Sand in the Wind (15 page)

“I never saw a moor,/ I never saw the sea;/ Yet know I how—”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

“STOP! FUCKING STOP!”

“YOU DON’T KNOW SHIT!”

“
 
‘
Know I how
’
— you call that English?
”

“FOUR FUCKING YEARS?”

“COME BUBBLE, your education has
just
started.”

“REVEILLE! REVEILLE!” Morton shouted as the lights flashed on. Chalice jumped to a sitting position in time to see a garbage can bounce past his rack. Green flung the lid and then another garbage can against the wall while shouting, “ON YOUR FEET! ON YOUR FEET!” Hacker ran around pushing over any rack with somebody still in it. Eyes blinking, Chalice stood at attention in front of his bunk. He flinched at each sound, amazed to see that all the noise was coming from only three drill instructors. Dazed and scared, he found no humor in the thought, ‘So this is what the Marine Corps uses instead of alarm clocks.’ The shouting and noise continued even after all the men were standing at attention. Again Chalice wondered what he had gotten himself into.

Morton shouted, “WHAT’S THE MATTER, HOGS? DON’T YOU LIKE GETTING UP IN THE MORNING? You don’t act like it. Push-up position;
ready,
MOVE!” One hundred sixty hands slapped the floor. “Four-count push-ups, twenty-five of them;
ready,
BEGIN!”

The men’s voices became strained and quieter as they continued, “
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
One, two, three, eighteen. One, two, three, nineteen.”

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU, LADIES.
  
.
 
.
 
. I STILL CAN’T HEAR YOU.
  
.
 
.
 
. STOP! FUCKING STOP!” Arms straightened in front of them, the men hovered in the up position while Morton shouted, “Ladies, you turn my stomach. WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO TO MY MARINE CORPS? Why didn’t you fags join the Navy?” A man collapsed, his chest slapping the floor sharply.

Green stood on the man’s back while addressing the rest of the platoon. “This little lady is tired. We’re gonna let her rest a minute.” Choking sounds came from the man beneath Green’s feet. “While she’s resting, you can rest too —
in the up position.
” The men who had collapsed on their chests immediately pushed themselves up again. Green asked the man beneath him, “What’s your name, little lady?”

The recruit gasped, “Sir, the Private’s name is Private Colson.”

“You hear that, hogs? This little rest period is courtesy of Private Colson. Private Colson doesn’t like to do push-ups. As soon as
Private Colson
is ready, we’ll start again. Are you ready, Sweet Pea?”

“Sir, the Private’s ready.”

“That’s just lovely, Sweet Pea,
just fucking lovely.
” Green jumped off Colson and shouted, “Four-count push-ups;
ready,
BEGIN!”

“One, two, three, twenty. One, two —”

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU.”

“— three, twenty-one.”

“I STILL CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

"One, two, three, twenty-two.
”

“STOP! FUCKING STOP!
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
Ladies, the last number I heard was ten. Start from there.
Ready,
BEGIN!”

“ONE, TWO, THREE
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
”

After fifteen minutes of exercise, Morton decided his men were fully awakened. He ordered them to get dressed. They took too much time, so he had to interrupt them twice for bends and thrusts. He then ordered them to make their beds. They took too much time, and he interrupted them for a set of side-straddle hops. He ordered them to clean the barracks. They took too much time, so he interrupted them for a set of sit-ups. Dissatisfied with the job they had done, Green overturned the garbage cans as the platoon left for breakfast.

It was still dark when they returned to the barracks. First they swept the floor — on their hands and knees using small scrub brushes. After the third time, Morton decided the floor was clean enough to be mopped. Instead of mops, the men crawled around with wet rags in their hands. They then dried the floor with dry rags, wet it again with buckets of water, scrubbed it with scrub brushes, dried it with rags, and repeated the operation one more time. None of the drill instructors seemed satisfied, but there were other things to do.

Sergeant Hacker stood in the center of the aisle explaining and demonstrating About Face. As Hacker went over everything for the fourth time, Chalice stood thinking, ‘What kind of idiots does he take us for?’

“All right, hogs, we’re gonna try it now; and NOBODY better make a mistake.” Hacker remained in the center of the aisle while Morton and Green walked to opposite ends of the barracks, eyeing each man along the way as if they were moving in for the kill.

“
About,
HACE!” At least ten men turned to the left, and a few more ended up with their legs crossed. All three drill instructors exploded into action. Sergeant Green was glad for the opportunity to have another conference with Private Colson. Colson squinted his right eye as Green’s teeth clicked within an inch of it. “Are you winking at me, Sweet Pea?”

“
Sir, the Private wasn’t winking at you.
”

“
You?
YOU?”

“
Sir, the Private—
”

“DID I GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO SPEAK?”

“NO, SIR.”

“LISTEN, COME BUBBLE,
if you want to say something to me,
you say, ‘Sir, the Private requests permission to speak to the Drill Instructor.’
 
”

“Sir, the Private requests permission to speak to the Drill Instructor.”

“Oh, does he?” Green cooed. “What does the Private have to say that’s so important?”

Colson remained silent.

“WHAT DOES THE PRIVATE HAVE TO SAY?”

“Sir, the Private forgot.”

“Oh, the Private forgot,” Green replied in a soothing tone. “THE PRIVATE FUCKING FORGOT!” Green’s hand shot towards Colson’s neck. He squeezed as hard as he could — his face turning red while Colson’s turned white. “THE PRIVATE’S GONNA FORGET HOW TO BREATHE,
isn’t he?
”

“Aaaacccchhhh,” Colson replied.

“ISN’T HE?”

“Aaaacccchhhh.”

Green pulled his hand away just before Colson’s saliva reached it. “ISN’T HE?”

“Yes, sir,” Colson answered in a hoarse whisper.

“HUH?”

“YES, SIR.”

Green stepped back into the aisle as Hacker shouted, “
All right, hogs,
let’s try it again.
  
.
 
.
 
.
About,
HACE!” Only three men turned in the wrong direction, one for each drill instructor. Morton was immediately nose to nose with a tall, skinny black. “That was lovely, Sambo,
just fuck
ing lovely! You did that on purpose,
DIDN’T YOU?”

“
No, sir.
”

“HUH?”

“NO, SIR.”

“Are you trying to tell me you don’t know your left from your right?”

“NO, SIR.”

“Then you did it on purpose.
You’re trying to beat the system.
You’re making fun of me, AREN’T YOU?”

“No, sir.”

“HUH?”

“
No, sir.
”

“HUH?”

“NO, SIR.”

“WHAT’S YOUR NAME, PRIVATE?”

“MOBLEY.”

“WHAT?”

“MOBLEY, SIR.”

“WHAT?”

“SIR, THE PRIVATE’S NAME IS MOBLEY.”

“What’s your first name?
Thaddeus? Ambrose?
WILLIE?”

“
NO, SIR. The Private’s first name is Reginald.
”

Morton staggered backwards. “Reginald,
fucking Reginald?
Tell me something Reggie Baby: How do those black mammies think up all those fancy names?”

“Sir, the Private doesn’t know.”

“The Private doesn’t know a lot of things, doesn’t even know his left from his right. You
better get your shit together,
REGINALD, or you’ll find that
fancy
name of yours on a TOMBSTONE!”

“YES, SIR.”

The platoon continued practicing About Face for another hour. This allowed almost a third of the men the opportunity to have personal instructions shouted in their ears. Chalice managed to get by unnoticed. As frightened as he was, he still found some of the drill instructors’ comments amusing. What really astounded him was the stupidity of the men around him. Only six times had the entire platoon been able to perform About Face correctly, and never twice in a row. It seemed as if the men were taking turns at making blunders. Without much confidence, Chalice told himself that his own superior intelligence would prove useful.

Upon order, the men rushed out to the street and into a formation. Morton called cadence and headed them toward the mess hall. Green and Hacker ran around tripping and stomping on the feet of anyone who was out of step. Again Chalice had managed to place himself safely in the center of the formation. A distant humming sound baffled him. The sound increased to a harsh roar before Chalice realized what it was — a large group of Marines growling as they ran. Thinking that he was hearing at least a thousand men, Chalice didn’t dare turn his head.

“Hippity hop,
mob, stop!
” Morton shouted. The men bounced off each other like billiard balls.

Green sneered, “Lovely, just fucking lovely.”

“Left, HACE!” Morton commanded. It was a few seconds before everyone was facing in the right direction, many of the men having taken the long way around. “
Take a look, hogs.
” Chalice was surprised to see a company of three hundred men run by instead of the thousand they sounded like. They looked ridiculous, but each man was in step. They looked stupid but confident. They looked will-less but brutal. They looked like “professional killers in the service of the United States government.” Chalice was most astonished to see that they didn’t look anything like the confused sheep standing around him.

After the company passed, Morton waited over a minute before saying in an almost civilized tone, “Believe it or not, hogs, that’s what you’re gonna look like.”

“I don’t,” Chalice mumbled, knowing that he did.

The men went quickly through the serving line, all three drill instructors breathing on their necks. By having commands shouted in their ears, Chalice and the rest of his platoon quickly learned that there was a “Marine Corps way” to hold your tray, to carry your silverware, to focus your eyes, to place your tray on a tabic, to sit down, to sit up, to chew, to drink, and to lose your appetite.

Sergeant Green emphasized his instructions by leaping upon the tabic and pacing the length of it between the trays. Not daring to look anywhere but directly to the front, the men could hear Green’s shouts become louder and feel the table vibrate violently before they saw his boots stomp by at the edge of their trays.

“GET YOUR HEAD UP!
You’re sitting at attention,
JEWBOY!” Chalice was sitting next to Cowen. By reflex, he looked up at Green. “
Why the fuck are you eyeballing me,
YOU DUMB COLLEGE FAG?” Chalice jerked his head down, but Green wasn’t satisfied. He squatted directly in front of Chalice, and purposely spit saliva all over his tray as he shouted, “YOU GOT A CRUSH ON ME, FAG? You
wanna smoke my pole?
You’ll get it, BUT NOT IN YOUR MOUTH.
Fag,
if I ever catch you eyeballing me again,
I’m gonna gouge your eye out and
SKULL FUCK YOU!”

Chalice stared straight ahead at the lower half of Green’s enraged face, praying to be left alone, thinking, ‘He’d like to. He really would.’

The shouts from Hacker, Morton, and Green became more agitated as they warned the men they only had five minutes to finish every crumb of food on their trays. Chalice frantically stuffed his mouth, too busy to notice Green until his shiny boots were right in front of him, not even realizing he had glanced up until after he felt the metal tray slam against his chin and chest, heard it reverberating upon the concrete floor.

“What did I tell you about eyeballing me?” Green cooed. “HUH?”

Chalice remained motionless, his mouth still stuffed with food. It seemed to be hardening, trying to choke him. The rest of his food oozed slowly down his chest and settled between his legs. He felt as if he were swimming in a garbage can, slowly fighting his way to the surface for air.

“How about a poem, college creep?”

For the first time since he’d arrived at Parris Island, Chalice didn’t feel the least bit more intelligent than the men around him.

That night the recruits were herded into a small lecture room. It looked exactly like a college classroom, exactly like a college classroom invaded by a horde of Mongols. Four platoons of recruits sat at attention while their drill instructors shouted and stomped insanely up and down the aisles. But the real show was on the stage. The lecturer was an officer, a captain. He wasn’t speaking to the men, he was tyrannizing them. Shouting, waving his arms wildly, he tore back and forth across the stage like a gorilla trying to break out of a cage.

Dazed and awed, still able to smell the food caked across the front of his uniform, Chalice heard every word. He heard them because he couldn’t believe them. For almost an hour, the captain had been explaining to the men their rights under the Military Code of Justice. Each right he enumerated, each prohibition placed upon drill instructors, was a perfect example of a military law that had been flagrantly and continuously broken during the previous nine hours. “A recruit will be addressed by his superiors in no manner except that which indicates his rank, by the term ‘Private.’
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
A superior is prohibited from placing his hands upon a subordinate except by permission of that subordinate, and solely for the purpose of adjusting that subordinate’s uniform.”

Chalice sat stupefied. He could make no connection between what he was hearing and the things he had seen during the day. For a few minutes he almost had himself convinced that he was involved in an experiment, that for scientific purposes the United States Marine Corps had taken three hundred recruits and was seeing how quickly it could drive them all insane.