Chapter Eight
Stone
Snapping my spine straight, I kept my shoulders back and my eyes fixed on the Star-Spangled Banner waving off the side of a building twenty feet ahead of me. My jaw clenched with determination as I endeavored not to eyeball the mean-faced officer pacing up and down the line of recruits or the two other officers who stood to attention, glaring at us.
The sergeant stared each man in the face as he passed us. “Look down at the yellow footprints, men,” he shouted.
My forehead creased in confusion. Why the hell was he making us look at the damned ground?
His face turned purple as he bellowed, “I gave you an order! Look down at the yellow footprints!”
I cast a furtive glance at the young guy beside me before lowering my stare to the yellow marks in the shape of boot prints painted on the ground where we stood.
Sergeant narrowed his eyes before looking at each of us in turn. “Enlisting to become a United States Marine is one of the most meaningful decisions you’ll make in your lifetime. Your journey over the next thirteen weeks won’t be easy—some of you won’t make it—but those of you who do will learn skills that you’ll utilize for the rest of your lives.” His head swiveled left and right as he studied us. “While you’re here, you’ll experience the lowest of lows and the highest of highs. You’ll endure disappointments that’ll make you weep and feel so exhausted you’ll wanna give up. But what’ll keep you going is the joy, excitement, and exhilaration you’ll also experience, as well as the bonds and friendships you’ll cultivate along the way.” His mouth hitched by a millimeter. “By the time you leave here, you’ll be stronger, both physically and mentally. You’ll become problem solvers and the types of men people will look to in times of adversity. You’ll never quit anything and never give up on a task until it’s completed.” His lips curled in distaste. “But first, we need to get you through boot camp.” He began to stride down the line of men again. “Over the next thirteen weeks, we’ll push you to your limits and far beyond. It’ll exhaust you, both physically and mentally, to the point where you’ll beg for your mama’s tit. I’ll make you hurt in ways you’ve never imagined. You’ll experience pain and terror. But if you get through, we’ll bring out qualities you never imagined you possessed. I’ll turn you from boys into men. You’ll notice changes in yourself after just a week of being here. Eventually, the pain and exhaustion won’t matter ‘cause you’ll understand they’re a means to achieving your goals. If any of you men eventually get to wear the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor, it will be because you’ve earned the privilege to call yourselves U.S. Marines. So, look down at those yellow footprints, boys, and say goodbye to life as you know it.”
My eyes lowered toward the boot prints, my mind going over Sergeant’s words.
He’d evoked a feeling of excitement that I’d never experienced before. His speech—although hard to hear in parts—had somehow instilled a need for me to give bootcamp my all. I knew joining the Marines would be the hardest thing I’d ever done, but Sarge had inspired me because I’d always strived to be the best son, the best boyfriend, hell, the best man I could be.
Since the day I left for San Diego, I’d missed Elise so much that my chest ached. Even our phone calls hadn’t eased it, but standing here, listening to Sarge, I suddenly had a new perspective. I’d made my decision to leave Elise, and by doing so, I’d caused her pain, so I felt pressured to prove I’d made the right choice for both of us.
At least if I became everything my commanding officer said I could be, there’d be justification for me putting my girl through the wringer.
The problem was, here, I wasn’t the guy everybody looked up to. Instead, I was just another grunt, a number on a sheet of paper. All the confidence I usually exuded had disappeared.
My stomach leaped, and I felt out of my depth.
“You’re about to be split into three platoons,” Sarge continued. “You’ll either get your rucks checked for contraband, be allocated your uniform, or visit the barber.” His lips quirked. “Say so long to your mullets, boys.”
Within minutes, we were sorted into platoons and led off toward the sand-colored building that would be my home for the next thirteen weeks. It was gone nine, and darkness was falling, but the huge, pale structure, typical of Southern California, loomed in the night sky.
My drill instructor watched us marching toward the building, and his lips thinned. “Halt!”
We all came to a stop.
“You need a lesson in marching in formation. You look like a joke,” he bellowed. “Shoulders back and atteeeeention!”
We snapped our spines straight.
He glared down the line. “Right leg face!”
Most of us turned right, but a few turned left.
I cringed.
The drill instructor looked to the heavens and heaved a breath before lowering his eyes and yelling, “Forward. March!”
The echo of boots stomping on concrete filled my ears as we marched—badly—toward our fate.
Week One
The first days of training passed by in a blur, probably due to the sleep deprivation we got thrown straight into, except for two standout moments.
The first thing, weirdly, was my haircut.
It was only when some big, mean-looking fucker, pulled my head back and buzzed it until I was bald that it hit me that the next thirteen weeks were gonna either make me the man I aspired to be or turn me into a broken mess. It was a profound moment; one I’d remember for the rest of my life because I wasn’t me anymore; I was a Marine recruit.
The second was my phone call home.
I should’ve known I wouldn’t get to have a normal conversation. Instead, I had to shout words from a script stuck to the wall saying I’d arrived safely, they shouldn’t send personal items, and that I’d call again in seven to ten days. While I shouted down the phone, a drill instructor stood behind me, also bellowing.
My dad knew—I reckoned that fucker had been waiting for it—because he picked up the phone and cackled like the Wicked Witch from the West. Then he began to bellow at me too, until I had my DI yelling in one ear and Pop yelling in the other.
As a unit, we learned how to march, how to address our superiors, and what different commands meant. Our personal items were stripped, alongside our individuality, and I began to think of myself less as John Stone and more as a soldier who was part of something bigger.
It was the most brutal week of my life, but eventually, it became my new normal. Instead of feeling out of my depth, I began to tread water, praying for the day I’d be able to swim against the tide.
Week Two
I’d been assigned to 1st Battalion 1049. My assigned drill instructor—Sergeant Mendez—was a big, burly bastard who had a knack for looking into my eyes and seeing every dark doubt plaguing my mind. My accommodation consisted of the bottom bunk of the barracks, housing dozens of men. The sounds of men farting and snoring should’ve kept me awake at night, but I was so exhausted, both mentally and physically, that I fell into a deep slumber the second my head hit the pillow.
Elise was constantly in the back of my mind. The last time I called her was the day before I came in, and I knew she’d be frantic with worry. I hoped my dad would explain the way it was, even though he hadn’t told me shit—I assumed because he knew I would’ve had second thoughts about enlisting at all if he did.
On the plus side, I was starting to settle and had even made friends with the guys who I lived in close proximity to. Somehow, we’d managed to build a friendship group amongst the utter chaos of weeks one and two as Marine recruits.
I’d gotten particularly close to the guy who slept on the bunk above mine. Isaiah Jones was the same age as me and hailed from New York. He was tall, built, and cracked jokes like a damned comedian, which had gotten him in all kinds of trouble already.
We were marched outside and informed we were going on a two-mile run. Isaiah and I were among the fittest men in the battalion. We’d both smashed the obstacle course and fitness tests. However, the DIs wanted to see improvement, regardless of fitness levels, so I still had to up my game.
Mendez and the two other drill instructors lined us up in double formation.
Isaiah gave me some side-eye and grimaced just as Drill Instructor Morley began to run at pace.
“Recruits. Fall in,” Mendez bellowed.
“Yes, Sir,” we bellowed, setting off behind Morley.
It didn’t take long for us to settle into a rhythm. The sound of boots stomping on asphalt in perfect time was a motivator.
“I’ll let you call cadence, Sergeant Morley,” Mendez yelled. “Make it a good one, and let’s show these recruits how Marines PT.”
I regulated my breathing and pumped my arms and legs in time with everyone else as Morley’s voice rose up over the sound of boots pounding.
“My recruiter told me a lie.”
Every recruit repeated at the top of their voice, “My recruiter told me a lie.”
“Said Sergeant Morley won’t make me cry.”
“Said Sergeant Morley won’t make me cry.”
“Wakes me in the mornin’ way too soon,”
“Wakes me in the mornin’ way too soon.”“Hungry as a horse, almost dead by noon.”
“Hungry as a horse, almost dead by noon.”“What will we do when we get back?”
“What will we do when we get back?”“Take a shower and hit the rack.”
“Take a shower and hit the rack.”“NO WAY.”
“No way.”“GOTTA RUN”
“Gotta run.”“PT.”
“PT.”“LOTS OF FUN.”
“Lots of fun.”“Singing, I wanna be a drill instructor.”
“I wanna be a drill instructor.”“I wanna cut off all of my hair.”
“I wanna cut off all of my hair.”
“I wanna be a drill instructor.”“I wanna be a drill instructor.”“I wanna earn that smoky bear.”
“I wanna earn that smoky bear.”
Singing cadence was like something out of a movie. Leesy always said it gave Officer and a Gentleman vibes. But in the real world, it helped us run in time and at the correct pace. Personally, it also gave me a sense of belonging, that I was a part of something bigger than myself.
I was getting used to the crack-of-dawn starts and the physicality of what being a marine entailed. Even the DIs screaming in my face was becoming part of everyday life.
The days of those early weeks blurred together in endless loops of drills and discipline. Our sweat-soaked shirts and blistered feet became badges of honor, almost something to aspire to. It was crazy how, within a couple of weeks, a rag-tag bunch of men who could hardly walk straight could now march in perfect formation.
The drill instructors broke us down to build us back up again, reshaping us into soldiers. I discovered parts of myself I never knew existed—resilience, determination, and a quiet strength that whispered promises of success. Except through it all, a hole in my chest remained because a part of me was missing.
Elise.
Week Three
Isaiah leaned back in his chair, not a care in the world, and looked around the long dining table at us, grinning. “See,” he began. “Two little boys walked into a pharmacy, picked up a huge box of tampons, and took ‘em to the counter. The pharmacist asked the older one, ‘Son, how old are you?’ The boy looked up at him and said, ‘Nine.’ The pharmacist cocked his head and asked the boy, ‘D’ya know what these are used for, Son?’ The boy shrugged, ‘Not exactly, but they’re not for me anyway. They’re for my little brother here. He’s four.’ ‘Well, what does he want them for?’ the pharmacist asked. The little boy grinned. ‘We saw on TV that if you use these, you can run a marathon, ride a bike, and swim. He can’t do none of those things right now.’”
Chuckles rose up as all the boys around the table cracked up laughing until the heavy stomp of approaching boots drowned us out.
Craning my neck, I caught sight of Sergeant Mendez behind me, regarding us thoughtfully. “Any of you little girls play basketball?” he demanded.
I raised my hand, along with some of the others.
Mendez’s stare fell on Isaiah. “What about you, Jones?”
My pal sat up straighter. “Played a game or two in my time, Sir.”
The Sergeant’s lips thinned. “The DIs of 2nd Battalion 2051 have challenged us to a game of basketball. I want all of you out on the courts, ready to play. Your downtime just got reduced. It’s time to practice, ‘cause, believe me, boys, if you lose, I won’t be a happy drill instructor. 1st Battalion’s got a rep to protect. Do you understand?”
We looked at him blankly.
“Do you understand?” he roared.
A chorus of “Yes, Sir” went up as we all stood, chairs scraping across the tiled floor, and headed for the door.
Isaiah fell into step beside me. “Bet he thinks I’m good at basketball ‘cause I’m black.”
My lips twisted in thought. “Maybe, but it’s probably more to do with the fact you”re six foot six. No fucker’s gonna reach that hoop as well as you.”
Isaiah chuckled. “Never thought of that.”
The evening sun warmed our backs as we made our way to the makeshift court situated close to the assault course. The air felt heavy with anticipation as the DIs split us into two groups before lining us up opposite each other.
Mendez stalked down the middle of the teams, eyeballing us closely as he passed. “This isn’t just basketball practice, men. This is a test of teamwork and how well you all gel together. There will be no standout star players in your team. No man works alone.”
We all snapped our backs straight and shouted, “Yes, Sir,” before making our way onto the court.
Isaiah stood tall, his muscles tense beneath his sweat-soaked shirt. Determination shone from his eyes as he turned to me and nodded.
The basketball felt rough against my hands. I started to dribble the ball, the stiff leather cracking through the ether as it bounced from the ground. A whistle pierced the air, and the game began. The bellows of the officers and the shouts from my teammates all faded along with the sound of drills being conducted in the distance.
I looked around the court with a small smile playing around my lips, reveling in the warmth of the sun and the enjoyment of finally doing something I loved.
“Are you ready, Stone?” Isaiah asked, beckoning our team over. The instant we got in a huddle, Isaiah cleared his throat. “I went to college on a basketball scholarship. Does anyone else play?”
Coop, one of our buds, nodded. “I grew up on a court in Detroit. There was nothin’ else to do in my hood. I play decent.”
“I was on my high school team,” I informed them. “Probably not to your standard, bro, but I can shoot a hoop.”
The game began with a whistle, and everything else faded away. The shouts of the spectators, the harsh commands of our instructors—even the distant sound of drills being conducted dissolved into the background as we moved like a cohesive unit, taking cues from each other. Finally, I managed to break away from the guy marking me and dribble the ball to Isaiah.
He darted across the court, swift and agile, his movements almost graceful as he weaved. Aiming, he took his shot, and the ball soared through the air and cleanly through the hoop. A loud cheer went up, and we all rushed at Isaiah, high-fiving and clapping his shoulder.
We all knew deep down that this game was more than just friendly rivalry. It was a test of our unity, a measure of how well we trusted one another and worked as a team. As I clocked Isaiah basking in the adulation, I couldn’t help but feel a little envious of how effortlessly he seemed to fit in. Then my stare slid to Coop, and Calder and the other guys’ sweat-soaked brows and unsure expressions.
That was when a revelation hit me. I wasn’t alone. We were all here searching for the same thing—a sense of brotherhood. I was connected to these men in ways I’d never experience again, and for the first time, I realized I’d done the right thing by coming here.
“Alright, 1st Battalion,” Morley bellowed. “You can line up and suck Jones’s cock at lights out. Right now, you’ve gotta game to win. Get your asses back into position.”
Heart swelling, I went to regroup and prepare for the next play with a grin on my face and a newfound sense of camaraderie filling the void inside me.
Week Four
Swim Week was notorious for taking outstanding recruits, chewing them up, and spitting them out. More men dropped out of boot camp on swim week than any other in the program.
We’d been marched to the swim tank and lined up in full uniform—boots and rifles included—at the side of the Olympic-size indoor pool. Mendez and Morley had taken seats in the bleachers, their clipboards at the ready, to allow the swim instructors to take over.
The pressure weighed down on my chest even though I knew I was a good swimmer. This exercise had been described as a living hell by more than one brother who used to tell me about their time in the boot camp. I’d been dreading it since week one. The smell of chlorine filled my nostrils, mingling with the acrid scent of fear permeating throughout the room.
One of the instructors stood at the top of the line to address us. “I’m Sergeant Pascoe. Welcome to the swim tank, recruits. Is there anybody here who can’t swim?”
Two recruits gingerly raised their hands.
“If you don’t learn within the next ten minutes, you better hope one of your buds can do mouth-to-mouth.” He nodded toward another instructor. “Go with Sergeant Williams, and good luck. You’re gonna need it.”
Both recruits called out, “Yes, Sir,” and fell into step behind Williams, who headed toward a smaller pool which was situated thirty feet away.
Pascoe turned back to us. “You have this week to pass this test. If you don’t, we’ll kick you out unless we think you’re worth another chance. If that’s the case, you’ll start again and join the next intake of recruits.” He began to pace behind us. “If you listen and do as I tell you, every one of you will pass. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir!” we bellowed.
“Watch and learn.” He lifted one foot, hovering there for a second before stepping into the pool. As he landed, he pushed up until his head was above water. “Once you’re in, I want you to swim to the other side.”
I gulped nervously. If I’d been wearing swim shorts, it would’ve been easy, but being dressed in a full camo uniform, boots, and holding a rifle wasn’t conducive to swimming. Still, I lifted one leg, along with the rest of my platoon, and stepped into the pool.
Even though the water was tepid, it still sent a shockwave through me. I kicked upward, but the weight of my uniform bogged me down. My feet touched the bottom of the pool, and with every ounce of strength I could muster, I pushed up, slicing through the water until my head broke through and I sucked in air.
The shouts from the instructors spurred me into action, and I kicked off toward the other side of the pool. My water-clogged uniform made movement difficult, but somehow, I managed to fall into a clumsy rhythm with each stroke and focus on the movement of my body sluicing through the water.
After what seemed like hours, my fingertips touched the side of the pool. Grabbing hold of it, I pulled myself to safety and immediately looked around to see what was happening with the rest of my boys. I caught Isaiah out of the corner of my eye as he touched the side. Breathing a sigh of relief, I maneuvered my back to the edge of the pool, looking around to check on the others.
Ray and Coop were swimming, slow but strong, toward the side, but Alec was floundering to the point he could barely keep his noggin above water. Nudging Isaiah, I nodded toward our friend. “Al’s struggling.”
Isaiah looked over. “Poor guy’s starting to panic.” He winced. “If he loses his shit, he’ll fail. Poor fucker may get kicked out.”
Instinctively, I went to dive back into the water to try and help. Even just to give him a few words of encouragement. I stopped when I heard Morley shout, “Stone! Fall back!”
I looked up to see our DIs standing at the edge of the pool with Pascoe. Mendez had both hands on his hips, shooting me a death glare.
Pascoe jumped in the pool and swam straight to Alec, who was almost thrashing around and trying to keep afloat. “Grady!” he bellowed. “Why do dead men float?”
Alec coughed and spluttered, fighting to keep his head above water before yelling, “Don’t know, Sir.”
“Dead men don’t freak the fuck out,” Pascoe yelled back. “Stop panicking. Stop tensing. Use the water to make yourself buoyant. Relax, allow your body to rise, and put your face in the water. When you need to breathe, kick your arms like you’re a frog, raise your head, take some air, then return to the relaxing position.”
I had to give Alec props. He did a good job. Within a minute, he went from flailing around to calmly bobbing on top of the water.
Pascoe turned to address us. “The water isn’t your enemy. It can save your life, if you know how to use it. When you’re under enemy fire, water is the best cover you’ll ever find and the best means of escape. You’re not here today to learn to swim or prove you can move in the water wearing a uniform and carrying a damned rifle. You’re here to learn to use the water as a survival tactic.” He turned to order Alec to swim to the side. “All of you will leave here today with a swim qual one to your name. Some of you will get a qual two. A couple may even get a swim qual three. But that’ll only happen if you listen to me and follow orders. Do you understand?”
We pulled our backs to attention even though the water hindered our movement and bellowed, ‘Yes, Sir.”
“Good.” Pascoe’s lips curved into a smirk, his fingers raising to point to the ten-foot-high diving board positioned at one end of the pool. “Next, we’re jumping off that baby and swimming a length underwater.” His eyes flicked over each of us in turn, and he grinned evilly. “And if I manage to make you puke, you get to clean the entire damned swimming tank.”