Marcus luttrell

 
“You ever, ever drop one of my logs again,”
the instructor bellowed, 
“I can’t even describe what 
will happen to you. All of you!”
He used the enraged, vengeance-seeking tone of voice that might 
have been specially reserved for 
“You guys ever, ever gang-rape my mother again . . .”
Rather 
than just dropping the stupid log. 
We all stood there in a line, holding our logs straight-arm, above our heads. They try to make the 
teams a uniform height, but my six foot five inches means I’ll always be carrying at least my fair 
share of the burden. 

---

More and more guys were accused of slacking, and more and more of them were on the ground 
doing push-ups while me and a couple of other big guys on the far end were bearing the weight. 
We must have looked like the three pillars of Coronado, sandstone towers holding up the temple, 
eyes peering grittily out at a sandscape full of weird, sandy, burrowing creatures fighting for 
breath. 
Right after this they taught us all the physical training moves we would need: squats, tossing the 
log overhead, and a whole lot of others. Then, still in formation, we were told, “Fall in on your 
logs,” and we charged forward.
 
“Slow! Too slow! Get wet and sandy!”
Back down to the surf, into the waves, into the sand. By this time, guys really were on their last 
legs, and the instructors knew it. They didn’t really want anyone to collapse, and they spent a 
while teaching us the finer points of log teamwork. To our total amazement, they concluded the 
morning by telling us we’d done a damn nice job, made a great start, and to head off now for 
chow. 
A lot of us thought this was encouraging. Seven of our number, however, were not to be 
consoled by these sudden, calming words uttered by guys who should have been riding with 
Satan’s cavalry in 
Lord of the Rings.
They went straight back to the grinder, rang the hanging 
bell outside the first phase office, and handed in their helmets, placing them in a line outside the 
CO’s door. That’s the way it’s done in first phase: the exit ritual. There were now a dozen 
helmets signifying resignation, and we hadn’t even had lunch on day one. 
Most of us thought they were a bit hasty, because we knew a certain part of the afternoon was 
taken up by the weekly room inspection. Most of us had spent all day Sunday getting into order, 
cleaning the floor with a mop and then high polishing it. Somehow I had found myself way down 
the waiting list to use one of the two electric buffers. 
I had had to wait my turn and did not get finished before about 0200. But the time had not been 
wasted. I’d fixed my bed gear, pressed my starched fatigues, and spit-shined my boots. I looked 
better, not like some darned sand-encrusted beachcomber, the way I had most of the day. 
The instructors arrived. I cannot remember which of them walked into my room. But he gazed 
upon it, this picture of military order and precision, and at me with an expression of undiluted 
disgust. Carefully he opened my chest of drawers and hurled everything all over the room. He 
heaved the mattress off the bed and cast it aside. He emptied the contents of my locker into a pile 
and informed me that he was unused to meeting trainees who were happy to live in a garbage 
dump. Actually, his words were a bit more colorful than that, more...well...earthy. 
Beyond the confines of my room, there was absolute bedlam; stuff was hurled all over the place 
in room after room. I just stood there gaping as the entire barracks was ransacked by our own 
instructors. Outside in the corridor, I could hear someone bawling out Lieutenant David Ismay, 
the class leader. The soft, dulcet tones of Chief Schulz were unmistakable. 
“What kind of rathole are you running here, Mr. Ismay? I’ve never seen rooms like these in my 
life. Your uniforms are a disgrace.