Spare Parts Page 4

  Once back on-line he continued with his rhetorical questioning.

  “Were you all on drugs? Is anyone’s brain working here? I can’t believe it! Not one of you numbskulls can tell me the reason . . . the purpose . . . the function . . . of Marine Basic Training!”

  Our minds scanned. We weighed the pros and cons of answering. Would it be an act of courage, or stupidity? Should we risk it?

  My knees weakened. I felt a shiver in my spine that sent a wave of muscle spasms through my limbs. It is the kind of sensation that occurs when the inevitable is about to happen and nothing you can do will stop it. I closed my eyes when his voice boomed again.

  “Prepare to drink. . . . Drink!”

  Reluctant arms twisted caps and elevated canteens. The first to go was Carr, a short and skinny recruit, who was no more than 120

  pounds. I risked looking to the side to see his diaphragm heaving.

  His lips could not contain the bile that was pumping from his guts.

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  17

  The dam burst with a pressure that sent vomit spewing across the squad bay onto the recruits on the starboard side. No one laughed.

  It was pitiful. Worse yet, it was contagious. The stench began to waft and permeate the air surrounding the rest of us.

  A second recruit let loose, and the remnants of dinner made their way across the once shiny floor. The odor, combined with the grotesque kaleidoscope of regurgitated food chunks, acted as the catalyst for a massive chain reaction of projectile vomiting. Somehow I managed to keep my water down, although most around me did not.

  Where were the drill instructors during all of this sickness? I imagined them high-fiving each other on the quarterdeck, laughing and trying to keep their perfect uniforms from getting splashed. After about two minutes of vomiting the recruits returned to their vertical positions on-line. Surprisingly, the drill instructors walked right down the center of the floor, their boots sloshing through the mess as they would through puddles on a rainy day. It was a rainy day for us. Certainly it was the most difficult day of my life up to then. And it was about to get worse before it got better. We filed into the head to fill our canteens for a fourth time.

  Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley lowered his voice. “Now, recruits, the senior is coming in to tuck you babies in tonight, and the squad bay will be spotless.”

  I could barely stand still and avoid throwing up. There was no way I could clean this floor, I thought. I rationalized I would not be involved, since the mess wasn’t mine. That was the faulty thinking of an egocentric civilian.

  Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley faced Recruit Carr and challenged,

  “Well, what are you going to do about this friggin’ mess you made, boy?”

  Recruit Carr stood stiff and scared. “Sir, clean it up, sir?”

  “Are you asking me or telling me?”

  “Sir, the recruit will clean up his mess, sir!”

  “Oh, you bet your sweet ass you’re gonna clean. But it’s not your mess. It’s our mess.”

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  B u z z W i l l i a m s

  Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley had introduced another tenet of recruit training: There are no individuals in the Marine Corps, only the platoon as a whole—the team.

  Drill Instructor Sgt. Wagner approached Recruit Carr and leaned into his face, apparently disgusted with the situation. “Well, any friggin’ day!”

  Dazed, Carr blurted, “Sir, the recruit needs a mop, sir.”

  Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley guided Carr by his shoulders to the center of the squad bay. “Recruit Carr has disrespected our house.

  He has embarrassed himself, and the platoon.”

  Carr’s eyes closed slowly, as he steeled himself for whatever was coming. Our training’s unpredictability was devastating for me, and I assumed it was the same for my fellow recruits. We functioned more like animals than people, reacting without logic or rationale.

  The higher levels of thinking and feeling had already atrophied, leaving only our brain stems to govern primal instincts and survival reflexes.

  Surely the drill instructors couldn’t have expected such a small recruit to absorb that much water. Were they crazy? It seemed like abuse! My curiosity turned to anger, and adrenaline fueled the rage developing within us all.

  But now there was only silence.

  Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley walked to the quarterdeck and executed an about-face maneuver. “You don’t rate a mop,” he commanded. “Use your blouse!”

  Carr slowly started unbuttoning his camouflage jacket, only to be jolted from his stupor.

  “Goddammit! Did I say take your blouse off? Now, drop and start pushing!”

  Carr must have turned something off inside. He flopped from his belly to his back in the pungent puddles. Although it was still wet and sandy from the pit, the material in his cammies still managed to absorb most of the moisture on the deck. Pleased with his creative solution to cleaning the deck, Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley ordered the remaining fifty-nine of us to join Carr in the housekeeping efforts.

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  19

  Within seconds the floor was covered with camouflage-covered bodies writhing on the floor.

  We then were ordered to do calisthenics for a few minutes, and then low-crawl under the eighteen-inch space between the racks and the floor. It wasn’t so easy for me to turn the switch that Carr had found. I gagged repeatedly, and struggled to choke back vomit.

  Worse, I could no longer hold back the water in my bladder. I briefly considered requesting a head call, but quickly dismissed the thought. After surveying the mayhem I chose the less confronta-tional alternative. As my bladder drained, a warm sensation spread down my legs, further saturating my trousers and socks. I wasn’t as embarrassed as you might expect. The standards of conduct were different on the Island. It didn’t seem wrong to me, and not a single recruit in the platoon would have acted differently.

  “Get on-line!”

  Once we were on our feet I glanced briefly to see the faces of those across the squad bay. Bell, with his swollen lip, was angrier than ever. To his left Brady was grinding his teeth and flexing his jaw muscles to ebb his frustration. On the other side of Bell, Ander-son stared with an absence of emotion, restraining his anger with clenched fists hidden tightly by his side.

  My observations were cut short by Drill Instructor Sgt. Wagner’s voice.

  “Readyyy, face!”

  We collectively pivoted toward the quarterdeck and filed off into the showers, wearing our uniforms. I shared the shower stream with two other recruits I didn’t know. We didn’t make eye contact to avoid the perception that we were talking. The water was liberating and refreshing as it washed away the slime and sand.

  Drill Instructor Sgt. Wagner’s voice sounded sharply over the hiss of falling water. “Strip your filthy little uniforms off and start scrubbing your bodies. You’ve got five minutes.”

  We worked feverishly and silently. Not stripping would have assured that I made it back on-line in time, but the others were risking it, and the thought of keeping that putrid sand-encrusted uniform 20

  B u z z W i l l i a m s

  on made me gag again. With my uniform in hand I rinsed my body for thirty seconds and then sprinted to the clean cammies in my footlocker.

  We could hear the threatening countdown from the quarterdeck as Drill Instructor Sgt. Wagner called out. “Four minutes left!”

  The nearest recruits to him then called out the same, “Four minutes!” Then every recruit repeated the call, “Four minutes!” until we were certain that the drill instructors had heard our affirmation.

  When the one-minute warning sounded I was nearly dressed, determined not to be late. Being dressed on time would keep the drill instructors and Recruit Morrison, my squad leader, off my ass.

  As squad leader, Morrison was responsible for the performance of fourteen of us in first squad. Whenever any of us was dug, in groups or as individuals, the
drill instructor would dig him too. That was how the drill instructors motivated the squad leaders to keep the recruits under their charge “squared away.” Morrison hated to be dug.

  But instead of teaching us, or leading us, he preferred to threaten us.

  Acting more like a junior drill instructor than a recruit, he screamed his mantra, “I better not have to pay for you, First Squad!

  If I pay, you’ll pay!”

  Morrison wasn’t half the leader that Guide Carey was.

  As guide, the drill-instructor-appointed recruit platoon leader, Carey was responsible for all sixty of us. Because he was usually punished whenever any recruit in the platoon was punished, he endured more digging than any of us. Yet, he never seemed to take it personally. Even with only half of the recruits dressed, and punishment looming, he calmly walked from one end of the squad bay to the other, showing the faster recruits how to help the slower ones get dressed.

  It was an amazing sight, really. Following Carey’s directions Recruit Myers was fastening Brock’s belt, while two other recruits were tying his boots, and a fourth was buttoning his blouse. It was a lesson in sacrifice and teamwork, with the ultimate goal of accomplish-ing the mission together and avoiding punishment.

  By the time the countdown from ten seconds had commenced, all sixty recruits were standing tall on-line in clean cammies.

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  “Outstanding!” beamed Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley. “There may be hope after all here, recruits.”

  He continued to pace while the stagnant odor of lingering vomit filled the air. I hoped he would be bored with the questioning, and allow us to clean up the barracks and hit the rack. But he seemed more deliberate than ever.

  “Recruits, think long and hard before you answer. Get it right, and we’ll clean the barracks and hit the rack. Get it wrong, and we’ll play.”

  In the movie Full Metal Jacket Recruit Joker impresses the drill instructor with his psychological insight when answering a similar question. The answer he gave was a possible answer, but wasn’t worth the punishment if I was wrong. While I debated, the boots stopped and left-faced in front of me. My heart sank and suddenly I knew the fear that Bell, Hart, Simons, and Carr must have felt.

  All that existed was the drill instructor and me.

  “Why did you join my Corps, recruit?”

  This was it. The fate of the platoon rested in my hands. My answer would either bring relief or misery, and there was no turning back. Silence would bring punishment. I had to say something, so I thought hard and fast. I could sense his impatience as I searched for my response. It was about to be too late. Then a burst of awareness passed through my mind and my voice started without getting permission from my brain.

  “Sir, the recruit believes that any answer he gives will be wrong, sir!”

  I was sorry immediately after I said it. Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley sighed a deep breath and rubbed his chin.

  “You think this is some kind of mind game, recruit?”

  I was sure he saw me swallow hard before attempting a reply.

  “You a college boy, recruit?” he asked with contempt in his voice.

  Knowing it was not the favored answer, I struggled just to tell the truth. “Sir, yes, sir.”

  His words now came faster and louder. “No shit. So this is a goddamned psychological experiment, huh?” Silence. “So the United States Government is paying thousands of dollars per recruit to allow drill instructors to shrink their heads?”

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  B u z z W i l l i a m s

  I didn’t know what to say. I stood there lifeless, blankly staring at the drill instructor’s chevrons. The least any recruit could do in this situation was keep his military bearing. It was all I had and I clung to it.

  “Ever take a psychology class, college boy?” he snorted.

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  He was reeling me in. Only, I couldn’t stop it and had no idea where he was going with his line of questioning. I felt like a witness on the stand being badgered by an expert prosecutor. Ignorance was my crime.

  “Well, here’s a little brain teaser for you.”

  He paused a moment to let reality set in. Nothing good could come of being singled out and addressed by the drill instructor.

  Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley reached out with his fist and gently tapped me in the chest. Then he whispered in my ear, “Hit me back, or the platoon will pay.”

  While I was thinking, he called out the command, “Eyes!”

  All of the recruits replied, “Snap, sir!” while turning their heads and eyes toward us.

  This command usually preceded a period of instruction that required recruits’ eyes and full attention. It was the only time a recruit was permitted to look at a drill instructor directly. Now I was the object of the platoon’s attention and the next period of instruction.

  I could either punch the drill instructor or let the platoon down.

  The former was risky, with fifty-nine recruits and a fellow drill instructor witnessing my assault. It was brilliantly applied psychology, forcing me into a no-win situation. Feeling like it would be better to save the platoon some grief, I took the high road. With all eyes upon me, I extended my fist and tapped his chest.

  He turned to the platoon with animated disbelief. “I think I was just hit by a belligerent recruit.”

  “Eyes front!” returned the recruits’ eyes to their front and away from me.

  “Now, we can’t tolerate insubordination. It would lead to a breakdown in order and discipline in the platooooon!” With the last word he reared back and thumped my chest with his fist, making me S P A R E P A R T S

  23

  take a step back to regain my balance. It was a hard punch, but nothing that I hadn’t endured in the back alleys of West Inverness.

  The second whisper came, “Hit me again.”

  “Eyes!”

  I mustered up enough courage to punch him again, this time more assertively.

  “Eyes front!”

  All of the recruits snapped their heads and eyes forward, so they couldn’t bear witness to what was about to happen. Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley approached me like a shot-putter shuffling forward to generate power from his legs. After rearing back with his right arm he launched his open palm into my sternum, driving me up off of my feet and in between the racks. I crashed down on my coccyx bone and arched my back to keep from splatting on the deck. My momentum carried me over into a back roll and into the base of my wall locker, which came crashing down on top of me. Gasping for the air that had been sucked from my chest, I lay still and silent, angry enough to kill him.

  The next sound was the platoon forwarding a call, “Attention on deck!” as Senior Drill Instructor Staff Sgt. Parsons entered the squad bay. Several recruits righted my wall locker and helped me to my feet.

  The senior was a short, stocky Marine with a round face. His hair was beginning to turn gray above his ears, which contrasted with his black skin, making him look old and wise.

  Once back on-line I could see that our senior was pacing and observing. How would he react to the acidic stench in the air, the dis-array of gear, and the hardened looks on our faces? By the look on his face he was pleased: Blood. Sweat. Tears. Urine. Bile. Adrenaline. Testosterone. These were the ingredients he had requested of Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley—the master warlock simmering the caul-dron of hatred.

  Bell, Hart, Simons, Carr, and I had experienced the first of many hard lessons. We were the examples—the demonstrators for the lab.

  It was basic psychology. In one afternoon Parris Island had eradi-cated the civility, socialization, and self-respect of sixty grown men.

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  B u z z W i l l i a m s

  It is a phenomenon commonly referred to in psychology as “stripping.” The rules of life changed in one day. We were forced to forget all we had learned about personal conduct, social interaction, limits of morality, and logical consequences.
We were no longer thinking individuals. We were reacting animals. We stood on-line, silently staring and getting in touch with the primary emotions that drove us—anger, frustration, and hatred.

  After walking around the barracks several times, the senior addressed us.

  “Apparently you have been training very hard with my drill instructors. They tell me there is some confusion about why you enlisted in the Marine Corps.”

  I tried to think of what would happen next. Drill Instructor Sgt.

  Talley had told us the senior would be ashamed to find out his recruits were so misguided. I imagined the worst of course. This was only our first official training day and it had been pure hell. The senior, however, had a different role than the other drill instructors.

  He was tough, but he seldom punished us, leaving that task to his drill instructors. He demanded as much or more than the others, but his relationship was that of strict father to his sons. His tactics were more clever than bullying, and his influence more powerful.

  “So we are all wondering why men join the Corps?”

  Sixty voices boomed, “Sir, yes, sir!”

  “Well, this will be the fifth platoon that I trained, and none has ever figured it out on their own.”

  The senior always put things in perspective. Though the universality of our ignorance was a relief, I was anxious for this sixteen-hour lesson to end. The senior explained the importance of training with a purpose, and validated our quest for the answer.

  “If you pass your inspection I will teach the class my way. But if you fail the inspection, Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley will continue teaching you his way.” As he pivoted and turned away he bellowed,

  “Is that understood?”

  Our “Sir, yes, sir” reply reverberated in the barracks as the senior disappeared through the quarterdeck hatch.

  We spent the next ninety minutes scrubbing the floor, the head, S P A R E P A R T S