Chapter One

Chapter 1

My first impression of Sgt. Robert F. Starbuck was a worm’s-eye view of the soles of his boots. They came crashing through the double swinging doors in the middle of the Parris Island Recruit Receiving Barracks at about 3:00 a.m. January 14, 1966.

I was sitting on the floor of a squad bay along with eighty-four other recruits, having been told to do so by the sergeant major of Parris Island, who had left us there only a minute before.

Then there was a rumbling noise, like thunder, or maybe a herd of buffalo on a rampage, and Starbuck kicked through the door, both feet off the floor. He saw us sitting there and his face turned to a twisted, red picture of pure anger.

“Get up, get the fuck up. Get on your goddamn feet. Who told you maggots to sit down? Get up!” His voice had the depth of a bottomless well and the pitch of an acre of gravel.

Starbuck was six feet tall and about 185 pounds. He had legs like tree trunks and a perfectly V-shaped upper body, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist. His head was shaved damn near as closely as ours were, because he wanted it that way. Starbuck looked like what I’d expect a U.S. Marine drill instructor to look like.

I’m sure that thought went through my mind at the time, but it took second place to one other thought.

He was pissed! Somebody made the mistake of trying to say, “But the sergeant major told us . . .”

“Shut your hole, maggot. I don’t want to see your green teeth or smell your rotten breath.”

That was just the beginning. Right behind Starbuck was a shor