August 13, 2010
Marine officers never point using an index finger; it has always been and will always be beneath their station to act so indirect. Instead, they extend an arm, aligned evenly with uncoiled fingers, in one fluid motion to inspire both confidence and direction. Lt. Col. Francis Montague Lesieur is no different. He bursts from the command trailer with an acrimonious purpose, walking toward Blaster and Bill. The brass maple leaf signifying him as a ranking officer gleams off the breast panel of his desert-toned flak jacket. Corporal Munoz, Lesieur’s personal aid, fumbles through papers in his guard log while desperately trying to keep on the colonel’s heels.
“Corporal Colden—you want to tell me why the hell my goddamn desert chariot is not out patrolling the western sector?” Colonel Lesieur extends his arm in several motions, covering the front and back of the Humvee as well as the general direction of the western sector. He speaks with a southern accent derived from the deep swamps of Louisiana—not only of French Cajun, mind you, but also one of a distinguished southern gentleman. From the very first syllable of Lesieur’s commanding southern drawl, Bill immediately stiffens, aligning clenched fists along the seams of his camouflage trousers and locks his heels together at a forty-five-degree angle. He then extends his arm evenly with his shoulder and shoots the colonel a crisp salute.
“I’m waiting, Corporal Colden,” Lesieur says with a hasty salute.
Before responding to the colonel and regardless of Lesieur’s immediate vehemence, Bill brings his hand down placing it rigidly along the seam of his pants, corresponding precisely with the marine corps’ strict procedure on how to address an officer directly. “Sir, the Browning’s jammed up again. Private Nukpana has the weapon in the barracks, clearing sand from the firing chamber, sir.”
“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s testicle on Tuesday,” Lesieur says rapidly. He shifts his body weight, leaning into Bill. Lesieur seems genuinely astounded; wide eyes and flared nostrils are just the tip of the shit-storm about to ensue. Although he maintains a slow controlled tone, Bill knows the drill all too well and feels fidgety as he and the colonel stand toe-to-toe. “Are you trying to tell me a little goddamn desert dust is stopping my fine marine corps from pushing forward, Corporal? Is that the malarkey you’re trying to shove in my mouth?”
“Sir, no, sir!” Standing fixed at attention, Bill remains unblinking and uncluttered.
“Then why the hell does it taste like shit in my mouth, Corporal? Either you’re full of shit or you crept into my rack last night and shit in my mouth. Now, which is it?”
“Sir—”
“SHIT, CORPORAL, SHIT! Which is it?” Disgusted that Bill is speechless, the colonel swiftly turns his attention to Blaster.
Normally, when brass eyes fall upon enlisted personnel at the position of attention, training prompts them to stare straight back at the officer—unwaveringly—as if to sear a hole through them. This serves as a sign of respect for the officer and for the enlisted personnel’s discipline for the corps traditions. However, as Colonel Lesieur shifts his venomous glare over to the hulking six-foot-six-inch marine known as Blaster, Blaster nervously lowers his eyes, uncomfortable with the unwanted attention.
Twenty-two-year-old PFC James Milo Burton has always been what marines refer to as a shit-bird. His lack of discipline and belligerent conduct have gotten him demoted from corporal to lance corporal, and then again to private first class. Most marines who have met Private First Class Burton, also known as “Blaster,” would argue that he was no more than a dense simpleton from the Great Smoky Mountains of Tennessee and his unsophisticated upbringing was the sole reason for him incessantly sabotaging his own career. At times, Blaster could be obtuse, and more often than not, negligent of proper procedure. However, when it came to a firefight, Bill knew there was no one he would rather have guarding his ass than this kick-ass, take-names, walking-brick-shithouse-of-a-marine they all called Blaster.
Immediately aware of his slipup, Blaster waits, eyebrows down and nose scrunched. After a few seconds, he nervously looks back up. By then, Colonel Lesieur has already ascended upon him with all the intense expectancy of the dreaded marine corps drill instructor. Lesieur looks as though he intends to snatch up Blaster and devour him; the colonel’s hands twitch and tense at his sides as they prepare to lunge forward and choke the life out of the PFC until he is blue in the face and gasping for breath. But instead, Colonel Lesieur closes the distance between Blaster and himself; the brim of his finely starched hat touches Blaster’s chin as he buries his nose in Blaster’s chest.
“Well, aren’t you just a hot fucking mess!” The colonel takes in the brawny marine’s ill-kempt camouflage and stares down at his dusty boots.
“Sir—” Blaster desperately tries to straighten his posture in some poor attempt to compensate for his bungled threads.
“Damn it, son. Just where did you receive your training?” Lesieur then suddenly appears astounded. “Wait. Don’t tell me you’re one of those nansy pansy Hollywood marines. You are, aren’t you? Well, holy shit and hallelujah!”
“Sir, no, sir! Parris Island, sir—”
“Well, chérie, has the Island gone and got soft on me all of a sudden? Are they just spitting out shit-birds to fill a direct quota these days?”
“Sir, no, sir.”
“Look, I know we are all in a shit-storm of a war. Hell, I got goddamned al-Qaeda popping up all along the wire, and no one has the hairy nutsack to drop the hammer on these sorry jihadist sons of bitches.” Lesieur breathes in. “There is too much red tape, and it is certainly not the ideal of situations, but we all need to embrace the suck. Therefore, while you’re here in my corps, and by God’s sweet grace, you will dress like a marine and you will act like a marine. Do I make myself perfectly clear, leatherneck?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” Blaster sounds off, breaking the position of attention to tug at his belt, aligning it evenly with the front button of his trousers. Bill knew right then, due to Blaster’s actions and the colonel’s outraged expression, Colonel Lesieur was about to completely lose it and break a leg off in Blaster’s dusty shit-bird ass. Lesieur, however, takes hold of Blaster’s hand and shoves it back along the seam of his pants. “AT-TEN-HUUT—” He sounds off, using his usual cadence growl, which rigidly snaps Blaster back into formation. “You will square yourself away at a later time.”
After lingering over Blaster a moment longer, Colonel Lesieur snaps his head at breakneck speed back to Bill, the deepest creases of his tanned hide twist naturally along his corded neck. With a stiff posture that gives off the uneasy feeling of impending doom, Lesieur then rests both arms inside the breast panels of his flak jacket and strolls Bill’s way.
Colonel Lesieur carefully inspects Bill’s uniform with the keenest of eyes, finding no immediate flaws. He could have reprimanded Bill on a few minor indiscretions but anyone in Alpha Company could tell you Colonel Lesieur does not use his power to demoralize the men under his command. He runs a tight ship and he believed in his Corps. He also ardently believes in schedules.
“Corporal Colden, you are this squad’s leader, if I am not mistaken?” Lesieur asks, halting sideways in front of Bill, looking out into the sweltering desert.
“Yes, sir, Colonel, sir.” Bill shoots back straightaway.
Lesieur pulls one hand free from his jacket and firmly extends it back to Corporal Munoz, who had previously placed himself in the colonel’s shadow. “Corporal Munoz?”
“Yes, sir, Colonel Lesieur.” Munoz moves up from the colonel’s six o’clock position to his nine o’clock. He stands stringy, like a beanpole in starched camouflage, at just under five feet nine inches. Corporal Munoz wears thick black framed eyeglasses commonly referred to as BCGs (birth control glasses). Under the starched walls of his camouflage hat, Corporal Munoz also dawns the traditional jarhead high and tight.
“At what time last night did Corporal Colden’s squad return to base camp?”
Corporal Munoz runs his index finger down the patrol manifest, stopping halfway down the document. “Sir, Corporal Colden’s squad returned to base camp at 2100, sir.”
“And was the Corporal’s squad designated to stand post at any time during the night?” Lesieur waits patiently as Munoz flips through the pages of the guard duty list; again, he uses his index finger to scroll down the log.
“No, sir. Corporal Colden’s squad was relieved of duty.”
“Are you absolutely positive, Corporal Munoz?” Lesieur waits for reassurance.
“Yes, sir. Corporal Colden’s squad was scheduled off duty until 1400.” Corporal Munoz then looks down at his watch. “Um… fifteen minutes ago, sir.”
Colonel Lesieur slips his hand back inside his flak jacket so that, again, only his elbows hang from his Kevlar vest. He rocks lightly back and forth, staring out into the vast platinum sands that fold into magnificent white-hot drifts and then into barren rocky dunes; its true beauty blurred by the constant heat wave surrounding them. The colonel stands silently, taking in the great white emptiness. He then turns his attention back to Bill.
“When I had you promoted to corporal, it was due to your commanding leadership exemplified in the field. If you think my corps hands down E4 promotions so easily after only two years in the fleet, then you are sorely mistaken. That being said, Corporal, I surmise that you and your men had ample time to square away your .50 cal?”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“Very well, marine. Finish loading this vehicle and double time it getting Ma mounted. I expected your squad to have rolled out fifteen minutes ago. Have I made myself clear, Corporal?”
“Sir, yes sir!”
“Corporal Munoz will be making a brief correction on today’s duty log. Once your squad is relieved from western sector, you will immediately report to south sector to relieve Staff Sergeant Gomez’s squad. I need not remind you men there have been reports of al-Qaeda activity along Highway 30. The sons of bitches are out peppering debris, trying their damnedest to kill them some American soldiers. I guess jihadists don’t properly understand the concept marines don’t die—we just go to hell and regroup. Can I get an ooh-rah?”
“Ooh-rah!” Bill and Blaster both sound off with elevated enthusiasm.
“But all the same, men, I’d advise you to stay alert for IEDs (improvised explosive device,) and get your asses back to camp in one piece.” Colonel Lesieur then snaps to attention, vigorously saluting them; Blaster and Bill return his salute.
“Next time, be sure to address your equipment’s conditions before R & R.” Lesieur brings his hand down to his side and stays rigid. “At ease.” The colonel then turns and walks back toward his command trailer with Corporal Munoz following close behind.
After Colonel Lesieur disappears from sight, Bill sighs, wiping the sweat from his brow. He looks at Blaster, who gives him a toothy shit-eating grin. “What have I told you about your camies? Are you trying to lose that last stripe?”
Blaster shrugs. “They’re getting dirty anyhow.”
At about the same time, Nuke and Adlemeyer emerge from the barracks; each holding one end of a .50 caliber heavy machine gun. It is a good fifty yards from the barracks to the Hummer and it looks as if the 83.78 pounds of bulky M2 Browning requires both marines’ full attention.
Marines often refer to the large weapon as a Browning, after its designer, John Browning. The .50 was popular among the combined armed forces and had several unique nicknames, like BMG or Ma Deuce. Utilized as weaponry in aircraft, antiaircraft, and even employed as a sniper weapon from time to time, the Browning could fire from a tripod or be mounted on top of a tactical vehicle—such as a Humvee. It also has the capability of hitting targets a mile away or more. In fact, the only thing Blaster could never do with his weapon of choice is to use the .50 as a handheld assault rifle, and that was not from a lack of trying either.
This was just one of the many ridiculous ideas that flow constantly through his shit-bird head, much like the time he decided jumping off the third-tier balcony of the barracks back at Camp Lejeune was a good idea. In a drunken stupor, Blaster moronically reasoned that two chem light parachutes pulled out of dud artillery shells were sufficient to carry his large ass safely to the ground. The incident cost Blaster a broken leg, eight months of light duty, and his corporal rank.
John Nukpana, a Native American from the Fond du Lac Ojibwa reservation around Minnesota’s Lake Superior, was the newest and youngest member of the squad. At eighteen, Nuke, as Bill had nicknamed him, had been with them less than six months. In the little time Bill spent with Nuke, he had come to understand that the short, thin Ojibwa marine was less athletic than the rest of his squad and had to put in double the work just to keep up with Blaster, Adlemeyer, and himself. As Bill looks on, Nuke’s grip on the butt of the weapon hangs low and constantly slips from his grasp.
Waving them down, Bill urges both marines to move posthaste although it is easy to see Nuke already giving it everything he has in him as he is buckling and showing signs of strain. Carrying the awkward weapon in the scorching 120-degree dry desert heat is really overworking the young marine.
“Blaster, you might want to give those devil dogs a hand,” Bill says as if it were a direct order rather than a request. “It looks as if Nuke might keel over before he gets Ma to the Hummer.” He then flashes an amused grin and nods toward Nuke and Adlemeyer’s direction.
Blaster laughs, taking delight in Nuke’s strenuous situation. “Shit… I get a spaghetti with meat sauce MRE (meals ready to eat,) if Geronimo doesn’t make it another ten steps.”
“I’d call you on that, but with the colonel riding us, we’d better get Ma mounted and get the hell out of Dodge asap.”
“Yeah, so what? The colonel is always riding our asses. I got hemorrhoids the size of casings from all the chewing he has done to my ass.”
“We just pulled an extra patrol because of that ass chewing, leatherneck.”
“Fuck yeah, we did,” Blaster agrees as if it were no fault of his—as if he had not contributed to their reprimand in any way, shape, or form.
Before losing his temper, Bill shakes his head and throws his hand up, interrupting Blaster’s asinine squabbling. “Just get Ma and get her mounted, and double time it devil dog—we roll out in ten.”
“Sure thing. On it.” Blaster sounds off, sliding two ammo containers into the backseat floorboard and then takes off, hustling to Nuke and Adlemeyer.
Blaster has no problem following direct orders given to him by Bill. After all, they have been chummy since grunt school. It is when Blaster was alone, drunk, or hell when you asked his advice on just about anything that trouble begins. No one knows why for sure, but Blaster hated butter bar lieutenants with a passion. Butter bars are those brand new, shiny-ass officers straight out of OCS (Officer Candidate School.) Every one of them walks around with a stick permanently shoved up their asses and they all think they know everything about everything—even more than enlisted men who have put in fifteen years. To Blaster, this is a blatant atrocity, and one such conversation with a butter bar ended with Blaster saying, “Well, sir, not to be rude or nothin’ but I was jumping off five tons (troop support trucks), while you were still jumping off the school bus.” This cost him his lance corporal rank.
By now, Nuke has completely stopped and bent over trying to catch his breath. Blaster approaches skeptically, shaking his head in regard to Nuke’s total lack of endurance. Bill leans back against the front of the Hummer, crosses his arms, and watches as Nuke raises his head to meet the lumbering giant who offers him little shade.
“You want to take your girlfriend off my hands? That’s one heavy ikwe” Nuke says, breathlessly holding his side and referring to the cumbersome high-caliber machine gun as a woman. He then lets out a depleted puff of breath.
“Yeah, she’s real brutal.” Adlemeyer chuckles and surrenders his end of the weapon. “What’ve you been feeding this bitch Blaster?”
“Boots and bullets, buddy—assholes and elbows.” Blaster snickers, relieving the two marines of the machinegun and hoists it, in one tug, over his shoulder. He looks down at Nuke, who remains bent over and puffing in defeat. “What’s the matter Geronimo? I thought you Indians were more resilient.”
“Geronimo was a Chiricahua,” Nuke breathlessly explains.
“Cheeracawhat?” Blaster laughs and then strolls away, toting the .50 with ease.
“Chiricahua,” he loudly reiterates, sucking in a breath. “Geronimo was an Apache… and it’s Native American, asshole, not Indian!” He then adds through clenched teeth, “Misabe… mukwa wabiska.”
Adlemeyer immediately frowns at Nuke’s use of a language Adlemeyer did not understand and didn’t care to understand. In the past, whenever Nuke became annoyed with Blaster and his unintelligent racist banter, and this was usually always, he referred to Blaster in his native tongue as a big dumb grizzly bear. Although Nuke had witnessed Blaster handle himself half a dozen times during hostile situations and could easily give testimony to the fact there was more under Blaster’s rough exterior than just a feebleminded Neanderthal, he seemed complacent in his portrayal of a dim-witted giant. To Nuke, it would always be an insult rather than a compliment to Blaster’s large burly frame and dangerous skill set.
“Whatever you say, Geronimo,” Blaster blurts out with sarcastic laughter as he approaches the Hummer. “Chinese, Japanese, it’s all chop suey.”
Nuke lifts himself up and wipes the sweat from his brow. After catching his breath, he turns to Adlemeyer and continues to shake his head. “Gwewinzenhs… Zhaagnaash?”
“Lay off the native, Cochise. You know that shit gives me a migraine.”
“Fine, whatever. How’d I get stuck with y’all redneck white boys?” Nuke mocks Adlemeyer with a redneck impersonation, and since Adlemeyer was a twenty-year-old Jewish kid hailing from Watertown, New York, he shrugs, thinking the intended comment was for Blaster.
“You know Blaster better than that. He’d gladly take a round in the ass for you if he had to.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” Nuke shakes his head miserably. “I’m pretty sure Blaster hates me.”
“You got it all wrong, Cochise. It’s just the way he was raised, and you can’t hold the way a man was raised against him.” After walking a good few yards past Nuke, Adlemeyer turns around facing him. “Although, doesn’t he kind of remind you of a dumbass burly bear?” Adlemeyer shrugs, dismissing the argument, and turns his focus to the Humvee.
Nuke shakes his head, also dismissing the irony, and then hustles to catch up with Adlemeyer. While jogging up alongside Adlemeyer, Nuke flatly says, “Chiricahua.”
Both marines come to an abrupt stop, nudging their chins toward Bill.
“It’s about time.” Bill opens the Humvee door and climbs behind the wheel. Adlemeyer smiles, intently pointing at Nuke from the other side of the Hummer’s hood. He fully understands the fire he has stirred within the young Ojibwa and snickers innocuously from ear-to-ear, mocking the young private. “Chiricahua?”
“Cochise!” Nuke protests loudly. “Cochise was a Chiricahua too!”
“Ooh-rah, leatherneck.” Adlemeyer sounds off, wrapping the flat of his hands on the hood of the vehicle.
“He was an Apache.” Nuke frowns. “Is it really that hard to remember?”