OBLIGATION

by Donald Stilwell

  “What’s that?”

  “The smartest guy I know joining the Marines, the dumbest guy you know going to college.”

  I had to smile at that. “Well, maybe you’re not so dumb, and perhaps I’m not so smart.”

  “I’m going to miss you and this place.”

  “Me too.”

  Peter pulled me in, held me close and didn’t let go. I felt the drying in my throat. Let it go with a sigh.

  When Peter pulled back his bearing was right again.

  We said our goodbyes, promised to keep in touch, everything the young say that disappears with the new light.

  The last night was for me. It had been close to five months since my grandfather’s passing, and I still saw him in every corner of that old house. Do the insane know they are insane? It was a question I had to ask, for every day I grew more at ease with speaking to his ghost out loud.

  I would walk the grounds, sit at the kitchen table, and build the fire, all while holding up my end of a conversation with a man who no longer existed. I didn’t care; I had stopped caring about many things since he left. I hadn’t touched a golf club since that fateful Saturday, and I never responded to the offer received from Stanford.

  I wasn’t sure how he would feel about that. That was a lie, I knew damn well how he would feel about that, he would think I was an idiot. Somehow, I thought he would be able to look beyond himself and appreciate what I felt I had to do, what all men feel they have to do at some point in their lives.

  I checked my watch; my bus would be leaving in seven hours. I should sleep. The thought left me as quickly as it had come. I wouldn’t sleep tonight, I would sit, I would keep the fire burning, I would think of him and smile and cry and remember.

  Marine

  I was sitting remarkably still for a boy who found adulthood quite by accident. The bus rolled on, a steady stream of silver amongst the plethora of cars and trucks which passed it. The minutes found the hours in the way they do when there’s nothing left to say and nothing left to do. I was tired, woefully so. My last night at the old house had been a sleepless one. Every time I closed my eyes the thoughts would retrieve whatever baggage I was trying to stow. Sleep never found me, and now I was here.

  It was nearing midnight. The bus pulled into underground parking in the downtown Greyhound terminal in San Diego.

  I recall looking from my seated position once more before exiting the bus. This was it I thought. The dreams I once had had vanished alongside of a man I had come to love more than anyone. He had done it, my father had done it, and now I would do it. I would step lightly onto the ground they had already treaded.

  A marine was waiting outside the bus. He stood by a white cargo van, slid the door open, and waited. It was obvious what we were supposed to do; however, not everyone realized without being told. There were eleven of us. All young, most scared. With minimal instruction, everyone boarded the van and sat in silence. Again, without having to be told to do so. It seemed the thing to do. Head down, mouth shut, we were on our way to being Marines.

  In twenty minutes we arrived. I watched the guard wave the van through with a very direct horizontal swipe of his right arm. His motion was precise.

  We rolled through the grounds of what felt like a tourist attraction, except the guys beside me never spoke, and the driver’s eyes never left the road directly in front of him. The van parked, and we were instructed to exit it, then enter a large yellow bus parked only six steps away. Odd I thought, why couldn’t the van just drive us to our final destination, what was with all the hoo-haw on and off of vehicles? This bus was nearly full of young men like myself. We filled in the remaining seats with very little distraction. Again, the place felt strange, not really real, like at any minute. . .

  A voice entered the bus in front of the man who owned it. He was large, black, and his hat, a “cover” I would soon learn, shielded his eyes from our view.

  “Get off of my bus!”

  He didn’t have to say it twice but he did, several more times in fact.

  The voice and the man followed us onto the concrete just outside the bus. In neat rows were painted yellow foot prints. The man whose voice pierced my tired soul advised we should find a set of foot prints and place our feet directly over them. As ordered, all of the boys formally on the bus were now standing on yellow foot prints, the toes pointing out at a 45 degree angle, with the heels touching.

  Everyone scurried as fast as possible. With the screaming of the drill instructor and the chaos of so many bodies all trying to land on the nearest set of foot prints, it was a wonder no one ended up in the emergency room, or sick bay, as it would now be known.

  Time is a measurement with which I am very familiar. I lived by it for the past eighteen years. Everyone I knew did as well, though some more or less than others.

  To the man, and now men screaming at us to hurry it up, move our collective worthless asses, and my personal favorite, “unfuck ourselves,” time was one thing we did not have enough of.

  This first night passed in a bizarre smudge of haircuts, (head shaving) equipment gathering (your old shit in a box, the battle dress and cheap government Issue boxers and socks) in hand, and a nightmarish amount of paperwork. It was nearing four in the morning when we left the brightly lit building and marched/walked to our first barracks.

  I was surprised, though I must admit pleasantly, when one of the drill instructors caught me doing push-ups behind my rack (bed) and ordered me to stop.

  I had only been doing them as an assist to wakefulness, and did not understand why someone, a drill instructor no less, would discontinue the practice.

  I should have been commended, offered up as an example of what to do with ten seconds of free time to the seventy or so others in my platoon. Instead, I was discouraged and left to feel like an insolent child. How hard could this be I ignorantly thought at the time. How hard in deed.

  The first week passed with about as much exertion as a boy scout’s meeting. Again, I was waiting for the hammer to fall. Could this be it? Don’t get me wrong, waking up at 0500 hours was a bitch, and the food was terrible, but the overall sense of panic and mental and physical stress my grandfather had spoken of was nowhere to be found.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  The second week began with a brief move from our barracks, to a barracks closer to the parade ground, or grinder, as it was termed by all that used it.

  I remember this part especially well:

  A sharp looking lieutenant, standing tall in front of us, with a speech of epic proportion, welcoming and thoughtful, expressed gratitude at our choice to become Marines, and guaranteed us acceptance no matter where we landed in the world. We were the finest fighting force on this earth. We were well on our way to becoming everything the recruiters had promised -- the few, the proud.

  A moment of overwhelm and reflection passed over everyone. He was right. This guy was telling it straight.

  At that moment of greatest self-satisfaction, of swelling so large the tears of my accomplishment almost rained down upon this god blessed land, the hammer finally fell. I recall the nice lieutenant saying a final word. Actually, it was two words. He had introduced three sturdy looking individuals, drill instructors all, but we had already had drill instructors. They were decent guys, doing their best to show us the way. They remained quiet and still, respectful of the lieutenant’s speech. But the speech ended. Those last words hung in the air uninterrupted for a microsecond.

  “Good luck.” Hadn’t that been the final words?

  Those were the final peaceful encouraging words we would hear for the next five months. Without another sound the lieutenant had turned on his heel and disappeared. His goodtime love replaced with the hounds of hell.

  Now, for some reason, one of the drill instructors, Sgt. Desky I believe it was, got my name confused with, “You fat piece of shit!”

  I know this, because every time he called out to me or ordered me to do something, invariably, my true name was re
placed with “fat piece of shit.” This only struck me as odd due to the fact I was now 6’2” and stacked upon that frame was 220 pounds of hard earned muscle.

  Perhaps with all good relationships, pet names had to be assigned, and “fat piece of shit” was more a term of endearment than an insult. Regardless, I was FPOS, and that was that.

  The first day of real boot camp came and went in an insult driven, psychopathic raging, blur of confusion. Not a minute passed without punishment, either in the verbal threatening context, or the face-on-the-ground-pushing-the-earth-beneath-you form. It was all so surreal. Truly it was. One day you’re learning to make your bed, march, salute, all within the reasonable caption of safety and sensibility, the next you’re running and jumping at your own shadow.

  These guys were not of this world. Somewhere in hell, a place as real it now seemed as Disneyland, a production line was shitting these sadists out. And it appeared they were limitless in production. You had your D.I.’s, the other platoon’s D.I.’s. Everywhere you walked, looked, ran, shit, pissed, there were drill instructors, and not those pussies we were left with the first week of this ordeal. No, no, these were the ones you knew had to be somewhere, lurking, waiting, sharpening the edge of their mental and physical blades, awaiting the opportunity to lance you through, watch you break, hear your cries, illicit your puke.

  We had been with the new D.I.’s less than a week when one of my platoon broke. We had all broken in one manner or another; I missed my home terribly, as did everyone here. This was different. This lad, recruit Duffin I think, had a total and complete meltdown, and no one was going to save him. Not for lack of trying, I mean we had learned we were a team, and a teammate does not get left behind, no matter what. We were on the way to evening chow when Desky, believing the platoon was out of step, or whatever he believed, stopped us to get bent.

  Getting bent was an every twenty to thirty minute occurrence in the first weeks of Basic. You fucked up or you didn’t, it didn’t matter, and you were put on your face.

  Push-ups, sit ups, bends and thrusts, mountain climbers, pole fuckers, running in place, it all added up to the same thing, discipline through pain compliance.

  We had been bending for only a minute or so when Duffin stood up, threw his cover to the ground, and announced he was done. Everyone was left in the front leaning rest position while Duffin was given individualized instruction.

  Duffin! Or Muffin, as Desky and the others often called him, was ordered to get back on the ground and assume the push up position. Duffin refused. In fact, he removed his outer blouse and threw that to the ground as well. Desky lost a fucking biscuit at this. His words rang through the compound:

  “You unbelievable piece of dog shit! You slimy, retarded fucking worm, are you trying to upset me? Are you testing me, Muffin? Is that it? Is this a fucking game to you, princess? Cause if that’s what it is, consider me Milton fucking Bradley! I’ve got games you’ve never heard of Muffin, games only you and I will play, and I god damned guarantee you, Muffin, you will not enjoy these fucking games! Now for the last time, and I sincerely mean the last fuck your mother time, get on your fucking face!”

  Like the call of the wild heard by only the most rapacious, several more drill instructors joined the circle Desky had created all by himself. It was feeding time, and the lions were hungry. We had been in the upper part of the push up position, arms fully extended now for several minutes. My ass and back ached. Through it all, no one dared move or break down, for the wrath of one of these assholes would follow.

  Duffin was in the middle of removing his pants when he was slammed to the ground by Desky.

  “Get up and unfuck yourself, Muffin!”

  Duffin ignored the order, just laid back and attempted to remove his boots.

  Desky, along with two others, pulled Duffin to his feet. Duffin lost it, as if removing all of your clothes out here wasn’t losing it enough. Duffin flailed, and in doing so hit Desky in the side of the face. The move knocked Desky’s Campaign Cover, the holy grail of all hats in the Marine’s arsenal, to the ground. Desky didn’t flinch, didn’t speak. He paused, bent over slowly, and picked up his cover, replacing it on his head as if it had never happened.

  Duffin, as if expecting his young life was now over, began screaming. “I quit, I quit, I quit!” He repeated the phrase at least a hundred times while being dragged away by the other drill instructors. Desky didn’t look back. He faced forward, told us to recover, and then marched us to the mess hall.

  I decided that day Marine Corps Drill Instructors are not the type of guys who end up on Oprah, spilling their guts, blubbering about past failures and the dreams they had of one day succeeding.

  These men train other men for war.

  They do so with one goal in mind -- take a soft shell and harden it, harden it to the point it is unbreakable. Desky was no monster. He was a man. Not unlike so many other men, he tried to do a job and sometimes, through no fault of his own, he failed.

  Time in this place was a misnomer. It was replaced with events. Certain events tested your ability to survive, others your ability to kill, and often times your ability to remain sane.

  I saw it for what it was. I knew the world could be a fantastic place filled with joy and delight, as well as I knew it to be filled with hate and ignorance. Marines weren’t sent to places where love ruled the land; they were perpetually playing a game on the dirty end of the field. It’s conceivable I relayed this high powered perception of life in my testing process, because currently I was being led back to where basic training began.

  The large and unremarkable building lay in front of me. The night where all of that paperwork and testing was administered seemed decades ago.

  My senior drill instructor, Staff Sgt. Warren, turned to me and remarked, “You know why you’re here Anderson?”

  I answered as we had been instructed to do so, so long ago, in the third person, “The recruit admits he does not, sir.”

  Warren looked down, smiled, looked back up.

  “You’re being considered for military intelligence. Your test scores were high enough, and your ability to grasp abstract concepts and interpret foreign language satisfactory enough, they want to administer more tests.”

  My focus remained constant. I didn’t react in any way, just answered, again as was custom, “Yes, sir.”

  Warren, the senior drill instructor, our host mother and father as was explained back in the beginning, was the only person who would cut you a moment’s slack, the only man on base who would offer a smile or word of kindness during your entire stay here. He did that now.

  “Look, Anderson, you’re a smart guy. One of the smartest I’ve ever seen come through basic. I don’t know why you didn’t go to school first; perhaps you selected to refrain from the frontal lobotomy that comes with Lieutenant Bars upon graduation of OCS. I don’t know. I don’t care.

  It pleases me one of our own, and in saying this I mean a kid with some fucking sense about him, is going to be on the side of the fence where common sense usually goes hand in hand with pink fucking elephants, you reading my lecture here son?”

  Warren was maybe five to six years my senior and looked as if he could have graduated with my senior class. The words he used, along with the meaning he intended, would have fit someone much older.

  The contrast broke my newly ingrained stoicness and for a brief second I smiled.

  Warren smiled back, then added, “You secure that shit and get inside Anderson.”

  Without looking back, Warren remarked, “You smart enough to find your way back to barracks when you’re done here?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good.” With that, he was gone. I walked inside the building having no idea what to expect.

  The Test

  Upon check-in, I was told I could stand on the wall, a common term for standing at attention or parade rest until someone instructed you to do otherwise. As was standard, I did so, opening and reading my Marine Corps Prac
tical Handbook, or PRAC as it was known to recruits, while waiting at attention, left hand holding the book, right hand down at my side, thumb in line with the side of my BDU pant leg. I had barely covered the page on field dressings when a slight man wearing an all tan uniform waved me in. He waited, holding the door, until I made my way to him. Indoors, we were without covers; therefore, I didn’t salute. I called him Sir as I moved to the side of him awaiting direction. I glanced at his black name tag. The name Joshua was inscribed, with a myriad of initials next to it.

  “I’m Doctor Joshua, if you will follow me, please.” The doctor smiled briefly. It was apparent he was not used to doing so, for the gesture looked forced, out of place on his smallish face. We walked for what seemed an eternity. His office was located at the end of a long grey hallway. He stepped inside without pause, asked me to do the same, and pointed at a gray steel chair with equally grey upholstery. I didn’t look about the office, but saw everything. It was whitewash with a few framed documents adorning the otherwise bare walls.

  Dr. Joshua was a naval doctor. However, he had the knack for limiting bullshit and practicing directness just like every Marine I had encountered in my short time here.

  “Do you know why you’re here, Anderson?”

  “The recruit was told further testing, sir.”

  “Something like that. Outside of basic, you ever get into any fights? Let me preface that by adding, not a pushing match, or a slap fight with your best friend, but a knockdown, one guy left standing type of romp?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Win or lose?”

  “Win, sir.”

  “How did you feel afterward?”

  “Sir?”

  “Easy question, Anderson. How did you feel at beating another boy, man? I’m sorry. Which would it have been?”

  “A boy, sir.”

  “And that was a fight to the finish encounter?” The doctor framed the question as an interrogator would to a less than truthful suspect.