Don't Ask - the story of America's first openly gay Marine.

by B. K. Dell

  Caleb held his glance, studying him, hoping he would politely turn away and wondering why he hadn’t yet. The man’s stone face offered no answers. The bus rolled on. Caleb resisted every impulse to turn away. He held Buzz Cut’s hateful stare for what seemed like an eternity. He’s just trying to intimidate me, but I’ve got to let him know that I can’t be intimidated. Just then, the bus hit a large pothole that sent Caleb’s entire body a foot into the air. The same jolt barely moved Buzz Cut’s much larger body an inch. Okay, so I can be intimidated after all.

  Suddenly, a man in uniform and an aura of authority stepped into the aisle at the front of the bus. With a voice that could command fear and respect from the most hardnosed criminal, he hollered, “Heads down!” Caleb and Buzz Cut immediately broke eye contact and ducked their heads down.

  The new recruits were forced to ride the whole way with their heads tucked uncomfortably between their knees, like a duck and cover drill. Caleb knew that at least the ride would not be long; the Marine Corps Recruit Depot was only five minutes from the USO center by the airport. Caleb thought wrong. The driver drove for another hour, needlessly, just to let them know how things were done in boot camp. No opportunity would be missed to mess with their heads.

  If being frozen in an uncomfortable position during such a transitional stage of their lives was meant to be agonizing, for Caleb it worked. Even with the physical pain shooting down his neck and back serving as a distraction, Caleb could not keep his mind away from negative thoughts. He was trying not to let anything Stacy had said affect him, but he couldn’t help remembering all the things he had heard about boot camp and all the movies he had seen. Stacy brought home a different one each night, hoping to dissuade Caleb from joining. Scenes from Full Metal Jacket ran through his head – can a drill instructor really punch recruits? Would I have to choke myself with his hand? – and Code Red from A Few Good Men – was that real or just in the movies? Then Caleb had heard of something called a blanket party. He was pretty sure that one was real. That is where the other men rush up behind a recruit, throw a blanket over his head, and beat him mercilessly. In some instances the man underneath the blanket has ended up dead, or just paralyzed for the rest of his life. Could people be so vicious? Caleb wondered, The men I just described as the best men in the world?

  While Caleb tried to get his brain to think of something else, the memory returned – like it often did – of the day that he came out of the closet. He gritted his teeth and struggled to free his mind from that trap. Finally, in some strange compromise with his own demons, his thoughts settled on the first day he had to suit up for Gym Class – which illustrated just how ineffective he was at this type of negotiation.

  It was the first day of fifth grade and Caleb’s PE coach was under some insane delusion that it would be fun to start the year with a capture the flag obstacle course. The coach chose four team captains who got to take their turns picking teams. As usual, Caleb was the last one picked. This only compounded the embarrassment he was already suffering. While suiting up, he discovered that the style must have changed to long shorts for boys – as opposed to very short shorts – without anyone bothering to let him know. His shorts were white with faded green trim and there was just barely enough of them to cover his rear end. He would have looked like he played for the ’81 Boston Celtics had he not been so short and scrawny.

  Caleb’s only task in this competition was to wait until he was tagged, climb all the way up the rope and grab the flag. The other team’s climber was tagged and started up his rope while Caleb was still waiting for his teammate. As Caleb watched the other boy climb, he wondered how he would make up the time. He used this problem as encouragement, giving himself what he considered to be a pretty awesome pep talk in his head. By the time he was tagged, the first team’s climber was already half way up his rope but Caleb wasn’t discouraged. He grabbed the highest spot that his hands could reach, wrapped both legs around the rope – bare due to his ridiculously short shorts – and pulled as hard as he could. Caleb’s body hovered for a second in the air, then slowly slid down until his butt was on the ground. Standing up quickly, he jumped high into the air, gripped the rope, then slid straight back down to the floor again.

  All three other teams had captured their flags and moved on to the next obstacle, leaving Caleb’s team in last place. A few from his team were being supportive, but most were acting like typical ten year old boys. It probably would have hurt his feelings if he heard some of the things they were saying, but as he tried again and again, the only thing he could hear was his own heartbeat. Caleb’s face was bright red with exertion and the veins on his neck were all popping out. He hung suspended on the rope, frantically pushing with his feet, creating rope burn on his inner thighs, until once again he slid right back down to the ground. When he paused to catch his breath, his heart slowed enough to let a peculiar noise enter his ears. At first Caleb ignored it, but then he made the mistake of looking around the gym that had previously disappeared during his concentration. Every student in the class had gathered around to watch him struggle, and every single one of them was laughing – a chorus of mocking laughter.

  His eyes filled with tears and he began to throw a tantrum. He stood up and stomped his foot on the ground. Without the luxury of something to throw, he attempted to swing punches and kicks at the hanging rope. A stream of profanities came out of his mouth as he continued to punch and kick the rope, which was about as futile as trying to hit a butterfly in flight. When the coach grabbed him to calm him down, Caleb continued to fight, so the coach lifted poor Caleb up off his feet and carried him to the principal’s office, kicking and yelling the whole way.

  The memory made Caleb laugh. It probably won’t be quite like that, he told himself.

  Caleb stopped laughing, however, when he remembered the rest of the story. That was the day that defined in Caleb’s young mind everything there was to know about his father. Caleb’s father was an oil well fireman, but Caleb never really knew much about what his father did between the time he left home and the time he came back. Unfortunately, the same wasn’t true for his father; Caleb’s father heard about everything that ever happened to young Caleb during the day, utilizing the advantage that comes with parenting in a small town.

  The most lasting images Caleb had of his father were of him half covered in oil and grime after a day of fighting fires. Caleb learned to tell how stressful his father’s day had been by the amount of grime on his face, clothes, and hands when he came home. Caleb knew to avoid all contact on the stressful days. More stress meant more drinking and more drinking meant more rage. A knot in his stomach tightened every time he heard the garage door open and his father’s car pull in. He trembled, just waiting for the first glimpse of his father’s face.

  Never had the sound of the garage door been as chilling to Caleb as it was the day of his failed rope climb. Caleb knew his father had already heard. He waited in the kitchen, hoping at least that his face would be clean. The first thing his father did when he walked through the door was give Caleb a tired look of pure disgust. He said only two words, “You quit.”

  Caleb could still see that disappointed look on his father’s oil splattered face.

  ***

  There were thirty-six men on the bus as it pulled into the MCRD and all of them had watched the same movies as Caleb. They knew what was in store for them when they stepped off that bus and they were expecting the worst.

  Staff Sergeant Folsom watched the men carefully as they staggered off the bus stiff legged and anxious. Terrence Brown had not just a stagger, but a full blown limp. Balancing his body on the edge of the seat for over an hour had left his right buttock completely numb. A young drill instructor named Sergeant Page yelled fiercely at the men. His voice was loud, but it had a weak nasal sound to it. The recruits could not believe how baby-faced he looked. He started aggressively barking orders at them the second they stepped foot off the bus, but he kept turning his head back to SSgt
Folsom, confused by Folsom’s inaction. It was obvious to the men there that Sgt Page was still a little green and SSgt Folsom was the one in charge.

  All the recruits were ordered to line up on the yellow footprints painted on the pavement and stand at attention with their eyes forward and their mouths shut. SSgt Folsom shook his head in weary dissatisfaction as he walked back and forth in front of the men. He did not seem intimidating at all. In fact, as he kept sighing quietly, he seemed tired. Finally he said, “Which one of you…” When he paused, every man there was finishing his sentence in their heads: pansies, nancies, pantywaists, girl-scouts, sissies… “…recruits…is Caleb Hertz?”

  “Here, sir,” Caleb’s voice quivered and it provoked a laugh. The laugh was cut short by the smallest snap of SSgt Folsom’s head.

  As Caleb saw SSgt Folsom draw near in his peripheral, he swallowed hard and tried desperately to keep his eyes forward. To his surprise, SSgt Folsom did not get right in his face, nose to nose. Instead, he looked at Caleb from a slight distance and tilted his head slowly as if studying an oil painting. His face was drawn down in a frown, a real frown, far from the intimidation and theatrics for which Caleb had spent the last hour preparing himself. Caleb knew he wasn’t supposed to look at him, but he could not help it. His eyes uncontrollably locked on SSgt Folsom’s face. The face looked like it wanted to kill him. SSgt Folsom did not yell, “Eyes front!” as was expected, but allowed Caleb to look at him for a few seconds to absorb his hatred. “Okay then,” he said mildly, then turned and started muttering the articles that were, “the absolute laws you will live by.” SSgt Folsom had gone over articles of the UCMJ countless times during the span of his career, and he had always barked them out with his powerful, gruff voice. But this time was different. He spoke with a voice so apathetic that no one would have imagined it belonged in a Marine boot camp. His muscles were tight and his waistline slim, but his indolent eyes and lethargic deportment gave the impression that he had spent the last six months on an all fast food diet.

  Perhaps this is my form of protest, he thought. Perhaps this is my personal version of a strike. The job he once loved seemed exasperating now. The calling he once pledged his life to seemed tainted. He felt like he had no control. There was a voice in his head that said, If those lawmakers want to be in control so badly, maybe they should come down here and train these men themselves.

  After what seemed like an eternity of instructions and endless paperwork, it was time for the notorious haircuts. This is a rite of passage for recruits, and most were nervous as they waited for their turn in a chair. The barbers worked quickly. Their hands moved with the efficiency gained from repeating routine motions incalculable times. Some traumatized recruits watched the floor as every lock of their hair landed gently in the forming mounds. Some of the men watched the mirror with dismay as the image of themselves transformed before their eyes. After a few short minutes, they stumbled helplessly from their chair and appeared somewhat disoriented. All of them rubbed their heads incessantly. As Caleb watched the others from the end of the line, he discovered an amazing phenomenon – all the names that he had given to the other recruits no longer worked. His eyes tried to search for the specific person he labeled as Mullet, or Ponytail, but he couldn’t figure out which ones were which. The only two that he could still identify were Fundamentalist, because he still wore his cross, and Buzz Cut because of his bulging muscles – plus his hair did not change.

  Most of the men congregating on the other side of the room did not resemble the men who blocked Caleb from sitting next to them on the bus. This excited Caleb. No one among them, thanks to Stacy and the press, had stuck out as much as Caleb had. And this was his chance for them to forget who he was on the bus. He looked at the man behind him in line. He and Caleb were the same height; both of them had a round face, unexceptional features, and the same skin tone. Caleb knew that his crystal blue eyes were a little rare, but the other man happened to have blue eyes, too. In fact, the most obvious difference between the two was the other man had blond hair and Caleb’s hair was dark. How different would they really look without hair? This was Caleb’s chance to really blend in for once in his life.

  When it was finally his turn, Caleb sat down in the chair and his fine hair immediately began to float to the ground without protest. Some hairs fell in clumps like stones, but others fell in wisps, somersaulting through the air. He watched his own reflection as the barber made his way around Caleb’s head. But unlike the others, there was a slight smirk on Caleb’s lips that he couldn’t manage to control. The tingling scrapes of the cutters produced a pleasurable pain. The barber was removing his hair just as easily as removing a cap that he had been wearing. Then Caleb saw something that made his stomach lurch. The removal of his dark hair had left visible the massive scar on his scalp. It ran from the tip of his ear, traced a large wandering arc across half of his skull and ended near the top of his spine. There was no direction Caleb could turn his head to hide it. Caleb had forgotten that hair would not grow from the scar tissue, he had nearly forgotten about the scar completely. The scar was as ugly as the dark period of his past that it commemorated, a period that had remained well hidden. Until now.

  Caleb angled his head as he walked toward the group, but it did no good. He used the ritual of rubbing his scalp to hide the scar the best he could, as long as he could, but also to hide his eyes. They were stinging with disappointment and he was afraid that he would top off the first impression he was leaving on these men by starting to cry. Every eye was on him again, examining the rift drawn by his hideous scar, the only distinguishable characteristic on any man present. Caleb felt like he had been marked by nature scientists who wished to come back and observe him later. He imagined a note in their spiraled logs that read, “Scar = Gay.”

  Next, they were lead to a series of semi-private booths, ordered to take off their clothes, put their possessions in a box, and label that box. SSgt Folsom’s instructions were listless, like an old schoolmarm reciting instructions on how to properly fill in the bubbles of a standardized test. It was after midnight by the time all the recruits were issued uniforms, field gear, and toiletries. The men separated into their platoons and were assigned squad bays. This was the first time Caleb stopped to notice that – just his luck – Fundamentalist had been assigned to his platoon.

  Upon entering the squad bay, each man was assigned a rack. They were provided linens and one thin blanket, the color of which could best be described as olive drab. SSgt Folsom promptly showed them how to make their racks by the numbers, counting off each movement that the recruits were to make. The count was slow enough that they could easily keep up. Most of the men began to feel excessively lighthearted; all their panic over the boot camp they had seen in the movies was for naught. They were now picturing a far easier time than they had previously feared. But not Caleb. Caleb tried to shake the feeling of dark dread that SSgt Folsom had given him, and tried to remind himself of all the reasons he walked into that recruitment office in the first place.

  During the mechanical process of folding down sheets and tucking in the corners of their blankets, no one noticed that SSgt Folsom had slipped out. When some recruits realized he was gone, a few of them asked, “Where did he go?” and, “What should we do now?” Some just shrugged, while others lay on their racks and began to fall asleep. Caleb laid his head back and rubbed his eyes. He was trying to get the image of SSgt Folsom studying him out of his mind.

  When SSgt Folsom crept back into the room as silently as he had left, no one noticed him. He studied the men with a mixture of disgust and compassion. Their bodies were draped slovenly over their racks, like they were at a marijuana party in a college dorm. All recruits were like this – boys essentially. It was always his job to make them into men. It was the training that SSgt Folsom gave them that would later save their lives. He was realizing that it was a calling for which he could never go on strike, no matter how many obstacles some bureaucrat put in his way, or ho
w tightly he had to hold his nose. His chest rose and fell as he released his last quiet sigh.

  “A-ten-Hut!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. Due to his prior display of languor, a few of the men did not move very quickly, some unfortunate recruits had fallen half asleep and were disoriented as they tried to get to the proper place and stance. Others were either just slow or sloppy; or they forgot one or more of the seven steps to standing at attention. SSgt Folsom wasted no time correcting them.

  One by one he would get nose to nose, look them straight in the eyes, and yell at the top of his lungs, “What is your problem, recruit? Do you think you are on vacation, recruit? Is that the proper stance for attention, recruit? Why are you looking at me, recruit? If my boot doesn’t fit between your feet then they are not at forty-five degrees, recruit. Why am I looking at your knuckles, recruit? What about ‘palms facing inward’ don’t you understand? Is your thumb in line with your seam, recruit? If you’ve locked your knees, recruit, you’re gonna’ end up flat on the ground. Why is your chin out, recruit? Are you itching to get it punched? Why are your elbows out, recruit? We don’t do the chicken dance in the United States Marine Corps!”

  The men felt like they had been duped. Here was the man they expected to see when walking off the bus. This was like an encore concert performance, so delayed that some people were already in the aisles with their keys out headed for their cars.