Free Born on the Fourth of July by Ron Kovic Page B

aluminum structure, with the chrome-domes they had just gotten spinning on their heads, their cartridge belts loosely fitted, jumping and dangling from their waists. They didn’t look like marines, he thought, they looked like Richie and Pete and the rest of the guys, running into Sally’s Woods for a game of guns. What was going on here? he thought. What was happening? It wasn’t anything like he thought it would be. Why did they have to push them and shove them and kick them and scream and shout? But before he could even get his thoughts together, they put them in a long line and made them face a line of large wooden boxes. He saw that each box had a number painted on it.
    â€œI want you to take your clothes off,” the sergeant shouted. “I want you to take off everything that ever reminded you of being a civilian and put it in the box. Do you see that box in front of you and that number? I want everything!” he said. “Now do it, ladies! Quickly, now, quickly!”
    As soon as the sergeant had said it, all the young boys began tearing their clothing off, unbuckling their belts, pulling off their shirts, their pants, their shoes, their socks. Everything went. Everything. And as they took their last bits of clothing off, the short sergeant began racing back and forth along the line, screaming into the ears of the young boys, cursing them and jabbing his hands hard into their backs.
    He had a small medal around his neck. It was the one Mom had given him for Christmas. He had kept it on for years, all through high school, and even down in the basement wrestling practice, he had never taken it off. And now the short sergeant was pointing at it with his finger, laughing, then shouting for him to throw it in the box that had the number painted on the side.
    â€œCan I keep it?” he said.
    â€œDon’t talk back to me,” screamed the sergeant. “You fucking maggot. Don’t you ever talk back to me!” The sergeant grabbed the medal from his hand and threw it in the box. And now he found himself turning slowly to where the thunderous sound of the drill instructor’s voice came from, and he was moving now, stepping and marching, almost running, and then stepping again. He didn’t know what to do. They were screaming in his ears again, shouting, cursing. The short guy punched him again and again, and he felt his breath burst from his lungs, twisting and bending him over.
    â€œI’m trying,” he said.
    â€œGet in step!” screamed the sergeant.
    Stepping, marching, running. “Get in step, people! Come on, people! Let’s go, people!” He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to do it. He wanted to go home, then he didn’t. Then he wanted to, then he didn’t know what he wanted to do. They were driving him and pushing him and shoving him, screaming and bullying him through this whole crazy thing. He kept thinking over and over and over again that this day, this place, the screaming shouting voices in his ears, in all their ears, roaring like thunder were like angry hate! Oh get us out! Get us out! God, help us!
    And they threw them into a barbershop that was more like a factory where there was hair flying all over the place, his hair, everyone’s hair, all the hair of the boys who had come to be marines that day. Men as angry and as cold as the sergeants shaved the hair off their heads until he could feel the warm soft wind that swept through the hangar on his head too. They had made them completely bald, and he looked around as he sat on the chair, and the guys who were cutting, the guys who were shaving all their hair off, weren’t even looking at the heads, but just cutting like guys shearing sheep.
    â€œGet the fuck up!” screamed the barber. “Next!” he shouted, and the next young boy jumped into the chair staring straight ahead.
    He found himself being swept along with all the young boys, now strange