On the march back to the squad bay, somebody made some kind of mistake and the whole platoon was introduced to the sand pit. They were also introduced to a new exercise: the bend and thrust. It required one to drop to the ground and kick one’s legs out to full extension, bring them back in and stand up again. Harris hated having the sand kicked in his face; however, he did find it preferable to being kicked in the hands and face by his fellow recruits. To add to the misery even more, some sadistic individual had planted cockleburs in the sand pit. Even with the thirty minutes allotted to “shit, shower, and shave” at the end of the day; there was no way to get the thorns out of his palms.
After the yelling and cursing involved in teaching the recruits the protocol of a health and hygiene inspection, the recruits shouted with as much synchronization as possible, “I’m up. He sees me. I’m down,” as they hit the rack. The lights were off at 2200 hours sharp. Harris’s easiest day of Marine Corps training came to an end.
Chapter Eight
Harris had no idea what time it was, but he relished the quiet. As tired as he had been at lights out, he had still woken up to use the head at some time during the night. Now he lay in his rack, enjoying the peace. He had no idea what time it was, nor how much longer the peace would last. No sooner did he have this thought than the peace was ended. The lights flipped on. A metal trash can was kicked down the squad bay.
“ON YOUR FUCKING FEET, RECRUITS!” Jameson’s voice boomed. Day two picked up where day one left off. “Ackerman, unfuck yourself and stand at attention.”
Harris jumped off the top rack he was assigned to. No sooner done than Junior Drill Instructor Sergeant Jennings was in his ear.
“Stand at attention, asshole!”
Harris popped to.
The first lesson of the day was how to get dressed by the numbers, which they had started to learn the day before. Or was it the day before that? Either way, it didn’t matter to Harris. He found it an indignity, especially when Jameson began to skip numbers. What was the point of not giving them the time they needed to dress properly and then scream at them for not dressing properly? Harris was not at a point where he wanted to voice his complaints, and besides, there wasn’t much time to think about it anyway. As soon as Jameson was done counting, they were to stop at whatever state of dress they were in and wait for orders to start on the next article of clothing.
At the end of it, no one was properly dressed. The next order was that one side of the squad bay had thirty seconds to make a head call while the other side made their racks. Then the sides would switch duties. From there they would go to morning chow and come back to clean the squad bay.
“How am I going to do this for three months?” Harris unconsciously mumbled to himself while making his rack before his chance to use the head.
“You’re not one of those pussies looking to kill himself already to get out of boot camp, are you?” his rack mate mumbled back as he ducked while he stood up to help Harris straighten and smooth out his government-issued wool blanket. Hastings, William C., had an inoffensive smirk on his face, one that made Harris instantly decide not to be angry about the comment. In fact, he instantly found Hastings likable. Whether it was his rosy cheeks that made him look way younger than seventeen or the mischievous twinkle in his dark brown eyes, Hastings had a look that conveyed that nothing in life should be taken too seriously. Harris couldn’t take offense.
“Fuck you,” was the cleverest reply Harris could come up with at the time, but it was said with the same kind of smart-ass grin, and no offense was taken. The bonding was cut short when the recruits were called to attention so they could reverse assignments.
In time Harris would learn that thirty-five men running in half-laced boots to use a head that had six toilets, three urinals, and six sinks was just a typical recruit gaggle, but at this time in his life it seemed like madness. He could not understand why the DIs would put them into situations where it was impossible to get done what they were told to get done. It seemed crazy, but then his father had told him that war could seem crazy. “There’s a method to the madness,” his father always said, and for now that faith kept him going. But still, this just seemed plain nuts to him.
The recruits made it to morning chow with no major incidents. On the way back to the squad bay, however, something happened. Harris didn’t see it. They formed up by height and at five foot eleven he was in the middle of the formation. He heard the DI yelling at Ackerman for being a spaz. Ackerman was first among the recruits alphabetically, and at six foot three he was the tallest. Despite his height, he was skinny. Harris thought he had a birdlike appearance. For a reason not known to Harris, the recruits found themselves back in the sand pit.
The morning cleanup was another cluster with a lot of yelling, push-ups, and leg lifts. Despite all that, what Harris hated the most about the morning was that he’d not had a chance to brush his teeth. This, of course, was to have been done during his thirty-second head call earlier in the morning. Once the DIs were ready to move beyond the morning cleanup, they were instructed to grab their “knowledge,” notebooks full of Marine Corps wisdom, and form up on the parade deck. This turned into another gaggle and the recruits found themselves doing bend and thrusts. To make up for the delay, the drill instructors had the recruits double time to their first class of the day.
When Harris joined the Marine Corps, he had not envisioned classrooms and book work as part of his warrior training. But after the morning he’d had, he was thankful to be sitting in a chair in an air-conditioned room.
“Listen up, shitheads,” Junior Drill Instructor Sergeant Jameson commanded. “You’re about to be instructed by one of the greatest living legends in the United States Marine Corps, Major General Edgar T. Ragnarsson, commander of the First Marine Division. If I catch any single one of you dick-skinning faggots with your eyes closed or otherwise not paying attention, every single fucking one of you will wish your fucking bitch of a mother had gotten a goddamn abortion instead of wasting life on your sorry motherfucking ass. Do I make myself clear?”
“SIR, YES, SIR!” a platoon of hoarse recruits screamed back. Enthusiastic, but still out of sync.
“Good God, give me strength to deal with these pathetic piles of shit you have given me to work with. Now listen up, you will be called to attention when the general walks into the room, and you all had better fucking pop to. Do you understand?”
“SIR, YES, SIR.”
“Fuck’s sake.” Jameson shook his head in disgust as he slowly walked over to converse with another drill instructor.
Other training platoons filed into the auditorium until it was filled to capacity. Occasionally a drill instructor would bark out at a recruit for talking or looking around. Harris found it surreal to be in a room with so many people and to have so little noise. He moved as little as possible and didn’t say a word. Though mentally painful, he was glad to be sitting in a chair instead of cross-legged on the deck. Not being able to keep track of the time, the wait seemed long and tedious.
Harris’s boredom was broken by a drill instructor with a sleeve full of stripes walking out to center stage. He looked older than the other drill instructors, but just as intimidating, and had rows of ribbons on the left side of his chest. Harris waited for him to speak, but he just stood there, silent and still. He aggressively stared at the recruits as if he were challenging them not to pay attention to him so he could seek retribution.
“Recruits! Atten-hut!”
Everyone popped up like they had a spring under their ass. Harris could see nothing, but he could hear boot steps coming down the aisle. It was not until Ragnarsson stepped onto the stage that Harris could get a clear look at him. He was taller than the drill instructor and had as many, if not more, ribbons. He was broad at the shoulders and narrow at the hip. His forearms looked huge under the short sleeves of the khaki shirt. His white hair was cut to a short flattop and looked natural to his bright blue eye and fair skin, which only made the black e
ye patch stand out all the more. The drill instructor saluted, did an about-face, and walked off the stage. The general was centered on the stage, flanked by Old Glory and the Marine Corps flag. Behind him hung a giant Eagle, Globe, & Anchor: the emblem of the United States Marine Corps.
“At ease, recruits. Be seated.” Harris had just started to wonder how many Marines actually ended up losing an eye in combat, when the general let them sit down. Ragnarsson’s tone was much more relaxed yet still just as commanding as the drill instructors’.
“The very fact you are here speaks well for each and every one of you. Most American men never attempt to become a United States Marine. Even fewer have the physical and mental capacity to acquire that honor. Approximately one-third of you are going to fail to complete your quest. Your drill instructors will find your limits of endurance. It will be up to you to push beyond that. If you do, you’ll find your drill instructors again finding the limit of your resolve and, again, you have to decide to push through or fail.
“If you graduate from recruit to United States Marine, you will have graduated to among the most elite warriors in all of world history. But you will find that you will have only started your hardship. Being a warrior, being a US Marine, is not an accomplishment, it is a way of life. If you make it to the Fleet, your platoon sergeants and squad leaders will run you, work you, and bleed you until you die or become the meanest, toughest, most resilient sons of bitches on the entire planet. Then you will have the skills, the stamina, and mind-set to go into battle against the heathen Chinese Communists and slaughter the little bastards.
“Along the way to this objective, many of you will question your choice. All of you at one time or another will want to quit. All of you will question whether it is preferable to die than go on. Many of you will question if all this is worth it. You will wonder if our fight is just, if your sacrifice is worthwhile. First Marines suffered nearly forty percent casualties in the South China Sea Campaign. Indeed, as free American men, you should ask these questions. As free American men volunteering to go to war, you should have those questions answered. That is why I am here today to tell you why your sacrifice is worthwhile, why our fight is superior to that of the communists.
“Since the dawn of mankind ours has been a struggle for survival. Our ancient ancestors learned the strength of numbers and the power of teamwork. From this realization governments were born. Before recorded history, there existed government; and thus a new struggle was added to the struggle of survival: Freedom. History is of those who have struggled to be free and those who have struggled to control them. From the ancient Hebrews that sought to be governed by God’s law, not man’s, to the ancient Greeks who gave us democracy—the power of a political voice—and fought to the death to defend it from the Persian emperors. To the Romans who overthrew their Etruscan kings and gave us republicanism: government by law and a culture that values the potential of the individual human. Much of history is made up of how these people would defend and ultimately lose the freedom their people cherished.
“And finally, our own American Founding Fathers, who upheld the Anglo-Saxon concept that a king serves his people and to do otherwise is to exceed his authority: a government of limited power. Our history and legends abound of those who have fought to be free against those that would enslave them. For nearly three hundred years there has been no more essential participant in this struggle than the United States Marine Corps. Since our birth at Tun Tavern in 1775, US Marines have defended America, and even the world, from tyrannical kings, emperors, dictators, Islamic jihadists, and other deadly ideologies.
“Now, many of you have heard some journalists and politicians claim we can’t defeat communism. That even the Marines were not able to defeat the communists in Korea and Vietnam in the last century. We can’t win, why even try? Their premise is as wrong as their facts. American warriors devastated their communist foes of the twentieth century, none more so than the Marine Corps. It has been our Commander-in-Chief, the US President, that has always lacked the heart to complete the victory our people have sacrificed themselves for. For the first time in our war against communism, American warriors have a Declaration of War from Congress and a mission from the president to destroy or obtain the unconditional surrender of the People’s Republic of China, along with all her allies. Just as the Marine Corps had been America’s preeminent force in the destruction of the Chinese Red Army in our borders, the US Marine Corps will be the preeminent force in the destruction of the Chinese Red Army in THEIR borders! By the time we’re done, there will not be one Marxist, Communist Manifesto-thumpin’ son of a bitch left in all of Asia!
“The same castrati who whine that America can’t win, also bitch that the United States has no right to invade the People’s Republic of China and impose our will on them. HORSESHIT! It is they who invaded our home, killed our fathers and sons, and raped our mothers and daughters to impose their will on us! Don’t you ever forget that!
“You men have been blessed by our Creator to be born into a land where the government exists to serve your Natural rights to life, liberty, and property, be that the fruits of your labor or the thoughts of your mind. The ChiCom is born into a world of shit. He has no right to property. He has only what his communist rulers allow him to have. Where we have the liberty of capitalism, he has the slavery of work camps. Where we have the right to life, he has government-enforced abortions.
“Communism is evil. It demands that mankind serves government. There cannot be freedom, there cannot be peace as long as it is tolerated.
“If you men agree that this is worth fighting for, then you can EARN the privilege to be a United States Marine. If you don’t think that is worth fighting for, then get the fuck out of my Marine Corps.”
Harris sat in awe. Everything about the general reeked of confidence and strength. He was a man of sound mind and body. A man who knew the difference between right and wrong, with the courage to state it. A man who found fulfillment and righteousness in all that he loved. A man like his father. The kind of man Harris wanted to be. The consummate warrior.
Harris never enlisted with the idea of quitting, but found his determination invigorated. He would become a US Marine or die trying. Even if it was the last thing he’d ever do.
Chapter Nine
Ragnarsson was right. Every day of boot camp Harris found himself wanting to quit or at least take a break from it. Everywhere the recruits went, they ran. Everything the recruits said, they screamed. The mind games where the worst for Harris. He was tired of everything not being good enough. Everything having to be redone to a level of perfection that didn’t even seem achievable. The new vocabulary was a pain. Learning new terms like bulkhead instead of wall, head instead of bathroom, deck instead of floor was awkward for him. No longer using a.m. or p.m. for time was a hassle, but Harris was starting to get used to it. Not being allowed to use pronouns was what tripped him up the most and had gotten him thrashed on several occasions. He found all the attention to detail a hassle. More often than not, he could not make sense of all of it. None of it, though, was enough to make him quit, and he felt guilty whenever the temptation crossed his mind. Over the weeks he’d learned about far greater hardships endured by Marines in past wars and battles. They never succumbed. They always overcame. Could he? With all the odds against him, could he adapt, improvise, and overcome?
For the first time in boot camp Harris did not wake up before reveille. He was dead asleep when Hastings slapped him on the chest.
“Get your ass up!” Hastings’s voice was muffled, but stern. He was sympathetic to Harris’s cold, but he didn’t want him or his friend thrashed for not jumping out of the rack soon enough. Harris jumped out of his rack, stepped into and tied his boots. He pulled up his trousers, the legs of which had been slipped over his boots the night before. He merely had to step into them and pull them up. He put on his blouse that hung on the end of his rack. Within thirty seconds the entire platoon was completely dressed, st
anding at attention and waiting for permission to make a head call. Harris had the routine down and could do it half asleep, which he had nearly done this morning. A cold was working its way through the platoon; as of late it was Harris’s turn.
What he needed was extra rest, but that wasn’t going to happen. The platoon was in the first week of training on the rifle range. Reveille was now at 0300 not 0530. The lack of sleep in addition to the extra rigor was taking its toll on Harris.
The morning was spent snapping in. Recruits dry fired their weapons from the prone, kneeling, and standing positions. Harris had been shooting firearms since his childhood and found dry firing exceptionally boring. He found several minutes in the kneeling position exceptionally painful, torturous in fact. While at the range, another recruit found kneeling too painful to endure. He jumped up crying and limping. The drill instructors hovered around him, ordering him to resume the kneeling position and resume training. He refused. He was quickly ushered away, never to be seen by another recruit again.
Good riddance, Harris thought simultaneously with wondering, Will I break like that?
The platoon of seventy-five was now down to fifty-five. After the platoon survivors did a series of bend and thrusts, push-ups, and leg lifts for their “buddy’s” performance, they got back to snapping in.
Noon chow was a blessing for Harris. He needed to sit and rest. Other than religious services on Sunday, chow was the only time he could sit in a chair. It felt so comfortable that Harris swore to himself he would never take another chair for granted. He was too congested to taste the food, but he didn’t care. His body craved calories.
After chow the platoon formed up outside the chow hall and read their books of knowledge, waiting for orders from the drill instructors. Then they double-timed back to the squad bay. They were allowed a thirty-second head call. Then Harris sat cross-legged, left over right, on the classroom floor at the front of the squad bay. There he listened to a lecture on target, front sight, and rear sight alignment. His eyelids grew heavy. Harris shifted his weight around, straightened his back, and took a drink of water from his canteen. Soon again, however, his eyelids grew heavy. He fought the urge to close his eyes and thought he was winning until he noticed the primary marksmanship instructor’s finger in his face.
The Last Marine Page 9
