ABSTRACT
Sergeant Carey moves the platoon across the asphalt at a crawl, correcting hand movements, straightening arms, aligning files, enforcing forty inches of separation between each rank. The platoon finally arrives at the mess hall. There Sergeant Carey uses the wait in line to initiate [platoon] 3086 into another aspect of Marine boot camp’s Zen-like fetish for minor details, in which not a single action is left to individual improvisation. The mess hall tray is to be held with arms flush at the side, bent ninety degrees at the elbow, he instructs. But there is more to it than that. “You will hold your tray this way: thumbs on the outside,” he continues.
