~ * * ~
“I called your…Mrs. Ramirez and let her know you would be late,” Mr. Suzuki informed me.
“Thanks,” I replied putting on my jacket. “Sorry we ran so long.”
“It is good that Shun and I spent time discussing his future,” he smiled. “He does not usually face his problems. I have waited a long time for him to come to me.”
“Even though he has no idea what he wants to do?”
“At least it is out in the open and we can work on it together,” Mr. Suzuki assured me. “He is not like you, so sure of what you want and determined to make it happen. Shun has no such direction in his life. Perhaps college will give him purpose.”
I nodded as he unlocked the front door and let me out. The next bus wasn’t for ten minutes but that gave me time to think about something Mr. Suzuki had said, or left unsaid.
What was Mrs. Ramirez to me? She had said I was family, and she and Tony treated me as much like a son as they could, but the truth was I didn’t have any family; not like Shun did. I was alone in the world, with no blood ties to anyone.
Most of the time I didn’t allow myself to think about it, but Mr. Suzuki’s unintentional slip had stirred some strange feelings inside of me as had the father/son interaction between Shun and Mr. Suzuki. I would never know what that felt like.
Although it had been almost ten years since the accident and some of the pain had dulled, the accident itself was still very clear in my mind. The same quirk in my brain that helped me remember everything I had ever seen, read, or heard kept the memory of that night from fading.
The previous year, after reading the article in the old newspaper, I had pondered trying to find the guy who had been driving the car that night, but the events of that evening had pushed it to the back of my mind. Even afterwards, I hesitated, wondering what I would say to the person responsible for my parents’ death.
“Hi, I’m Jack and you killed my parents,” didn’t seem to cover it but what else was there? “Why did you do it?” “Are you happy now?” “What were you thinking?” “Do you know what you did to me and my brother?” There were no good answers so I had decided against doing anything. Maybe later, when I was more mature, more able to handle the confrontation I would go find the man and see if what he had done had affected him at all.
The arrival of the bus saved me from any more conjecture. As I made my way to the back, I nodded to a couple of elderly ladies apparently heading home after a shopping expedition. They grasped their bags tightly to them and avoided my eyes. I didn’t blame them. Riding the bus at night was probably not the safest thing for them to do.
Getting off at the bus stop a few blocks from the house, I could see flashing lights down the street, but couldn’t make out exactly where they were. My heart sank to my feet as fear spread through my body like wildfire, some instinct urging me to hurry. I began to run towards the flashing lights, the words ‘not them’ keeping time with the pounding of my feet on the pavement. NOT THEM NOT THEM NOT THEM over and over in my head, faster and faster as I closed the distance and realized that all of the lights were directly in front of Tony’s house.
I hit the crowd that had gathered, pushing and shoving my way towards the front where the policemen had already put up barriers and were holding the curious spectators back. I slipped between two officers and faintly heard them shouting at me, but I didn’t stop until I made the front door and smacked into what strongly resembled a brick wall.
“Jack! You’re alive,” Captain Gardner was by far the largest man I had ever met and being hugged by him was, I imagined, the same as being hugged by a grizzly bear. “When we heard you weren’t at school this afternoon, we all thought…”
“What’s wrong…where’s Tony? Is he…are they…?”
I couldn’t catch my breath, whether from running or fear it was the same result, but he knew what I was asking.
“I’m sorry, Jack,” he said contritely. “They didn’t stand a chance.”
“What does that mean?” I asked dazedly. “Chance against what…?”
“It was a drive-by shooting,” the Captain explained heavily “and the shooters had major fire power; the whole front of the house is shot up.”
I hadn’t noticed any of that but a quick glance showed that the glass was totally gone from the front windows and there was splintered wood and holes peppered across the front of the house.
“Who?” I whispered.
“The neighbors got the license plate numbers…” he began.
“Numbers…?”
“There were two vehicles,” he acknowledged. “We’ve already picked them up. Stupid bas…kids were downtown in an empty parking lot drinking and celebrating. Still had the guns they’d used. I’m about to head to the precinct to interrogate them.”
“Can I see…them?”
I knew I shouldn’t, knew it would haunt me forever just as the last glimpse of my parents had over the past ten years, but I couldn’t seem to process what he was telling me. I needed to see it for myself.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Captain Gardner shook his head sadly. “It’s not a pretty sight.”
“I have…” I stopped, breathing deeply, trying to get myself under control. “I have to…please…”
“Jack…”
“Please,” I hadn’t begged in years but I did then. “They’re my family,” and as I said it I knew it to be true.
He moved out of the way and I didn’t have to even step into the house to see the horrid scene. The furniture had been shot to pieces, but what held my gaze with heartrending sadness and shock were the two figures on what was left of the couch.
They had obviously been sitting there together planning for the baby, the wallpaper and paint samples were scattered all over the floor, while supper was in the oven—the smell of the enchiladas permeated the house—when the shooting started.
The sight of blood splattered everywhere and Tony’s bullet riddled body almost totally obscuring my view of his wife, he must have thrown himself over her and the baby in a futile effort to protect them from the onslaught, sent waves of nausea pulsing through my body. I fought them back.
There couldn’t have been any warning or Tony would have moved Mrs. Ramirez to safety and pulled his gun.
“Who…?” I asked managing to get that one word passed the lump in my throat.
“We think one of them was a kid Tony busted a couple of years ago for drug dealing,” he answered. “He was recently released from Juvie because he turned eighteen.”
“Grady Bryant,” I said dully.
“Yeah I think that was the name,” the Captain nodded.
“I’m through with the pictures, Captain,” an officer reported respectfully.
“Okay, thanks,” Gardner stepped away from the door to let the officer by, pulling me with him. “Tell the coroner he can take the bodies now.”
“Will do,” the officer answered.
“Two senseless murders,” the Captain shook his head mournfully.
“Three,” I corrected automatically, moving towards the couch and glancing down at the sample of blue wallpaper sprinkled with small yellow ducks that Tony had liked. He’d teased his wife that he was hoping for a boy, but I knew he hadn’t cared, just thrilled at the prospect of becoming a father.
“Three?” he came to stand by me, confused. “You mean…”
“She was three months pregnant,” I stated hollowly. “They weren’t going to tell anyone until she’d made it past the fifth month.”
“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. “They’d been trying for so long…” his voice broke on the last word.
Turning away, he stomped outside. I heard him speaking in low tones to someone and then the coroner and his assistant appeared with a couple of gurneys.
“Come on, Jack,” the Captain motioned to me from the door. “There’s nothing else we can do here.”
I didn’t want to
leave, as gruesome as the scene was, it still felt like I would be leaving behind the only family I had left. Earlier I hadn’t known exactly how to think of them, but too late I realized that Mrs. Ramirez was right. We were family. For them it hadn’t been about blood ties, but about something deeper.
I was the one who had kept them at a distance, although not intentionally, maybe as a defense mechanism of some sort knowing that it was too good to last…that I was meant to be alone. Everyone in my life that had ever meant anything had been taken away from me. Why would I have ever thought they would be any different?
“Jack,” he murmured in my ear. “We should go now.”
Nodding, but unable to force my gaze from the bodies as the coroner loaded them onto the gurney, I allowed him to lead me out the front door.
Boot Camp
November 1977-February 1978
Nicky,
I feel stupid doing this but my DI says I have to write a letter every week—I’d just as soon not have any free time—and even though I tried to tell him I had no one to write to, he insisted that I find somebody so I decided to write to you and then mail it to myself. That way I’ll mail a letter, get a letter, and be able to avoid unwanted speculation about why I don’t send or receive any mail.
Jack
Nicky,
I’m back. Apparently I didn’t write enough—who knew they were going to check before letting us mail our letter—so here we go again…
I guess I might as well explain to you why I have no one to write to. If you’re really up there watching over me as Mrs. Ramirez always claimed, then you’ll know about my friend Shun and are probably wondering what happened that made me dump him.
After I lost Tony and Mrs. Ramirez, Shun’s family wanted to take me in until I finished my last couple of months of high school, but I refused. You know better than anyone that I’m bad news. Everyone I’ve ever allowed myself to get close to…well…you’re all dead, except for Shun. I wasn’t about to endanger the Suzuki family after all they’d done for me so I politely turned down their offer and broke off my friendship with Shun.
You remember Mrs. Phelps the CPS lady, well she got promoted and is running the whole office now and she asked me what I wanted to do. I told her I was joining the Marines as soon as I graduated from high school and since I only needed around 19 credits to graduate and already had enough, she managed to convince the principal to allow me to take all of my finals early and get my diploma so I could go ahead and sign up for the Marines. They would have taken me without a diploma, but I wanted one figuring it would make it easier for me to get into college after my stint in the Corps.
After talking to the Marine recruiter, I realized that, being from Texas, I was going to be sent to San Diego for boot camp. I have nothing against San Diego, but I knew my old junior high principal, Mr. Murphy, had gone to Parris Isle and that’s where I wanted to go, sand fleas or no sand fleas.
I’d researched the Marines and had no desire to be called a ‘Hollywood Marine’ whether that was meant derogatorily or not so I took what money I had saved from my allowance and hopped a bus headed east not caring where I stopped as long as it got me to Parris.
My money took me as far as Atlanta, Georgia where I promptly found a recruiter and enlisted. Mrs. Phelps made sure I had all of the necessary documents and even though I’m not eighteen yet, they let me in.
I was lucky I got in when I did, because I only had to wait a couple of days before they shipped us out and I was out of money plus the fact that the benches in the bus station aren’t the most comfortable place for someone of my size to sleep. I also discovered that cops tend to frown on bums like me camping out in the same place for more than one night in a row.
Once I was finally able to board the bus for Parris Isle, my stomach wouldn’t shut up, growling at me in protest at the lack of nourishment I’d provided. There were plenty of drinking fountains around, but food was in short supply as I was flat broke. I was looking forward to three square meals a day no matter how hard they worked me at boot camp.
There was so much tension in the air on the bus ride to Parris that at first I had trouble sleeping, but it wasn’t long before the fact that it was dark, and I’d had too many nights of broken sleep on hard wooden benches, began to tell on me and I was dead to the world.
I awakened to yelling like I’d never heard before in my life. My blurry eyes and foggy brain were struggling to focus on the fact that someone’s ugly mug was less than an inch from my face, letting loose a string of obscenities at me that would make a sailor blush, as I sat bolt upright in my seat.
“Get out get out get out! Off the bus off the bus off the bus! You better be off my bus in 5 seconds or else!” seemed to be the main theme of the bellowing interspersed with expletives for emphasis as I pushed myself out of my seat and into the aisle moving with the panicked stream of bodies headed for the exit.
Once off the bus, more hollering and cussing ensued as we scrambled to find an unoccupied pair of painted yellow footprints on the ground and placed our feet on them.
Time stood still while we took the bashing of our lives.
“Shoulders back, arms at your sides, heels together. Do you see those footprints on the ground? They are not there for decoration, put your feet on them…what’s so funny…don’t look at me when I’m talking to you, you worthless piece of…” followed by a string of obscenities that would curl your hair.
For a brief moment, all the bullies I’d dealt with since elementary school flashed through my mind and I grimaced as I realized that was nothing compared to what I was apparently in for. And these tyrants were getting paid for it…by the U.S. Government no less…every bully’s dream job.
“Are you smiling…?” a deceptively quiet voice murmured in my ear. “Answer me, boy!”
“No sir, I don’t smile, sir!” I answered in the type of shouting voice the other recruits seemed to be using.
Obviously, that was a huge mistake.
“I…? I…? Did you just say ‘I’? The only ‘I’ for recruits is in the spelling of the name,” the voice bellowed in my face as everyone became deathly quiet, listening “and believe me if it could be taken out of that word I would f… do it myself! You will address yourself as ‘this recruit’ because you are not important enough to be an ‘I’. You are sh..! No you are less than sh..! You are the maggot that crawls around on the sh.. and eats it! Do you understand you worthless piece of sh..?”
They all seemed to be suffering from the same deplorable lack of originality as evidenced by their limited vocabularies and they, to a man, could have all benefited from the use of a Thesaurus.
Although I can find humor in the situation now, I assure you as his voice became louder and louder and I felt smaller and smaller there was absolutely nothing funny in any of it.
I’ve never been so scared in my whole life and I didn’t have to look around, which wasn’t allowed anyway, to know that I wasn’t alone. Every one of us was shaking in our shoes. It was not pretty.
Thankfully, I was too terrified to feel any hunger pains. I don’t know what would have happened if my stomach had chosen that moment to make it’s displeasure at being starved felt, but I did know I would rather not find out.
Once they were through shouting at us about our posture, they began barking out rules and regulations like Article 86 which prohibits absence without leave—as if any of us would ever have the guts to plan a jail break after what they were putting us through—and Article 91 which prohibits us from not following orders—again that was the last thing on our minds…most likely because we were mindless wonders by that point…and Article 93 which prohibits us from being disrespectful to senior officers—we were never going to disrespect another soul for the rest of our sorry lives.
We were finally allowed into the building, accompanied by more yelling and cussing, in order to complete our paperwork. They were practically climbing up on our cubicles screaming th
eir heads off at us while we attempted to concentrate long enough to fill in the blanks required. I swear at one point I couldn’t even see the desk in front of me because of the head stuck in between me and my paperwork, all the while swearing a blue streak at me.
The only time the yelling stopped was when they were shaving our hair off. I figured it was because we weren’t required to do anything other than sit there while the man with the shears was doing all the work. We were grateful for the short break.
The recruiter had apparently developed a convenient case of amnesia while preparing us for the ordeal of boot camp because nothing he told me was anywhere remotely close to what happened to us over the next few days. Most of my fellow recruits would have had second thoughts if he had, which reinforced my belief that it was deliberate amnesia and not a mere oversight on his part. He probably had a quota to fill.
I was extremely grateful for one seemingly insignificant detail that the recruiter in Atlanta did mention.
“If you have anything of value that you don’t want to lose, don’t take it with you because you may never see it again.”
After signing up, I left the recruiting office, sat down on a bench and fished my cherished jackknife out of my shoe, fingering it sadly. That jackknife and the cartoons you drew of me, which I always keep folded up in my old worn out wallet, a hand-me-down from Tony, were all I had left of our family, and I hated to think I might lose them forever.
I made up my mind right then and there that I’d rather they be in the hands of someone I knew, even if I never saw them again, rather than some stranger, so I boxed up the knife and the cartoons and mailed them to Shun with the last few coins I’d been saving to use for food before boarding the bus for Parris.
I knew that Shun was the only person left in the world who would understand what they meant to me. Although I debated about putting some sort of note in the box, I decided against it, allowing the keepsakes to speak for themselves.
So back to my shaved head…a lot of guys bemoaned the loss of their hair but I didn’t care. I had always let Tony cut my hair and it never mattered to me how it looked, I simply wanted it as short as possible so I didn’t have to suffer through as many haircuts. I never did more than soap it up and rinse it out whenever I was in the shower anyway, sometimes even forgetting to comb it afterwards so, if anything, I was glad it was all gone…just another thing I didn’t have to worry about.
After that, all of our personal belongings, including the clothes on our backs, were taken and we were issued our uniforms and gear, plus some personal items from the PX they assumed we would need, and informed us the price would be taken out of our first paychecks.
I silently thanked the recruiting officer for the warning.
We were taught, accompanied by more yelling and foul language of course, to do everything ‘by the numbers’, using the ‘head’ which is the bathroom, taking a shower—there’s even a procedure for soaping up…I liked that part, quick and efficient—and making our racks, beds to you. We all cast furtively longing glances at our racks as they were being inspected, but sleep was apparently something raw recruits didn’t need.
By the time we were able to collapse into our racks for the first time, almost forty-eight hours after arriving, we were worn out, but the torture was just beginning. After a very short sleep, which barely qualified as a nap, we were up and making our racks for another inspection.
I did manage to load a good amount of food into my mouth at breakfast—I couldn’t remember for sure how long it had been since I’d eaten, the hours were all running together—but I almost regretted it. After our dental and medical exams were over, we were put through a fitness test; and it was all I could do to hold my breakfast down.
The running wasn’t so bad and the pull-ups were nothing, but the crunches weren’t conducive to not tasting all that food again, and breakfast is never as good the second time around. I’m not sure how I managed it, but I kept it down, determined not to lose any of the precious nutrition that had been so scarce the past week.
If I’d known how, I would have smiled at the news that I was underweight for my height. I found out quickly that meant double rations for me, for which I was grateful. A couple of my fellow recruits were in the overweight category and had their rations cut and some ended up in PCP, which stands for Physical Conditioning Platoon, because they didn’t pass the fitness test.
We’ve been chewed out about everything from drill to marching to how our uniforms look and even how we make our racks, but I’m getting used to it. I guess you can get pretty well used to anything after a while.
Probably the most exciting thing, for me at least, was being issued my M16 rifle. Tony took me to a shooting range a couple of times after you…well, anyway, he taught me how to fire his Colt, but I’d never used a rifle before.
Right now, we’re not allowed to do anything other than carry it around and ‘secure our weapon’—we don’t call it a gun or a rifle, it is referred to as a ‘weapon’—but I’m pumped about it.
There is a whole new language for me to learn here, it’s like being on a ship or something. Instead of upstairs and downstairs it’s topside and down below, windows are portholes, walls are bulkheads, the floor is the deck and right and left are starboard and port. All of our civilian ways are being pounded right out of us.
And that’s not all, we have to memorize all sorts of things like the Marine Rifle Creed, the Marine Hymn—hopefully I won’t have to do any singing because that could get ugly—11 General Orders for a Sentry, USMC Core Values, and Marine Corps history.
Good thing I have a photographic memory. Sorry I never told you about that, but I just never found the right time to bring it up.
I’m also glad Mom and Dad insisted we both taking swimming lessons when we were kids. Apparently, there’s a lot of water involved here.
All in all it’s been the toughest weeks I’ve ever spent. I wonder how much tougher it’s gonna get. Maybe I don’t want to know…yet.
I think I’ve finally written enough to please my DI, almost everyone else is through.
If you really can hear me, Nicky, I just want you to know that I miss you and think about you every day.
I’ll write again soon.
Jack
Nicky,
Hey, it’s me again.
I got my letter from me—or rather my letter to you from me sent to me…confusing isn’t it—opened it to read and decided that it was a good thing for me to go back over the previous week that way. Putting everything down in written form helped me see where I was and how far I’d come in such a short time.
I hope you don’t mind me using you this way. It makes it better somehow, as if I’m really talking to you.
So, this week has been pretty grueling, but on a positive note we have a general training schedule now so wake up, fall in, chow, personal time, and lights out are pretty well set and we know more what to expect during the day.
We chose a platoon leader as well as squad leaders—guess what, I wasn’t one of them surprise, surprise…you know how popular I always am—but I had reason to be glad I wasn’t chosen by the end of the week. Those guys suffer more quarter-decking than anyone else in the platoon.
Quarter-decking, by the way, is officially called IPT or Incentive Physical Training, but is basically punishment—like running in place for all eternity or performing an infinite number of pushups or thrusts and lunges, anything that they can dream up to wear us down—for any and all sins committed by recruits whether real or made up and some of the DI’s appear to have very vivid imaginations and entirely too much time on their hands. Sometimes it’s individual punishment and sometimes they force the whole squad or platoon to join the offenders; major fun…or at the risk of making a corny pun since most of our DI’s have that rank…sergeant fun.
Anyway, there was a lot of quarter-decking going on along with massive amounts of training and all of those things I mentioned in the last
letter that we had to memorize, which are causing wide-spread panic among quite a few of the recruits. We spend more time than I realized sitting in a classroom and, don’t get me wrong, it’s interesting stuff, but I already have it all committed to memory so I’m bored as usual.
Yesterday I spent most of the class period practicing breaking down and rebuilding my gun in my head hoping it would help my speed while the classroom instructor droned on and on and on and on…oh sorry I fell asleep just thinking about it.
On a positive note, I can now clean my rifle in record time and they are prepping us for the next phase where we’ll actually get to shoot.
The first aid part of class is good though, I just wished it would go further. Instead of merely learning how to stop the bleeding and care for sprained and broken limbs, I’d like to know how to actually extract a bullet from a human body, along with how to inject one. Guess I’ll have to look that one up on my own.
On the physical side, we were introduced to pugil sticks for the first time this last week; pugil sticks are sticks about a yard long with the equivalent of boxing gloves attached to the ends. You’re supposed to use them to mimic close combat rifle and bayonet fighting but it’s pretty tame and somewhat lame after using real swords.
We wear all sorts of protective gear. Apparently, an incident occurred last year in San Diego where a twenty-year-old kid was beaten to death with one of those sticks. The DI’s insist that we should go all out, give it our all, since injury is, according to them, well nigh impossible with all the padding and the helmets recruits are required to wear and so I took them at their word.
I don’t get to do much with pugil sticks since my first time was…well let me just say it didn’t end well for a couple of my fellow recruits and one of the DI’s. I knocked my first sparring partner out cold even though he was wearing a helmet, but the DI, assuming it to be beginner’s luck picked another victim for me. Unfortunately for him, the same thing happened to the second one.
The DI then decided he would take me on himself, but it wasn’t much of a contest. I avoided his head since he had opted not to don a helmet, but he may have at least one broken rib. Mr. Suzuki taught me well…I guess a little too well.
Now I’m used solely for target practice and the only thing I’m allowed to do is defend myself, not attack. So far, no one has been able to land a stick on me, but it may only be a matter of time before someone does. A couple have already come close and next week we start working higher off the ground…ought to be interesting.
We have to do a lot of close order drill and there is one recruit in my platoon who seems to have problems keeping in step with the rest of us at times, his named is Haydn Smith and is as closed mouthed as I am if you can believe that, never speaking except to answer direct questions from the DI’s. I can hear a foreign intonation in his voice, which he is obviously trying to hide, but I don’t think anyone else has noticed.
He is constantly being quarter-decked by the DI’s for not staying with the rest of us and a few days ago, all of us were quarter-decked because of it. I took him aside afterwards and offered to help him, but he merely shook his head and left.
The next day, after we spent what felt like hours running in place because of his mistakes, he cornered me and asked what I wanted in exchange for helping him. I replied ‘No more quarter-decking’ to which he simply nodded and agreed to my plan of working on it during our coveted ‘free time’.
We’ve been working on it for a couple of days now and he seems to be improving somewhat, but not fast enough for the DI’s so yesterday instead of drilling with him, I sat him down and asked a few pointed questions, hoping to pinpoint exactly where the problem lie, since it obviously didn’t stem from a lack of intelligence.
At first he resented my questions, but after a while I think he finally realized I was just trying to help him and by doing so, help us all and he finally admitted he was Iranian.
Neither of us are what anyone would call verbose, which I believe is partly why he accepted my offer as I am one of the few guys in the platoon less talkative than he is, but I managed to extract enough information from him to realize that he thought in Persian and translated to English and it was slowing him down.
From what little I had read about Iran, I’d always thought they spoke Farsi but he explained to me that in English it is frequently known as Farsi. You remember how I’ve always been fascinated with other countries and languages, even taught myself Spanish and learned Japanese from Shun and his family, and I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to learn another language, so I convinced Haydn—his real name is Haydar meaning ‘lion’ which I like a lot better but I promised him I would not use it as he and his family had changed their names and anglicized them when they moved to the United States and became citizens—to teach me Persian or Farsi so I could work with him on faster recognition of the commands used during close order drills.
I hope it helps. Getting quarter-decked all the time is really getting old.
Guess that’s all for now, Haydar and I are going to get in some extra language lessons. I’ll let you know how it works out.
Jack
Nicky,
My favorite week so far; we finally started on the Obstacle Course and the Confidence Course.
Before I get into any of that, I guess I should tell you that Haydar is doing great now and we haven’t been quarter-decked for our close order drill in days, which is good because we will be having competitions soon and the DI’s take that very seriously.
I’m also learning to speak Persian and he’s even agreed to teach me to read and write in Persian although he’s warned me it will be difficult. So far, he’s been amazed at how much better I can read and write it than speak and understand it. I figured he didn’t need to know about my strange brain function so I kept that to myself.
No one in the platoon knows about his heritage and I don’t plan on telling anyone…it’s his business.
Personally, I don’t care where he’s from. He offered to put my name in for platoon guide but I nixed that idea right away. I was already drawing enough attention to myself by answering every question in class correctly. The instructor had realized fairly quickly that he could count on me when all else failed. Add to that, concussing a couple of recruits with the pugil sticks and I figured I didn’t need any DI’s looking my way anymore than they already did.
Which brings up another problem I had to take care of this week…a bully.
It’s not what you think…this time was different…no really…it was.
His name is Harry Finch and he is huge!
Yeah I know, I’m 6’3” according to my physical, but I don’t come anywhere close to 200 pounds. This guy, he’s like a mountain with legs. Admittedly, he’s shorter than I am, I’m guessing just over six feet, but he must weigh like close to three hundred pounds and I doubt much of it is fat even though he was one of the recruits whose rations were cut.
No one calls him Harry—not even the DI’s when they’re discussing him—everyone just calls him Bruiser or The Bruiser. Scuttlebutt, military gossip to you, is he earned that nickname as a front linesman on his high school football team. Personally, I think he looks like he could have been the whole front line, offensively and defensively.
He’s one of the few recruits that have come close to knocking me off the wooden bridge with his pugil stick. I dodge as much as I can but when our sticks connect, I feel the raw power in him. If he ever gets me down, I’m in for it, I can tell by the ornery look in his eyes and the perpetual snarl on his face, and I’m not looking forward to it.
But I digress. Believe it or not, pugil sticks aren’t the problem.
During free time last Sunday, after I’d written my letter to you, he found me on my bunk writing a letter for Haydar to correct and must have decided that he had the right to read my private correspondence.
I had him on the floor, the letter in hand, and was back in my rack before he even
knew what hit him.
Pretending to ignore him as he pulled himself off the floor and slouched away, I realized I had made an enemy, but as that seems to be my lot in life, I shrugged it off and returned to practicing my Persian.
Less than an hour later, he was back. He stood silently watching me for a few minutes while I once again feigned ignorance of his presence. Eventually he spoke and I think I should write out the conversation, as that should explain better than I could exactly what happened.
“I hear you’re smart,” he began abruptly.
“Vicious rumor,” I answered, not looking up.
If I’d actually been smart I would have kept my mouth shut in class, but we are all required to answer questions at times and missing them on purpose would be like lying which I thought unbecoming a Marine so I seemed to have made myself into a target again. I guess I’d thought it would be different here, but apparently not.
“I’m gonna flunk out,” he stated baldly.
“Start studying.”
“I don’t know how,” he admitted reluctantly.
Frowning in disbelief, I finally looked up from my letter and could see the desperation in his eyes. I wasn’t certain what he wanted from me so I just waited. One thing I knew for sure, I would not cheat for him. Sensing my skepticism and realizing he had my undivided attention he continued.
“Serious, man, I never had to open a book…not since junior high.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know if you heard but I was an all star football player in high school.”
“So?”
He squatted down, rather easily for such a huge guy, by my bunk and continued earnestly “I remember back in seventh grade, I was flunking math and…well…a few other classes, too, and wasn’t gonna get to play and the coach said he’d take care of it and he did. After that I never had to do much…just play football.”
I shook my head in amazement, but he must have thought I didn’t believe him.
“I ain’t lying, man, I swear…”
“What do you want from me?” I interrupted abruptly.
“You could help me.”
“I’m not your momma.”
“Hey…!”
“And I don’t cheat.”
“No...I want to do this right…be a Marine…I just don’t know how.”
“So what exactly do you expect me to do?”
“I read this stuff and listen in class, but I get all nuts when I have to take a test and I forget everything. How do you remember it all?”
Well, I could hardly tell him that and, anyway, it wouldn’t help him. I was the wrong person to be asking for aid when it came to regular studying because I had an advantage that had nothing whatsoever to do with me. It was just pure ‘dumb’ luck that I’d been fortunate enough to be born with a special ability, and quite honestly I never had to study either, although for much different reasons.
I found myself wanting to help him, he didn’t seem like such a bad guy, and from everything I could see, he belonged in the Marine Corps—I was certainly glad he was on our side—but wasn’t sure how to start.
Recalling how I had been able to pinpoint Haydar’s problem after some serious discussion, I decided to try it out on Bruiser.
I asked him about his interests and mostly he talked about football. I realized that he could use his football knowledge of strategy and plays to help remember the Marine battles, but he couldn’t seem to keep the rest of it in his head.
After a while, I could tell he was holding something back. I tried to drag it out of him, but every time the discussion led to what he enjoyed doing in his free time, he would just revert back to football. Finally, I gave up.
“I can’t help you.”
“Why not?” he asked in alarm.
“Because you’re lying.”
“I ain’t lying,” he objected vigorously.
“I want to know what you spend your time doing when you’re not eating, drinking, and sleeping football and you won’t tell me so you’re lying by omission…get lost.”
I was quickly running out of free time as well as patience and I still hadn’t finished my letter to Haydar, so I turned back to it and began rereading what I had written.
“You’ll laugh at me,” he said sullenly.
“What makes you say that?” I asked absently.
“Because it’s…a sissy thing.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t laugh,” I pointed out glancing up at him.
“True…I never even seen you smile.”
“So…tell me.”
“Okay but you gotta swear not to tell anyone.”
Once again, I returned to my unfinished letter.
“I like to…sing,” he admitted sheepishly.
“Music…” I said thoughtfully staring at the paper but not seeing it. “That sounds like something you could use.”
“Whaddya mean?” he asked suspiciously. “You’re not gonna tell anybody are you?”
“Have you ever tried writing your own songs?”
“Yeah, a couple of times, but I don’t think they’re any good.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I assured him dismissively. “Have you managed to memorize the Marines’ Hymn?”
“Sure that was easy.”
“Because it’s musical…that’s what you have to do…relate everything to music, or football, and I don’t think you’ll have any problem.”
“So you think if I wrote a song about the stuff I have to learn I could pass the test.”
“It’s worth a try,” I shrugged.
He grinned “So it’s more than just a vicious rumor, you are smart. I think we should vote you in as platoon guide.”
“You do and everyone will be asking the canary to sing pretty for them.”
“Don’t you want to be…?”
“No.”
“Okay then, no platoon guide,” he held up his hands in surrender. “Just don’t tell nobody…okay? I gotta go write some songs. Thanks,” he stuck out his hand but I ignored it.
“It hasn’t worked yet.”
“But it will. I gotta good feeling about this,” he stood there watching me for a few minutes then allowed his hand to drop muttering, “You’re some kinda weird.”
I didn’t answer him, keeping my eyes glued on the paper in front of me, and he shrugged and left.
So the bully really wasn’t much of a bully. My guess is that he would have been another Grady or Frankie but football saved him. Those two had no type of discipline in their lives, but Bruiser had and apparently, it made all the difference. I hope the song thing works for him. If it doesn’t, he isn’t going to be too pleased with me. Oh well, I’ve had worse.
With that out of the way, let’s get back to the fun stuff…the Courses. My only regret is that we don’t get to spend more time on them. The physical-ness of the whole thing really appeals to me. Everyone is good-natured about messing up and there is a lot of camaraderie, with yells of encouragement and quite a bit of laughter.
The Slide for Life is one of the more challenging parts of the Confidence Course and one of the DI’s even mentioned something about alligators sometimes taking up residence in the water underneath it, but most of the recruits dismissed that as simply a scare tactic even though no one is one-hundred percent certain that’s all it is and we all eye the water warily before beginning our descent.
I didn’t fall off the rope, but quite a few guys did, and no one got eaten so it was either the wrong season for alligators, it’s getting pretty chilly, or they were just testing us.
And speaking of the weather, I’m not sure whether to be glad or sad that it’s winter weather here. On one hand, the next couple of months are going to be brutally cold, but on the other…no sand fleas. I’ve heard those things are pretty nasty. Guess it’s a trade off and I should just be satisfied that I don’t have to deal with both of those things at the same time.
We’ve also been prepping w
ith our weapons getting ready to use live ammo and we had our first march carrying a pack. Even though it was only three miles, and that was enough to begin with, we heard that every week was going to be a longer march until we reached ten or fifteen miles…the rumors vary.
Next week we’ll be instructed in gas masks and be sent to the gas chamber, not as bad as it sounds I hope, where we will stay for three to five minutes performing some different types of exercises. They use CS gas, which is not supposed to kill us—it’s like a type of tear gas—and is frequently used to contain riots and things. I am trying to psych myself up so I don’t panic as I’ve never done anything like that before. There is a lot of nervous excitement in the air. I’ll let you know how it all works out.
Guess I’ll close for now. Don’t have anything else to say.
Jack
Nicky,
The gas chamber was…interesting.
We were all issued our masks and after a couple hours of classroom instruction, were deemed good to go.
I noticed one of the recruits, a tough, muscled Latino from the Bronx named Miguel Rodriguez hesitating the first time he put his mask on in the classroom and I watched him curiously as he closed his eyes and silently mouthed something that might have been a prayer as he quickly crossed himself.
As he opened them again, our eyes met and he practically snarled at me, deliberately pulling the mask over his face.
He was right behind the Bruiser in attempting to murder me with the pugil sticks, I’m fairly certain he’s a boxer from the way he moves, and I figured he didn’t appreciate me witnessing the only timidity I’d seen him demonstrate since we’d arrived at boot camp.
I wasn’t sure why the mask scared him, he must have worn protective head gear while sparring and he didn’t seem to have a problem with the football type helmet used with the pugil sticks, but once again I figured it wasn’t any of my business and shrugged it off.
Although Rodriguez was quicker and masked his moves better, the sheer size of the Bruiser was a force to be reckoned with and every time I countered him, blocking his moves, the power he exerted almost knocked me off my feet whereas Rodriquez, although strong, couldn’t have been much more than 5’10” and a hundred and sixty pounds. I was used to Shun so his size and quickness presented, while I won’t say ‘no problem for me’, at least not as much of a problem as the Bruiser.
Rodriguez was scowling in my general direction as we stood outside the small concrete structure, but I ignored him. We were running on nervous energy, the electricity in the air was palpable making it difficult to concentrate, and I wanted to be able to think straight.
The DI’s informed us that we could volunteer to remove our gas masks after the exercises in order to see who could last the longest if we had the guts, but tauntingly assured us that no one would think we were wimps if we chickened out, a sure-fire way of ensuring at least partial participation.
As we lined up to enter the building, Rodriguez moved himself deliberately in front of me so that I would enter behind him. The gas canister was sitting in the middle of the room and the masked DI issued instructions to us as we stepped into the building and moved single file until all of us were inside, backs to the wall, facing him.
He had us all bend at the waist and shake our heads from side to side to test our masks and then after straightening up we did about twenty jumping jacks. We all sounded a lot like Darth Vader, at least from the short amount of movie I had seen on the disastrous double date with Shun, and quite a few of the recruits were laughing and joking around as we did a couple more exercises.
We were the last batch of the day and there were about twenty of us in the fairly small and confined space. When the DI announced it was time to exit only five of us stayed; Rodriguez, The Bruiser, a tall, skinny Negro named Lebron Washington, a short sturdy white guy with bright red hair who everyone called Curly—I don’t think I’ve ever heard his real name—and me.
The DI explained that he would count down from five and then we would all remove our masks and hold them over our chests. If we wanted out all we had to do was walk towards the door and we would be allowed to leave, however if at anytime we put our mask back up to our face, we would be done.
As he counted down towards one, I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and yanked my mask off. Even with my eyes screwed tightly shut I could feel the burning, unlike anything I’d ever felt before. I’m not sure I could have opened them at that point even if I’d wanted to. I could feel them tearing up but was comforted by the knowledge I wouldn’t be the only one.
I held my breath as long as I could and then was forced to exhale and attempted to inhale. I immediately wished I hadn’t as the burning in my nose and throat was almost unbearable.
Through my body’s distress, my ears managed to pick up the sound of some of the other recruits exiting. I counted three deserters and knew there were only two of us left…Rodriguez and me.
I could hear what must have been the DI’s yelling something at us, but I couldn’t decipher what they were saying as I didn’t have enough brain power to spare…all of my concentration focused on surviving the moment.
Fighting the nausea rising up threatening to choke me, I was barely able to keep myself from heaving. The mucus running down the back of my throat was another matter. I could feel it adding to the sudden excess of saliva filling my mouth and I couldn’t control the spittle from spilling out between my lips.
Dizziness was about to overtake me when I sensed Rodriguez give up and head towards the door. I waited until I was sure he was outside and then staggered in the same general direction.
As I hit the fresh air, I doubled over, coughing and gasping for breath, unable to open my eyes or close my mouth. I felt like every bit of fluid in my body had found its way to my facial orifices and were streaming out with a will of their own.
Moving as far away from everyone else as I could stagger, I could hear the jeers and laughter from the other recruits and then Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Robert Hines was clapping me on the back congratulating me and telling me I had broken the record of a minute and a half…the longest minute and a half of my life.
One of the other DI’s barked at the recruits to line up and pull on their masks once more. I wondered what was happening as I wearily attempted to replace my mask.
“Not you, Knight,” Hines forestalled me “stay here.”
He left and I could hear him telling my four fellow competitors the same thing.
Curiously, I forced my eyes open and through the blurriness, I could make out the line of recruits going back into the building with their masks securely in place. After a couple of seconds they came bursting out of a door on the opposite side of the building mask-less and looking, I suspect, much as the five of us had just minutes earlier…poetic justice. If I could have smiled, I would have been grinning from ear to ear.
A few of them collapsed on the ground but the DI’s were hustling them up and forcing them to move.
As we watched the spectacle, Lebron hooted with laughter, yelling, “Serves ya right, Suckers!”
The other three joined in and even I felt a bit of amusement at the sight.
“Not bad, Knight,” Rodriguez admitted grudgingly “for a half-breed.”
“Not bad, Rodriguez,” I said in Spanish “for someone who fears the mask.”
The others were looking at me in puzzlement as I casually strolled off, the effects of the gas finally dissipated enough for me to appear somewhat back to normal.
Being mask-less in the gas chamber is not something I ever want to do again, but at least I know now that I can do it. I feel pretty good about that.
I kinda wondered how Rodriguez knew about my Native American blood, but I’m not going to let it bother me. My coloring, cheek bones, and even my nose could have given it away.
Unlike Haydar, I don’t care who knows about my heritage so it’s no big deal, although I dislike the term half-breed and I suspect he
knows it and that’s exactly why he used it. I could tell he didn’t like my reply any better, and that satisfied me.
Anything more I write about would be anti-climatic so I’ll just close on that note.
I wish you were here so I could share all of this with you, but maybe you’re getting my letters wherever you are. I hope so because then you’ll know I’m keeping my promise to be okay. Anyway, until next time…
Jack
Nicky,
Guess who? Yep, it’s me again.
We had Swim Qual this week and I made it through, although there were quite a few others who will have to suffer further training, a couple of them even up to a week of it, having no previous swimming experience.
Lebron Washington, one of the guys I mentioned in my last letter, was one of those. I could hear him cussing at the top of his lungs asking where a ‘dirt poor brother from the Hood’ was supposed to find enough water to learn how to swim.
Apparently, when the recruiter had mentioned he would have to demonstrate the ability to survive in an ‘aquatic environment’ Lebron hadn’t thought to ask what ‘aquatic’ meant.
For some reason I was required to undergo higher qualifications for my Swim Qual along with a few others, like Rodriguez, who were apparently in for specialized duties. No one explained why or what duties we were being prepped for and I didn’t ask.
DI’s tend to quarter-deck recruits who asked too many questions and that isn’t the way I prefer to spend my time. I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.
My absolute favorite part…heavy sarcasm…was the picture we were required to have. You know how I love pictures…yeah, right. We were given an open to the back, partial dress uniform that looked perfectly normal in the front from the waist up, but made me feel ridiculous. I’m sure the scowl on my face, captured forever on film, telegraphed my displeasure to the world.
I’d rather crawl through manure-filled mud pits face down in a squall under electrified wire with enemy gunfire whistling overhead than do that type of thing ever again.
Well…enough said.
My platoon picked the platoon guide this week and thankfully, I wasn’t chosen. I casually mentioned to Haydar and The Bruiser that I thought Rodriguez would make a good choice and suggested they pass that around hoping it would ease the tension between us somewhat. They took the hint. After his performance in the gas chamber as well as his obvious skill with the pugil stick and on the Courses, it didn’t take much for the rest of the platoon to agree and he was duly elected.
We’ve also been going through what they call Miller’s Combat, learning hand to hand and how to kill an enemy quickly, quietly, and efficiently.
I won’t go into any details for a couple of reasons: number one—I’m fairly certain it’s not something you would really want to know about in any detail and number two—I wouldn’t want to give away any Marine secrets if this letter should happen to fall into the wrong hands.
We had our first written test on Friday and Bruiser passed…barely but still…eighty percent is the basic requirement and he scored eighty-two on a fifty question multiple-choice test. I’ve avoided him the past few days and I think he finally got the hint and stopped trying to thank me. It’s not like I wrote the songs or anything, simply gave him the idea, so I wasn’t the one who deserved the credit.
For once, I didn’t deliberately miss any answers, my gut telling me that would be dishonest, and ended up with a perfect score. After my conversation with The Bruiser I realized that I too should be giving my all and doing the best I can, accepting nothing less, because that’s what it means to be a Marine. I want to be a Marine, more than I’ve ever wanted anything other than to have you and Mom and Dad back, which I know is impossible, and I plan to do whatever it takes to be worthy of that title.
Okay, that was deep; now on to less emotional matters.
Saturday we made the five-mile hike to the rifle range with the ALICE pack and it felt good.
Next week is Grass Week, whatever that means. I’ll explain it to you as soon as I know.
So I guess that’s it for now, except for the fact that I can tell I’ve gained some weight since I’ve been here, mostly in muscle and may have even grown an inch. Bulking up is a good thing, seeing as I was underweight for my height when I arrived, but since my pants feel shorter I may still qualify as underweight.
I hope when we have our follow up medical exam I don’t get taken off of double rations; I like the extra food.
Talk to ya next week.
Jack
Nicky,
Grass week is aptly named. We spent hours in the grass at the rifle range, weapons empty, learning the correct sitting, kneeling and prone positions as well as the basics of muscle relaxation, breathing, sight alignment and trigger pull, and stock weld. The weather is turning colder and some days it’s too cold to even feel our fingers, but the DI’s don’t allow excuses.
I think all the other recruits were feeling the same anticipation I was about finally getting to use our weapons. They’ve been our constant companions since the day they were issued to us, and the excitement was almost palpable.
As we practiced ‘snapping in’, which is basically getting into shooting position, the DI’s watched us like hawks, correcting even the slightest mistake for which we were grateful believe it or not as next week is ‘firing week’ where we actually begin firing our weapon in order to get ready for qualification day where we have to obtain a certain score in order to pass and we have to pass in order to become a Marine.
Okay, that was a mouthful.
Anyway, all that to say, we are glad for any help we can get.
Most of Saturday we practiced ‘snapping in’ and when I’m finished writing to you I’m going to try to drill some more. I’m determined to do well.
Ever since the gas chamber, Rodriguez has turned everything into a competition between the two of us and is becoming more and more frustrated that he can’t best me with the pugil sticks or hand to hand.
I could see by the speculative gleam in his eyes that he expects to beat me on the range and I have to admit, I’m just as firmly resolved that he won’t. I guess the competitive feeling between us is a good thing and may push both of us to do more than our best. I just hope it doesn’t get out of hand.
Sorry to cut my letter so short, but I’m anxious to get some more practice in. Hopefully, I’ll have good news for you next week.
Jack
Nicky,
I am pumped! I scored a perfect score on the rifle range!
Thursday, which was our pre-qual day, I did well, but missed a few bulls-eyes. Doggedly determined to do better the next day, I lay in my rack that night and pictured myself acquiring the target and hitting it over and over until I was literally doing it in my sleep as I drifted off…and it worked!
Rodriguez came in right behind me, second high, with an Expert score also, but he missed two during the rapid fire, hitting in the four-point range instead. He was ticked off and began muttering in Spanish until he noticed I was well within hearing range, obviously recalling that I could speak the language, and became suddenly mute.
The next day we had our ten-mile hike wearing the ALICE pack. We started out at the rifle range, that place is beginning to feel like home as much time as we’ve spent there over the past couple of weeks, and ended up back at the squad bay. I was ravenous by the time we made it to chow. Nothing unusual there, I’m always ravenous.
I do kinda miss junk food. We aren’t allowed to have any ‘pogey bait’ which is what they call it here, but at least I get plenty of chow. Some friends or family members have tried to send candy and cigarettes to a few of the recruits, but they are immediately confiscated. I suspect the DI’s end up with them.
I’m more than halfway through now and can almost taste victory.
Time to practice my Farsi, I’ve been too preoccupied with the rifle range to do anything with it the past two weeks, so I’ve got some cat
ching up to do.
Jack
Nicky,
Rodriguez is really starting to get on my nerves.
We spent the week divided up into small groups performing chores around the camp in order to foster small group leadership and teamwork and I was unfortunately assigned to work under Rodriguez.
Let me just say that Rodriguez is a sadistic old so and so, at least as far as I’m concerned, and I hope I never lay eyes on him again once I leave here.
The other recruits watched us with great interest, but I was on my best behavior—even though I wanted nothing more than to squash the cockroach—and performed my duties…dutifully.
I’d rather not relieve this past week, putting it in writing will serve no purpose other than to tick me off, so I’ll just quit while I’m not too far behind.
Jack
P.S. The Company Commander’s Inspection was this week and it went well.
Nicky,
What a great week! I really got the feel of what it was to be a Marine.
We learned how to rappel and practiced unknown distance firing. Then we had a movement course in urban training called MOUT where we learned to maneuver in and out of buildings as well as a combat endurance course in boots and utes where we navigated obstacles over a three-mile track.
We are getting ready to get out into the field and bivouac while we have mock battles and practice infiltration.
Graduation is so close I can taste it.
Sorry my letters are getting shorter. The DI’s aren’t on our case about writing home as much as they were in the beginning, although they are about everything else this week, telling us we got lazy while we were on our own with the work details. Quarter-decking has been rampant.
I’m also trying to get everything I can out of Haydar before we part ways.
The weeks have gone by faster than I expected after the rough start.
I don’t know if I’ll write again so just in case you can hear me I want you to know I think about you a lot and sharing my letters with you has made the whole ordeal of boot camp better in a lot of ways.
Thanks for that and thanks for making me promise to be ‘your superhero’. When I finally receive my eagle, globe, and anchor, I will truly be a superhero…a Marine…and I owe it all to you.
You were and always will be the best part of me. You can rest easy knowing I’m gonna be okay.
I know I was never actually able to say the words to you when you were alive, and I appreciate you realizing how hard it was for me and letting me get by with it, but I need to say it now.
I love you.
Your loving brother,
Jack
Nicky,
I thought I’d drop you one more note and let you know that Rodriguez and I came to a sort of armed truce…I know, very funny…while we bivouacked, simulated combat, and made it through the infiltration course.
Rodriguez and I were teamed up and had to work together to get through it all.
The live explosions were scary, but in a way I was glad we had a chance to get used to it at boot camp instead of in a combat situation the first time.
Anyway, we still don’t like each other much, but at least we are tolerating each other better.
Maybe we’ll end up at opposite ends of the earth.
That thought almost brings a smile to my face…almost.
I’ll be a Marine soon, thanks to you.
Jack
The Marines
1978
February-March
Done…finished…it was official. After the most arduously demanding thirteen weeks of my life I was no longer ‘this recruit’.
I was Private Jack Knight…Marine.
The pride that swelled within me was something I’d never experienced before, contrasting sharply with the rather empty feeling in my gut as I watched my fellow recruits…Marines…sharing the special moment with their families. I had no one. Granted it was my own fault for shoving Shun out of my life, but I took small comfort in the realization.
That, added to the fact that I had no idea where I was going after my short ten day leave, in fact I had no definite plans for my leave, while all the others already had their assignments for further training, had me gritting my teeth in frustration.
Little was ever explained to recruits and the DI’s had stonewalled my few queries. I suspected by the surprise I detected in their faces, although they managed to hide it quickly, that they were just as clueless as I was about my immediate future. That helped somewhat.
The fact that I was no longer a recruit but a Marine would make a difference. I was still low man on the totem pole, but as I was no longer a raw recruit, someone would have to find orders for me somewhere. I couldn’t stay at Parris indefinitely.
While I was standing, incongruously grim-faced amidst smiles and hugs, tears, and laughter, Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Robert Hines handed me a note. He shook my hand, congratulated me, and pivoted sharply away attempting to hide the question in his eyes. Puzzled, I stared after him until he disappeared from view and then, remembering the note in my hand, turned my full attention to it.
Report to the Company Commander’s office ASAP.
Although I had never set foot in the CC’s office, every recruit knew where it was. Normally, an invitation from Captain Clint Daley was something to be avoided at all costs, but it had to be about my immediate future.
Even with that realization in mind, I couldn’t stop the nervous churning in my gut as I plastered an impassive expression on my face and marched—marching was automatic after three solid months of drilling—towards the building.
No one was manning the outer office, but I could hear voices coming from behind Captain Daley’s closed door. Making up my mind quickly, I decisively rapped three times to announce my arrival. An authoritative voice from within commanded ‘Come’, and I firmly turned the knob, stepped into the room, and smartly closed the door behind me. Snapping to attention, I immediately focused on a spot directly in front of me careful to keep my face expressionless.
Although I kept my gaze straight ahead, I took everything in peripherally.
125Captain Daley stood next to his desk facing two other men, one of whom I recognized in astonishment, which I hid as well as I could, as General Allen McKie…he had been part of recruit required study during boot camp as the CMC who answered directly to the SecNav…and I was awestruck to say the least. That man was the highest-ranking Marine in the entire Corps and I was in the same room with him!
Subconsciously, I noted the third man, but his comparatively short stature, nondescript brown hair, along his white shirt, dark suit and tie as well as his sloppy posture seemed bland in contrast to the two impressive uniformed men so I kept my attention, if not my eyes, focused on the General.
“At ease Marine.”
General McKie’s nod was as curt as his words, but as I forced myself into the more relaxed stance, careful to keep my eyes forward as he moved to stand beside me, the swell of pride and honor in my chest at being addressed in that manner, especially by him, was almost overwhelming.
“Captain, if you’ll excuse us…” he continued without taking his eyes off me.
“Yes sir,” the captain saluted smartly and left his office.
As I struggled to remain impassive under the General’s intense scrutiny, I could feel his eyes taking in every minute detail of my appearance.
The other man moved around him and stood before me, barely topping my shoulders in height. His examination was insignificant. I remained focused on the General.
“Well he certainly looks impressive,” the man admitted reluctantly.
“He’s a Marine,” General McKie stated with dignity as if that alone should have impressed the man.
I was in complete agreement.
“Yeah, yeah I know all about your precious Marines,” the man said dismissively “but I’m looking for a standout…the best of what you obviously think is already the best
.”
“Expert on the rifle range, perfect scores on the written tests,” the General replied still watching me carefully “no one could touch him with the pugil stick—not even the DI’s—and excelled in Miller’s Combat as well.”
“All without having faced an enemy,” the man noted contemptuously. “The other men are all seasoned veterans. He’d be a liability.”
“I guarantee he’d have you dead in a split second if I gave the order, no hesitation and no noise, all with his bare hands.”
I could have sworn I glimpsed the ghost of a grin on the General’s face as he contemplated that scenario, but it disappeared so quickly and completely that I couldn’t be certain I hadn’t imagined it.
“He does have some unique qualifications,” the man shrugged but didn’t elaborate.
“You find any Marine better suited to your…particular needs…and I’ll buy you a steak dinner, Garrett…or better yet…Chinese, since that seems to be your mainstay,” General McKie offered calmly.
“That is tempting but I have a time issue,” the man frowned. “I read his records and sure…I’ll admit…he looks good on paper, topping out on everything, but he wasn’t even a squad leader and apparently that kept him from making PFC. I’m looking for men with initiative and leadership ability.”
“Marine,” the General addressed me abruptly “what excuse do you have for not being chosen for any leadership role?”
“Unpopular, Sir!”
McKie chuckled and looked directly at the man he had addressed as Garrett for the first time since I’d entered the room.
“And there you have it,” he said complacently “another characteristic all of the Marines you’ve…borrowed…seemed to have in common. Need we look any further?”
“No,” Garrett grudgingly agreed, “I’ll take him and we’ll see if he makes the cut.”
“Not so fast,” McKie turned back to me. “So Private Jack Knight, Mr. Garrett here has requested the use of some Marines in a special operation that the CIA is running somewhere in South America. I can’t give you any details unless you agree to go and as he so succinctly put it ‘make the cut’, and even then the details will be sketchy, but I can tell you that it is highly dangerous and strictly voluntary. If you should choose not to accept the assignment or get booted out you will be sent for further training just as all of your fellow graduates will be, continuing on the same course as the rest of them. If, however, you decide to join this special operation you will leave immediately for an undisclosed location to undergo a different type of training and evaluation. You may ask questions, but I might not be able to answer them.”
“Will I still be a Marine, Sir?” I asked in the same manner I’d been trained to over the past thirteen weeks, minus the third person pronoun.
“Son, you will always be a Marine,” he assured me decisively “and you will be under my command as long as you’re on active duty, but Mr. Garrett will be…calling the shots, so to speak…during the time you are on this mission.”
“Do I obey him without question, Sir?”
There was a pause as McKie eyed me thoughtfully.
“Mr. Garrett,” McKie began in a low, controlled, carefully polite voice “please step outside for a moment.”
Garrett’s eyes narrowed as he took in the resolute look on McKie’s face. I could tell he wanted to say something, but was…while not afraid exactly…obviously uncertain whether or not to risk it.
In the end he settled for slamming the door behind him in order to make his displeasure felt.
“You are the only Marine that has asked that particular question,” McKie noted quietly. “Why?”
I remained silent, unwilling to voice an opinion which could get me kicked out of the corps before I’d even started while at the same time realizing that failure to answer a direct question could accomplish the same thing, cursing the rock and hard place I was crouched in between.
“You know,” he continued conversationally “when I ask a question it’s usually because I want to know the answer. Oh, and if I were you, I’d drop the standard ‘Marine voice’ as I’m one hundred percent certain Garrett has his pointy little ear pressed to the keyhole and I’m just as certain that he won’t like what I suspect your answer is going to be.”
“Permission to speak freely, Sir?” I asked imitating his lowered tone.
“Permission granted, Marine.”
“Without fear of…repercussions, Sir?”
“There will be no repercussions,” he assured me tranquilly.
“This Marine does not trust Mr. Garrett, Sir.”
I reverted back to third person, unable to voice the ‘I’ for some odd reason, keeping my voice as inaudible as possible.
“Between you, me, and the wall…this General does not trust Mr. Garrett either, Marine,” McKie replied humorously then continued soberly “I believe that is a prerequisite for a CIA agent. However, I do trust my Marines, and to answer your question, if push comes to shove, you follow the Creed and never forget who you are and what you represent. That is an order and it supersedes any other order you have been or will be receiving barring one directly from the SecNav or the President. Do you understand, Marine?”
“Sir, yes Sir!”
“Any further questions…?”
“What story do I give the others, Sir?”
“No need to worry about that. You leave immediately. Your gear will meet you at the chopper.”
He waited while I digested that piece of information then continued.
“So, does Mr. Garrett have his volunteer?”
“Sir, yes Sir!”
“I suspected as much,” he replied heavily as he moved towards the door. “Well, let’s not keep the man in suspense; I’m sure his ear is quite painfully sore by now.”