Dad said I had better get it figured out before I met a girl with a gun.
The school guidance counselor, Ann, was a friend of our family who had known me all my life. When I needed social coaching or some tips on talking to girls without getting stabbed, I’d troop into Ann’s office and sprawl on a chair while she explained the basics: be honest and upfront, care about what others are doing and what they care about, don’t tease, listen, listen, listen, and take people’s emotions and worries seriously. Special reminder: do not make fun of people in public. Write that on your hand.
I was okay talking to guys. If we had disagreements, why, we could just start fighting. I was a typical heavyweight in that department. I’d paw with my left, then plow in with my right, using it like a pile driver, hammering away. Most times, the other guy and I would end up grappling for a headlock while banging away, usually ending up on the ground with torn shirts, scraped elbows, and bruised faces—hoping, by the way, that our friends would please pull us apart. I figured as long as my win/lose ratio was at 50 percent, I was doing okay.
When I was fourteen, my best friend, Mike Staton, tagged me with a roundhouse that knocked me off my feet. A dazzling white light exploded behind my eyes. At the hospital, the doctor confirmed I had suffered a serious concussion and should take up another hobby. For quite a few days, any sudden move sent an electric shock of pain around my skull.
In my senior year, a football injury ended my dream of playing college ball. I was the stereotypical cocky jock who had fizzled out. True to form, I tested how far I could push the buttons of some of my teachers. I got into the habit of leaving school in my Dodge truck at lunchtime and not returning. Dad didn’t know I was screwing up.
Somehow, I got involved helping a teacher, Mrs. Rattliff, who was working with autistic kids at the school. Maybe the way they stayed to themselves made me relate. I asked Mrs. Rattliff if the autistic kids could use any help.
Well, those kids were amazing. They picked up fast on everything. I liked seeing them improve. I enjoyed horsing around with them when lesson time ended. We’d walk down the corridors together, our own little group of happy misfits.
But, in terms of a football scholarship, I was pretty screwed. I was walking through the cafeteria in May of my senior year with no idea where I was headed next. My knee had been stitched up twice and I’d had three concussions. I had one vague scholarship offer from a vague college, but even if I faked my way through the entry physical, I knew my knee wouldn’t last another season. I was washed up as an athlete and I hadn’t developed strong study habits—I was bored by academics. I sure didn’t want to waste Dad’s hard-earned money drinking beer and cutting classes at some college.
I walked by a table with brightly colored brochures set up opposite the serving line. A rugged-looking sergeant with a crew cut stood behind the table. He was wearing dress blues. He looked like he owned the state of Kentucky.
“Have you been in combat?” I asked.
“Yes, sir, that’s what Marines mostly do,” he said. “Fallujah, Iraq. It was a shit hole when we got there and worse when we left.”
My granddad didn’t talk much about the Marines, but he was proud of his service. I knew they were tough.
“Yes, boot camp is rough and not everyone makes it through,” the sergeant told me. “The pay isn’t bad, seeing as we pay your room and board and ammunition.”
I asked him some questions. No, he didn’t like the M4 carbine—not enough stopping power. He preferred the 7.62.
“So do I,” I said. “The .308 can put down a big buck.”
My obvious reference to hunting fell on deaf ears. He wasn’t impressed with shooting something that couldn’t shoot back.
I felt I was taking an interview and failing. The sergeant was no more talkative than I was.
“So what are you planning to do?” he concluded, signaling he had given me enough of his time.
“I don’t know. Probably go to school. Play some college ball.”
He shifted around the brochures.
“Yes, you do that,” he said, “because you’d never make it as a Marine.”
I knew he was baiting me. He straightened his stack of brochures, letting the fishing line play out. Right, I couldn’t ride that big ATV. No sense in even trying. I actually left the cafeteria before turning around and walking back to his table, his silver hook in my cheek.
“You have the papers to sign up?”
“You’re seventeen. Your father has to sign. You’re not grown up yet.”
“If I’m going to be in the Marines, I want to be in the infantry. I want to fight, not sit behind a desk.”
In 2006, our country was in two wars. We had been attacked on 9/11. I was thirteen when I watched on television as the Twin Towers caved in. I was more than willing to fight the bastards who had murdered three thousand Americans.
“I’ll guarantee you a tryout at boot camp,” the sergeant said. “If you make it through, you can become a grunt.”
An hour later, he followed me out to our farm, where we sat around the kitchen table and he told me about the fighting in Fallujah.
“A lot of shots at five hundred meters,” he said, “straight down the streets.”
“I could hit at that range,” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
I don’t know whether he believed me or not. We sat without saying much more until Dad walked in after work. He looked at the two of us.
“Ko,” he said, “what have you done now?”
The three of us talked for the next hour. There was no hard sell. The recruiting sergeant and my father left the decision up to me.
“I don’t want to go to college, Dad,” I said. “And I don’t want to stay here herding cows. I want something better.”
“Well, Ko,” he said, “I don’t disagree with your choice.”
Chapter 2
THE MARINE YEARS
The good-byes were somber when I left for boot camp. Dad was okay, but not really happy to see me go. Granddad told me I’d do fine if I didn’t piss off any of the sergeants. My guidance counselor, Ann, was somber. Her husband, Toby, a state trooper, had worked on our farm when I was about eight. Ten years my senior, he taught me how to spear tobacco and stalk turkeys. Ann and Toby had spoken up over the years whenever I needed it. None of my family came right out and said it, but my desire to be a Marine grunt in combat naturally did concern them. I’m sure there’s not one family in America that doesn’t have worries when a son or daughter goes off to war.
I sat among twenty other quiet recruits for the fourteen-hour bus trip from Louisville. At three in the morning, the bus started along the causeway that crosses the swamps around Parris Island, South Carolina. At the front gate, a sergeant boarded the bus.
“Put your heads between your legs!” he yelled. “Don’t move or blink.”
Then the bus door closed and we continued on for what seemed like the longest drive ever.
We came to a stop and the door opened. I heard the slow stomp of footsteps.
“Get your asses out of those seats!” a drill instructor boomed at us. “Outside! Keep your mouths shut and follow the yellow footsteps.”
So it began: close haircuts to strip away your old identity, exercises to prove you’re not half as strong as you figured, simple tasks that show you are mentally weak, drill instructors who mock your attempts to look tough. It’s right out of the movies, but it never stops.
We were handed a blanket and two sheets and told to make our bunks and then stand against the wall.
