by B. E. Wilson
“Boy, this recruiting station has been in service for two years. I’ve sent thousands of men out of here as Marines, killing Marines, badass Marines and not one of them made it to this program. Let me guess,” he smiled, mocking me, “Your recruiter promised you? Told your folks you’d make it out alive? Well guess what, jack-wagon, without my signature on it, it ain’t fucking happening! So good luck with that, dumbass!” Adams stepped back, an evil smirk on his face.
I gritted my teeth. I was pissed, and I wanted to knock that shit-eating grin right off his face. This whole thing had been planned out. My dad worked hard on it so that I wouldn’t end up like my brothers. All I could do was stand there, watching out of the corner of my eye, straining to stare right through the D.I.s as they moved on to the next guy.
“Name!” Adams said, addressing the guy to my right.
“Billy Houserman!”
“What the fuck did you just say?” Keller said, his fingers buried in the kid’s cheek.
“Sir, the private’s name is Billy Houserman, sir!”
“Well fuckin’ A, ditty bag, we got a Houserbush! As in, how’s your momma’s bush, private?” Adams said as he snatched the folder from his hand.
“Drop, maggot! Give me twenty!” Buckley said, grabbing him by the back of the neck and throwing him down.
“Sir, the private requests a time out, sir!”
“A what?” Keller laughed. “You’re in the wrong corps, boy!”
We all listened as the evil laughs of the three D.I.s filled the platoon bay.
“All of you listen up! So that all of you understand,” Adams said, stepping up onto the row of tables that divided the bay in half, where he began to pace as he addressed us. “I don’t know what you’ve been told, but the Marine Corps has fallen back to the practices of long ago, the traditions that, in my opinion, should have never changed. In the past they were changed due to all your sissy asses and hippy ways. But now…we own your asses! There are no time outs! We will put our hands on you! We will beat you into the best Marines on the face of this Earth! Next one of you tree hugging hippies asks me for a time out, I will personally poke your eyes out and skull fuck you to death. Is that understood?”
“Sir, yes sir!” rang out from all of us.
“Sergeant Keller,” Adams called as he jumped off the tables, his boots thudding the floor as he stood again right in front of me.
“Yes Gunny!”
“Houserbush wants a time out. Would you be so kind to take him outside and let him run around the barracks till he sees the errors of his ways? You want a time out son? You’re going to get time outside—humping!”
“On your feet, maggot. Move it!” Keller said, pushing the kid from behind.
“Now let’s continue,” Adams said. “Name!” he called to the next kid.
“Sir, the private’s name is Ritchie Lee, sir!”
“Where’re you from, Lee?”
“Sir, the private is from San Francisco, sir!”
“San Francisco? The Bay Area, huh? Let me ask you a question, private.” Adams said as he stepped up close to the kid. “Are you one of those…pickle kissers? Are you boy?”
“Sir, no sir!”
“Then what the hell are you boy?”
“Sir, I don’t understand, sir!”
“You’re Asian, aren’t you? Where’s your family hail from?”
“Sir, my family emigrated from Korea, sir!”
“Oh my god,” Adams theatrically jumped backwards, “We have a fucking commie spy in our midst. Are you a spy, private?”
“Sir, the private is not a spy, sir!”
“Well good,” he said, stepping forward, “your name is R-O-R, not Lee. Do you know what that stands for, son?”
“Sir, no sir!” I could hear in Lee’s tone that he was puzzled.
“Stands for ‘Raugh out Roud,’ boy!”
We could all hear Buckley snicker, which made me turn my head to look at him. He was covering his mouth with his hand. Like his laughter was encouraging the playground bully.
“Does that offend you, private? Do you find me culturally insensitive?” Adams playfully asked.
“Sir, no sir!” Lee answered, his tone more masculine.
I could tell from the way he answered that he was pissed.
“Good, son, now drop and give me twenty,” Adams said, side-stepping to his left to attack the next.
“Name!”
“Sir, the private’s name is Frank Tickler, sir!”
Not even blinking an eye, Adams kept up his routine. “Twat Ticker!” he said, turning around and applauding himself. “Come on ladies, this is too easy!”
On down the line Gunny went, each private given a nickname, each one insulted and chastised. He pulled no punches, or so it seemed to us. We weren’t much in his eyes.
As he finished, he stood in front of the barracks door, looking back down its open bay across the tables as if he were talking to the back wall. The rest of us stood at attention for what seemed like an eternity.
“Welcome to hell, ladies! The journey you are embarking on will not be an easy one. We face an enemy like this world has never seen. However, you will become Marines, and Marines will not be defeated! Oorah!”
“Oorah Gunny!” Buckley answered.
“Platoon, give me a—Oorah!”
We halfheartedly complied, much to Adam’s disgust. So he made us say it again and again until we sounded off in what he considered was the proper military fashion.
“Oorah!” thundered through the bay like a cannon being shot.
“That’s it, ladies! Now you’re giving me a hard-on! One more time—Oorah!” Adams ordered.
“Oorah!” I screamed as loud as I could, I couldn’t hear myself, but I could feel my voice painfully crackling from the strain.
Then with great pride, Adams spoke to us, not yelling or degrading, but just talking. “This is my creed:
"These recruits are entrusted to my care.
I will train them to the best of my ability.
I will develop them into smartly disciplined, physically fit, basically trained Marines, thoroughly indoctrinated in love of the Corps and the country.
I will demand of them, and demonstrate by my own example, the highest standards of personal conduct, morality and professional skill.”
“Semper Fi!” Buckley said, nodding to Adams.
“Semper Fi!” returned Adams, his voice calm and raspy.
I don’t know how the other guys felt, but
when he said that, I really did feel pride. At that moment I forgot about losing my deal with the recruiter, losing the chance to wear the Suit. Then it all came crashing back when Adams spoke again.
“Sergeant Buckley, take these pussies to morning PT [Physical Training], chow, and then how about a twenty-mile hump to start the day off right!”
“Aye-aye Gunny!” Buckley said, turning toward us, “Platoon, get on my street now! Don’t stand there looking at each other’s peckers; get your asses outside now!”
5
It had been two weeks and winter was setting in. Things had gotten worse for me. I felt like a marked man. The D.I.s took it upon themselves to condemn me for my choice, or that’s how it seemed. It didn’t matter what I did—in their eyes I couldn’t do anything right. I was feeling singled out. I was given more PT than anyone else in the platoon, and I always had one of them in my face ripping me over the slightest little mistake.
When we received our rifles, we were instructed to never let them out of our sight. We even had to sleep with them. Somehow I fucked that up too. Sometime during the night, I must have rolled over and the rifle fell out of my rack. Buckley found it. That morning he made me stand in front of the barracks, my hat on backwards, sucking my thumb, my pants pulled down around my ankles as I rode my rifle like a stick pony. The others piled up at the door trying to get a glimpse of me as Buckley kept shouting, “Hump that bitch!” I had never been as embarrassed in my entire life as other platoon
s marched by on their way to morning PT. The catcalls and whistles were unbearable as they passed by. Every D.I. from those other platoons stopped to yell at me, adding to the attention.
Since I racked next to Houserman and Lee we became friends. Houserman’s old lady was quite the sight too. We looked at her pictures every time we left the head (bathroom). All of our mail was censored, so if you didn’t want the rest of the guys to see your girl, you were quick to let her know not to send provocative pictures. Houserman didn’t have the chance to warn his, so she sent some nice ones. All I can say is that she’s very flexible. The D.I.s would take the pictures and hang them on a corkboard in the day room; everyone had a good long time to check out all her merchandise.
Today would be the day we’d finally get to shoot our rifles. We were heading to the range. Buckley let us skip morning PT after my pony show and took us straight to chow, only returning to the barracks to retrieve our 65 pound rucksacks. It would be a fifteen-mile hump to get to the range.
It was snowing pretty hard, making visibility almost nonexistent, I could barely see past three men ahead of me. I hoped they knew where they were going and didn’t wander off the road.
Lifting my knees higher than normal just to make it through the thick snow, I could feel my thighs burning. My calves were getting sore, cramping straight down all the way to my ankles. We doubled up on socks, but I still could feel the dampness slushing around inside my boots as we tromped through that white hell.
“Hell yeah!” Keller shouted over top of the ranks, “I love this shit!”
“How can he love it? I can barely feel my fingers. How do they expect us to shoot if we can’t hold the rifle, let alone see the target?” I whispered to Houserman.
“Shut your hole back there!” Buckley said before Houserman could answer me.
So we kept pushing, silently trekking toward our unknown location. Fifteen miles of weariness. Even the D.I.s were hushed as they led the way. The only sounds were branches cracking and snapping from the weight of the wet snow.
When we were almost there, the snow would eventually filter off, not ten miles back when we would have actually appreciated it more.
As we turned the last corner, I saw a large, white-covered field with a creaky decrepit tower rising from its back. Two soldiers popped red smoke canisters, tossing them twenty or so yards in front of the tower.
“That’s my landing zone. You have 20 seconds to get your tired, good-for-nothing, lazy carcasses inside my LZ!!! Double-time ladies, double-time!” Buckley ordered us.
My legs were failing me; the harder I tried to run, the more I fell down. The field wasn’t much longer than a football field, but it felt like we were running across the state just to catch that red smoke.
I collapsed as soon as I made it, my heart beating out of my chest. It felt like my lungs were on fire as I sucked in that frigid air, trying to catch my breath. I looked around at the rest of the platoon, who much like me, had collapsed face-down in the cold snowy bed.
“Who told you ladies you could lie down? Get your sorry rear-ends in formation!” Keller said.
I stood there, my chest heaving, my breath steaming up in front of my face, blurring my vision. I was so far out of position Buckley had to place me in the right spot. His hands felt like dull knives ripping through my nearly frost bitten skin.
“Which of you out-a-shape worthless pups needs a medic?” Buckley said, his gaze darting back and forth through the ranks, looking for a victim to torture.
I wanted to say, ‘Me!’ but I didn’t dare. I’d had enough humiliation for one day.
“Good, that’s more like it. Get used to the cold, because you’ll be camping here tonight! We’ll make camp next to that tree line…what the fuck? Keller, what is that?” Buckley said, pointing back toward the road we just came from.
“Fuck me!” Keller said looking up, “Take cover!”
This is a joke. I’m not falling for this, I thought.
At that moment time stood still. My weary eyes looked up to see what was going on. Then the first explosion happened, about thirty yards in front of us. The concussion of the blast took me off my feet. I felt the pain of tower’s wooden steps impacting through my back, the weak planks giving way as I crashed through them.
Enemy aircraft had broken through the clouds on bombing runs. We didn’t even hear them coming. After the first explosion, I couldn’t hear anything anyway since my ears were ringing. My vision distorted as if I were looking down a long, white, cloudy tube, colors fading to black and white.
I climbed from the rubble, turning over on my hands and knees to see Lee helping a wounded brother. I tried to call to him, clawing in the snow in an attempt to reach him. I could only watch in horror as his body disintegrated from the next explosion. Clumps of dirt rained down on my head.
“No!” I cried.
I tried to rise to my feet, feeling compelled to find him, or what was left of his body. Keller appeared out of nowhere, picking me up and pushing me back as I attempted to get to Lee.
“Get to the tree line!” he said, his voice muffled in my ear, his hand on the back of my head forcing me to turn away, “He’s gone. You need to run!”
I started side-stepping in the direction of the woods, keeping my eyes fixated on the crater where Lee was standing. I was in shock, not realizing I was stumbling over the body parts of my fallen platoon brothers.
“Run, Butler!” Keller said, pushing me from behind.
I turned and tried to sprint, the snow slowing me down. I could see Buckley at the edge of the tree line, his right arm flailing in a circle motioning for us run past him. I could hear the explosions behind me, chasing me, zeroing in on me. Then I heard a dead humming sound in front of me. I froze as its roar came closer, my fear stopping me from reaching Buckley. Two A-10 Warthogs buzzed the tree line, the sounds of their ancient jet engines becoming clearer.
I felt Keller’s hand in the middle of my back, shoving me, as the alien aircraft weapons shredded one of the A-10s over our heads.
“Move your ass or die!” he said, debris from the wreckage falling behind us.
I ran past Buckley. Looking for others, I saw none, so I kept running. Keller blew by me on my right, urging me to follow. I no longer felt the pain in my thighs. The cramps were gone; I was numb. I just kept running, trying to catch him.
I don’t know what happened next. All I remember is waking up. The snowflakes falling from the trees above tickled my face. I had a pounding headache that caused my eyes to flutter as I struggled to focus them. As I reached up to shield my eyes, my thumb grazed something on my forehead. What the hell is this? I asked myself, carefully patting my head. It was a bandage.
“You bumped your head. You’ll be fine. Can you sit up?” Buckley asked, his voice coming from somewhere on my right.
“I—I think so,” I muttered.
“Good. We need your help over here son.”
My body was stiff, I shuddered in pain as I sat up. Looking over to where his voice had come from, I saw him attending to an injured private.
“Butler, we need your help!” he called again.
“Yes, sir,” I said, fighting to stand, staggering toward him and falling on my knees next to the injured man.
“Give me your hand,” he said, taking it and placing it on the pad covering the man’s chest. “Press here, don’t ease up on it.”
“Sir…” I called as he moved away, “But sir….”
I knew the kid, but only by face. Even though we lived in the same barracks for the last two weeks, I hadn’t taken the time to learn his name.
“What’s your name? Can you talk?” I asked him.
He nodded his head yes and murmured, “Sanchez.”
“You’re going to be all right, Sanchez,” I smiled at him. “Hang in there, buddy.”
Sanchez tried to cough, but only gurgled as the blood choked him. A small red stream started to drip down his cheek. I wiped it away with my bare hand. He raised his
left hand up near my face, his fingers spread open. I wasn’t sure what he wanted, so I took his hand in mine.
I watched as he smiled. He seemed content as he looked into my eyes. I returned the smile, trying to let him know he would be all right. But that wasn’t what he was looking for. He lightly squeezed my hand, I could feel him shaking and trembling.
“Sanchez?” I asked.
“Oorah,” he whispered faintly as his eyes closed, the smile gradually fading from his face as his chin drifted down to his chest.
“Sanchez!” I called louder.
He didn’t respond. His grip relaxed on my hand. I shook him, trying to wake him.
“Sanchez!” I cried.
Buckley had been watching as he worked on another; he was watching as I started to sob, still holding on to Sanchez’s hand and pressing the pad covering his wound.
I felt his hands on my shoulder. Gently he pulled at me, “He’s gone son…let him go. There’s nothing more you can do.”
He steadied me as I rose, his hulking arm draped over my shoulder as his left hand patted my chest, “You did good, kid, and you helped your brother find comfort, so now let it go.”
“I’ll never let it go,” I said defiantly. Looking down at him, my voice still shaky, “Semper Fi, Sanchez.”
“Oorah,” Buckley said, patting my back. “Say a prayer for him, and then let’s help the others.”
He left me standing there. Although Sanchez looked peaceful in his final rest, the pit of my stomach was churning. I’d never seen anyone die before. Even though we’d been at war for three years, I’d never actually seen it. I was scared and angry. Thought of that also happening to my actual brothers made me sick. I ran away from the others. Buckley called my name, telling me to come back, but I kept running till I found a tree that suited my purpose.
I didn’t know Buckley was chasing me, I didn’t want anyone to see me vomiting. He found me behind the tree hunched over, cowering.
“Butler,” he called. “Butler.”
Wiping the puke from my chin, I tried to collect myself before facing him. Turning, he handed me a bandana, surprising me, I thought he was going to chew my ass.
