Grueling march to become Marines for three friends

CAMP PENDLETON, Calif. — A Marine recruit collapsed on a dirt trail. A corpsman, her medical bag bouncing in the dust, hustled to the fallen man.

The recruit was bathed in sweat, his face clammy and sickly green. As the troop column marched on, the drill instructor cried out, "Here comes the silver bullet!"

The recruit was about to receive the ultimate indignity: a shiny rectal thermometer to check his body temperature. It happened on the trail for all to see: Pants down. Buttocks bared.

The column kept moving.

It was the final day of the Crucible, a three-day ordeal in the foothills of Camp Pendleton. If a recruit survives the Crucible, the midpoint of the 13-week boot camp, he likely will survive to graduation.

Seven weeks earlier, three friends from Santa Clarita, only 110 miles north but a world away, arrived as eager recruits. Teenagers Daniel Motamedi, Daryl Crookston and Steven Dellinger signed up for the buddy program, which put them in the same boot-camp platoon.

The three friends — their faces streaked with camouflage paint and grime — now were on the Crucible's biggest physical challenge, a 10-mile hike called the Reaper. Recruits prefer to call it the "hump" or the "death march."

Their uniforms gave off the sour stench of stale sweat. They had slept a few hours over the previous two days, crammed into two-man tents. They had been allowed three military Meals Ready to Eat.

Their thighs burned. Their spines ached under 65-pound packs. Their M-16 rifles clanked against their sides. They gulped water from canteens as they struggled to stay in step. They screamed out on cue: "One shot, one kill! Ready to die, but never will!"

The three recruits and 80 others in the platoon by now had been hammered into obedience by omnipresent drill instructors. The friends each had been punished countless times — push-ups, chin-ups, sit-ups — for violations such as marching out of step or inattention to detail. Drill instructors call it "incentive training." Recruits call it "getting slayed."

The friends had anticipated all that. They hadn't anticipated getting sick.

Dellinger, 18, developed an ear infection and pneumonia. Crookston, 18, contracted flu and pinkeye. Motamedi, 17, had pneumonia, followed by oral surgery to remove impacted wisdom teeth, and a thigh-bone injury. All three contracted upper-respiratory infections, coughing and hacking along with others in their tight barracks warren.

"Recruit crud," said their senior drill instructor, Staff Sgt. Nicholas Hibbs. "Everybody gets a little bit sick."

The three resisted sick call. Too much sick time could get a recruit dropped.

The platoon's BDR — basic daily routine — was unrelenting: reveille and out of bed at 5 a.m. Ten minutes to stretch, wash up, fill canteens.

Every minute was prescribed: classes, exercises, drills, physical fitness. The recruits tore through each day, from day T-1 (introductory physical training) to day T-18 (confidence course). They endured day T-37, a gas-chamber ordeal in which they inhaled tear gas.

They fired live ammo, fought with pugil sticks and bayonets, and learned Corps history, first aid, how to land blows and how to counter them. At 9 p.m., it was taps and lights out.

All this for $1,458 a month.

The four drill instructors of Platoon 2103, Echo Company, were a forbidding, inscrutable presence. The instructors told recruits how to eat, walk, shower, wash clothes, hold food trays and tie boots.

The three friends seemed to grasp, intuitively, the hard intentions of the drill instructors, and the rationale for uncompromising demands.

"It sounds weird but, yeah, we have a lot of respect for our drill instructors," Motamedi said. "Once you realize everything has a purpose, it's like, oh, OK, that actually makes sense."

Hibbs found the three teens more mature than most.

"They know why they came, and they know what they've got to do," he said.

Sgt. Lucas Tuning, 25, pounds practical instruction into recruits, what the Corps calls "knowledge."

Tuning took note of Motamedi because of his unusual surname. Tuning pronounced it "Multimedia." The name stuck.

"He seems like he always has a lost look on his face," Tuning said.

Tuning said Dellinger, too, often has his mouth open. "I usually have to tell him to shut his lips. He smiled a couple times. That's my pet peeve. If they're smiling, they're having too good a time."

Crookston was harder to read, because he was so quiet, Tuning said. "He picks up knowledge pretty good," he said.

As summer wore on, the recruits learned to snap to attention when drill instructors screamed "eyes!" (look at me) or "ears!" (listen up). They learned to refer to themselves in the third person, as in "this recruit." It was one more way for the Corps to beat the individuality out of recruits in its pursuit of a selfless brotherhood.

At the end of the fourth week, the three friends were allowed to be interviewed in the office of Capt. David Denial, the regiment operations officer. Motamedi said he missed his family, which surprised him.

"I feel like I've gotten closer to my parents," he said. "I know when I get back I really want to spend some time with them."

Also talking about family, Crookston said he realized he had acted unfairly when he cut himself off from his parents because he believed they had tried to block his enlistment. His parents said they merely wanted to ensure he knew what he was getting into.

"I'm sorry I took my family for granted," he said. "I was a problem child. I didn't realize at the time that they were there for me."

Crookston's mother, Kymmer Crookston, said her son apologized.

As the friends spoke, they referred to one another as kids, or by their first names, rather than the required "recruit." One called his rifle "a gun," an unforgivable lapse. They neglected to address the journalists as "sir."

Afterward, Denial blistered the recruits with a high-octane chewing out.

The three friends stood stiffly at attention, the captain's florid face inches from theirs. He ordered them back to their squad bay, double time.

Denial explained later that it wasn't what the recruits had said. It was that they had lost all military bearing. That was inexcusable, he said.

Marine recruits were required to live and breathe Honor, Courage, Commitment, values so ingrained that they seemed to exist only in capital letters.

At the same time, their weapons instruction began the process of molding trained, disciplined killers. Each recruit was taught ways to kill with his hands, his bayonet, his M-16.

During the fifth week, Hibbs gathered Platoon 2103 for a "foot locker" chat.

The topic this day turned to the rules of war. Hibbs, who has served in Iraq, told the platoon that insurgents don't comply with rules that govern Marines' behavior.

"If you're a POW held by America, you're not going to get tortured," Hibbs said. "You're going to get fed, get mail, all that stuff. You're going to have rights."

Hibbs advised them to do everything possible to avoid capture in Iraq.

A recruit asked why the media seemed to focus on bad news in Iraq and Afghanistan. "I think you mostly hear bad things on the news because nobody really wants us over there," Hibbs told them. "It's necessary that we're there."

Hibbs concluded by reminding the recruits to live and breathe honor, courage, commitment.

"You've got to feel it right here," he said, pounding his chest. "That's why they put that eagle, globe and anchor over your left breast pocket. It's a feeling."

"Bang, you're dead"

At the Crucible two weeks later, Motamedi was ordered to lead a medical-evacuation drill in which three wounded men were to be carried to a helicopter landing zone.

He was given five minutes to assign duties. Within seconds, he made his first mistake. He did not issue direct orders. Worse, recruits offered suggestions.

"Why is someone else running your mission?" asked the drill instructor, Sgt. David Garza, 25. "No excuse, sir," Motamedi replied.

Garza singled out the platoon's three heaviest recruits. "Bang, you're dead," he said. They were Motamedi's casualties.

Motamedi tried to figure out how to lift the big recruits — made bulkier by their flak jackets — onto heavy boards used as stretchers. He hesitated as the recruits debated how to carry ammunition boxes that were part of the drill.

Garza, his voice dripping with sarcasm, told Motamedi: "No rush. The casualties are just bleeding to death."

Recruits hauled the three casualties a few yards, stumbled and roughly dropped them. One casualty rolled off the stretcher and started to crawl back on.

Garza sputtered: "He's a ... casualty! He can't move!"

As the recruits bent to lift the casualty back onto the board, their rifles were pointed at his head. Garza was apoplectic.

"Point your ... muzzle AWAY from the casualty!" he screamed.

Garza critiqued the mission, pointing out Motamedi's many mistakes but praising him for completing the mission and remembering to provide security.

The Crucible, Garza said, is "like forging metal with fire. You put them under pressure. They are either going to crack or they're going to shine."

The next day brought the Reaper, the hike up a mountainside in full combat gear. The recruits were given contradictory instructions: They were to leave no man behind, but they were not to assist a struggling recruit.

Halfway up, a friend of Motamedi's faltered. Motamedi told him to hang on to his pack, and he dragged his friend along. Both made it to the top, as did Crookston and Dellinger.

Garza gave a pep talk, citing the sacrifices of Marines who had earned the Congressional Medal of Honor. Each drill area on the Crucible is named after a medal winner and marked with a plaque honoring the Marine. "Do you think he was tired? Do you think he was scared?" Garza asked after reading a citation for a Marine who earned a medal for heroism in Vietnam. The recruits replied wearily: "Yes, sir!"

"Just imagine how tired you are now," Garza said. "But now you have to get to a firefight. You can't stop just because of the pain. If that was the case, we would not win a lot of wars. ...

"You've heard of mind over matter? You don't mind, it don't matter."

The platoon headed down the mountain for the final five miles. Two recruits injured their ankles. A third collapsed and received the rectal thermometer. All were loaded onto a medical truck.

When recruits faltered, Garza berated them, calling them "babies" and "quitters." The three friends slogged to the end and collapsed in soggy heaps in a base parking lot with the rest of the platoon.

A warriors' breakfast

As a reward, the platoon was allowed to shower for the first time in three days. In fresh uniforms, they were set loose at the mess hall for a "warriors' breakfast." Eggs, steak, bacon, pancakes, waffles. All they wanted.

Predictably, several vomited. "Sort of a tradition," Garza said.

After breakfast, Crookston, Motamedi and Dellinger were permitted to sit for interviews, their first since their disastrous experience weeks before.

Now, their manners were formal. They said "yes, sir" and "no, sir." Each referred to himself as "this recruit."

Crookston, a Mormon, said his religious faith had deepened under the rigors of camp.

Motamedi spoke of a psychological journey from civilian to warrior. "The Crucible gave this recruit a whole bunch of confidence," he said. "I don't think I'll ever doubt myself again."

Dellinger considered boot camp a transforming experience. "This recruit believes he's a little more disciplined and more respectful," he said.

Fathers dab their eyes

On graduation day, hundreds of families squinted into the morning sun, trying to pick out their recruits. They all looked alike: rigid, composed, trim and fit.

A band pounded out the Marines' Hymn, the 588 graduates from seven platoons marched in flawless step, and the Stars and Stripes rippled in the sea breeze.

Then came the climax of boot camp: the awarding of eagle, globe and anchor pins, a ceremony that christened the recruits as Marines.

"Wear it on your heart," an officer told them as the Marine emblem was pinned to their uniforms. "Let it guide all your actions and intentions."

Many mothers cried, and some fathers dabbed their eyes. A sergeant's voice sounded: "Liberty will now commence! Dismissed!"

The recruits whooped and hollered. Families rushed out of the viewing stands. The three friends were swarmed by parents, siblings, grandparents and friends.

The ceremony — and the evolution of the three teenagers from high-school kids to Marine men — had a transforming effect on parents who had wanted their sons to attend college rather than enlist.

Ali and Yasmin Motamedi said they were proud of Daniel's dedication to his country, and to the Corps. They were overwhelmed by the polite, focused, slimmed-down figure who stood before them.

"It's like he's a different person," his mother said.

Crookston's mother had joined the Blue Star Mothers of America, a group of women with children in the military. The family car bore a new bumper sticker: "Proud Parents of a United States Marine."

Moms scared, but proud

Dellinger's mother, Cathy Carlson, saw a more poised young man.

"He looks awesome — very grown up," she said. "I'm still very scared — scared, but also extremely proud."

The three friends likely will be sent to Iraq or Afghanistan. First, they must complete two months of specialized infantry training at Camp Pendleton.

Steven's father, Jim Dellinger, hoped his son would be sent to Afghanistan, but he knew Steven wanted to prove himself in Iraq. "It's a scary thought," he said, "but I know it's what he wants to do."

Hibbs had his own thoughts. The three friends typified Platoon 2103, he said: bright and competent, not all-stars, but not problem children, either. Hibbs did notice one characteristic that set the three apart.

"I could tell right off they were good citizens, good people, good guys with good strong families, strong work ethics," he said. "Honor, courage, commitment — they already had it. It just has a new meaning to them now."