“He was a really angry boy.”
“Fair enough. When you won, was it because he gave up, or did you render him incapable of continuing?”
“I knocked him out, sir, so I suppose incapable.”
“So my original question, how did you feel when you saw a boy lying there at your hand?”
I thought of that day, the bullshit and filth spewed by Jimmy. I was caught off-guard by how an event from so long ago had made an eerily deep connection into my emotional response mechanism.
“I felt justified,” I paused, “and sad.”
Dr. Joshua scribbled something down on a notepad he was holding.
“Did you tell anybody what had happened?”
“It was in the middle of a school day so I didn’t have to.”
“Were you punished?”
“Not really, a day’s suspension.”
“And how about your guardians, how did they respond?”
An image of my grandfather flashed before me.
“Very well, as I recall. He asked if I was okay and left it at that.”
“Must have been raised by a man who had encountered a few fights himself.”
“Yes sir.”
“What about now, Anderson? You enlisted in the Marine Corps, so I’m assuming fights don’t scare you.”
“No, sir, they don’t.”
“If I may digress just a bit, can you tell me why you felt sad?”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“A moment ago, when asked about your boyhood fight, you mentioned you felt sad at beating up another kid. Can you elaborate?”
I’d already forgotten I’d said that. It was a random emotion that found light with the memory of Jimmy lying there, and how my grandfather would perceive me afterward. “Yes sir, well, the recruit was given instruction on fighting and a deal was made along with the lessons not to use my skills unless absolutely necessary. I felt guilty, or sad, at letting my grandfather down.”
Dr. Joshua smiled again. I didn’t look too closely. “Your grandfather sounds like a wise man.”
I looked at him then and answered, “He was, sir.”
Dr. Joshua placed his notepad on the desk and picked up the receiver of an ancient beige colored telephone. “I’m all done here, you can take him away.”
Dr. Joshua returned the receiver to its cradle.
“Wait outside the door, Anderson. Someone will be here for you shortly.”
“Yes sir.”
As practiced, I removed myself from the chair with formal stiffness and turned smartly on my heel, leaving the doctor to whatever remained of his day.
Once outside of the office, I was greeted by a young Marine and led to another office, sort of. This one was even smaller than the last and seemed to be a good distance away from the rest of the offices in this building. I was instructed to wait inside, and did so. Time passed with no one entering, so once again I pulled the only literature I had from my camo pocket. I had read the PRAC cover to cover twice. Not unlike grade school, this place preserved the time honored tradition of asking permission to use a restroom, or head, as it was known here. With no intercom present, no button to push for outside assistance, I spoke openly, to the surrounding walls.
“The recruit requests permission to use the head.”
A tall black man entered the viewing room alongside Dr. Joshua. He didn’t say anything, and didn’t move more than was necessary. He focused on the monitor which produced a detailed frame of a room close by.
I was led to the head by another young marine. He pointed to a door and walked away. I didn’t hesitate with formalities, just found the nearest urinal and let loose. Piss concluded, I moved to a nearby sink to wash up. As was often the case on this base, there was no mirror to gander into as I ran the cold water over my hands. I figured the Corps didn’t really see the point, we all had the same haircut, same uniform, same attitude, you could just look at the guy next to you and get the basic concept. I reflexively straightened as the first of two men walked in. My earlier belief of sameness was quickly eradicated.
Both were dressed in black combat fatigue without insignia or name plate.
I looked for a paper towel dispenser, found none, and moved to leave, wiping my hands together briskly as I went.
In another room, the tall black man nodded without looking at Dr. Joshua. The doctor spoke briefly into a handheld radio.
I didn’t look either man directly in the eye. As was practice, I said the customary “by your leave gentlemen” and shifted out of their way to move past. It was all so ingrained now, the bowing down, the role of subordinate to everyone not in your platoon, not going by the first name, recruit. At first, I hated it. I felt somehow inferior and less than human at faking this position one spot up from duck shit on the things most-important-in-life list. One man, they resembled each other so completely I wouldn’t have been able to tell you who flipped the knob lever counter clockwise on the door’s deadbolt.
I don’t remember thinking anything of it at the time, an honest mistake, also ingrained by habit, when one enters a bathroom, so I nodded and moved forward to unlock the door and exit the room. The man nearest the door bent slightly and pushed out forcefully with both hands. As I felt the action reverberate through me, I had an odd thought, Well this is weird? The thought lingered only as long as it took me to crash into the closest point behind me. The sink stopped my rearward momentum and bit sharply into my lower back. I heard the other one before I saw him. I ducked as my training dictated I should just as a large right hand sailed overhead.
In the time it takes to say “Why?“ this mutual delivery of violence was unfolding. I didn’t know why, didn’t have time to ask; the party had fast-forwarded well beyond polite chit-chat.
A few months of Marine Corps Boot Camp, (psychological and physical torture) will do one of two things to a person.
1). Break them
2). Really piss them off
“Good morning America how are you? Don’t you know me I’m your favorite son, I’m the one they call the city of New Orleans, and I’ll be running 500 miles when the evening comes.” The melody found me along with my true nature, the one handed down by a lineage of fighting men. I was afforded no opportunity to regain balance, no second’s pause to recover a comfortable fighting stance, just the breath’s beat to find the nearest piece of flesh to destroy.
One set of hands grabbed low and the other high, I remember that. What followed? Not a real mystery, but if quizzed a moment after it was all over, I wouldn‘t have recalled much.
The capable men began the lion’s art of tactics. I knew we were going to the ground; it’s what teams of attackers (predators) do. I found soft flesh on an otherwise sturdy individual. I heard his screams, and tasted his blood as the once powerful hands released their grip in an effort to replace what was already lost.
His partner was well trained. He didn’t freak, didn’t move to assist him, just let go his first position and rapidly moved to mount. It might have even worked had this been the old me, the one who believed in things and played golf and read books and drank tea.
He found his place as he was trained to do. His thighs felt strong and dependable. He pressed down making his real weight and perceived weight far heavier. I allowed it, let his confidence take him where the gym training had taken him many times before.
This is where he would begin in earnest, the beating, raining down lefts and rights to my unprotected face.
I bucked once, shot my hips and waist upward with enough momentum to carry him even further up my chest. He must have thought me an idiot, increasing his advantage to where he was now atop my throat. His screams matched that of his partner’s. He leapt forward, throwing himself off of me as my teeth sank into the softest part of his inner thigh. I followed, teeth still burying, ripping, pulling. He was on his back now doing everything he could to wriggle away. I released him but not without malice.
My heart and mind were racing. This was per
manent, this was exciting and dangerous and absurd, who the hell were these guys? What kind of test was this? What would they be serving in the mess hall tonight? I hope it’s Italian. On Italian nights you get pizza and spaghetti, Christ the carbs are necessary with all the goddamned running we do. I stood, moved a fraction backward, and kicked to beat the band. In my head that famous Mexican sports announcer was screaming into the microphone, “GOAL!!!!” “GOAL!!!”
“Now it’s a party, huh, boys? C’mon motherfuckers, let’s do this shit!” Was I saying that gay crap out loud? Fighting will do that to a person, make you say the dumbest shit you’ve ever said in your life. I had divvied up the penalty kicks with random abandon. There was no chart of measure for this; the chaos theory was raining supreme. Another melody played, one for you, and one for you, another for you, and more for you. Okay, maybe there was a system in place.
Back in the observing room, Dr. Joshua’s anxiety was not lost on the tall black man, “He’s going to kill them, Will.”
The room went black. My thoughts followed. I was panting. In the dark it was the only sound and it was troublesome. A voice came over an intercom.
“Recruit Anderson, recover.” Without really meaning to, I came to attention. I didn’t snap to attention as I would have any other time, but something real close to it.
Again with the training. I thought as I stood there completely disheveled, but in proper form. It worked. One minute I’m out of control treating this shitter like Khan’s last conquest, the next I’m standing erect for inspection. I heard the door’s lock disengage with a click and pop. The door itself opened noiselessly. Some Marine with a can of WD-40 had been to this location. The lights remained out, but ambient light poured over the recently fallen like Vermont maple syrup. They looked pretty bad, one crumpled mess next to another. I chose to keep all possibilities for the next instant available. Who knew what was next?
Another Marine was standing at the opening, a female this time.
“This way Anderson.”
I followed her, if for no other reason than to be away from what had just transpired, and obviously it was what was expected, training, (brainwashing).
In another room, this one appointed with a table and two chairs, I was told to sit down and did so without question. The room dimmed as the door shut, leaving me and the table and chairs to get to know one another. An unknown amount of time passed in subdued lighting. I had all the objective symptoms of adrenaline rush/dump come and pass. I remember laughing, shaking uncontrollably, exhaustion, hunger, fatigue with the unending desire to lie down and sleep, but most of all, I felt relief, well at the end at least.
I was alive. I thought about the two men repeatedly. I tried my hardest to recreate the events of the last hours with some success.
I remembered the size of them, the quiet efficiency, the tempo of their assault, but for the life of me I couldn’t recall their faces. Movement, speed and agility, I remembered that, they were strong and determined, and by my perception bent on hurting me. What did I do? You did what you had to, Kevin. Yeah, yeah I did that, didn’t I? It was all so fast, so smudged together, eyes, noses, ears, thighs, and of course, heads. Heads you win, and tails? Well tails would mean you were ass out, or ass up. In any case, I acted as anyone would in a similar circumstance. I was presented with a threat, and I engaged said threat as I was trained to do so. No one trained you to kick and stomp the head of a downed man Kevin, that was all you pal.
In that room not so far away the doctor and the tall black man spoke, neither looking at the other, both focused on a video feed of the room Kevin now occupied.
Will spoke quietly, his eyes never leaving the image of Kevin. “Kid’s got the heart of a lion, just like his father.”
The doctor responded in kind, “Six months ago I would have disagreed and would have argued that anyone placed in that particular situation would fight to save their own life. Not anymore, not after the others. He is . . . different.”
Will looked to Dr. Joshua then, a sober tone reflected upon his face, “You wanted to say monster.”
The doctor nodded, “He did, at least by outward appearances seem to have a taste for it?”
Will found his way out without responding.
Will
Light was introduced into the small room and I adjusted in my chair, my back straightening, my head held high, eyes straight. I watched the tall black figure enter the room and take the seat across from me. What was next? I thought. This one going to unbutton his shirt to reveal a bomb, tell me I have to recite the Gettysburg Address or he’ll press the button. He looked at me with something other than disregard, interest maybe, even a mingling of compassion.
When he spoke it was powerful, a voice filled with reason and intelligence, I hoped he wasn’t here to kill me.
“I knew your father, Kevin. I served with him in Vietnam. You hungry?”
“Famished sir.”
I watched as he unclipped a small portable radio from his beltline, said a few words into it, then placed it on the table. I was more or less back to the place I began prior to the bathroom brawl.
“I’m Will,” he paused, “just so you have something to call me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Will understood it would be quite some time, if ever, that recruit Anderson referred to him as Will.
“You must have some questions?” Will looked at me again with a tilted frown of concern.
“The recruit does, sir. However, he feels it is unwise to ask.”
“Please, you can ask me anything, Anderson.”
“Sir, up until a few hours ago, the recruits drill instructors have always provided any information they deemed necessary for the recruit to know.”
Will smiled before replying, “It’s not an easy habit to break, it’s been a hundred years but I still remember.”
“Sir?”
“Speaking of yourself in the third person, the recruit this, the recruit that, draining but necessary, at least for Basic.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, Anderson, I’m going to make you a deal.” Will stood up to get the door before anyone had knocked. A tray loaded with meat, potatoes, and vegetables was brought in and placed before me. Alongside was a large slice of pumpkin pie, a carafe of milk, and one of juice. I tried not to stare at the food; however, my gut betrayed me, rumbling a familiar tune of longing.
Will digressed, “You know what, Anderson? I remembered something I left unattended. I will return, in say, twenty minutes.”
“Yes sir. Sir?”
“Eat, Anderson.” With that, Will was gone.
I hesitated only long enough to assure my position a solitary one. The food didn’t resemble the slop I’d grown accustomed to. This looked fresh and hot. I cut the steak into large chunks, forked on top of that a pile of mashed potatoes, and stuck on top of that the corn and peas. It was a perfect bite, all food groups combined to resonate the song of love known only by the truly hungry. One bite after the other until like Christmas morn, it was gone. Ah, but the pie. I saved the milk to wash it down. It was a double portion, any other time it would have easily fed two grown men. I hurried through the first few bites and was finally satiated enough to enjoy the last. I drained the quart of milk, not caring that the last swallow shared space with my chin and blouse. I realized something just then that struck me odd, I hadn’t had a single outside thought while eating that food.
A drive-by memory splashed blood red against my frontal lobe then, and I belched as my gut instantly soured.
Will walked in at that very moment.
He once again took a position across from me and spoke as if our earlier conversation hadn’t ended, but rather had been paused in a parallel universe.
“Pretend for now, I am Will, and you are Kevin. Not much of a stretch. I am going to ask you a few questions and I want you to answer me with Kevin’s mind and reason. Not recruit Anderson who has for the past several months been drilled to say, ‘Yes, sir‘ or �
�No, sir,’ to every question asked. Can you do that for me, Kevin?”
“Yes, sir” Will smiled waiting. “Yes, Will. The recru---, I can do that.”
“Good, Kevin.”
Will leaned in a bit closer allowing his elbows to widen and his hands to flatten on the table top. He was a big man, an honestly built man, muscles hard and developed from years of training and hard work. He wore scars that had long since healed, and eyes which bore scars that might never heal.
“I said before I knew your father. It goes a tick deeper than that. Your father saved my life more than once. He was a good man, and a good friend. He spoke of you and your brother and mother every single day I knew him. He was something of a stranger to most of the guys in our unit. I didn’t fault him for that. Some men realize early that if there’s nothing to be said, then there’s no reason to make shit up. He was serious when it was time to be serious and cool as watermelon on the fourth of July most other times. He knew things, Kevin, shit I won’t know if I live to be a hundred. He knew the rifle the way most know wiping their own ass. It was second nature to him, and I’ve never seen anyone better.
He was the only hero I’ve ever met. I looked it up once, the word hero. It was defined as a remarkably brave person, someone who commits a truly brave and courageous act. He was, will always be to me, every word of that description, which leads me to you.”
I was sitting there listening to this stranger pour on about my father. I hadn’t known him the way this man knew him, and I felt ashamed.
I knew it was stupid. I was ten when he was killed, and eight the last time I saw him. The things I knew were so worn and faded. A few cloud shaped memories would float about haphazardly waiting their turn until a dream would bring forth a snap shot of a tall handsome man in a green uniform.
Will was finishing up, “I want to offer you an opportunity. Not because you’re the son of a dead soldier I admired, but because you’re the right person for the job.”
“What would you have me do, sir?”
“Train first, no longer with your platoon, but with me, under my tutelage, and that of my associates.”
OBLIGATION Page 10