by Robert Roth
Sergeant Hacker stood in the center of the aisle explaining and demonstrating About Face. As Hacker went over everything for the fourth time, Chalice stood thinking, ‘What kind of idiots does he take us for?’
“All right, hogs, we’re gonna try it now; and NOBODY better make a mistake.” Hacker remained in the center of the aisle while Morton and Green walked to opposite ends of the barracks, eyeing each man along the way as if they were moving in for the kill.
“About, HACE!” At least ten men turned to the left, and a few more ended up with their legs crossed. All three drill instructors exploded into action. Sergeant Green was glad for the opportunity to have another conference with Private Colson. Colson squinted his right eye as Green’s teeth clicked within an inch of it. “Are you winking at me, Sweet Pea?”
“Sir, the Private wasn’t winking at you.”
“You? YOU?”
“Sir, the Private—”
“DID I GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO SPEAK?”
“NO, SIR.”
“LISTEN, COME BUBBLE, if you want to say something to me, you say, ‘Sir, the Private requests permission to speak to the Drill Instructor.’ ”
“Sir, the Private requests permission to speak to the Drill Instructor.”
“Oh, does he?” Green cooed. “What does the Private have to say that’s so important?”
Colson remained silent.
“WHAT DOES THE PRIVATE HAVE TO SAY?”
“Sir, the Private forgot.”
“Oh, the Private forgot,” Green replied in a soothing tone. “THE PRIVATE FUCKING FORGOT!” Green’s hand shot towards Colson’s neck. He squeezed as hard as he could — his face turning red while Colson’s turned white. “THE PRIVATE’S GONNA FORGET HOW TO BREATHE, isn’t he?”
“Aaaacccchhhh,” Colson replied.
“ISN’T HE?”
“Aaaacccchhhh.”
Green pulled his hand away just before Colson’s saliva reached it. “ISN’T HE?”
“Yes, sir,” Colson answered in a hoarse whisper.
“HUH?”
“YES, SIR.”
Green stepped back into the aisle as Hacker shouted, “All right, hogs, let’s try it again. . . . About, HACE!” Only three men turned in the wrong direction, one for each drill instructor. Morton was immediately nose to nose with a tall, skinny black. “That was lovely, Sambo, just fucking lovely! You did that on purpose, DIDN’T YOU?”
“No, sir.”
“HUH?”
“NO, SIR.”
“Are you trying to tell me you don’t know your left from your right?”
“NO, SIR.”
“Then you did it on purpose. You’re trying to beat the system. You’re making fun of me, AREN’T YOU?”
“No, sir.”
“HUH?”
“No, sir.”
“HUH?”
“NO, SIR.”
“WHAT’S YOUR NAME, PRIVATE?”
“MOBLEY.”
“WHAT?”
“MOBLEY, SIR.”
“WHAT?”
“SIR, THE PRIVATE’S NAME IS MOBLEY.”
“What’s your first name? Thaddeus? Ambrose? WILLIE?”
“NO, SIR. The Private’s first name is Reginald.”
Morton staggered backwards. “Reginald, fucking Reginald? Tell me something Reggie Baby: How do those black mammies think up all those fancy names?”
“Sir, the Private doesn’t know.”
“The Private doesn’t know a lot of things, doesn’t even know his left from his right. You better get your shit together, REGINALD, or you’ll find that fancy name of yours on a TOMBSTONE!”
“YES, SIR.”
The platoon continued practicing About Face for another hour. This allowed almost a third of the men the opportunity to have personal instructions shouted in their ears. Chalice managed to get by unnoticed. As frightened as he was, he still found some of the drill instructors’ comments amusing. What really astounded him was the stupidity of the men around him. Only six times had the entire platoon been able to perform About Face correctly, and never twice in a row. It seemed as if the men were taking turns at making blunders. Without much confidence, Chalice told himself that his own superior intelligence would prove useful.
Upon order, the men rushed out to the street and into a formation. Morton called cadence and headed them toward the mess hall. Green and Hacker ran around tripping and stomping on the feet of anyone who was out of step. Again Chalice had managed to place himself safely in the center of the formation. A distant humming sound baffled him. The sound increased to a harsh roar before Chalice realized what it was — a large group of Marines growling as they ran. Thinking that he was hearing at least a thousand men, Chalice didn’t dare turn his head.
“Hippity hop, mob, stop!” Morton shouted. The men bounced off each other like billiard balls.
Green sneered, “Lovely, just fucking lovely.”
“Left, HACE!” Morton commanded. It was a few seconds before everyone was facing in the right direction, many of the men having taken the long way around. “Take a look, hogs.” Chalice was surprised to see a company of three hundred men run by instead of the thousand they sounded like. They looked ridiculous, but each man was in step. They looked stupid but confident. They looked will-less but brutal. They looked like “professional killers in the service of the United States government.” Chalice was most astonished to see that they didn’t look anything like the confused sheep standing around him.
After the company passed, Morton waited over a minute before saying in an almost civilized tone, “Believe it or not, hogs, that’s what you’re gonna look like.”
“I don’t,” Chalice mumbled, knowing that he did.
The men went quickly through the serving line, all three drill instructors breathing on their necks. By having commands shouted in their ears, Chalice and the rest of his platoon quickly learned that there was a “Marine Corps way” to hold your tray, to carry your silverware, to focus your eyes, to place your tray on a tabic, to sit down, to sit up, to chew, to drink, and to lose your appetite.
Sergeant Green emphasized his instructions by leaping upon the tabic and pacing the length of it between the trays. Not daring to look anywhere but directly to the front, the men could hear Green’s shouts become louder and feel the table vibrate violently before they saw his boots stomp by at the edge of their trays.
“GET YOUR HEAD UP! You’re sitting at attention, JEWBOY!” Chalice was sitting next to Cowen. By reflex, he looked up at Green. “Why the fuck are you eyeballing me, YOU DUMB COLLEGE FAG?” Chalice jerked his head down, but Green wasn’t satisfied. He squatted directly in front of Chalice, and purposely spit saliva all over his tray as he shouted, “YOU GOT A CRUSH ON ME, FAG? You wanna smoke my pole? You’ll get it, BUT NOT IN YOUR MOUTH. Fag, if I ever catch you eyeballing me again, I’m gonna gouge your eye out and SKULL FUCK YOU!”
Chalice stared straight ahead at the lower half of Green’s enraged face, praying to be left alone, thinking, ‘He’d like to. He really would.’
The shouts from Hacker, Morton, and Green became more agitated as they warned the men they only had five minutes to finish every crumb of food on their trays. Chalice frantically stuffed his mouth, too busy to notice Green until his shiny boots were right in front of him, not even realizing he had glanced up until after he felt the metal tray slam against his chin and chest, heard it reverberating upon the concrete floor.
“What did I tell you about eyeballing me?” Green cooed. “HUH?”
Chalice remained motionless, his mouth still stuffed with food. It seemed to be hardening, trying to choke him. The rest of his food oozed slowly down his chest and settled between his legs. He felt as if he were swimming in a garbage can, slowly fighting his way to the surface for air.
“How about a poem, college creep?”
For the first time since he’d arrived at Parris Island, Chalice didn’t feel the least bit more intelligent than the men around him.
That night the recruits were herded into a small lecture room. It looked exactly like a college classroom, exactly like a college classroom invaded by a horde of Mongols. Four platoons of recruits sat at attention while their drill instructors shouted and stomped insanely up and down the aisles. But the real show was on the stage. The lecturer was an officer, a captain. He wasn’t speaking to the men, he was tyrannizing them. Shouting, waving his arms wildly, he tore back and forth across the stage like a gorilla trying to break out of a cage.
Dazed and awed, still able to smell the food caked across the front of his uniform, Chalice heard every word. He heard them because he couldn’t believe them. For almost an hour, the captain had been explaining to the men their rights under the Military Code of Justice. Each right he enumerated, each prohibition placed upon drill instructors, was a perfect example of a military law that had been flagrantly and continuously broken during the previous nine hours. “A recruit will be addressed by his superiors in no manner except that which indicates his rank, by the term ‘Private.’ . . . A superior is prohibited from placing his hands upon a subordinate except by permission of that subordinate, and solely for the purpose of adjusting that subordinate’s uniform.”
Chalice sat stupefied. He could make no connection between what he was hearing and the things he had seen during the day. For a few minutes he almost had himself convinced that he was involved in an experiment, that for scientific purposes the United States Marine Corps had taken three hundred recruits and was seeing how quickly it could drive them all insane.
The captain suddenly stopped shouting. He walked to the edge of the stage and stared at the recruits. Chalice knew something important was about to happen, and all he could think of was, ‘God, what’s next?’
“PRIVATES, I’ve spent a fucking hour up here explaining your rights under the Military Code of Justice. You skinheaded motherfuckers better know every one of them. I’ve saved your most important right for last. It’s the most important one because it’s the only way you have to see that your other rights aren’t violated. Every swinging dick in the military service of the United States government — and that includes you horrible hogs — has the right of Request Mast. Anytime you feel your rights have been violated, you can take your gripe right up the Chain of Command. That means right up to the President of the United States. If anywhere along the Chain of Command, someone agrees with you — either your sergeant, or your lieutenant, or the President himself — then you’ll get your way.
“NOW YOU HOGS GET THIS STRAIGHT, because this is the most important part: The President of the United States hasn’t got time to fuck with every dipshit civilian that lands on Parris Island. The only way you can get up the Chain of Command is step by step, STARTING AT THE BOTTOM. If you see anything you don’t like on Parris Island, all you have to do is go up to your drill instructor and say, “Sir, the Private requests permission to Request Mast. . . . HA-ten-TION! . . . Drill instructors, get these disgusting skinheads out of my sight.”
The men rushed into the barracks and were standing at attention in front of their racks when the drill instructors entered. Chalice waited. The three drill instructors moved quietly up and down the aisle. They too were waiting. Chalice couldn’t remember a moment as silent, a time when he wasn’t standing at attention in a baggy green uniform, when his life wasn’t in the hands of three psychopaths wearing Smokey the Bear hats. ‘Somebody’s gonna do it. Some idiot’s gonna do it.’
No one did. The drill instructors eyed each man. The silence continued. ‘Maybe they’re not so dumb after all.’
It was Morton who finally spoke. “On your bellies.” The bodies of eighty men slapped the floor. “On your backs.” In an instant, they flipped themselves over. “On your bellies.” For ten minutes Morton paced back and forth along the floor flipping his men over as if this were a trick he’d taught them, the only one they were capable of learning. Finally, he stood them up for some side-straddle hops, knocked them down for some push-ups, flattened them out for some sit-ups, and finished them off with some squat thrusts. Green and Hacker paced the aisle, generously providing personal instructions when necessary.
Morton called the men to attention. Dark blotches of sweat stained their uniforms as they tried to muffle their heavy breathing. After carefully eyeing his men, Morton turned to Green. “I guess it’s time to find out.”
Green slowly paced the aisle as he addressed the men in a loud but civilized tone. “So now you know what it’s all about. Parris Island isn’t supposed to be any picnic. The Marine Corps builds men, not interior decorators. A lot of you hogs are never gonna make it. You just won’t measure up. We can’t waste time on you. There’s a war going on. It’s not the greatest war, but it’s the only one we’ve got. Our job is to turn out fighting men, the best fighting men in the world. We can’t waste time with cunts that’ll never make it. Not everyone can be a Marine. It isn’t that much to be ashamed of. You’ve been here a whole day. You should know by now whether you can measure up. You should be able to save us some time and trouble —”
Chalice sensed what Green was leading up to. Remembering that no one had been stupid enough to call for a Request Mast, he wasn’t sure what would happen; but he told himself, ‘This’ll be a real test of their intelligence.’
“—To be a Marine, you have to want to be a Marine. That’s the only way we can make men out of you. Think it over. In a few seconds you’ll have to decide.” Green stopped talking. He moved his stare along both sides of the squad bay, allowing the men to feel his eyes upon them. When he began speaking again, it was even more slowly than before. “Anybody who’s had enough, who wants to go home, take one step forward.” Chalice winced as three men stepped into the aisle. There was silence. Chalice waited, now unsure what would happen. Had he missed his chance to go home, his chance to escape from this maximum security insane asylum?
Finally, the drill instructors walked up to the men who had stepped forward. No hostility in their stares, they looked each man in the eye as if to thank him for his honesty. All the recruits waited uneasily, but especially the three that had stepped forward. Colson, who had been standing next to Chalice, was one of these men. Green stared at him calmly, a pleased expression on his face. He turned away and began pacing the aisle, his footsteps the only sound in the squad bay. Finally he spoke: “Three men . . . that’s not bad — three out of eighty. These three men have saved us some trouble. I hope the rest of you know what you’re doing. Maybe I should give you another chance to decide —”
Confused and no longer sure of what was happening, Chalice debated what to do if Green did give him another chance.
“— I shouldn’t do this, but I’m going to. Anybody else that wants to go home with these three men, take one step forward.”
Three more men stepped into the aisle. Chalice, immobilized by fear and confusion, wasn’t one of them. If Green had said, “Anyone who wants to stick it out, take one step forward,” Chalice still would have remained stationary, unable to decide because the decision necessitated physical action. Knowing that he might have made a mistake, Chalice waited to see what would happen.
Again Green walked up to Private Colson. “Where you from, Colson?”
“Sir, the Private’s from Meridian, Mississippi.”
“No shit, Private. Meridian’s a pretty big city, five thousand people at least. I never would have picked you for a city slicker. . . . What’s your old man do?”
“Sir, the Private’s father is a farmer.”
“Is that right? Where’s his farm, in back of the courthouse?”
“No, sir. The Private’s farm is ten miles outside of Meridian.”
“That’s what I thought, grit. . . . What made you decide you couldn’t hack it, the push-ups?”
“Sir, the Private isn’t good enough.”
“I’ll have to agree with you, red neck. You’d be a fool to stick around here. A boy should know his capabilities and act upon them. Isn’t that right?”
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“Yes, sir.”
“Only a fool would ignore his own capabilities. Isn’t that right, grit?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No it isn’t, is it?”
“No, sir.”
“ONLY A FOOL OR A MARINE!”
“Yes, sir.”
“But you’re going back to Mississippi where you’re needed . . . to slop the hogs, clean the cow pies out of the barn, move the outhouse around. Isn’t that right, red-neck?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You think you’ve learned anything at Parris Island, red-neck?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What?”
“Sir, the Private’s learned he isn’t good enough to be a Marine.”
“You should have learned some other things too, like how to keep your gig line straight. Take a look at the way your shirt’s sticking out.” Colson started to glance down but caught himself. Green said calmly, “Go ahead, Private, you can look. I’m not gonna waste any more time trying to make a Marine out of white trash like you.” Colson glanced down at the front of his shirt and quickly returned to attention. “Well, I guess I can take time to show you how to straighten your gig line again. It might come in handy around the barnyard, impress the hell out of the pigs and chickens.” Green started to reach for Colson’s shirt, but suddenly stopped short. A smirk on his face, he said calmly, “Excuse me, Private, I forgot all about that lecture we just heard. Private, do I have permission to adjust your uniform?”
“Yes, sir.”
Still looking him in the eye, Green buried his fist in Colson’s stomach. Colson bent double and staggered backwards. His rack scraped loudly on the floor before crashing into the wall.
“YOUR COLLAR TOO, RED-NECK,” Green shouted while swinging Colson into the aisle by his lapels. He leaped in the air, kicking Colson between the shoulder blades and sending him through the swinging double doors to the bathroom. Green crashed through after him.
