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RockSlider wrote:Perhaps our grandchildren/great grandchildren best start learning about the God of Islam.

part of it wrote:Though Bourmeche, who declined to comment for this article, never talked about his faith to anyone’s recollection, the platoon was made aware of it during their first week of training, when one of their drill instructors polled the group on their religions. Weaver thought it was strange: ‘‘He was giving us this talk about how we’re all brothers in the Marine Corps, and how we’re all in this together, no matter what race or religion we are. Then he was asking us: ‘What religions do we have here? I’m sure we have Christians. I’m sure we have an atheist. I’m sure you’re a Baptist.’ ’’ He looked at Bourmeche. ‘‘What’s your religion?’’

‘‘Islam, sir,’’ Bourmeche replied.

The sergeant seemed intrigued. ‘‘There’s nothing wrong with recruit Bourmeche being a Muslim,’’ he said.

Less than one-fifth of 1 percent of the Marine Corps is Muslim. Across the entire United States military, there are fewer than 6,000 self-reported Muslim active-duty and reserve troops, or about 0.27 percent out of a total force of 2.2 million. Many of the recruits had never met a Muslim in their lives. ‘‘I was pretty narrow-minded when I came in,’’ one of Bourmeche’s platoonmates admits. ‘‘I was like: ‘Why is he here?’ ’’

Bourmeche seemed to be singled out nearly every day for punishment. ‘‘He was one of the smartest kids in the platoon, scored really high on all his tests, but they just messed with him,’’ Weaver says. He remembers Bourmeche twice being sent to the medical unit after punitive intensive training sessions intended, his friends figured, to force him to drop out. He refused. In early July, Platoon 3054 took part in their final, 54-hour test, the Crucible, grinding through 90-degree heat. Each recruit finished the course and earned the precious eagle, globe and anchor pins and the title ‘‘Marine.’’

On July 14, 2015, Felix and several other D.I.s entered the squad bay in the middle of the night. It appeared they’d been drinking in the small office, or ‘‘D.I. hut,’’ at the far end of the barracks, where drill instructors on night duty sometimes slept. Felix was so drunk ‘‘he might not have known what he did the next day,’’ according to one member of Platoon 3054.

‘‘Where’s the terrorist?’’ Felix said. He ap​proached Bourmeche’s rack. ‘‘You a terrorist?’’

‘‘No, sir!’’

‘‘You a Muslim?’’

‘‘Yes, sir!’’

‘‘Attention!’’

Bourmeche jumped down.

‘‘Column left!’’ Felix and another D.I. marched him into the shower room, where, as Bourmeche would later tell investigators, the drill instructors turned on the water and made him do push-ups, high-knees and crunches. Then, when he was thoroughly wet, they marched him into the laundry room.

‘‘Get in the dryer.’’ Bourmeche folded his six-foot, 157-pound frame into the Speed Queen. Felix said that the Marine Corps has ‘‘a way of weeding out spies.’’ He continued: ‘‘I’m going to find out who you really are.’’ Then he closed the door.

‘‘Who are you working for?’’ Felix called.

‘‘Nobody, sir!’’ Bourmeche answered.

Felix ran the dryer for half a minute and opened it.

‘‘What’s your religion?’’

‘‘Islam, sir!’’

In the squad bay, Weaver and the others, ordered out of their beds, were pushing a recruit around like a scuzz brush. They heard Bourmeche’s body thud as it hit the bottom of the dryer. ‘‘You’re going to kill us the first chance you get, aren’t you, terrorist? What are your plans?’’

Inside the dryer, Bourmeche began to cry. His neck and shoulder were burned.

Felix opened the door. ‘‘Are you still a Muslim?’’

‘‘Yes, sir!’’

A half an hour later, it was over. Bourmeche, damp and shaken, was told to go back to the squad bay. As he was standing by his bed, a D.I. approached him. ‘‘It’s pretty effed-up what they did to you back there,’’ he said. Bourmeche agreed. ‘‘You’re not going to tell a senior drill instructor about this, though, right?’’

‘‘No, sir,’’ Bourmeche answered.

The next night, it happened again. Felix told Bourmeche to hand him his martial-arts belt. He tied Bourmeche’s shoelaces together, then took the belt, wrapped it around Bourmeche’s neck, strung it under his laces and tightened it so Bourmeche bent at the waist. ‘‘Are you a terrorist?’’ Felix held the end of the belt like a leash. He began to walk him like a dog. ‘‘Are you a spy?’’

Bourmeche, in pain, began screaming. ‘‘No, sir!’’

‘‘Yell ‘Allah akbar.’ ’’

‘‘Allah akbar!’’

While the rest of the platoon looked on, Felix crushed the platoon’s flagpole into Bourmeche’s toes. Then he handed him a scuzz brush. ‘‘Cut off his head,’’ he said, pointing to another new Marine. ‘‘Show us you’re a terrorist.’’

Bourmeche struck his platoonmate in the neck with the brush several times. Felix seemed pleased. ‘‘This is how the Taliban would do it,’’ he told the platoon. ‘‘And he’d cut your head off just as quick as his brethren.’’

Another D.I. shook his head. ‘‘We let a full-blood terrorist join the corps,’’ he said. Afterward, no one said a word. What happens on Parris Island stays on Parris Island — that had been the message all through boot camp.

RockSlider wrote:Perhaps our grandchildren/great grandchildren best start learning about the God of Islam.