Thirteen Weeks

Thirteen weeks.

That’s what I kept telling myself as I stood on the yellow footprints, my legs still shaking from scrambling off the bus. I swear I can still hear the drill instructor screaming GET OFF MY BUS! like a broken siren on repeat.

The footprints were thick yellow paint, chipped at the edges—the kind used to mark roads. They forced your feet into position. The fear forced the rest of you.

I glanced at the man next to me—short, curly hair, wide eyes. He glanced back. That was all we needed: neither of us had any idea what was coming.

A drill instructor paced in front of us, wide-brimmed cover shadowing eyes that never stopped scanning. His voice was half commands, half shouting.

“Listen up,” he growled. “You’re going to file out and go through my doors—”

He jabbed a knife-hand toward two silver doors stamped with the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor. UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS etched around it.

I followed the man ahead of me. More drill instructors poured out of the dark like sharks scented blood, every “MOVE!” and “GO!” tangling into one giant roar.

Then it was a blur.

A desk.

Buttoning every button on my shirt.

Papers shoved into my hands.

A phone pressed to my ear.

My dad answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

I read the required script off the sheet, my lips moving but my brain numb. The drill instructor’s breath hit my ear as I forced out, “Goodbye for now.”

He slammed the phone into the cradle.

“MOVE.”

My legs moved on their own. My eyes scanned for any sign of where to go, but then I saw him—the curly-haired guy. I walked fast, almost ran, and stood in the cubby across from him.

A drill instructor sprinted out of the room behind us, but no one dared move. My spine locked straight. Even breathing felt like it would get me killed.

“WHO WENT TO COLLEGE?”

The voice boomed from the left.

No one answered.

“I said”—boots clicked closer—“WHO’S BEEN TO COLLEGE?”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. The curly-haired guy shook his head just enough for me to see.

“SIR!” I blurted, voice cracking. “This recruit has been to college, SIR!”

Curly-Hair closed his eyes. Like he already knew what was coming.

“What’s your degree in?” the DI barked.

“SIR! This recruit has a Master’s in Geotechnical Engineering, SIR!”

“Hold on.”

The DI walked off, boots clicking.

Curly-Hair stared up at the ceiling like if he met my eyes he’d get dragged into this too.

Silence.

The hum of fluorescent lights.

Then: “HEY, DUMMY!”

Another drill instructor stuck his head out of the office doorway, a taller one looming behind him. “What did you say you studied?”

“Geotechnical Engineering, SIR!”

“You’re Scribe now.”

That was it. That was my name.

The DI pointed at Curly-Hair. “You. What’s your name?”

“SIR! This recruit’s name is Recruit Marine, SIR!”

“Bullshit. You haven’t earned that yet. You’re Recruit Recruit.”

“Aye, sir!”

“Scribe, you and Recruit Recruit collect the papers and wait for me.”

“Aye, SIR!” we yelled together.

*******

I sat down next to Recruit Recruit on his footlocker. The hinge was still missing from when the Kill Hat, Sergeant Smith, had thrown it at me. Recruit Recruit had bumped my elbow just in time for me to dive out of the way.

“Scribe,” he said. His voice was still high-pitched, but steadier now. Mine had changed too. I couldn’t make high notes anymore—Recruit Recruit had to do them for me when Sergeant Smith made us sing.

He leaned in, hands curled around a crumpled piece of paper.

“Sergeant Smith—” he lowered his voice like the name itself might summon him— “Sergeant Smith made Balock sit in a trash can.”

My lips curled. “Why the hell would he do that?”

Recruit Recruit fought a laugh. “Balock got the worst score on the range. Sergeant Smith told him he was trash and made him sit inside it.”

I let out a laugh—pressure bleeding out of my chest—and froze when I saw Sergeant Smith behind the glass. He wasn’t looking at us, so I let the smile return.

“He was shit,” I said. “I had to record the scores.”

Recruit Recruit scooted closer, our shoulders touching. He held out the crumpled page.

“Hey, you remember the words to ‘All Star’? By Smash Mouth?”

I looked at the paper, pulled my scribe pencil from my pocket. He already had the first verse written.

Other recruits wrote to parents or girlfriends.

Some stretched.

Some prayed.

Some whispered dirty jokes in tight circles.

Me and Recruit Recruit?

We sat there writing the lyrics to ‘All Star.’

A stupid song.

But a reminder.

A reminder of life outside Parris Island.

*******

December 9th.

I marched in Platoon 3096. Recruit Recruit was on my left, where he’d been since Training Day 1. We wore gloves because of the cold. Our chests were puffed out, cross-rifle shooting badges, single Private First Class chevron clean. We didn’t scuff our feet anymore.

We moved as one.

We always moved as one now.

A bump on the leg from Recruit Recruit told me more than any words.

This was it.

The whole company marched in lockstep, heels clicking on the parade deck—the same parade deck where Recruit Recruit passed out and I carried him back, in cadence, across Parris Island. The same parade deck where Balock pissed himself and the platoon spent two hours in the sand pit learning how to put discipline into our bodies.

The Inspecting General was speaking up front—not to us, but to the families. The only people who spoke to us had done it last week, when Recruit Recruit and I stood on this same parade deck. We were shaking, running on eight hours of sleep over three days, our hands caked in grime and dirt.

Sergeant Smith handed us our EGA pins.

Recruit Recruit and I wept, clean tracks cutting through the dirt on our cheeks.

That moment ended the instant we heard the voice over the loudspeaker:

“COMPANY, DISMISSED!”

LOCK.

BACKSTEP.

“Aye sir!” Five hundred new Marines roared as one.

Recruit Recruit turned to face me. I grabbed his arms; he grabbed mine. His smile was the biggest I’d ever seen. I don’t think I ever smiled that big again.

We pulled each other in.

We squeezed.

We let go.

I already knew.

He already knew.

I took off to find my parents, and he went for his.

I never saw Recruit Recruit again.

And it all happened in—

Thirteen weeks.