It was a sweltering midsummer day on Parris Island, and I stood in a sandy pit, holding a pugil stick at the ready. The four-foot pole with padded ends was used to simulate close combat with a rifle and bayonet, and for this bout I faced two opponents.

As the drill instructor (DI) blew the whistle for the match to start, a passing comment he’d made during training flashed through my mind: when fighting two or more opponents, keep moving so they cannot come at you two abreast. One will always be blocked by his partner.

I began a rapid sidestep and tried my best to remember the jabs and swings we’d been taught. The deep sand seemed to grab my feet and hold them, slowing me down. The first of many blows struck my arms and shoulders. Fortunately, none counted as a kill — a blow to the head or a jab to the chest or neck.

The fight became a blur of colors and pain, grunts and curses. The rest of the world vanished as I tried desperately to fend off the rain of blows and to make my own feeble counterattack. The pugil stick became heavier, and I soon felt as if I were flailing uselessly. My lungs burned for air, and my legs were quickly turning to jelly as I continuously danced around my opponents in the soft sand.

Read the article “Nothing Can Take Down U.S. Marines Except Politicos Who Couldn’t Hack Boot Camp” on thefederalist.com.