CHAPTER 1

"Anyone who looks with anguish on evil so great must acknowledge the tragedy of it all;

and if anyone experiences them without anguish, his condition is even more tragic,

since he remains serene by losing his humanity."

- Augustine of Hippo

A GUST OF BITING WIND CUT THROUGH the sleepy platform as his group waited to board the train bound for Washington. Satisfied that he accounted for all the names of his party, the middle aged officer handed the conductor the herd's train tickets. His shivering flock was then sheparded inside the wooden train car; taking their seats with either mumbles of contempt or numb silence from being exposed to the bending Chicago airstream for what seemed like hours.

Alistair Cornwell was warm and keyed up despite the freezing weather. He bid his dear friend Candy goodbye earlier that day. She would begin her new life in New York as he would live his in Europe. He had turned eighteen a few days after the headlines hit the newspaper stands, "War Proclaimed by Wilson, Austria breaks with US". No longer a minor, his first adult decisions consisted of joining the Aviation Corps[1], and then consequently face his family's wrath after.

However, his dream to be a pilot was initially shot down as he was rejected by the Army recruit station near his university. Due to his poor eyesight, he miserably failed to qualify for the physical. There was also the option of volunteer ambulance driver for the Red Cross; but he wouldn't have it. He wanted to fly. Desperate but unwavering, he tried again, this time in the less popular branch of the Navy. Armed with the confidence of his sharp memory and determination not to make the same mistake he did before; he quickly memorized the letters for the eye examination. Discreetly he peeked over the shoulders of the men before him and when it was his turn, he recited the letters like a burst of a well oiled machine gun - with very little intentional mistakes.

"Son," the wrinkled doctor pondered with fatherly concern, "I'm sure your glasses can correct the deficiency in your vision. But would you be able to see through the fog on your lens or fire straight when the weather is foul?"

The man next in line sneered in agreement with the thoughtful physician. Stear could only imagine what's going behind the spectacle-free head of his, but his own lightbulb blinked and a big grin spread across his smooth face. Alas! The circumstance volunteered itself for an audience. He fumbled on his bulging pocket where he kept his latest contraption.

"I've got it all covered doctor! Behold!" With beaming pride he presented a thicker-than-usual aviator frame, strapped the snug fitting item on his face, and winded up the little ratchet lever on the side. With a reverent voice he declared, "I call it- Flash Wipers".

The doctor and the surrounding men in line guffawed in unison as they set eyes on the thin mechanical arms conducting wiping movements across the glasses. The rolling laughter even doubled as he faced them, his big blue eyes blinking as it was magnified by the prescription frame. He couldn't understand cause of the ruckus; his invention didn't break down like it usually did.

It took a stinging self slap on the thigh before the doctor could get a hold of himself. He wiped the tears welling on his eyes and clapped Stear on the shoulder. Gone was his fatherly concern, he now leaned over like an amused friend, coughing out his jovial verdict: "Sonny, you're alright, but I'd keep that thing off sight if I were you. Good luck at boot camp."

Naiveté aside, he was deliriously happy. Mission was accomplished even at the expense of being ridiculed. And just like that, after his teeth were counted, his orifices checked and his body weighed and measured; he was declared "physically fit". He will later be a member of the First Marine Aviation Force[2].

THE RIDE TO THE CAPITAL marked the last comforts of civilization for their delegation. The official meal ticket bought them a delicious meal at the dining car as well as service from porters, a shocking comparison to the following accommodation. The train that would take them to South Carolina was simple and almost decrepit. Cold air rudely entered through the creaks of the wooden compartments and warm air from the potbelly stove escaped through them. The seats were of hard wood which made their bottoms ache after prolonged sitting. As the numbers of volunteers from the east coast riding the same train swelled by the hundreds; there was hardly any space for them to stretch much less sleep into. They were packed like sardines, flavored with smoke coming from the coal fueled heaters. However the hardship of the travel, the men didn't seem to mind. They were in high spirits as if school boys heading for a field trip instead of war.

As nature insisted on its balance, the pack sifted for its hierarchy. Through the dim kerosene light, the men- mostly his age- measured each other by wit, built or poise. Being the only one with specs, he stuck out like a sore thumb. He would be asked more frequently than the others as to where he was from and sometimes which school he attended. He would answer them humbly and with little pride. College boys among the group were very few and they quickly established their clique around Stear's side of the car. They discussed books, war and automobiles, while other groups down the aisle provided them with cheerful singing as well as streams of original and imaginative obscenities.

In the morning, the troop train reached its destination. The recruits were welcomed by a first sergeant with a curt remark on the tough training they were about to face as well as his high regard for their courage to serve their country. They were then picked up by a convoy of motor trucks and were deposited to Parris Island - the designated Marine Recruit Depot for enlisted men[3]. Inside the compound grounds, they were grouped into platoons and were greeted with knowing grins by uniformed crew cut recruits marching down the street. Unprompted, they all bawled in one jeering voice, "You'll be sorreee!"

Stear smiled back, unsuspecting the foretelling truth of the odd greeting. Soon after they fell into ranks, a big and immaculately dressed officer stood in front of them. He delivered the classic Marine welcoming address.

"I am Gunnery Sergeant Hercules, your senior drill instructor. From this moment on, you will not speak unless spoken to. The first and last words from you maggots will be "Sir". Do you possums understand that?"

"Sir, yes sir!" The recruits answered in unison.

"Bullshit! Sound off like you have a pair!"[4]

"Sir, yes sir!" They answered even louder.

So there it began. Six weeks was what it took for them to cast off their civilian ways and adjust to the military way of life. They would not stir, they would not wander, they would not wear purple socks and they would not have any privileges. Their fates in the island would be under the beck and call of their bellowing drill instructor. Their bodies would be hard from day in day out cadences and calisthenics. Their ears would be sharp, keen for commands of their DI. They would shave everyday irregardless of absent facial hair. Their appearance would be well kept as well as their gear. They would learn to fire rifles the Marine way. They would learn to talk the Marine way. They would learn not refer to their Springfield M1903 rifles as 'guns' or else risk muscle failure. They would learn how to kill efficiently and how to defend themselves in hand to hand combat. They will learn to operate their weapons under extreme physical and mental stress. They will be conditioned for lack of sleep, obedience and hard discipline. They would learn that punishment would come quick and unflinching. They would learn these skills that would make the difference between success and failure in combat - and in some cases; the hairline difference between life and death.

After six weeks of basic training and endless marching, their transformation would be complete. They would be taken apart and put together again. They would possess the temper and the mindset of the Old Breed. They were to be Marines.

Along those six weeks, some of the recruits failed to overcome the rough and intense training. Stear himself almost did. His morale and concentration plummeted when he received his first letters from his parents and his Great Aunt Elroy. They expressed their disappointment and worry, but most of all, they believed they were cheated and lied to. He was supposed to be in college, living in comfort and safety, on his way to earning his degree to help continue the family dynasty. He was told that his decision to join the military in secret was unbecoming of his upbringing and a shocking betrayal to his family's trust. His guilt bothered him more than he thought it would. It kept him awake at night, even when his body was exhausted from the daily harassment conjured by Sgt. Hercules. He wrote them back immediately when he had the chance, desperately explaining his reasons and sharing a little of his new life as a 'boot'.

Eventually he got his family's blessing but it was his Great Aunt Elroy's words that somehow lifted the cloud. Her words which carried the most weight in the family (except for the mysterious Great Uncle William) wrote:

My dearest nephew Alistair,

What is done cannot be undone. You have made your decision and all that we can do now is support your success. I cannot blame you for your idealism; my oldest brother, your Uncle Wallace, as you already know, also served under General Grant during the Civil War. He sent us letters saying how proud he was, having been given the privilege to be a part of the war against slavery and Southern Nationalism. I see a lot of him in you.

I have included with this letter a package containing your late Uncle Wallace's most valuable possession: a gold necklace with his brotherhood's emblem. He was convinced it helped dodge a cannon or two, but it was useless when consumption overwhelmed him. If he were alive, I reckon he would have liked you to have it.

If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask me or your parents. We are here for you no matter what you do, no matter where you go.

May God keep you.

Aunt Elroy

A/N If you'd like to read more of this story, please leave a review. Thanks!

[1]The Aviation Corps, listed as aeroplane service, has supplanted the cavalry of the old days, as the eyes and ears of the army. Its importance in this service has been but recently demonstrated, and so greatly has this importance been valued that all nations have contracted for thousands upon thousands of these birds of the air. The Aviation Corps is part of the regular Army Signal Corps. – The Army and The Navy of the United States of America (Booklet) 1917

[2] The First Marine Aviation Force was first organized in Miami on June 16, 1918. Four land-based air squadrons were set up and provisionally named A, B, C and D. But later, they were named 7, 8, 9 and 10. Once in France, the 7th and 8th Marine Aviation Squadrons were located in the village of Oye and the 9th and 10th Marine Air Squadrons were located at La Fresne. The 1st and 2nd Squadrons were located in St. Inglevert. The 3rd and 4th Squadrons were located in Campagne. – United States Marine Aviation

[3] An enlisted rank (also known as enlisted grade or enlisted rate) is, in most militaries, any rank below that of a commissioned officer or warrant officer. The term can also be inclusive of non-commissioned officers. In most cases, enlisted service personnel perform jobs specific to their own occupational specialty; as opposed to the more generalized command responsibilities of commissioned officers. – Wikipedia

[4] Quote from Full Metal Jacket. Line by Gunnery Sergeant Hartman.