in the body and brain. “There is no narrative,” he says, “only pieces.” The very nature of trauma, according to van der Kolk, is that inside us there are these pieces, and they are all out of order.
But for Donald, a way to have a sense of order meant joining the Marines. The United States Marine Corps is one place where taking orders and keeping order are a way of life.
CHAPTER FOUR
For God and Country
Donald was a Marine. He was a Marine decades ago in China, and he was still a Marine fifty years later in Pennsylvania. Though he was on active duty for only three years, it was true: “Once a Marine, always a Marine.”
I was familiar with that saying, but it took me some time to catch on to what this meant. Thankfully, early in my process of researching Donald and asking how to meet ex-Marines, another Marine tipped me off that I should refer to Donald as a former Marine; there are no ex-Marines. It would seem that you can be discharged from all of the military services for a myriad of reasons, but you never stop being a Marine.
“We stole the eagle from the Air Force, the anchor from the Navy, the rope from the Army, and on the seventh day when God rested, we overran His perimeter and stole the globe. And have been protecting our shores ever since.” This is just one of the many sayings that suggest the special regard Marines hold for themselves. Marines are aggressive, proud, and loyal; Marines are first in and last out; Marines never leave their dead; they have a code of conduct; esprit de corps is Marine culture. In basic training, Marines are taught that “The US Army is chickenshit in combat, the Navy is worse, and the Air Force is barely even on our side.” Marines alone among the military services bestow their name on their enlisted ranks. The Army has officers and soldiers, the Navy has naval officers and sailors, and the Air Force has Air Force officers and airmen—but the Marines have only Marines.
It doesn’t take much to draw a line from Donald’s Marine duty in China and the prewar days in Shanghai through the Rape of Nanking and then home to Western Pennsylvania and a double murder. If Donald’s story happened today, we’d be more sympathetic and maybe say, “Well, that’s a tragedy, yes, but he’s a vet.”
But that’s today, and that’s how we see things through a lens colored by history. For Americans, World War II was heroic and successful. It was a war with fighting on two fronts: Europe and Asia. We loved our boys who served their country and did their duty. True, a number of them were never quite okay again, but we didn’t talk about that much. Our understanding of, and sympathy for, battle fatigue and war neurosis evolved over the course of America’s military history.
The other layer of my understanding why there are no ex-Marines came into full focus as I began to correspond with other men who had been in China with Donald. I started my search by subscribing to the magazines Marine Corps Gazette and Leatherneck. I laugh now when I think about what my mail carrier must have thought as Leatherneck began to arrive along with my subscription to Vogue. But I also worried whether my liberal judgments could flex enough so I could understand what it means to be a Marine.
Marine training is about learning to follow orders. Marine training also means working as a unit. Being able to respond without thinking is a tool that can save lives. Marines are strong and proud, and yet, paradoxically, they submerge themselves in unity.
Basic training in the Marine Corps is tough and is designed to break men down in order to rebuild them as fighting units. The goal of boot camp is to erase individuality so that recruits will function as a unit. The message to recruits who are becoming Marines is “You are not alone—you are no good alone.” And the celebratory message to those who make it is “Now you are a Marine; you can go anywhere, fight anyone, and survive anything.”
Aboard the USS Chaumont Heading to China—1937
His heart was pounding. The men around him were laughing, swearing, and teasing. There was friendliness among the men. He could see it, but it seemed very far away. It made no sense. They were pushed together—barely an inch between him and the man lying above him. He opened his eyes, and above his face was the curve of a man’s buttocks making the canvas curve down toward him. His eyes shifted left, and quickly he closed them again. Another man was next to him, and then more men beyond him.
He’s trapped. Trapped. Trapped. He took a deep breath. I’m all right, he told himself, I’m all right; we’re just on a ship, going to bed, just gonna sleep soon, real soon, I’ll sleep, then it will be okay. The smells roiled in the cabin—sweat, urine, and shit—so he turned his head. The canvas under him smelled of old vomit. His stomach lurched.
I’m on the ocean, at sea, going to sea, this is big, good, big. The words were not helping. He tried to pray. God, Father, oh Father in heaven. He couldn’t remember the words, and his heart beat faster. Tight, he felt tight. He pressed his closed eyes tighter, but he could feel the men all around him. They were close, too close.
Out . . . out . . . out. The word started to drum in his head. I can’t, he thought to himself, I can’t. Gotta do this, can’t see me run, can’t run, be okay, but the other word was louder and faster in his head now. Out, out, out.
He was afraid to move, afraid to turn; if he shifted he’d be sick or maybe he’d run. Can’t run, no legs to run. The thought scared him. Even if he got up, he didn’t know how to get out. So many men there, canvas beds and duffle bags hung everywhere. Where is the door? What is it called, the door thing you come through to get in this room? It wasn’t a room, too many men.
Hot, smell of sweat. Vomit smell again.
A man farted loudly, others laughed, then a man belched, more laughter. It’s okay, he said to himself, nice guys, good guys. The man under him turned, and an arm, elbow, or leg thrust into his back. We are lying on each other like we’re dead, he thought, and the panic rose again. His throat was closing. Breathing was hard, hardly any air. He was so hot; sweat dripped from his face, and he felt the sweat roll down his neck.
A man made a crude joke about a woman. Bastard, he thought. Did he say that out loud? He couldn’t tell. “Damn,” another man said. “My fucking back.”
The word was in his head again. Out. This time he couldn’t stop; he turned. He sat up and hit his head on the bottom of the man above him. “What the fuck, Watkins,” the man above said. His leg was over the side. “Don’t fucking have to piss now, man, come on,” the underneath man said angrily. He had one leg almost to the floor. He stepped on the edge of the canvas bed of the man below him. His foot slid loose, and he fell left into the two men across. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, piss in your bed,” one man said. He couldn’t hear now; he couldn’t breathe; he squeezed sideways between the rows of canvas swings with bodies crowded into them. Out, out, out, repeated in his head. Is the door this way? He stopped. He didn’t know, didn’t remember, how the ship worked and how they got there.
“The other way, fuckhead,” a man lying next to his face snarled into him. He swiveled his head. “The other way. Way out. Out.” Then sliding, squeezing, and sliding sideways, he saw the opening. Head down, duck head. He missed and scraped the top of his head on the metal frame of the opening. Out to a corridor. Now where? Head toward the lights. Breath came now in gulps, and vomit was in his throat. A ladder. Squeeze. Up the ladder. Now where? Another ladder ahead. Up the ladder, cooler air now, air ahead. Then he was out, up and out onto the deck.
Cool air hit his face. He was still moving fast, too fast. He tripped and went down on one knee. Cool night air fell on
