The hardware store in New Orleans clanged with the sound of metal on metal, the cement floor cool beneath Greg Cope White's shoes. Eighteen years old and 13 pounds too light to join the Marines , the wiry, wide-eyed teen watched his recruiter zip through the aisles, grabbing a roll of tape, a sledgehammer, and a length of lead pipe. In the middle of the store, the recruiter dropped to his knees and began hammering the pipe flat—bam, bam, bam—the sound ricocheting off the walls. Then he stood, looked at White, and said, "Follow me."

In the store's bathroom, the recruiter ordered him to lower his pants. White froze, unsure what would happen next. He watched as the recruiter taped the flattened lead weight to his crotch, pulled his underwear back up, and drove him back to the recruiting of

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