Marine Corps Stories: Frog Voice

“I’m not getting a goddamn frog voice,” Sergeant Hyer Lowell said. Light shone on his medium brown skin. He stood just over six feet tall. He was chatting with Marcos Marin, a 5 foot, 8 inch sergeant without a hair on his head, who somehow managed a friendship with the bellicose Lowell. Both Marines then sat down to eat in the chow hall.

Marin pointed at the pint of pickle juice, and roughly thirty packets of salt on Lowell’s tray.

“How the hell did you get that?” He asked with a chuckle.

“What do you mean how? I asked. I told you, I’m not getting a frog voice,” Lowell responded.

“That’s why you project from your diaphragm. This drill instructor school has me messed up. I’m not going to go down as another DI screaming at nasty-body recruits, and straining my voice,” Sergeant Marin said.

Lowell opened packets of salt, poured them into the jar of already-briny liquid, and mixed two vigorously with a spoon. Then he looked up at Marin and said, “Salud, mi amgio.”

“Yes, yes. If you’re going to drink it, drink it.”

Lowell’s eyes squinted, and he grimaced as he chugged it down.

“A big old Sergeant of Marines wincing at a little bit of pickle juice and salt? Don’t worry. I won’t tell Gunny.”

Lowell downed another gulp, but didn’t flinch this time. He just sputtered and coughed.

“Damn, Hy’. You’re really taking that to the head.”

“I’m not trying to have—”

“A frog voice.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m serious. If you project from your chest instead of your throat, you’ll have a lot more power, and you won’t hurt yourself.” Marin pounded his breast.

“I remember as a Boot, I lost my voice. I thought I was going to lose it here in DI school too, but I knocked it out, nonetheless.”

“They explain that the shouting is to contend with heavy fire, rounds whizzing by, and explosives detonating,” Lowell said. He took a smaller sip this time.

“That’s true. That’s what’s wrong with the civilian population. They think we’re just yelling to assert our authority over recruits and candidates. That’s not it though. We’re training them to withstand a combat situation. And they shout back at us to boot,” Marin said.

Lowell sipped some more, then blurted, “Damn right.”

Marin continued, “And we’re going to be the baddest sons of bitches to train those Devil Pups, ‘Hy. That frog voice will pass. Once you get on that graduation deck as a United States Marine Corps Drill Instructor, you’ll remember that time you forced down pickle juice and salt to soothe your ailing throat.”

“I’ll remember,” Lowell said.

“I know it. I did my tour in Iran, and I just told myself, if I make it out of here with my head and body intact, I’m going into the drill field,” Marin recalled.

“I’ve got a similar tale,” Lowell said, finishing the mixture. “I was coming up on re-enlisting. I was like ‘forget that.’ Then my first sergeant said I should try out the drill field. So I re-upped and did all the necessary paperwork. Next thing I knew, I was on a float from Iwakuni back stateside. And here I am. Never thought I’d be a drill instructor but it fits, so far.”

“Yes, they’re Devils. They’re older, so they’ve got wives and kids and they’re staring at retirement. But they still have that fire in them. It’s like they don’t turn off, and I mean that in a good way. They’re locked in and legitimate. They could have let years of the Corps wear on their souls, but they always remained Marines. I respect that,” Marin said.

“Are you ready to train Marines? Are you prepared to take a filthy civilian and make them into a certified Leatherneck?” Lowell asked.

“I mean I am, but the commercial you’re pitching me is a little weird,” Marin said.

Both men laughed.