

Partly, it was the men's ferocity as they jogged to the Marine Corps Recruit Depot parking lot, faced their families for the first time after three months of boot camp and roared military chants, platoon by platoon.

While most visitors cheered, Nonna sobbed at the sight of our son, Sergei, who was graduating as a Marine.

The men of his platoon bellowed words they had written for the occasion: "Born to fight. Trained to kill. Ready to die, but never will."

We were on base last month for the Thursday and Friday ceremonies that would conclude basic training for 271 Alpha Company Marines. It was the culmination of the process that began in February with the surprise enlistment of my 19-year-old stepson.

In a time of war, he and his comrades had relinquished any remaining claims to boyhood. For a fleeting moment, they stood at the cusp of manhood: strong, loud, invincible, perfect in form.

Over their four years as Marines, many of these young men will risk their lives on behalf of their country. Some might come home missing limbs or carrying shrapnel in their bodies. Conceivably, there were teenagers here who wouldn't live to buy a beer legally. You tried to banish the thought.

But as the war cries continued, Sergei--who like his mother is a Russian immigrant--bellowed a solo line. Veins bulging in his neck, he cried, "If he dies, he dies."

In the 1985 movie "Rocky IV," this phrase was uttered by an unintentionally hilarious Russian boxer (blond pompadour, calf-high red boots, inexplicable Serbian name) after he KOs an opponent. The drill instructors had often ordered Sergei to shout the phrase.

The sergeants apparently possessed either a wicked sense of humor or a vision of Russia as befuddled as that of Sylvester Stallone, who directed and starred in the movie. Either way, the phrase focused the mind of this Marine dad on the gravity of my son's commitment.

When the recruits jogged off, most visitors--including a gaggle of our relatives and a family friend--headed to an auditorium for a presentation. But Nonna and I took our other son, Lyova, 2, to a nearby courtyard while she composed herself. He clambered about on an Iraqi artillery piece captured during the Gulf War.

Lyova growled in a raspy voice, "Aye-aye, sir!"

Nonna and I looked at each other, amazed that he had picked up the phrase.

These young recruits stood tall. They had slimmed down and muscled up. Their faces shone with pride at having completed the longest and toughest basic training in the U.S. military. Many had learned to command: Sergei graduated as squad leader and thus received a promotion to private first class.

The corps promises that the change in recruits is permanent. But Nonna and I wanted to know that Pfc. Working, that bellowing young warrior, was still the same son we loved.

It would be several hours before we could talk to him. Thursday morning's events ended with a parade-ground ceremony in which the men received their eagle, globe and anchor emblems. Sergei strode along with a sergeant, scowling as they distributed the emblems to his squad. He looked broad-shouldered, severe, aloof.

Then at a signal from an announcer, the guests rushed from the bleachers.

Suddenly, our son was back. Sergei embraced us, kissed his brother, hugged the relatives. Boot camp was almost over, and he couldn't stop grinning. He was convinced that basic training makes you a little stupid. He just wanted to eat and sleep and stop shouting all the time.

Noting Sergei's stern face in a Marine photograph, Nonna said, "You look like a child at a Russian day care."