"The Making and Un-making of a Marine"

Chapter 16

"Girl, Turd, Puke, Worm"

October 3, 1967, held the promise of a dazzling day: no clouds, and a keen breeze reddened our faces. The sun lit up Mohonk Mountain when Dave and I stepped on the Trailways bus. We were bound for Albany where we had a reservation in a hotel. It was the first time staying in a hotel for both of us.

After getting our room key we checked out the room; it smelled of urine. That afternoon, we both passed our military physicals. Afterwards we made jokes about the doctor with 60 men in their underwear standing in line waiting for him. One at a time he asked each one of us, "Drop 'em please." With his new rubber glove he inserted his index finger.

"You think being a Marine is a tough job. Nothing compares to what that doctor has to face everyday," I said, squeezing my nose with my thumb and forefinger.

That night we slept in our clothes.

In the morning we stood in a line waiting to board a Greyhound bus. Parris Island was on the marquee. Dave and I took a seat near the back. Looking towards the windshield we saw heads with hair of various lengths: some close cropped as if they'd been getting ready for what was to come, others shoulder length as if they'd come right from a rock concert. In a few hours all the hair in that bus would be heaped in a pile on the barber's floor in Parris Island.

The bus tunneled all the sounds. I heard New York City street talk with its punching nasal barks. Boston boys spoke with their R's in the back of their throats. We sped into the October night with a constant chattering. It reminded me of trips I'd taken in high school to basketball games. Instead of hearing the names of the opposing team members, the word Gook was repeated over and over again. Anyone overhearing this bus conversation might have thought we were a busload of vets returning from Vietnam, not a bunch of recruits headed there.

By the second hour into our 16-hour ride the chatter quieted. At a rest stop the guys sitting in front of us headed into a bar across the street. They came back with brown paper bags stuffed in their pockets, and sipped from them for the next hour. One guy with short hair started talking loudly.

"My brother's a Marine, and he's been to Nam. He told me that they shot anything with slant eyes."

Moans arose around him. Short Hair realized he'd captured some attention. Stammering a little, he went on.

"M-m-m-my brother said you can't tell the difference between Vietnamese and Viet Cong. So it doesn't matter. They're all Gooks. When his squad came into a village, they shot the dogs and cows."

Somebody in the dark said, "Like Sherman did in the Civil War. Kill and burn all the food sources."

Someone else yelled, "Did they kill women and children?"

Short Hair squinted to see who'd asked the question. "Not until they found one of their men dead with his cock and balls cut off and stuffed into his mouth. That's when the shit really broke loose."

From the front of the bus someone yelled, "Sounds like bullshit. Marines don't kill women and children. Any idiot knows that."

Short Hair looked in the direction of the new voice. "I'm just telling you guys what my brother said."

"This guy's full of shit," I whispered to Dave.

"My brother John's never told me anything like that and he's been in for six months now."

"Yeah, but he's stationed in DC, not Nam," I said.

After Short Hair's lecture we rode on for hours with no one saying much. A hum of voices rose when we passed a sign that read Parris Island Marine Corps Recruit Training Post. A few minutes later the bus tilted forward with a squeal of brakes. The door flew open and a man with a state trooper's hat on sprang up the steps. The interior lights were on and I could see his red face. Veins popped out on his neck. Then he roared, "You assholes got one minute to unload this fucking bus. Now! Goddamn it! Now!" It was as if he was jabbing his head at us trying to bludgeon us with it.

We stepped off the air-conditioned bus into what felt like a warm river. Mold and other strange smells filled my nostrils. I started to sweat, and in moments a swarm of bugs was hovering over my head. The bulging-eyed Drill Instructor was pacing like an enraged animal. White globs of saliva collected at the corners of his mouth. His body jerked like a junkyard dog at the end of its chain.

"All right girls. Keep your fucking mouths shut. Stand on the yellow footprints. Closer, Turds. I want you asshole to belly button. I don't want to see you move, talk, fart or think. You got that, girls?" The Drill Instructor spit his words. Then it became so still I could hear the men around me breathing.

"I said you got that, girls? If I don't hear a "Yes, Sir!" real quick, you girls will be standing at attention all night. Did you hear me, girls?"

"YES, SIR!" all 60 of us sang out.

There was a soft giggle. Every head in the formation turned to see the DI take two enormous steps, splitting our ranks. Standing in front of a still smiling recruit, he shoved his mug so close to the boy's face it looked like they were kissing. Then came the sound of clacking teeth. It looked like the DI was biting at the boy's nose. The boy brought his hands to his face.

"Drop those fucking hands!"

A whimpering, "Yes, Sir," came from the boy's mouth.

The DI turned and saw all of us looking at him. "Attention, assholes! Stop eye-fucking me."

The ranks stiffened and someone started laughing. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a man with long hair standing so rigid his clothes were shaking; I couldn't tell if he was giggling or speaking gibberish. The DI mustn't have heard it because he just screamed, "March!" We staggered off the yellow footprints, stumbling to a frog grunting song the DI was singing. Later I'd learn it was called cadence. "Hut, two, three, four! Girls, you look like a herd of fucking sheep."

I stepped on the heels of the man in front of me and slapped arms with the men on either side. "Right flank march!" The column awkwardly turned right, down an unlit street. Our line snaked its way forward, and the night settled in around us.

The air splintered with a shriek. "Platoon halt!" Men tripped and bumped into each other as the platoon attempted to stop. In front of us was a dimly lit sign that read, Receiving Barracks. Yellow light spilled out of a line of windows. We stood at attention, watching as the DI disappeared inside. After 15 minutes of waiting, whispers and low conversations started up. "What do we do next?" was repeated everywhere.

The man behind me slammed into me. I turned to see a running projectile hurl itself into the middle of the platoon. Men tumbled like bowling pins. With a flurry of grunts and slaps, the DI climbed back out of our ranks. Out in front of us, he stood with his hands on his hips baying like a dog.

"Who the Fuck gave you girls permission to talk?"

There was no reply.

"You've got one minute to get your lazy fucking asses into that Goddamn barn, now!"

We stampeded the entrance.

Inside, the DI boomed, "Attention! When I give you the word I want you fucking worms to take everything--I mean EVERYTHING--out of your pockets and suitcases. If I find you've stashed something, you'll eat it. Do it. Now!"

Jackknifes, wallets, and coins tumbled onto the green tables. Paraphernalia poured out as if someone had hit the jackpot at Vegas. Men left their pockets turned out. The DI walked up and down the lines inspecting.

"Are you some kind of faggot?" he said, holding up a man's colored briefs. My tongue was swelling as he moved towards me. He was in front of me, but he suddenly turned towards a crashing sound like a log being dropped off the back of a truck. At the far end of the barracks the man I'd seen shaking and speaking gibberish lay on his back convulsing. The DI rushed to the sick man. Stooping down on one knee he put his mouth to the man's ear and bellowed, "You fucking puke hippie! What the fuck are you doing to my floor?"

The man stiffened and vomited. He tried to cover his mouth with his hands, but his spasms made the vomit spew out between his fingers. The DI stood with his hands on his hips. Lifting his right, spit-shined combat boot, he placed it squarely on the squirming man's chest. Through clenched teeth he slurred, "Get your worthless fucking ass off my floor." The man slithered beneath the DI's foot, smearing his vomit. Vomit clung to his long hair as he struggled to his feet. In a calm voice the DI said, "Take off your shirt and clean up my fucking floor, you fucking puke hippie!"

Strolling over to one of the green tables, the DI fingered through a pile of junk until he found a bottle of Aqua Velva. He handed it to Longhair. "Drink it, you worthless piece of longhaired shit. Your breath stinks. I don't want any of my girls having puke breath."

The man's shaking hand brought the bottle to his lips. He tried to swallow the blue liquid but he couldn't seem to get it down.

"Swallow it, you stinking longhaired puke!"

Bubbles gurgled into the bottle. The recruit's Adam's apple bobbed, and then he doubled over and puked again. A synchronized groan came out of the platoon. I remembered Dave and looked for him. He was standing two tables away with his eyes showing more white than blue.

Taped on the wall behind the DI was the recruiting poster of the Marine in dress blues that had hooked me in high school

 
From "The Making and Un-Making of a Marine"  by Larry Winters

Want to read more?  Read Chapter 19

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