by Andrew Beery
***
Three days later I was on a shuttle to New Parris Island on the dark side of the moon. I had a duffle bag filled with everything the Marines felt I would need. I knew this because the bag and its contents had been issued at the MEPS. The only thing of our own we were allowed to take with us was the air in our lungs.
The Marine Corps Recruit Depot would be my home for the better part of a year. My shoulder was feeling much better. Medical nanites were one of the miracles we had picked up from the Heshe. Who the Heshe were… well that’s another story. Bottom line, they were leaving this galaxy and all the ones near it.
Before they left, they dumped a whole bunch of high-tech ‘how-to’ stuff on our Internet. The eggheads were still figuring it all out. The marines had made use of a lot of what the Heshe had gifted us with. The medical nanites were one small example.
Judge Grimes had personally driven me to the recruiting station. I don’t know if he did it to make sure I actually went – to be clear, I would have – or if it was because he wanted to visit old friends. We walked through the front door of the recruiting station. The place was smaller than I thought it would be and oddly plain.
I had expected all sorts of recruiting posters, complete with smartly dressed guys and gals carrying their weapons and smiling back at me with perfectly white teeth. There was very little of that. I saw one poster that simply said “Oohrah!” Below it was the Marine emblem… an eagle standing on the globe with an anchor and a starship crossed behind it.
The single wooden desk was simple and too clean for my tastes. There wasn’t a piece of paper or pen that wasn’t placed with obvious precision. There were two folding metal chairs in the room. One sat behind the desk and one sat in front of the desk. The only other things in the room were a Galactic Coalition of Planets flag and a computer terminal next to the desk on an adjustable stand.
The Marine who was at the desk stood sharply as we entered the small office. I’d learn later how to read ranks. For the moment he was just another Marine. The judge walked up to him and shook his hand.
“Master Gunny, it’s good to see you,” the younger man said.
“And it’s good to see you too Willy. How are the wife and kids?”
“Sarah’s doing fine Gunny. You should think about coming by for the Packer game on Sunday. She’s boiling some brats in beer. The kids, well they take too much after me for their own good. Danny broke his arm three days ago and little Sarah just got expelled for decking a bully in school.”
“You must be proud of them.”
“That I am Gunny. That I am…” The Staff Sergeant looked over at me. The judge must have taken this as a hint to introduce me.
“Son, I’d like you to meet Staff Sergeant William Anderson. Sergeant Anderson, this is AG Stone. Treat him well. I expect he will be your commanding officer someday. In the meantime, we need to take some rough edges off of him.”
“Good news Gunny! The dark side of the moon is a great place to take the rough edges off!”
And with that I was walked through the MEPS which was through the door behind the small office. MEPS was an FLA (four letter acronym) for a Military Entrance Processing Center. One of the first things I learned about the military was that they loved their TLAs (Three Letter) and their FLAs.
If the office out front was boring and plain, the MEPS was anything but. There was high-tech equipment all over the place. Over the course of the next few hours I got scanned and prodded in places I didn’t even know existed.
One of the first things they did was ask me to drop and attempt to perform a pushup. The marine who gave the order demonstrated ten pristine pushups. His back was flat enough to iron a suit on. Rather than resting his hands on the ground he held himself up on his fingertips. With each repetition, his chest came to within a quarter of an inch of actually touching the floor.
Now keep in mind my arm had just been dislocated. I dropped and banged out fifty reasonably decent one-armed pushups. When I was done I stood back up. The Marine looked at me and then asked me to drop and do them correctly.
I explained that my shoulder had been dislocated a few hours earlier. He nodded and said, “Potential recruit unable to perform at even minimal level” as he wrote the same on my MEPS profile.
“WHAT!” I yelled. “I just did fifty!”
“Fifty done incorrectly is still zero done correctly. I am prepared to change my assessment if you would like to have another go at it recruit.”
I gritted my teeth and dropped to the ground. I would not give this bastard the satisfaction of seeing me fail. I tried to put most of my weight on my good arm. I failed horribly. It was all I could do not to scream but I forced myself to do ten of the most painful pushups I had ever attempted in my life. When I was done I stood back up. The evaluator must have seen how red my face was and the sweat trickling down my brow.
“Not great,” he said “but good enough for now. Let’s take care of that shoulder.”
I was walked to another area of the facility where ten other recruits were waiting in a line for a medical checkup. They had us strip to our underwear. Our clothes were placed in sealed bags and we were told that if we survived they would be returned to us. The corporal that made the comment had a grin on his face.
I’m not a particularly shy person. But standing in a room with nothing but boxer briefs on for the better part of an hour while doctors and technicians did strange and nefarious things to me in the name of evaluating my medical fitness is not my idea of fun. Three of the recruits were gals. I suspect they had it rougher than us because, like us guys, they were topless. On Earth that was no big deal. On Mars it just didn’t happen. I’m not sure who was more uncomfortable, me or them. I spent much of the hour trying to look elsewhere.
Then it was my turn to spend some quality time with the doc. He came up and looked me over with a hand scanner.
“OK, I see we have some recent tissue damage to the rotator cuff in your right arm. I’m going to give you an injection of medical nanites. They will aid in healing but I’m going to warn you any place where you have had a previous injury is going to inch for a few days. That’s just the nanites doing their job.”
“Thanks Doc.”
“All part of the service son,” the medical officer said as he pushed the injector against the side of my neck.
“HOLY CRAP!” He was not kidding. I felt like I had ants crawling all over my body. I had broken my leg when I was sixteen. It hurt worse now than it did when I first broke it. My shoulder burned.
“Oh, I probably should have mentioned this first, but those tattoos aren’t regulation. The medical bots will take care of those as well.”
Sure enough as I watched, the ink I had paid good money to lay down slowly faded. The feeling of ants made sense now. Everywhere I had ink, I felt the ants doing their jig. Unfortunately for me, I loved ink and it was everywhere except my face and privates.
After a vision test and a brief psychological evaluation I was cleared for service by the MEPS.
All told, there were sixteen of us that went through the process and all sixteen passed. I was a little surprised by this because I had heard that becoming a marine was tough. So far it didn’t seem so bad. My assessment would change over the next several weeks.
A marine captain came out and looked us all over. He told us we were about to attempt to become members of one of the most elite fighting forces the galaxy has ever seen. He said if any of us had any doubts, that now was the time to back out. After this point we risked death or injury. I looked around. There were no takers. I guessed everybody in the room was as crazy as I was.
“RAISE YOU RIGHT HAND!”
I followed the captain’s instructions.
“Repeat after me… I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the Galactic Coalition of Planets against all enemies; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same. That I will obey the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to r
egulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.”
***
As the shuttle touched down on the lunar surface, inside a sealed hanger, the pilot kicked on some music. It apparently was a tradition and the Marines were big on tradition. The music was from an ancient rock and roll band called Pink Floyd. The lyrics were haunting and I couldn’t help wonder if this might not be the first in a series of attempts to break us with fear.
Breathe, breathe in the air
Don't be afraid to care
Leave but don't leave me
Look around and choose your own ground
For long you live and high you fly
And smiles you'll give and tears you'll cry
And all you touch and all you see
Is all your life will ever be…
“SHOW’S OVER RETROBATES! GET YOUR BUTTS OFF THIS CUSHY LUXUARY LINER! MOVE IT! MOVE IT! MOVE IT!”
I grabbed my duffle bag and raced off the shuttle. The drill sergeant that was screaming at us was standing in front of a white line. I’d seen enough war holovids to know that I was supposed to stand on that line.
I was the first out and I quickly placed my toes on the line. Unfortunately I didn’t know what to do with my duffle bag so I bear-hugged it to my chest. I was the only one to remember to bring my duffle. I began to worry that maybe I was supposed to leave it on the shuttle.
The drill sergeant put a quick end to that thought. He stomped up to the recruit next to me and said, “SOLDIER DID YOU NOT BRING ANYTHING WITH YOU ON THAT LUXURY LINER?”
“Yes Sir!”
“SOLDIER DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?”
“No Sir!”
“I AM SENIOR DRILL SERGEANT HARRIS. YOU MAY CALL ME… SENIOR DRILL SERGEANT HARRIS. I AM NOT A SIR… I WORK FOR A LIVING. YOU WILL NOT CALL ME SIR. AM I CLEAR SOLDIER?”
“YES SIR… er… SERGEANT… er… SENIOR DRILL SERGEANT HARRIS!”
“DROP AND GIVE ME FIFTY!”
“The rest of you,” Master Drill Sergeant Harris said in an almost soft voice that I soon learned to dread, “Do I look like a valet?”
“NO SENIOR DRILL SERGEANT HARRIS!”
“Then why are your duffels still on the shuttle? The GCP was good enough to give you those items. Are you saying you don’t want them?”
“NO SENIOR DRILL SERGEANT HARRIS!”
“Perhaps you should retrieve them,” the Drill Sergeant whispered.
Everyone except for myself ran back to the shuttle. Senior Drill Sergeant Harris walked over to my position. “What’s your name soldier?”
“Master Drill Sergeant Harris, my name is Anthony Grant Stone.”
“What are you doing with that duffel bag Anthony Grant Stone?”
“Holding it Drill Sergeant.”
“Yes I can see that. What should you be doing with it?”
I honestly didn’t know, and in my defense I had been left unsupervised for far too long in my life. I did the only thing that came to mind. In hindsight, it was probably the wrong thing to do. I handed the Drill Sergeant the duffle bag. He smiled like a kid at Christmas and proceeded to dump the contents of said bag on the tarmac.
Chapter 3: Boot Camp – Week One
I gained a new appreciation for the finer things in life during my first week of Boot Camp at New Parris Island. Things like: walking, taking the time to chew your food, sleeping for more than four hours a night, and the big one… free time.
Hands down, no questions asked… that first week was one of the hardest of my life. At the time, I suspected the Drill Sergeants got a bonus based on the number of recruits they got to quit. There were thirty two of us when we began the training. Twenty guys and twelve gals.
The first order of business was haircuts and billeting. Since training was expected to be both rigorous and intense, there would not be a lot of time for personal grooming. The marines discovered very early on, when they were still associated with ocean-based Naval forces, that the simple expediency of removing all of a recruit’s hair reduced the amount of time necessary for washing, trimming and caring for said hair. Guys and gals got the same haircuts… there was no discrimination in the armed services.
The drill sergeants were also very concerned about our safety. This become apparent when sleeping arrangements were fully explained. That first week that while they did, indeed, give us a full eight hours of sack time each night – they only gave us sixteen billets for thirty two soldiers. When this shortcoming was pointed out to Senior Drill Sergeant Harris, he said, in that very quiet voice that we had all learned to dread, that half of us would be pulling guard duty… protecting our fellow soldiers while they slept. Halfway through the night we would switch places.
I was concerned at first that guys and gals shared the same bunk space and open showers. It seemed like an invitation to some counter-productive drama but after the first day I understood why it would never be an issue. We were too damned exhausted to even notice that naked person next to us in the shower was a fit and trim member of the opposite sex. I learned later that this too was part of our training. In war, you made use of the facilities you could find – when you could find them. There was no guarantee that you would locate ‘his and her’ anything… We needed to learn that we were going to be ‘Marines’ first and boys and gals second.
That first week, I did more running than I had ever done during my life to that point combined. We ran everywhere. Sometimes the drills were convinced we were slacking – well maybe we were – and they would make us run back to wherever it was we started and run back to our ultimate destination. The worst part was the Drills would run with us and no matter how exhausted we seemed to get… they seemed fresh.
We had two speeds we were allowed to operate at... full-out run and full-out run even faster. You might think that running on the moon would be simple. The gravity on the moon is only about seventeen percent that of Earth. But New Parris Island had an answer for that… variable gravity plating. Gravity was always a minimum of one hundred and ten percent Earth normal. Thank you dad! As a special treat certain areas of the training facility were set to an additional half gravity. This made the mess hall and the exercise field just that much more enjoyable. Of course the Drills could increase the gravity plating at any time… that was where the ‘variable’ part came in. The sadistic bastards like to inch it up slowly during one or both of our morning 10k runs.
Another big part of our training that first week was a series of introductory classes. Sometimes these would be held in a class room… other times they would be conducted while we were running full bore from random point A to random point B.
It was during one of these running classes that Senior Drill Sergeant Harris came running up the line until he got to my position. We were three quarters of the way through our second morning 10K. We had been pushing it all morning and I was knackered. The Senior Drill started running backwards so he could face me. He wasn’t even sweating. I realized then just how much I hated the man.
“Recruit Stone, I have referred to your sorry assemblage of wasted humanity as ‘recruits’ and sometimes, when I am feeling especially benevolent and charitable as ‘soldiers’… never once have I referred to you as ‘Marine.”
We ran on for several more minutes… he ran backwards the entire time. I truly hated the man.
“Would you care to speculate why this might be so?”
I truly didn’t but I had picked up at this point that he was about to invite me to drop and give him fifty pushups no matter what I said so I thought to myself… self you might as well enjoy this. I’m not sure why my mind works that way. Perhaps it’s a defect in the way it’s wired. At any rate I opened my mouth. In boot camp I had learned this was never a good idea.
“I have no idea Senior Drill,” I gasped between ragged breaths. “Perhaps it’s because you have a hard time pronouncing Marine?”
“Interesting answer Recruit. Why don’t you drop and give me fifty whist I think about it.”
I dropped and began kissing the pavement while he continued to jog in place. When I was done I jumped back up and began to sprint back to my original position in the formation. The Senior Drill paced me running backwards. Did I mention I hated the man?
“Recruit Stone, I’ve thought about what you said and I don’t think that your answer was the correct one. Would you like to try again?”
No, I thought to myself but again I knew that silence was not going to be an acceptable answer. “Senior Drill Sergeant, this recruit is not wise in the ways of men and war. Perhaps the Senior Drill would like to enlighten me?”
“Why Recruit Stone, I would be delighted to explain this concept to you. Why don’t you drop and give me fifty while I endeavor to cast this essential information in a form that your limited recruit mind can grasp.”
Again I began kissing the pavement. I figured this must have been about the five-thousandth pushup I had done in the last week.
“Recruit Stone. The Marine Corps is an honored and hallowed institution. Its members hail from every country and world within the GCP. We trace our specific ancestry back to the United States Marine Corps founded in 1775. The Marine Corps was founded to do what others could not do and what others would not do in defense of liberty and our way of life. To be a Marine is to think of others first and yourself second. To be a Marine is to value the ideals we stand for more highly than our own lives. To be a Marine is to be a part of a team that looks out after one another… not sometimes, not when it’s convenient, not when you feel like it… but always. There are only two types of people that understand Marines Recruit Stone: Marines and the enemy. Everyone else only has a second-hand opinion.”
I was continuing to do pushups. I had long ago finished my fifty but it seemed wrong to interrupt what the Drill was saying and so I just kept going. He watched me for a few more minutes. When it became clear that I was not going to stop, he signaled me to rise and stand at parade rest.
“Son, I’m going to ask you one more time. Why is it that I don’t call you a Marine?”