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Want to Die for Your Country?

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    Want to Die for Your Country? Marine Corps recruiters need young, healthy New Yorkers to fight George Bush s war by Daniel Weiss January 30th, 2007
    Message 1 of 1 , Feb 3, 2007
      Want to Die for Your Country?
      Marine Corps recruiters need young, healthy New Yorkers to fight
      George Bush's war
      by Daniel Weiss
      January 30th, 2007

      On a Saturday morning in early July, the new Marine recruits
      ("poolees" in Corps jargon) stand on the Bronx sidewalk in two lines
      of six apiece. Wearing red Marines T-shirts, hands clasped behind
      their backs, they have uniformly blank, stoic looks on their faces.
      All but George Zacatelco, that is. Just three days from his scheduled
      departure for boot camp, an event he's looked forward to for months,
      George can't suppress an excited smile. He's the chubbiest poolee and,
      at five feet four, the shortest except for one of the two girls. His
      face is broad and flat, with a cluster of shiny pimples on his nose.
      His short black hair shoots out from his head in a spiky fringe. His
      back is slightly hunched and his neck juts forward, giving him a
      turtle-like appearance. Sergeant Juan Valderrama emerges from the
      building, a compact, fit 26-year-old wearing black nylon pants and a
      gray T-shirt. Sergeant V, as everyone calls him, is a five-year
      veteran of the Marine Corps with a sharp triangle for a nose and a
      near-constant smirk.

      "We're gonna run a mile," he says. "Everyone think they can handle that?"

      The poolees murmur affirmatively and set off at a moderate pace up the
      broad, residential Grand Concourse.

      "Who's tired?" Sergeant V jokes after a single block, but no one takes
      the bait, not even George, the weakest runner in the pool. But a few
      minutes later, George stops, leans forward, and fumbles with his

      "Make sure your shoes are tied or else you stop the world," V says.
      "Right, George?"

      "Yes, sir," George replies. A few blocks later, V starts the chanting.

      " Pain!" V yells.

      "Pain!" the poolees repeat.

      "In my leg!" In my leg!

      "I like it there!" like it there!

      "I want it there!" I want it there!

      "Oh, yeah!" Oh, yeah!

      "Marine Corps!" Marine Corps!

      "Good for you!" Good for you!

      "Good for me!" Good for me!

      One of the female poolees stops and tilts back with her hands behind
      her head. As Sergeant V escorts her over to a minivan driven by a
      fellow recruiter, the others jog in place. George's feet knead the
      ground, barely leaving the sidewalk. He might finish last every run,
      but at least he's never retreated to the "van of tragedies," as the
      poolees call it.

      While waiting at an intersection, V launches into a regular theme.
      "What do you think all your friends are doing now?" he asks.

      "Nothing," a poolee mutters.

      For examples of doing nothing, George doesn't need to think of his
      friends. He only has to think of himself the previous summer, in the
      one-bedroom apartment where he lives with his parents and younger
      sister. They just passed it a few minutes before, on the right. A year
      ago, George would have been sitting at home gorging on ice cream and
      frittering away his time on MySpace.

      George Zacatelco
      courtesy of the Zacatelco Family

      "And what are you doing?" V asks. "You're making yourself better, right?"

      "Yes, sir!" the poolees shout.

      "Marines are winners!" V affirms.

      As they near their destination, Sergeant V asks, "Who didn't think he
      was going to make it through this run?"

      George props up his hand, a shy smile on his face. His shoes come
      untied again and he finishes to the cheers of Sergeant V and the other
      poolees: "C'mon, George! Let's go! Let's go, big George!" As they wait
      for the other recruiter at the edge of a high school's playing fields,
      George asks Sergeant V what he should bring to boot camp. He's
      scheduled to leave Tuesday morning, but no one's told him yet.
      Sergeant V tells him that all he needs are the clothes on his back, a
      Social Security card, and a picture ID. The Marine Corps provides the

      But V knows that unless George can lose 10 pounds and get in shape in
      the next few days, he won't be shipping to boot camp on schedule and
      his dream of becoming a Marine may be derailed. It's a dream he has
      nurtured since signing up the previous October, choosing the infantry,
      which means he's likely to end up on the front lines in Iraq—a dream
      he's clung to even when he proved ill-suited to military discipline. A
      dream that many around him have found puzzling. Why, they wondered,
      would anyone want to join the Marines in the middle of a war?

      Almost four years into the Iraq War, even Sergeant V—the top Marine
      recruiter in the New York City metropolitan area— labors against
      widespread lack of interest in the military, at a time when President
      Bush has called for a 21,000-troop "surge" to help him win the war. As
      V's supervisor, Staff Sergeant Jeffrey Hess, puts it, "You get someone
      who might be good to go and he gets out the door and there are 8
      million people saying, 'Why in the heck are you doing this?' " Having
      once made a living peddling cars, V is a natural salesman. Staff
      Sergeant Hess calls him a "Marine's Marine," a poster boy for the
      Corps, and refers to his style as "churning and burning." V walks so
      much through his territory, which includes the Kingsbridge, University
      Heights, and Bedford Park neighborhoods of northwest Bronx, that he
      goes through two pairs of shoes a month. Back at the office, he makes
      dozens of calls each day, following up on leads.

      When talking to potential recruits, V, who grew up in Forest Hills and
      was piling up debt at St. John's University when he left to join the
      Marines, emphasizes the educational benefits of the Corps, not the
      chances of going to Iraq. Still, V and his two fellow recruiters
      frequently have to push to "make mission," to reach their monthly
      recruiting quota. In December, they made their quota of five total
      recruits by a hair, with two—both recruited by V—signing up the day
      before deadline. Of the 14 substations in New York City and on Long
      Island, Hess's was the only one to make mission for the month.

      Marine recruiting is more challenging today than during any of the
      major 20th-century conflicts, according to David Segal, director of
      the Center for Research on Military Organization at the University of
      Maryland. The prospect of getting drafted by the Army to fight in the
      World Wars, Korea, and Vietnam led many who sought control over their
      military experience to enlist in the Marines. With the Iraq War
      increasingly unpopular and with no draft to serve as a foil, the
      Marine Corps failed to reach its recruiting goals for the first four
      months of 2005, the first time this had happened in a decade. Unlike
      the Army, which missed its overall 2005 goal by almost 7,000 recruits,
      the Marines rebounded to make its target for the year and hasn't
      missed a monthly goal since.

      Lawrence Korb, a fellow at the Center for American Progress and
      assistant secretary of defense in the Reagan Administration, says the
      Marine Corps' success is due to its smaller recruiting goals and to "a
      special élan" that appeals to recruits. Segal adds that the Corps
      assigns its very best noncommissioned officers to recruiting duty and
      rewards them with accelerated promotion.

      Still, Marine recruitment is showing signs of strain. In August, the
      Corps announced the recall of up to 2,500 Marines who'd completed
      their tour of duty to serve in positions that couldn't be filled by
      volunteers. President Bush's proposed Iraq troop surge, as well as his
      proposal to increase the size of the Marine Corps by 23,000 over the
      next five years, would dramatically increase the burden on Marine

      At Recruiting Substation West Bronx, where Hess and V are based, both
      the élan and the potential crisis are apparent. The walls of their
      boxy main office, in a building at the intersection of East Fordham
      Road and Grand Concourse, feature hundreds of photos of newly minted
      Marines in dress uniforms alongside plaques citing the substation for
      being "First on Target" in April, May, and December of 2006, making
      mission before any other substation in the city or on Long Island.

      Sergeant V says their success is due to teamwork, but demographics may
      also play a part. The station's territory is heavily Hispanic, as are
      the majority of its recruits, including George Zacatelco, whose
      parents are Mexican immigrants. While Hispanics have historically
      enlisted at low rates, the Marine Corps has made great progress in
      recruiting them, according to Segal. Sergeant V, of Colombian descent,
      speaks fluent Spanish, as do the station's two other recruiters, which
      helps them connect with potential recruits' parents.

      But on a day in late June when V is pushing to make mission, a terse
      hortatory list in Staff Sergeant Hess's office tells a different story:

      1. We must perform at a level which forces us to make all our missions
      before deadlines.

      2. Currently we are not performing. WTF!

      3. Make adjustments ASAP!

      Hess, who volunteered to become a recruiter and worked as one for a
      year in Jamaica, Queens, before taking over the West Bronx office in
      2003, says that recruiting is the hardest job in the Marine Corps. The
      demands of making mission have his recruiters working 12 to 15 hours a
      day, six days a week. They're on their own most of the time and face a
      constant stream of dispiriting rejection.

      Hess says that Sergeant V hates being a recruiter, but V says he's
      gotten used to the job, though he'd prefer one that wouldn't require
      dealing with the public and would allow him to spend more time with
      his wife and young daughter. Still, he throws himself into the
      assignment. In addition to searching for new recruits, he has to keep
      tabs on his poolees. Many sign up while still in high school and spend
      months in the delayed-entry program before shipping to boot camp. If
      they aren't ready to ship on schedule, he has to recruit others to
      take their place. For some poolees, readying them to ship means
      accompanying them on errands such as getting a new Social Security
      card or signing up for summer school. For others, like George
      Zacatelco, it means working out with them to make sure they can pass
      the required fitness test.

      It's a Friday afternoon in mid June, and George sits on a couch in his
      living room watching a DVD of Jarhead. The couch doubles as his bed,
      and there's little in the room's plain décor to mark it as his own.
      The window drapes are lace. Two shelves of an immense wall unit hold a
      smattering of his things: Old Spice, a photograph from his prom. The
      rest are packed with ornate dolls and photographs from his younger
      sister's quinceañera. (She shares the apartment's single bedroom with
      their parents.) Jarhead, about a Marine sniper platoon during the
      first Gulf War, came out shortly after George joined the delayed-entry
      program and was an instant hit among the poolees. "We burn the fat off
      our souls," they'll say, echoing one of its lines. They're also fond
      of advice on how to kill time in the desert, which features extensive
      masturbation along with debates on the meaning of life. The recruiters
      tell the poolees that Jarhead is dumb, that it casts the Marine Corps
      in a poor light. If anything, though, its warts-and-all portrayal only
      increases George's desire to be a Marine.

      But George is also driven by a strong sense of patriotic duty. He
      first heard of the Marine Corps when he spent hours as a young child
      watching History Channel documentaries about the World Wars. His
      MySpace page reflects that obsession. Under the header "Who I'd like
      to meet," instead of a movie star or athlete, he features the famous
      photograph of Roosevelt, Stalin, and Churchill together at Yalta. "The
      Big Three," he notes. After the terrorist attacks of September 11 ,
      which happened when he was in eighth grade, George began to seriously
      consider joining the military. As a high school freshman, he wrote an
      essay arguing for war against Iraq, though he later came to believe
      that President Bush was "BS'ing" about weapons of mass destruction.
      Still, the Madrid and London bombings, as well as ongoing attacks
      against U.S. forces in Iraq, solidified his resolve to enlist.

      At first, George's parents laughed off his plans. When they realized
      he was serious, they grew angry. He was their only son. Why wouldn't
      he just go to college? Nonetheless, in October 2005, Sergeant V came
      to their apartment and they signed papers allowing George, six weeks
      past his 17th birthday, to join the delayed-entry program.

      A few of George's teachers at the Marble Hill School for International
      Studies, a small public high school in the Bronx, supported his
      decision to enlist, but many urged him to go to college instead. But
      George revels in defying his teachers' expectations. (His favorite
      line from Jarhead is the main character's explanation of how he ended
      up in the Marines: "I got lost on the way to college.") He even has a
      conspiracy theory that explains his teachers' obsession with higher
      education: The more students they send to college, he claims, the more
      funding they get.

      George's friends at school wore black, grew their hair out, and did
      "stupid crazy" stuff. They'd run around the hallways, slamming into
      doors. They'd dare a friend to drink an entire gallon of milk in a
      single sitting. They'd shout down people who made stupid comments,
      like a girl in one of George's classes who said that illegal
      immigrants take jobs from Americans.

      His friends thought it was cool that he was joining the Marines,
      though one girl told him he was going to die in Iraq, while others
      joked that if he went there, he should bring back some body parts.
      Another girl would hug him every time he mentioned the Marines, and
      not let go.

      When the platoon in Jarhead throws an alcohol-fueled blowout, George
      grins. With a 7 p.m. curfew, he didn't get to go out much in high
      school, and he's hoping there will be a lot of partying in the
      Marines. From what he's seen so far, they're pretty crazy. The
      sergeants will get into martial arts battles in the street,
      indifferent to what passersby might think. And when the poolees are in
      the minivan after training, they'll start chanting, "Kill! Kill! Kill!"

      For the first few months, George was a solid poolee. He went to all
      the Saturday trainings and worked out with Sergeant V during the week.
      But then in early February, he had an awful week. It started with a
      poor report card, which placed his graduation in jeopardy. Then,
      during a fitness test that all poolees must pass before shipping out
      to boot camp, he finished the one-and-a-half-mile run in 16 minutes,
      way over the limit. Staff Sergeant Hess, who's so big and tough that
      George doesn't even like to talk to him under normal circumstances,
      blew up at him, telling him to take off his poolee shirt, that he
      wasn't fit to wear it.

      Now, when a drill instructor in Jarhead shoves the main character's
      head through a blackboard, George is nonchalant. "I hope that doesn't
      happen to me," he says.

      But back then, George felt like burying his head under a rock. He
      holed up at home, obsessively re-reading "The Making of a Marine," an
      official booklet given to each poolee. On the inside front cover, next
      to "Ship Date," George had written, "July 11th, 2006 woot!"—"woot"
      being what his crazy friends at school say when they want to get
      pumped. George occasionally made his way back to the recruiting
      office, but the sergeants would mock him by giving him Army recruiting
      flyers and saying, "I thought you were dead," or, "Look who appeared—a

      Once George showed up with a lip piercing. "I will either kill you,"
      Staff Sergeant Hess said, "or you can go outside, or I'll take that
      shit out of your mouth." George was about to leave, perhaps for good,
      when Sergeant V appeared and talked him into taking the piercing out.
      That was George's turning point. He was back on track, still set to
      leave on July 11. Woot!

      Just before Jarhead ends, George's mother arrives home from her
      babysitting job, followed shortly after by his father, a cook. They
      sink into a couch at the other end of the room and a tense silence
      takes hold as the movie's two main characters return from the desert
      to find that the war's over. "They didn't get a kill," George remarks
      softly, explaining the characters' sullen expressions. After the
      movie, George's mother leaves the room, and his father, a squat man
      with a sunken face and a wispy mustache, sits next to him on the
      couch. George replaces the DVD with a documentary about Marines who
      fought in Iraq that came packaged with the Jarhead collector's
      edition. One of its subjects can't sleep at night. Another discovers
      that the GI Bill doesn't cover his state school tuition. A third mocks
      the idea that Marine jobs carry over into civilian life. If you're
      trained as a cannoneer, he asks, "what are you going to be, the guy
      who fires a cannon in the circus?" George laughs at the quip, but he's
      unfazed by the bleak prognosis for life after the Marines. The Marine
      brother of a friend from school had post-traumatic stress disorder and
      now he's back in Iraq. Having signed up for the infantry, George knows
      he's likely to end up there, too. Going to Iraq would be an honor, he
      says, because he'd be able to "get some bad guys, to fight them over
      there instead of over here." He just hopes he doesn't die, and takes
      solace in his belief that Army soldiers in Iraq are more vulnerable
      than Marines. Some online research he did around the time of the
      2,000th American death in Iraq revealed that most were indeed from the
      Army and the National Guard. (He failed to take into account that
      Marines make up just one-sixth of the troops in Iraq; per capita,
      they're twice as likely as Army soldiers to die there.)

      Meanwhile, George's father still hopes he'll change his mind. He rubs
      his eyebrows and asks George softly in Spanish if he really wants to
      join. Yeah, George replies, and then smiles and grabs his father's
      shoulder, as if to assure him that everything will be all right.

      It's easy to see why Staff Sergeant Hess terrifies George. A former
      running back whose college football career was ended by injury, the
      32-year-old Hess is six feet tall and weighs 225 pounds. He can
      bench-press nearly twice his weight and his bulging biceps are covered
      with tattoos, including one of a bulldog wielding a bloody knife.
      While Sergeant V is like an older brother to the poolees, Hess is the
      father, the hammer, the one who shoves a foot up their butt.

      Putting on a stern look, Hess strides out of his office toward George
      and another poolee. George was supposed to ship out to boot camp four
      days ago. But instead, he's sitting at a desk in the recruiting
      office, where Hess will once again give him the required fitness test.
      George smiles nervously as Hess approaches.

      "Zacatelco!" says Hess, a Pittsburgh native whose accent is curled
      slightly Southern from eight years stationed in North Carolina as a
      career retention specialist. "You know how to do pull-ups, right?"

      "Yes, sir," George replies. He goes to the pull-up bar, hangs, and
      pulls. He only needs to do two to pass, but barely gets his arms to 90
      degrees before they begin to shake and he drops down.

      "You've gotta be shittin' me," Hess barks. "I thought you almost did
      two the other day."

      "Yes, sir," George mumbles.

      The other poolee does five, then Hess brings them over to a scale to
      be weighed. George comes in at 184.

      "Me and you are gonna have a conversation," Hess says.

      Hess brings George into his office, where he checks height and weight
      requirements in a loose-leaf binder.

      "You need to get down to 175," he tells George, though even at this
      weight, he'll require a waiver. "You need to be here every day."

      "Yes, sir," George says.

      "Don't just tell me, 'Yes, sir,' " Hess says. "Because you don't come
      every day."

      "All right," George says, holding his hands behind his back and
      grabbing at the fabric of his shirt.

      George barely does the minimum of 44 abdominal crunches in two
      minutes. Then they head to nearby Devoe Park for the mile-and-a-half
      run. On the way, Hess strides several yards ahead, talking on his cell
      phone to Sergeant V, who's on vacation.

      "How the fuck do you expect to fucking get rid of Zacatelco?" he asks.
      "He's 15 pounds overweight."

      "It's your job to know that shit," Hess continues after a pause. "He
      ain't goin' nowhere. When you come back off of leave, he's gonna be
      your baby."

      At the park, Hess lays down the ground rules. "You don't want to walk
      on this run. If you walk, guess what?" he says. "You fail. Your goal
      is to get 10 if you can, but 13 minutes, 30 seconds pays the rent."

      Less than halfway through, George slows to a walk. Hess hustles across
      the park to motivate him.

      "Pick it up, Zac!" he taunts. "You ain't gonna pass it this way!"

      George starts jogging again, but before long he's back to walking.

      "Let's go!" Hess yells, arms flung wide in disbelief. "Why you walking?"

      George finishes two full minutes over the cutoff. A grimace of pain
      crosses his face. He leans forward, as if to stretch, then crumples
      down and ends up on all fours. He's rubbing his right calf when Hess
      commands: "Get up! Drink some water!"

      Hess paces around angrily. "Are you gonna die?" he asks.

      "No, sir," George says.

      "So why walk?"

      On the way back to the recruiting station, Hess again pulls ahead.
      When he looks back in frustration to find George and the other poolee
      a half block back, they race-walk to catch up.

      Even by the standards of the sedentary Xbox generation, George is
      having serious trouble passing the fitness test. A more common
      challenge for the recruiters is when a poolee tries to back out as his
      ship date approaches. Poolees aren't legally bound to the Marines
      until the day they ship out to boot camp, and some see the
      delayed-entry program as a trial period at the end of which they can
      make a final decision. Others waver under the pressure of parents,
      friends, and teachers telling them they're crazy to join the Marines.

      Hess says this happens about half the time. In a recent case, a poolee
      set to ship the next week tried to pull out at the behest of his
      parents. A hectic few hours of back-and-forth ensued among Hess,
      another recruiter, the poolee, and his parents. After methodically
      reminding the poolee of why he'd joined up in the first place—to be a
      part of the best—Hess and the other recruiter got him back on track.
      Hess tries to preempt such second thoughts. When recruits are about to
      sign up, he sits them down in his office and impresses upon them the
      gravity of their decision. They're free to get up and go, he tells
      them, but if they sign up, they're making a commitment. And that means
      that the day you're set to go to boot camp, he says, when I show up at
      your house, I'm taking someone to boot camp. If you won't come out of
      that house, I'll take your mom or your dad. If I have to burn down
      your house to get you out of there, then I will.

      If a poolee still dares to try to pull out, Hess and the recruiters
      remind him that he gave his word. What kind of person goes back on his
      word? If he drops out and tries to join the Marines later on, they
      tell him, there'll be a black mark against him. Still, if the poolee
      has a really good reason, such as a college scholarship, Hess might
      let him switch to the Reserves. But he has to have gotten up on the
      right side of the bed for that to happen. Otherwise, he'll just say
      there's no way out, you signed the contract.

      In the end, a certain number of poolees never do go to boot camp. Each
      substation tries to keep this attrition rate below 20 percent. At
      Hess's office, it was 14 percent for 2006.

      On an overcast, humid morning in mid July, George and 11 other poolees
      stand in a circle at the edge of Van Cortlandt Park. Staff Sergeant
      Hess, who apparently did not get up on the right side of the bed this
      morning, glares at them from the center of the circle.

      "You sound like a bunch of little girls," he says as they count off
      while stretching their quads. Then he leads them in a set of push-ups,
      keeping his body absolutely straight and thrusting his head forward to
      keep watch on them.

      "Push up!" he commands.

      "Marine Corps!" they respond.

      On abdominal crunches, George falters as they near 40.

      "Let's go, Zacatelco!" Hess yells.

      "Yes, sir!" George responds, showing a bit more verve than usual. As
      promised, he's come to the recruiting office to work out almost every
      day in the week since the disastrous fitness test.

      Hess has decided it's time to crack down. After the run at the last
      training, Sergeant V had the poolees play football, then they drove
      back to the office to eat pizza. This time, when Sergeant V and
      another recruiter expect to play football again, Hess is annoyed.
      "We're gonna train these guys the way we're supposed to," he says.

      On the run, Hess leads the chanting:

      Up from the sub 60 feet below!

      Hit the surface and we're ready to go!

      Grease gun, K-bar by my side!

      These are the tools that make men die!

      Sidestroke, backstroke, swim to the shore!

      Hit the beach and we're ready for war!

      It's rare to hear the recruiters and poolees express such bloodthirsty
      sentiments. Although the Marine Corps is known for undertaking
      extremely dangerous missions, most recently in places such as Anbar
      Province in Iraq, the recruiters would much rather talk about
      education benefits and the inculcation of pride and leadership than
      about facing down an enemy with a K-bar knife.

      As of mid July, Staff Sergeant Hess claims that George is the only
      current poolee signed up for the infantry; others are headed for
      careers as computer specialists and legal administrators. Of several
      hundred Marines recruited in the three years he's headed the
      substation, Hess claims that only a handful have ended up in Iraq. Yet
      Lawrence Korb, the former assistant secretary of defense, estimates
      that half of all Marines end up deploying to Iraq or Afghanistan
      within a year of starting boot camp. He says that even a computer
      specialist might end up attached to an infantry platoon.

      After jogging halfway around the field and running a series of
      "suicide sprints," the pool circles up for more exercises. Sergeant V
      leads them in a lengthy set of arm circles and, as poolees give up,
      another recruiter taps them on the shoulder and directs them to sit on
      the sidelines. George's arms droop, but he perseveres.

      "If you're thinking of quitting," V says, "look inside yourself and
      decide who you really are."

      "If you're thinking of quitting," Hess rebuts, "don't."

      The next stop is the pull-up bars. Each poolee has to run up and
      identify himself with a set script before beginning. Many garble the
      words or say them weakly. One laughs halfway through. Hess sends the
      offenders to the back of the line. On his second try, George announces
      himself at a barely acceptable volume: "Poolee Zacatelco from RSS West
      Bronx, sir!"

      Hess nods his approval and George leaps up to grab the bars.

      "C'mon, c'mon! One! Two!" Hess cheers George along, giving him a
      boost, with one hand on his back and one on his torso. " Three! C'mon!
      You got it! There you go! Four! Get it! Get it! Five! C'mon, big
      George. Six! There you go. Six! Good job!"

      A few weeks later, one of Sergeant V's fellow recruiters pulls up to
      George's apartment building at 4 in the morning. It's early August and
      George has shed the required 10 pounds and passed the fitness test by
      doing two pull-ups and running a mile and a half in 13 minutes, 15
      seconds. George has been up all night, too anxious to sleep. Though
      he'd been concerned that his parents would accompany him to the
      military processing center in Brooklyn, prolonging an awkward parting,
      he now finds it difficult to say goodbye. But he does, then joins the
      recruiter in the car. Upon arriving at Parris Island, however, he does
      only one pull-up and spends several weeks in a remedial platoon before
      starting boot camp proper.

      Shortly after George joined the delayed-entry program, he dreamed of a
      flag-draped casket. He'd been fighting in Iraq and one of his buddies
      hadn't made it. No, it was him. He was in the casket.

      That was October 2005, when American casualties in Iraq increased
      sharply. George returned from boot camp in late November 2006, in the
      midst of an even bloodier period. Last October, 105 American troops
      died in Iraq, and the average of more than three deaths per day during
      the last three months of 2006 was the highest in two years. Yet boot
      camp was a news vacuum. As the chaos in Iraq helped propel the
      Democrats to control of Congress and brought down Secretary of Defense
      Donald Rumsfeld, George was put through a grueling 13-week training
      regimen. All day long, drill instructors yelled at him to hurry up, do
      this, do that. At night, he dreamed of more orders, not Iraq.

      A week after returning home, George sits in his parents' living room.
      Foil banners reading "Congratulations" and "Welcome Home" are taped to
      the walls, and a cluster of partially deflated balloons hugs the
      ceiling. George's parents have installed a bed in the corner to make
      his brief stay more comfortable. A Snoopy doll rests by the pillow.
      George looks like he's shrunk a few sizes. Along with 15 fewer
      pounds—he's down to 159—he has lost a certain animation in his face.
      His old nervous smile surfaces only at rare moments. Since returning,
      George has grown much closer to his parents and sister. They traveled
      down to South Carolina for his boot camp graduation, and seeing them
      there was, he says, "the best feeling in the world."

      When George goes to the recruiting station, he's treated as a Marine.
      The first time he walks in, he's wearing civilian clothes and a poolee
      mistakes him for another poolee. "I'm a Marine," George says. "Get on
      your face!" The poolee obeys and begins doing push-ups. He does so
      many that George loses count.

      Through the summer and into the fall, Hess's office consistently
      exceeded its mission. The pressure never lets up, though—when it makes
      mission before the end of the month, it's expected to bring in more
      recruits to make up for substations that fall short. At the end of
      September, the office was named "City Station of the Year" for making
      mission more often than any other substation in 2006.

      Before heading to North Carolina for infantry school, George spends a
      few days assisting the recruiters. On an unusually mild day the week
      after Thanksgiving, he stands in front of an armed forces recruiting
      station in the traffic island across from the recruiting office and
      tries to interest passersby in the Marines. With him are a lance
      corporal and Hanly Rivas, the poolee George ordered to do push-ups.
      George wears a green cap, tan shirt and tie, dark green slacks, and
      glossy black shoes. He has a blank, self-conscious look on his face
      and rocks back and forth on his feet as pedestrians stream by.

      "Grab 'im up! Grab 'im up!" says the lance corporal, prodding George
      to approach two passing black kids.

      George sticks out a hand and the kid closest to him shakes it without
      breaking stride.

      "No, no," the other teen mouths, weaving around George.

      George smiles nervously. A dark-haired young woman walks up and
      berates Rivas, whose gray T-shirt features an image of an M16 rifle,
      for joining the Marines. It turns out that the wiry 18-year-old Rivas
      and the woman dated briefly.

      "I'm serving my country," Rivas says.

      "Bush has us in Iraq fighting for oil," the woman says. "You guys are
      protecting oil!"

      George walks over to Rivas and whispers in his ear, "End it."

      Rivas goes quiet as the woman continues her tirade. "You're entitled
      to your opinion," he says when she's done.

      For George, there's no longer any point in discussing whether the Iraq
      War is right or wrong, whether it's a success or a disaster. As the
      rest of the country embraces the latter position, he focuses on doing
      his job.

      A few days later, he leaves for Camp Geiger in North Carolina for
      infantry school, which lasts about a month. Now, he's there training
      to be a rifleman, his specialty. According to Hess, George could "pump
      out" to Iraq as early as March. Training keeps George pretty busy, but
      he finds time to keep up his MySpace page, logging in once a week or
      so. He's changed the design a bit, though. The photo of Roosevelt,
      Churchill, and Stalin is gone, replaced by a link to a YouTube video
      of Marine martial arts battles—a hard rock–scored smorgasbord of
      flailing limbs and body slams. And George's identification photo,
      which used to include a number of his high school friends, has been
      supplanted by a picture of him flanked by two fellow Marines.

      Its title: Killers.



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