by Thomas Short
It was the final night of the crucible, the three-day culmination of recruit training. The drill instructors broke the night’s silence, ordering everyone out of their tents. Orlando and I crawled out of ours and into the damp embrace of thick ocean air. What illumination we had was from the full moon, leaving the sky a deep blue.
“What time is it?” I asked the poor soul on firewatch.
“About 0200 I think.” He shrugged.
Sleep was hard-won on those tarantula and rattlesnake-infested grounds and the little I’d been given had been cut short. After two grueling days of endless forced marches through the desert hills of Camp Pendleton, today was the day I’d face the final test, The Reaper. I had heard horror stories from my father about how the hill ended countless recruits’ bid to become a US Marine. Acting as a scythe to cut down those unworthy of the title, separating recruits from Marines.
Orlando yawned, stretching his spindly arms in the air. “You gotta be kidding me. Of all nights.”
At the back end of the campsite the senior drill instructor Staff Sergeant Rohan held recruit Horn, our perennial screw-up, by the back of his collar. Horn wore his olive drab sweat suit, shower shoes, and a look of shame.
“What now?” I said into the empty sky.
“Everyone on line!” Rohan bellowed in a deep voice ravaged from the years of screaming at would-be Marines. Rohan’s size made him a formidable drill instructor, he was well over six feet tall with a build to rival most professional athletes.
Rohan stepped off with Horn in tow, stopping at our tents to bestow each recruit with a “Fuck you.” The recruit was then forced to thank Horn for his kind words.
“I’m not saying that,” I whispered to Orlando.
“Guy can’t make it a day without getting us all busted.”
Recruit Hilton, one of the squad leaders stopped in front of us. “Would you two shut the fuck up,” he demanded. “Always bickering back and forth like a couple schoolgirls.” He liked to swing what little authority the DIs had given him, but at the end of the day he was still a recruit like us.
“What’d your buddy do this time?” Orlando asked.
“DI from another platoon caught him rifling around the dumpster looking for food.”
I couldn’t help but sneer. “Yeah, that’s 8th and I material right there. You really want this clown diddling his flute for all the fancy folk in DC?”
“That’s not for me to decide,” Hilton said.
“How long are you gonna keep standing up for the guy?” Orlando asked.
“As long as he wears this uniform.” Hilton tugged on his blouse. “Now pipe down.”
Horn and Rohan stepped in front of Orlando, and we snapped to attention. It wasn’t just Horn’s lack of personal hygiene that drew the ire of the platoon, or the stench coming from his boots that cut through the heaviest cleaners we used in the squad bay, or the constant fuck ups during drill that resulted in swift punishment, or even going unqualified at the range, taking us out of contention for honor platoon. We all make mistakes, but he made his at the worst possible moments. Such as the time he got caught with a fake double rations tag on the day we took our dress blues picture. Instead of feeling the pride of wearing the uniform for the first time, we were marched straight into the pit, for a long smoke session.
“Fuck you Recruit Orlando,” Horn shouted.
“Thank you, Recruit Horn,” Orlando replied.
Rohan and Horn faced right and stepped in front of me.
“Fuck you Horn,” I spat without giving him a chance. I awaited Rohan’s wrath, but they turned and continued to the end of the campsite. The snickering coming from the other platoons across the camp was hard to ignore. The “booger platoon” they’d taken to calling us. By the time the spectacle was over we had little time to pack our gear and form up with it all strapped to our backs.
Before we reached The Reaper, the DIs took us on a brief ten-mile warm-up path that brought us through a makeshift town meant to imitate the conditions you’d expect in Iraq or Afghanistan. The morning fog hung over the ground like gun smoke, soot and dirt stained the grey walls of the particle board structures lining the road. At the center sat a compact white sedan peppered by rounds of various caliber. It gave a sense of looming danger as though I were on patrol in Kandahar.
We halted at the mouth of the beast. It was getting hot, the humidity clung to me like warm butter. I was exhausted and my body contorted from sleeping on the lumpy ground. But it would be worth it because at the top of that hill, I’d be given the title I worked myself to death for. I felt like a warrior about to charge into battle.
The formation fragmented when the drill instructors took off at a relentless pace, the distance between recruits widened. Rohan glided up the hill as though his pack were filled with pillows. Hell, he hadn’t even broken a sweat, while Horn lagged a hundred yards behind. Only a handful kept up including Orlando and me.
With each step the slope got steeper until the ground in front could be touched while standing. Some resorted to bear-crawling when walking became too difficult. I kept my head down and legs moving, pushing myself inch by inch until the ground leveled off at the first checkpoint.
“Fuck,” I exhaled gasping for air. I keeled over and vomited what little food I was able to hork down on the path that morning.
“No time to rest,” Rohan said. “We still got a ways to go. Drink some water and adjust your gear.”
By the time I hit the canteen and situated any gear that had shifted the stragglers caught up. Some limping but fighting through the pain and some just slow. Then came Horn, walking bow-legged, feet pointing outward, and legs spread apart like he was holding a basketball between them.
“Horn!” Rohan shouted. “Hurry the fuck up!”
“This recruit has a rash, sir!” Horn replied as loud as he could.
“Oh! Well, my bad. Don’t worry I’m sure the enemy will wait for your diaper rash to clear up. Shake that shit off!” Rohan ordered.
Horn tried to walk straight but dropped to his knees in visible pain.
“What the fuck did I say, fall in!”
“Aye aye, sir!” Horn tried to get to his feet but flopped to the dirt in a dramatic display of weakness.
“Drop your pack, Horn,” the drill instructor demanded. He scanned the platoon looking for someone to carry the deadweight, and of course, he chose me. I froze for a moment, hoping I could play it off like I didn’t hear him, and he’d move on to someone else. “The fuck did I say, pick up his goddamn pack!”
I jumped out of formation, retrieved the pack, and strapped it to my chest.
“Thanks,” Horn said as I adjusted his straps to fit my body tighter.
“Fuck you,” I replied.
Horn’s odor lingered from the sweat-soaked fabric, his vile stench like sulfur and old lunch meat so dense it felt solid. Horn got to his feet and waddled towards the formation.
“Goddamn Horn, I bet if there was a Krispy Kreme up there, your doughy ass would be the first one up this motherfucker!” Rohan shouted.
The second leg felt longer than the first. I struggled to keep pace while carrying Horn’s suffocating pack. My thighs burned with each step. The straps dug deep into my shoulders until my arms went numb and my hands tingled. I collapsed when I reached the next flat area. My lips cracked and bloody from lack of water. My boots tore through my socks rubbing blisters into my heels, but I was one leg closer to the finish. It took all the strength I had to lift my head to find Orlando. He could carry Horn’s pack the rest of the way. When I spotted him, he also had a second pack strapped to his chest.
“Where is Horn?” I asked Orlando.
“Medical vehicle. He didn’t make it a step into this leg.”
I felt all hope leave my body. “God dammit,” I whimpered with what little air my lungs could expel.
At the end of the third leg, I was numb to the pain, my legs threatening to buckle under the weight. I used my hands to press up on my knees each step to keep from falling over. When we stopped, I opened my canteen and shook out the last drop of water, which made no difference on my dry tongue. The remaining members of the platoon caught up and fell in formation. Our commander, Captain Lee, addressed us from the front of the platoon.
“Listen up gents, see that little hill right there,” the captain said pointing to the last towering section. “You make it up that, right here, right now, and you will be a United States Marine for the rest of your life. A few more moments of pain for a lifetime of glory.” Lee turned and took off at a full sprint.
“Fuck!” I shouted as the mob lurched forward. I picked up my pace as best I could. Knees high, arms swinging out wide, stretching my gait. Every stride made the packs drop like jackhammers on my knees. The burning in my lungs made my breath taste like iron. I walked when I could no longer run, and crawled when I could no longer walk until Orlando pulled me up by my collar.
“We did it!” he yelled when I got upright. A Navy Corpsman handed out water to everyone as they crossed the finish line. It was treated field water, technically good for human consumption, but tasted like used dishwater with an added hint of bleach. Still, it was sweeter than anything I’d ever tasted. It could have been diesel fuel or formaldehyde. It didn’t matter if it was cold and liquid, I would’ve drunk it. I dropped the packs and took a seat on them. I pulled off my boots and brown socks, which were red with blood from the skinned blisters on my heels.
“You see that speck over there on the horizon?’ Rohan asked the platoon.
“Yes, sir,” a few answered.
“That’s our squad bay.”
“I don’t suppose there’s a bus around the corner waiting to take us back?” I asked Orlando.
“I doubt it,” he replied.
“That means we’re marching back.”
After the last platoon reached the top, the medical vehicles followed. Two olive drab high back Humvees with vinyl canvas canopies. The wounded poured out of the back, limping and whining as they gathered behind the rest of us. Captain Lee would decide what to do with those who couldn’t hack it. He was an old school mustang and infantry officer — they were as good as gone.
“Form up!” Lee shouted in front of where we gathered.
I thought back to my first day at the depot, scrambling off the bus in search of an open set of the famed yellow footprints. It was the first act new recruits did when they arrived at the depot and it taught them the basics, how to stand at attention and in formation. However, this would be unlike any of the countless times I did it since then. I would be called to attention as a recruit but fall out as a Marine.
The drill instructors walked between the squads, awarding the new Marines with their eagle, globe, and anchors. It was a piece of metal about the size of a quarter, coated in matte black paint with a bolted stud on the back side to pin to the garrison cover. It was small but the meaning it held was life changing. Rohan placed the emblem in the palm of my hand. I squeezed it tight, the stud in the back pressed hard against my calloused hand. Just like my father, I was a United States Marine. I tried but failed to hold back my tears, they rolled down my dirty face pooling into a salty paste on my chin.
Orlando nudged me as we began our march back to the squad bay. Behind us, a drill instructor handed the same emblem to all those who didn’t make it up The Reaper including Horn.
“You gotta be kidding me,” I said.
“He can’t graduate,” Orlando replied. “Not with us.”
***
Orlando and I sat in front of our rack watching Horn parade around with undeserved bravado. Laughing with Hilton about something, beaming with pride from the title he hadn’t earned.
“There’s gotta be something we could do about this. Could you imagine seeing that guy in the fleet?” I said.
“Check this out.” Orlando looked over his shoulder and pulled out a wallet sized green sack, the money-valuable bag, issued to everyone at the depot to keep important belongings such as religious material or cash. From it he removed three brass rounds with green painted tips, 5.56. “I was saving these as a keepsake, but I guess I could donate them to the cause.”
“How?” I asked.
“Found them on the ground during rifle qual, snuck them out in some MRE trash.” Orlando said turning them over to me to inspect. “We can slip those in his boots or something and they’ll drop his ass for sure.”
I rolled one between my thumb and index finger, “Wow, they’re legit. I’ve got firewatch tonight, I could do it then. Are you sure this will work?”
“Of course, Rohan’s gotta be itching for a reason to drop this guy. Besides, we’d probably be doing him a favor. Even that shit bag knows he didn’t earn this. Deep down, he can’t be okay with it.”
Despite my exhaustion, sleep was impossible with my racing heart, but honestly, it was the only time I was excited for firewatch. Once my shift came, I wasted no time ridding myself of the rounds. I crept down the side of the bay with my moonbeam in hand, the red lens in place. I tiptoed to Horn’s bunk where he lay asleep. I peeped up at Hilton who snored soundly in the rack above. I crouched at the side of Horn’s mattress and leaned in holding the rounds tight to keep them from rattling. The springs in the mattress above squeaked, I turned off my moonbeam and ducked into the shadows. I waited for Hilton’s deep breaths to turn back to snoring, then snuck back up to the front of the rack. One by one, I placed them inside Horn’s boots that were staged on top of his footlocker.
That morning, Orlando and I anxiously looked on as Horn got ready, he turned his boot on its side and the rounds scattered across the floor, clacking, and rolling down drill instructor highway.
“The fuck is this!” Rohan shouted, sprinting down the center of the squad bay. “Who the fucking hell!” He turned to Horn. “Private Horn, where did you get these?”
“Uh, uh…” Horn stuttered, his hands shook. “Th…they aren’t mine — I don’t know where they came from.”
The DI collected himself. “Everybody on line!”
The newly minted Marines dropped what they were doing and ran to the front of their racks.
“Now, I know Horn is far too fucking stupid to get his hands on these. This has smear job written all over it.” Rohan marched up the squad bay holding up the shiny brass for all to see. His rage grew with the silence. Everyone in that bay knew what would happen next. Marines or not, we were all about to get smoked. Someone would fess up and I could out last anyone, so it wouldn’t be me.
“Oh good, you all wanna play games then?” Rohan said.
Before he could order us all to the pit, Hilton spoke up. “I saw who did it,” he said, pointing at me. I felt my heart stop beating. “I saw him put something in there last night on firewatch. I knew he was up to something, just thought it was some stupid prank.”
“He did, huh?” Rohan said.
“Yes, sir!” Hilton replied.
Rohan turned to me, he had a look about him when he could smell fear and it was ripe. “I must have not gotten the memo that the most disgruntled recruit gets to decide who graduates. Report to the duty hut.”
***
“I’m not even gonna ask you why. Hell, I know why you did it. Fuck if I could get that little shitstain out of my depot and keep him from ever wearing my uniform, I would. But I don’t make the rules and you damn sure don’t.”
I nodded. What little sleep I got that night felt heavy on my face.
“I’m very disappointed in you. Not only was this poorly planned, but remarkably stupid.” Rohan let out a long sigh. “You know when I was in boot, there was this cat named Burly. He was a string bean of a man, with this weird busted-up face and teeth, looked like he crawled out of a meth lab. He couldn’t do a push-up without looking like he was trying to fuck an ant hill. Thought he was gonna be a scout sniper or some trash like that. Long story short, it made me feel like what I accomplished meant less because that turd made it too. But you gotta let that shit go. Because you are probably someone’s Burly.”
The door opened and Captain Lee came in.
“This the one?” he asked Rohan who nodded. “Where’d you get them?”
“I found them on the trail during the crucible, sir,” I lied.
“Bullshit!” Lee barked.
“What was your end game?” Lee asked.
“He was trying to get one of the other recruits dropped,” Rohan answered for me.
“So, you’re doing my job for me. Are you a Captain?” Lee asked me.
“No, sir,” I said.
“What do you think?” Lee asked Rohan.
“It’s your call, sir.”
Captain Lee’s cold dark eyes met mine. “Pack your bags and report to the company office. I want you off my depot tonight. But before you do, you will turn in that EGA and apologize to Horn.”
“Sir,” I replied in a thoughtless panic. “I did everything asked of me. Please I cannot lose this.”
“Everything except hold our values and have a shred of integrity. Now get out of my sight,” Lee said.
When I left the duty hut, the DIs had descended on the platoon, tearing the place apart searching for any more rounds. Throwing uniforms and gear in a mound as they ripped through the squad bay like a police raid. Racks busted into pieces, footlockers dumped and thrown. As I passed the platoon Orlando caught my attention, his eyes gripped with worry. I forced a solemn nod, assuring him that he was safe. Horn waited for me at my footlocker unphased by the surrounding chaos.
“I’m sorry Horn,” I said.
His lips curled into a smile. “Fuck you.”
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Thomas Short is a Marine veteran who served from 2003 to 2015 as an electrician and recruiter, leaving the service honorably as a Sergeant. After leaving the service he attended Colorado State University where he earned two bachelor’s degrees. Soon after he began pursuing a career in writing and attended Yale Writer’s Workshop in 2021, 2022, and 2023. He currently resides with his wife and son in Joshua Tree, California.
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