by B. E. Wilson
“Company—Atten—Hut!”
What are we supposed to do? I thought to myself. I was too afraid to move.
“Holy sheep shit, you cocksuckers can’t even stand at attention!” He yelled, jumping toward me. With a quick jab he punched me square in the gut, doubling me over. His right hand catching me under the chin, he stood me straight back up as his left hand pushed my lower back straight out.
“Like this, maggots!” Buckley said, instructing them all to imitate me. He grabbed my hands and yanked them down till my arms were straightened out, making me position my thumbs on the seams of my hand-me-down jeans. When I looked down, his fist hammered my chin back up so that I was looking down my nose. His thumbs dug into my shoulders as he wrapped his fingers around them, pushing them backwards as my chest thrust outwards.
“Now freeze in that position, private! Company, this is standing at fucking attention! The rest of you sorry excuses for human flesh better get your tired carcasses in that same exact position before I count to three!”
I felt awkward, out of place, standing there like a spectacle on display, my teeth still rattling from his rock like fist that jacked my jaw.
“Now Company—At—Ease!” Buckley ordered.
I don’t know what the others were doing behind me, but I stood at attention. Again, I didn’t know what his command meant.
“Jesus—H—Christ,” Keller howled from the back of the lines, “Relax, dummies!”
I was hesitant, and for good reason. As soon as I relaxed, Buckley barked at us again.
“Company—Atten—Hut!”
I tried my damndest to get back into the position he had placed me in, but he caught me trying to find my seam with my left hand.
Buckley charged me again, his fingers pointing in my face, his thumb tucked neatly into his palm. He wagged those fingers in my face as his campaign cover poked my forehead. His breath was atrocious; it smelled of tobacco and what I believed to be rotten fish. It was vile.
“Get your ass to attention, private,” he said. Seeing that I was looking at him, he smacked me across the face, rattling my brain once more, “Don’t eye fuck me boy, I’ve done warned you. Get your ass to attention before I lose my patience!”
“Sir, yes sir!” I shouted.
“Well…would you looky here, that’s the first fucking thing you’ve done right, recruit!” Buckley backhanded me in the chest as an award—an award that caused me to wince in pain. I had only said the words because I was scared. It was purely coincidental that they came out right.
“Company, on my orders you will run to my bus and take a seat. Company—March!”
I took off as fast as I could go. I could hear Keller behind me yelling at the others, “Run dummies, run!” Buckley was in tune with him: “Double-time, double-time, double-time!”
What the fuck is double-time?
Some guys were quicker than me and beat me to the bus. I thought if I could get a window seat I’d be out of arms reach, but I wasn’t so lucky. With all of the jockeying to grab seats, Buckley took it upon himself to seat the stragglers. I tried to look straight ahead like he told me too, but the sight of him tossing grown men around was fascinating to me. It made me wonder if after training, I’d have strength like that.
“All right, ladies! We’ve got a long ride south of here to take you Girl Scouts to your new home. I’d better not here a peep out of any of you! It had better be so quiet I can hear a church mouse fart!”
Buckley smacked the driver on the shoulder, signaling him to drive. As soon as the bus started to creep forward, the unthinkable happened, I sneezed.
“Holy mother of God, who the fuck just blew snot on my bus!”
Buckley first, then Keller moved toward me. We hadn’t driven ten feet and both D.I.s were ripping me a new asshole. They sounded like two hoarse rabid dogs trying to get at the mailman. Both towering over me, both so loud I couldn’t hear what the other was saying. It had to be the most brutal ten minutes of my life till they finally sat back down. I knew this was going to be one long bus ride.
3
I was struggling to stay awake. The constant rocking of the bus down this long winding road was putting me to sleep. My eyelids felt like they had ten-pound weights attached to them. There was no reason to turn our heads since the bus windows were permanently blacked out, so we had no choice but to look straight ahead.
Sergeant Keller stood at the front of the bus facing us. He told of our history, of what had changed and what was to be expected. I wanted to listen, but as the rain started pinging off the roof of the bus, it made me even groggier, it reminded me of the tin roof on our house back in Indiana. I imagined I was back home, sitting in a recliner, looking out the window as the clouds rolled over the fields.
Daydreaming again, I was shocked back to life by the screech of the wet brakes as they pulled up to the main gate, an immediate rush that sent us all lunging toward the front of the bus, everyone fighting to stay in our seats per the sergeant’s orders.
The base was completely dark, except for a few street lamps that led us to a humongous parking lot. The bus pulled up behind two other buses until they were almost touching. Its brake lights shone back in our direction, the red glow almost blinding us.
Buckley stood at the entrance of the bus and adjusted his hat before he said, “Welcome to my hell, ladies. You have thirty seconds to get off my bus and find a set of footprints out there to stand on! And five of those seconds are already gone! Move it!”
It was a mad dash to hit the door, guys falling over each other, pushing and shoving. I was pretty sure one guy took a swing at me as he pushed me aside.
“You don’t want to be the last fuck-tard off my bus—move it!” Buckley screeched as I tried to pass by.
As I passed Buckley, he offered his assistance by pushing me through the door, lifting me off my feet and making me miss the last two steps, I reached for the door handle to catch myself, but my hand slipped off the rain-soaked rail. I found myself landing on the unforgiving concrete, my right side bouncing off the hardened surface.
“Get your ass off my grinder!” he said reaching for my arm, tugging me back to my feet.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
“What did you say? What’s your malfunction, recruit? Get your sissy ass on my footprints!”
He shoved me away, causing me to teeter again, but this time I was able to catch my balance and sprinted toward the others. I found an empty set of yellow spray-painted footprints on the ground and claimed them.
There were three groups of men processing in. We stood in complete silence, and not a word was heard from any recruit as the D.I.s arranged everyone who still didn’t have a place. We were standing at attention, the cold rain beating down on us, when, as if God himself had just appeared, the rain stopped and the clouds parted.
Headlights from a nearby jeep flashed on, and a dark shadowy figure appeared before them, his arms behind his back and his elbows pointed outward.
“Attention—on—Deck!” Keller said, his voice echoing across the barren concrete desert.
“Thank you Sergeant Keller, I’ll take it from here,” the shadow said.
The shadow stood up straight, his arms fell down to his side, and he began to march toward us, his steps even paced, his movements swift and accurate. As he came into the light, it became evident who he was. His uniform was immaculate, not a wrinkle showing in any garment. The rack of ribbons on his chest was 10 fingers deep. His jaw was square, his nose stubbed and broad. He waved his hands to the other D.I.s, dismissing them from the ranks, motioning for them to step aside. I think everyone standing there noticed the same thing I did: He was missing his pinky and ring fingers, on both hands.
“Ladies!” he said, his voice as loud as the thunder at the train station. “I am your senior drill instructor, Gunnery Sergeant John Edwards Adams! I’ve spent over thirty years in our beloved corps! Things have changed due to our present conflict, and they’ve only given me eight weeks to
make you pussies—Marines!”
I couldn’t stop staring at his hands, hands that were now clasped again behind his back as he walked between the two closest platoons.
“Not only have they only given me eight weeks, but I will be the senior drill instructor for all three platoons! Some of you,” he stopped to look at the platoon across from us, “have already met your drill instructors! The rest…you will meet yours, when you process in. They will be waiting on you!”
Whew, I’m not getting Buckley and Keller. That’s a relief, I thought.
He snapped around immediately to face my platoon. “You girls will process in, in the building behind you, building ‘C’ and,” he spun again to address the other platoon, “you little sweethearts, will process in building ‘B’, which leaves you other little darlings in the last building. Now if I have to tell you the letter, I don’t need your illiterate ass in my Marine Corps! If I have to tell you, we’ll just shoot you here and drag your body outside the gate so your families can pick up your worthless shit-bag of a corpse!”
Holy shit, they’re gonna shoot us?
“Sergeant Buckley!” Adams roared out.
“Yes Gunny!”
“Process these maggots in!”
“Aye-aye Gunny!”
At that point, hell broke loose once more, it looked like a boulder had landed in a pond and the people running in every direction were the ripples. I ran in the direction of my assigned building only to realize that my worst nightmare was coming true: Buckley and Keller were following us.
Oh no, I got these two guys for D.I.s, I thought to myself, the fear building up inside me.
4
Processing was the longest two days of my life to this point. It was a lot of hurry up and wait, a military term that had stood the test of time. They stripped us of anything civilian and shaved our heads to make us look the same. We were to have no personal identity, standing in lines buck-naked, with some guy you didn’t even know standing behind you with his junk pressed into your crack while he breathed down your neck. The itchy feeling from his breath made you want to scratch, but if you did, you were doing naked push-ups until your arms gave out.
Physical exams, shots, and eye tests. Guys with poor vision were issued BC glasses. It stood for birth control glasses, because any woman that saw you in these ugly monstrosities, well…she wouldn’t have anything to do with you. I was thankful I had great vision.
The shots were the worst. It was a moving line of ouches and guys passing out as they hit us with what they called jet injectors, I felt like a flat tire they were trying to fill with air when they hit me with it. If you didn’t pass out the first time, they handed you another shot, a cold one, with the needle waxed over. You rubbed it between your palms to get it warm; once it was no longer cold, you had to stick it under your arm pit to keep the temperature steady until the doc took it from you and stuck it in your buttocks. It left a painful lump the size of a golf ball, but we couldn’t rub that lump or it meant more unwanted attention.
It all seemed chaotic. Everything we did caused someone to yell at us. We couldn’t do anything right. Senior privates, those further along in boot camp, manned the line when we received our uniforms. They also took liberty with our virgin knowledge of how things worked, screaming just as loud as the D.I.s behind us as we went down the line, getting clothes tossed into our green canvas duffel bags. They didn’t even ask for our sizes; they just guessed.
Those first two days were horrendous. Marching through the base to chow we looked like, as Buckley put it, “a bunch of monkeys fucking footballs!” Guys were stepping on other guys, some fell down, and no one seemed to be able to get in step with the D.I. We watched as other platoons, seasoned ones, marched along in precise beauty, singing cadences and hitting every mark of the instructor’s call. It was embarrassing to pass them as they turned their noses up at us, like we weren’t good enough to be dog shit on the bottom of their boots.
And chow. I already hated chow. Breakfast was the worst. Powdered milk, powdered eggs—I honestly believed everything they served was powdered. The eggs they force-fed us had the texture of yellow cardboard.
Those who were overweight were called ‘Fat Bodies’ and were only given a third as much food as the rest of us. Me being a thin guy, when I walked through the line they just kept piling food on. It was more food than I’d ever seen on my plate in my entire life. And it didn’t matter what I wanted. They didn’t ask, they just loaded my tray down like I was eating for a family of ten.
Once the tray was full, you made your way to your assigned table, if you could. Senior recruits kept yelling, ‘Live Grenade, make a hole!’ It wasn’t till the second day I figured out what they meant: “Move, dickhead! I’ve got a hot cup of coffee. Don’t make me spill it.” Hell, I was wondering if someone actually did have a live grenade.
Five minutes. That’s how long they gave you to wolf down your meal, just five minutes. You had to wait till everyone was sitting down at your table, and when the last guy was finally there, you started shoveling. At some point you began to question whether you had even chewed a single bite.
It was the morning of my third day. To me it was still nighttime, but the senior D.I. barreled into our barracks with a vengeance.
“What the fuck is going on in here?” Adams squealed as he grabbed an aluminum trash can by the door, dumping the trash out and proceeding to bang his nightstick inside it as he made his way around the barrack.
Buckley started flipping guys in their racks, which sucked for the guys on the top bunks, who had further to fall.
“Ladies, get those peter-beaters off your guns and get those asses out of those racks! We’re burning daylight!” Adams said.
I looked out the window, it was pitch black. What daylight? I looked at the clock above the front entrance. It was 4 A.M.
“Get your puny asses to attention!” Keller shouted.
Barefoot and standing on cold tiled floor at the foot of my bunk, it was all I could do to stop shivering as the Gunny walked by.
“You girls got five minutes to shit, shower, shave, and get your uniforms on. Once you have your uniforms on, you will get your orders and stand at attention to await inspection!” Buckley said. “Now—move!”
I obviously didn’t know anyone in my platoon. We hadn’t even had a spare second to be properly introduced. But somehow, without one word spoken to any of them, there we were, standing nude in front of each other and scrubbing places that one particularly doesn’t show in public, unless you’re a perv or something.
I was one of the first ones out, dressed and standing by my bunk. I had retrieved my orders from underneath my mattress, making sure to fold my blanket back just the way the diagram showed. I didn’t think I could stand to do any more push-ups. My arms felt like rubber.
Adams started to my left, checking orders and addressing sloppy uniforms. A few times I adjusted mine, hoping he wouldn’t notice. I listened intently as he approached. The things coming out of his mouth floored me. I’d never heard anyone speak like that to anyone else before.
There he was, standing in front of me. I couldn’t even have blinked if I’d wanted to. I just stared at the dimple in his chin as if it were a window to another universe.
“Orders!”
“Sir, yes sir!” I shouted as loud as I could, holding my folder out for him.
As he took the orders, he gave me the once over. He started at my head and gradually worked his way down to my boots with his eyes. Grabbing a fistful of my shirt, he untucked the shirt with a quick yank.
“Fix that gig line private!”
“Sir, yes sir!”
“What’s your name, private?” he asked, staring at the paperwork inside my folder.
“Sir, the private’s name is Drew Butler, sir!”
“Butler! Do you hear that Buckley? A butler, are you fucking Benson? No you’re not Benson, private!”
Why the fuck is he calling me Benson? Who the hell is Benson?
>
“Answer me private!”
“Sir, no sir!”
“Butler huh? No, your name is butt-nugget! Do you know what a butt-nugget is son?”
“Sir, the private does not know, sir!”
“You’re that little turd hanging on to my ass hair. Yeah, that’s what you are! You just won’t fall off, will ya? But you are going to fall! Fall to your stomach right now!”
Keller and Buckley rushed to their knees, one on each side of me, barking in my ears like fervent dogs, “Give me twenty!” Over and over they kept commanding.
“Well, would you look at this shit,” Adams said, going over my orders, “Look at this, boys,” he directed Keller and Buckley while pointing his finger at one of the sheets. “Private butt-nugget enlisted! Scored high on his testing, so if he makes it through boot camp he’s going to the 4th Battalion 1st Marines. This little bastard cut a deal. Nugget here wants to wear the suit!”
Evidentially that pissed off Buckley, who was now standing over top of me, his cover shading my head, his nose pressed into my temple. I could feel his lips moving against my right cheek with every word he distinctly intended for me to hear.
“You don’t deserve to wear the Suit, you sorry piece of shit! Men wear the Suit and you ain’t a man! If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll break you, you’ll be washing dishes for some faggoty admiral in the Navy, you sorry pathetic asshole!”
“Calm down Buckley!” Adams said, grabbing his arm and pulling him back, “Down, you devil-dog!”
I thought I was screwed. I thought all the planning my father did before I enlisted was lost. This was a nightmare.
The Suit, the T1A77 Marine Suit, was the only piece of equipment that had any success in fighting the enemy. It was what every young boy growing up in the camps talked about. My dad had numerous conversations with the recruiter about it. If I tested well and enlisted, I could qualify for the T1A77 program. So I did, and I got it. That, and I was the right size for it (5’10”). The recruiter swore I was a perfect fit.
