PVCC Puma Press: April 2006

“Lights out! Lights out! Lights out!” bellows the fire watch across platoon barracks. He issues the command and hits a file of light switches beneath a pull-up bar. Fluorescent tubes on the ceiling buzz and expire, emitting a soft crunch. Seventy-eight Marine Corps recruits uniformly adjust the covers and lie down.
Silence.

Dear Roman,

I hope you have been getting all your letters. I was extremely happy to find yours in the mailbox last night. I hope they don’t throw blankets over people’s heads at night and beat them senseless like they did during the Vietnam War. Are they being mean to you? I am happy if this letter makes you happy, but I will be happiest when it is all over.
Love,
Laura

A PA system in the distance plays a recording of the “Last Post.” The plaintive sound of the trumpet signals the end of a training day. It is one of the few moments of calm recruits experience in the first phase of training.

The trumpet recording stops and bed racks begin to screech as recruits turn on their mattresses and cover themselves wholly with green blankets. One fire watch stands post in front of the barracks entrance, while the other strolls past the racks, checking the alignment of combat and jungle boots. He proceeds to secure the portholes and make sure every recruit is present.

I lie on the top bunk facing the airport and follow departing airplanes through the spotless window. I elevate my neck and imagine looking down from a high altitude at the training grounds. I long for airplane peanuts, large cubes of ice in a plastic cup of tomato juice, travel magazines, mandatory emergency procedures and a familiar city.

A plane sinks through scattered clouds. Its taillights blink red intermittently before disappearing completely.

Fire watch approaches me and I instinctively put my head on the pillow and reach for the covers. Under the covers, I am away from boot camp. I am back home in embarrassing flannel pajama pants with varicolored stripes. My hair is long and messy, my face unshaven. My equally untidy cat can’t be far from dry food.

Beneath the covers I keep my mail and reread each page carefully. I reach for envelopes under the pillow, thumb at a half-peeled 37-cent stamp and pat a girly print.

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	As soon as he strode away, I felt like a dog that failed to deliver the paper after it had been trained to do so. 'It is just a part of their game,' I thought
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I keep the recent letters nearby. I need the motivation. My body is exhausted but cannot sleep, because pneumonia makes me cough and vomit. Morale is low, but I memorize excerpts of a letter to keep me going.

Dear Roman,

I’ve been reading all about boot camp. I don’t think I know many people who could do it. So it’s incredible that you are. I have also decided that when you get out, you have to live nearby because I think you’re the most quali fied person I’ll know to be around in case a zombie attack ever occurs. I may not be fond of the military or the possibility of you getting injured, but what you are doing is an incredible test of strength.
Love,
Laura

Events of the day disturbed me. After a night of muffling coughs with a pillow and swallowing mucus, getting up for morning chow was a relief.

Fire watch turned on the lights and circled the racks, shaking each forcibly in passing. I hastily put on trousers, buttoned my shirt and bloused my boots.

Following morning formation, my platoon headed for obstacle courses. Marching was not a problem, but fresh air filled my lungs with lead, and heavy morning mist looked ominous.

Eyes covered with a feverish glaze, I navigated through a myriad of obstacle courses until a coughing fit seized me. I took a sip from a canteen. The coughs increased. Taking a deep breath, I bent over in discomfort and unintentionally vomited on the sand.

The scene had not gone unnoticed.

An unfamiliar drill instructor rushed toward me, leaving a thick cloud of dust in his wake. His face was twisted into a menacing scowl, the muscles on his neck bulged from a green sweatshirt and his lower jaw projected forward exposing a thick lip and a set of beautiful teeth.

I knew what to expect.

He stopped in front of me while I stood at attention, unsuccessfully repressing wheezes and coughs. The brim of his campaign cover touched my forehead as he sputtered and growled. He shouted into my eyes, his spit blinding me.

My only right then was to respond with “Yes sir!” “No sir!” “Aye-aye sir!”

To keep my composure I thought of minute things: an assortment of tea bags on the kitchen shelf in my apartment, pink, yellow and blue sugar packets strewn around a built-in microwave oven, dull silverware in a plastic tray and dirty dishes huddled in the sink.

He was no less irritated when I stood still, but the next succession of coughs infuriated him beyond restraint.

As quickly as I managed to regroup, he grabbed me by the belt, forcibly drew me forward and, swiftly unclamping my belt buckle, withdrew the belt and flogged me across the face. The tip of the gilded buckle landed on the back of my head and opened a small gash that stung and throbbed with uncomfortable heat.

As soon as he strode away, I felt like a dog that failed to deliver the paper after it had been trained to do so. But it is just a part of their game I thought.

Drill instructors are there to push all recruits past their limits, thereby doing away with a civilian identity unfit to survive this uncompromising life. To affect this purpose, they look for insecurities and exploit them. Drill instructors embody the fears recruits feel and use it when needed motivation is lacking.

They are recruits’ worst fears. I have not yet seen them rest, but they never seem to lack energy to make me regret joining their corps.

I remembered a poster of a square-jawed marine in a recruiter’s office. Wrinkles around his eyes stretched past his cheekbones, and his eyes were fixed on me. The caption below the poster read, “Just think of me as your new guidance counselor.”

As I watched my platoon navigate the obstacle course while a corpsman treated my wound, I felt disheartened. Rigors of this new life started to wear on me. I could tell that every other recruit was feeling the same; it was hard not to. I questioned my motives for joining the Corps and thought of home, again.

Dear Roman,

I sincerely hope that you are getting what you hoped for out of this experience. Maybe it’s too early to tell. It’s hard to believe that you still have so much ahead of you. I’ve been trying to imagine what it’s like. I think I romanticize it a lot in my head. But I bet it is dismal and dreary and romantic. No matter what, it will make you stronger. Remember that you have people back in Texas who love and miss you!

Love,
Laura

After a morning of exercising, the platoon reformed and marched to afternoon chow, thumping the pavement with heels. Before halting, I perceived a congregation of military police marines crowded around an exit adjoining the barracks. All platoons were ordered to leave the scene.

Before resuming the march, I noticed blood pooling around the feet of busy corpsmen.

It trickled forth from the forehead of someone I fought to recognize. I remembered sharing meal vouchers with him at the airport to pay for a meal. I could not comprehend how he ended sprawled on the ground, his skull possibly cracked, his jaw askew, and an eye torn open.

The platoon was later informed about the incident: an attempted suicide. The corpsmen dogmatically added that the recruit jumped from a barracks landing because he could not endure the demands of training.

Weak, unmotivated, and foolish were the words used repeatedly by the instructors. I did not disagree with them but could not help but feel dread at what remaining here could mean.

I shuddered thinking of what the recruit had done to escape and turned restively in my bunk.

There are nine weeks left before graduating and Christmas leave, and I must persevere.

Dear Roman,

I am back in my bedroom in Houston for the first time since you left for boot camp. I watched some training videos online and the recruits all looked so skinny and tired. And one of them had terrible sunburn. I hope you are not too skinny and tired. We will have to fatten you up over the Christmas break. We all miss you so much. I hope you are staying healthy. Soon you will be back here with us.

Love,

Laura

The first four weeks of bootcamp were the toughest, but upon completion of this first phase I have grown accustomed to training.

Remaining weeks went by quickly: the drill instructors slowly abandoned their rough demeanor because getting yelled at no longer phased recuits, days got shorter and colder as the holidays approached, and before long, our platoon of 78 marched across the parade deck on graduation day.