“No, sir.”
“How were you told to respond on the bus, you petulant pus-bag?”
Shit, I didn’t remember. My mind was scrambled.
“You will begin and finish each sentence with ‘sir.’ Is that understood?”
“Sir, yes, sir,” I shouted.
“So, you are queer?”
“Sir. No, sir!”
“You seem confused, numb nuts. Are you or aren’t you queer?”
“Sir. I am not queer. Sir.”
“Then move two paces to your left and put your feet on my yellow footprints.”
I would have laughed if I hadn’t been so terrified.
The DI kept barking conflicting orders. Whatever anyone answered, it was wrong. The big guy? This is the best part. He got off the bus like his shit didn’t stink. He had this smirk on his face like it was all one big joke, and none of it applied to him. First thing he did was shove a guy off the yellow footprints like he owned them. The senior DI saw him do this. The DI is maybe five foot seven and 160 pounds. He got underneath this guy’s chin. “Did you just push another recruit off my footprints, you shit bird?”
The big guy, he didn’t know how to answer since the DI obviously saw him do it.
“Do you think those footprints belong to you?”
“Sir. No. Sir.”
“Those are my footprints. Do you think you can push me off my footprints?”
“Sir. No, sir.”
“Do you think you are better than me?”
“Sir, no, sir.”
“Do you think you are better than this recruit?” He grabbed the shoulder of the guy who had been pushed and yanked him over.
“Sir. No, sir.”
“You’re damn right you aren’t. You are worse than this recruit. You are the worst recruit on my bus. You will drop and give me fifty push-ups, numb nuts, and each time you go down, I want to hear you yell, ‘These yellow footprints are not my yellow footprints. These yellow footprints are my senior drill instructor’s footprints.’ Can you hear me?”
“Sir. Yes, sir!”
“I can’t hear you.”
“Sir—”
“I gave you an order. Why have you not dropped? Drop.”
As the big guy dropped, the drill instructor turned to the pushed guy and yelled at him, too. “Get your damn civilian shoes on my damn yellow footprints like I ordered you, shithead, and don’t you ever allow anyone to knock you off your feet again. If you do, I will personally kick you in the ass so hard you’ll be farting ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ out of your mouth. Do you hear me?”
“Sir. Yes, sir.”
“Do you all hear me?”
We shouted, “Sir. Yes, sir.”
That’s all it took. We figured the drill instructors really could make us fart out of our mouths. We stood on the yellow footprints. Then we marched, except for the big guy doing push-ups.
We marched into a receiving barracks, a Quonset hut, where we were issued a bucket with a toothbrush, razor, soap, washcloth, and other toiletries. The receiving DI advised that these were military, that we no longer owned anything civilian. We marched from one Quonset hut to the next, went through hours of processing, filled out endless forms, and took endless tests. They shaved our heads to the skull in less than a minute, then marched us into another building and told us to empty our pockets and put our personal belongings in a box. If you brought drugs or weapons but threw them in the trash, you would be forgiven. If you tried to keep them, you would be arrested. Guys threw out so much pot I could have been stoned for life.
We removed our civilian clothes and were told to put our right hand on the right shoulder of the recruit in front of us. We shuffled forward belly button to asshole. They handed me white undershirts and undershorts and gray sweatpants and a gray sweatshirt, with a number on each. They didn’t ask what size. They determined my size. They wrote the same number on the back of my right hand.
When the sun rose, so did the temperature. Sweltering heat and humidity. Sweat dripped down my face and my arms. Guys passed out from the heat, the disorientation, the lack of food and water. The number on my hand quickly smeared. Not good. I’ve spoken to marines who’ve made it home, so I know that number is who I am. I’m no longer a person. No longer an individual. I’m a number in a team of numbers.
More marching, my right hand on the right shoulder of the marine in front of me. I was told he is my brother. These recruits are all my brothers. We marched to our platoon and were turned over to our permanent drill instructor for the remainder of boot camp.