Recruit Gaines, tall with a farmer’s tan so startling he looks like two recruits spliced together, bites his lip and stands at attention in his tighty-whities. He’s a nineteen-year-old football star from Texas who got in trouble for getting drunk and spray painting “fuck you” on the hood of his principal’s car. When they hauled him in front of a judge he was given two options—go to jail or join the Marine Corps. He chose the Corps, and he often regrets the decision. I stand next to him because we share a bunk in the squad bay. The squad bay looks just like it does in all the movies—Jarhead, Full Metal Jacket, so on so forth—a giant oblong building with bunks lining the sides and an office for the Drill Instructors at the very end. And right next to the office is an open, slightly discolored patch of polished concrete. It’s affectionately known as the quarterdeck, and it’s where Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker takes us when he wants to fuck us up. Which is where Recruit Gaines and I are headed if he can’t get his shit together. I try to ignore his vibrating body and beet-red face because I’m afraid that if I get a good look at him I’ll piss myself laughing. Every few seconds a snort escapes through his nose and I nearly crack a rib trying to keep it together.

In approximately four years, Recruit Gaines will be shot while deployed to Afghanistan. He’ll die on his back, reaching out for the Corpsman while his platoon trades rounds with the Afghani man who shot him. He’ll bleed out before Doc can get to him.

 

Recruit Chapman stands in front of his bunk on the other side of the squad bay, just across from me and Recruit Gaines. He’s a seventeen-year-old Kentuckian whose mom signed some forms so he could join the Corps before he was eighteen. He often jokes it’s the only good thing she ever did for him. Standing at attention on the other side of the squad bay, he’s cool and composed with a blank look on his face and the remnants of his civilian gut poking out. A few weeks into bootcamp and we’ve seen every shape and size a man can be—fit, firm, dumpy, soft, short, and tall. So the sight of a pale boy in skivvies with a gut and stringy happy trail doesn’t surprise us or even raise our eyebrows. The image in front of us is ninety-nine percent par for the course. The one percent that threatens to throw Recruit Gaines and I over the edge and get us smoked on the quarterdeck is the fact that Recruit Chapman, moments away from having his body inspected for rashes and skin mold and other injuries by Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker, has intentionally left his nuts hanging out the side of his underwear.

Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker is also cool and composed as he works his way down the line of recruits. As he stands in front of a different wannabe-Marine, the young man presents his fingernails for inspection and looks to the left and the right so that Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker can shine his moonbeam into their earholes and up their nostrils and ensure the recruit is cleaning themselves properly. He scans from our eyeballs to our toes, looking for decay and dirt and other leftovers from the civilian world. One-by-one, the recruits scream the appropriate responses to his orders and display their bodies for his approval.

Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker’s job is to be ever-present and loud and intimidating. As a result, we’re all paranoid and jumpy and constantly looking over our shoulders. Or we used to be, anyway. We used to flinch when we would hear his boot squeak against the polished concrete, or when we would smell his cheap cologne. But that was when we were fresh-faced civilians who’d just stepped off the bus and onto the famed yellow footprints of the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in sunny San Diego. By now we’ve come to expect him to always be nearby. So we’re not paranoid or jumpy so much as over it and exhausted.

“Situational awareness” is what Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker calls it. It’s hard-earned and probably seems pointless to most folks. But once it’s embedded into your DNA, it stays.

Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker reaches the next recruit in line, Recruit Hammond. He’s a twenty-one-year-old farm boy who wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of North Dakota for a few years, so he joined the Corps for a little adventure and some college money. As Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker stands in front of him, Recruit Hammond’s body tightens up, his eyes fixed straight ahead. But before Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker can begin the inspection, Recruit Hammond makes a fatal mistake—one that will cost him a peaceful night’s rest when he’s put on all-night fire watch, one that will ensure the rest of us are ever-mindful of not fucking up in the same manner, one that will breed even more resentment for Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker amongst his platoon.

Recruit Hammond, the idiot that he is, makes eye contact with Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker.

“Oh GOOD boy,” he screams, millimeters away from Recruit Hammond’s soul. “You wanna eyeball me?! Good. Quarterdeck NOW!”

“AYE SIR!” Recruit Hammond screams as he bolts around Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker and sprints to the quarterdeck, stained with decades of recruit sweat and tears, and waits for his time to get fucked up. Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker will soon fuck Recruit Hammond up by forcing him to do jumping jacks and push-ups and mountain climbers and crunches and planks until he shits blood. We’ll all watch and thank God that we weren’t dumb enough to get caught making eye contact with Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker.

Recruit Hammond stands at attention on the quarterdeck and vibrates and turns red and tries not to cry or think too much about the injustice of it all. But no matter how pissed off he gets, he’ll never backtalk Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker. Instead, he’ll talk shit about the man behind his back. Because he’s a good Marine. Or he will be, anyway.

A few years later, Recruit Hammond will die during a training exercise in Hawaii when the Osprey carrying his platoon malfunctions and crashes into the ocean. The Marine Corps will launch a three day search and rescue operation and will find only the wreckage of the aircraft. Recruit Hammond will receive the rank of Corporal, posthumously.

 

Most of us hate Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker. We joke that he’s a late-twenties-something-man-boy with a razor-shaved head and a murderous rage that’s, admittedly, better-directed at us than his soon-to-be-ex-wife. But on the day he hands us our Eagle, Globe, and Anchor emblems—the symbolic gesture that commemorates your transition from “Recruit” to “Marine”—most of us will cry like little bitches and be proud to have survived his relentless torture. We’ll consider it a point of pride and brag to other Marines about the way we were treated in bootcamp—the worse, the better.

Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker will get divorced and then remarried two more times. He will complete his rotation as a Drill Instructor and then return to the Fleet as a Platoon Sergeant for a line unit in Camp Pendleton. He will receive a Bad Conduct Discharge when he is found guilty of sexual assault two years shy of retirement.

 

Leaving his nuts hanging out of his underwear just to piss off Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker isn’t new for Recruit Chapman. Well, the “leaving his nuts out” part is new. But fucking with Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker isn’t. Fucking with him isn’t new for many of us. We’re all in a weird headspace, simultaneously eager to prank each other—and Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker—but also terrified of retribution. It’s a lot like gambling—high risk, high reward. We just want to see what we can get away with. And it’s only fun because the consequences of losing are so dire. Some of the recruits, like Recruit Hammond, don’t have the stomach for fucking around and tend to get caught for simple infractions. Like, for example, making eye contact with Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker. Others of us though, like Recruit Chapman, crave the thrill.

Over time, most of us developed a desire to push the envelope by pulling pranks that ranged from silly to atrocious—things like pissing in canteens, tying shoes laces from big toes to bedposts, stealing the guidon from other companies of recruits, replacing a recruit’s cammie bottoms with pairs that are two sizes too small, and raiding the MRE stashes of other platoons.

The first month of bootcamp was pure fear for us, and stepping out of line wasn’t even an option. But by this point, we’ve all realized it’s just a game.

It doesn’t matter if you do exactly what you’re told to do, you’re going to get fucked up.

It doesn’t matter if you memorize the Rifleman’s Creed, you’re going to get fucked up.

It doesn’t matter if you’re the first in line, or the strongest or the smartest recruit in the whole goddamn platoon, you’re going to get fucked up.

It doesn’t matter, you’re going to get fucked up. So you might as well have some fun.

 

The closer Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker gets to Recruit Chapman, the harder Recruit Gaines and I bite the inside of our lips to try and keep from laughing. Recruit Chapman breaks character to wink at us. We snort and watch as Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker comes closer and closer to Recruit Chapman and his wrinkly, exposed nuts.

“Bro keep it together,” I whisper out of the side of my mouth to Recruit Gaines. “Chapman’s dumbass is gonna get smoked and if Baker catches us laughing he’s gonna smoke us too.”

“I’m fuckin’ trying dude,” he says.

“Well goddamn try harder fuckstick, because you’re making me laugh too.”

“Dude one of his nuts is, like, noticeably smaller than the other.”

I snort so loud that Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker’s head snaps in my direction. He glares through me. He raises his right hand and points at me menacingly. His “knife-hand” is aimed directly at my nose where, unfortunately, a line of snot is running from my nostril to my lips.

“Hello boy,” Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker says in his frog voice—a low, guttural voice meant to save his throat from becoming raw after countless hours of screaming at recruits. “What’s so goddamn funny right now?!” The grin disappears from my face and I snap even more into attention than I already was.

“Nothing, sir!” I scream. Recruit Gaines stiffens next to me, the happiness he felt only seconds ago retreating into his body. Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker doesn’t buy it.

“Oh don’t worry boy,” he says with an evil smile. “You’ll be dealt with.” He turns his attention to the next Marine he has to inspect—Recruit Chapman.

He stands in front of Recruit Chapman and begins scanning his body. The happiness hibernating inside Recruit Gaines and I comes alive and threatens to get us fucked up along with Recruit Chapman. Only seconds separate us from an epic explosion. We bite our lips again and wait for the inevitable.

Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker shines his moonbeam into Recruit Chapman’s ears, then his nostrils. Recruit Chapman turns his head and allows his body to be examined. He’s stone-faced and doesn’t seem to have a care in the world, despite the fact that he’s probably about to lose one or both of his nuts. Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker’s moonbeam works its way down Recruit Chapman’s body, part by part.

Recruit Chapman’s neck, clear of any injuries or rashes.

Recruit Chapman’s chest, offensively white compared to his farmer’s tanned arms, free of any injuries or rashes. A high-pitched whine comes from Recruit Gaines’ body. Teeth marks are permanently stamped into the inside of my lip.

Recruit Chapman’s stomach, also offensively white but covered with light brown hair and freckles, free of any injuries or rashes. Recruit Gaines actually leans over and his shoulder touches my shoulder and I’m certain I’m about to piss myself. Then it happens.

Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker’s moonbeam finds Recruit Chapman’s rotten-looking testicles and freezes. Waves of physical pain radiate down the row of recruits who are also aware of Recruit Chapman’s antics and would rather crack a rib trying to hold in their laughter than let it out and get fucked up along with him. I’m red-faced and my eyes are bulging out of their sockets and I’m convinced I’m going to pass out and smack my head against the smooth concrete and end up dying from a fucking brain hemorrhage. Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker’s neck snaps his head up, aligning it with Recruit Chapman ‘s dead eyes.

“Hello boy!” he screams, not in his frog voice, but in a high-pitched, frantic voice. “You think you’re funny?! Good bitch! You and your tiny nuts get on my goddamn quarterdeck right GODDAMN NOW!”

“AYE SIR!” Recruit Chapman screams as he bolts to the front of the squad bay.

Recruit Chapman will never deploy to a combat zone. He will finish his military career unscathed. A few years after leaving the Corps, he’ll marry a girl he met in high school and become a police officer in Houston. A few years after that, he’ll kill himself with his service weapon. Those who went to bootcamp with him will remember his antics and good nature. Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker will fly across the country to attend the funeral.

 

When Recruit Chapman’s about halfway to the quarterdeck, well on his way to joining Recruit Hammond, Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker stops him.

“Stop bitch!” he screams. Recruit Chapman stops at attention and does a perfect about-face, his nuts still hanging out.

“YES SIR,” Recruit Chapman screams as his body does a 180 and faces Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker. The momentum of the about-face swings his nuts around fast, like a yo-yo whipping in a loop. His body stops suddenly, but not his balls. They swing around and bounce off his thigh and roll back into place. It’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

Recruit Gaines and I explode with laughter, no longer capable of holding it back. And we’re not alone. Every wannabe-Marine in the squad bay loses their shit at the same time. No one is even trying to hold it back or thinking about how Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker is going to fuck us all up by sending us to the quarterdeck to get smoked or punching us in the gut or screaming into our faces so close that we can smell the bits of salad stuck in his back molar.

But through the laughter, we all think to look at Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker’s face, just to get an idea of the pain we have coming our way. What we see is the last thing any of us expect. Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker, the leanest and cruelest and loudest sonofabitch any of us have ever been forced to live with does not look mad, he does not scream, and he does not try to fight what’s coming next. His cheeks are bright red. Calmly, he reaches up and grabs the top of his cover—a Smokey Bear hat with a Marine Corps emblem on the front—picks it up slightly, lowers it to the front of his face so that we can’t see his expression, and begins to laugh so goddamn hard that the rest of us are simultaneously shocked and entertained all at once.

A squad bay with nearly one hundred wannabe-Marines and one total cocksucker of a Drill Instructor drop the act and let loose their laughter. For weeks we’d been playing our parts and obeying orders and screaming at the top of our lungs and running over there and marching over here and referring to ourselves as “this recruit” and crying when we read letters from home and being completely unable take a shit or even get a boner. In one moment that only lasted a few seconds, the last bits of humanity exploded from our bodies. It was enough to make us forget that two wars lingered in our immediate future, and that many of us would probably die in country or during a training exercise or take our own lives. Those of us who survived would spend the majority of our time performing happiness and compassion and sadness to the civilians who cared about us.

I would survive bootcamp. I would survive both wars. And I would survive two or three attempts to kill myself. I would survive all of those things and drift from town to town and job to job, wondering what I was supposed to do with my life.

Eventually I would decide go to college and become a writer. I would get it in my head that guys like Recruit Gaines and Recruit Chapman and Recruit Hammond—even guys like Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker—for all their faults and their mistakes and their misdeeds, deserved to be remembered. And I would dedicate my life to making sure they were remembered not just as Marines with weird senses of humor, but as men. Men who, for one reason or another, agreed to perform an often-shitty job in the hopes of making their lives—and the lives of those they loved—one millimeter better than it was before they joined the Corps.

That’s what so many civilians don’t seem to understand. We’re not all gun-toting, dip-spitting, far right fuckheads who want to kill somebody and talk shit to “Lib-tards” and collect American flag tattoos. Some of us, the vast majority of us, are just kids who wanted to go to college, to travel the world, to support our families. When we signed the contract, we did it hoping for the best. And like any other kid, we never thought the worst possible scenario would ever happen to us. We never thought we’d be the one to die in Afghanistan, or in an Osprey crash, or by our own hand. For better or worse, we just wanted a chance to live beyond our means.

But we wouldn’t know any of that for years. That night in the squad bay, just before Recruit Gaines and I got called up to the quarterdeck to get fucked up alongside Recruit Chapman, the only thing we knew for sure was that Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker was capable of happiness. That, and one of Recruit Chapman’s nuts was bigger than the other.