Spare Parts

by Buzz Williams

  After my time with Charlie, life on the Island never seemed better. The first-phase games had ended, rifle qualification was behind us, and we were all ready for the perks of third-phase training: a short patch of hair atop our heads, fewer trips to the pit, combat training in the field, and then graduation. The best part, though, was the camaraderie we shared. Helping each other to survive ten weeks of hell on Parris Island had formed the strongest of bonds between us. We were brothers.

  Nothing, I thought, could change that.

  As I crossed the threshold of the hatch I wondered if I was in the wrong squad bay. Things didn’t seem quite right. The lights were off, except the light emanating from the drill instructors’ office side window. As the hatch slammed behind me, I saw the blinds of the drill instructors’ office separate and then snap back into place. I surveyed the surroundings carefully. Some recruit spaces were vacant, S P A R E P A R T S

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  their wall lockers and footlockers open and empty. There were two fully packed seabags in front of Guide Morrison’s rack.

  The drill instructors’ office door crashed open and Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley barked at the guide, “Report!”

  Morrison belted out his the response. “Sir, the count on deck is fifty-two recruits, sir!”

  Fifty-two? I thought. This morning there were sixty . . .

  “Stand by there, Morrison. There’s soon to be only fifty-one recruits on deck.”

  “Aye, sir!” Replied Guide Morrison.

  “Front and center, Williams.” Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley spoke with calm conviction. I heard his command, but was still mired in the mathematics of his last statement . . . soon to be fifty-one . . . someone was getting dropped. I remembered the seabags in front of Guide Morrison’s rack. Could it be that Morrison was getting dropped back in training to another platoon? I knew I had beaten his score on the rifle range, but I didn’t think he went unqualified.

  A scream interrupted my thought. “Any friggin’ day there, Williams!”

  I ran to within the specified arm’s length from his front and reported at the position of attention. “Sir, Recruit Williams reporting as ordered, sir!”

  “You know how Morrison earned the guide position, Williams?”

  Still confused, but lucid enough to reply as trained, I sounded off,

  “Sir, Recruit Morrison earned the position of guide because he is the most squared-away recruit in the platoon, sir.”

  I spewed the rhetoric to him, even though I did not believe it.

  Guide Morrison stood at parade rest at his guard post within earshot of the quarterdeck.

  “Guide, are you the most squared-away recruit in this platoon?”

  Guide Morrison yelled confidently, “Sir, yes, sir!”

  “Really,” he asked sarcastically. “Guide, did you negotiate the slide-for-life obstacle dry or wet?”

  “Sir, wet, sir,” snorted Morrison.

  “You, Williams?” asked Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley.

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  “Sir, dry, sir!” I replied proudly.

  Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley upped the ante with the next question.

  “Refresh my memory. Who beat whose ass with the pugil sticks?”

  After an uncomfortable silence and mounting tension I boasted,

  “Sir, Recruit Williams beat Guide Morrison’s ass with the pugil sticks, sir.”

  The redemption felt liberating. I reflected on all of the shitty duties that the guide assigned to me out of jealousy. It was coming clearer to me now. I was going to become the guide tonight.

  “You beat his ass in the boxing ring, too, didn’t you, Williams?”

  asked Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley, rubbing salt into Morrison’s wounded ego.

  “Sir, yes, sir!” I replied.

  Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley added the final insult. “And—correct me if I am wrong, Guide Morrison—but didn’t Williams outshoot you on the rifle range too?”

  “Recruit Williams scored two points higher than Recruit Morrison on the range, sir!” Guide Morrison shouted defensively.

  He followed up in a condescending tone, “So I asked you again, Guide Morrison. Are you the most squared-away recruit in this platoon?”

  Silence.

  “Well, it is not a trick question there, Nasty! Answer me!”

  I was reveling in the thought of assuming the position of guide and beginning to think that Charlie was right. Drill Instructor Sgt.

  Talley wasn’t so bad after all.

  Recruit Morrison was choking back his anger. “Recruit Morrison believes that Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley knows what makes a good Marine and trusts the drill instructor’s decision to make this recruit the guide, sir!”

  I thought that was a pretty good answer.

  “You are right, Morrison. I do know what makes a good Marine, and Williams has it all. Well, almost all. You see . . . Williams didn’t want to be a Marine all of the time, so he joined part-time. A reservist . . . a friggin’ reservist.”

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  I was frozen. His words stung my ears.

  Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley commanded, “Get Williams’s seabags to the quarterdeck, Guide.”

  Oh, shit, I thought. Those are my bags, not Morrison’s. I didn’t understand what was happening. I knew I was on my way out, but had no idea why I was leaving or where I was headed.

  Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley continued to speak to Morrison as if I were invisible. Apparently I no longer rated the privilege of being seen.

  “It is a shame too. I knew in first phase he had what it took to be a squad leader—maybe even the guide. But reservists ain’t like us full-timers, Morrison. Well, with all of the studying, keg parties, and sorority girls, it’s sometimes hard to fit in being a Marine.”

  I summoned the courage to ask, “Sir, Recruit Williams requests permission to know what is happening, sir.”

  Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley turned toward me with contempt in his voice and disgust on his face.

  “What is happening, Recruit Williams, is that you, and eight others like you, are being fast-forwarded to another platoon so you can graduate a week earlier and start college on time.”

  Eight others? While I wondered who else would be joining me, Morrison dropped my seabags at my feet. His eye contact lasted longer than it should have, and he remained in my face, toe-to-toe, and chest-to-chest.

  Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley pulled me away by the material in my collar and continued. “What is happening, Recruit Williams, is you are about to get your nasty ass off my quarterdeck and out of my face! Pick up your trash and move!”

  To my surprise Recruit Carey was positioned directly across from me, as we stood on-line for the first time with our new platoon. Until then I hadn’t known he was a reservist. Then I realized the reason he had been fired from the guide position had had nothing to do with his shooting score. It was because he, like I, was leaving the platoon.

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  Assimilation into the culture of the new platoon never fully occurred. It was reminiscent of first-phase training all over again. The drill instructors, as well as other recruits, treated us like black sheep throughout third-phase training. Worse yet, I mourned the loss of my identity and my recruit buddies in my former platoon. I was so distraught that I spoke with my new senior drill instructor and requested permission to return to my former platoon and delay my entrance to college. I was informed it was not an option. It was the first time, but not the last, that I questioned my decision to join the Marines as a reservist.

  Graduation day was bittersweet for me, as I suspect it was for the other black sheep who were fast-forwarded. Although I was glad I had survived Parris Island, my graduation was anticlimactic.

  As we stood ready in our dress uniforms, the senior drill instructor talked of how proud he was of us, which meant little to me. He wasn’t my senior. It wasn’t my pl
atoon. Looking on, I saw the crowd in the bleachers, relieved that Gina and Mom were there. But as we started marching toward the parade deck, the sky suddenly turned dark and the clouds opened. The rain was so torrential that the base commander called off the ceremony, sending families to take cover, dismissing us hurriedly with the wave of his hand. It was no real loss. It didn’t feel like graduation to me anyway.

  After fifteen minutes of wandering amid the chaos of disoriented graduates and rain-soaked relatives, I finally found Gina and Mom.

  It was now I who stood rigid and robotic, uncomfortably accepting the hugs that I thought might get me sent to the pit.

  My mother’s boyfriend—who I did not get along with—congratulated me with a handshake. Mom was laughing and crying at the same time. She was happy for me, but I knew a part of her was reliving Lenny’s graduation, as was a part of me. Gina stood close, held on to my arm, and waited for me to start talking. But talking would have to wait.

  What I remember most vividly about our rainy reunion was the insecurity I felt without the drill instructors’ supervision. We had been micromanaged twenty-four hours per day, seven days per week, for three months. Now we were on our own. There were so S P A R E P A R T S

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  many ways to screw up. I began to wonder if my uniform was still squared away—whether the officers nearby were close enough to salute—and how I would speak to my drill instructors if they approached. Paranoid of being dug in front of my family, I excused myself and headed back to the barracks to collect my bags.

  As I walked away from the parade deck I heard the familiar voice of Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley calling, “Hey, Marine!”

  I stopped and looked around. Directly to my front were the recruits of my original platoon, halted and positioned at parade rest—

  apparently for my benefit. I assumed they were returning from the tailor, as all were smartly dressed in their dress green alpha uniforms.

  They looked at me enviously, knowing that I had just graduated.

  Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley motioned for me to come over to the platoon as he stood impatiently with his hands on his hips.

  “Get over here, Marine,” commanded Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley.

  I second-guessed my ears. Had he just called me, Marine?

  It sounded too good to be true, and it was.

  I responded with the reflex, “Sir, Recruit Williams reporting as—”

  “At ease, Williams,” he interrupted. “You did graduate today, didn’t you?”

  I remained at the position of attention and took a risk. “Yes . . .

  Sgt. Talley!”

  “Well, then, you’re a Marine, not a recruit,” he sneered back.

  “Act like one!”

  I did not respond, for fear of saying the wrong thing.

  Recognizing my anxiety, Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley directed me to stand in front of the platoon, “Form them up, Marine.”

  I looked at him for a clue, and he motioned with his hands for me to address the platoon. Only drill instructors addressed platoons from the front, and I had no idea of how to proceed. I walked cautiously around to the front and stared at the recruits whom I had missed since we parted.

  Just as the nostalgia started to set in, Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley tore into the platoon.

  “Do we not see a Marine in front of you? So we just want to be disrespectful to a United States Marine? How about snapping to 50

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  attention! How about offering a proper military greeting? How about locking your bodies and showing some respect!”

  I instinctively snapped to attention and braced for the storm.

  Only, the storm wasn’t directed at me—it was aimed at them. Did he really expect them to treat me as they would a Marine? Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley, clever as always, had one last game to play. He apologized to me for the disrespect of the recruits, as they stood at full attention in the blazing midafternoon sun, sweat starting to show on their dress uniforms.

  “This mob needs a little discipline. I think you should dig them.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. He was asking me to punish my brothers with calisthenics, in the street, in their dress uniforms.

  I responded unassertively, “Uh . . . no thank you, sir.”

  “Oh! You thought it was a choice?” Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley yelled. “Let me be clearer . . . I am giving you a direct order to dig this platoon. Now!”

  I locked eyes with Guide Morrison, standing in his dress blues, positioned before a standing puddle of water left over from the rain.

  His eyes dared me.

  “Get on your faces!” I screamed, in my best drill-instructor voice.

  Every recruit dropped to the street in the push-up position.

  Guide Morrison’s uniform soaked up the muddy water like a sponge. After a minute of the familiar grind I ordered the platoon back to the position of attention.

  Then Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley ordered Guide Morrison in front of the platoon with me.

  “I want you two to shake hands,” he said, physically positioning our hands together in a handshake fashion.

  “You two never know when you might see each other again.

  Someday, Morrison, if we are fortunate enough to have another war, the Marine machine might break down and Uncle Sam will have to send out for spare parts! Oh, I am sorry Williams. . . . I meant call up the reserves.”

  I never heard from Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley again.

  I wish that I could say the same for Morrison.

  PART II

  RESERVIST

  THREE

  AUGUST 1989

  WHEN THE LIGHTS CLICKED ON, waking me from my sleep, I exploded from my bed with life-and-death urgency as I had during each of my mornings on Parris Island, which nearly gave my unsuspecting mother a heart attack. When I landed on my feet I saw her frozen, eyes wide and startled, with her hand still plastered on the light switch to my bedroom.

  “Jesus Christ, Mom!” I yelled.

  These were words she never heard from my mouth, rendered in a tone and volume I had never before used in her presence. She looked at me in a state of horror, as if I were the son of Satan and not her own.

  My waking reflex was so out of context, it was shocking. One night home was not enough to clear Parris Island from my subconscious.

  I understand it better now in hindsight. Newly graduated Marines do not get embarrassed. Emotions like embarrassment, grief, sadness, and vulnerability are all converted into anger—the omniemotion that helps recruits survive.

  It was the same maternal gesture, an innocent flick of the light switch that had awakened me for most of the days of my life, which sent me into a fit of rage. Her dumbstruck stare was making me angrier by the second. After a very uneasy silence, she cautiously backed out of the doorway to leave me alone. And there I stood, alone in my room, looking for myself in the mirror.

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  This was my first of many recurring experiences with a process I call reintegration—the mental, physical, and emotional transition from being in combat-ready Marine mode to society-ready civilian mode. It is unspeakably difficult when one’s boot-camp world collides with one’s civilian world. The culture shock of home life is initially just as debilitating to you as recruit life is for those landing on the yellow footprints for the first time. In civil society there are no outlets to exercise the warrior mentality and personality born at Parris Island, and the constant stress this creates results in an antisocial personality. Some return to their friends and family as quiet dissidents; some return as arrogant egomaniacs; but all return dramatically different from the person who had left just three months before.

  Active-duty Marines experience reintegration briefly, if at all, as they pass through their hometowns during their ten-day period of leave, before reporting to their new MOS schools. There is little time, and even less necessity, for t
hem to return to civilian ways of thinking, feeling, and acting.

  Reservists, however, are unleashed into their communities indefinitely, left alone to cope with their personal reintegration experiences. Our drill instructors had not prepared us for the process of reintegration, as best I can understand, because it is a phenomenon that is unique to reservists. I later wondered whether it was because the drill instructors did not know, or did not care, what reservists did after boot camp. I suspected the latter.

  This Friday morning, however, my struggle with reintegration would need to wait. My mind was preoccupied with the remnants of boot camp dreams. My anxiety about the unknown would soon be realized, and my questions would be answered. It was time to shift gears again.

  It was time to report for my first drill weekend.

  The rumble of my truck tires crossing the old wooden bridge signaled the moment of truth. After parking in the dirt lot of Camp S P A R E P A R T S

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  Upshur I sat in my pickup truck, sweat soaked from anxiety, and watched the dust settle. I had no idea what to expect for the next forty-eight hours.

  I walked up to the chest-high counter of the administrative area and reported as the drill instructors taught us in boot camp.

  “Pfc. Williams reporting for duty as ordered, sir!” I presented my check-in papers with an outstretched arm while my body was locked rigidly at the position of attention.

  A female voice responded as the Marine behind the counter turned to greet me. “I know it has been a long time, Pfc., but you didn’t forget the difference between men and women, did you?”

  Staff Sgt. Church smiled and introduced herself as the company admin chief. She was a tall, attractive Latina, more feminine than the female Marines I had seen at Parris Island, but a staff sergeant nonetheless.

  I stood silently, locked at the position of attention, not knowing how to respond.

  Then a corporal leaned over the counter, exaggerating his visual inspection of me standing at attention. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Dog!”