Marine Summer: Year 2041 (3 page)

Processing was the longest two days of my life to this point. It was a lot of
hurry up and wait
, a military term that had stood the test of time. They stripped us of anything civilian and shaved our heads to make us look the same. We were to have no personal identity, standing in lines buck-naked, with some guy you didn’t even know standing behind you with his junk pressed into your crack while he breathed down your neck. The itchy feeling from his breath made you want to scratch, but if you did, you were doing naked push-ups until your arms gave out.

Physical exams, shots, and eye tests. Guys with poor vision were issued BC glasses. It stood for birth control glasses, because any woman that saw you in these ugly monstrosities, well…she wouldn’t have anything to do with you. I was thankful I had great vision.

The shots were the worst. It was a moving line of ouches and guys passing out as they hit us with what they called jet injectors, I felt like a flat tire they were trying to fill with air when they hit me with it. If you didn’t pass out the first time, they handed you another shot, a cold one, with the needle waxed over. You rubbed it between your palms to get it warm; once it was no longer cold, you had to stick it under your arm pit to keep the temperature steady until the doc took it from you and stuck it in your buttocks. It left a painful lump the size of a golf ball, but we couldn’t rub that lump or it meant more unwanted attention.

It all seemed chaotic. Everything we did caused someone to yell at us. We couldn’t do anything right. Senior privates, those further along in boot camp, manned the line when we received our uniforms. They also took liberty with our virgin knowledge of how things worked, screaming just as loud as the D.I.s behind us as we went down the line, getting clothes tossed into our green canvas duffel bags. They didn’t even ask for our sizes; they just guessed.

Those first two days were horrendous. Marching through the base to chow we looked like, as Buckley put it, “a bunch of monkeys fucking footballs!” Guys were stepping on other guys, some fell down, and no one seemed to be able to get in step with the D.I. We watched as other platoons, seasoned ones, marched along in precise beauty, singing cadences and hitting every mark of the instructor’s call. It was embarrassing to pass them as they turned their noses up at us, like we weren’t good enough to be dog shit on the bottom of their boots.

And chow. I already hated chow. Breakfast was the worst. Powdered milk, powdered eggs—I honestly believed everything they served was powdered. The eggs they force-fed us had the texture of yellow cardboard.

Those who were overweight were called ‘Fat Bodies’ and were only given a third as much food as the rest of us. Me being a thin guy, when I walked through the line they just kept piling food on. It was more food than I’d ever seen on my plate in my entire life. And it didn’t matter what I wanted. They didn’t ask, they just loaded my tray down like I was eating for a family of ten.

Once the tray was full, you made your way to your assigned table, if you could. Senior recruits kept yelling, ‘
Live Grenade, make a hole!’
It wasn’t till the second day I figured out what they meant: “Move, dickhead! I’ve got a hot cup of coffee. Don’t make me spill it.” Hell, I was wondering if someone actually did have a live grenade.

Five minutes. That’s how long they gave you to wolf down your meal, just five minutes. You had to wait till everyone was sitting down at your table, and when the last guy was finally there, you started shoveling. At some point you began to question whether you had even chewed a single bite.

It was the morning of my third day. To me it was still nighttime, but the senior D.I. barreled into our barracks with a vengeance.

“What the fuck is going on in here?” Adams squealed as he grabbed an aluminum trash can by the door, dumping the trash out and proceeding to bang his nightstick inside it as he made his way around the barrack.

Buckley started flipping guys in their racks, which sucked for the guys on the top bunks, who had further to fall.

“Ladies, get those peter-beaters off your guns and get those asses out of those racks! We’re burning daylight!” Adams said.

I looked out the window, it was pitch black.
What daylight?
I looked at the clock above the front entrance. It was 4 A.M.

“Get your puny asses to attention!” Keller shouted.

Barefoot and standing on cold tiled floor at the foot of my bunk, it was all I could do to stop shivering as the Gunny walked by.

“You girls got five minutes to shit, shower, shave, and get your uniforms on. Once you have your uniforms on, you will get your orders and stand at attention to await inspection!” Buckley said. “Now—move!”

I obviously didn’t know anyone in my platoon. We hadn’t even had a spare second to be properly introduced. But somehow, without one word spoken to any of them, there we were, standing nude in front of each other and scrubbing places that one particularly doesn’t show in public, unless you’re a perv or something.

I was one of the first ones out, dressed and standing by my bunk. I had retrieved my orders from underneath my mattress, making sure to fold my blanket back just the way the diagram showed. I didn’t think I could stand to do any more push-ups. My arms felt like rubber.

Adams started to my left, checking orders and addressing sloppy uniforms. A few times I adjusted mine, hoping he wouldn’t notice. I listened intently as he approached. The things coming out of his mouth floored me. I’d never heard anyone speak like that to anyone else before.

There he was, standing in front of me. I couldn’t even have blinked if I’d wanted to. I just stared at the dimple in his chin as if it were a window to another universe.

“Orders!”

“Sir, yes sir!” I shouted as loud as I could, holding my folder out for him.

As he took the orders, he gave me the once over. He started at my head and gradually worked his way down to my boots with his eyes. Grabbing a fistful of my shirt, he untucked the shirt with a quick yank.

“Fix that gig line private!”

“Sir, yes sir!”

“What’s your name, private?” he asked, staring at the paperwork inside my folder.

“Sir, the private’s name is Drew Butler, sir!”

“Butler! Do you hear that Buckley? A butler, are you fucking Benson? No you’re not Benson, private!”

Why the fuck is he calling me Benson? Who the hell is Benson?

“Answer me private!”

“Sir, no sir!”

“Butler huh? No, your name is butt-nugget! Do you know what a butt-nugget is son?”

“Sir, the private does not know, sir!”

“You’re that little turd hanging on to my ass hair. Yeah, that’s what you are! You just won’t fall off, will ya? But you are going to fall! Fall to your stomach right now!”

Keller and Buckley rushed to their knees, one on each side of me, barking in my ears like fervent dogs, “Give me twenty!” Over and over they kept commanding.

“Well, would you look at this shit,” Adams said, going over my orders, “Look at this, boys,” he directed Keller and Buckley while pointing his finger at one of the sheets. “Private butt-nugget enlisted! Scored high on his testing, so if he makes it through boot camp he’s going to the 4
th
Battalion 1
st
Marines. This little bastard cut a deal. Nugget here wants to wear the suit!”

Evidentially that pissed off Buckley, who was now standing over top of me, his cover shading my head, his nose pressed into my temple. I could feel his lips moving against my right cheek with every word he distinctly intended for me to hear.

“You don’t deserve to wear the Suit, you sorry piece of shit! Men wear the Suit and you ain’t a man! If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll break you, you’ll be washing dishes for some faggoty admiral in the Navy, you sorry pathetic asshole!”

“Calm down Buckley!” Adams said, grabbing his arm and pulling him back, “Down, you devil-dog!”

I thought I was screwed. I thought all the planning my father did before I enlisted was lost. This was a nightmare.

The Suit, the T1A77 Marine Suit, was the only piece of equipment that had any success in fighting the enemy. It was what every young boy growing up in the camps talked about. My dad had numerous conversations with the recruiter about it. If I tested well and enlisted, I could qualify for the T1A77 program. So I did, and I got it. That, and I was the right size for it (5’10”). The recruiter swore I was a perfect fit.

“Boy, this recruiting station has been in service for two years. I’ve sent thousands of men out of here as Marines, killing Marines, badass Marines and not one of them made it to this program. Let me guess,” he smiled, mocking me, “Your recruiter promised you? Told your folks you’d make it out alive? Well guess what, jack-wagon, without my signature on it, it ain’t fucking happening! So good luck with that, dumbass!” Adams stepped back, an evil smirk on his face.

I gritted my teeth. I was pissed, and I wanted to knock that shit-eating grin right off his face. This whole thing had been planned out. My dad worked hard on it so that I wouldn’t end up like my brothers. All I could do was stand there, watching out of the corner of my eye, straining to stare right through the D.I.s as they moved on to the next guy.

“Name!” Adams said, addressing the guy to my right.

“Billy Houserman!”

“What the fuck did you just say?” Keller said, his fingers buried in the kid’s cheek.

“Sir, the private’s name is Billy Houserman, sir!”

“Well fuckin’ A, ditty bag, we got a Houserbush! As in, how’s your momma’s bush, private?” Adams said as he snatched the folder from his hand.

“Drop, maggot! Give me twenty!” Buckley said, grabbing him by the back of the neck and throwing him down.

“Sir, the private requests a time out, sir!”

“A what?” Keller laughed. “You’re in the wrong corps, boy!”

We all listened as the evil laughs of the three D.I.s filled the platoon bay.

“All of you listen up! So that all of you understand,” Adams said, stepping up onto the row of tables that divided the bay in half, where he began to pace as he addressed us. “I don’t know what you’ve been told, but the Marine Corps has fallen back to the practices of long ago, the traditions that, in my opinion, should have never changed. In the past they were changed due to all your sissy asses and hippy ways. But now…we own your asses! There are no time outs! We will put our hands on you! We will beat you into the best Marines on the face of this Earth! Next one of you tree hugging hippies asks me for a time out, I will personally poke your eyes out and skull fuck you to death. Is that understood?”

“Sir, yes sir!” rang out from all of us.

“Sergeant Keller,” Adams called as he jumped off the tables, his boots thudding the floor as he stood again right in front of me.

“Yes Gunny!”

“Houserbush wants a time out. Would you be so kind to take him outside and let him run around the barracks till he sees the errors of his ways? You want a time out son? You’re going to get time outside—humping!”

“On your feet, maggot. Move it!” Keller said, pushing the kid from behind.

“Now let’s continue,” Adams said. “Name!” he called to the next kid.

“Sir, the private’s name is Ritchie Lee, sir!”

“Where’re you from, Lee?”

“Sir, the private is from San Francisco, sir!”

“San Francisco? The Bay Area, huh? Let me ask you a question, private.” Adams said as he stepped up close to the kid. “Are you one of those…pickle kissers? Are you boy?”

“Sir, no sir!”

“Then what the hell are you boy?”

“Sir, I don’t understand, sir!”

“You’re Asian, aren’t you? Where’s your family hail from?”

“Sir, my family emigrated from Korea, sir!”

“Oh my god,” Adams theatrically jumped backwards, “We have a fucking commie spy in our midst. Are you a spy, private?”

“Sir, the private is not a spy, sir!”

“Well good,” he said, stepping forward, “your name is R-O-R, not Lee. Do you know what that stands for, son?”

“Sir, no sir!” I could hear in Lee’s tone that he was puzzled.

“Stands for ‘Raugh out Roud,’ boy!”

We could all hear Buckley snicker, which made me turn my head to look at him. He was covering his mouth with his hand. Like his laughter was encouraging the playground bully.

“Does that offend you, private? Do you find me culturally insensitive?” Adams playfully asked.

“Sir, no sir!” Lee answered, his tone more masculine.

I could tell from the way he answered that he was pissed.

“Good, son, now drop and give me twenty,” Adams said, side-stepping to his left to attack the next.

“Name!”

“Sir, the private’s name is Frank Tickler, sir!”

Not even blinking an eye, Adams kept up his routine. “Twat Ticker!” he said, turning around and applauding himself. “Come on ladies, this is too easy!”

On down the line Gunny went, each private given a nickname, each one insulted and chastised. He pulled no punches, or so it seemed to us. We weren’t much in his eyes.