Canale di xwalth

The tree rises, deep-rooted and evergreen.

A thick bark guards its couple hundred growth rings, of which many have been scorched.
This tree is the Corps, and drill - our word for marching and saluting - is its wood grain. Running in a single direction, the grain has no twists or spirals and gives the alignment and appearance of our fiber. And more than appearances, the grain gives us orders, the core of all things military. Within order are details, essentially our cultural genetic code.

Subtract care and discipline, and this code could mutate into some crooked form of the straightly growing tree we cherish. Therefore, we drill.
We preserve the order and the culture, building among the ranks in the process. The Marine next to the other knows the move, and he must execute with dependability, lest the team fails.
As the civilian gaggle continues flocking to the Corps, drill instructors stand ready to school the unschooled.

In first learning drill, we face confusion and fear. It can hurt too: the aching feet, the charley horses. But our sensors become conditioned until doubt and pain's purpose are cast from our being. If one has never drilled, he should try standing at attention. If he is not fit, being locked in this simplest of positions can, in a short time, actually become excruciating.
But if he truly intends to become a Marine, such pain becomes inconsiderable, if not a mere part of the lesson.
Either way the tree grows on.

Semper Fi

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