This is the area celebrat d in the Pat Conroy novel The Great antini and The Prince oj Tides, book that mix genteel lu hne with cathartic and destructive bur sts of pa ion. Mong Hollywood box-office hits, film uch a forrest gump, The Bi Chill and Glory were filmed here. Er the la t thirty year the region ha become a popular touri t and retirement de
This is the area celebrat d in the Pat Conroy novel The Great antini and The Prince oj Tides, book that mix genteel lu hne with cathartic and destructive bur sts of pa ion. Mong Hollywood box-office hits, film uch a forrest gump, The Bi Chill and Glory were filmed here. Er the la t thirty year the region ha become a popular touri t and retirement de
This is the area celebrat d in the Pat Conroy novel The Great antini and The Prince oj Tides, book that mix genteel lu hne with cathartic and destructive bur sts of pa ion. Mong Hollywood box-office hits, film uch a forrest gump, The Bi Chill and Glory were filmed here. Er the la t thirty year the region ha become a popular touri t and retirement de
This is the area celebrat d in the Pat Conroy novel The Great antini and The Prince oj Tides, book that mix genteel lu hne with cathartic and destructive bur sts of pa ion. Mong Hollywood box-office hits, film uch a forrest gump, The Bi Chill and Glory were filmed here. Er the la t thirty year the region ha become a popular touri t and retirement de
eee
ISLAND
REDUXarris Island, South Caroli
south of Charleston and forty
Savannah, Georgia, atthe end ofa series of windit
d with trees dipped in Sp
area celebrated in the Pat Conroy novels The Great Santini
and The Prince of Tides, books that mix genteel lushness
with cathartic and destructive bursts of passion. Amor
films such as Forrest Gump, The
d Glory were filmed here.
Over the last thirty years the region has become a popular
ist and retirement destination, especially the nearby
Beaufort, with its beautifully restored antebellui
d Hilton Head, with its golf courses and beach co
dos. Visitors to the charming boutiques and restaurants here
Iuxuriate only a short drive away from the main gates of the
USS. Marine Corps Recruit Depot (MCRD), where the words
n the welcome sign read, WELCOME TO PARRIS ISLAND: WE
MAKE MARINES. This is the home of Marine Corps Boot Camp,
and the incubator for Marine culture.
‘The Marines themselves foster an image of “PI” as
of American Devil’ Island or Napoleonic Elba, a place w'
exiled teens not long out of high school endure terrors as they
are purged of host of bad habits and attitudes known collec~
tively as “civ young recruit be-
‘came so det twescape Corps that he fled his
barracks during a full moon and swam nearly a mile across
Port Royal Sound to the opposite shore. He was picked up by
police in his soaked camouflage utilities and returned to the
Marines for discharge.
MCRD-Parris Island graduates about sixteen thousand
recruits each year. At any given moment there are four thou-
sand male recruits and six hundred female recruits on the
island, average age nineteen. A cadre of nearly six hundred
drill instructors (Ds) trains them all, Two- and three-story
ildings house recruit barracks and drill instructor
offices shaded by oaks and pines. Inside those buildings, the
living quarters or “squad bays” are essentially long concret
floored barns with rows and rows of bunk beds. The bas
self is homely but immaculate. Brass polish and fresh coats
6f paint help make up for facilities that are among the most
antiquated in all the U.S. armed forces.
roads Jh moss. This is the
kind
I MADE A PILGRIMAGE TO PARRIS ISLAND BECAU!
there's a Jot I still don’t truly understand about the Marines,
even though right out of college I served as an officer in the
Corps. The old saying in the Corps is “Once a Marine, Always,
4 Marine,” and I've found over time that somehow I agree.
The intensity and separateness of life in the Corps force any-
‘gtr Bare, Apri 2002. Potogragh by he ater.
who has ever served, like it or
‘4 permanently even as the slogan ac
knowledges membership ity, is also a
warning and a prod. Whether you see it on truck bumpers.
‘along the highway or on baseball caps at veterans’ reunions,
, Have you been living up to the example
of the few, the proud?
Givilian Marines (there’s really no such thing as an “ex-
Marine”) manifest the varying aspects of Marine culture
different ways.
enlisted i His legacy was to shoot
and kill fourteen people from atop Austin’s Texas Tower one
August day in 1966, Daniel Ellsberg graduated third in his
ss at Harvard in 1952 and joined the Marines as an officer.
His legacy was the Pentagon Papers, documents he smuggled
tothe New York Times in 1971 to tell the truth about Vi
and light the fuse that would explode the Nixon presidency.
F Blsberg, his actions were completely in keeping with hi
ethies as a gung-ho former Marine. Not many of
activists who anointed him a hero ever called attention to
Ellsberg’s Marine credentials.
A civilian Marine since 1991, was goosebumped as I drove
through the gates of the hallowed Parris Island for the first
time (1 never trained there—all officers complet
ingat Officer Candidates School {OCS} in Quantico, Virginia).
I realized how a decade back in the elvilian world still hadn't
helped me figure out exactly how the reality (much less the
propaganda) of Marine life should overlay the template of
to come to terms wit
‘tasks
basic train:‘my subsequent civilian existence. My father was a decorated.
Marine officer in Vietnam; my brother was a decorated
Marine in the Gulf War. Consequently, it's as if 1 spent my
childhood and early adulthood on some all-Marine space-
‘ship before crash-landing on a barely more habitable orb in
the civilian galaxy. More than occasionally, I tread through
life ambivalently, scratching my head, a stranger ina strange
land, asking what parts of me will always be Marine, what
parts will never be Marine, and what parts will forever shift.
You can’t fit all ofthat on a bumper sticker.
IF PARRIS ISLAND WERE ANOTHER PLANET—SAy,
something out ofa George Lucas movie—then its Jedi Knights,
would be drill instructors. Dis are those enlisted men and.
‘women who push basic recruits through the three months of
bboot-camp training. To become a DI, a Marine first has to en-
dure an eleven-Wweek course at Parris Island known as Drill,
Instructor School, the toughest training program in the
Marine Corps—much more rigorous than boot camp itself
Thad decided to visit DI School and boot camp because the
personnel and curriculum there represent the very essence
of Marineness.
My nerves got the better of me as I waited in my Subaru
‘outside the base public-affars office the first morning of my
visit. That old feeling of wanting to measure up came flood-
iz back. I was there to meet my escort—a smart and attrac-
live young lieutenant named Jennifer Radcliff. Marine Corps
policy prohibits journalists from wandering around Parris
Island unaccompanied. Though I had explained my Marine
lineage in detail in a proposal letier, none of that mattered.
‘To the denizens of Pl I was just another reporter:
Lt Radcliff drove me around in a white government van,
and in between appointments we stopped for military-issue
coffee or a sandwich. Although she was wary of me as a re-
porter, and I was wary of her as a public-affairs spin agent,
ound it refreshing to work with a female Marine. I'd served
in a combat unit during my days in the Corps and had
‘worked around men only. It was immediately easier to relax
and be myself with Radcliff as we arrived at the red-brick DI
School to observe a class in session. Even though she was
still on active duty, her identity didn’t revolve around being a
Marine as much as mine did a decade out of the Corps.
Perhaps she knew the Marines would always be foremost
amale club,
My mind riffs back a decade ago to a dark hotel bar in
Olongapo—a mad, Hieronymous Bosch-like town beyond
the barbed wire of Subic Bay Naval Base in the Philippines.
Asa lieutenant enjoying my first overseas deployment, | am
the junior-ranking officer ata table full of eaptains and ma:
jors watching a willowy, dark-haired Filipino woman dance
‘on the stage in front us. She wears a white bikini, matching
hhigh heels, and a round silver disk with the number 8 pinned
1o her waistband, We've been drinking heavily after spending
tree weeks at sea. The woman dances suggestively to a
Madonna song, “Papa Don’t Preach.” When she spots me at
the table, she begins to smile and point my way. Smaller and,
‘more baby-faced than the other men, I must be the least
threatening to her. A major calls over our waiter and gives
him finy dollars for “number eight.” Then the major, who is
‘married and wants to live vicariously, pokes me in the chest
and slurs, “OK, Lieutenant, don’t let me down now.”
‘Soon the git i sitting on my lap with her arms around my
neck. Her name is Mary. The way she says it, it sounds like
-May-ree. For fity dollars, Mary will be my “girlfriend” for ten
days in port. !ask her how old she is, and she whispers in my
ear, “Fileen.” I seize upon her age as an escape hatch, but the
group at the table sees her youth as something positive.
Embarrassed and slightly panicked, I try to engage her in
conversation. The waiter wants to know if T'm planning to
reserve a room=if so, it costs extra. I say
tonight. The table gets its jollies while the girl dances aroui
‘me. Then I grab her by the wrist and excuse us both from the
group. “We're going to get a drink,” I say with a wink. More
‘guffaws. The major calls after me, *Make sure you empty all
the rounds in your magazine, lad”
lake Mary outside, stammer a litle, and reassure her that
Tm not gay and that she is very beautiful—but I must go.
| give her another twenty dollars for her trouble and stumble
back to the base, alternately cursing the officers I work for
and wondering what's wrong with me.
‘These brie moments with May-ree washed over me as Isat
in the back of the classroom and reminded me of the one
thing I wouldn't do while here: fall into the numbing stupor
‘of manhood testing with a male Marine. To hold my interest,
wanted to find a female drill instructor, someone who could
‘be my brief but articulate muse, helping me to see the Corps.
with fresh eves.
IN BETWEEN CLASSES LY. RADCLIFF AND I MILLED
about with the students in @ small lounge where we all
munched on energy bars oF sipped cups of coffee to stay
awake. Almost nobody sat down during breaks for fear of
‘wrinkled uniforms. (The threat of an unannounced uniform
inspection always looms at DI School) During this break Lt
Radelif introduced me to my “gt”: Sergeant Jennifer Bar-
ret lthe five-foot-five sandy blonde from Nebraska whose
big eyes made hier seem even younger than her twenty-six
years. We made a date to meet atthe end of the training day
‘w talk about her experience in the Marines
Back from the break, Gunnery Sergeant Ricky Wiliams
taught class called “The History of Recruit Training,” which
‘was less history course than an opportunity to remind Dis
where the boundary lines of discipline and conduct reside.
Many civilians incorrectly assume that the Marines sanction
brutality in basic training. ‘This is not true. There are high
school football programs more brutal than Marine boot
‘camp. What may have been tolerated inthe past to toughen
recruits destined for Japanese islands or Korean mountains
is no longer allowed. Inthe age of CNN, overzealous hazing
poses too great a threat of scandal; the Marines will never
permit a recurrence of Ribbon Creek. That infamous inci-
dent oceurred one night in 1956, when a Parris Island DI
‘drank a bottle of vodka and decided to wis reerits
by leading a forced march through the Ribbon Creek salt