4 Comments
Asylum's Caleb Howe served in the United States Marine Corps from 1993 to 1999.

On November 10, 1775, in Tun Tavern, a famous bar in Philadelphia, the most logical recruitment drive in history began. If you want to build the United States Marine Corps, promise blood and glory, beer and barmaids. That drive, that birthright, forged a tradition and ethos that carries forward to this day. Marines are the tough ones. They kill them all and let God sort it out. Blood makes the grass grow. Mothers bring their daughters in whenever we come out. People say we're crazy for the crazy things we do. But we're United States Marines -- who the hell are you?

In six years in the Marine Corps you learn a lot. Not just about killing. You learn, for example, the exact amount of alcohol, to the ounce, you have to drink to pass out in a shower at 4 a.m. and still run a 5K at 5. You haven't lived until you've smelled the alcohol pouring from the pores of 40 or so Marines who don't remember how they got back to the barracks last night. In fact, you might say you learn about pain. Exercise pain. Sleeplessness pain. Foot pain. Major Payne.

In the Marine Corps, you also learn about chow. Chow is important to a Marine. You should eat as much as possible, as fast as possible. And look, a little bit of dirt in your cheese-like substance just gives it texture. Also, rifle grease is a suitable substitute for honey-glaze on ham.

Of course, you certainly learn about foreign cultures. You travel the world, meeting strange, exotic and ultimately fascinating people. Then you kill them.

And it all starts with yellow footprints.

When you arrive at Parris Island, it's dark. It's late. You're sitting on a bus wondering what's about to happen, and then the Drill Instructor appears. He tears onto the bus and starts barking incoherently ... something about maggots and breakfast.

When you all pour off the bus, there are more of him. You can't tell one from the other. On the ground are dozens of pairs of yellow footprints. They herd you onto them and, when you find your pair, you match your feet and stand perfectly straight and still. You are now literally following in the footsteps of those who came before. Even as they are yelling and you are nervous and excited and wondering what the hell you've gotten yourself into, you can sense it. You can sense them.

How many heroes stood right here, in this very spot? Just like us, feet pointed just so, eyes straight ahead? Young men and women, some fated to die in jungles, mountains ... deserts. Those warriors stood, just like you, knowing they were about to be part of something bigger. A continuous tradition that goes back hundreds of years, through wars and the agonizing idleness of peace, through deaths and births, rescues and training. All the way back through Chosin and Chesty, pirates and revolution; all the way back to ... a bar.

We love that. We own that.

Being a Marine is about a lot of things. Some good, some bad. It's hard to tell the story to those who weren't there. If you know a Marine, ask him what Massive Consumption of Tobacco (MCT) is all about and he'll laugh. If he went to Parris Island for boot camp, ask him about San Diego and he'll definitely laugh. (The opposite is also true.) Ask him about John Murtha and you might get punched in the face. But ask him to explain what it was like ... he may not have a good answer.

So all you really need to know is this: United States Marines love their country and their comrades in arms, and they're pretty much prepared to eat the spleen of anyone who isn't down with that. Yep. Spleen. Either eat it or use it as a weapon. That's what you need to know.

This weekend, Marines around the world attended the annual Marine Corps Ball and tonight, they'll have a few too many and talk about how the Corps was so much tougher when they were in.

And that's the story of the Marines. It starts with yellow footprints and taverns, and sometimes it ends with finding alternate uses for organs. So if you have a beer tonight, take some time to remember all the fierce, slightly crazy, deadly and dangerous men and women who have worn those unmistakable dress blues. Those Devil Dogs. Those warriors. They are the few. The Proud. The mother-effing Marines.