the Texas humidity. “We’re roommates,” he said.
I nodded. “Well, let’s get moved in, then.”
As we made our way to the barracks Mexico turned to me. “What did you think of MCT?”
I was beginning to sweat through my alphas. “It was okay, not that much different from boot I guess. You?”
“It was alright, Lance Corporal. I liked running through Pendleton, playing war games. Shooting the fifty cal’ was pretty cool, too. I can’t believe you have to strap yourself in to shoot it. It had a fucking seatbelt . . . or something.”
We found our barracks and climbed the stairs to the third floor. Sweat was pouring through the thick cotton of my dress uniform.
“Actually,” Mexico continued, “when we were on the range shooting the fifty cal’, a buffalo sauntered right out of the sagebrush, moseyed over to the tank we were lighting up, and just started eating. I wanted to shoot the fucker, but our sergeant called a ‘ceasefire.’”
“That’s pretty crazy,” I said. I set down my seabag and opened up the door to my new home. It was a ten-foot-wide by fifteen-foot-long room that contained two beds, two chairs, two closets, a mini-fridge, and an old television. The walls were an off-white color, which were gently highlighted by gray office carpet.
“Well, it’s not much, is it?”
“No, I guess not,” Mexico said.
I would be living here for the next six months while I was schooled in the art of “imagery analysis,” which is Marine-speak for “bomb dropping” and civilian speak for “shock-and-awe.” Mexico and I were not only racking together during our military occupational school, but we were to be stationed together at the same reserve unit back in Denver, Colorado.
“Alright, Mexico. I’m getting outta my alphas. It’s hot. You know when we start our school?”
“Next Thursday.”
“Errah, Devil.” Devil, short for Devil Dog, can be used in one of two ways: one, as a term of endearment or two, as a term of loathing.
“Errah.”
13. Gradual Release
The Marine Corps subscribes to a gradual-release training method. Recruit Training is a high intensity experience coupled with high discipline. All the recruits that graduate on a given day progress to Marine Combat Training together. MCT is similar to Recruit Training in its intensity, but not in its expectation. Students are no longer Recruits, but Marines. They are, therefore, provided more freedom. During MCT, Marines cannot leave Camp Pendleton, but they can, with a weekend’s liberty, rummage through the PX—the military’s version of a Super Target. If Recruit Training is for teaching civilians how to shoot and hump, then MCT is for teaching Marines how to perfect those skills. After MCT, each Marine then travels to a non-infantry Military School, though all infantry Marines bypass MCT for their MOS training, which is Infantry School. During MCT Marines learn how to throw grenades, use a compass, and dig foxholes. The culminating experience is a weekend-long war game.
Throughout MCT, I was still with my “buddy,” McDougal. We both enjoyed crawling through overgrown gullies in full combat gear—our faces painted drab green, our boonie covers donned, and our fingers trigger-happy. McDougal, who had purchased a disposable camera, often called us to break from our low crawling so we could snap a few self-portraits. We were two young men dipping tobacco, having fun, and playing war. Though the fighting in Afghanistan had commenced, actual war was the furthest thing from our thoughts. We had struck the delicate balance of becoming warriors while holding onto the most important aspects of our civilian identities. For us, both Recruit Training and MCT were a hiatus. We were reservists. War was for “real” Marines.
After we graduated from MCT, each Marine in my original platoon was handed their MOS orders and placed on a bus bound for the Los Angeles airport. Because we were traveling to different parts of the country, we spent the majority of our day in an airport lounge drinking beer and saying our goodbyes. One by one, we went our separate ways. I had spent the last five months with these Marines. We had experienced both Recruit Training and MCT together. It felt strange walking away from those experiences. When it was McDougal’s turn to leave—bound for Virginia—I hugged him before saying goodbye. “How’d you ever convince me to enlist?” I asked.
“Me?” he laughed. “It was your idea.”
‡ ‡ ‡
It was weeks before Mexico and I started our MOS training. Our gunnery sergeant kept us busy in the interim. And so we PT’d, drilled, and studied our basic Marine Corps history. We did this for two reasons: first, we were receiving a paycheck and needed to keep up the illusion of busyness, or as Gunny said, “readiness.” And second, we were vying for a coveted award, Marine of the Quarter. Young, enlisted Marines like myself longed for this prize. It conferred both distinction from one’s peers and leniency from the top. Mexico and I studied together between our PT sessions and our nightly cavorting in San Angelo.
We studied the answer to questions like: What is the max effective range of an M-16? In what order would a LCPL, Captain, GySgt, and Major embark? In what order would they exit a vehicle? What are the General Orders?
It wasn’t exactly fun material, but there wasn’t much else to do in San Angelo. We had weekend liberty, and so we spent some time exploring the city. During those long months of waiting, I purchased a Trek road bike and started biking for exercise. The East Texas highways were long and straight, wide-open landscapes perfect for solitary rides.
Weeks turned to a month and on a Wednesday in June the Marine-of-the-Quarter board was called to order. I had dry-cleaned my dress alphas, paid for a haircut—buzzed on the sides, short on top—and shaved twice. Once dressed, I marched from my barracks to the board, trying not to sweat despite the beating Texas sun.
“Lance Corporal Peters, report,” barked Gunny. He was a stout man of middling height. He had a military mustache and a flattop haircut. He sat at a long table, flanked by both our captain and sergeant.
“Lance Corporal Peters, reporting as ordered, Gunny.” I marched, stood at attention, and popped a salute.
“About—face,” the captain ordered.
I about faced. They were looking my uniform over, checking for any inconsistencies. I had expected this.
“About—face.”
I spun around.
“Sit down, Peters,” the sergeant said.
I right faced, marched over to the closest chair, left faced, and sat down—back at ninety degrees, elbows slightly bent, hands resting on my knees (thumb and forefingers tightly affixed).
Gunny stared me down. “What,” he asked, “is the max effective range of the M-16 service rifle?”
I stared back. I had no idea. Apparently, my study sessions with Mexico hadn’t been that productive. I wasn’t worried, however. The key to these boards was to appear both calm and confident. “Sixteen hundred yards, Gunny.” I snapped my head to the captain, as if to say, I nailed your question, try something harder.
“When did the United States Marine Corps first adopt the Quatrefoil?”
“1837.”
