(If you ever wanted to know in detail what he was cursing.)
HARTMAN: I am Gunnery Sargeant Hartman, your senior drill instructor. From now on you will speak only when spoken to. And the first and last words out of your filthy sewers will be Sir, do you maggots understand that?
RECRUITS: Sir, yes, Sir.
HARTMAN: Bullshit, I can't hear you, sounds off like you got a pair.
RECRUITS: Sir, yes, Sir.
HARTMAN: If you ladies leave my island, if you survive recruit traning, you will be a weapon. You will be a minister of death, praying for war. But until that day, you are pukes. You are the lowest form of life on Earth. You are not even human fucking beings. You are nothing but unorganized grabasstic pieces of amphibian shit.
Because I am hard, you will not like me, but the more you hate me, the more you will learn. I am hard but I am fair. There is no racial bigotry here. I do not look down on niggers, kikes, wops or greasers. Here, you are all equally worthless. And my orders are to weed out all non-hackers who do not pack the gear to serve in my beloved Corps. Do you maggots understand that?
RECRUITS: Sir, yes, Sir.
HARTMAN: Bullshit, I can't hear you.
RECRUITS: Sir, yes, Sir.
HARTMAN: What is your name, scumbag?
BROWN: Sir, Private Brown, Sir.
HARTMAN: Bullshit, from now on you are Private Snowball. Do you like that name?
BROWN: Sir, yes, Sir.
HARTMAN: Well there is one thing that you won't like, Private Snowball. They do not serve fried chicken and watermelon on a daily basis in my mess hall.
BROWN: Sir, yes, Sir.
JOKER: Is that you, John Wayne? Is this me?
HARTMAN: Who said that? Who the fuck said that? Who is the slimey little communist shit twinkle-toed cocksucker down here who just signed his own death warrant? Nobody, huh? There fairy fucking godmother said it. Out-fucking-standing. I will PT you all until you fucking die. I [will] PT you until you assholes are sucking buttermilk. Was it you, you scroungy little fuck, huh?
COWBOY: Sir, no, Sir.
HARTMAN: You little piece of shit, you look like a fucking worm. I bet it was you.
COWBOY: Sir, no, Sir.
JOKER: Sir, I said it, Sir.
HARTMAN: Well, no shit. What have we got here? A fucking comedian, Private Joker. I admire your honesty. Hell, I like you. You can come over to my house and fuck my sister.
You little scumbag. I got your name, I got your ass. You will not laugh, you will not cry, you will learn by the numbers. I will teach you. Now get up, get on your feet. You had best unfuck yourself or I will unscur your head and shit down your neck.
JOKER: Sir, yes, sir.
HARTMAN: Private Joker, why did you join my beloved Corps?
JOKER: Sir, to kill, Sir.
HARTMAN: So you are a killer?
JOKER: Sir, yes, Sir.
HARTMAN: Let me see your war face.
JOKER: Sir?
HARTMAN: You got a war face? AAAAAH. That is a war face. Now let me see your war face.
JOKER: AAAAAH.
HARTMAN: Bullshit, you did not convince me. Let me see your real war face.
JOKER: WAAAAAAH!
HARTMAN: You do not scare me. Work on it.
JOKER: Sir, yes, Sir.
HARTMAN: What is your excuse?
COWBOY: Sir, excuse for what, Sir?
HARTMAN: I am asking the fucking questions here, Private. Do you understand?
COWBOY: Sir, yes, Sir.
HARTMAN: Well, thank you very much. Can I be in charge for a while?
COWBOY: Sir, yes, Sir.
HARTMAN: Are you shook up? Are you nervous?
COWBOY: Sir, I am, Sir.
HARTMAN: Do I make you nervous?
COWBOY: Sir...
HARTMAN: Sir what? Were you about to call me an asshole?
COWBOY: Sir, no, Sir.
HARTMAN: How tall are you, Private?
COWBOY: Sir, five foot nine, Sir.
HARTMAN: Five foot nine, I did not know they [can] stack shit that high. You are trying to squeeze an inch in on me somewhere, huh?
In-between note from jengelh: Other FMJ sources say "they stacked shit", but that seems impossible to me, as the German audio track says "Ich wusste gar nicht, dass man Scheiße so hoch stapeln kann" (= I did not know that shit can be stacked that high).
COWBOY: Sir, no, Sir.
HARTMAN: Bullshit, it looks to me like the best part of you ran down the crack of your mama's ass and ended up as a brown stain on the mattress. I think you have been cheated. Where in Hell are you from anyway, Private?
COWBOY: Sir, Texas, Sir.
HARTMAN: Holy dogshit, Texas! Only steers and queers come from Texas, Private Cowboy. And you do not look much like a steer to me, so that kinda narrows it down. Do you suck dicks?
COWBOY: Sir, no, Sir.
HARTMAN: Are you a peter-puffer?
COWBOY: Sir, no, Sir.
HARTMAN: I bet you are the kind of guy that would fuck a person in the ass and not even have the god-damn common courtesy to give him a reach-around. I will be watching you.
HARTMAN: Did your parents have any children that live?
PYLE: Sir, yes, Sir.
HARTMAN: I bet they regret that. You are so ugly you could be a modern art masterpiece. What is your name, fatbody?
PYLE: Sir, Leonard Lawrence, Sir.
HARTMAN: Lawrence, Lawrence, what, of Arabia?
PYLE: Sir, no, Sir.
HARTMAN: That name sounds like royalty. Are you royalty?
PYLE: Sir, no, Sir.
HARTMAN: Do you suck dicks?
PYLE: Sir, no, Sir.
HARTMAN: Bullshit, I bet you could suck a golf ball through a garden hose.
PYLE: Sir, no, Sir.
HARTMAN: I do not like the name Lawrence, only faggots and sailors are called Lawrence. From now on you are Gomer Pyle.
PYLE: Sir, yes, Sir.
HARTMAN: Do you think I am cute, Private Pyle? Do you think I am funny?
PYLE: Sir, no, Sir.
HARTMAN: Then wipe that disgusting grin off your face.
PYLE: Sir, yes, Sir.
HARTMAN: Well, any fucking time, sweetheart.
PYLE: Sir, I am trying, Sir.
HARTMAN: Private Pyle, I am gonna give you three seconds -- excactly three fucking seconds -- to wipe that stupid-looking grin off your face, or I will gouge out your eyeballs and skull-fuck you! One, two, three...
PYLE: Sir, I can't help it, Sir.
HARTMAN: Bullshit, get on your knees, scumbag!
Now choke yourself.
Goddamn it, with my hand, numbnuts.
Do not pull my fucking hand over there. I said choke yourself. Now lean forward and choke yourself.
Are you through grinning?
PYLE: Sir, yes, Sir.
HARTMAN: Bullshit, I can't hear you.
PYLE: Sir, yes, Sir.
HARTMAN: Bullshit, I still can't hear you. Sounds off like you got a fere.
PYLE: Sir, yes, Sir.
HARTMAN: That is enough, get on your feet. Private Pyle, you had best square your ass away and start shitting me Tiffany cuff links or I will definitely fuck you up.
PYLE: Sir, yes, Sir.
Paris Island, South Carolina. The United States Marine Corps Recruit Depot. An eight-week college for the phony-tough and the crazy-brave.
Mama and papa were laying in bed
mama rolled over, this is what she said
ah, gimme some
ah, gimme some
P.T.
P.T.
good for you
good for me
mh good
Up in the morning to the rising sun
gotta run all day 'til the running is done
Ho Chi Minh is a son of a bitch
Got the blueballs, crabs and the seven year itch.
HARTMAN: Private Pyle, what are you trying to do to my beloved Corps?
PYLE: Sir, I do not know, Sir.
HARTMAN: You are dumb, Private Pyle, but do you expect me to believe that you do not know left from right?
PYLE: Sir, no, Sir.
HARTMAN: Then you did that on purpose. You want to be different.
PYLE: Sir, no, Sir.
HARTMAN: What side was that, Private Pyle?
PYLE: Sir, left side, Sir.
HARTMAN: Are you sure, Private Pyle?
PYLE: Sir, yes, Sir.
HARTMAN: What side was that, Private Pyle?
PYLE: Sir, right side, Sir.
HARTMAN: Do not fuck with me again, Pyle. Pick up your fucking cover.
PYLE: Sir, yes, Sir.
HARTMAN: Tonight, you pukes will sleep with your rifle. You will give your rifle a girl's name. Because this is the only pussy you people are going to get. Your days of finger-banging old Mary Jane Roddencro[t]ch through her pretty pick panties... are over. You are married to this piece, this weapon of iron and wood. And you will be faithful.
Port, hut!
Prepare to mount.
Mount.
Port, hut!
Pray.
This is my rifle
there are many like it but this one is mine
my rifle is my best friend
it is my life
I must master it
as I must master my life
without me, my rifle is useless
without my rifle, I am useless
I must fire my rifle true
I must shoot straighter than my enemy
who is trying to kill me
I must shoot him
before he shoots me
I will
before God, I swear this creed.
My rifle and myself are defenders of my country
we are the masters of our enemy
we are the saviors of my life
so be it,
until there is no enemy
but peace
Amen.
HARTMAN: Goodnight, ladies.
RECRUITS: Goodnight, Sir!
(Hit it, sweetheart)
HARTMAN: Ten fucking seconds, it should take you no less than ten fucking seconds to negotiate this obstacle. Quickly, move it out. There is not one swinging dick private in this platoon is gonna graduate until they can get this obstacle down to less than ten fucking seconds.
HARTMAN: Next two privates, quickly. Get over this god-damn obstacle, move it. Next two privates, quickly, hurry up, get up there. Private Joker, are you a killer?
JOKER: Sir, yes, Sir!
HARTMAN: Let me hear your war cry!
JOKER: Aaarg.
HARTMAN: Next two privates, go. Quickly, get your fat ass over there, Private Pyle. Oh, that is right, Private Pyle. Don't make any fucking effort to get to the top of the fucking obstacle. If God wanted you up there he would have miracled your ass up there by now, would not he?
PYLE: Sir, yes, Sir!
HARTMAN: Get your fat ass up there, Pyle.
PYLE: Sir, yes, Sir!
HARTMAN: What the hell is the matter with you anyway? I bet you, if there was some pussy up there on top of that obstacle, you could get up there, could not you?
PYLE: Sir, yes, Sir!
HARTMAN: Your ass looks like about a hundred and fifty pounds of chewed bubble gum, Pyle. Do you know that?
PYLE: Sir, yes, Sir!
HARTMAN: One for the Commander. One for the Corps, get up there, pull! ... I guess the Corps do not get theirs. ... Get up there, Pyle. Pull, pull, Pyle, pull. One pull-up, Pyle. Come on, pull. You gotta be shittin' me, Pyle. Get your ass up there. Do you mean to tell me that you cannot do one single pull-up? You are a worthless piece of shit, Pyle. Get out of my face. ... Get up there, Snowball.
HARTMAN: Get up here, fatboy, quickly, move it up, move it up, Pyle, move it up. You climb obstacles like old people fuck. Do you know that, Private Pyle? Get up here. You are too slow; move it, move it. Private Pyle, whatever you do, do not fall down. That would break my fucking heart. Quickly, up and over, up and over. Well what in the fuck are you waiting for, Private Pyle? Get up and over, move it, move it, move it. Are you quitting on me? Well, are you! Then quit you slimey fucking walrus-looking piece of shit. Get the fuck off my obstacle. Get the fuck down off my obstacle, now! Move it. I am going to rip your balls off so you cannot contamitae the rest of the world. I will motivate you, Private pyle, if it short-dicks every cannibal on the Congo!
HARTMAN: Pick 'em up and set 'em down, Pyle, quickly, move it up. Were you born a fat slimey scumbag, you piece of shit, Private Pyle, or did you have to work on it? Move it up, quickly, hustle up. The fucking war will be over by the time we get out there, won't it, Private Pyle? Move it. Are you going to fucking die, Pyle? Are you going to die on me? Do it now, move it up, hustle it up, quickly, quickly, quickly. Do you feel dizzy? Do you feel faint? Jesus H. [Holy] Christ, I think you have got a hard-on.
HARTMAN: Quickly, ladies. Assholes and elbows. Move it out, get up there, move it, move it, move it, move it. Quickly, m'kay, get up there, hurry up, move it up, move it up.
HARTMAN: Reveillez, reveillez, reveillez! Drop your cocks and grab your socks, today is Sunday. Divine worship at 0800. Get your bunks made and get your uniforms on. Police call will commence in two minutes. Private Cowboy, Private Joker!
COWBOY: Sir, yes, Sir!
JOKER: Sir, yes, Sir!
HARTMAN: As soon as you finish your bunks, I want you two turds to clean the head.
COWBOY and JOKER: Sir, aye-aye, Sir!
HARTMAN: I want that head so sanitary and squared away that the Virgin Mary herself would be proud to go in there and take a dump.
COWBOY and JOKER: Sir, yes, Sir!
HARTMAN: Private Joker, do you beleive in the Virgin Mary?
JOKER: Sir, no, Sir.
HARTMAN: Private Joker, I do not believe I heard you correctly.
JOKER: Sir, the Private said "no, Sir", Sir!
HARTMAN: Why, you little maggot, you make me want to vomit. You god-damn communist heathen, you had best sound off that you love the Virgin Mary, or I am going to stomp your guts out. Now, you do love the Virgin Mary, don't you?
JOKER: Sir, negative, Sir!
HARTMAN: Private Joker, are you trying to offend me?
JOKER: Sir, negative, Sir! Sir, the Private believes that any answer he gives will be wrong. And [that] the Senior Drill Instructor will beat him harder if he reverses himself, Sir!
HARTMAN: Who is your squad leader, scumbag?
JOKER: Sir, the Private's squad leader is Private Snowball, Sir!
HARTMAN: Private Snowball!
SNOWBALL: Sir, Private Snowball reporting as ordered, Sir!
HARTMAN: Private Snowball, you are fired. Private Joker is promoted to squad leader.
SNOWBALL: Sir, aye-aye, Sir!
HARTMAN: Disappear, scumbag.
SNOWBALL: Sir, aye-aye, Sir!
HARTMAN: Private Pyle!
PYLE: Private Pyle reporting as ordered, Sir!
HARTMAN: Private Pyle, from now on Private Joker is your new squad leader, and you will bunk with him. He will teach you everything. He will teach you how to pee.
PYLE: Sir, yes, Sir!
HARTMAN: Private Joker is silly and he is ignorant, but he has got guts, and guts is enough. Now you ladies, carry on.
COWBOY, JOKER and PYLE: Sir, aye-aye, Sir!
HARTMAN: The deadliest weapon in the world is a marine and his rifle. It is your killer instinct which must be harnessed if you expect to survive in combat. Your rifle is only a tool. It is a hard heart that kills. If your killer instincts are not clean and strong you will hesitate at the moment of truth. You will not kill. You will become dead marines. And then you will be in a world of shit. Because marines are not allowed to die without permission. Do you maggots understand?
RECRUITS: Sir, yes, Sir!
I love working for Uncle Sam
Lets me know just who I am
One, two, three, four,
United States Marine Corps
One, two, three, four,
I love [the] Marine Corps
My Corps
Your Corps
Our Corps
Marine Corps
I don't know, but I have been told
Eskimo pussy is mighty cold
Mmh, good
Feels good
Is good
Real good
Tastes good
Mighty good
Good for you
Good for me
HARTMAN: Trim 'em. Toejam. Pop that blister. ... Jesus H. Christ! Private Pyle, why is your footlocker unlocked?
PYLE: Sir, I don't know, Sir!
HARTMAN: Private Pyle, if there is one thing in this world that I hate, it is an unlocked footlocker. You know that, don't you?
PYLE: Sir, yes, Sir!
HARTMAN: If it was not for dickheads like you, there would not be any thievery in this world, would there?
PYLE: Sir, no, Sir!
HARTMAN: Get down! Well now, let's just see if there is anything missing. Holy Jesus! What is that? What the fuck is that? What is that, Private Pyle?
PYLE: Sir, a jelly doughnut, Sir.
HARTMAN: A jelly doughnut?
PYLE: Sir, yes, Sir.
HARTMAN: How did it get here?
PYLE: Sir, I took it from the mess hall, Sir.
HARTMAN: Is chow allowed in the barracks, Private Pyle?
PYLE: Sir, no, Sir.
HARTMAN: Are you allowed to eat jelly doughnuts, Private Pyle?
PYLE: Sir, no, Sir.
HARTMAN: And why not, Private Pyle?
PYLE: Sir, because I am too heavy, Sir.
HARTMAN: Because you are a disgusting fatbody, Private Pyle.
PYLE: Sir, yes, Sir.
HARTMAN: Then why did you hide a jelly doughnut in your footlocker, Private Pyle?
PYLE: Sir, because I was hungry, Sir.
HARTMAN: Because you were hungry... Private Pyle has dishonered himself and dishonered the platoon. I have tried to help him, but I have failed. I have failed because you have not helped me. You people have not given Private Pyle the proper motivation. So, from now on, whenever Private Pyle fucks up, I will not punish him, I wil punish all of you. And the way I see it ladies, you owe me for one jelly doughnut. Now, get on your faces. Open your mouth. They are paying for it, you eat it. Ready, exercise!
HARTMAN: Port, hut. Left shoulder, hut. Right shoulder, hut. Port, hut. Do we love our beloved Corps, ladies?
RECURITS: Sacrify, do or die! Gung ho, gung ho.
HARTMAN: What makes the grass grow?
RECRUITS: Blood, blood, blood.
HARTMAN: What do we do for a living, ladies?
RECRUITS: Kill, kill, kill.
HARTMAN: I can't hear you.
RECRUITS: Kill, kill, kill.
HARTMAN: Bullshit, I still can't hear you.
RECRUITS: Kill, kill, kill.
HARTMAN: Do any of you people know who Charles Whitman was? None of you dumbasses knows? Private Cowboy?
COWBOY: Sir, he was that guy who shot all those people from that tower in Austin, Texas, Sir.
HARTMAN: That is affirmative. Charles Whitman killed twelve people from a 28 story observation tower at the University of Texas. From distances up to 400 yards. Anybody know who Lee Harvey Oswald was? Private Snowball?
SNOWBALL: Sir, he shot Kennedy, Sir.
HARTMAN: That is right, and do you know how far away he was?
SNOWBALL: Sir, it was pretty far. From that book "suppository" building, Sir.
HARTMAN: All right, knock it off. 250 feet. He was 250 feet away and shooting at a moving target. Oswald got off three rounds with an old Italian bolt action rifle in only six seconds and scored two hits, including a head shot. Do any of you people know where these individuals learned to shoot? Private Joker?
JOKER: Sir, in the Marines, Sir.
HARTMAN: In the Marines, outstanding. Those individuals showed what one motivated marine and his rifle can do. And before you ladies leave my island, you will all be able to do the same thing.
Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday, dear Jesus,
Happy Birthday to you.
HARTMAN: Today ... is Christmas. There will be a magic show at 0930. Chaplin Charlie will tell you about how the free world will conquer Communism with the aid of God and a few marines. God has a hard-on for marines because we kill everything we see. He plays his games, we play ours. To show our appreciation for so much power, we keep heaven packed with fresh souls. God was here before the Marine Corps. So you can give your heart to Jesus, but your ass belongs to the Corps. Do you ladies understand?
RECRUITS: Sir, yes, Sir.
HARTMAN: I can't hear you!
RECRUITS: Sir, yes, Sir.
HARTMAN: Outstanding, Private Pyle, I think we have finally found something that you do well.
PYLE: Sir, yes, Sir.
HARTMAN: What is your 6th general order?
JOKER: Sir, the Private's 6th general order is to receive and obey and to pass on to the sentry who relieves me ... all orders, Sir, the Private's 6th ..., Sir, the Private has been instructed but he does not know, Sir.
HARTMAN: You slimy scumbag, get on your face and give me 25.
JOKER: Sir, aye-aye, Sir.
HARTMAN: How many counts in that movement you have just executed?
PYLE: Sir, four counts, Sir.
HARTMAN: What is the idea of looking down in the chamber?
PYLE: Sir, that is the guarantee that the Private is not giving the inspecting officer a loaded weapon, Sir.
HARTMAN: What is your 5th general order?
PYLE: Sir, the Private's 5th general order is to quit my post only when properly relieved, Sir.
HARTMAN: What is this weapon's name, Private Pyle?
PYLE: Sir, the Private's weapon's name is Charlene, Sir.
HARTMAN: Private Pyle, you are definitely born again hard. Hell, I may even allow you to serve as a riflemen in my beloved Corps.
PYLE: Sir, yes, Sir.
I do not want no teenage queen
I just want my M-14
if I die in the combat zone
box me up and ship me home
pin my medals upon my chest
tell my mom I have done my best
HARTMAN: Today, you people are no longer maggots. Today, you are marines. You are part of a brotherhood. From now on, until the day you die, wherever oyu are, every marine is your brother. Most of you will go to Vietnam. Some of you will not come back. But always remember this: marines die, that is what we are here for. But the Marine Corps lives forever. And that means, you live forever.
HARTMAN: Pickett!
PICKETT: Sir, yes, Sir?
HARTMAN: 0300, infantry. Toejam!
TOEJAM: Sir, yes, Sir?
HARTMAN: 0300, infantry. Adams!
ADAMS: Sir, yes, Sir?
HARTMAN: 1800, engineers. You go out and find mines. Cowboy!
COWBOY: Sir, yes, Sir?
HARTMAN: 0300, infantry. Taylor!
TAYLOR: Sir, yes, Sir?
HARTMAN: 0300, infantry. Joker!
JOKER: Sir, yes, Sir?
HARTMAN: 4-12, basic military journalism. You gotta be shitting me, Joker. You think yu are Mickey Spillane? Do you think you are some kind of fucking writer?
JOKER: Sir, I wrote for my high school newspaper, Sir.
HARTMAN: Jesus H. Christ, you are not a writer, you are a killer!
JOKER: A killer, yes, Sir.
HARTMAN: Gomer Pyle! Gomer Pyle!
PYLE: Sir, yes, Sir?
HARTMAN: You forgot your own fucking name? 0300, infantry. You made it. Perkins!
PERKINS: Sir, yes, Sir?
(HARTMAN: 0300, infantry.)
HARTMAN: Get back in your bunks!
HARTMAN: What is this Mickey Mouse shit? What in the name of Jesus H. Christ are you animals doing in my head? Why is Private Pyle out of his bunk after lights-out? Why is Private Pyle's holding that weapon? Why are not you stomping Private Pyle's guts out?
JOKER: Sir, it is the Private's duty to inform the Senior Drill Instructor that Private Pyle has a full magazine and is locked and loaded, Sir.
HARTMAN: Now you listen to me, Private Pyle, and you listen good. I want that weapon, and I want it now. You will place that rifle on the deck at your feet and step back away from it.
What is your major malfunction, numbnuts? Didn't mommy and daddy show you enough attention when you were a child?