Drilling In Pride : Juveniles: Two Lake Hughes boot camps offer teen-agers who have abused drugs or alcohol a chance to learn discipline and escape the streets.

Frozen in formation, dressed impeccably in blue jeans and work shirts, they look like another generation of boys becoming men at boot camp.

But these teen-agers at camps Munz and Mendenhall in Lake Hughes haven’t come to serve America.

They are here to serve time.

They broke the law, and now the law is giving them what may be their final opportunity to escape the streets.

A boot camp for juveniles is not an innovation. What makes the Lake Hughes facilities unusual is that all of the 216 offenders have abused drugs or alcohol. The county-run program, by imposing military-style discipline and order, shows the youths how to survive in a drug-free environment. They enter as victims of a war someone else started. They leave, probation officers hope, as volunteers for another battle.

Established in October by the Los Angeles County Probation Department, the camps put juveniles through a rigorous schedule of high school classes, drug education seminars and manual labor. How long they stay--from three to six months--is determined by their behavior in classes and barracks, and on the grounds.

They rise at 6 a.m. and go to bed at 8:30 p.m. In between, they cook their meals, clean their toilets, and participate in daily marching drills. They always address their superiors as “Sir” and must await permission to pass them on the grounds.

“Discipline will bring them self-esteem and leadership skills,” said Ed Anhalt, probation director at Camp Munz. “They can feel good about themselves,” and therefore stay away from drugs and gangs, he added.

The program doesn’t end when they leave the camp. Recently, as the first stream of inmates returned home, probation officers closely monitored their progress. Whether the boot camp is successful won’t be determined for years.

“They are doing fine so far,” said Jennifer Lumpkins, a probation officer who has counseled several juveniles since their release, “but who is to say what will happen next week, or next month?”

The camps are the brainchild of County Supervisor Mike Antonovich, who suggested the concept to county probation officers last summer. Already, officials from San Diego and Cleveland are watching to see if it will work.

The youngsters who arrive here from juvenile halls or courthouses all traveled similar paths.

They skipped school to join gangs. That association led to drugs and crime, almost daily duels for neighborhood supremacy. All have committed felonies, from violating probation to armed robbery.

Sixteen-year-old Richard R. knows the pattern. He hasn’t attended school since seventh grade. Instead, Richard says, until his arrest in February for robbing a 7-Eleven store in Gardena he got high on PCP every day for three years. On the day of the robbery, he smoked six PCP cigarettes and downed a 12-pack of beer.

His arms are covered with tattoos identifying his gang, symbols of a past that won’t be easy to shed. First, he insisted that he doesn’t miss drugs. Then, eyes darting from side to side, arms flapping, he said something else.

“Sometimes I dream about them,” said Richard, who arrived in camp early last month.

Camp leaders keep track of the gang affiliations; the war can be waged here too. Inmates come from all over the county and are sent out on work details. Probation officers make sure not to assign inmates to work duty in their home neighborhoods, fearing the response of local gang members. (On a rotating basis, inmates form work crews helping with sewage or trash, earning $10 for eight-hour days.)

Recently, according to probation officers, two members of rival gangs spotted each other and nearly started a fight in the barracks. Officers jumped in immediately and made the ground rules very clear. The penalty for both: Two more weeks in camp. In a few cases, youngsters fighting in camp have been sent back to court for assignment elsewhere.

“You can either live your life free,” said Bob Stephens, the camp’s supervising probation officer, “or you can live it locked up.”

That’s the choice. If inmates fail to reform in Lake Hughes, the next destination might very well be an even stricter juvenile facility or prison.

But some don’t see choices.

“You know, on the streets, it will never be over,” said Adrian M., 16, who has belonged to a Glendale gang since he was 12. “It’s very hard to get out.”

The camps are not a drug recovery program. Most of the inmates, according to Ray Jones, who teaches drug education classes, are not addicts.

“And if they are,” Anhalt said, “the results aren’t in yet as to whether they are being helped. We hope we help them by giving them time to dry out here and be away from drugs.”

The focus is on drug education and prevention. Jones explains the harmful effects of drug addiction. For many, who consumed drugs without ever considering how they might contaminate their bodies, the information is a new, scary revelation.

“I used to take everything I could get my hands on,” said George V., 16, from Highland Park. “PCP, marijuana, everything. I didn’t want to do this program. I didn’t have a drug problem. Now I see what it does to your body. I don’t want any more.”

Jones makes sure not to steer the class to an all-out rap session about individual drug experiences. He says the dangers of opening a youngster to potential ridicule from others far outweigh any possible benefits of sharing his troubled past.

“We don’t ask them for any war stories,” Jones said. “We just want to see if there’s any awareness of alcohol or drug problems, and hopefully, it will open up a crack in the wall so that if they want to discuss it later on with us or others, they can.” Officers said many inmates approach them later to relate their drug histories.

After a few months of instruction, the teen-agers receive certificates that they’ve successfully completed the drug education class, something they need in order to leave Lake Hughes.

But they leave here with more than a sheet of paper. Or, at least, that’s what officers emphasize by militarylike discipline. The camps are patrolled by 41 Probation Department employees--most of them officers.

“They are not here for singing too loud in the choir,” said Anhalt. (Munz and Mendenhall provide the same programs.)

The staff avoids profanity and derogatory observations and stresses decency as well as order.

“We don’t degrade kids,” Anhalt said. “There’s that old approach that you have to tear the kids down to build them up. We don’t do that. We already know that drugs have torn them down enough.”

There are rules, though. In daily drills, the teen-agers learn to march in formation. Barracks are inspected every morning and evening. The inmates just received their new green fatigues, which had been delayed by the Persian Gulf War. Juveniles are only allowed to possess toothpaste, a toothbrush, deodorant, shoe polish, and no more than four letters, four paperback books, and four magazines. This is not summer camp.

“We’re trying to be as rigorous and regimented as possible,” Anhalt said. “They’re always doing something.”

There is little leisure time. They usually get a few minutes each day to play basketball or softball, and the camps sometimes show movies, although they must be pretty tame pictures. So far, “Little Mermaid” and “Top Gun” have been shown.

They also take high school classes in science, social studies and math. The high school is fully accredited, and some have already completed their high school graduation requirements. Most are high school dropouts.

“They don’t have to worry about survival the way they do in public school,” said Assistant Principal Audrey May, one of the school’s four teachers. “They can focus on learning. I saw the example today of a young man who had earned more credits than he imagined. The expression on his face was glowing.”

At first, inmates are suspicious of boot camp. They’ve seen the Army movies portraying the overzealous sergeant and the nights of cleaning latrines.

“When I heard what it was about, I tripped,” Richard said. “A lot of people said it was a hard camp. I guess I’ll find out.”

But after a few weeks they seem to become accustomed to the routine. Standing at attention, many appear comfortable with the new order in their lives.

“When I’m drilling, I do a lot of thinking,” George said. “I think about all the bad things that have happened to me, and how I can change them when I get out.”

Not everyone adjusts so readily; a few have been moved to other juvenile facilities. Officers don’t carry guns or store them anywhere in the camps, fearing the damage would be greater if the weapons fell into the wrong hands. If a gang war broke out, camp administrators say they would request assistance from other juvenile camps or the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department.

“If we are going to treat them as people,” said Larry Vangore, boot camp coordinator, “it would show a lack of confidence if we had guns around.”

Officers hope the confidence they demonstrate will prove to the juveniles that they can succeed without drugs and gangs.

“They have to accept the fact that what they’re used to is a result of conditioning,” Vangore added. “And once they do, then we can recondition them in another way.”

Once they reach the “outs”--the term inmates use to describe the outside world--the fight to stay drug-free will not be easy. Pressure from the old gang will likely be severe.

“I’m scared to face all that stuff out there,” George said. “What if I am too weak?”

Jaime L., 18, of Tujunga feels caught between his admiration for gang members and his fear of facing a life in prison.

“I love my gang, but I know it’s not good for me,” said Jaime, who was arrested for stealing a car. “If you’re in it, you have to fight for it, like a soldier fighting for his country. But fighting for my gang got me in here.”

To make the transition back to real life as smooth as possible, probation officers work closely with the inmates’ parents. Most attend weekly drug education classes held throughout the county, which is especially beneficial for adults whose own substance abuse might have been responsible for their children’s habits.

“There are a lot of parents who had no idea that their kids were loaded,” said John Ritchie, a supervising deputy probation officer. “They were just neglectful.”

Ritchie said probation officers are assigned to meet with inmates regularly in camp to see how they’re coping, and stick with them for six months after their release.

Some changes are already evident.

“He’s acting responsible,” said Elia M. of Los Angeles, whose son returned home two months ago. Another of Elia’s sons died in a gang fight in 1989. “He’s going to school. He used to just stay in the streets and stay out of the house. He used to steal and want to get revenge. I can count on him now.”

Her son’s old gang buddies have dropped by to see him, but Elia delivers a very strong reply.

“I let them know my son has changed,” she said, “and I don’t want them around anymore.”