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Authors: Evan Wright
Tags: History
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Mexican-American features and yet skin so pale it's almost porcelain, he is a striking figure. His fellow Marines call him "Fruity Rudy," because he is so beautiful.
"It doesn't mean you're gay if you think Rudy's hot. He's just so beautiful," Person explains. "We all think he's hot."
While the other Marines spent their free time at Mathilda poring over porn and gun magazines, Reyes read self-affirming articles in Oprah's magazine, waxed his legs and chest and conducted afternoon yoga classes. His father was a Marine, but when he was three the family split apart due to drug problems. According to Reyes, a close relative of his who was a drug-addicted cop used to bust prostitutes and bring them home to babysit him and his brother. Reyes wound up in boys' homes in Kansas City. "Those boys' homes were gladiator academies," Reyes says. "Darwin was living and breathing strong. I was twelve years old and seventy pounds. I had older men making sexual advances on me. I was preyed upon by bigger, stronger people. I was always the new guy in a shitty neighborhood in a shitty school. I was inspired by Spider-Man, Speed Racer and Bruce Lee. I decided to become a warrior."
Reyes adds, "I have very low self-esteem. I need to empower myself daily through physical training and spirituality. I identify with redemption stories like The Color Purple. I love the journey of a woman from weak and less-than to someone who is fully realized."
This day, on the eve of invading Iraq, Reyes is concerned about his body. "I am going to hell out here," he says, handing a belt of machine-gun rounds to Manimal, his teammate. "I eat terribly in the field."
"We've had plenty of chow," Manimal says.
"Back home I only eat sushi and vegetables," Reyes counters. "The food we eat here is garbage, that awful American diet. Someday, I think Sheree and I will live in San Francisco," he says, referring to his wife of five years.
"What's so great about San Francisco?" Manimal asks.
"There's no fat people there," Reyes answers. "And Chinese martial arts are very much a part of the culture there."
"Why would you give a fuck if there are fat people where you live?" Manimal laughs. "People are people."
"I want to live in a place where people care about themselves."
"Jesus Christ, Rudy," Colbert says, slipping in under the cammie net. "When are you going to realize you're fucking gay? When we're on libo," he says, referring to liberty port calls Marines make around the world, "you wear Banana Republic Daisy Duke shorts, and now you're rolling into battle with your goddamn chicken suit and J.Lo glasses. You dress like a pimp queen."
"Brother, I wear clothes that are body-conscious, but I don't dress like no goddamn pimp queen. I've got too much respect for myself." Reyes howls with laughter. He and Colbert tap knuckles after a successful exchange of put-downs.
About two hours before sunset, First Recon's commander, Lt. Col. Fer-rando, gathers his men for a final briefing. In the chain of command, Ferran-do is at the top of the battalion. As officers go, platoon commanders like Fick are at the bottom. Each platoon commander answers to his respective company commander, and each of these—the commanders for Alpha, Bravo and Charlie—answer to Ferrando. For all practical purposes, within the battalion, Ferrando is God. In war, especially, his authority is absolute.
Every Marine is indoctrinated with a simple saying that clearly states the Corps' priority in achieving its aims in war: "Mission accomplishment, then troop welfare." One thing about the Marine Corps is it doesn't bullshit the troops about their place in the scheme of things. The responsibility of deciding when their lives might become expendable for the sake of a mission falls on Ferrando.
Ferrando's command post out in the field is a small black tent set up by a movable antenna farm of seven-meter towers held up with guy lines and stakes. It looks like the deck rigging of a sailing ship washed up on
"It doesn't mean you're gay if you think Rudy's hot. He's just so beautiful," Person explains. "We all think he's hot."
While the other Marines spent their free time at Mathilda poring over porn and gun magazines, Reyes read self-affirming articles in Oprah's magazine, waxed his legs and chest and conducted afternoon yoga classes. His father was a Marine, but when he was three the family split apart due to drug problems. According to Reyes, a close relative of his who was a drug-addicted cop used to bust prostitutes and bring them home to babysit him and his brother. Reyes wound up in boys' homes in Kansas City. "Those boys' homes were gladiator academies," Reyes says. "Darwin was living and breathing strong. I was twelve years old and seventy pounds. I had older men making sexual advances on me. I was preyed upon by bigger, stronger people. I was always the new guy in a shitty neighborhood in a shitty school. I was inspired by Spider-Man, Speed Racer and Bruce Lee. I decided to become a warrior."
Reyes adds, "I have very low self-esteem. I need to empower myself daily through physical training and spirituality. I identify with redemption stories like The Color Purple. I love the journey of a woman from weak and less-than to someone who is fully realized."
This day, on the eve of invading Iraq, Reyes is concerned about his body. "I am going to hell out here," he says, handing a belt of machine-gun rounds to Manimal, his teammate. "I eat terribly in the field."
"We've had plenty of chow," Manimal says.
"Back home I only eat sushi and vegetables," Reyes counters. "The food we eat here is garbage, that awful American diet. Someday, I think Sheree and I will live in San Francisco," he says, referring to his wife of five years.
"What's so great about San Francisco?" Manimal asks.
"There's no fat people there," Reyes answers. "And Chinese martial arts are very much a part of the culture there."
"Why would you give a fuck if there are fat people where you live?" Manimal laughs. "People are people."
"I want to live in a place where people care about themselves."
"Jesus Christ, Rudy," Colbert says, slipping in under the cammie net. "When are you going to realize you're fucking gay? When we're on libo," he says, referring to liberty port calls Marines make around the world, "you wear Banana Republic Daisy Duke shorts, and now you're rolling into battle with your goddamn chicken suit and J.Lo glasses. You dress like a pimp queen."
"Brother, I wear clothes that are body-conscious, but I don't dress like no goddamn pimp queen. I've got too much respect for myself." Reyes howls with laughter. He and Colbert tap knuckles after a successful exchange of put-downs.
About two hours before sunset, First Recon's commander, Lt. Col. Fer-rando, gathers his men for a final briefing. In the chain of command, Ferran-do is at the top of the battalion. As officers go, platoon commanders like Fick are at the bottom. Each platoon commander answers to his respective company commander, and each of these—the commanders for Alpha, Bravo and Charlie—answer to Ferrando. For all practical purposes, within the battalion, Ferrando is God. In war, especially, his authority is absolute.
Every Marine is indoctrinated with a simple saying that clearly states the Corps' priority in achieving its aims in war: "Mission accomplishment, then troop welfare." One thing about the Marine Corps is it doesn't bullshit the troops about their place in the scheme of things. The responsibility of deciding when their lives might become expendable for the sake of a mission falls on Ferrando.
Ferrando's command post out in the field is a small black tent set up by a movable antenna farm of seven-meter towers held up with guy lines and stakes. It looks like the deck rigging of a sailing ship washed up on
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