Christian, crisp but crude, struggling with a novel paradigm. The beliefs and practices of the church, in many ways, were as foreign to me as those of the United States Marine Corps. As our bus pulled into San Diego’s Recruit Depot, I had one last civilian thought: Jesus said to love your enemies. Why the hell hadn’t I thought of that before?
“Get off my fucking bus, Recruits,” a burly DI resembling Ambule yelled. He was covered with tattoos: lots and lots of tattoos. As I shuffled past him to my appointed place on the yellow footprints—perfectly aligned ranks-and-files used in teaching Close Order Drill—I noticed one rather exquisite tattoo: a dancing mermaid sexing an M-16.
This is unbelievable.
“All right, Recruits, get on my footprints.”
We scrambled to do what Ambule said. I was lucky. I arrived first. The Canadian, juggling our files, was several steps behind.
“What the hell, Recruit? Are you trying to piss me off?”
“No, sir . . . Drill Instructor.”
Ambule stalked over to the Canadian, punched him in the stomach, and left him to consider his various misdeeds.
Oh shit.
He turned to us.
“You are now property of the Unites States Government. You will not eat, drink, or shit without the government’s approval. That means me, Recruits. I will tell you when and how to breathe.” At this, one of the recruits standing next to me chuckled. It was a poor decision.
“What the hell! Who the fuck laughed?”
Unbeknownst to us, another DI had crept up while we were standing in formation. “Shit, Drill Instructor Ambule, can’t keep your recruits in check?” The new DI made his way around to the front of the formation. He was wiry and sported a shaved head. He was evil incarnate. His name was Drill Instructor Beelzebub.
“Some recruit laughed. Can you believe that Sergeant Beelzebub?”
“I’m on it.”
“All yours.” Ambule was smiling.
Beelzebub sauntered over. “It sounded like it came from over here.” He contemplated me. “Was it you, Recruit?”
Silence.
“It’s okay, Recruit, you can tell me. Was it you?” His teeth were tobacco-stained.
“No, Drill Instructor.”
“Hell, it was somebody. Can’t you tell me who, Recruit?”
In Recruit Training it’s commonplace to betray fellow recruits. I should have sold out the recruit who laughed. But I didn’t. “I have no idea, Drill Instructor.”
“Oh, you have no idea do you? Well fuck, I say it was you . . . unless you want to tell me different?”
Groaning, the Canadian stirred in front of the formation.
That was the last thing I remember clearly about my first week as a recruit. The next few days were a blur. They shaved my hair, issued my recruit gear, and taught us how to make a military bed. This phase lasted seven days. It was an introduction. They called it “Intake.” The day we dreaded was fast approaching, however. Our DIs referred to it as “Black Sunday,” the day that we’d be introduced to our platoon Drill Instructors and begin our training in earnest. It couldn’t be worse than what we’ve already survived. I was naïve, an idiot. Black Sunday was hell.
2. Bravo Company
Our platoon leader was named Staff Sergeant Nygo. I still don’t know how you pronounce it. Beelzebub was there as well. He was one of Nygo’s cronies, always prowling about, pointing his finger at us and yelling. He’s what you would call an Enforcer. When one of us screwed up, Beelzebub was the man who disciplined us. It was a “good DI, bad DI” routine. We would screw up, Beelzebub would “slay” us, and SSG. Nygo would “comfort” us. “Slaying” or “quarter-decking” are the terms DIs employ in lieu of hazing. It amounts to the same thing, however. “Mountain climbers,” Beelzebub would say. We would start pumping our feet. This would continue for five or six minutes. “Push ups!” We would switch exercises. Five minutes later Beelzebub would scream the next exercise. And on it went—he could be creative.
Throughout the quarter-decking process, Beelzebub would thrust his nose against a recruit and shout obscenities: “You’re dog shit on Sunday, Recruit,” or “Your father hates you and your mother’s a whore,” or “Dumbass! I bet you were adopted. Nobody loves you, Peters.” Or, if he was feeling particularly malicious, he would creep up to my ear and whisper, “Why did you join the Marine Corps, Recruit Peters? You don’t have what it takes. You’ll never graduate. I hate you and your fellow recruits hate you. It’d be easier if you died.”
He did this to me. He did this to everyone. And what could we do? As for me, I would pump my legs, listen to Beelzebub spew his motivations, and try to forget myself.
There were other DIs. There were always other DIs. All told, there were usually four or so Drill Instructors running about minding the seventy-five recruits in my platoon. With as many of us as there were, you would think we would have tried to break the rules. To the contrary, our Drill Instructors were magicians. They saw all. At night, we might be sitting in front of our racks cleaning our M-16s. It would be quiet except for the sound of clinking rifle bolts. Across from me, a recruit might lean over and whisper to another recruit: “Hey, what do you think we’re doing tomorrow?” Before his bunkmate could answer, Beelzebub would materialize. “You wanna talk, Recruits? You still have energy, is that it?” The recruits would shake their heads. “Bullshit,” Beelzebub would say, “quarter deck, now!” It was a science. Beelzebub and his ilk knew exactly what they were doing. They knew when to back off and when to come down hard. They were training us for warfare and, like war, they were unforgiving.
A great secret of the Marine Corps is it’s nothing like the commercials. On television, all of the Marines are chiseled men wielding flaming swords. In real life, Marines are people like you and me. They wheeze when they run, smoke cigarettes, cuss like a drunken aunt at Easter, and generally aren’t very trustworthy. Most of them, as least during Recruit Training, would as soon as steal your stuff as watch your back. We had all kinds. The Canadians—I use the plural because, as it turned out, not only were there two but they were twins—were skinny, tall, and looked like rats when they smiled. They made me a bit uneasy. But my platoon also counted blacks, Asians, Latinos, and whites among its rank. Some of the new recruits could not, and I mean this literally, could not speak a word of English. We had skinny recruits, fat recruits, stupid recruits, and well . . . more stupid recruits. Let’s be honest: the enlisted Marine Corps isn’t drawn from the intellectually endowed segments of our society.
When we were finally situated with Senior Drill Instructor SSG Nygo, our DIs assessed each recruit, chose the best from among us, and divvied up the choice jobs: Guide, Squad Leader, and Scribe. The Scribe is a platoon’s bookkeeper. He keeps tabs on gear (how much we had and who was using it), on Physical Training scores (each recruit’s time in the three-mile run), and mail (he receives it and hands it out). The Squad Leader was responsible for all of the members who comprised his squad. He answered to the Guide, and the Guide answered to the DIs. The Guide is the leader of the platoon. He is supposed to be the fittest, smartest, and best-looking Marine in the bunch. The Guide marches in front of his platoon, carries his platoon’s guidon, and, eventually, competes with the other Guides in a Depot-wide Guide competition.
