Marine Corps Stories: Brain Housing Group

“Don’t make love to it.”

The voice seemed knowing, comic, and sharp all at once. The man who uttered the words possessed the rank of Sergeant of Marines. Sergeant Danté Haverford looked down at the private tirelessly attempting to replace the tire on the unmanned aerial vehicle (UAV).

Haverford’s deep brown skin soaked in the Arizona sun. He displayed a muscular build despite his 5’7” frame. He rolled his eyes.

“Look, it’s just like MOS School. Pay attention to the plies and the wire beads.”

The private was like a tiger cub trying to jump out of a locked cage. He had a slight frame and honest eyes, but fumbling fingers.

“Move!”

Haverford adroitly employed his hands to remove the tire, and had it replaced within six minutes.

“There you go,” he said with an ‘I told you so’ air.

“Thanks, Sar’ent.”

“Don’t thank me. Use your BHG.”

“BHG?”

“How did you get through ‘Boot? Brain Housing Group? Nothing?”

Private Wesley Boncompain looked at him quizzically and shook his head. “I got a score of a hundred on the ASVAB, but I’m just not all that good with my hands.”

“So why are you in avionics?”

“‘Needs of the Marine Corps.’”

Haverford shook his head.

“Here’s what we’re going to do: you’ve been torn down to be built back up. I’m going to build you up even further. I’m going to make sure you know your job like the password to your smartphone. You understand that?”

“Yes, Sar’ent.”

Alright. I’m going to take off the tire and watch you assemble it yourself. You understand that?”

After watching the sergeant break down the tire from the assembly, like a doctor removing an organ, Boncompain played the video in his mind in reverse.

“Alright. There you go.”

The lock on the cage had been unlatched, and the baby tiger leapt out of it. Then the private took the tools, and replaced the tire quickly and skillfully. He looked up at Haverford.

“Good. Now do it again.”

Boncompain didn’t hesitate. He took to the components with even more speed and agility than his previous attempt. Sergeant Haverford whipped out sunglasses and folded his arms.

“Again.”

Boncompain grinned and affixed the tire to the aircraft six times in a row with proficiency.

A grin curled on Haverford’s face.

“That’s enough, Bono’. You go in and get cleaned up for chow.”

He didn’t say “good job” “outstanding” or “stellar.” Boncompain knew he’d trained his brain under the guidance of Haverford. Four ranks separated the two men, but what connected them was just a simple expression of approval.

“Bono’, why aren’t you at least a PFC? Shouldn’t you have at least time in grade?”

“I got busted down during MOS school. I was in intelligence, and I drank one beer underrage. So the Corps made my skeeter wings fly away, and sent me down to a 6314.”

“‘Needs of the Marine Corps….’” Haverford snickered. He was like that older brother who’d just learned something from his younger sibling. He wiped some sand off his boots.

“I didn’t mind it,” the private said. “I deserved it, and I know how the Corps operates. I’m ready to get down for avionics. I just need power with my hands with tools. I don’t have a pizza box, but I just made a sharpshooter. So there’s that.”

“I got you, Private. Now, get in there.”

The Sergeant looked over the tire. He inspected it and was astonished how fast Boncompain had learned from him. Every piece had been assembled in its proper place. Haverford breathed in the desert air. It suddenly dawned on him he was even more amazed by what Boncompain had taught him. He walked away from the UAV with pride.