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Tyson Winsel of West Newton took his first order less than five minutes after passing through the gates of U.S. Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island, S.C.

It came from a six-foot tall, fiery ball of fury and muscle that all but blocked the bus's entrance.

"Get off the bus! Get off the bus!" bellowed the sergeant , his outstretched arm and right index finger pointing toward the door. "You will move quickly, but don't run. Men to the right! Women to the left!"

Winsel and the other recruits scrambled. They lined up on four rows of yellow footprints painted on the asphalt outside the base's receiving station.

A swarm of drill instructors, barking orders, descended on them.

The recruits stood motionless, eyes straight ahead and mouths shut. The slightest movement invited one-on-one, nose-to-nose introductions with the sergeants.

Winsel, 18, wanted to walk away.

"My first thought was, ‘Why did I come here’" he said. "If I could have turned around right there, I probably would have."

But it was too late. He had already signed the papers and taken the oath. He was committed.

INCENTIVE TO STAY

Winsel stayed, completing boot camp in February.

But even if he truly had wanted to go, he couldn't have left.

Parris Island is hemmed in on one side by Port Royal Sound and on the others by saltwater marshes.

A causeway provides access.

"The only other way is by boat," said Staff Sgt. Paulette Ruggles, a drill instructor. "It's an incentive for recruits to stay because, unfortunately, some of them want to leave once they get here."

The corps boasts that its 12-week boot camp is the toughest basic training offered by any branch of the U.S. military.

Some recruits don't take that to heart, but not Pfc. Rita Magyor-Levergood, formerly of Mt. Pleasant Township. She joined for just that reason. She left for Parris Island two days after collecting her high school diploma in June 2001.

"I had been kicking it around in my mind, about joining the military, because I always thought it was neat," said Magyor-Levergood, a reservist who now lives in Hawaii with her new husband, Ian. "They said the Marines were the hardest, and I wanted a challenge."

Recently, others have signed up, in part, because of the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks.

Carl Perry, an 18-year-old Hempfield Township resident and firefighter, shipped out to boot camp Feb. 26. He had considered joining the military for some time, but wasn't compelled to visit a recruiter until after Sept. 11.

Joining, he said, is his way of honoring the firefighters who died in the attacks.

TRAINING REGIMEN

Today marks the start of Perry's fourth week of training

He will get up at 5 a.m. and hit the rack at 9 p.m.

He'll jog in formation and exercise until he throws up. Quitting won't be an option. His drill instructors will see to that.

He'll kick, hit, punch and strike during martial arts training.

His platoon will march, competing against other recruits in close-order drill. He'll feel pressure to win at any cost because "losing" is not in his drill instructor's vocabulary.

Much more awaits Perry in the coming weeks.

He will make five- and 10-mile forced marches. He will find his way through obstacle courses.

He will pick up a padded stick simulating a bayonet and rifle to wage a pseudo-battle with another recruit.

For four weeks he will practice with, and fire, an M16A2 service rifle. Later, he will learn to swim while fully loaded with combat gear.

Then he'll face the Crucible, a three-day event recruits must complete before earning the right to call themselves Marines.

But Perry can't think about that right now. He has far too long to go.

IN YOUR FACE

Parris Island's recruits spend much of their time listening to drill instructors scream.

It's an effective means of grabbing their attention, because every order issued has a purpose.

A private in Magyor-Levergood's platoon discovered what happens when recruits don't follow orders. She broke her leg rappelling down the base's 47.5-foot tower using an improper technique. The broken bone ended her military career.

"She didn't follow directions," said Magyor-Levergood, who graduated in August. "If you don't pay attention, things are going to happen."

Sometimes things happen even when recruits do pay attention.

Take nuclear, biological and chemical training. Dreaded by most recruits, its highlight is a trip to a squat, tan building chock full of non-lethal CS gas.

Its purpose is to convince recruits that their M40 Field Protective masks really do filter out deadly gases, said Sgt. Curtis Ross, an NBC instructor.

Masked, recruits enter the building in small groups. They remove their masks, clear them and don them again.

Then they are given another order to remove their masks. This time, they are directed to inhale.

They choke at the slightest whiff of the gas.

Eyes water. Noses run.

Only after every trainee in the group has unmasked is the door opened.

The recruits exit, coughing and flailing their arms to disperse the gas.

But the ordeal isn't over. They are immediately told to remask.

"I didn't hear anybody give the all clear!" shouts a drill instructor. "Put your masks on!"

TRAINING TOOLS

Marine Corps' drill instructors are notorious for their booming voices, but yelling isn't their only tool.

They sometimes resort to hands-on lessons.

Aaron Eicher, an 18-year-old recruit from Uniontown who is halfway through boot camp, recounted how, after a recruit used the bathroom without permission, the entire platoon was made to stand at attention while holding their footlockers out in front of them.

On another occasion, Eicher's platoon was ordered to gulp three canteens of water in rapid succession. The torrent didn't sit well with some recruits, who promptly vomited.

The reason for the forced gluttony? Some recruits had failed — on their first two tries — to chug their canteens' contents in the 90 seconds allotted. The drill instructors ordered everyone to repeat the process until each one got it right.

Eicher, who spoke last week during a short break from training, wasn't upset by the experience. Each lesson, he said, serves a purpose: to reinforce teamwork and to stress the importance of immediate compliance with orders.

"You gotta do what you're told, when you're told, in the time given," Eicher said. "You're a team. If one person messes up, you all pay."

THE CRUCIBLE

Recruits begin the Crucible during their eleventh week of boot camp. It starts at 2 a.m. on the 55th day of training with a forced march.

A 54-hour, physically and mentally demanding exercise marked by food- and sleep-deprivation, the Crucible includes 40 miles of marching, along with various missions and "warrior stations."

In one mission, recruits negotiate trenches, wire fences and walls to resupply water, ammunition and food. Pyrotechnics simulate gunfire.

One of the warrior stations calls for recruits to fall backward from a platform into the arms of fellow team members.

Bruises, cuts and blistered feet are common.

Teamwork is the key to finishing the Crucible, said Col. Timothy B. Howard, Weapons and Field Training Battalion commander. Certain events are designed that way, he said.

The Crucible ends with a nine-mile forced march back to base, where the recruits sit down to an all-you-can-eat, steak-and-eggs "warrior's breakfast."

"When they finish this, whether they stay a Marine three years or 30, they'll always be able to look back on this event and say, 'I did something really important,'" Howard said.

Recruits who complete the Crucible are presented, on the day before graduation, with the corps's eagle, globe and anchor emblem. The ceremony marks their transformation from civilians to Marines.

"It's the first time the (drill instructors) call you a Marine, and they talk to you like you're a human being," Magyor-Levergood said. "And then they hand you that eagle, globe and anchor, and it's like, ‘Wow, I'm a Marine.’"

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