by Jack McLean
Our trips to the head were relegated to strategic moments during the day, with few exceptions. In the early morning, we were given ten minutes to shit, shower, and shave. Although there were twenty sinks, there were only eight open toilets, so the pressure to complete your business in a timely manner was extreme, as there could be as many as five or six boys in a tight line directly in front of you.
Each night, a regular fire watch schedule was established. Outfitted with a steel helmet liner—known as a chrome dome—and a web belt, each recruit would walk the squad bay in a one-hour shift, all night long. The soft cadence of boots on the concrete; the rustling of canteen, bayonet, and ammo magazine pouches; and the occasional snores were the night music of Platoon 3076.
For the next two years, guard duty became a nightly part of our lives, whether in a stateside barracks or in a Vietnam foxhole. Being awakened at three A.M. for watch relief after a physically exhausting day was one of Parris Island’s greatest tortures. On the other hand, it also provided the only time to be alone with one’s thoughts, which I welcomed. I needed as much time as I could find to keep my mind around what was going on.
We customarily would hit the rack at about nine-thirty P.M. The first several days, we were awakened at four-fifteen A.M. to the sound of a screaming drill instructor who, as often as not, would throw a galvanized trash can down the concrete floor of the squad bay. One hundred ten boys instantly leapt out of racks, identically clad in white boxer shorts and T-shirts. In a single motion we pulled our sheets off the bed and held them high above our heads while standing at attention in perfect rows in front of our bunks. Each set of linens was carefully examined so that bed wetters could be weeded quickly from our ranks.
There was a purpose to the madness that ensued over the next several months, and intellectually I was at peace with it. The physical and mental elements, however, were excruciating. The United States Marine Corps Recruit Depot at Parris Island, like its sister in San Diego, California, exists for three purposes: to teach group discipline, to conduct rigorous physical training, and to endow each graduate with the complete mastery of the M14 rifle. During this time we would also be taught how to be marines. This included Marine Corps history (Tun Tavern in Philadelphia, traditions), 1775 (“floor” equals “deck”), structure (chain of command), and personal hygiene (ass gets wiped front to back). It was assumed that we knew nothing.
It wasn’t long before we all felt that way.
To achieve these ends, it was necessary—critical—that each recruit be immediately and fiercely torn down as far as he could be taken and then slowly—ever so slowly—brought back up as an operating unit of the larger whole. The black, white, skinny, fat, tall, short, Okie, redneck, slum dweller, Cajun, Hoosier, surfer were all drained. In their place, there would be only a perfect United States Marine. One hundred ten boys would be molded into the same person. That person would be physically fit, perfectly disciplined, an outstanding sharpshooter, and trained to kill. These elements were endlessly drilled and perfected at Parris Island. The Marine Corps was about killing and following orders.
Each would become second nature.
The principal vehicle for achieving group discipline was close order drill. All of us would be required to act as one all of the time. We’d march in formation constantly—whether going to meals, classes, or training. We drilled on the parade deck for hours every day, always to the unwavering command and cadence of one of our three drill instructors. Left-right-left, left-right-left, left-right-left—endlessly—left-right-left, left-right-left. It would be a week before we could accomplish that simplest of tasks as a group—a week before each man in the platoon was aware by rote of which was his right foot and which was his left.
“Your other right, sweetheart,” was the resounding rejoinder when one of our number had a mental lapse. Then, to be certain that we all understood, we would be ordered to hit the deck and do push-ups or squat thrusts until our tender hands bled and our pampered bodies throbbed.
Left-right-left.
Left-right-left.
With that simplest of commands nearly mastered, a new one would be introduced (“column right, HUUUH!”), then another (“to the rear, HUUUH!”), then another (“by your right flank, HUUUH!”), and always … always someone would screw up and we’d hit the deck again.
Left-right-left.
Left-right-left.
Once we began to get the hang of it, the drill instructors would lose the words and “sing” cadence in a non-English sublanguage that was unique to the caller. The subtlety and inflection of each drill instructor had to be mastered—but in the end, it was all about left-right-left.
On the rare days that it was too hot to drill outside, we’d be subjected to an agonizing torture inside the barracks. While the drill instructor sang cadence, we’d kneel in formation on the concrete floor and slap our hands to the deck.
Left-right-left.
Left-right-left.
This drill was designed to toughen our hands for the rifles that would soon be added to our drilling repertoire.
Crisp loud unified noise was a requirement of close order drill. Hands had to slap the rifle and boots had to slam the pavement—every step every time. Feet and legs ached from the pounding. Soon it would be our hands. Each touch of the rifle would produce a full-force slap—one hundred ten slaps—in perfect unison.
Perfect.
As the hands slapped, the heels slammed.
What a mighty sound it would become.
The memory still raises the hair on my arms.
The second purpose of boot camp was physical training. By graduation, we would be in the best physical shape of our lives—better than before or after. Each day began before dawn with an hour of physical training. We’d march to the site and conduct our calisthenics in unison—push-ups, squat thrusts, and side straddle hops. After several weeks, the obstacle course was added. All of us made it or none of us made it. There was no middle ground. One of my least fond memories of physical training is of the buckets of sand that we were required to hold straight out from the sides of our bodies indeterminately.
This and countless other methods were designed to toughen us and increase discipline.
One failed, we all failed—over and over again.
Parris Island, South Carolina
August 28, 1966 (Sunday)
Letter to the McLean family
Dear home,
Things are harder and sorer than before, but my chin is still up … barely. There are four Drill Instructors led by SSgt. Hilton. He is crazy and impossible to please. He beats privates like flies for stupid small things. Everything we do is geared to make us killers.
Right now we’re going through the PT phase—extensive physical conditioning three times a day. Above that we have one lecture a day (e.g. Marine Corps history, artificial respiration, prisoner of war situations, etc.). Tomorrow we begin drown proofing.
PT ends at the end of next week—thank God—then begins PT II which means the obstacle course, 3 mile run in full pack and helmet, and a week of bayonet practice. It is after this phase that it begins to ease up.
Love,
Jack
Before long, we began to feel ourselves come together as a cohesive unit. We began not only to drill well, but to take pride in our collective force. As a group we were becoming stronger and quicker and more obedient. Individual personalities, which were so evident during the early days, subsumed themselves to the whole. It became apparent to most of us, for the first time in our lives, that the whole was considerably stronger than the sum of its parts.
It was amazing and exhilarating.
7
“The deadliest weapon in the world is a Marine and his rifle.”
—General John Pershing
IN THE COMING MONTHS WE WOULD MASTER THE RIFLE’S every nuance and provide it with unconditional love and respect. When we were ready (and only when we were ready), we would learn to fire it. To say that the relationsh
ip between a United States Marine and his rifle is sacred would be understatement in the extreme.
Early in our second week, our M14 rifles were issued. Staff Sergeant Hilton had spent much of the first weeks tearing us down individually and as a group. It was part of the deal. Consequently, he constantly pointed out that we would never be marines and that we would never learn to shoot a rifle. Based on what he’d seen, we were the single worst set of recruits to ever set foot on Parris Island. Some of the boys really began to believe it and became wildly driven and motivated. The Marine Corps had been training recruits for nearly two centuries. The Corps knew exactly what it was doing.
Eventually, Staff Sergeant Hilton was obligated to take us to the armory and at least have the weapons issued. We carefully cradled them in our arms like babies, and marched back to the barracks with our new rifles in one hand, genitals in the other, to the cadence of:
This is my rifle; this is my gun.
This is for fightin’; this is for fun.
By the time we got to the barracks, there was not a recruit in Platoon 3076 who would ever confuse the two terms. We were then given careful instructions on how exactly to sling the weapon to the side of the bunk. It remained there untouched for several days. Like our service numbers, the rifle serial number was committed to memory.
Several days later, we were ordered to remove the rifles from our racks and stand at attention with them by our sides. There we stood—one hundred ten of us at attention—rifles by our side, thumb and fingers positioned just so, as instructed. I double-checked, triple-checked to be certain that I looked exactly the same as everyone else, not always easy since we were permitted no head movement whatsoever while at attention. Staff Sergeant Hilton slowly began to walk down the squad bay, inspecting each recruit, moving a thumb here, adjusting a finger there. When he came before me, he stopped.
Never a good sign.
“Private McLean.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I can’t HEEEEEAR you.”
“YES, SIR!”
“Do you hate me?”
“NO, SIR!”
“Do you hate your rifle?”
“NO, SIR!”
“Do you think you’re a fucking comedian?”
“NO, SIR!”
With that, he lunged his right hand at my neck and grasped my throat so surely and securely that all breath, indeed all movement, was rendered impossible. I was petrified.
He pushed me until I was pinned against the steel slats of my bunk. Then he pushed harder. All at once he released. As I gasped frantically for air, he unleashed a blow to my gut with the full force of his two hundred twenty pounds. I hit the deck hard. My rifle clanged to the floor and slid to the middle of the squad bay. Instantly, his hand came down again to my throat. He pulled me up and repeated the process. The third time, he hit me square in the jaw. Although I had seen it happen to others, I had no clue about what was happening or why.
“You’ll NEVER be a marine, you worthless piece of shit! Get off my beautiful deck, maggot. You’re getting it dirty. And for chrissakes, pick up your fuckin’ rifle before I have you court-martialed!”
With that, he moved on.
I slowly stood and retrieved my rifle from the floor. I did not see any blood. As I came back to attention, I caught the eye of Tony Petrowski directly across from me. He was silently, ever so slightly, nodding toward his right side and down. Then I understood. I had been holding my rifle in my left hand, mirroring those across from me.
That afternoon I learned, in no uncertain terms, that when standing at attention with an M14 rifle, it is held firmly and securely on the right side of the body.
Nine days later, I heard my name yelled down the barracks squad bay with instructions to report to the drill instructor’s office at the far end.
“Private McLean, report to the drill instructor’s office immediately!”
The order was given by the recruit with the bunk closest to the office and on the drill instructor’s direct command. (“Jenkins, tell McLean to get his sorry fuckin’ ass down here on the double.”)
This was a first for me. I had never been so called. I ran down the squad bay immediately, juggling a thousand instructions in my mind—how to stand at the door of Staff Sergeant Hilton’s office (perpendicular to the right side of the opening), how to knock (swinging the left arm in a high arc over the head and slapping the top of the molding), what exactly to say (“Sir. Private McLean reporting as ordered, sir”), how to enter when instructed to do so (one step forward, right-face, two steps forward, attention, silence). The smallest slip could be disastrous.
“Sir. YES, SIR,” I screamed, in a voice loud enough to peel paint off the cinder block walls.
“Oh, shut the fuck up; quit yelling at me, for chrissakes.”
Stunned, I murmured, “Sir. Yes, sir.”
“What do you put in those letters home that you write?” Hilton quietly asked in a manner that was more rhetorical than quizzical. “I knew I should have been keeping a closer eye on you.”
Letters home?
My mind raced.
What could I have said in a letter that might have gotten back here somehow? Surely nothing that I wrote to my parents. Although I endeavored to be forthright, I did try to protect them from some of the more graphic horrors of Parris Island, particularly the physical abuse under Staff Sergeant Hilton that was a fact of our everyday life. I didn’t necessarily feel that way when writing others, though, and may have mentioned the rifle incident to someone, but I was at a loss to recall.
So I didn’t answer.
We were often told that what went on inside the barracks of Platoon 3076 stayed inside the barracks of Platoon 3076. When we wrote home, we were to speak only of how good the food was or how magnificently our boots were shined. Occasionally we would be drilled on this. After a particularly severe beating of a hapless recruit, Staff Sergeant Hilton might look around and ask, “Any of you fuck heads see that?” We would all shake our heads. The message was clear.
We were not to discuss physical abuse by drill instructors outside of the barracks.
“Colonel Jameson wants to see you. You know who he is?”
Colonel Jameson?
Familiar.
Let me think.
Colonel Jameson was a name in the chain of command.
That’s right.
The chain of command.
We had had to memorize the chain of command during our first week. I think he was three people above Staff Sergeant Hilton and four people down from the president of the United States.
“Yes, sir.” But please don’t ask me what his job is.
“Well, he wants to see you and he wants to see you right now. His office is over there on the other side of the parade deck.” With that, Staff Sergeant Hilton pointed out the window of his small office in the direction of a building I recognized as the location of our classrooms. “March over there. Go in that front door. They are waiting for you. I’ll be right here when you get back. Right here.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Private McLean?”
“Sir. Yes, sir.” Loud enough for him to hear, not loud enough to piss him off.
“You ever tell anybody what goes on in here in one of those fancy letters you write?”
“Sir. No, sir!”
“Good. You don’t plan on starting now, do you?”
“Sir. No, sir.”
“What goes on inside the barracks of Platoon 3076 stays inside the barracks of Platoon 3076. You know that, right?”
“Sir. Yes, sir.”
“You better not fuck this up, you know what I mean? You may never get off this little island. Do you understand me, Private McLean?” Not exactly threatening, maybe even a little nervous.
“Sir. Yes, sir.”
What was going on?
My mind raced through all the possibilities as I marched, alone, across the parade deck to the battalion headquarters. They were the first steps that I had ta
ken outside of platoon formation in a month. I could feel Staff Sergeant Hilton’s eyes hard on my back.
I arrived at the building, pulled open the door, and was at once directed into a large office on the left. The walls were covered with old photographs, plaques, and a color portrait of Lyndon Baines Johnson, the thirty-sixth president of the United States, and the first name in my chain of command. Four officers faced me. The one with the most ribbons made introductions. They were the first officers I saw at Parris Island, and thereby in the Marine Corps as well. I knew that they were officers because they had markings on their collars instead of their sleeves. We weren’t far enough along in our training, however, for me to know what kind of officers they were.
“Good morning, Private. Please be seated.” The officer speaking was a colonel. I knew that because he had a little bird on his collar. Colonels and generals were easy to spot.
Birds and stars.
“Sir. Aye, aye, sir.” I sat. Others followed.
The chairs were loosely arranged in a semicircle with all eyes on me.
“Private,” the colonel continued, “how are you liking things here on Parris Island?”
I tried to remember all that Staff Sergeant Hilton had taught us about speaking with officers. I now wished I’d paid more attention. I did remember that we weren’t supposed to look them in the eye, but always just a few inches off to the side. This was counter to everything I had ever learned growing up, but I focused hard on the colonel’s right ear. We also were never to speak in the first person. I was trying hard to sit at attention. We hadn’t learned how to do that.
If Hilton could strangle us for the slightest infraction, what could a colonel do?
“Sir, the private likes Parris Island, sir.”
“We know the training can be rough sometimes, Private. Do you think the training is rough?”
What was the right answer? I had a fifty-fifty shot.