Loon - Jack McLean [17]
“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 taken 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.
“Sir. Yes, sir.”
Stay focused on the ear, Jack.
“How do you like your drill instructors, Private?”
Huh? Was he kidding?
No, he appeared serious, but I knew better than to speak the truth.
Again, what was the right answer?
“Sir, the private likes his drill instructors okay, sir.”
“They can be pretty tough sometimes, though, can’t they?”
I was now becoming uncomfortable about the direction of the questions.
I slowly nodded silently.
“Private McLean, I’m going to ask you an important question and it is important that you give me a truthful answer. Do you understand me, son?”
“Sir. Yes, sir,” I replied, barely above a whisper.
“Private McLean, have you ever been struck by a drill instructor during your time here at Parris Island?”
Shit.
“Sir, the private doesn’t understand the