Loon - Jack McLean [15]
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 relationship 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