Loon - Jack McLean [18]
What a stupid response. I understood the question perfectly, but I needed time to gather myself.
“Fairly simple question, Private. Have you ever been hit by a drill instructor? You know, hit, like with a fist?”
No matter what happened here, these officers would be gone from my life shortly. I would, however, still have to sleep with Staff Sergeant Hilton.
So I lied.
“Sir. No, sir.”
“No? Again, Private, it’s important that you tell us the truth. We’re not going to let anything bad happen to you. Please tell me the truth now. Have you ever been hit by a drill instructor or seen anyone else in the platoon hit by a drill instructor?”
All eyes were focused on me.
“Sir. No, sir.”
Now I was living the lie. It was getting easier.
“Okay. I believe you, son. Now, have you ever written a letter home telling anyone that you’ve ever been beaten?”
Let’s see. Think. I told one or two friends. I may have written something to Mr. Richards, one of my teachers at Andover. I couldn’t think of anyone else. Did they read your mail here? How could I have been so stupid?
“Sir. No, sir.”
“Private McLean, does the name Jack Richards mean anything to you?”
Fuck. I’m fucked.
“Private?”
The air had escaped from my lungs. All blood had left my face. I had to sit. I was sitting. I had to lie down. I felt shame. I was cornered. Caught. I remembered the letter now. I had told him about the rifle incident with Staff Sergeant Hilton in great detail. He must have said something to somebody. Good intentions, perhaps, since Parris Island was not that many years removed from the infamous night when an out-of-control drill instructor had marched several in his platoon to their death in the surrounding swamps.
They had the letter; there was no way out.
“Sir. Yes, sir.”
“And did you write a letter telling him that you’d been hit by a drill instructor here on Parris Island?”
“Sir. Yes, sir.”
“So Private McLean, either you lied in the letter or you are lying to us. Which is it, son?”
No right answer either way, but I still had six more weeks with Platoon 3076.
“The letter, sir.”
The inquisition was over in another ten minutes, during which time it was made clear that I was in fact a liar and that there was no place in the United States Marine Corps for dishonesty.
Did I understand?
Did I really understand?
I was told to immediately write a letter to Richards acknowledging that I had lied so that he could then inform the individual who had issued the complaint, thereby exonerating the United States Marine Corps of any culpability in this unfortunate episode.
As I marched back across the parade deck, it occurred to me that there probably wasn’t an officer in that room who had actually believed that I had not been hit, but I felt deep shame for my participation in the entire incident nonetheless.
Staff Sergeant Hilton was waiting as I reentered the barracks.
Who was in the room?
What did they have on their collars?
What did they ask?
What did you say?
Are you sure?
Tell me again.
After an exhaustive recounting, a very relieved Staff Sergeant Hilton ordered me back to my rack area to join the others in the daily domestic rituals of rifle cleaning and shoe spit-shining. I was frightened and relieved beyond all imagination. Any hope that I had had of remaining anonymous at Parris Island disappeared that day.
Not coincidentally, so did any chance that Staff Sergeant Hilton, or any other drill instructor, would ever touch me again.
“The Marine Corps Builds Men.”
For a generation, that powerful slogan attracted young boys like me to the United States Marine Corps. We all were eager to look like the mighty marine on the recruiting poster in the dress blue uniform, of whom family, community, and country would be proud. The marines were masters at the exterior part—twelve weeks of boot camp turned out an admirable physical specimen indeed. But the true measure of a man lies within. Colonel Aplington, in his letter to me months before, had said that “a man must make or break himself.” Which had I done? I wasn’t certain. The