“Forward!” He screamed, veins bulging in his neck.
“No Choice!” Thirty voices screamed back as one.
Half a second later, the entire group moved simultaneously, with machine-like precision. It was an exercise in bearing, instant obedience to orders, and military precision. The men in the Smokey Bear hats called it drill.
From outside the group, they looked like machines. Only one click was heard as their heels hit the pavement. Their arms swung exactly six inches to the front, and three to the rear with each step. When the drill instructor called out, “Column Right!” the formation turned a perfect ninety degree angle, a repetitive scritch sound once every second sounded as each rank pivoted on their left feet to change direction.
Inside their minds, it was chaos. They struggled to execute each move as one. They depended on each other to be perfect. Precision meant praise from the Senior Drill Instructor, group, self-pride, and hopefully a little leniency from the Senior's bulldog Drill Instructors. Mistakes were never forgotten, and always noticed. Mistakes meant time in The Pit.
The Pit was a simple sandbox, like exist in playgrounds all around the world. The sand was beautiful fine, white, mostly silica; the type rarely encountered anywhere outside of a tropical paradise, except moistened with blood, sweat, and vomit. What happened in the pit, as described by Marine Corps manuals, was physical training. The Drill instructor who was conducting discipline stood at the head of the pit and called out exercises and orders.
“Run in place!” He'd bellow.
“Run, aye sir!” The recruits scream.
“We were supposed to have a good day, recruits. But you'd rather play silly games!”
“No, sir!”
“Yes, sir. You wanted to be slow in the mess hall, Push!”
“Push, aye sir!”
It only lasts fifteen minutes each time, but there seems to be no limit on how many times it can happen in a day. Recruits constantly find white sand all over their squad bay, it invades every footlocker, boot, and pocket, and when found by Drill Instructors, it is often the reason for further trips to The Pit. It is a horrible place, a world of pain, it is the punishment for almost any offense. The threat of The Pit exists anywhere you find a Drill Instructor, and Drill Instructors are everywhere.
The reality of what happens in The Pit is difficult to describe to most people. They usually say, “I'd tell the guy to go to hell before I did that,” but, it's just not possible. Some try, they stand at the edge of the sand and say, “No sir!” to a direct order. Suddenly, there are Drill Instructors everywhere. They surround the recruit, all of them screaming. They want to know why; they tell you why; they don't care why. They create confusion, the poor recruit who wanted to quit still wants to quit, but there is nobody to talk to, nobody to help. Once he is thoroughly tenderized by the verbal assault, he is rushed out of the training area and into an officer's quarters. The officer is understanding, calm, maybe even friendly. He offers the choice, go or stay, but in actuality there is no choice. He describes a colorful portrait of the recruit, going home a failure, not strong enough to endure the test. If only he could fight harder, he would be made into a Marine, with all the lore and shiny buttons to match.
You don't decide to quit Marine Corps boot camp. The Marine Corps decides whether you're good enough. You don't decide to do anything in boot camp, “No Choice,” isn't just a response to an order, it is the Marine Corps. The last choice you make is to sign the oath, after that you belong to the Marine Corps. By the time I completed boot camp, I learned that, “No Choice,” was possibly the most important advice I had ever received.
No Choice doesn't mean that the choice doesn't exist, it means you have to decide which choice will benefit you and which won't. Once you see how each choice will affect you, the choice becomes so obvious that you might as well not be given an option. When you want to stay up and party with friends, but you have to be at work early in the morning, there's no choice. When you want to quit your job, but you need the money, there's no choice. You do what you have to do, the only choice is whether or not you want to achieve your goals. Everyone has an idea of what they want in life. Be it wealth, a family, or freedom; there are choices that lead to your dreams, and choices that lead away from them. The choices that lead you away from your goals might seem more attractive, but the enjoyment only lasts for a short while. No Choice means doing what you have to do to succeed.
Every person is the master of their own lives. I've stumbled from time to time, but I learned from my mistakes. I've earned everything of value in my life. I left home at eighteen years old with one thousand dollars from selling my car, and the clothes on my back. I joined the Marines, and learned skills I needed to carry myself and my loved ones into the future. I succeeded because there is No Choice. I will continue along this path, because I have No Choice.
