by JC Ryan
The officer said a few words and then instructed the group to raise their right hands. Together they recited the Oath: "I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God."
It was almost an anticlimax when, with the other recruits, he left immediately after the swearing-in ceremony for the Parris Island MCRD. There, the three other men and two women he’d traveled with joined two dozen or so other recruits at Recruit Receiving, where they received fashionable haircuts and clothing, the finest in toiletries, and letter writing supplies. Everything he needed, except for the letter writing supplies. He had no one to write to. He was also told to make a phone call home, but he declined. He had no one to call.
The next few days were filled with full medical and dental screenings and the Initial Strength Test. The latter was to determine whether they were in shape to begin training. It was here that the confident young men and women who’d taken an oath of courage learned they’d need it right away. The strength test consisted of a one-and-a-half-mile run, sit-ups, and pull-ups. One of the recruits who’d been on the bus with Rex remarked that if they could do all that, why would they need basic training. Rex decided the boy was not someone with whom to become best friends.
To his surprise, he wasn’t among the oldest of the recruits, though he was older than most by a few years. Rumor had it that the older men were as well-educated as he, with degrees or careers in sciences, medicine, or, to his delight, history. He and another history major were assigned to the same squad, and Rex hoped they would become friends, though he wasn’t here to make friends. At least it would relieve any boredom he had time for to be able to discuss his passion with someone else.
Rumor also had it that their education combined with a good performance in basic might mean they’d graduate as E-2 privates first class, or even E-3 Lance Corporals. It didn’t really matter to Rex, but his new friend Frank confided he wanted to advance as quickly as possible. He had a plan for after his enlistment that he expected would pay better than any teaching job, even a full professorship at a prestigious university. But he refused to tell Rex what it was.
Rex reveled in the first four weeks of Basic, learning weapons handling from experts and completing the Confidence Course, which not only helped him regain his previous fitness level, but was almost like playing on giant playground equipment. He had no fear to overcome, so while it was hard work, the Confidence Course was great fun for him.
Chapter Seven
MCRD Parris Island, March 11, 2005
ON MARCH 11TH, Rex woke with a sad memory but a sense of purpose. He was halfway through Phase One of Basic Training. Though he’d done his best to blend in and not outshine the other recruits in his squad, his DI seemed to have it in for him. The slightest misstep during drills earned him a ‘drop and give me a hundred’.
He stoically endured the screaming, spittle-laced tirades two inches from his face when he forgot and addressed the DI as ‘sir’, a habit ingrained in him by his upbringing, but considered a mortal insult by a non-commissioned officer. Before he’d finished Week 2, he’d learned to regret talking to his recruiter the way he had, when his DI slipped and mentioned Hatch’s name.
Today was the first anniversary of his parents’ and siblings’ horrific deaths. A lesser man, the one Rex had been a few months ago, might have marked the anniversary by getting drunk and sleeping the awful reminder away.
Rex had effectively eliminated that option by joining the Marines. But today was also an unofficial test of the progress his squad had made in close combat skills. They would each spar against one of the DI’s or the instructor, and Rex had managed to conceal his expertise very well while still exceling at the hand-to-hand combat skills training. It wasn’t his intention to show up the DI or the martial arts instructor. The Tai chi approach. But he didn’t intend to let DI Stringer get in a sucker-punch, either, if he was Rex’s opponent. And he had the gut feeling somehow, he was going to face Stringer.
By eight a.m., the sixty-eight recruits making up MCRD 1st Battalion Bravo platoon were in the gym, Rex among them. He’d eaten only a light breakfast, and like the others was wearing his green PT shorts and undershirt. Spring came early to Parris Island. It would be a pleasant seventy degrees outside, with a brisk breeze from the north. In the gym, the temperature would soon climb to eighty or higher. Marines didn’t need air conditioning. But some were already sweating.
DI Stringer was yelling instructions. Three matches at once would take place. He, the second DI, and the instructor would each take on one recruit for a maximum ten-minute bout. Recruits were to demonstrate adequate hand-to-hand combat. Points would be awarded for offensive moves, defensive moves, take-downs and avoidance of take-down. Any recruit being taken to the ground would lose their match and any points scored before that. Non-lethal moves only, but anything short of lethal was permitted.
When he finished shouting, seventy-two recruits comprising Charlie platoon filed in and took their seats as observers, while their Drill Instructors and hand-to-hand combat instructor judged Bravo platoon’s match. The roles would be reversed in the afternoon.
The first three recruits heard their names called in alphabetical order. Rex calculated quickly after that. As luck would have it, he’d come up in the third set of matches, and as expected his ‘favorite’ DI would be his opponent. He could expect dirty moves, he reckoned. He had to suppress a feral grin.
It turned out that the ten-minute matches usually took less than five. Not one of the first six recruits won a point, as each was taken down inside three minutes by their respective opponent. But the schedule was kept. After all, each of the three instructors would be taking on at least twenty-two recruits. They needed to rest between bouts. Rex was glad Stringer would be fresh. That way, there’d be no question surrounding his victory. Defensive moves only, he admonished himself. He’d go with the Tai chi and other defensive moves he’d learned here. There was no need for the overwhelming offense of Krav Maga.
When his name was called, Rex stepped eagerly onto the mat to face DI Stringer. “One question, please. The rules against striking a superior are suspended for this, am I right?”
The DI smirked. “Don’t you worry about that. Yes, they’re suspended. But you won’t be striking a superior. Just get in the ring, so I can kick your smart ass.”
“Just so long as we’re clear about the legal aspects, I’m happy,” Rex replied. He stepped over the tape marking the ring on the mat. The bell sounded, and he took a defensive stance. His focus narrowed to his opponent and his moves. The recruits shouting encouragement in the background, the sound of blows from the mats to either side, the heat, and the sticky, humid stink of the gym all faded. His opponent lunged.
Rex sidestepped and grabbed DI Stringer’s arm, outstretched in a jab that missed Rex completely. He rotated with the momentum and flung the DI out of the ring, then stepped back. Stringer caught his balance before falling and whirled, anger evident in his expression. This time he approached more cautiously, stalking Rex around the ring, Rex retreating, defending.
“Stand and fight, recruit! That’s an order.”
Rex shrugged and stopped backing away. “Okay, have it your way then.”
Stringer rushed him again, but at the last moment, as Rex brought his arms up in a defensive move, he grabbed Rex by one wrist and pulled him in. In a flash, Rex made a fist, grabbed it with his other hand and flung himself back, breaking Stringer’s hold on his arm. Stringer looked surprised. “You’ve been holding out on us, boy,” he snarled.
Stringer wasn’t the only one surprised. The troops and instructors alike, were thunderstruck. They had never seen Rex move like this.
“Didn’t want to hur
t anybody,” Rex said, smiling.
“You supercilious shit, you think the sun goes down when you take a crap. Time to teach you about humility.” Stringer moved in and swept his foot toward Rex’s, jabbing toward Rex’s eyes at the same time. As Rex avoided the take-down, Stringer grabbed him in a headlock and squeezed. “You can tap out, Rambo.”
Rex didn’t bother to answer. Stringer had cut off his air supply. He knew without thinking about it that he had five seconds, maximum, before he passed out. He stepped forward, crossing over Stringer’s leg with the foot furthest from Stringer, and bending forward slightly as he did. With the edge of his open hand, he struck Stringer’s inner thigh, just short of the crippling groin punch he would have landed in a real fight. But he didn’t. It would have jeopardized Stringer’s ability to procreate. Three quick but effective chops, and Stringer lost his grip on Rex’s neck, one arm shooting down to defend his groin. At the same time, Rex’s other hand swung up and over Stringer’s head as fast as a cobra, grabbing his nose and pulling back. Now his free hand was punishing Stringer’s face. Three more blindingly quick blows, that would have looked to the spectators as one, and Stringer abandoned the head lock. Rex pushed him backwards and stepped back.
“Son of a bitch!” Stringer yelled. He swung around with a haymaker. Rex blocked it with his left hand, followed with his right palm to Stringer’s jaw and then crossed his neck with it to grab him by the right shoulder and pull him forward and down. His knee hit Stringer’s stomach once, and his face once in lightning fast moves. Then he pushed off.
Stringer was out on his feet. He toppled forward, hitting the floor with his face first.
The room was quiet. Rex looked up. Bravo platoon’s second DI rushed to Stringer’s side. The combat instructor was looking at Rex with fresh eyes.
Two minutes later, Stringer sat up with the help of his second in command and moaned. “I think my ribs are broken.” The matches were stopped while the medic, on hand in case a recruit was hurt, came forward. He probed Stringer’s chest and abdomen, and then looked at the instructor and nodded. There would be no more matches for Stringer for a while, and no more for anyone today.
What had just happened was unprecedented. A recruit might be injured, and the games would go on. But without a backup DI, there weren’t enough of them to get through all the recruits.
As the medic helped Stringer out on his own feet, the instructor had a quiet word with Rex. “Weren’t you a history teacher or something? Where’d you learn Krav Maga?”
“Schools are tough these days,” he answered, not bothering to correct the misinformation about his background.
“I’d keep a low profile for the rest of your basic training. Recruits have been known to have nasty accidents.”
Rex looked him in the eye. “Then maybe you can put a bug in his ear. I’ll be waiting for him. He started this. I’ll finish it if that’s what he wants.”
“Just remember,” the instructor said, “those rules you asked about? They’re unsuspended now.”
“Sergeant, my life changed a year ago today. I don’t give a shit. If Stringer wants to be so stupid as to come after me, let him.” Rex stalked away without being dismissed, another infraction if the instructor had been inclined to push it. But he didn’t say a word. He was no friend of Stringer’s.
Rex’s score in his hand-to-hand combat evaluation would be a perfect ten. The match had lasted eighty-six seconds, before Rex won with a TKO. It would have been over in ten if he’d given Stringer the Krav Maga treatment right from the start and didn’t pussyfoot around.
Chapter Eight
Edson Range, Weapons Field Training Battalion, March 18, 2005
WHEN HIS SQUAD moved on to Phase Two of Basic, they moved north to Edson Range, Weapons Field Training Battalion for three weeks of more close combat skills training and marksmanship training. This was the part Rex had been waiting for. He’d finally get his hands on weapons with live ammunition.
Surprisingly, DI Stringer had treated him with more respect for the last two weeks of Phase One training, but Rex knew that Phase Two offered plenty of opportunity for ‘accidents’. During this phase, he and his fellow recruits would undergo training in the use of gas masks indoors as well as Field Firing Range training with live ammo and gas masks. Rex didn’t notice at first that Stringer had chosen a few others to harass in his place.
Rex acquitted himself well in weapons training. He didn’t earn top scores as a marksman but still ended up in the top ten percent. In doing that, he surprised even himself. Though his family had enjoyed outdoor activities, including some memorable camping trips during which his dad had made sure everyone in the family had expert survival skills, most of his hunting had been done with snares or bow and arrow. Guns, his dad always said, were for self-defense. They were not dependent on game for food, except during the wilderness survival campouts, and killing it for sport was, well, unsportsmanlike.
Nevertheless, Rex’s aim was true, and he was not afraid of firearms. His M-16 became an extension of himself during the four weeks of Phase Two basic training. It was what he’d enlisted for, and when he intended to excel, he always did. He added knife skills to his close-combat arsenal, as well. Rex was disappointed that they had only one week of live-fire training, but the marksmanship instructors assured him that he’d get plenty more in advanced training for his assignment.
In fact, he’d get more in Phase Three, which began back at Parris Island in week eight of basic, with Basic Warrior Training. Rex learned basic combat survival, combat marksmanship, how to maneuver under enemy fire, and land navigation. After his stunning win over DI Stringer in the hand-to-hand combat exhibition, a few members of his platoon approached him to ask if he’d teach them some of the moves he’d used.
Rex began to open himself to camaraderie with his fellows. His teamwork skills improved, along with his popularity among a few of the recruits who seemed to regard him as their leader. His friend Frank was among his Krav Maga students, and they developed a rapport that went beyond that of typical boot camp recruits. It was natural to form friendships in response to the sometimes-brutal conditions of basic training, but everyone knew they’d be scattered to different assignments at the end. So, the friendships were usually superficial. But Rex and Frank, because of their shared interests outside their training, formed a bond more typical of the squad they’d each eventually be assigned to – bosom buddies.
A week of academic and physical testing preceded the final hurdle: the legendary four-and-a-half-day event known as the Crucible.
During the fifty-four-hour event, Rex’s platoon would get two and a half MREs to last them through road marches, night infiltration exercises, and team-building exercises consisting of several simulated combat situations they must solve together. They would do this on four hours of sleep over each of the next two days. The last day would be a nine-mile march, culminating in forming up around a half-size replica of the Iwo Jima Memorial and a ceremony to mark what was arguably a final exam.
Rex and the rest of Bravo platoon turned out at three a.m. on the morning of the Crucible event. A six-mile forced march from the barracks to the site of the event ended with them placing their gear in huts and preparing themselves for the first of four, four-hour events, an ‘enemy-mined’ rope bridge that the recruits had to cross with their gear and ammunition boxes. One of the recruits was designated by the DI as the leader for this and the three remaining events. Each recruit was responsible for rationing his or her own MREs.
After the first two team-building events, they were led on a fast-paced five-mile night march. Every recruit, Rex included, fell into their rack exhausted, only to be turned out again in four hours for a second grueling day.
In one of the events on this day, the platoon was divided into teams to battle each other with pugil sticks. In training, Rex had questioned the utility of learning to fight with the archaic weapon. DI Stringer had made it clear there would be no more questions, so Rex had set himse
lf to excel, as usual, with the padded weapons. Today’s would not be padded. Rex refused to play – he simply disarmed every opposing team member with his Krav Maga moves. The other teams cried foul, but the rules were clear. Disarm your opponent. There were no rules regarding how you did it.
Flush with his team’s success during the Crucible event, Rex paid no attention to the hazing he continued to experience from DI Stringer. If it was a little more than the others in his platoon received, then Rex chalked it up to the humiliation Stringer had taken at his hands in the close-combat demonstration. Besides, if he couldn’t take what Stringer dished out, he certainly wouldn’t make it in combat.
Phase Three of Basic Training was short. Three weeks, during which they had swim qualifications, a defensive driving course, and then the tests and evaluations. And of course, the ever-present drills, PT, and inspections. Rex sailed through it all while looking forward to advanced combat training. On graduation day, however, while everyone else was visiting with proud family who came to celebrate the big day, Rex was packing to move to his advanced training barracks and trying to decide what to do with ten days’ leave and no place to go.
Chapter Nine
Parris Island, SC to Ft. Bragg, NC, April 21, 2006
REX’S DUFFLE BAG was neatly packed and ready at the bottom of his bunk, but he hadn’t yet been given his new assignment. The barracks room was otherwise empty in a lull of the constant flow of other Marines coming in to pick up their things and move them to new digs prior to their leave. Tired of simply standing and waiting for orders, newly graduated Lance Corporal Rex Dalton, having skipped Private and Private First Class by virtue of his education, committed an unpardonable sin. He sat on his bunk, swung his feet up, and opened a book.
