allowing yourself to heal up first.”
“I hear you, Peters, but I can’t handle much more of this. If I go to sickbay, then they’ll prolong my training by three maybe four weeks. That sound like something you’d do?”
I stared at the wooden slat holding the bunk above me. I had no answer. Beelzebub was breaking me down. He was teaching me to live like a Marine by pounding the “reset” button on my life. He was teaching me how to piss, tie my shoes, dress, march, shave, obey orders, PT, and kill. But change breeds fear. In my case, it was the fear of what I’d become mingled with the fear that I’d fail to become it. I was training to become a soldier—a man who could kill. The idea, when stripped of glory, is repulsive. But, within the bounds of duty, the temptation is alluring.
I realized, staring up at Mobile’s bunk, that though a part of me despised the Marine Corps for its difficulty, I loved it, too. For both honor and renown, I had dreamt of wresting Grendel’s arm from his body. I wanted to be a warrior. I wanted to reach out and pluck that fruit from its branch—I wanted to taste killing.
“No. I guess not.”
“Well, there you go, then.”
We slept.
Two weeks later Recruit Mobile dropped. He had bronchitis, red-eye, and a stress-fractured shin. The man was broken. I don’t know if he ever finished Recruit Training.
4. C.O.D.
There are two places on the West Coast where Marine Corps’ recruits are trained: Recruit Depot in San Diego and Camp Pendleton, which is about an hour drive north of San Diego. Camp Pendleton is a sprawling Marine Corps Camp that houses the First Marine Division and where recruits learn to use an M-16, bivouac, and hike—lovingly referred to in the Marine Corps as “humping.” This is also where the Crucible takes place, the final challenge in becoming a Marine. The Crucible culminates in a five-mile hump up a mountain called “The Reaper.” In total, Recruit Training lasts thirteen weeks with each week highlighting a different aspect of warfighting. A platoon progresses through PT Week, MCMAP Week, Marine Corps History Week, Team Week, Drill Week, Range Week, Field Week, and the Crucible Week. As if Recruit Training isn’t difficult enough, there is the added stress of a “final exam” at the end of each phase. You pass, you continue; you fail, you drop to another platoon. No one wants to drop.
Our day-to-day training was a predictable routine. We would wake early, eat, drill, eat, PT, practice MCMAP (Marine Corps Martial Arts Program), drill some more, PT some more, and then sleep. We were like ninjas in training. We lived and breathed the Marine Corps. As Ambule had said, we were property of the United States of America.
And when he wasn’t harassing us, Beelzebub was teaching us Close Order Drill, the art of marching in formation and handling arms for ceremonies. We drilled to practice the invaluable military skill of instant obedience to orders. If we obeyed during drill, the logic went, then we would obey in combat. Imagine a marching band. Now replace the instruments with M-16s. This is drill. And in Marine Corps Recruit Training, recruits drill about 50 percent of the time. We would drill on the parade deck—an asphalt expanse in the middle of the Depot—in the barracks, and on the Depot’s streets. We would drill to PT We would drill to the chow hall. Beelzebub didn’t discriminate. He loved drill, and he would drill us anytime, anywhere, for however long he wanted. This usually resulted in endlessly practicing a drill move called Column of Files. The goal in Column of Files is to maneuver an entire platoon from four-squads into one long line, or file. It sounds simple, but in actuality it’s difficult to accomplish, especially with strung-out recruits.
When Beelzebub was in a mood to drill, nothing could stop him. He would call out, “Column of Files!” We would begin our steady mutation from ranks to file. Inevitably, one recruit would screw up. “Get back,” Beelzebub would yell. We would, once again, assume our platoon formation and start the process over. This would continue for hours.
“Permission to speak, Drill Instructor,” some poor recruit would interrupt.
“Speak.”
“Permission to use the head, Drill Instructor.”
“Hell no, Recruit,” Beelzebub would say. “Column of Files! Left—left—left—right—left.” This was followed by the sound of breaking water, the splash of a recruit urinating in his pants.
I didn’t succumb to such indignities. I endured. I sought respite from the physical punishment of drill by escaping the confines of my body. I daydreamed. I dreamt I was a great scholar and writer. I dreamt I had a library filled with books and leather. I dreamt I smoked a pipe, drank scotch, studied, lectured, and wrote (not necessarily in that order). My mind would wander for hours as I created elaborate realities for my future self. I would marry, have kids, and teach. In another daydream, I would take my Marine Corps training and work for some private intelligence firm—like James Bond, but better. In yet another, I would finish college before continuing to a PhD program. I would be a scholar, a man of intelligence. I would—
“Get back!”
5. Lesser Mortals
Four weeks into Recruit Training our DIs had the opportunity to drown us. It was “Swim Week.” Bravo Company trained at an indoor Olympic-sized swimming pool, so that if we were ever on a Navy ship, fell off, and were lost at sea, then we would know how to survive. We charged through water—angry and unafraid—in camouflage utilities with full combat-ready backpacks and M-16s. We practiced swimming, treading water, and dropping off a twenty-foot high dive. Our DIs assured us that if we ever found ourselves in the unlikely situation of having to use this particular training, then we could pull our collars around our mouths and blow. “Your damn cammies,” they would shout, “once inflated, will act as a flotation device.” The thing is, it didn’t work.
Swim week wasn’t that bad for those of us who knew how to swim. For those few who didn’t, it was less than ideal. Recruit Jersey, a black recruit from the northeast, was a rock—he couldn’t tread water, let alone swim. Beelzebub made it his mission to drown Recruit Jersey. I guess it was easier than teaching an eighteen-year-old to swim.
Our last day of swim week was qual-day—a “final exam.” There are four levels of Marine Corps swimming: one, two, three, and four. At level four you can execute every major stroke, as well as the Combat Survival Stroke, in full gear. For the exam, our DIs would arrange us facing the short width, rather than the length, of the pool. Our swimming instructors, who wore short, canvas swim trunks like the movie stars of the 1950s, would stand over us, looking down from atop their lofty perches. They would call out a stroke, and we would swim across the pool showcasing our talents. If any of us, according to our instructors, couldn’t properly execute a stroke, then our DIs would haul us out of the water. A recruit who made it through all four of the strokes, however, would be designated a level four swimmer, making him Recon authorized. Any recruit who failed would be dragged out of the water and assigned a number between one and three. We all aspired to level four because we all held onto, in some fashion, the romanticism of being a Recon Marine—the hardest Marines, the Special Forces. Even if I never tested for Recon, I had to admit, I at least wanted the option. During these training weeks, rumors spread throughout our platoon at nights when we thought Beelzebub was off duty. We heard tell of different Recon tests, trainings, and missions. Supposedly, a recruit in Alpha Company had been so “hard” that he’d been ushered out of Recruit Training and into the hallowed presence of SOCOM. It was enticing. What young man hasn’t, at one point in his life, desired to be a god among lesser mortals?
“Survival!” an instructor shouted. The final exam of Swim Week had begun. A whistle blew, and the first wave of recruits jumped into the pool and began the survival stroke.
