The Mighty Pen Podcast: Episode 2

“That’d be me, ma’am,” he says in his unhurried Alabama drawl. PFC Elbert T. Gibbs, lumpy, squat-built, red, bushy flattop haircut, pock-marked face, and coke-bottle glasses. Flashing a sheepish grin, he vacates the truck. The fifty dollars is the result of a new initiative enacted by our platoon sergeant. We all donate a buck or two for the marine who really needs to “get some.” Gibbs won the first vote, unanimously.

Destiny looks him up and down. “Uh, Miss Destiny just remembered something she got to take care of, baby. You come see me tomorrow night, sugar.” She hands the fifty back to me and disappears into the mist.

“Well, Gibbs. Not tonight, brother. Not a lot of hookers out here, we best head back to Yorktown. We’ll put the money back in the pot and try again in a couple weeks.”

“Gawd, Maschefski, I jus’ been-a-turned down by a prostitute. I’m a loser!” Gibbs starts banging his forehead on the hood of the pickup.

Wysoki propels his long, gangly body from the truck, grabs Gibbs and jacks him to the hood. “Hey, hey, Gibbs, you’re gonna dent the ride. Get your ass back in the truck, it’s over, man.”

Entering the truck first, I scoot to of the middle of the bench-seat. With Gibbs in the passenger seat, we make our way onto I64 West. Gibbs’s hangs his head out the window. I’m fiddling with the radio, settling on a station, and turning up the volume on the new hit, our Platoon theme song, “Gotta Fight for Right to Party” by the Beastie Boys. An extraordinary thrust of wind swirls throughout the truck. Gibbs starts to lean his body out of the moving vehicle. I cuff one hand on his web belt, the other behind his collar, and pull him back.

“Holy shit!” Wysoki yells as he jams the brakes, the truck swerving to the side of the highway. “Damn it, Gibbs, I will fuck you up. What the hell’s your major malfunction, numb nuts?” He rushes around the front of the truck and yanks Gibbs out, slamming him into the side of the truck. Gibbs is sobbing as Wysoki steps back with a look of concern and disgust.

“Turned down by a damn hooker. I’m a loser, Corporal Wy, oh gawd, I just wanna die.”

“Ya ain’t dyin’ on my watch, ya crazy redneck.” We force him into the middle seat and continue the journey back to the Naval Weapons Station.

Assigned to the same room in our quad, Gibbs was easy to like. His ‘aw-shucks’ southern demeanor and natural good nature were a sharp contrast to us, two hyped-up Yankees from Jersey. Gibbs would give you the shirt off his back, and he is far from dumb. He has solid command of the inner workings of our duties at the Naval Weapons Station, his weight and country-corn vibe kill any progress in rank. He was busted back to PFC for failing to get under his weight limit and for taking over twenty-seven minutes to run three miles during the last PFT.

The base is already rattled from two recent suicides. One, when a lance corporal, on the verge of being busted for drunk driving, decided not to face his war-decorated father. With only nine months left in the Corps, he swallowed the muzzle of his M16A1, blowing his brains out the rear window of a patrol truck.

Later, a PFC from Michigan, in the corps less than eight months, went home on weekend leave and took his life with a pistol to the head. Nothing about the kid had indicated he’d do that. Wysoki and I decide to keep a lid on Gibbs’ truck incident. Reflecting on the evening, we note how slowly he was leaning out of the truck and rationalize it as a cry for attention.

Following the incident in Newport News, we work through a two-week rotation of guard duty. To cheer up our buddy Gibbs, we load up a cooler of beer and take him to Yorktown Beach. We pile into the old truck—Wysoki calls it the ‘Lock Mobile,’ short for Polack, of which he and I are of descent. Proud and Polish. Our goal was to rub some of that northern-ethnic pride onto Gibbs.

“Ya over your shit, Gibbs, I been worried about you.” I ask as the summer air flows through the truck, an invisible caress of freedom.

“Yeah, Mashefski, I’m over it. Still don’t know how I’ll ever live down gettin’ rejected by a damn hooker.”

“Quit beatin’ yourself up, Gibbs, maybe she had a business meeting with her pimp.” Wysoki offers an assuring elbow to Gibbs’ ribs; he will forever own the middle seat.

“Ain’t never made it with a girl, figured I’d join the corps and gals-a-be-a-wantin’ me, man. Tried to talk to one at a club one night, she called me ‘hog-boy’ and walked away giggling with her friends, humiliatin’. Maybe I am a hog-boy, disgustin’ hog-boy.”

Pulling into a parking space, Wysoki jams the breaks and turns toward Gibbs. “Listen, ya wacky-ass hillbilly, we’re here to have a good time, check out the chicks, drink some brews, and have fun while we’re still young. Don’t bring me down, Elbert, got it?”

We decide to chug a beer and do a shot for every girl that steps on to the beach as we sit on the banks for the York River. Circled around a cooler of Schaefer Beer like scuzzy-headed tribesman around their idol, we pass Wysoki’s flask of cheap bourbon. It’s a busy day; we’re getting ripped.

Two young local girls approach us and ask if we’d share a few brews, which we do without hesitation. The conversation is light and flirtatious. Uninhibited from the many Schaefer’s and little sips of bad bourbon, we decide to take a walk with the girls. Gibbs looks depressed. He lies back on his towel as we pop over to the Yorktown Pub with the bikinied Southern Belles.

After a couple hours of macho posturing, teasing and cocktails, one of the girls bums a buck for some music. She looks so fine strolling to the jukebox, but when she selects “If You Leave?” by Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark, I realize we’ve left a depressed PFC Gibbs baking on the beach with a cooler of alcohol.

“Big Lock, we got to roll.”

“What’s your hurry, brother?”

“Hey, man, Gibbs is on the beach, alone,” I say in a distraught whisper.

“Ah, fuck me! Ladies, it’s been great, but we need to get back to our friend.” We swap phone numbers with them and agree to meet back at the Pub Sunday night.

Wysoki and I double-time back to our spot on the beach and there, like a baked, beached baby whale, is PFC Gibbs, lobster-red and passed out. Shaking his head, Wysoki sighs, “It’s gonna hurt to wake him up. Man, he is burnt to a crisp, holy shit.”

I take a knee next to Gibbs and begin tapping his cheek with the back of my hand.

“Gibbs, Gibbs, get up.”

His eyes crack open, squinting into the late-afternoon sun, “I’m fried, Mashefski, how long you two been gone?”

Helping him up, we gather our stuff as Gibbs Frankenstein-walks back to the truck. We stop by the drug store and get a gigantic jar of Noxzema. Wysoki and I each take one of Gibbs arms over our shoulders and guide him to our quad. Wysoki starts an ice-cold shower; we push Gibbs in as he lets out a banshee scream. We throw him onto his rack, dripping wet, still wearing his bathing suit. We douse him in Noxzema and leave him there to pass out.

Monday morning formation, guard mount, and final inspection before going on duty. Captain Connelly, our mustang platoon officer, is making his way through the ranks displaying his usual charm and wit. Former enlisted, he looks like Poindexter with his birth control, military-issue prescription glasses. Spindly when he arrived, his huge biceps have stirred up rumors of steroid usage. “What the fuck is that hanging out your nose?” He questions a lance corporal toward the end of the formation. “It looks like a nasty nose hair. A cockroach could rappel off that fucking nose rope, clip that shit.”

The toughest thing about Captain Connelly’s inspections is maintaining your composure as he berates and ranks on every discrepancy he uncovers, and he uncovers a lot.

“What. The. Fuck. What am I looking at? Are you shitting me, Gibbs? I see two days’ growth, you’re radiating like an ember, your breath stinks, and I am about two seconds from going apeshit on your ass. Staff Sergeant, Staff Sergeant, can you explain this bulbous fuck to me.”

Staff Sergeant Stanley Byrd, an easy-going marine corps careerist, saunters toward the captain. He looks at Gibbs and gives a light chuckle. He pulls off his cover, scratches his faded, tight afro, places a hand on Gibbs’ shoulder. “What the hell happened, Gibbs?”

“Uh, Staff Sergeant, well, Corporal Wysoki and Lance Corporal Mashefski took me tothe beach. I fell asleep and got burned pretty darn good.” Captain Connelly intercedes. “Did you say those two Polacks took you to the beach and left you there?”

“No, sir, they didn’t-a-leave me, they went off for a bit and I passed out.”

“So, you were all drunk ass on the beach and the two senior marines left your sorry ass to fry. Is that what you’re saying, Gibbs?”

“Uh, well, sir, I …” My ass cheeks tighten. Wysoki cocks his head, ever so slightly, to flash me a peripheral look of horror.

“Hey, Wysoki, Mashefski, get your Polack asses down here.” The captain summons us. We hear the snickers as we double time to the end of the formation. “Is this your jackass handiwork?”

“Well, sir, we met these girls and Gibbs sort of fell asleep on the beach, and …” Wysoki begins to stammer.

“Oh, oh, we just hooked up with a couple of Jodys and left our platoon brother to sizzle like a freaking hot dog on a sandy grille? Is that what you’re saying, senior man, Wysoki?”

“Well, sir …”

“Shut up, Wysoki. Here’s how it’s gonna go down, I’m writing your asses up for destroying government property. Wysoki, because you’re the senior man you’re getting an Article 15, and I hope to dock your pay. Your Polack sidekick is getting a page 13 entry and it won’t be kind. Try to get around that, Mashefski, when you’re up for corporal. Get your asses back in formation.” Captain Connelly turns toward Gibbs as we double-time back to the front of the line.

“As for you, you disgusting, fat, burnt-up piece of shit, take your sorry ass to the infirmary and let the navy docs diagnose your burns, because I can’t have a grizzly, unshaven hillbilly on duty. Now, get out of my face.”

We were concerned about Gibbs, but less so after the ass chewing we all took from the captain. Captain Connelly had instilled the eye of the tiger in Gibbs. He doesn’t want to kill himself, he just wants out.

Already on the bubble for his weight, he’s assigned to ‘Pork Chop Platoon.’ This is an unkind moniker for an assemblage of overweight marines from each guard platoon, hanging on to their careers. The corporals take turns running them through PT and monitoring their weight. Friday weigh-ins reveal progress being made, and while five of the crew are dropping weight, Gibbs continues to go the other direction. We know what he’s doing, and we support him. As much as Wysoki and I hate to see him go, we know it’s best for him. So we vow to start and end every night on the town at a fast-food joint.

Gibbs doesn’t even get an opportunity to be tested in the next physical; after the third weigh-in he will get his general discharge. The marine corps decides to return their property. Wysoki and I see our friend off with a final drunk fest on the Yorktown Beach.

***

Three months after his departure, and page 13 and all, I make corporal. I receive a congratulatory card postmarked Alabama. Gibbs includes a polaroid, his arm around a plump blonde as she’s kissing his cheek; he’s flashing a wide grin. He signs the card ‘Your friend and defective property, Gibbs.’

The Catholics assemble first and are marched over to the sanctuary. Upon return, the Protestants fall in and lockstep across the blacktop to the large circular structure we call church. I have no clue where the Jewish recruits go? All I do know is the Protestants are off to their service, which means sitting here with the rest of my fellow Catholics. One hour. Like an oasis of freedom in a desert of restrictions. It’s our time. It’s scarce. It’s valuable.

A few weeks back, some of the recruits figured out that if they sat still for church assembly, they could pull off double free time. I didn’t partake in that. If ever there was a time to stay close to Jesus, this is the time. This is the place.

Our senior drill instructor caught on pretty quick. We spent the next few weeks going to both services.

“You damn Protestants will go to Catholic Church, and you asshole Catholics will go to Protestant Church, you hear me!”

“Sir, yes sir!” Poof, no free time. I have to admit, I dug the Protestant service. It was upbeat, good music, hopeful sermon by the southern-accented chaplain. I didn’t like it enough to do two services every week, but appreciated the experience.

This is Third Battalion, H-Company, Platoon 3311. Third Battalion has a history. Many years ago, a drill instructor marched his platoon through the swamps, in early morning darkness.

Rumor has it several recruits drowned. This story is rehashed, especially when we assemble for an early morning hump into the woods. Intimidating the first few times it’s recounted, now it’s just part of the routine.

Perfectly aligned bunks, what we call racks, line either side of the squad bay. The smell of bleach is an assault on your nasal cavities. We routinely scrub the decks and clean the heads with it. This long narrow berthing area is home until we graduate. If all goes well, I may be at home to ring in 1985. I clutch to that dream. It propels me through the tough days.

Sitting on my footlocker, a large, olive-drab, wooden box holding all my essentials, I flip through pictures my mom sent from home. Minding my own business, I enjoy a moment of sentimental solace. I catch a pair of shiny black shoes parked in front of me. A shadow cast from the wide brim of a ‘smoky-bear’ cover. It’s Drill Instructor Sergeant Hernandez.

I turned twenty-three years old upon arriving at Parris Island, first week of September.

Not as wide-eyed as some of my platoon. We older privates catch on to the obvious role each DI plays. Gunnery Sergeant Reeves, our senior, plays the big daddy role. Sergeant Lane, who is preparing to become a senior DI, is the wise teacher. Staff Sergeant Newby is the no-nonsense practical instructor. Then there is the dick, Sergeant Hernandez. He is a first-time DI. He plays the heavy. He plays it well.

They all screw with us to some degree, but Sergeant Hernandez seems to revel in it. One evening he had us pull our toothbrushes, pass them around, stopped us mid-pass, and told us to brush. Brilliant. There was the time somebody forgot to flush. Hernandez emerged from the head, turd in hand. He flung it down the deck of the squad bay, then had us lie on our bellies while scrubbing the deck. I never did find out who retrieved the turd.

Another of his favorites is to bait you into a conversation, get you relaxed, then steer the chit-chat to a subject that will always piss him off. This leads to an excuse to screw with the chosen conversationalist, or just take it out on the entire platoon.

At twenty-three, just joining the corps, things had gone awry back home. College didn’t pan out. I wanted no part of the family bar business. Although, as a kid, my father’s weekly inspections of my floor and bathroom scrubbing, along with the occasional verbal abuse, prepared me well for Parris Island. I can’t wait to thank him.

I spent the past four years chasing a dream to become a rock star. It ended in a blur of drunken nights, bad decisions, and the eventual break-up of the band.
The marines are my shot to reset. I am determined not to screw this up. I am coming out of here with something. No heavy is going to mess that up. So, I either take his shit with vigor or keep my head down. Right now, during this most sacred of hours, in a wasteland of miserable weeks, his heaviness is an infringement on my free time.

“What the fuck you lookin’ at, boy?” I stand at attention.

“Sir, pictures from home, sir!”

“No shit? Well, let old Sergeant Hernandez have a look.” He snatches the stack of pictures from me and begins to rifle through them. “Why are all these people in a bar? You an alcoholic?”

“Sir, no, sir. My father owns a bar, sir!”

“Well, that must have been some kind of deal growing up, huh?”

“Sir?”

“Yeah, drink whenever you want, party all the time. Why the fuck you leave that for this, boy?”

I know he’s baiting me. My ass cheeks tighten in hopes I give a satisfactory answer. “Sir, to join the Marine Corps.” He holds his hand to my face.

“Who is this blonde?”

“Sir, that is this private’s mother, sir!”

“This is your mom? Holy shit, we got to show this to the senior drill instructor.” I follow Sergeant Hernandez about twenty paces to the DI quarters. “Senior Drill Instructor, you have to see this.” He places the picture on the desk.

“Who’s this hot Jodi?”

“You ready for this? This is old Private Mashefski’s mom.”

“You shitting me?”

“Sir, no, sir, that is this private’s mother, sir.”

“At ease, Mashefski. Listen up. We’re gonna make you proud. I want your mom’s picture up on the hog board.”

The hog board, aka the motivation board, is a large, rectangular bulletin board that hangs in the upper right corner of our squad bay, just outside the DI quarters. It holds pictures of hot girlfriends and/or female acquaintances from back home.

On that rare occasion that we perform well, we are allowed to line up and, one-by-one, get a few seconds in front of the hog board. It can be motivating. I have held the vision of a few bikini-wearing babes, sent to our Florida contingent, in the dark crevices of my mind. There is no way my mom is going to provide those thoughts to anyone in Platoon 3311.

“Sir, no, sir. This private’s mother’s picture will not hang on the hog board, sir.” Sergeant Hernandez storms into my face like a pit bull on a t-bone. The man is a human pit bull, squat body with a huge head. If he weighs 160, his skull has to be at least fifty pounds of that.

“Who the fuck you think you are, boy? I will rip out your fucking throat. You don’t say no to my senior drill instructor, now take this picture and hang it on that hog board before I stomp you to dust!”

“Sir, no, sir!”

“That’s it. Sergeant Hernandez, take his ass to the quarter deck. Make him dig.”

“With pleasure, senior drill instructor.” He pushes the brim of his cover into the bridge of my nose. All see is the top of his cover. He brings his voice to a sadistic whisper. “You’re all mine, Mashefski. When I’m done with you, we’ll be mopping up what’s left of you into a bucket.” He pulls his head back, rises on his toes, shoves a finger into my face, and raises his voice to a sonic pitch. “Now get your ass on the quarter deck!”

There are two places you never want to be in Parris Island. One is the pit, a large sandbox that can accommodate an entire platoon. They are found everywhere throughout the battalion grounds. A ‘pit stop’ is made to get your mind right. We are mobbed there for high cardio-vascular exercise, humiliation, and flea bites we never dare slap at or scratch.

The other is the quarter deck. A lonely stretch of cold, cement floor between our bunks and the DI quarters. It is reserved for those who piss off a DI. Sergeant Hernandez specializes in the quarter deck, as he seems to be perpetually pissed off.

He keeps me waiting there, standing at attention, taking his time to come from the quarters. No one dares to stare unless they want to join me. They just go about their free time routines.

With the goal to wear my ass out, Sergeant Hernandez storms out of the quarters. He sports a serious look of determination. I, too, am determined. This is one battle of wills which will not be conceded. He’s not going to break me. My mind is made up. Screw this big-headed fuck.

“Dig.”

“Sir, aye, aye, sir!”

I drop to the floor, hands on the deck, ass semi-protruding toward the ceiling, and I begin pulling alternating knees to my chest.

“Faster. Faster. Push ups. Jumping jacks. On your back, leg raises, hold it, hold it.” He continues an onslaught of commands like some fitness instructor from hell. My heart is pounding. Sweat begins to pour from my face. “You are fucking up my beloved quarter deck with your nastiness. You will swab your disgusting sweat if you don’t die first. You hear me!”

“Sir, this private will not die, sir!”

“Oh, now you’re gonna tell me what you’re gonna do? I’ll tell you if you’ll die or not, you hear me, boy?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” I say between gasping breaths. The routine goes on for the remainder of free time. Driven by love and family pride, I keep pace. My heart pounds as though it will explode from my chest. The Protestants are returning.

Just when he thinks I am broken, he stops me to ask if I am ready to pin my mother’s picture to the hog board, but my will to refuse does not die. Will not die. He digs me even harder.

“Push-ups. Up. Down, slow. Hold it, hold it. Do I see your arms quaking?”

“Sir, no, sir.”

“You keep holding it, boy. Senior Drill Instructor, I think old Mashefski might be ready to reconsider.”

I hear the tapping of the senior’s highly polished shoes approaching. He stands above me as I hold my half push up. Pain tears through my arms. Gunnery Sergeant Reeves bends to place my mother’s picture under my face, sweat dripping onto her smiling image. “You ready to hang this picture and share motivation with your platoon, boy?”

“Sir, no, sir, this private’s mother’s picture will not hang on the hog board, sir!”

“You disrespecting me, boy?” His voice barrels through the berthing area like a freight train. I can hear the rustling of my platoon come to a quick silence.

“Sir, no, sir!”

“’Cause you’re pissing me off. You know that, don’t you? Do you need more quarter deck, asshole?”

“Sir, bring it on, sir!” He stands there in a brief moment of silence. My arms shake, my chest heaves, perspiration flows from my face, my t-shirt sopping wet.

“Pick up your picture, Mashefski, stand the fuck up.” He holds two fingers to my face.

“You have two fucking weeks to get me a hog-board-worthy picture or I will kill you next time. You hear me, boy?”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

He leans to my right ear and whispers. “You have ten minutes to get your ass to the pay phones and call home. Get. Me. A. Picture. If you don’t, I will dig your ass to hell. Understood?”

“Sir, aye, aye sir!”

“Double-time, scum bag!”

I run through the squad bay. Down the steps. Hitting the walkway, I burst upon the bank of pay phones like Walter Payton to the end zone. My hand is shaking as I jam my finger into the dial to get a collect call home.

“Mom, Mom, I don’t have much time.”

“Oh my God, JoJo. I don’t believe it. Joe, our son is on the phone!”

“Mom, listen, you gotta do me a favor.” I rapidly explain the situation.

Without hesitation. Without question. “We’ll take care of it.” I dart back to the barracks arriving without fanfare.

Next Sunday, free time. I rip into an envelope to find a picture from home. A topless woman sits on the washing machine in the utility room of my dad’s bar. She’s a regular. I am sure she drank free that night. I present it to my senior drill instructor.

Smiling, “You did good, Mashefski.”

He tells me the picture isn’t right for the hog board. He is placing it in the ‘motivation manual.’ I had no idea this even existed. It’s a special photo album residing in the bottom left drawer of his desk.

He allows me to quickly thumb through it. It’s like an amateur Penthouse Magazine. He snatches it from my hands, throws it into the drawer and locks the desk. “Get the fuck out of here, Mashefski.”

A few days later I am promoted to platoon guide.