Читать книгу Through All the Plain - Benjamin John Peters - Страница 8

1. Beelzebub

I’m not a natural killer; I’m a trained killer. I sat on a school bus at the San Diego airport. The seats were synthetic leather and crackled with shifting movement. The bus, filled with thirty young men dressed as civilians, was weighted in silence. We were Asians, blacks, whites, and Latinos. We were different, but united—we were not elite. We were workers, simpletons, recovering addicts, lawbreakers, and patriots. We were college dropouts. We were ordinary.

Light from a street lamp spilled through the windows. A recorded woman’s voice ran on a loop through a speaker, “Please do not leave your luggage unattended.” It was both firm and motherly. It made me anxious. I would have closed my eyes, but they’d told us to stay awake and sit up straight, head forward. I was too nervous to let my mind wander. I was twenty-one, a college dropout, and on my way to Marine Corps Recruit Training. Jet airliners had crashed into New York, and it was my duty to respond. Well, that, and I wanted to pay off credit card debt. What the hell, I thought, I’ll join the reserves and make some money. It’s only eight years of my life. I won’t see combat. I probably won’t even be deployed.

I felt a nudge from the guy sitting next to me. “Hey, what’s your name?” he whispered.

“I’m Benjamin.”

“Right,” he stared at me like a lost cause. “My recruiter told me to address the other recruits by their last names. So best get started. What’s your name?”

“Uh, Peters.”

“Yep, I’m here to kill sandniggers. How ‘bout you?”

I fumbled for a response.

“C’mon on now, how ‘bout it? Why you here?”

“I don’t know, not really sure. I guess it’s ’cause I want to defend my country.”

“Yeah, all that shit, too.” He turned his head forward, bored with me.

It wasn’t long before we saw a campaign hat, also known as a Smokey the Bear hat, bobbing towards us. An angry man with a shiny shave and a closely cropped haircut boarded the bus. There was no turning back.

“All right, shitbirds, whose got my files?”

At the San Diego USO, both our personal and medical data had been collected and assigned to an unwitting recruit. He was from Canada—not that any of us knew. But, later, it was strange to learn that a non-American had enlisted in the United States Marine Corps.

“Me, sir,” the Canadian said.

“What the hell! Do I look like your father? No, goddammit,” he screamed, answering his own question. “I’m enlisted. From now on, you will refer to me as such. You will,” he pitched his voice to include us, “refer to me as, Drill Instructor. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir . . . I mean, Drill Instructor.”

“Give me that shit.” He held out his hand.

I was aware this had gone too far and wanted off the bus. The Canadian, stiff and glistening, handed over the goods.

After taking one look, the Drill Instructor—DI for short—threw the stack of folders down the length of the bus. “Pick ’em up recruit and they’d better be organized by the time we get to the depot.” The DI stalked to the front of the bus and sat. “Move out.”

The bus driver turned the ignition.

Wait, can’t we talk this through?

The bus pulled away from the curb and towards our training.

It was a dark ride through San Diego before we arrived at the Recruit Depot.

‡ ‡ ‡

On September 11, 2001, I was living in Denver and working as a mattress salesman. I had left the ivy-laden bricks of higher education for the high-pressured world of commission sales. There was a problem, however. I was a terrible salesman. “Hi, welcome to The Mattress Company,” I would recite. “Nice weather outside. Would you like to get in bed with me?”

My boss would call me into her office every Monday to discuss my goals, numbers, and ambitions. I didn’t have any, nor did I want any. I was a twenty-year-old dropout. To me, it was simple: I needed the money.

One fall morning, instead of calling me into her fluorescent-whitewashed office, my boss, Elaine, was nervously pacing. She was distraught. “I say kill ’em, that’s what I think. I can’t believe it. When I was in the Navy—” she stopped.

I nodded my head and smiled. She regularly told tales of her time in the Navy, and I often feigned awareness. I was daydreaming about snowboarding.

“Are you listening to me?”

“What? Yeah! The Navy, right?”

“Go in back and turn on the television,” she commanded.

Cool. “Okay,” I said.

I turned on the television.

Smoke.

People running.

New York.

I was confused.

Was it an attack, an accident? Why would anybody do this? Well, a strong response is necessary. They started it.

When my roommate came home that night I told him I had a plan. We would join the United States Marine Corps—they were the best—and would defend our country. It was our duty, our responsibility. We would enlist together.

He said that he thought it was a great idea.

The next morning we drove to the recruiter’s office, signed our papers, and joined the Marine Corps’ “Buddy Program,” which promised us a place in the same platoon throughout Recruit Training. We would live together, train together, and become Marines together.

Two months later I found myself on a bus with thirty-odd new recruits and one terrifying drill instructor, winding through the gray and empty streets of San Diego.

‡ ‡ ‡

Both patriotism and a heroic ideal had driven me to enlist: young men and women have a responsibility to defend their country in its greatest time of need. This was true. But it was also true that, a year before enlisting, I’d been “born again.” I was a new Christian, crisp but crude, struggling with a novel paradigm. The beliefs and practices of the church, in many ways, were as foreign to me as those of the United States Marine Corps. As our bus pulled into San Diego’s Recruit Depot, I had one last civilian thought: Jesus said to love your enemies. Why the hell hadn’t I thought of that before?

“Get off my fucking bus, Recruits,” a burly DI resembling Ambule yelled. He was covered with tattoos: lots and lots of tattoos. As I shuffled past him to my appointed place on the yellow footprints—perfectly aligned ranks-and-files used in teaching Close Order Drill—I noticed one rather exquisite tattoo: a dancing mermaid sexing an M-16.

This is unbelievable.

“All right, Recruits, get on my footprints.”

We scrambled to do what Ambule said. I was lucky. I arrived first. The Canadian, juggling our files, was several steps behind.

“What the hell, Recruit? Are you trying to piss me off?”

“No, sir . . . Drill Instructor.”

Ambule stalked over to the Canadian, punched him in the stomach, and left him to consider his various misdeeds.

Oh shit.

He turned to us.

“You are now property of the Unites States Government. You will not eat, drink, or shit without the government’s approval. That means me, Recruits. I will tell you when and how to breathe.” At this, one of the recruits standing next to me chuckled. It was a poor decision.

“What the hell! Who the fuck laughed?”

Unbeknownst to us, another DI had crept up while we were standing in formation. “Shit, Drill Instructor Ambule, can’t keep your recruits in check?” The new DI made his way around to the front of the formation. He was wiry and sported a shaved head. He was evil incarnate. His name was Drill Instructor Beelzebub.

“Some recruit laughed. Can you believe that Sergeant Beelzebub?”

“I’m on it.”

“All yours.” Ambule was smiling.

Beelzebub sauntered over. “It sounded like it came from over here.” He contemplated me. “Was it you, Recruit?”

Silence.

“It’s okay, Recruit, you can tell me. Was it you?” His teeth were tobacco-stained.

“No, Drill Instructor.”

“Hell, it was somebody. Can’t you tell me who, Recruit?”

In Recruit Training it’s commonplace to betray fellow recruits. I should have sold out the recruit who laughed. But I didn’t. “I have no idea, Drill Instructor.”

“Oh, you have no idea do you? Well fuck, I say it was you . . . unless you want to tell me different?”

Groaning, the Canadian stirred in front of the formation.

That was the last thing I remember clearly about my first week as a recruit. The next few days were a blur. They shaved my hair, issued my recruit gear, and taught us how to make a military bed. This phase lasted seven days. It was an introduction. They called it “Intake.” The day we dreaded was fast approaching, however. Our DIs referred to it as “Black Sunday,” the day that we’d be introduced to our platoon Drill Instructors and begin our training in earnest. It couldn’t be worse than what we’ve already survived. I was naïve, an idiot. Black Sunday was hell.

2. Bravo Company

Our platoon leader was named Staff Sergeant Nygo. I still don’t know how you pronounce it. Beelzebub was there as well. He was one of Nygo’s cronies, always prowling about, pointing his finger at us and yelling. He’s what you would call an Enforcer. When one of us screwed up, Beelzebub was the man who disciplined us. It was a “good DI, bad DI” routine. We would screw up, Beelzebub would “slay” us, and SSG. Nygo would “comfort” us. “Slaying” or “quarter-decking” are the terms DIs employ in lieu of hazing. It amounts to the same thing, however. “Mountain climbers,” Beelzebub would say. We would start pumping our feet. This would continue for five or six minutes. “Push ups!” We would switch exercises. Five minutes later Beelzebub would scream the next exercise. And on it went—he could be creative.

Throughout the quarter-decking process, Beelzebub would thrust his nose against a recruit and shout obscenities: “You’re dog shit on Sunday, Recruit,” or “Your father hates you and your mother’s a whore,” or “Dumbass! I bet you were adopted. Nobody loves you, Peters.” Or, if he was feeling particularly malicious, he would creep up to my ear and whisper, “Why did you join the Marine Corps, Recruit Peters? You don’t have what it takes. You’ll never graduate. I hate you and your fellow recruits hate you. It’d be easier if you died.”

He did this to me. He did this to everyone. And what could we do? As for me, I would pump my legs, listen to Beelzebub spew his motivations, and try to forget myself.

There were other DIs. There were always other DIs. All told, there were usually four or so Drill Instructors running about minding the seventy-five recruits in my platoon. With as many of us as there were, you would think we would have tried to break the rules. To the contrary, our Drill Instructors were magicians. They saw all. At night, we might be sitting in front of our racks cleaning our M-16s. It would be quiet except for the sound of clinking rifle bolts. Across from me, a recruit might lean over and whisper to another recruit: “Hey, what do you think we’re doing tomorrow?” Before his bunkmate could answer, Beelzebub would materialize. “You wanna talk, Recruits? You still have energy, is that it?” The recruits would shake their heads. “Bullshit,” Beelzebub would say, “quarter deck, now!” It was a science. Beelzebub and his ilk knew exactly what they were doing. They knew when to back off and when to come down hard. They were training us for warfare and, like war, they were unforgiving.

A great secret of the Marine Corps is it’s nothing like the commercials. On television, all of the Marines are chiseled men wielding flaming swords. In real life, Marines are people like you and me. They wheeze when they run, smoke cigarettes, cuss like a drunken aunt at Easter, and generally aren’t very trustworthy. Most of them, as least during Recruit Training, would as soon as steal your stuff as watch your back. We had all kinds. The Canadians—I use the plural because, as it turned out, not only were there two but they were twins—were skinny, tall, and looked like rats when they smiled. They made me a bit uneasy. But my platoon also counted blacks, Asians, Latinos, and whites among its rank. Some of the new recruits could not, and I mean this literally, could not speak a word of English. We had skinny recruits, fat recruits, stupid recruits, and well . . . more stupid recruits. Let’s be honest: the enlisted Marine Corps isn’t drawn from the intellectually endowed segments of our society.

When we were finally situated with Senior Drill Instructor SSG Nygo, our DIs assessed each recruit, chose the best from among us, and divvied up the choice jobs: Guide, Squad Leader, and Scribe. The Scribe is a platoon’s bookkeeper. He keeps tabs on gear (how much we had and who was using it), on Physical Training scores (each recruit’s time in the three-mile run), and mail (he receives it and hands it out). The Squad Leader was responsible for all of the members who comprised his squad. He answered to the Guide, and the Guide answered to the DIs. The Guide is the leader of the platoon. He is supposed to be the fittest, smartest, and best-looking Marine in the bunch. The Guide marches in front of his platoon, carries his platoon’s guidon, and, eventually, competes with the other Guides in a Depot-wide Guide competition. The Guide, as our leader, was required to sleep in the middle of the barracks and answer for the platoon, both good and bad. When something went wrong, it was his fault. When we did something well, however, it was due to his leadership. For his trouble, the Guide would graduate Recruit Training as a Lance Corporal. The rest of us would graduate as lowly Private First Classes.

Early on, for no reason that I am aware, they selected me as the Guide.

“Recruit Peters,” Beelzebub shouted, “get your ass over here.”

“Yes, Drill Instructor.” I ran.

“Grab your shit and move it to the Guide’s bed, you just got promoted.”

“Yes, Drill Instructor.”

I had no intention of moving my stuff. I made a show of obeying Beelzebub’s instructions, but didn’t follow through. The Guide was quarter-decked more than anyone else. He was to be an example. When things went wrong, the Guide was singled out and mercilessly slayed. I wasn’t that ambitious. To be the Guide, a recruit had to want it. The Guide was someone who would sell his soul for the Marine Corps. The Guide couldn’t fake it. I intended to slide through Recruit Training without becoming totally brainwashed. But if I became the Guide I would be fully assimilated. The Guide had to become a mini-Beelzebub. In many ways, the Guide was our platoon’s Faustian craving of what Beelzebub had to offer: mortal sacrifice in exchange for earthly power. Let some other poor recruit get his ass kicked.

Dawn came. The Guide’s bed was empty.

“What the hell? Where the fuck is my Guide? Peters!” yelled SSG Nygo. “Did Beelzebub not tell you to take the Guide’s position?”

Shit. “Yes, Senior Drill Instructor.”

“Why the hell are you not moved then, Recruit?”

Play dumb. That might work. “Was I supposed to move in right away, Drill Instructor? I thought—”

“What the . . . you thought, who the hell told you to do that?”

“Well—”

“Shut-up Recruit, you’re not my Guide, you’re a flower. Beelzebub,” he called, “take this recruit to the quarter-deck and kill ‘em.”

What Beelzebub did to me was bad. It was really bad. But I only experienced it one time. The recruit who eventually became our Guide was killed every day.

Our Scribe, on the other hand, was of the Recruit Intelligentsia. He was a University of Chicago dropout who wore military-issued black-rimmed glasses. His name was Recruit Hernandez. He was the administrative nuts-and-bolts of our platoon and, because of his unique position—he did most of the work our DIs should’ve been doing—he wasn’t quarter-decked that often. I envied the role of Scribe, but I preferred my role as a Platoon Wallflower. Blend in and they won’t notice you. If they don’t notice you, then they can’t kill you.

At Recruit Training, each platoon is broken down into four squads of about fifteen to twenty people. A Squad Leader is in charge of the recruits who comprise his squad. The Squad Leader gets slayed for the mistakes made by his platoon. Like the Guide, the job of Squad Leader is for ambitious Marines, and so went to those aspiring young recruits who were vying for the Guide’s position. The buddy I enlisted with—my former roommate, Recruit McDougal—was a Squad Leader, and I didn’t envy him. He embraced that role; he sought the challenge. Whereas the Marine Corps was a shock to my system, for Recruit McDougal it was a blessed break from the monotony of college. We were still friends, familiar faces in a barrack full of cogs, but our relationship had changed. He was a leader; I was his follower.

I had no desire to be the Guide, the Scribe, or a Squad Leader. Both the Guide and the Squad Leaders were singled out too much for my taste, and the Scribe had too many extra responsibilities. Recruit Training was hard enough as it was. My experiences during Recruit Training revealed aspects of my personality I’d never before acknowledged. I discovered I didn’t want responsibility for another’s success. More to the point, I didn’t want to be accountable for another’s mistakes or weaknesses. I was scared of too much attention. I was scared of what it would do to me, of who it might make me, which was strange, because at twenty, I didn’t know who I was. I only knew that, in a sense, the Marine Corps was stealing my opportunity for self-realization, injecting fragments into a plastic casting. But I didn’t want somebody else’s mold. I wanted to find my own path to wholeness, not a prescribed identity found in the Corps’ green book of recruit knowledge.

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, lectured, and wrote (not necessarily in that order). My mind would wander for hours as I created elaborate realities for my future self. I would marry, have kids, and teach. In another daydream, I would take my Marine Corps training and work for some private intelligence firm—like James Bond, but better. In yet another, I would finish college before continuing to a PhD program. I would be a scholar, a man of intelligence. I would—

“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, or Marines would die. He was changing us. He was teaching us to function in high stress environments, to remain calm under fire, and kill the enemy without question. Beelzebub embodied the Marine Corps’ slogan, “Pray for War.” He wanted us to embody it as well.

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, are you? You’re a reservist. Even if I hadn’t seen your file, I can smell it on you. You reek of it.”

“Of what, Drill Instructor?”

“Half-ass bullshit. You’re not in this, not really. You think you’ve an escape.” Beelzebub looked down at his desk. “Dismissed, Recruit.”

I stood at attention, saluted, about faced, and went back to mopping. I didn’t dwell on it; in the morning they were bussing us to Camp Pendleton. Six more weeks. I can do anything for six weeks.

interlude

“How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

Trent smiled, fatherly. “We both know that isn’t true.”

I chewed my cheek.

“I’ll tell you what,” he sighed. “Why don’t you start somewhere easy. Tell me about your return from Iraq.”

I can do that.

“I remember peering up this flight of stairs at DIA. I had flown in from California. I didn’t know what to expect. When I landed in California, the active duty Marines were greeted by coworkers, family, and friends. I was a reservist, and so I awkwardly fumbled through the crowds, seeking a bus to take me to base. I didn’t know anyone, and no one knew me.” I breathed. “For two weeks, I waited in California. I ran and read. I had nowhere to go. It was a strange feeling, after months of accountability. I was free, but it was a useless freedom. I didn’t know how to spend it.”

“Why was that strange?” Trent interrupted.

“I don’t know. I guess . . . I was like an institutionalized prisoner freed from incarceration. There’s both fear and a looming question: What next?”

“Hmm,” he grunted. “Go on.”

“The days were long, waiting for Denver.”

“Is that where you’re from?”

“No, my family’s in Portland. I grew up in the Northwest.”

“Why didn’t you visit your family?”

“As a reserve I had to demobilize at Camp Pendleton first and then return to my reserve unit in Denver. It’s a paperwork thing. I had to wrap up my deployment before I could visit my family.”

“I see.”

“Hours before, I remember thinking: I’d been wrapped in a sleeping bag, stuck in a combat zone. And now, here I was, comfortably tucked into a safe bed. I was in the United States, you know? But I had to constantly remind myself of that. I couldn’t sleep. I expected mortars in the distance and nearby howitzers exploding into action. I expected to wake at seventeen hundred hours and row on a rickety machine in the middle of Ramadi. I expected war and death—and adrenaline. But my expectations were stupid. It probably wouldn’t have been so extreme, except that . . . I was home, right? But I was alone. Most of the Marines in my reserve unit were still in Iraq or on their way home. And somewhere along the way, on the active duty side, I’d been lost in the shuffle. To them, I was already a civilian.”

“At the risk of sounding like a counselor,” Trent broke in, “how did that make you feel?”

“Life lost its luster. For me, the war was over. My living moment of history had passed. I’d thought that I would embrace my return. But I didn’t. After war, everything else was bland. I felt empty, I guess.” My last words hung in the air.

Trent waited for me to finish.

“And there I was,” I said, circling back, “staring at a flight of stairs in the Denver airport. I didn’t know what I’d find on the other end. Family? Friends? Reservists? Would there be waving flags and patriotic bands? Or would I be an anonymous face in a bustling airport? I don’t know why that image sticks in my mind—those longs steps stretching up into the distance. Or why it’s so important. I took a step, then another, and finally crested the top of the stairwell. The foyer was empty. It was after midnight. No one was there. I fought in our war and there I was, home and alone.”

“And what did you do?”

“Found a shuttle. Lugged my seabag to the front of the airport. Rode through a dark and snowy Denver.”

Trent was filling his notebook. “And where did you go?”

“To a hotel near Buckley, where I’m stationed.”

“I see. And?”

“The following morning I contacted my reserve unit’s gunnery sergeant, Gunny Bravo. He picked me up and drove me to Buckley. Before deployment, I’d been allowed to store my truck on base. There was an exchange of papers. Gunny handed me the keys to my truck. He told me to take the rest of the week off, relax, and report back the following Monday. I’d have to keep living like a Marine for another few months, he’d said, until my orders officially ended.”

“And you wanted out?”

“I didn’t know what I wanted. I knew I would be starting seminary in the fall. Other than that?” I stopped. “At the hotel, I remember dumping out my seabag and looking around the room. It was sparse. A queen-sized bed, a desk . . . a box television. I only had a few civilian clothes; three or four books; a laptop. That was my life. I remember thinking how small it was. I crawled into bed and slept.”

Trent glanced at his watch. “I think that’s all we have time for today. Can we do next week? The same time?”

“Yeah, that’d be great.”

9. Weapons of Opportunity

During our myriad training sessions it was customary to respond to our instructor by screaming, “kill!” This was most common throughout our painful MCMAP lessons. Each recruit would face a partner while our instructor sagely discussed weapons of opportunity. A weapon of opportunity, we learned, was anything that could kill or maim an opponent, or anything that might provide a fighter with an advantage. In the Marine Corps, in war, he told us, there was no such thing as a fair fight. When the fight was over, you needed to make sure you were the one standing. “So,” he said, “I want your partner to start choking you, kill?”

“Kill!”

“Then I want you to break the choke hold using the MCMAP techniques that I’ve taught you, kill?”

“Kill!”

“Then, after you’ve broken the choke hold, kill?”

“Kill!”

“I want you to grab a weapon of opportunity and break your opponent’s skull, kill?”

“Kill!”

“Alright, recruits, kill!”

And we would begin.

At times, a scratching whisper would break through my subconscious, posing questions of rebellion. I would see the recruit in front me. See him as my enemy, my responsibility. I would then envision his head crumpled and rotting at my feet. I had to do this. It had to consume me. There could be nothing else. Only the dead. If I waivered, then it would be me lying at his feet.

“Kill!”

They also taught us, as our Drill Instructors phrased it, “to put a bullet in Habib’s head.” Of course, my ability to place a bullet in one of Habib’s eyes from five-hundred yards was not an inborn skill. It was a learned skill. During our seventh and eighth weeks at Recruit Training, we were schooled in the art of the long-distance snipe: “One shot, one kill.” In week seven, we learned how to take apart a rifle, thoroughly clean it, put it back together, and perform a function check. We also learned the science of windage knobs, trajectory, sighting, breathing, and locking-in. The latter was the exercise of switching between the prone, kneeling, and standing positions while aiming our weapons at a 50-gallon barrel and dry firing. As the sun set behind Camp Pendleton and the cars on interstate five sped by, we honed our skills.

I-5. I sighted in my M-16. One thousand miles to the north is home. I had lived in Denver such a short time that I still associated the Northwest with home. The rifle clicked as I squeezed the trigger. I wonder what Dad’s doing? There was a lot of divorce in my family, and, as such, the childhood memories of my father were few. I didn’t really meet him until I was fourteen. Before that, he was a vague presence two thousand miles away. He lived in Dallas and I had lived with my mother in Portland, Oregon. Before my freshman year of high school, he moved to the Northwest. I moved in with him. We had done our best to rectify a lost relationship, but he traveled for work and I was an egocentric football player. I joined the Marine Corps feeling the weight of national responsibility, but with an eye on clarifying my father’s ambiguity. I knew he was proud of the decision I had made. And his pride was my pride. It was my father who I was thinking of as I pulled the bolt back, breathed, and paused. I bet he’s watching TV. Click.

“What the fuck?” Beelzebub roared. “What are you doing, Recruit?”

One of the Canadian twins stood. “Nothing, Drill Instructor. Locking in, Drill Instructor.”

“Bullshit, Recruit. What Squad are you in?”

“One, Drill Instructor.”

“Oh shit. Recruit McDougal, get your ass over here.” My old roommate jogged towards Beelzebub and stood at attention.

“Recruit McDougal reporting as ordered, Drill Instructor.”

“Do you know, Squad Leader, that one of your Recruits was sucking down a donut when he was supposed to be locking in his weapon?”

“No, Drill Instructor.”

Beelzebub smiled. “Follow me, Recruit.” Beelzebub grabbed a scrub brush and forced McDougal to push it around the concrete perimeter of camp. Recruit McDougal’s ass was handed to him because he had failed to police his own. It lasted for some two or three hours. When I saw McDougal later that night, I thought he was dying. I tried to catch his eye, but to no avail. He was spent.

A week later my platoon mustered outside of our barracks. It was five in the morning. Beelzebub formed us, left-faced us, and rhetorically sought to motivate us. We were to test at the rifle range. Those of us who passed with a score of two-twenty or better would move on with their training; those of us who failed would drop. We all wanted to pass, if for no other reason than because we didn’t want to prolong our training. No one wanted to face defeat.

“Today you will test your skill in shooting,” Beelzebub started. “Your score, and the score of your platoon, is a direct reflection of me. If you fail, I will kill you. Do not fail. Remember, your weapon is your bride. Love her, care for her, and she will please you. Do not, I repeat, do not embarrass me. Right—face—move—out. Left—left—left—right—left.”

If you’ve never heard a DI march his platoon, then you might hear Beelzebub’s commands as either crass or harsh. A good Drill Instructor, however, doesn’t bark his marching orders, he sings them. And a really good DI doesn’t just sing his commands, he caresses them.

Like a sonnet in the hands of Shakespeare, Beelzebub marched us from our barracks to the range.

Seven recruits failed that day. We never saw them again. Though we never found out what actually happened, it was rumored they re-tested and picked up with a platoon a few weeks behind us in their training. I imagined them returning home broken, humiliated, feeling like failures. Or, at least that is what Beelzebub wanted us to imagine. As for me, I passed with a two-forty-eight. There are three levels of Marine Corps shooting: marksman, sharpshooter, and expert. With my score, I was an expert. In the prone position at five hundred yards, I could shoot your temple.

To reward us for our good shooting, Beelzebub took us Island Hopping. In World War II the Marine Corps was assigned to the Pacific Theater. The Marine Corps, consequently, “hopped” from island to island in an effort to push the Japanese back. Later, Marine Corps Drill Instructors appropriated the name, Island Hopping, in an effort to teach wide-eyed recruits Marine Corps history. DIs would take their platoon from one PT pit—a sand trap the size of a basketball court—to another, slaying the platoon all the while. There are somewhere between twenty and forty Island Hopping pits on Camp Pendleton. In celebration of our shooting acumen, Beelzebub took us to every Island Hopping pit in the Camp. He called this our Island Hopping Tour. By the end of the day, I was both delirious and an expert shooter. I could shoot from five hundred yards or thirty: lying down, sitting, or standing. I could do this while running with a donned gas mask. I could do this in a driving wind. Those of us left in our platoon had succeeded, of course. But Beelzebub was punishing us for those who had failed. For, as he reasoned: platoons either lived together or died.

10. If Shit

My last hurdle in becoming a Marine was called the Crucible. The Crucible is a fifty-four-hour combat scenario. In the Crucible, DIs push recruits to their limits. It is a test of endurance, teamwork, and combat skills. This scenario includes obstacle courses, day and nighttime marches, night infiltration movements, combat resupply scenarios, and casualty evacuations—all on minimal food and sleep. During the Crucible, I was put in charge of a small platoon of recruits. It was my job to ensure they all passed. One recruit continually held us back, however. His name was Recruit Bane. He cried, dragged his feet, refused to train, and bitched. At one point during a ten-mile nighttime march, Recruit Bane fell behind. Drill Instructor Beelzebub stalked over to me. “Recruit, what do you plan on doing with Recruit Bane?”

“Leave him.”

“Fuck that, Recruit. We don’t leave shit behind, even if it is shit. You do whatever it takes to get Recruit Bane through the Crucible. You hear me? Whatever—it—takes.”

I’d never hit a human. But I hit Bane, as hard as I could. I hit him, grabbed him by the collar, and dragged his ass to the front of the column.

Who the fuck just did that?

I was near the end of my training, and I no longer recognized myself. Bane was not human in my eyes; he was part of a larger machine, a machine that had no margin of error. He was a broken cog I needed to fix. I was callous and unsympathetic. I wanted to be the best. I wanted to serve my country and defend freedom. I wanted to impress the Devil.

The Crucible’s final trial was a grinding hump up a vertical beast called the Reaper. It was during this hike up the Reaper—early in the morning—that Sergeant Beelzebub crept up behind me.

“Recruit.”

“Yes, Drill Instructor?”

“Do you disagree with my leadership style?”

I was befuddled. I had no idea how to answer this question. I assumed this was fallout from the Recruit Bane situation, but never had a DI been so straightforward with me. I was afraid of any repercussions that would come from speaking my mind.

“I asked you a question, Recruit.”

“Yes, Drill Instructor,” I said. “I might. A Marine should be motivated by respect, not fear.”

“Really? Is that so?”

We were both breathing hard as we continued to pass through the sagebrush that lined the Reaper.

“You think Recruit Bane would have finished the Crucible if you hadn’t feared him into it?”

“I don’t know, Drill Instructor.” I stared, head down, lest I should look Beelzebub directly in the eyes. “But, fundamentally, I have to believe a Marine who truly admires and respects his commander is more apt to follow him in a charge than the Marine who fears his commander.”

“Hell, Peters, that’s crazy talk. These recruits are birds, lost pigeons floating in life. They have no structure, no discipline, and they sure as hell don’t have any fitness. We have a job to do here, and respect ain’t gonna cut it. What’s needed is fear. What’s needed is dehumanization. You have to strip a man down—humiliate him—before you can begin the process of rebuilding ’em.” He paused, looked up the mountain, and continued. “You have the makings of a good non-commissioned officer, Peters, but remember this: nothing motivates like fear. When you’re in Afghanistan and some hajji is staring you down, it’s not about hearts and minds recruit, it’s about bullets in bodies. If one of your Marines ain’t up to the task, well then, there’s only one way to make ’em up to it. Scare the shit out of him.”

“Yes, Drill Instructor.”

He nodded his head and was off again, barking like mad at some other poor recruit struggling up the Reaper. That was the only time Beelzebub talked with me as an equal.

11. Graduation

My family flew from Portland to San Diego for the graduation. They watched as Sergeant Beelzebub pinned the EGA on my collar. After, my father hugged me and said he was proud. My mother and stepmother told me how well the uniform fit. My sisters and brothers took pictures.

“Congratulations, you did it.”

“You’re gaunt,” my mother said.

“Yeah, what’d they feed you?”

“Can you kill me with your pinkie?”

I’d never accomplished something so difficult.

As families from all over the western United States milled around the Parade Deck, Sergeant Beelzebub found me.

“You’re a fine Marine, Peters,” he said, shaking my hand.

I looked him in the eyes for the first time. “Thank you.”

After graduation my family and McDougal’s family ate at the Hard Rock Café, San Diego. It was the first real food I’d eaten in thirteen weeks. It tasted delicious. As our families sat around the table—McDougal and I in uniform—we told them our tales of Recruit Training. We did our best to stay true to the events. But who can say with any honesty that, after Recruit Training, they remember it perfectly? I certainly don’t. But I remember the truth of it. It’s like war that way. Those of us who have experienced Recruit Training and war remember the strangest things. Like the way an M-16 feels against your cheek or the way a head looks without a skull.

Before graduation, in our last week at Recruit Training, Beelzebub decided we should join the hazing of a week-one platoon’s Black Sunday. He ran us up into their barracks and called us to attention. The other platoon’s recruits were standing next to their bunks, their gear in front of them. Beelzebub commanded us to choose a new recruit and stand nose to nose with him.

We did.

“Pick up their seabags, Recruits.”

We did.

“Turn it over and dump it out, Recruits.”

We did.

“Now, put all that shit in the middle of the squad-bay, and mix it up nice and good.”

We did.

It was a mess. The issued gear of seventy recruits was strewn across the floor.

“Now, kindly remove the sheets of these new recruits’ beds.”

We did.

As I passed the recruit whose bed I had destroyed I whispered, “It gets easier.”

I lied. I figured it wouldn’t hurt.

“Get out, Recruits,” Beelzebub ordered. “Hit the parade deck and form it up.”

We did, but not before we heard the other platoon’s DI remark: “Recruits, I have you for twelve long weeks. I doubt you have what it takes to become Marines. Yet, it’s my job to train you, to turn you into fierce machines—machines that kill. Do you understand what I’m saying? In twelve short weeks, you’ll be a different person. You’ll be a Marine. As such, you’ll have a duty to defend this great nation. You’re the first and the last, Recruits. I’ll teach you honor, courage, and commitment. I’ll teach you to always be faithful—Semper Fi. Till the day you die, you will remember me. May the Devil spare your souls, because you’re mine now. You have two minutes to sort through this gear and make my squad-bay shiny. What the hell, Recruits? Do it now, move!”

My platoon formed up on the parade deck and marched back to our barracks.

“Halt,” Beelzebub said. “Get inside and get on line.”

Our squad-bay was on the third floor. As I made my way up the stairwell I began to walk. We graduate in three days. What can he do to me now?

It was a poor decision. Beelzebub saw, he always saw.

“What the hell? Recruit Peters, are you walking?”

I was caught and I was graduating in three days. “Yes,” I said.

Beelzebub took me to the quarter-deck and slayed me one last time.

He died two years later in Fallujah.

12. San Angelo

It was hot when I arrived. I had completed Marine Combat Training—a four-week course in the skills of the general infantryman—before landing in San Angelo, Texas. Leaving behind the Marines I had trained with for the last five months, I was traveling to Marine Corps Intelligence Training at Goodfellow Air Force Base. My military occupation specialty was Intelligence. I was in uniform, standing on a curb in the humid mid-day sun. Trickles of sweat rolled down my back. With one seabag full of gear, I was boot green.

“Hey!” a cabbie yelled. “You need a ride, Marine?”

“I’m headed to Goodfellow.”

“Hop in.”

I’d never ridden in a cab before. I shut the door. My alphas, a Marine uniform consisting of a green coat, green trousers, and a khaki shirt with tie, were tight and uncomfortable.

“I make this trip two or three times a day,” the cabbie started. “It seems the Marines and airmen are always comin’ or goin.’”

“Oh.” It was hot, and I didn’t feel like chatting.

“Now, by the looks of you, you’re comin’ straight from combat school. You take that uniform off, and I’ll get you outta here—not a word to anyone.”

I looked at the cabbie in the rearview mirror. Our eyes met. He had greasy dark hair and stubble. “No,” I said. “But thanks.” We rode the rest of the way in silence.

When we pulled up to the Marine Corps Detachment building on the airbase, a young Private First Class was waiting for me. I exited the cab, paid my fare, and grabbed my seabag. The cabbie didn’t say anything as he pulled away.

“You, Peters?” the PFC asked.

“Lance Corporal Peters? Yeah, that’s me.” I had been promoted during MCT

“Sorry, Lance Corporal. I meant to say that. Lance Corporal Peters, then?”

“Yep.”

“I’m PFC Mexico. Let’s get you checked in.” PFC Mexico was shorter than me. He had a crew cut. His uniform was cared after.

All I see is a uniform and a haircut.

We walked inside to a blast of air-conditioned coolness. A muscular sergeant was standing behind the desk.

“Orders.”

I handed him my folder. He signed my papers and checked me in. Both Mexico and I stood at attention.

The sergeant ignored me. To him, I was paperwork. “You’re in barracks 3–307. Supply has your bedding. Go to medical tomorrow and turn in your records. PT is at zero five-thirty.” He didn’t look up. “Don’t be late. The PFC will show you around.” He went back to his work.

Mexico and I walked out and into the Texas humidity. “We’re roommates,” he said.

I nodded. “Well, let’s get moved in, then.”

As we made our way to the barracks Mexico turned to me. “What did you think of MCT?”

I was beginning to sweat through my alphas. “It was okay, not that much different from boot I guess. You?”

“It was alright, Lance Corporal. I liked running through Pendleton, playing war games. Shooting the fifty cal’ was pretty cool, too. I can’t believe you have to strap yourself in to shoot it. It had a fucking seatbelt . . . or something.”

We found our barracks and climbed the stairs to the third floor. Sweat was pouring through the thick cotton of my dress uniform.

“Actually,” Mexico continued, “when we were on the range shooting the fifty cal’, a buffalo sauntered right out of the sagebrush, moseyed over to the tank we were lighting up, and just started eating. I wanted to shoot the fucker, but our sergeant called a ‘ceasefire.’”

“That’s pretty crazy,” I said. I set down my seabag and opened up the door to my new home. It was a ten-foot-wide by fifteen-foot-long room that contained two beds, two chairs, two closets, a mini-fridge, and an old television. The walls were an off-white color, which were gently highlighted by gray office carpet.

“Well, it’s not much, is it?”

“No, I guess not,” Mexico said.

I would be living here for the next six months while I was schooled in the art of “imagery analysis,” which is Marine-speak for “bomb dropping” and civilian speak for “shock-and-awe.” Mexico and I were not only racking together during our military occupational school, but we were to be stationed together at the same reserve unit back in Denver, Colorado.

“Alright, Mexico. I’m getting outta my alphas. It’s hot. You know when we start our school?”

“Next Thursday.”

“Errah, Devil.” Devil, short for Devil Dog, can be used in one of two ways: one, as a term of endearment or two, as a term of loathing.

“Errah.”

13. Gradual Release

The Marine Corps subscribes to a gradual-release training method. Recruit Training is a high intensity experience coupled with high discipline. All the recruits that graduate on a given day progress to Marine Combat Training together. MCT is similar to Recruit Training in its intensity, but not in its expectation. Students are no longer Recruits, but Marines. They are, therefore, provided more freedom. During MCT, Marines cannot leave Camp Pendleton, but they can, with a weekend’s liberty, rummage through the PX—the military’s version of a Super Target. If Recruit Training is for teaching civilians how to shoot and hump, then MCT is for teaching Marines how to perfect those skills. After MCT, each Marine then travels to a non-infantry Military School, though all infantry Marines bypass MCT for their MOS training, which is Infantry School. During MCT Marines learn how to throw grenades, use a compass, and dig foxholes. The culminating experience is a weekend-long war game.

Throughout MCT, I was still with my “buddy,” McDougal. We both enjoyed crawling through overgrown gullies in full combat gear—our faces painted drab green, our boonie covers donned, and our fingers trigger-happy. McDougal, who had purchased a disposable camera, often called us to break from our low crawling so we could snap a few self-portraits. We were two young men dipping tobacco, having fun, and playing war. Though the fighting in Afghanistan had commenced, actual war was the furthest thing from our thoughts. We had struck the delicate balance of becoming warriors while holding onto the most important aspects of our civilian identities. For us, both Recruit Training and MCT were a hiatus. We were reservists. War was for “real” Marines.

After we graduated from MCT, each Marine in my original platoon was handed their MOS orders and placed on a bus bound for the Los Angeles airport. Because we were traveling to different parts of the country, we spent the majority of our day in an airport lounge drinking beer and saying our goodbyes. One by one, we went our separate ways. I had spent the last five months with these Marines. We had experienced both Recruit Training and MCT together. It felt strange walking away from those experiences. When it was McDougal’s turn to leave—bound for Virginia—I hugged him before saying goodbye. “How’d you ever convince me to enlist?” I asked.

“Me?” he laughed. “It was your idea.”

‡ ‡ ‡

It was weeks before Mexico and I started our MOS training. Our gunnery sergeant kept us busy in the interim. And so we PT’d, drilled, and studied our basic Marine Corps history. We did this for two reasons: first, we were receiving a paycheck and needed to keep up the illusion of busyness, or as Gunny said, “readiness.” And second, we were vying for a coveted award, Marine of the Quarter. Young, enlisted Marines like myself longed for this prize. It conferred both distinction from one’s peers and leniency from the top. Mexico and I studied together between our PT sessions and our nightly cavorting in San Angelo.

We studied the answer to questions like: What is the max effective range of an M-16? In what order would a LCPL, Captain, GySgt, and Major embark? In what order would they exit a vehicle? What are the General Orders?

It wasn’t exactly fun material, but there wasn’t much else to do in San Angelo. We had weekend liberty, and so we spent some time exploring the city. During those long months of waiting, I purchased a Trek road bike and started biking for exercise. The East Texas highways were long and straight, wide-open landscapes perfect for solitary rides.

Weeks turned to a month and on a Wednesday in June the Marine-of-the-Quarter board was called to order. I had dry-cleaned my dress alphas, paid for a haircut—buzzed on the sides, short on top—and shaved twice. Once dressed, I marched from my barracks to the board, trying not to sweat despite the beating Texas sun.

“Lance Corporal Peters, report,” barked Gunny. He was a stout man of middling height. He had a military mustache and a flattop haircut. He sat at a long table, flanked by both our captain and sergeant.

“Lance Corporal Peters, reporting as ordered, Gunny.” I marched, stood at attention, and popped a salute.

“About—face,” the captain ordered.

I about faced. They were looking my uniform over, checking for any inconsistencies. I had expected this.

“About—face.”

I spun around.

“Sit down, Peters,” the sergeant said.

I right faced, marched over to the closest chair, left faced, and sat down—back at ninety degrees, elbows slightly bent, hands resting on my knees (thumb and forefingers tightly affixed).

Gunny stared me down. “What,” he asked, “is the max effective range of the M-16 service rifle?”

I stared back. I had no idea. Apparently, my study sessions with Mexico hadn’t been that productive. I wasn’t worried, however. The key to these boards was to appear both calm and confident. “Sixteen hundred yards, Gunny.” I snapped my head to the captain, as if to say, I nailed your question, try something harder.

“When did the United States Marine Corps first adopt the Quatrefoil?”

“1837.” Again, I had no clue. I turned my attention to the sergeant.

“Detail a proper function check.”

Without taking a breath I reeled off the details: “Break the weapon apart, pull out the pin, release the bolt, pump the arming mechanism twice, insert the pin, connect the weapon, and send the bolt home.” I was lying.

“Stand,” barked Gunny.

I stood.

The captain looked me over. “Dismissed.”

I saluted, about faced, and marched out of the boardroom. Mexico was waiting for me in the lobby.

“How did it go?”

“I have no idea. I didn’t know the answers to half their questions. I guessed.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, the max effective range of an M-16, who knows that shit? We’re in Intel for a reason.”

A few days later Gunny found me hanging over by the barracks. “LCPL Peters, congratulations! I wanted to be the first to tell you that you earned Marine of the Quarter.”

I shook his hand.

“I’ll tell you though, you didn’t answer a damn question right, but you said the answers so convincingly I had to double check the manual after you left.” He was chuckling to himself. “I figured if any Marine could get me second guessing my knowledge, then he deserved Marine of the Quarter. There’ll be a banquet next Thursday, so get your dress Blues ready.”

“Yes, Gunny.”

“Oh, and tell Mexico you both start school on Monday. Congratulations, Devil Dog, you’re about to become an Intel Marine. Don’t let me down.”

14. Class 070502

On the first day of class, Mexico and I arrived at the schoolhouse fifteen minutes early. It was six o’clock when our other classmates arrived. The intelligence school was a joint command, and so our class consisted of airmen and airwomen, as well as Marines. There were ten of us in class—five Marines and five Air Force pipeliners (the slang term for an airman or airwoman who has recently graduated from boot camp). In the military, service men and women are segregated by both officer and enlisted, and rank. The rank structure is simple. Officers are O-1 through 9; enlisted men and women are E-1 through 9—the higher the number, the higher both the pay and responsibility. In San Angelo, all of those students from the Air Force were E-3 or below; but on the Marine Corps side we had two E-5s, or sergeants. There was Airman Rat, a short skinny guy with a shaved head and a weak mustache; Airman Louisiana, a tall and thin black woman; Airman First Class Hobbes, a mid-thirties balding man looking for a second career; Airman First Class Church, the son of a pastor from Virginia; and Airman First Class Nevada, a cute girl in her mid-twenties. On the Marine Corps side there was me; Mexico; and Sergeant Indiana, a hardworking Marine who was not only our class leader but also capable of the things Marine Corps commercials advertised; Sergeant Dick, a mid-forties stall-out (a Marine whose next promotion has eluded him or her) who was constantly cheating on his wife; and Corporal Jacksonville, a black man with a dripping jerry curl and manicured nails.

Our class was named after the day we started our training: 070502. Our class advisor, Staff Sergeant Wilberson, was tall, gangly, and pasty. His forehead was enormous, and he had the annoying habit of covering his mouth when he laughed. He was a lifer in the Air Force whose specialty was imagery analysis. In his mid-thirties, he was married with two kids. It was six-fifteen in the morning when he walked into our classroom.

“Atten—tion,” Sergeant Indiana barked. We all stood upright and jerked to attention.

“At ease,” Wilberson said, “Jesus. I might be your advisor, but I’m still enlisted. Cool it.” He chuckled while covering his mouth.

After four months of training with the Marine Corps, our advisor’s nonchalance was jarring. Mexico and I gaped at each other before hesitantly relaxing.

“Better,” Wilberson said while eyeballing Mexico. “Remember, this is an airbase and you Marines are attending an Air Force tech school. This isn’t combat.”

I noticed Wilberson wasn’t properly shaved and was horrified by this maleficence. Should I say something? I didn’t. Sergeant Indiana would speak up if necessary.

I sat down as Wilberson continued his introductory lecture.

“You are here to learn. You are here to learn how to learn. And throughout this learning process you will become a more intelligent service member capable of autonomously learning.”

What?

“070502 will be the best class I have ever advised, because I will it to be so.” Wilberson stopped and looked each one of us directly in the eyes. I tried not to laugh. “If you need anything,” he continued, “ask me. I want this to be a successful journey for you. The next six months will be both academically rigorous and physically challenging. Now—” he stopped talking.

We waited.

He bowed his head and left the room.

“What the hell was that?” Sergeant Dick asked.

“Welcome to the Air Force, sergeant,” Hobbes said.

“Everyone can’t be a locked-on charger,” Sergeant Indiana said. “We’ll continue to do what we do—as Marines,” he was looking at the Marines and refusing to acknowledge the airmen and airwomen.

“Jarhead,” one of the airmen said.

Sergeant Dick stood up and pointed his hands, forefinger and thumb perfectly aligned, at the Air Force pipeliners. “You will only speak when spoken to, Airman. Check?”

Silence.

“Do you follow?” Sergeant Dick’s face was turning red and splotchy.

“Sit down,” Sergeant Indiana said. “Don’t waste your time.”

He sat.

Twenty minutes later the instructor of our first section came into the room and started her lecture. It was on the art and history of both imagery analysis and intelligence gathering.

Our new life had begun.

15. Jus in Bello

We had eight sections of study. Each section was capped with a three-hour final. You passed, you moved on; you failed, you picked up with the class behind you. We studied everything from Russian air defense to the technological capabilities of the American DOD. We practiced gathering intelligence, stripping it down to its bare essentials, drafting reports on our findings, and briefing our classmates both on our research and our predictions. As weird as Staff Sergeant Wilberson was, he was right about one thing: they were teaching us to draw logical conclusions, often times from disparate sources. In this way, we were learning to think, make connections, and venture semi-reliable courses of action.

Just as our progression of study was predestined, so too was our daily schedule. We woke each morning at five in order to PT with our Marine platoon. From there we showered, ate, and arrived at the schoolhouse at six-thirty. Class, thereafter, commenced until eleven-thirty. After a break, class restarted at one. The day usually ended somewhere between four and four-thirty. Our nights were spent studying, unless for security reasons we weren’t allowed to take the classified material out of the schoolhouse. On those occasions, we’d hang around the barracks.

Our weekends, however, were considered liberty. I had a cousin, William, who lived two hours away in Lubbock. That summer Texas Monthly ran an article detailing the top fifty things to do in the state. William and I figured we’d try them all. We road tripped to Luckenbach, ate at Cooper’s in Llano, and swam in the Colorado. We sang “The Eyes of Texas are Upon You” in the state capital. We visited our grandparents in Hillsboro. We even touched Willie Nelson. Well, not really. But almost. The summer sped by, and, with it, so did my MOS training.

Every so often the Air Force would hold an all-schoolhouse briefing. One hundred and fifty of us would cram into a small conference room and listen to our captain wax on about the need for intelligence in a twenty-first-century military. During one such meeting, the captain showed us a video of Marines bombing insurgents in Afghanistan. It was a grainy video taken from an unmanned aerial vehicle being flown remotely via laptop. We heard the radio conversation of the intelligence analyst who was flying the UAV

“Fuckers, I see ’em,” the radio cut out to static, qushhh. On frame, six or seven individuals were moving from a truck to a building. The color was washed out; the camera was bouncing. This particular UAV had the capability of firepower. The intelligence analyst flying it would pull the trigger.

Qushhh. “You have the go ahead,” qushhh, a disembodied voice said to the pilot.

Qushhh, “Targets locked,” qushhh.

UAVs are not quiet planes. The targeted Afghanis took notice and ran for cover.

Qushhh, “Fire,” qushhh. The screen erupted. Fire engulfed the Afghanis.

Qushhh, “I hit ’em! Fuck, I hit ’em!” The pilot was chanting over and over.

One of us laughed.

“Excuse me?” the captain said as he turned off the video. “Do you find this funny?” He was asking this to the whole room rather than one derelict service member. “Please, enlighten me, what’s so funny about what we do?”

Silence.

“What we do, professionally, is terrible. What we do is a horrendous necessity. But what we do is never funny.” He paused. “Are we justified in this war? I’d like to think so. We were provoked and we have the proper intentions in fighting Al-Qaeda. We will win this war, and we will help the people of Afghanistan rebuild. It’s who we are; it’s what we do. Before that, however, we will conduct ourselves with honor. Jus in bello. Justice, even in war, is necessary. To laugh cheapens our role; it cheapens our justice. I expect you, all of you, to act with a certain measure of professionalism, especially when both the power and responsibility to destroy is only a keystroke away.” He scanned the room before continuing. “If I hear another laugh, then the offending service member will be dismissed.” He turned back to the screen and pressed play.

16. Wilberson’s War

Before our final exam, Staff Sergeant Wilberson talked with each of us in regard to our progress. I walked into his office and stood at attention. “At ease,” he said. “For the last time, this is the Air Force. Relax. Sit.” I sat. “One week left until your final exam. How do you feel?”

“Fine,” I responded. “There’s a lot to study, but I feel prepared.”

“And after?”

“I’ll report to my unit in Denver. I’m a reserve, though. I think I’ll go back to school.”

He smiled. “School, huh?”

“Yes, Staff Sergeant. I plan on majoring in Communications.”

“Not the Middle East?” We stared at each other. “You’re a relatively new Marine, correct?”

“Correct.”

“And you’ve never been to war?”

“No.”

“How are feeling about that? Dealing death from a computer?” I didn’t have an answer. “Wars happen, Peters. You’re a war fighter now. It’s best that you start thinking about yourself that way.”

For a moment, I was honest: “I don’t want to, staff sergeant.” The moment I said it, I regretted it.

He laughed, covering his mouth with his hand. “No one does, Peters. No one does.”

I passed my final exam and graduated. During 070502’s graduation, Staff Sergeant Wilberson spoke on our behalf. “I have never,” he began, “seen a class with so much drive and willpower. I attribute this to 070502’s fine leader, Sergeant Indiana. Not all of you who started together finished together, but those of you who leave this place today, leave it proudly. Though, often times, we leave this schoolhouse and never meet again, I believe this will no longer be the case. When we meet upon the sands of the Middle East, may we remember our common bond: 070502.”

Later that night, as I finished packing my car, I shook Mexico’s hand and told him I’d see him in February. We had a month leave before we had to report to our new unit at Buckley Air Force Base in Aurora, Colorado, after which I would make the long, solitary drive to Kansas and Bethany College.

“Alright,” he said, “take care.”

“I will. You got plans?”

“You know me, Peters. I always got plans.”

“Well, use protection.”

I drove home to Portland. I spent Thanksgiving and Christmas with my family. It was cold and rainy. My dad and stepmom had their three-foot, fiber optic Christmas tree on display. My mom was busy with school, as she had recently decided to return to college. My brothers and sisters were growing up. We spent what time we could together before I packed up my 1990 red Dodge Dakota and made the twenty-two-hour drive to Lindsborg, Kansas. Like my mother, I was returning to college.

It was snowing when I arrived at Bethany. I moved into the dormitory alone. Most of the students were absent because it was January and between school sessions. I hadn’t been on Bethany’s campus since I’d decided to drop out two years previous. I had originally chosen Bethany for two reasons: one, they offered me a football scholarship; and two, it was the farthest school from the Northwest offering said scholarship. I had wanted a fresh, new experience, free to learn and make mistakes. Bethany was a small, Lutheran liberal-arts college. I had signed my letter of intent with the delusional hopes of becoming a football star. Two years in, however, I was a tired and beat up third-string fullback. Where one dream died, another was birthed. Amidst Bethany’s echoing halls ringing with choral melodies, I discovered learning and books and that pre-made molds were lies. I had dropped out and moved to Colorado frustrated with a broken football career, but had returned—after my hiatus in both Recruit Training and Imagery Analysis School—for the ingrained memories of passionate professors willing to invest in their students’ growth. At Bethany I wasn’t fitted; I was asked to become.

The spring term would start in February, which was about four weeks away. I wanted an early start, however, and so I enrolled in Bethany’s January term, which, in my case, was a three-week crash course in advanced public speaking. Before my first class, I flipped on CNN while I dressed. The news was ominous.

“All signs point to an American troop buildup in Iraq by March,” the reporter said in her British accent. She was wearing a drab-safari outfit. “The American Secretary of Defense is presenting his case to the UN Security Counsel by week’s end, and my sources tell me that Secretary Powell’s goal will be to convince the world that Iraq has not only begun the process of enriching uranium, but is already in possession of weapons of mass destruction.”

“Thank you—” the anchor replied and moved onto other news. I left the television and turned on the shower.

I spent a week researching and prepping speeches. On Friday I drove the six hours to Aurora, Colorado, a suburb of Denver, for my first reservist-drill weekend. I slept at an Embassy Suites, woke up at four, dressed in my camouflage fatigues, and drove to Buckley Air Force Base. My truck was not yet registered, so I parked next to Buckley’s gate and went into the Military Police Officers’ hut to register for a weekend pass. It was a frigid Colorado morning, and I waited in a line of ten other services members who were also waiting to register their cars. The serviceman in front of me was a Marine. He was taller than me by three or four inches. His uniform was finely pressed. His shave was close. He turned to me. “You fucking believe this shit, Devil?”

“Yeah,” I said, not knowing what he was talking about. “It’s pretty cold.”

“Shit, well, it won’t be for long.”

It was already February. “How’s that?”

He turned and looked me over. “Who are you?”

“Lance Corporal Peters.”

“You Bravo Company?”

“Yes,” I quickly glanced at his collar, “Staff Sergeant.”

“Nobody called you?”

“Am I late, Staff Sergeant?”

“Fuck man, we got the call, Devil.”

“Oh,” I was stumped. “That’s . . . great.”

The line was moving. He started filling out paperwork for his car’s registration. When he was done, he walked out past me. “See you at Bravo.”

I registered my car and drove to the Marine Corps headquarters.

Tucked away in the northeast corner of the Air Base was the Marine Corps detachment, which housed both Alpha and Bravo Companies. Alpha was an artillery detachment. Bravo was an intelligence detachment. This was the first time I had visited the unit. The building was two stories high and contained a gym, a shower facility, a cafeteria, numerous offices, and, of course, a military display case. Alpha Company was downstairs; we were upstairs. We in Bravo never mingled with our lesser counterparts below.

I went to the main Marine Corps Administration office, which was situated between Alpha Company and Bravo Company. I had to check in and hand over the paperwork I had acquired during Recruit Training, MCT, and Imagery Analysis School. There was a tall Marine with a shaved head and thick mustache behind the counter. “What can I help you with Marine?”

“I need to check in, Gunny.”

“Alright, let me see that.” He pointed to my paperwork. Ten minutes later he walked back to the counter. “You’re in Bravo. It’s upstairs. You’ll want to check with Gunny Bravo. He’s a good Marine. He’ll help you with all that’s comin’ up.”

“Coming up, Gunny?”

“Shit yeah, Marine. You acting like no one called you.” He shook his head. “Get upstairs, Marine.”

Bravo Company headquarters were in disarray: Marines were running about, phones were ringing, officers were yelling. I moved to a corner. I figured it wouldn’t hurt if I disappeared until the chaos died. A few minutes later, in walked Mexico. I nodded to him. “How you doing?”

“Good,” he said while looking around. “What’s going on?”

“No idea.”

“How was your Christmas?”

“Good. Yours?”

“Yeah, it was good,” he said. “My pops and I went to Mexico to visit my grandpa. He owns a ranch in the southeast. Well, over the years my grandpa has been donating money to the local church. In return, they decided to honor him. So we went down for the celebration.”

“What did they do?”

“His money bought the church a new stained-glass window, so we went to watch ’em install it. We had front row seats, Peters.”

“Cool,” I said. “How long—”

“Who the hell are you two?” a gruff voice inquired.

I stood at attention. “I’m Lance Corporal Peters and this is Private First Class Mexico,” I glanced at the speaker’s collar, “Gunny.”

“Alright,” the Gunny said, “and what the hell are you doing in Bravo Company?” The Gunny sported a flattop haircut, glasses, and an extra fifty pounds.

“We’re new reservists, Gunny. We graduated from the schoolhouse in November. We checked in downstairs.”

“Fu—king—shit,” he said. “And nobody called you, right?”

“No, Gunny. I guess not.”

He shook his head. “Iraq, gentlemen. We’re going to Iraq. We leave on Thursday.”

interlude

“Where did we leave off?” Trent asked.

“I fell asleep in my hotel room.”

“Right. What happened next?”

“Weeks came and went. I requested leave. It was granted, and so I flew home to Portland. My mother hosted a picnic. My dad and stepmom were there. I caught up with my siblings.”

“Was it good to see your family?”

“Yeah, it had taken nearly a month, but I felt like I was home, if only for a time.”

“Did you ever . . . struggle, being back?”

“From the war?”

“From the war. Humor me. Be specific.”

I bit into my cheek. “One afternoon, while in Portland, my mother and I went shopping at Safeway. We were strolling through the produce aisle when I heard an incoming mortar. I screamed, reached for my gas mask, and jumped on the floor. I was wide-eyed and sweating when I realized that my mother was shaking me. ‘You’re home now,’ she was yelling, ‘you’re home!’ I tried to clear my head. The store’s manager came running over. It hadn’t been a mortar. Water had been running through overhead pipes to spray the fresh produce. I stood up and apologized. My mother started to tell him I had recently returned from Iraq. I looked at them both. They were far away, like looking backward through a telescope. I rushed out of Safeway and waited for my mother in her car.”

“Did she ask you what had happened? Did she talk with you about it?”

“Yeah. I told her it was nothing, that she didn’t have anything to worry about. And she said: ‘I’m your mother, Benjamin, I’ll worry about it.’” I started to laugh.

Trent was smiling, too. “Go on.”

“I told her that I wish I had an explanation, but I didn’t.”

“Do you know what that was, Benjamin?”

“Yeah, a flashback. I could’ve sworn I heard a mortar.”

“And did you see your dad during this time?”

“Yeah, I was home for two weeks. I saw him quite a bit.”

“And he was recovering from his open heart surgery?”

“Yeah.”

“How was that coming?”

“Fine. He looked well. He had lost weight. He was walking most days.”

“That must have been hard to lose your grandfather right before your father’s health was in question.”

“And the looming war.”

Trent nodded. “And the looming war.”

I gnawed on my cheek. “It was. It is.” I breathed. “It was good to see him though. He told me he was proud of me.”

“Did you hear that often growing up?”

“For sure. My parents were always good about telling us they loved us. It was just . . . you know . . . the war. Losing friends, dropping bombs . . . I . . . I didn’t do anything to be proud of, you know? I’m no hero. But he kept pushing it, challenging me. ‘Someday,’ he’d say, ‘you’ll be proud. Trust me. You accomplished something great.’ It made me mad. So I shot back: ‘And what was that?’ He stopped trying to convince me.”

“Do you believe your father loves you?”

I nodded. Trent jotted in his notebook. “After you visited your family, what then?”

“Five months sped past. Back in Denver, I drilled with my reserve unit by day and lived out of a hotel by night. We weren’t allowed to return to our regular lives until our demobilization papers were approved. So, I did what Marines do best. I waited.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, yes and no.”

“Yes and no?”

“I met someone.”

Trent raised an eyebrow. “Someone?”

“A girl . . . I mean, woman. She’s a teacher.”

“Does this someone have a name?”

“Natasha.”

He smiled. “And?”

I rolled my eyes. “And I like her.”

“Okay, okay. We’ll leave it there today.”

I stood up to leave.

“Benjamin,” Trent called after me.

“Yes?” I turned.

“Next time we’ll have to talk about the war.”

I grasped for the door handle. “I know.”

17. Rhizome

As a reservist, I explained to Gunny Bravo that he must be mistaken. He told me to shut the hell up, after which I informed him of my recent move and enrollment. He said I had until Tuesday to drive to Kansas, drop my classes, gather my belongings, and return to Buckley. “Unfortunately,” he said, “you’ll lose your tuition.” By way of consolation, he shook his head and mumbled. “Someone really should’ve called you.”

The world was frozen. It was February. Interstate 70 cut an ebon path between the crystal plains. I drove with no music, no radio—only thoughts. In five days I would be leaving for war. Where was the ticker tape and beautiful women? It didn’t feel right. I wasn’t part of the Greatest Generation—I was a nobody caught in the arbitrary gyrations of history. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t want to be a coward. A flood of questions I’d hoped to never confront rushed my mind: Do I believe in war? How should 9/11 be answered? Would the world be a safer, better place if I died in the pursuit of a free Iraq?

The plains were quiet. Snow fell. The sky darkened.

My anxiety acquiesced to anger. What right do I have to kill? I could destroy a bull’s-eye at 500 yards. I could target an enemy remotely and decimate him or her with a keystroke. Could I actually shoot somebody?

When I was home for Christmas, I asked my pastor, Marcus, about Christians serving in the military. He answered by posing a question: “If our neighbor is being slaughtered, do we stand by and do nothing?”

Marcus’ question didn’t soothe my concerns. Rather, it birthed a slew of subsequent questions.