I was the middle child in a large family riddled by divorce. If there was one thing I craved, it was self-discovery. I think that’s why, after my senior year of high school, I dove into Christianity and, later, the Marine Corps with an on-fire fervor, hoping they would provide me with both a place of belonging and an identity I could call my own. I knew nothing of theology or biblical studies or the dissonance between Christianity and warfare. I knew nothing of paradigms or structures or making decisions rooted in beliefs and values. I felt comfortable within evangelical, conservative Christianity because of what it offered me. I felt comfortable joining the Marine Corps, because it provided me with both a sense of honor and a challenge.
And maybe I was afraid of rejection, too. I didn’t want to be seen as a military derelict—a reject—let alone a Christian failure. There was some trepidation, but certainty is its own comfort. Jesus saved me so I could defend America. Terrorists were infidels; I was the strong shield of the Lord—just not the first shield.
3. Snot and Scabs
If I was mildly conflicted, then my bunkmate, Recruit Mobile, was all Kool-Aid. He craved the United States Marine Corps. According to him, he was destined for USMC greatness. He was also one of the platoon’s lost causes. He was consistently quarter-decked. To this day, whenever I think of Recruit Mobile, I see a skinny southerner with snot running down his scabby nose. He spoke with a thick drawl, had boils on his face, and couldn’t finish a three-mile run in the Marine Corps’ allotted time—twenty-eight minutes or less, practically walking. But because Recruit Mobile couldn’t run, Recruit Mobile was quarter-decked, which translated into me being quarter-decked, because, the DIs reasoned, I was his bunkmate and so I must be a sickly southerner, too. Well, I wasn’t. And I resented Recruit Mobile for being a shitbird. Whenever Beelzebub was in a fit, he usually found his way to our bunk to ridicule Recruit Mobile.
“What the hell, Mobile? You were three-minutes behind on your run today,” Beelzebub would say as he shoved his hands in Mobile’s face.
“Recruit Mobile apologizes—” Mobile would begin before being abruptly cut off by a coughing fit.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Recruit?” Beelzebub, standing inches from Mobile’s face, would sneer at Mobile’s boils, scabs, and snot. “Recruit!” Beelzebub would shout, “Do you have AIDS? Are you a faggot, Recruit?”
Mobile’s coughing fit would momentarily subside. “No, Drill Instructor, I don’t have AIDS.”
“Oh, shit, but you are a faggot? Well, call the President!” Beelzebub would turn his head to me and then back to Recruit Mobile. “Recruit, get on the quarter-deck.”
Mobile would trudge to the front of our squad-bay. As Beelzebub turned to follow, he would call over his shoulder, “You too, Peters. Bunkmates live and die together.”
Shit.
Lying in bed one night—Mobile had the top bunk, I had the bottom—I whispered up to Mobile. “What the hell is wrong with you, man? You’re sick, go to sickbay.”
“I can’t. I have to finish Recruit Training. My Dad was in Vietnam.”
“Well, yeah, sure, you’ll finish, but you’ll be a few weeks behind. There isn’t anything wrong with allowing yourself to heal up first.”
“I hear you, Peters, but I can’t handle much more of this. If I go to sickbay, then they’ll prolong my training by three maybe four weeks. That sound like something you’d do?”
I stared at the wooden slat holding the bunk above me. I had no answer. Beelzebub was breaking me down. He was teaching me to live like a Marine by pounding the “reset” button on my life. He was teaching me how to piss, tie my shoes, dress, march, shave, obey orders, PT, and kill. But change breeds fear. In my case, it was the fear of what I’d become mingled with the fear that I’d fail to become it. I was training to become a soldier—a man who could kill. The idea, when stripped of glory, is repulsive. But, within the bounds of duty, the temptation is alluring.
I realized, staring up at Mobile’s bunk, that though a part of me despised the Marine Corps for its difficulty, I loved it, too. For both honor and renown, I had dreamt of wresting Grendel’s arm from his body. I wanted to be a warrior. I wanted to reach out and pluck that fruit from its branch—I wanted to taste killing.
“No. I guess not.”
“Well, there you go, then.”
We slept.
Two weeks later Recruit Mobile dropped. He had bronchitis, red-eye, and a stress-fractured shin. The man was broken. I don’t know if he ever finished Recruit Training.
4. C.O.D.
There are two places on the West Coast where Marine Corps’ recruits are trained: Recruit Depot in San Diego and Camp Pendleton, which is about an hour drive north of San Diego. Camp Pendleton is a sprawling Marine Corps Camp that houses the First Marine Division and where recruits learn to use an M-16, bivouac, and hike—lovingly referred to in the Marine Corps as “humping.” This is also where the Crucible takes place, the final challenge in becoming a Marine. The Crucible culminates in a five-mile hump up a mountain called “The Reaper.” In total, Recruit Training lasts thirteen weeks with each week highlighting a different aspect of warfighting. A platoon progresses through PT Week, MCMAP Week, Marine Corps History Week, Team Week, Drill Week, Range Week, Field Week, and the Crucible Week. As if Recruit Training isn’t difficult enough, there is the added stress of a “final exam” at the end of each phase. You pass, you continue; you fail, you drop to another platoon. No one wants to drop.
Our day-to-day training was a predictable routine. We would wake early, eat, drill, eat, PT, practice MCMAP (Marine Corps Martial Arts Program), drill some more, PT some more, and then sleep. We were like ninjas in training. We lived and breathed the Marine Corps. As Ambule had said, we were property of the United States of America.
And when he wasn’t harassing us, Beelzebub was teaching us Close Order Drill, the art of marching in formation and handling arms for ceremonies. We drilled to practice the invaluable military skill of instant obedience to orders. If we obeyed during drill, the logic went, then we would obey in combat. Imagine a marching band. Now replace the instruments with M-16s. This is drill. And in Marine Corps Recruit Training, recruits drill about 50 percent of the time. We would drill on the parade deck—an asphalt expanse in the middle of the Depot—in the barracks, and on the Depot’s streets. We would drill to PT We would drill to the chow hall. Beelzebub didn’t discriminate. He loved drill, and he would drill us anytime, anywhere, for however long he wanted. This usually resulted in endlessly practicing a drill move called Column of Files. The goal in Column of Files is to maneuver an entire platoon from four-squads into one long line, or file. It sounds simple, but in actuality it’s difficult to accomplish, especially with strung-out recruits.
When Beelzebub was in a mood to drill, nothing could stop him. He would call out, “Column of Files!” We would begin our steady mutation from ranks to file. Inevitably, one recruit would screw up. “Get back,” Beelzebub would yell. We would, once again, assume our platoon formation and start the process over. This would continue for hours.
“Permission to speak, Drill Instructor,” some poor recruit would interrupt.
“Speak.”
“Permission to use the head, Drill Instructor.”
“Hell no, Recruit,” Beelzebub would say. “Column of Files! Left—left—left—right—left.” This was followed by the sound of breaking water, the splash of a recruit urinating in his pants.
I didn’t succumb to such indignities. I endured. I sought respite from the physical punishment of drill by escaping the confines of my body. I daydreamed. I dreamt I was a great scholar and writer. I dreamt I had a library filled with books and leather. I dreamt I smoked a pipe, drank scotch, studied,