you in?”
“One, Drill Instructor.”
“Oh shit. Recruit McDougal, get your ass over here.” My old roommate jogged towards Beelzebub and stood at attention.
“Recruit McDougal reporting as ordered, Drill Instructor.”
“Do you know, Squad Leader, that one of your Recruits was sucking down a donut when he was supposed to be locking in his weapon?”
“No, Drill Instructor.”
Beelzebub smiled. “Follow me, Recruit.” Beelzebub grabbed a scrub brush and forced McDougal to push it around the concrete perimeter of camp. Recruit McDougal’s ass was handed to him because he had failed to police his own. It lasted for some two or three hours. When I saw McDougal later that night, I thought he was dying. I tried to catch his eye, but to no avail. He was spent.
A week later my platoon mustered outside of our barracks. It was five in the morning. Beelzebub formed us, left-faced us, and rhetorically sought to motivate us. We were to test at the rifle range. Those of us who passed with a score of two-twenty or better would move on with their training; those of us who failed would drop. We all wanted to pass, if for no other reason than because we didn’t want to prolong our training. No one wanted to face defeat.
“Today you will test your skill in shooting,” Beelzebub started. “Your score, and the score of your platoon, is a direct reflection of me. If you fail, I will kill you. Do not fail. Remember, your weapon is your bride. Love her, care for her, and she will please you. Do not, I repeat, do not embarrass me. Right—face—move—out. Left—left—left—right—left.”
If you’ve never heard a DI march his platoon, then you might hear Beelzebub’s commands as either crass or harsh. A good Drill Instructor, however, doesn’t bark his marching orders, he sings them. And a really good DI doesn’t just sing his commands, he caresses them.
Like a sonnet in the hands of Shakespeare, Beelzebub marched us from our barracks to the range.
Seven recruits failed that day. We never saw them again. Though we never found out what actually happened, it was rumored they re-tested and picked up with a platoon a few weeks behind us in their training. I imagined them returning home broken, humiliated, feeling like failures. Or, at least that is what Beelzebub wanted us to imagine. As for me, I passed with a two-forty-eight. There are three levels of Marine Corps shooting: marksman, sharpshooter, and expert. With my score, I was an expert. In the prone position at five hundred yards, I could shoot your temple.
To reward us for our good shooting, Beelzebub took us Island Hopping. In World War II the Marine Corps was assigned to the Pacific Theater. The Marine Corps, consequently, “hopped” from island to island in an effort to push the Japanese back. Later, Marine Corps Drill Instructors appropriated the name, Island Hopping, in an effort to teach wide-eyed recruits Marine Corps history. DIs would take their platoon from one PT pit—a sand trap the size of a basketball court—to another, slaying the platoon all the while. There are somewhere between twenty and forty Island Hopping pits on Camp Pendleton. In celebration of our shooting acumen, Beelzebub took us to every Island Hopping pit in the Camp. He called this our Island Hopping Tour. By the end of the day, I was both delirious and an expert shooter. I could shoot from five hundred yards or thirty: lying down, sitting, or standing. I could do this while running with a donned gas mask. I could do this in a driving wind. Those of us left in our platoon had succeeded, of course. But Beelzebub was punishing us for those who had failed. For, as he reasoned: platoons either lived together or died.
10. If Shit
My last hurdle in becoming a Marine was called the Crucible. The Crucible is a fifty-four-hour combat scenario. In the Crucible, DIs push recruits to their limits. It is a test of endurance, teamwork, and combat skills. This scenario includes obstacle courses, day and nighttime marches, night infiltration movements, combat resupply scenarios, and casualty evacuations—all on minimal food and sleep. During the Crucible, I was put in charge of a small platoon of recruits. It was my job to ensure they all passed. One recruit continually held us back, however. His name was Recruit Bane. He cried, dragged his feet, refused to train, and bitched. At one point during a ten-mile nighttime march, Recruit Bane fell behind. Drill Instructor Beelzebub stalked over to me. “Recruit, what do you plan on doing with Recruit Bane?”
“Leave him.”
“Fuck that, Recruit. We don’t leave shit behind, even if it is shit. You do whatever it takes to get Recruit Bane through the Crucible. You hear me? Whatever—it—takes.”
I’d never hit a human. But I hit Bane, as hard as I could. I hit him, grabbed him by the collar, and dragged his ass to the front of the column.
Who the fuck just did that?
I was near the end of my training, and I no longer recognized myself. Bane was not human in my eyes; he was part of a larger machine, a machine that had no margin of error. He was a broken cog I needed to fix. I was callous and unsympathetic. I wanted to be the best. I wanted to serve my country and defend freedom. I wanted to impress the Devil.
The Crucible’s final trial was a grinding hump up a vertical beast called the Reaper. It was during this hike up the Reaper—early in the morning—that Sergeant Beelzebub crept up behind me.
“Recruit.”
“Yes, Drill Instructor?”
“Do you disagree with my leadership style?”
I was befuddled. I had no idea how to answer this question. I assumed this was fallout from the Recruit Bane situation, but never had a DI been so straightforward with me. I was afraid of any repercussions that would come from speaking my mind.
“I asked you a question, Recruit.”
“Yes, Drill Instructor,” I said. “I might. A Marine should be motivated by respect, not fear.”
“Really? Is that so?”
We were both breathing hard as we continued to pass through the sagebrush that lined the Reaper.
“You think Recruit Bane would have finished the Crucible if you hadn’t feared him into it?”
“I don’t know, Drill Instructor.” I stared, head down, lest I should look Beelzebub directly in the eyes. “But, fundamentally, I have to believe a Marine who truly admires and respects his commander is more apt to follow him in a charge than the Marine who fears his commander.”
“Hell, Peters, that’s crazy talk. These recruits are birds, lost pigeons floating in life. They have no structure, no discipline, and they sure as hell don’t have any fitness. We have a job to do here, and respect ain’t gonna cut it. What’s needed is fear. What’s needed is dehumanization. You have to strip a man down—humiliate him—before you can begin the process of rebuilding ’em.” He paused, looked up the mountain, and continued. “You have the makings of a good non-commissioned officer, Peters, but remember this: nothing motivates like fear. When you’re in Afghanistan and some hajji is staring you down, it’s not about hearts and minds recruit, it’s about bullets in bodies. If one of your Marines ain’t up to the task, well then, there’s only one way to make ’em up to it. Scare the shit out of him.”
“Yes, Drill Instructor.”
He nodded his head and was off again, barking like mad at some other poor recruit struggling up the Reaper. That was the only time
