I recently read some outstanding Marine Corps boot camp stories and I thought you might enjoy them as well. Please be advised these are not G rated posts; they contain profanity and may not be suitable for some readers. If you enjoy reading them let me know by leaving a comment below. It is my intention to post a series of these stories, some short, some long, all told by the men and women who dared to enter the Drill Instructor’s Twilight Zone. Names and other identifying information have been changed.

This first story from Cpl G tells the tale of a recruit who would rather face The Reaper than an angry Drill Instructor. Enjoy…

Camp Pendleton, CA, summer 200X, the base of “The Reaper” (a steep and lengthy hill climbed by recruits in the final portion of the USMC boot camp’s Crucible training event).

For the past two days we recruits of Mike Co. had completed the seemingly-never-ending challenges of the Crucible, from negotiating obstacle courses while dragging man-sized (and man-weighted) dummies to testing our patrolling techniques, all the while hiking from event to event. The final portion of the Crucible was a hike back to the company barracks, which involved negotiating the hill affectionately known to all recruits as “The Reaper.” The sun had just barely begun to rise, allowing the black hill to ever-so-slightly contrast with the navy blue sky.

At the base of The Reaper the Company paused our hike to hear a few motivational words from the Chaplain or Company Commander, or maybe it was some other important person (in the darkness I couldn’t tell who it was, and I didn’t much care…I just wanted to finish the hike and take a shower). But in addition to this well-meant attempt at injecting us recruits with a dose of motivation, a pleasant treat was produced before us: a box of apples was being passed down the column of recruits! After several days of eating nothing but MREs, a fresh apple was more than just physical nourishment; it was a psychological respite and momentary distraction from blistered feet and sore muscles.

But it was merely a ruse. The apple was a lie.

No sooner had my teeth perforated the crunchy skin of what I was sure was going to be the most delicious apple I had ever tasted than I heard the all-too-familiar sound of our platoon’s beloved “Kill Hat” Drill Instructor, Gunnery Sergeant Juarez (we were the “Gunny Platoon”; all of our drill instructors were Gunnery Sergeants. How the fuck that happened I do not know, but it was an idea most certainly conjured in the Fifth Circle of Hell). “Packs on your backs! Get your packs on your backs right goddamned now! Stop chewing and throw those fucking apples away and get ready to step!”

I was tempted to complete the glorious bite I had begun. It was an injustice to humanity that these perfectly good apples would be thrown away by those who would enjoy them so much. But I couldn’t disobey a direct order from my Drill Instructor, no matter how satisfying it would have been to have that private moment of rebellion, sweetened by the nectar of a lovely fruit. Besides, if GySgt. Juarez saw me I would be dead meat for the rest of boot camp. And I wasn’t so sure Drill Instructors couldn’t see in the dark…

So I clutched the apple in my hand, said a silent eulogy, and prepared to launch it to a dignified rest in the grass adjoining the dirt road I stood on. I cocked my arm to the rear to conduct a modified grenade throw, and prepared to let go of my dear apple.

As I propelled my arm forward my rifle sling slipped off my shoulder and my rifle fell down my arm, halting my throw midway. The apple traveled not in the rainbow-like arc I intended, but in a straightened line like a fastball hurled from a baseball pitcher. I had chucked that apple pretty hard…

…right into the face of a Drill Instructor.

Smack…time seemed to stand still in a pause…my body seized up in fear…my mind could compute only one thought: this is how I die…

“FUUUUCK! WHO DID THAT?! WHO THE FUCK JUST HIT ME IN THE FACE WITH A GODDAMN APPLE?! WHO WAS IT?!” In the darkness I could see a flat-brimmed hat attached to an animal figure that was moving at lightning speed up and down the column of recruits, half running, half jumping, like a crazed Velociraptor. Does he already know it was me? Should I turn myself in and sign my own death warrant at the young age of 18? Did any of my fellow recruits see me throw the apple?

Before any of these questions could be answered salvation came from a hundred meters away, at the front of the column, in the form of the company First Sergeant’s booming voice…”STEPPING!”…”Stepping!” repeated the formation of recruits, just as we had been trained to do. The column began to move and I disappeared into a flowing sea of marching recruits. I had received my last-minute death penalty pardon. I had been saved by the bell in the 12th round.

I couldn’t have been happier to begin climbing The Reaper.