Loon - Jack McLean [14]
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