I was in the fourth wave. I stepped up to the edge of the pool; Recruit Jersey was next to me. He looked over at me. I saw fear.
“You’ll do fine,” I said.
He looked back at the pool. The whistle blew and we jumped. I was halfway across the pool when I heard screaming. It was Recruit Jersey. He was flailing about, choking in gurgles. I stopped midway and watched as Beelzebub jumped in after Recruit Jersey.
“You want something to yell about?” he said as he swam over to Recruit Jersey and dunked him. “Suck it up, Recruit!” I entertained swimming back, decided against it, and continued on, exiting the pool. I watched from a distance as Beelzebub nearly drowned Recruit Jersey. He was slamming him down and screeching with his strained, scratchy voice. Recruit Jersey, frantically, was calling for help. He thought he was dying. Beelzebub, finally, swam to the edge, leaving Recruit Jersey in the middle of the pool floating face up. Breathing but unable to move, he was defeated. Beelzebub climbed out of the pool and threw Recruit Jersey a life preserver. He paddled to the pool’s edge, crawled out, and hobbled to sickbay.
“Breast,” our instructor said. Wave one began, then two, three, and four. Halfway through the swim I felt a DI tap me on the shoulder. I was done; level two. I was unworthy of testing Recon. I left the pool, walked to the locker room, and dried off. Wearing my uniform, I marched outside to wait in formation until the other recruits finished their test. I don’t know what happened to Recruit Jersey. As part of our unwritten code we never talked about broken recruits or what Beelzebub had done to them. We marched back to our barracks and continued our training, one recruit short. When Beelzebub breaks you, it’s hard to recover.
6. Unforgivable
One of the joys of Recruit Training was the Marine Corps’ obstacle course, a rope and monkey bar strewn jungle gym. Every recruit toed the starting line thinking he could conquer the Marine Corps’ playground. Every recruit was humbled. One day, before the halfway point in our training, Beelzebub decided to run us through the obstacle course. He said that the day was special though, because we would attempt what was called a “combat course.” We were to break into our squads and run the course with five ammo cans—fifteen to twenty-pound containers filled with ammunition. If any of us died, and he assured us he would let us know if we’d died, then our squad was to fire-carry the dead squad member through the rest of the course. The first squad that finished didn’t have to join the other squads in the pit for a platoon quarter-decking. I wanted to finish first. Once we were broken into our squads and lined up, he provided us a few minutes to discuss strategy.
“Peters, Lopez, Duncan, Phoenix, and Dallas,” our Squad Leader said, “you carry the ammo cans. Rodriquez, Chicago, LA, Smith, and Lee you follow directly behind ’em. If they die, pick up their ammo cans and keep going. The rest of us’ll be ready to fire-carry the dead. Okay?”
“Do not say, ‘okay.’” Lee was a thinly framed Asian. “You are the Squad Leader, command us.”
“Shut up the fuck up, Lee. Everyone ready?” We nodded. “Alright, let’s win this. I’m not getting quarter-decked because of you fuckers.”
I picked up my ammo can.
“Alright,” Beelzebub said, “first done won’t get killed.” He paused for dramatic effect: “Kill!”
I ran—hard and fast. I didn’t wait for my squad. I figured they’d survive, but I didn’t want to be the reason we failed. I pulled out in front. Not only was I in front of our squad, but I was in front of the whole platoon. I low crawled, I climbed over logs, and I carried my ammo can across rope bridges. Halfway through the obstacle course, as I was struggling up a wooden wall, Beelzebub sprinted over. “You’re dead, Recruit,” he said. “Don’t ever, and I mean ever, leave your squad like that. You finish together or don’t finish at all.” He looked at me. “As a matter of fact, get your ass off the course. You’re not fit. Ambule,” he shouted, “take over for me. I gotta teach Recruit Peters a lesson.” He turned to me. “To the pit, Recruit.”
I followed.
In between the endless push-ups and mountain climbers, Beelzebub proceeded to lecture me on the nature of war and platoon maneuvers. He said that for one man to assume he could complete a mission on his own was selfish. A concerted effort is always better than an individual attempt. I was selfish and needed purging. Combat, he said, was about groups of people working together to accomplish a mission, something greater than any one individual. If I wanted to be successful, then I would have to unfetter my selfish ambition. I needed to assimilate. “You want to be a Marine?” he bellowed. “You want to be a killer? Fuck you, Peters. You’re not shit, and you never will be. Discipline, Recruit, discipline is what you need.”
This continued for some time.
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I just counted off my leg-lifts. Bullshit. The act of killing is selfish. How is what I did any different? I was laying my fucking life down for my brothers. Beelzebub, however, was preparing us for the unforgivable, where there’d be no “do overs,” no “second best.” We had to instantly and perfectly execute our orders, or Marines would die. He was changing us. He was teaching us to function in high stress environments, to remain calm under fire, and kill the enemy without question. Beelzebub embodied the Marine Corps’ slogan, “Pray for War.” He wanted us to embody it as well.
7. Marine Academia
Recruit training was not all rifles, exercise, and drilling. We also attended our fair share of classes. We had classes on military bearing, uniform care, finances, first aid, Marine Corps discipline and conduct, and, my favorite, Marine Corps history. Our classes were held in a small auditorium. We usually had one instructor per class. After our DIs harried us into the classroom, our instructor would bark out instructions: we were ordered to sit up straight, keep our heads forwards, refrain from talking, and, if we felt like closing our eyelids, we were ordered to stand in the back of the classroom. Our instructor told us if we broke any of his rules or fell asleep in class, he would call back our DIs and allow them to wake us up before continuing. He would then proceed to lecture for the next two hours. He told us things like: the Marine Corps was founded in 1775, and in the beginning Marines used to sit in the crow’s nest of old ships and shoot down at people who boarded, like pirates. Officers would wear a hat with a special design on top so Marines wouldn’t shoot their own. He told us about Tripoli, Belleau Wood, the Japanese, Guadalcanal, Chesty Puller, Vietnam, Snipers, and Marine Corps Medal of Honor winners. According to our instructor, the United States Marine Corps was the only reason the Allies won World War II. “If it wasn’t for us Devildogs, then the world would be speaking German now, errah?”
“Errah,” we growled in unison. Our instructor had taught us this was the appropriate Marine grunt of call and response. He said it was an ancient Scandinavian war cry.
We had tests in our classes too, but to my knowledge everyone passed. Our instructor made sure no one failed; after all, there was no need to drop someone for being stupid. As long as we stuck to answers that shined a heavenly light on the Marine Corps, we would pass. In this area, we all excelled.
The same auditorium in which we attended classes also housed the Protestant church. If we had a “light” morning, then it was typically Sunday. We would wake, shower, clean our squad bay, and then have the opportunity to attend the church service of our preference: Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Muslim, or Wiccan (to name a few). Our training would commence after lunch.
I attended the Protestant church service. After being marched to the auditorium, we would file in and sit down. A worship band would play evangelical pop-Christian songs. Some recruits would stand and sing, others would sit and reflect. I often found myself sitting during these rare breaks from training.
