"The Making and Un-making of a Marine"

Chapter 19

"The Hymn"

One early November afternoon, we’d finished the range and were sitting at the feet of Gunny Webb waiting for our mail. He was telling us about how he felt being a Marine. “Soon you’ll call yourselves Marines. When I hear the Marine Corps Hymn the hair on the back of my neck stands up. There is no greater honor than to know you’ll give your life for your country,” he said, sitting up even straighter.

Like boys we sat at Gunny’s feet listening. “Let me tell you about something that happened to me in Nam. That’s where most of you are going. I had a squad of good men in the hills around Da Nang in 1965. Cramer, stop looking at the door and listen to what I’m telling you! We talk a lot about killing Gooks here in boot camp. But what you better know is that a Gook is a God forsaken bastard, but he’s a Goddamn good fighter, especially if you piss him off. Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes, Sir,” we all bellowed at once.”

“They’ll crawl through a mile of wire a night to cut your throat. I know. I lost three of my best men from perimeter guard that night. A Gook had cut his way through the wire and was struggling with Bates, my M-60 machinegunner. The Gook had one hand over Bates’ mouth to keep him from yelling and was trying to hack him with the machete in his other hand. Bates bit his fingers and screamed, “We’re being overrun.” The Gook stepped back and swung the machete, hacking off Bates’ arm at the elbow. Then a stream of Gook raced in through the wire. We killed 15 that night and lost three good men.”

“What happened to Bates, Sir?” Private Savage asked from behind the hand that was covering his mouth. None of us expected an answer. I hadn’t heard a DI answer a direct question since I’d been there.

“Silver Star,” Gunny said, bringing his hand to his chin. “That was the good part. The bad part was that I had to tell the families about how I’d lost their sons.” Slowly he looked around the room taking each one of us in.

Later that night the three men who didn’t qualify at the rifle range all got GI showers. Gunny had called three of his best recruits into his office before lights out. He told the recruits who to get to help them on the shower detail and that they were never to tell anyone that he was involved.

An hour after lights out someone yanked on my bed sheets. “Cabresio’s in the head. Gunny told me you have to help us. Let’s go.”

Four of us circled Cabresio, one man with a scrub brush in his hand, another one with a bar of soap in a sock. I grabbed Cabresio’s arm and twisted it until he went down on his knees on the wet tile floor. Another man pulled out his legs, flattening him. The guy with the soap in a sock started pelting Cabresio with a fury. I could hear him grunting through his teeth, “If you open your fucking mouth, I’ll hit you in the head.” The guy holding his legs kept saying, “Sorry, man. I’m really sorry, man. Gunny Webb told us we had to do this cause you fucked up at the range.”

I took my turn with the scrub brush on his back and became flushed with excitement--hating what I was doing…and loving it.

We left Cabresio curled up in his underwear on the shower room floor.

The GI shower worked. Cabresio, who had been lagging behind during forced marches, was now pulling his own weight. No longer did other Marines have to hold him under the arms and carry him to the end. He stood straighter and pushed himself a lot harder.

One afternoon Gunny Webb’s voice boomed down the squad-bay. “I want you Marines, with full packs and rifles, standing at attention in front of the barracks in two minutes.”

“Forward, march,” Gunny said softly. We started easy; Gunny talked softly. “You girls been doing nothing but lying around on your asses on the range. It’s time for a little motivation. Those rifle scores were shit, girls,” he scoffed.

He ran next to us, gradually pushing the pace up to the point where we couldn’t quite catch our breath. We ran on like this for a long time before he whispered, “Platoon, halt!” Only half of us heard him, so our formation fell into mayhem. We looked like we did the first night we came to boot camp, falling all over each other. By now we had perfected our marching so that we could perform a perfectly synchronized halt.

“You girls march like a herd of fucking sheep. Attention. Order arms. Port arms. Right shoulder arms. Inspection arms.” He spat the commands in rapid succession.

For the past few weeks he’d become obsessed with drilling us in the manual of arms. No great guess that this was the next thing we’d be judged on. Every idle moment he was running us through a rifle drill. We did the manual of arms until our arms ached. I thought I could hear my muscles snapping over my bones.

“Girls, the object is to feel the weapon as if it were part of your body. It is pain that makes this happen. Stack arms!” he finally ordered. With his hands behind his back he walked up and down our ranks inspecting weapons stacked in tripods. He stopped and looked at my rifle. Slowly raising his head he stepped towards me, put his mouth to my ear and whispered, “Retrieve your weapon, Turd.”

I broke formation and reached for my rifle. The two men adjacent to me were forced to break formation to retrieve their rifles so they wouldn’t fall. The moment I had my rifle in my hands I saw that the safety was off.

Gunny stood back and smiled, then lowered his head so the broad brim of his hat hid his face. I was trying to figure out how to put the safety on when he jerked his head up and roared, “Present Arms!” I was so scared I didn’t understand the command and made no response.

“Present arms, you fucking worm!”

Weeks of discipline took over, and my rifle snapped from my right shoulder to the position of Present Arms. My legs were shaking. Gunny’s arm shot out like a rattlesnake, grabbing my rifle by the barrel and flinging it into the sand. I stared at my rifle lying in the dirt. It was sacrilege for a Marine’s rifle to be dirty. It was drilled into me that a dirty weapon equaled death.

“Retrieve your rifle!”

When I picked it up, sand streamed out of the barrel.

“Attention, Turd! Port arms.”

Gunny stood in front of me. I studied his face without moving my eyes. He was a short man who had to stand on his toes to reach my ear. He walked over to an ammo box and sat down.

“Give me your rifle, son,” he said in an endearing voice.

I pushed the rifle out from my chest for him to take. He lay the rifle across his knees.

“Come here, son.”

I stepped towards him.

Looking up into my eyes he said, “At ease. Pull back the operating rod.”

I bent over the rifle and pulled back the operation rod. I heard the sand grinding against the steel as the bolt locked in place.

“Put your thumb in the chamber, son.”

“Why is he making me do this?” I wondered to myself.

“Release the bolt.”

I remembered reading in the Marine manual that 15 pounds of spring tension forced the M-14’s steel bolt into the chamber. I wanted to ask Gunny why the Hell I would want to do such a stupid thing?

My fingers trembled as I released the bolt. The driving steel cylinder sank into my thumbnail. My arm muscles danced spasmodically causing the operating rod to push further home. Gunny Webb smiled. The 75-man platoon stood at attention a few yards away.

“Pull the trigger, son.”

“I hate you,” I thought to silently to myself. “What?” I snapped out loud, quickly adding, “Sir.”

“Pull the trigger.” He still spoke in a soft voice.

“But, Sir?”

“Pull the Goddamn trigger or the next thing you’ll be doing is putting your cock in the chamber,” he screeched in a falsetto.

Reaching across my body, I put my index finger in the trigger guard and pulled. A faint click sent the firing pin into my thumbnail. Pain raced up the bones of my arm as if I’d stuck my thumb into an electrical outlet.

I sank to my knees, my weapon still in Gunny’s lap. Tears ran down my cheeks. I worried they’d drip on his trousers. With my lip between my teeth I tried to bite back the pain. When I closed my eyes all I could see was Gunny’s thick red neck. It was happening. I could feel it coming. A few more seconds and I’d kill him. Not him or any man or group of men would be able to stop me. Swallowing lumps of pain, I forced myself away from the image of his neck.

“Stand up, son.”

When I straightened, the rifle lifted off his lap. Searing pain ran up my forearm to my shoulder, then circled inside my skull.

“Attention, you fucking Turd! Forward march! Not that way, Turd. Out there, in front of my girls. Show them that filthy rifle, you worthless Shit!” Gunny’s eyebrows scrunched; his nostrils flared. “Listen to me, Turd! Now sing the Marine Corps Hymn.”

“Yes, Sir,” I whimpered, thinking he must know me better than I do. He was still alive and I was doing what he told me. He knew just how far to push. I reached to support the rifle with my free hand. Blood was dripping from the barrel.

“Get your fucking hand off that weapon, Turd. You jeopardized the lives of my girls. Keep your fucking hand off that weapon or we’re going to be here all night.”

“Yes, Sir.”

I staggered in front of the platoon, avoiding their eyes. Every one of them knew it could have been them. Today each one breathed easier; Winters was the Turd to teach the lesson.

I mouthed the hymn, the words sticking in my throat. “From the Halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli.”

“I can’t hear you, Turd! Louder!”

“Yes, Sir.” I raised my voice and it cracked with pain. “From…the H-h-h--halls of Montezuma, to the shores of Tripoli; we will f-f-fight our country’s battles, in the air, on land, and sea…”

Tiptoeing, trying not to jounce the rifle, I sang. The brilliant pains strengthened my voice. Each throbbing spike infused me with unknown power. I bellowed out the verses louder with every drip of blood. I stopped tiptoeing, stood straighter and sang full-throated. Between breaths I could hear the platoon singing the hymn with me and the hair on the back of my neck stood up.

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

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