7. Marine Academia
Recruit training was not all rifles, exercise, and drilling. We also attended our fair share of classes. We had classes on military bearing, uniform care, finances, first aid, Marine Corps discipline and conduct, and, my favorite, Marine Corps history. Our classes were held in a small auditorium. We usually had one instructor per class. After our DIs harried us into the classroom, our instructor would bark out instructions: we were ordered to sit up straight, keep our heads forwards, refrain from talking, and, if we felt like closing our eyelids, we were ordered to stand in the back of the classroom. Our instructor told us if we broke any of his rules or fell asleep in class, he would call back our DIs and allow them to wake us up before continuing. He would then proceed to lecture for the next two hours. He told us things like: the Marine Corps was founded in 1775, and in the beginning Marines used to sit in the crow’s nest of old ships and shoot down at people who boarded, like pirates. Officers would wear a hat with a special design on top so Marines wouldn’t shoot their own. He told us about Tripoli, Belleau Wood, the Japanese, Guadalcanal, Chesty Puller, Vietnam, Snipers, and Marine Corps Medal of Honor winners. According to our instructor, the United States Marine Corps was the only reason the Allies won World War II. “If it wasn’t for us Devildogs, then the world would be speaking German now, errah?”
“Errah,” we growled in unison. Our instructor had taught us this was the appropriate Marine grunt of call and response. He said it was an ancient Scandinavian war cry.
We had tests in our classes too, but to my knowledge everyone passed. Our instructor made sure no one failed; after all, there was no need to drop someone for being stupid. As long as we stuck to answers that shined a heavenly light on the Marine Corps, we would pass. In this area, we all excelled.
The same auditorium in which we attended classes also housed the Protestant church. If we had a “light” morning, then it was typically Sunday. We would wake, shower, clean our squad bay, and then have the opportunity to attend the church service of our preference: Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Muslim, or Wiccan (to name a few). Our training would commence after lunch.
I attended the Protestant church service. After being marched to the auditorium, we would file in and sit down. A worship band would play evangelical pop-Christian songs. Some recruits would stand and sing, others would sit and reflect. I often found myself sitting during these rare breaks from training. After worship, a military chaplain would stand in front of us and sermonize. “Jesus,” he would say, “offered himself as a sacrifice. You too, are offering yourselves as sacrifices. You have chosen to set aside your personal desires in order to embody freedom. God is just. And we must be just in our imitation of God. This means obeying the authorities, those ordained by heaven, for the authorities are responsible for the good. The good you have chosen to uphold. In this way, your sacrifice is used by God.” He would smile at us before continuing. “You are God’s instruments. Right now, I know it is difficult to see that. You are living through trials and tribulations. You are tired, weary—struggling.” He paused. “Come to Jesus. Find your rest.”
When he finished, we were quickly ushered outside and marched back to our barracks. These Sunday morning marches were led by fellow recruits, and as such, were silent. The chaplain’s words, beating in line with our treading boots, pounded in my head. I don’t feel like an instrument.
8. Spring Cleaning
Halfway through Recruit Training we moved from the San Diego Recruit Depot to Camp Pendleton. Before we moved, however, we had to complete Team Week. During Team Week our platoon was broken up into fire squads—groups of about four to eight people—to work throughout the base. Some recruits were assigned to the chow hall to prepare and serve food, others were assigned to the headquarters’ office to make photocopies and clean, and others were assigned to the camp janitorial services. Three other recruits and I were commanded to stay behind and “spring clean” our barracks. This was the worst posting because whoever was in the barracks had to work with Beelzebub. I was hoping for an escape, but instead received rampant intimacy. All week long we cleaned, ran errands for Beelzebub, and got killed.
The other two recruits on barracks duty were Recruit Juarez and Recruit Portland. Juarez was a gangly Mexican. He enlisted to gain his US citizenship. Portland, on the other hand, was a stoner using the Marine Corps as a rehabilitation facility.
“Can you believe we’re stuck with this shit?” Portland asked. The three of us were in the shower room. It was our first day on barracks duty and we were scrubbing the bathroom’s floor. Beelzebub had said he wanted to see the reflection of his ass when he came back. We were doing our best to accommodate his request.
“I was hoping for chow duty,” I replied. “I heard those recruits eat donuts.”
“Bullshit,” Portland said. We were silent for a time, scouring the floor with steel wool. “What’s the first thing you’ll do after Recruit Training?”
“I don’t know. Eat a hamburger, I guess. You?”
“I’m gonna sleep—for a week.”
“What about you?” I asked, turning to Juarez. He was scrubbing the floor next to us, humming softly.
“He won’t answer.”
“Why?”
“He’ll only speak English with a DI—shitty English at that. I doubt he even knows what you’re saying.” Recruit Juarez stopped polishing the floor and looked at Portland. “Can you understand me?” Portland asked, taking care to enunciate. Juarez stared at Portland for a few seconds more before returning his attention to the bathroom’s floor. “See? Dumb as a rock.”
One afternoon while we were mopping our barracks, a shout exploded from the DI’s office.
“Peters, get in here!”
Shit.
It was Beelzebub. He was sitting behind his desk, legs kicked over the top. His shaved head was glowing under the florescent lights. He smelled like Bulldog, a Marine Corps cologne. I walked in and stood at attention. “Recruit Peters reporting as ordered, Drill Instructor.”
“At ease.”
I was nervous.
“Why the hell are you here, Peters?”
“Drill Instructor?” I didn’t understand the question.
“Why the hell are you here?”
“You called for me, Drill Instructor.”
He shook his head. “I mean the Corps, Recruit.”
I hesitated. “To serve my country, Drill Instructor.”
“Really?”
“Yes, Drill Instructor.”
“Hmm.” His brown eyes bored into me. “I looked over your file, Recruit. It says you have two years of college, that you even played college football. Again, why the hell are you here? I wouldn’t leave that.”
“To serve, Drill Instructor.”
“Yeah, bullshit, no one’s in the Marine Corps to serve, Recruit. We’re all running from something. What’s your something?”
I stared at a spot on the wall behind Beelzebub’s head. I wouldn’t answer that question, not for him.
“Recruit?”
Silence.
“Alright, then tell me this, why not finish school and join as an officer?”
“The Marine Corps enlisted, Drill Instructor, they’re the best and bravest.”
“Oh! Semper Fi and all that, right?”
“Yes, Drill Instructor. Honor, Courage, and Commitment.”
“Look at the little bird sing.”
“Drill Instructor?”
“But you’re not a Marine,