regular.

He’d whine about his shin splints and beg me to make his rack or fold his skivvies to inspection standards. And though my frustration with him grew, I did what I could. I tried to keep my own “stuff in one sock,” as we said, while avoiding the wrath of our company commanders.

No, Flannagan didn’t get the dreaded “blanket party”—a beating with bars of soap wrapped in towels, like in Full Metal Jacket. I never saw that happen in real life, though I wouldn’t doubt it may have occurred in earlier eras. But eventually, the company commanders had had enough.

I don’t remember Flannagan’s final screw-up. But I do remember the moment Petty Officer Miller pointed at him with utter disgust and said, “You’re going to Mini-Mo, Flannagan.”

What’s a Mini-Mo?

Ah yes, some context. When I.T. didn’t work, the Navy had something more personal: the “Motivational Tour,” or “Mo-Tor.” That meant a long, grueling one-on-one workout with a recruit company commander and an M1 rifle—just you, the rifle, and misery. “Mini-Mo” was the shorter version—around three hours, according to scuttlebutt (Navy-speak for rumor).

I still chuckle—perhaps a little darkly—at the memory of Flannagan pleading with Petty Officer Miller:

“Ma’am, if I pass Mini-Mo, can I come back to the company?”
She laughed and said, “Sure, Flannagan. If you survive Mini-Mo, you can come back.”

That night, some of the guys gathered around Flannagan, offering encouragement and prayers. Not me. Maybe they were better men than I was. But they didn’t have to bunk with him.

Looking back now, I feel pity. Flannagan just couldn’t adapt to what was, in hindsight, a pretty manageable intro to military life for anyone with a shred of discipline. But in the moment? I wasn’t hoping he’d pass Mini-Mo--to be brutally honest, I couldn't have cared less if he even survived. I just hoped I'd never see him again.

A New Start

And I didn’t. He was gone the next day. A week or so later, the Navy rolled another recruit, “Smitty,” back from another training company to fill the empty top bunk.

At first, I worried: Was Smitty another Flannagan? But no—Smitty was laid-back, simple, and a solid teammate. We never talked about why he got rolled back. In boot camp, it didn’t take much. But we got along great, and from then on, things smoothed out.

I heard later that the Navy gave Flannagan an “entry-level separation”—a quiet discharge for those who just aren’t a good fit. I hope he eventually found his stride somewhere in life. I really do.

And I’m glad his story didn’t end like that of D’Onofrio's "Gomer Pyle" in Full Metal Jacket .

---

About the Author
Bart Denny is a retired U.S. Navy officer, pastor, and seminary instructor. He writes about faith, leadership, military life, and the lessons that shape us. You can find more of his writing at BartDenny.blogspot.com.