“Get back!”
5. Lesser Mortals
Four weeks into Recruit Training our DIs had the opportunity to drown us. It was “Swim Week.” Bravo Company trained at an indoor Olympic-sized swimming pool, so that if we were ever on a Navy ship, fell off, and were lost at sea, then we would know how to survive. We charged through water—angry and unafraid—in camouflage utilities with full combat-ready backpacks and M-16s. We practiced swimming, treading water, and dropping off a twenty-foot high dive. Our DIs assured us that if we ever found ourselves in the unlikely situation of having to use this particular training, then we could pull our collars around our mouths and blow. “Your damn cammies,” they would shout, “once inflated, will act as a flotation device.” The thing is, it didn’t work.
Swim week wasn’t that bad for those of us who knew how to swim. For those few who didn’t, it was less than ideal. Recruit Jersey, a black recruit from the northeast, was a rock—he couldn’t tread water, let alone swim. Beelzebub made it his mission to drown Recruit Jersey. I guess it was easier than teaching an eighteen-year-old to swim.
Our last day of swim week was qual-day—a “final exam.” There are four levels of Marine Corps swimming: one, two, three, and four. At level four you can execute every major stroke, as well as the Combat Survival Stroke, in full gear. For the exam, our DIs would arrange us facing the short width, rather than the length, of the pool. Our swimming instructors, who wore short, canvas swim trunks like the movie stars of the 1950s, would stand over us, looking down from atop their lofty perches. They would call out a stroke, and we would swim across the pool showcasing our talents. If any of us, according to our instructors, couldn’t properly execute a stroke, then our DIs would haul us out of the water. A recruit who made it through all four of the strokes, however, would be designated a level four swimmer, making him Recon authorized. Any recruit who failed would be dragged out of the water and assigned a number between one and three. We all aspired to level four because we all held onto, in some fashion, the romanticism of being a Recon Marine—the hardest Marines, the Special Forces. Even if I never tested for Recon, I had to admit, I at least wanted the option. During these training weeks, rumors spread throughout our platoon at nights when we thought Beelzebub was off duty. We heard tell of different Recon tests, trainings, and missions. Supposedly, a recruit in Alpha Company had been so “hard” that he’d been ushered out of Recruit Training and into the hallowed presence of SOCOM. It was enticing. What young man hasn’t, at one point in his life, desired to be a god among lesser mortals?
“Survival!” an instructor shouted. The final exam of Swim Week had begun. A whistle blew, and the first wave of recruits jumped into the pool and began the survival stroke. The instructors, circling like hawks, began pointing at recruits who were failing and needed to be removed from the pool. The second wave began their swim, then the third. I was in the fourth wave. I stepped up to the edge of the pool; Recruit Jersey was next to me. He looked over at me. I saw fear.
“You’ll do fine,” I said.
He looked back at the pool. The whistle blew and we jumped. I was halfway across the pool when I heard screaming. It was Recruit Jersey. He was flailing about, choking in gurgles. I stopped midway and watched as Beelzebub jumped in after Recruit Jersey.
“You want something to yell about?” he said as he swam over to Recruit Jersey and dunked him. “Suck it up, Recruit!” I entertained swimming back, decided against it, and continued on, exiting the pool. I watched from a distance as Beelzebub nearly drowned Recruit Jersey. He was slamming him down and screeching with his strained, scratchy voice. Recruit Jersey, frantically, was calling for help. He thought he was dying. Beelzebub, finally, swam to the edge, leaving Recruit Jersey in the middle of the pool floating face up. Breathing but unable to move, he was defeated. Beelzebub climbed out of the pool and threw Recruit Jersey a life preserver. He paddled to the pool’s edge, crawled out, and hobbled to sickbay.
“Breast,” our instructor said. Wave one began, then two, three, and four. Halfway through the swim I felt a DI tap me on the shoulder. I was done; level two. I was unworthy of testing Recon. I left the pool, walked to the locker room, and dried off. Wearing my uniform, I marched outside to wait in formation until the other recruits finished their test. I don’t know what happened to Recruit Jersey. As part of our unwritten code we never talked about broken recruits or what Beelzebub had done to them. We marched back to our barracks and continued our training, one recruit short. When Beelzebub breaks you, it’s hard to recover.
6. Unforgivable
One of the joys of Recruit Training was the Marine Corps’ obstacle course, a rope and monkey bar strewn jungle gym. Every recruit toed the starting line thinking he could conquer the Marine Corps’ playground. Every recruit was humbled. One day, before the halfway point in our training, Beelzebub decided to run us through the obstacle course. He said that the day was special though, because we would attempt what was called a “combat course.” We were to break into our squads and run the course with five ammo cans—fifteen to twenty-pound containers filled with ammunition. If any of us died, and he assured us he would let us know if we’d died, then our squad was to fire-carry the dead squad member through the rest of the course. The first squad that finished didn’t have to join the other squads in the pit for a platoon quarter-decking. I wanted to finish first. Once we were broken into our squads and lined up, he provided us a few minutes to discuss strategy.
“Peters, Lopez, Duncan, Phoenix, and Dallas,” our Squad Leader said, “you carry the ammo cans. Rodriquez, Chicago, LA, Smith, and Lee you follow directly behind ’em. If they die, pick up their ammo cans and keep going. The rest of us’ll be ready to fire-carry the dead. Okay?”
“Do not say, ‘okay.’” Lee was a thinly framed Asian. “You are the Squad Leader, command us.”
“Shut up the fuck up, Lee. Everyone ready?” We nodded. “Alright, let’s win this. I’m not getting quarter-decked because of you fuckers.”
I picked up my ammo can.
“Alright,” Beelzebub said, “first done won’t get killed.” He paused for dramatic effect: “Kill!”
I ran—hard and fast. I didn’t wait for my squad. I figured they’d survive, but I didn’t want to be the reason we failed. I pulled out in front. Not only was I in front of our squad, but I was in front of the whole platoon. I low crawled, I climbed over logs, and I carried my ammo can across rope bridges. Halfway through the obstacle course, as I was struggling up a wooden wall, Beelzebub sprinted over. “You’re dead, Recruit,” he said. “Don’t ever, and I mean ever, leave your squad like that. You finish together or don’t finish at all.” He looked at me. “As a matter of fact, get your ass off the course. You’re not fit. Ambule,” he shouted, “take over for me. I gotta teach Recruit Peters a lesson.” He turned to me. “To the pit, Recruit.”
I followed.
In between the endless push-ups and mountain climbers, Beelzebub proceeded to lecture me on the nature of war and platoon maneuvers. He said that for one man to assume he could complete a mission on his own was selfish. A concerted effort is always better than an individual attempt. I was selfish and needed purging. Combat, he said, was about groups of people working together to accomplish a mission, something greater than any one individual. If I wanted to be successful, then I would have to unfetter my selfish ambition. I needed to assimilate. “You want to be a Marine?” he bellowed. “You want to be a killer? Fuck you, Peters. You’re not shit, and you never will be. Discipline, Recruit, discipline is what you need.”
This continued for some time.
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I just counted off my leg-lifts. Bullshit. The act of killing is selfish. How is what I did any different? I was laying my fucking life down for my brothers. Beelzebub, however, was preparing us for the unforgivable, where there’d be no “do overs,” no “second best.” We had to instantly and perfectly execute our orders,