Heroes Don't Run

by Harry Mazer

  Corporal Peeler demonstrated how to make up a bed the marine way. “Now let’s see what you can do,” he said. “You’ve got five minutes.”

  I knew the drill, had learned it from my father on his regular Saturday inspections of my room. First tuck in and draw tight the bottom sheet, then the top sheet, then the blanket—everything pulled taut and tucked in the same way. I folded the second blanket at the foot of the bed.

  I was the first one done, and I looked around to see if Ben or anyone needed help. Just then Corporal Peeler appeared from his room at the end of the barracks. “Atten-shun,” I yelled, and snapped to at the foot of my bunk.

  Corporal Peeler didn’t find much that he liked. “Didn’t your mama ever learn you nothing?” he said to one man, and then to another, “Tear it up and do it over.”

  He went right down the line, dropping a coin on each blanket to see if it bounced back. Out of the whole barracks, only a handful of us had it right. Two military school graduates and me. At my bed he bounced the coin, caught it, and said, “You! I know you. Where’d you learn that?”

  “My father, sir.”

  “In the marines?”

  “Sir. No, sir, navy.”

  “Navy! What are you doing here, bluejacket?” He made it sound like a curse. “You’re in the wrong camp. This is the marines! You think you’re better than the rest of us?”

  “Sir?”

  “I asked you a direct question, bluejacket. You think you’re better than the rest of these boots?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You think the navy is better than the marines?”

  “No, sir!”

  “What’s your father know?”

  I blinked, then I said, “Sir, he died at Pearl Harbor.”

  That seemed to really enrage Corporal Peeler. “You watch your step, cheeseface. I got my eye on you.” He tore my bed apart. “I’ll show you the marine way. The rest of you monkeys watch. This is the last time I do it. This is how a regulation marine bed is made.”

  Stupid, I thought. It was exactly the way I’d done it.

  Easy. I could almost hear my father saying it. Don’t do that. When you’re in the military, it’s not like civilian life. You keep your counsel, you do what you’re told. Even if you don’t understand it, there’s a reason.

  Afterward Ben gave me that half smile of his. “Corporal Peeler really likes you, Pelko, but he doesn’t want the rest of us to get jealous.”

  That afternoon, after some serious marching that left me in a sweat, we went to the barbers. They were waiting for us, electric clippers and jokes ready. The floor around their chairs was thick with hair. “Don’t worry if we take a little too much off. We’ve got some glue here, so you can paste it back on.”

  Sergeant Bessie picked out Roy to go first, because of his thick head of curly hair. “You, Shirley Temple, get up here, front and center.”

  It was over in less than a minute. Roy stood there with his hand on his naked head, looking down at his curls on the floor. He didn’t look like himself anymore. Neither did I when they were done with me. None of us did. We were as alike as a bunch of naked chickens with ears, but when I put on the overseas cap with the marine emblem, I thought, This is the way a marine looks. Corporal Peeler, as he always did, put everything in perspective. “Maybe you think this makes you marines, but right now you’re about as much use as elephant farts.”

  The next day, right after breakfast, we went for our medical. We were each given our medical chart with our thumb prints on it. Then we stripped down to our Skivvies and lined up. After that it was like a factory production line, moving from doctor to doctor to corpsman to doctor again. We were poked and prodded. It was, “Open wide…. Read the second line from the bottom…. Balance on one foot, now bend over….”

  When we got to the shots, the corpsmen had a great time joking. “Relax, Mac, I’m not going to break the needle off in your arm. Only happens once in a while.” And then the corpsman next to him showed us a pair of horse pliers. “You guys are lucky. No more square needles.”

  “Funny guys,” Roy said. His voice seemed a little squeaky. He was behind me, shifting from foot to foot. The next time I looked around, he was sitting on the floor, with his head between his legs, almost passed out.

  That day ended with two dog tags on a chain with our names and serial numbers and religions inscribed on them. “Two,” the private who threw me the tags explained. “One, the corpsman puts in your mouth when your luck runs out, and the other one he keeps for the record.”

  The next day started at 0500 with a whistle, lights, and Corporal Peeler ordering, “Off your butts and on your feet. You have fifteen minutes to fall out.” We did calisthenics in the half dark, then cleaned the barracks, and after that we jogged, double time, to breakfast.

  Back in the barracks Sergeant Bessie watched while Corporal Peeler showed us the marine way to stow our gear in the footlockers and explained the pails, soap, and brush each of us had been issued.

  “That’s soap for you dirt balls. You don’t eat it. It’s for washing your Skivvies and socks, and the rest of your gear. What’d you say?”

  “Sir! Yes, sir,” we yelled.

  After a while Sergeant Bessie took over and started lecturing us. “I run a clean ship. No crumbs or cockroaches in my barracks. That means no food. Ever! And now, throw your wallets on the blankets and empty them out. You won’t need money while you’re here. Keep what you need for smokes,” Sergeant Bessie was saying, “paper and stamps, that stuff. Store the rest of it with the chaplain or send it home. I don’t want to encourage thieves in my barracks.”

  He walked up and down, checking our wallets, looking at the photos. “The same goes for dirty pictures.” He stopped at Andy’s bunk and made him tear up all his pinup photos. “Drop it on the floor. Now clean it up! The rest of you have any dirty stuff, get rid of it right now.”

  Later Andy told us, “It was just some pictures of Lana Turner in a bathing suit.”

  “Maybe she forgot to wash her face,” Ben said.

  For the rest of the day we were on the move, drilling, marching, doing calisthenics. It was snapping to attention, saluting, and yelling in unison, “Yes, sir! … No, sir! … Sir, I hear you, sir!” We stopped only for meals. That night, I was asleep the minute I hit the bed.

  It went that way every day for the next six weeks.

  Mornings we had fifteen minutes to shave, shower, and dress. If Sergeant Bessie found one speck on your face, he would have you scrape your skin bare with a razor for half an hour. There was punishment for everything.

  If a guy was a little slow or didn’t understand something right away, he was in trouble. He got pushed, prodded, yelled at. “Get the lead out!” We were all hit with that stick. We were all called dirt balls, girls, whiners. You could get yourself in trouble without even knowing what you’d done wrong and end up scrubbing the toilets with a toothbrush or “riding the range,”—being sent to the kitchen to clean the greasy grills with steel wool till you stunk so bad you couldn’t stand yourself.

  One morning I was mopping the barracks, taking wide sweeps, thinking I didn’t join the marines to be a mop boy. I didn’t see the DI, and my mop passed over his shiny black boots. I knew I was in trouble. I dropped the mop and snapped to attention. “Sir! Sorry, sir!”

  Before the words were out of my mouth, he punched me in the belly, sending me down to one knee, sucking for air. Nobody said anything. Nobody thought anything of it. It was what I deserved for being careless. I was lucky the punishment wasn’t worse.

  Boot camp shook the civilian out of all of us fast. Never enough sleep. Midnight calisthenics, and ten-mile hikes running with full packs, and Corporal Peeler barking at our heels, “You sissies, you friggin’ goof-offs, you goldbricks!” Most nights, the lights went out and I was asleep, and then it was morning, and a whistle blew, and Corporal Peeler was charging through the barracks, dumping anyone still in his bunk onto the floor.

  I did everythi
ng I could not to draw the DI’s or Peeler’s notice again. If we were running—and we were running all the time—I never let myself be in back like Roy. Ben and I kept telling Roy he had to try harder, stay in the pack, not draw their attention. I always tried to keep up with Ben, who was the best boot of us all.

  Ben didn’t look that strong, but he could run faster and go longer than anyone, so there was no explaining why Corporal Peeler got on him. But there was no explaining Corporal Peeler. He was like a dog with a bone. He just needed to have someone to chew on. It started with Ben’s last name. “You think you’re the brightest one around here?” Corporal Peeler said one morning when we were out on the drill field.

  “No, sir.”

  “I say you are, Bright.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re bright?”

  “Sir?”

  “Don’t sir me. I say you are.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bright is going to show the rest of you thumb suckers how push-ups should be done,” Corporal Peeler said. “Step right up, Bright. Give me twenty.”

  Ben did twenty push-ups.

  Corporal Peeler asked for twenty more.

  Ben gave him twenty more.

  Then he wanted forty.

  Ben gave him forty. He was beating Corporal Peeler, and we all knew it. He went to one hundred and then to one hundred ten, and then he couldn’t. He lay there, gasping for breath, with Corporal Peeler standing over him.

  “Okay, Bright, on your feet.”

  Ben stood up. He never said a word about it afterward. It was the rest of us who cursed Corporal Peeler. We all hated him, and he hated us back.

  Dear Mom,

  Things are swell here. The food is great, I’m in a barracks, have a dry, clean bed. They keep everything super-clean here. They take good care of us. It’s hot, but it could be worse. They keep us busy, but you know what Dad always said, “Everything’s got a reason.” I know I have a lot to learn, and we have lectures and demonstrations. I’ve got The Rules and Regulations of the U.S. Navy down cold, and I’ve memorized the Eleven General Orders.

  One of the first things I learned was that my weapon is a rifle, not a gun. Mom, any boot who says gun ends up holding the rifle at arm’s length till his arm falls off! The marines are tough, but that’s good for me. Don’t expect to see the happy-go-lucky kid I was before I left Bakersfield. I see things differently now. I still have fun, but I’m not goofing off. I think about things now. I’m a lot more serious. Life is serious. Well, we’re going to have to fall out in a few minutes, so I’ll sign off.

  Your loving son,

  Adam, USMC

  P.S. I hope you’re getting the postcards I’ve been sending. I could sure use another letter from home, from you, and Bea too. It better not be a penny postcard, either!

  Dear Nancy,

  Remember me? I’ve never forgotten you. You were my best friend in high school, but I only heard from you once since you and your mom moved to Oakland. I thought you English-teacher types liked to write letters.

  Me, why haven’t I written? I’m not going to be an English teacher. Don’t ask me what I’m going to be, though. Right now, I want to be the best marine I can.

  My mother wrote me that she heard you joined the Women’s Army Corps. You’re a Wac, and you never told me? Well, I’m a marine. What do you think of that? I’m not the little green-pea guy you used to know. My DI here—that’s drill instructor to you GIs—said he was going to make marines out of us or kill us trying. And he’s sure trying! I’ve never been worked so hard in my life. Rain or shine, we’re out there marching, drilling, doing jumping jacks, crawling through obstacle courses, and getting shot at! It’s to teach us to keep our be hinds down, so I’m not complaining. Except about the no-see-ums. I hate them. I don’t know what you call them, but some people call them sand flies or black flies, or names you don’t want to hear. They’re smaller than a pinhead, and they swarm around your face when you’re standing at attention and can’t move. They bite! Tiny, red-hot stabs. Thousands of them. Some guys are allergic and their necks swell up like balloons. Maybe go to sick bay to get some relief but if you do, you get called a sissy goof-off goldbrick.

  Anyway, Nancy, you probably know all about this stuff Army training can’t be that different from marines. Ours is tougher, of course, there’s nothing tougher than the marines, but I’m proud of you being in the service, and I told all my friends here about it. They wanted to see your picture, so how about it? Yd love to see it too. The army is lucky to have you. Why didn’t you join the marines’ Women’s Reserve? Then you and I could have won this war by ourselves.

  Your old friend,

  Pvt. Adam Pelko, USMC

  Dear Davi,

  It was sure great hearing from you. How’s school going? I know, you can’t tell me. I don’t think I’ll be here too much longer, and then we ship out. Scuttlebutt is we’re going to the Pacific, and if you do too, maybe we’ll meet up.

  I don’t know what army training is like for you, but I don’t think there’s anything to compare to marine boot camp. Sometimes I think they’re out to kill us. They sure want to break us down from being civilians and make us mean and hard and wanting to kill.

  Yesterday I wanted to kill the DI, who went after one of my buddies, Roy King, for no reason. Roy’s a really good egg, always got a smile on his face. I guess marines aren’t supposed to smile. We were standing at attention and the DI dug his baton into Roy’s back. I didn’t see it, but I heard Roy react. Another thing marines aren’t supposed to do.

  He could have been court-martialed right there. Sergeant Bessie said, “Say again, mister?” Roy kept saying, “Nothing, sir. I didn’t say anything, sir.” I don’t know how many times he said it. I was afraid Sergeant Bessie was going to club Roy or kick him cockeyed. He was screaming at him. He pulled him out of line. “You questioning me, you piece of dirt? I’ll do any damned thing I want, and you keep your trap shut.”

  These drill sergeants are maniacs. They can do anything they want. My father taught me that about the military a long time ago. Sergeant Bessie dismissed the rest of us and left Roy standing out there in the sun for the rest of the day. No water. Nothing. He passed out. The corporal went out there and poured water on him, and then he made him stand at attention again till chow time.

  I can’t prove it, but I think they do it to get us so mad we want to kill. Them! Then they know we’re ready to fight.

  Write when you have a chance.

  Your friend,

  Pvt. Adam Pelko, USMC

  In the beginning of December we were issued rifles: World War I, .30 caliber 1903 Springfields. “This is my first gun,” Roy said. “Only gun I ever had before this was a BB gun.”

  “Rifle,” Andy reminded him. “Not ‘gun,’ rifle.” He had his rifle on his shoulder. “Finally, we’re making some progress.”

  Roy was swinging the rifle left and right.

  “You’re holding that rifle like a canoe paddle,” Andy said. “Look at me, on my shoulder, the way I’m holding it. Right, Pelko?”

  “My dad always talked about the Springfields,” I said. “They never fail, that’s what he said. I was given one of these at Pearl Harbor.” I had told them how I’d been a “marine” for a day, when I was just fourteen.

  Ben, who had been standing there sighting his rifle, said, “You’re going to love it, Roy. You want to hold it this way, Roy, firmly, against your shoulder.”

  We learned to field strip the rifles and reassemble them blindfolded. Drop your rifle, and you had to take it to bed with you for a week. A dirty rifle? Don’t even think of it. Toward the end of that month, we moved to the rifle range, a windswept open area off the ocean, bigger than a football field, with targets that were set up at 50, 100, 200, and 500 yards. We all wanted to get to that firing range, but I guess it wasn’t our turn yet. Instead, what we got was mess hall duty. KP, kitchen police. Peel vegetables, scrub pots, and mop floors.

  “First
the kitchen range,” Ben said, “then the firing range. That’s the way we do it in the marines.”

  But there were more days—dry runs “snapping in”—practicing firing our unloaded rifles from different positions. Standing, sitting, kneeling, and lying prone. “Aim, breathe, and squeeze,” over and over. We learned to zero in our rifles, adjust the sights, make windage adjustments, and change the elevation for long distances.

  It was New Year’s before we started shooting at the targets. The rules were strict on the shooting line. Point your rifle the wrong way, and you’d get slugged. Anybody could hit you, because you were a threat to everyone.

  In front of each target was a grass-covered mound called the butt, and behind each butt was a marine who raised a paddle to show the shooter how close he got to the bull’s-eye. My first day shooting, I thought I was going to do really well.

  I was in the prone position. I loaded, locked, and waited for the range officer. “Ready on the right,” he cried. “Ready on the left. Ready on the firing line. Commence firing!” There was an uneven crackle of gunfire. I wasn’t ready for my rifle’s recoil and it threw my aim off. I ended up with “Maggie’s drawers,” the dreaded red paddle for missing the target completely.

  To get out of boot camp, we had to score at least “marksman” on the day we fired for record. Roy was really worried, and we kept telling him, “You’re going to do fine.” He scraped through and got his marksman rating. Andy did the same. I got “sharpshooter.”

  Ben was the only man in our platoon who made “expert.” The range instructor and all the other instructors came to watch him. No matter how far the target, he hit more bull’s-eyes than anyone. Later I saw Sergeant Bessie talking to him.

  “Bessie wants me to stay and be an instructor,” Ben said on the chow line that night.

  Andy gave him a thumbs-up. “Ben wouldn’t do that,” Roy said. “Would you, Ben?”