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I was pretty nervous that day. I didn’t know what to expect. Unlike some new cadets, I wasn’t aware of how intense the hazing was going to be. Once we had put away our street clothes and gotten into our drab, olive-green fatigue uniforms, the upperclassmen showed up and started yelling at us.

“Stand up straight! Suck your gut in!”

“Push your chest out! Get those shoulders back and down!”

“Get those elbows in! Get your chin in, mister!”

“Keep those eyeballs caged straight ahead!”

Did it shake me up? Of course it did. At age eighteen, I lacked the life experiences to put it in perspective. I was a kid straight from my comfortable upbringing, and all of a sudden I was thrust into a situation where I didn’t know which way was up. It was disorienting.

It is natural to question the utility of such theatrics. Do I think it was necessary? I’m still not sure. But now as an adult, I do understand some of the rationale for that first-year hazing. It was designed to tear us away from the easy, the comfortable, and the familiar. It was intended to refocus our perspective and reset our priorities. For all of us, it would no longer be about “me” but about “us.” That first year began to make real what, until then, had been theoretical constructs—like duty, honor, and “service before self.” These words could no longer be thought of as abstractions. Instead they now had real meaning in real life, as in “in-your-face” reality. It’s amazing how clearly and how quickly one learns about diligence, responsibility, and accountability when the only allowable, acceptable responses to any query by a superior are “Yes, sir,” “No, sir,” “No excuse, sir,” or “Sir, I do not know.”

The rule was that the upperclassmen weren’t supposed to get physical with us. But there was some jostling along with the yelling and the intimidation.

Those who argue in favor of hazing say that it builds a sense of loyalty among comrades, and there’s some truth to that. As that freshman year wore on, I felt very close to many of my fellow “doolies” (it’s a derivation of the Greek word doulos, which means “slave”). You have volunteered to fight for your country, and you feel that sense of patriotism. I have heard and read the experiences of those who saw combat, and they say when you get to the battlefield, you’re really fighting for your comrades, not some politician or political ideal. You’d rather die than let your comrades down.

My doolie year left me bonded for life with some of my fellow freshmen. It was an intense experience; it wasn’t like just going off to college. We were being tested, abused, physically challenged. And we had to watch a number of those in our ranks fall away. Some wouldn’t make it through the mental and physical challenges of basic training. Some would fail academically, or feel too intimidated by the hazing. Others would transfer to regular universities after deciding, “This is not for me. I want a good education, but not at this cost.” Those of us who endured and remained became a brotherhood.

That first summer we were sequestered at basic training, and it was the most grueling physical experience of my life. We’d have to go out on formation runs, our rifles held high above our heads, our boots slapping the ground at the same instant, and it was a real sign of weakness or failure to drop out of formation. The upperclassmen would yell: “Keep that rifle high! Don’t be a pussy. You’re letting your classmates down!”

The guys who had the most trouble were those who couldn’t run well enough. They’d get used up and have to stop. And once a cadet dropped out of formation, the upperclassmen would circle him and yell at him. It was very intense. Some men would throw up from the exertion. On rare occasions, someone would cry. Some of my classmates had fathers who were military officers; they feared they’d be disowned if they had to drop out of the academy. I felt for them. I would later wonder where they would end up, at a civilian university perhaps—someplace where you could get a good education