A Friendly Reunion

August, 1999 – Camp Lejeune, NC


The maturing BMW twisted and turned through the jersey barriers. The concrete, triangular barriers created a serpentine path on the roadway that guided the BMW to a forced stop at the guard shack. The lance corporal military police officer waved the vehicle on after observing the red, enlisted sticker on the windshield. Chris pressed the accelerator, continuing down the straight and lengthy two lane roadway, through a corridor of luscious trees.

Approaching the busier portion of the base, red brick buildings dominated the landscape. Large steam pipes ran along the ground and jumped up at the edge of the roads to span across, allowing vehicles to pass beneath. Steam spewed out of sporadic joints, giving an industrial feel to the base, nestled in the middle of vast forests and nature. It was a hot, humid, sunny day.

Chris crept passed a platoon of Marines wearing olive drab shorts and shirts. They ran in formation while shouting cadence. Turning right, into a parking lot near a small brick building, he heard the brakes squeal lightly as his car eased into a parking space. Exiting his vehicle, Chris put his cover on and walked towards the bright red painted door.

He entered the building, took his cover off, and walked through the hallway that led straight into the heart of the mostly vacant section of the structure. The only sound in the hall was the clicking of Chris’ shoe on the tile floor. At the end of the hallway he arrived at an old, grey metal desk. Behind the desk was a Marine sipping coffee and reading the Marine Corps Times. Chris stopped and stood silently in front of the desk. Without moving his head or changing his body position, the Marine acknowledged Chris’ presence.

Once he reached the end of his article the Marine began to fold up his paper. “Good morning,” he said, focusing on folding the paper exactly. “What can I do for you?” His voice was monotone, as if he’d been saying the same thing to Marines every day for the last decade.  Like a skipping record player that needed to be bumped, he wasn’t thrilled to be there and had long before grown tired of the repetition.

“Good morning staff sergeant,” Chris said crisply as he fiddled with his cover behind his back “I’m here to check into 2nd Recon Battalion.”

“Very well then. I can help you get settled in. I’m Staff Sergeant Richards. Welcome to Camp Lejeune.” The Staff Sergeant stood up, held his hand out and lifted his head to see who he was speaking to. “You look familiar.” His curiosity was on the rise.

Chris shook his hand firmly. “I get that sometimes.”

“No, I think I remember your face from something. Or from somewhere.”

Chris didn’t want it to be brought up, so he forced his eyes to wander around the room and changed the subject. “So, uh…will I be billeted with other guys from two-two?

“Oh, right. Yeah.” SSgt Richards began to doubt his own memory and resumed his regular chit chat. “You just get finished with the Basic Recon Course?”

“Yeah, kinda. I finished BRC a few months ago, then graduated from scout sniper school last week.”

“How was it?”

“Brutal. It was awesome training, but freakin’ brutal.” Chris cracked a smile, showing signs of his proud accomplishments.

“That’s what I’ve heard.” SSgt Richards turned around and opened a small metal lock box that was mounted on the wall behind the desk. He scanned through the keys with his fingers, then picked one up. “Alright sergeant, here’s your key. You’ll be in building 3029, room 212, with a few other Marines.” He handed Chris the key. “I’ll get the paperwork submitted for your meal card. But in the mean time you can sign in at the front of the chow hall on the ‘temporary assignment’ sheet.”

“Thanks staff sergeant. I appreciate your help.”

“It’s no problem sergeant. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“I will.” Chris slid the key into his pocket and walked down the hallway of the decrepit brick building, exiting through the bright red door.

A short drive later, Chris arrived at a large, three story, red brick building bearing the numbers “3029”. He stepped out of his car, walked around to the back, and put his key in the trunk’s keyhole. He shook the key gently, applying a slight twisting pressure. “It should be right about…there.” He softly spoke to himself, willing the stubborn lock to comply. With more gentle jiggling the trunk popped open. He pulled his olive drab sea bag out and slung it over his left shoulder, then he spun around and walked up the concrete stairs to the second floor. Chris continued down the concrete balcony, until he arrived at room 212. Hesitating for a minute, he prepared himself to meet his new roommates. With the key in his hand, he raised it up to the doorknob.

“Put that shit away man! That’s fucking gross!” voices muffled through the door.

A different voice with a broken French accent replied, “Dude that smells like your mom’s…” The door to the room swung open and a short Marine came storming out, bumping into Chris.

“Oh shit, sorry sergeant,” the short Marine said with surprise. The Marine’s name was Corporal Barnum.  Born and raised in Trinidad, he was five feet six inches tall, and weighed 165 pounds. He had dark black skin, spoke with a thick accent, and wore his woodland digital camouflage uniform like almost everybody else in Camp Lejeune.

Chris looked down at the Marine. “Don’t worry about it corporal.” He nodded his head towards the door. “You live here?”

“Yes sergeant.”

“I guess that makes us roommates then.”

“Ah, man.” Corporal Barnum felt like he had ruined his only shot at a first good impression. He reached for the door.  “Here, let me get that for… Wait… You’re the guy from Camp Pendleton, right? You were awarded the Navy and Marine Corps medal for saving the lives of like fifteen Marines?”

“It was only eleven. And it wasn’t that big of a deal.”

“It wasn’t a big deal? Sergeant, you were awarded the second highest non-combat medal possible and given a meritorious promotion for saving the lives of eleven Marines. I’d say that’s a big deal. The Marine Corps Times said you moved so fast that you looked like a blur. The title of the article was ‘Marine Saves Men in a Blur’.”

“Adrenaline helps men accomplish amazing things.” Chris pointed to the door with his right thumb. “Hey, you mind if I head in. This bag is getting heavy.”

“Oh, of course. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” Chris said as he walked through the door and took his cover off. He paused for a second to let his eyes adjust to the poorly lit room, after being outside in the bright sun.

“Son of a bitch!  What the hell are you doing here?”

Chris could barely make out the shape walking towards him. He could tell it was a man with a large stature.  “I’ve been assigned to this room,” Chris said, wondering who he was addressing, hoping it wasn’t going to be the third person this morning that was going to recognize him from the incident.

The large man wrapped his arms around Chris briefly hugging him, then let go and backed up a few steps. “It’s me man.”

Chris’ eyes lit up as his vision adjusted and he realized who he was talking to. “What are you doing here?”

“This is my room, man,” Smalls replied with a smile. “I live here.”

“No way. That’s crazy. What are the odds of that?”

“Welcome to our humble abode.” Smalls pointed behind Chris with his right index finger. “That dumbass there is Corporal Barnum.”  He used the thumb of his left hand to point behind himself. “The guy dropping a deuce in the head is Corporal Faulk, and of course you know who I am.” He finished his sentence, smacking himself on the chest with both hands. Smalls hit Corporal Bagley’s left bicep with the back of his hand. “Dude, this is my best friend, Chris. I went to boot camp with this guy.”

“So you’re joining 2-2?” Corporal Barnum asked hopefully.

“I’m here.”

“You’re just in time for all the fun then. We’re deploying in a few months.”

Chris looked at Smalls curiously. “Is he serious?”

“Yeah man, we’re slated to go to Iraq and kill some shit.”

“Awesome. I can finally put this training to good use,” Chris said reflectively.

“We’ve still got some time left here though, so make yourself comfortable.”  Smalls walked over to a bunk bed and smacked the mattress on the top.  “This one is all yours.  Unless you want to pull rank and take the bottom bunk from Corporal Faulk.”

The room was a little bit smaller than Chris’ old “studio” apartment back in Baltimore. It had two bunk beds and one bathroom. The walls were made of cinder blocks and painted a light beige color. The carpet was hard and didn’t have any padding to soften the concrete floor underneath. It was a standard Marine Corps barracks room.

“I won’t be a dick. I’ll take the top bunk.”

“Always the nice guy,” Smalls laughed as he walked over and sat on his bottom bunk. “I saw your name on the roster, said that you were checking in tomorrow.”

“That was the original plan, but I didn’t have anything better to do, so I figured I’d get it over with today.”

“Ah, I gotcha.”

Chris sat on Corporal Faulk’s bed. “How’s Alessandra and the family? Feels like it’s been a while since I’ve seen them.”

“Everybody is doing good. It’s been, what? About seven, eight months? We all hung out around New Years?”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“Hey, how have you been holding up since the Pendleton thing?” He was concerned for Chris and didn’t want him being unnecessarily hard on himself. “We don’t have to talk about it. I just want you to know I’m here for ya, man.”

“I’m doin’ okay.” He said nodding his head. “Maybe we can talk more about it later.”

A muffled voice came from the bathroom, interrupting their conversation. “Aaarrgghh!” The toilet flushed. Corporal Faulk opened the bathroom door and stood still for a few seconds in the doorway. He was wearing only a pair of boxer briefs. Everybody in the room looked at him curiously.

“Everything come out okay?” Corporal Bagley asked with a look of concern on his face.

“Fuck yeah, bro!”

Corporal Faulk was a crude individual. It was rare that anything came out of his mouth without a curse word shortly behind it.  He was born and raised in a small farm town in Delaware.  His arms, chest, and parts of his legs were covered with tattoos.  Most of the tattoos were black and white and depicted an intricate biomechanical skeleton that appeared to be beneath his skin.  He was an average height of five feet, nine inches tall, weighing in at two hundred pounds of solid muscle and brawn.  He was constantly taking nutritional supplements to supply his body with added fuel for his workout routine.  Full of energy and enthusiasm, time spent with Corporal Faulk was always entertaining.

“That was possibly the best shit I’ve ever took without eating an MRE. I think I just gave birth to a god-damn telephone pole.” Corporal Faulk strolled over to the sink and began mixing his protein shake. “Maybe next time I won’t flush and let you check it out, Barnum.”

Only in the Marine Corps. You gotta love it.  Chris thought to himself, looking at Smalls as he chuckled.

Smalls knew exactly what he was thinking and began laughing. “Don’t ask man. He’s in a world of his own.”

Corporal Faulk chugged his protein shake, dropped down to the floor, and began doing pushups.

Corporal Barnum was still standing near the door. “Yeah, maybe next time Faulk.” He grasped the doorknob. “Hey, I’m starving guys. I’m gonna get some chow. Anybody coming?”

“Sixty Eight more push…uugh…ups and I’ll meet you down…argh…there, fuck face.” The response came from Corporal Faulk without a glance, as he continued to push the floor.

“Corporal Smalls? Sergeant? Either one of you coming?”

Chris waved his hand dismissively. “I’m gonna unpack the rest of my stuff, then I’ll head over.”

“We’ll catch up to ya, man.” Smalls said reluctantly.

“Okay, I’ll see you guys down there.” Corporal Barnum walked out of the door and shut it as he left.

Smalls turned back to Chris. “Hey, speaking of holidays, are we still good for Thanksgiving?”

“Yeah, of course. I wouldn’t miss it.”

Smalls’ cell phone rang. “I’ll be right back. It’s the wife.” He stood up off of his bed and walked out to the balcony, “Hey babe…” The door shut behind him.

“Hi baby. How’s your morning?” Alessandra’s soft Latin voice replied.

“It just got a little better. Guess who showed up early?”

“Chris? He’s always full of surprises. You didn’t tell him, did you?”

Smalls rubbed the temples of his head with the middle finger and thumb of his left hand. “No, I didn’t. This is hard for me.”

“I know, baby.”

“…hey, I’ll try to call you a little later, okay? We’re gonna go get some chow.”

“Alright, I love you baby. Bye. Oh, tell Chris I said ‘hi’.”

“Alright, I will. Love you too. Bye babe.”

Smalls slid his cell phone back into his pocket and walked back into their room. “You guys ready for chow, or what?”

Chris stood up. “Yeah, I can finish unpacking later.”

Smalls turned to Corporal Faulk, who was now doing sit-ups. “What about you, crazy? Ready?”

“Hell yeah corporal. I was just waiting for your intimate little conversation with your new boyfriend to be over.”

“Ha ha, shut up Faulker. Let’s go.”

A Pupil of Life Reaping

February, 2003

“Today we’re gonna give you some more ammunition for your body. You are training to be the most effective weapon in the world, but you can always improve on what you’ve already learned. Rifle’s and machine guns have bullets, but marines have MCMAP. I’m Sergeant Collins, and I’m going to teach you future warriors how to kill the son of a bitch, who’s trying to kill you. Are you ready?”

Over a hundred marine recruits shouted in response, “Sir, yes sir!”

Sergeant Collins was a black belt in the Marine Corps Martial Arts Program (MCMAP), assigned to the Marine Recruit Depot in Paris Island, South Carolina. Although he was only five feet, eight inches tall, and a hundred-seventy pounds, he was an intimidating man, who had perfected the art of hand to hand combat. Like a wolverine, he may have been small in stature, but he was well versed in the tools that constructed monuments of pain and death.

MCMAP was the Frankenstein’s monster of Martial Arts. Experts in the various arts had collaborated, taking the most effective and lethal techniques from the different forms to create MCMAP. Its sole purpose was to end the fight quickly by seriously wounding or by killing the enemy. There was no scoring of points, no graceful maneuvers, and no stopping until the fight was finished. There are no elegant swords, no throwing stars, and no meditating. This hand to hand combat program incorporated the use and defense of assault rifles with bayonets, knives, and handguns. It was realistic and brutal.

“After I explain and demonstrate each maneuver, several other instructors, and myself will walk around and help you practice. Are you ready to kill?” the Sergeant barked.

The recruits responded again with excitement. “Kill!”

The recruits all looked the same: shaved heads, olive drab sweatshirts, woodland camouflage pants, and black boots. The pavilion they were training in was called Leatherneck Square. It’s about half the size of a football field. The floor was covered with a thick layer of sawdust and wood shavings. The roof of the pavilion provided shelter from the elements. It stood approximately twenty feet tall. At the front of the pavilion was a five-foot tall platform. The platform allowed the instructors to stand at an elevated position, so they could be seen by all of the recruits as they taught.

It was almost February and the weather was bitter cold. The instructor’s breath emitted a small cloud of vapor as he spoke.

“The first thing we’re gonna cover today is similar to a hip toss. I’ll walk you through it and explain it step by step. Sergeant Fitzpatrick, will you be my meat puppet?”

Sergeant Fitzpatrick ran up the stairs to the instructional platform. “Roger that, Sergeant Collins.”

“Sergeant Fitzpatrick, assume the fighting position.”

Stepping forward with his left foot, bending both knees, and raising both hands into fists on either side of his face, he announced with confidence, “Ready!”

Sergeant Collins assumed the same position directly in front of Sergeant Fitzpatrick and demanded the attention of the recruits.

“Alright, listen up. From the fighting stance, the first thing we need to do is deliver a softening blow.” He demonstrated a punch to Sergeant Fitzpatrick’s face, stopping inches from his nose. “Doing this will limit the ability of your opponent to react to the hell you’re about to rain down on him.”

“After distracting the enemy, we need to step to the outside of his left foot, with our left foot. Like this. With every step, we want to cause some damage. So on the way into this step, you need to punish him. I don’t care how you do it. Use some imagination. Grab his balls as hard as you can with your left hand and crush his adam’s apple using a hammer fist with your right hand. I don’t give a shit what you do. But do something that makes him regret crossing your path.” He stopped for a second to allow the recruits time to mentally digest the information.

“Now that we’re up close and personal, it’s time to put this son of a bitch on the deck, right? You’re gonna sweep your right foot clockwise, making a semicircle with your right foot.”

Sergeant Fitzpatrick was now off balance, with his back arched backwards, and some of his lower body leaning on Sgt Collins’ left thigh.

“With some speed and intensity, I’m gonna introduce this poor bastard’s back to the deck. I’m gonna do this by using his own body weight and the momentum of my spin to throw him as hard as I can onto the deck.”

Sergeant Collins completed the final throw, causing Sergeant Fitzpatrick’s back to slam on the ground.

“You guys have been doing this for several weeks now, so what needs to happen next?”

The recruits voices roared inside the pavilion. “Kill!”

With a smile that was filled with pride and a twisted sense of pleasure, Sergeant Collins scanned the crowd of recruits with his eyes.

“That’s fuckin’ right. A finishing touch to end this shit-bags life. And I think that crushing his grape is the perfect ending.”

He raised his right knee almost to his chest, then drove the heel of his right boot down with all he could muster into the ground, inches from Sergeant Fitzpatrick’s head, simulating the stomping of his opponent’s head. “Kill!”

Chris absorbed these classes like a dry sponge thrown into a swimming pool. The techniques came naturally to him. He was learning fast and liked feeling successful.

Sergeant Collins turned toward the recruits. “Remember, we’re not here to hurt or kill each other. I want to see you move with speed and intensity, but save the ball grabbing and throat smashing for the real thing. Understand that?”

The crowd shouted in response, “Sir, yes sir!”

All of the recruits partnered up with each other and began practicing the newly learned maneuver on each other. Today, Chris’ partner was Recruit Smalls, who, ironically wasn’t small at all. He was six feet, four inches tall, and weighed two-hundred-ten pounds. In high school Smalls had been a state champion wrestler. Like many big fish who were raised in small ponds, Smalls’ cup overflowed with self-confidence and arrogance.

Recruit Smalls smirked at Chris. “Psshh, You can go first.”

They both assumed the fighting position and Chris began to prepare himself mentally. His thoughts began to race and he fought to control them. He slowed his breathing. He reminded himself to concentrate on balancing. He could visualize every movement, feel the resistance of his opponent’s body mass, and anticipate the reaction of his body trying to stay upright.

Chris stepped forward with his left foot, placing it just outside of Smalls’ left foot, and placing his hands flat on Smalls’ chest simultaneously. He swept his right foot around in a clockwise semicircle and applied force to Smalls’ chest with his hands. Smalls’ back slammed on the sawdust and pushed the air out of his lungs. Chris followed up with the foot stomp next to Smalls’ head. “Kill!”

The hip toss was performed flawlessly. Chris’ movements flowed together seamlessly and without loss of momentum.

Smalls eyes were wide open in shock and he was moaning on the ground as he gasped for air.

Chris held his hand out, gesturing to Smalls that he was helping him to stand up.

“God damn! Collins, did you see that?” Sergeant Fitzpatrick looked at Sergeant Collins in surprise.

Sergeant Collins was intrigued. He watched Chris help Smalls back up to his feet. “I’m trying to remember if I’ve ever seen a recruit handle himself like that before.”

“I’m tellin you right now, I haven’t”

Sergeant Collins looked at Sergeant Fitzpatrick and nodded his head towards Chris. “Let’s go talk to him.”

Smalls glanced over and saw the instructors walking towards them. “This recruit wasn’t ready for that! Try it again.” He raised his voice, hoping that the instructors would hear believing he could re-establish his dominance the second time around.

Sergeant Collins approached Smalls. “You in a rush to get man handled again, recruit Smalls?”

“Sir, no sir. This recruit wasn’t ready, sir.”

“Oh, so your partner sucks donkey dick, possesses no talent whatsoever, and you tripped over a piece of sawdust. Is that it? You let a tiny piece of wood kick your pansy ass like a little bitch? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Sir, uhhh…yea…well no…sir, no sir!”

“Shut your mouth Smalls! Let me know when you’re ready, because he’s gonna try it again and I don’t want any excuses coming out of your pathetic little mouth! Are we clear?”

“Sir, yes sir!”

Smalls faced Chris and stood in the fighting position. He is determined not to be humiliated again and is doing his best to plant himself to the ground, as if he had roots coming out of his feet, burrowing into the ground to stabilize his body.

Sgt Collins looked at Chris. “How about you recruit? Are you ready?”

Chris looked back at him with confidence. “Sir, yes sir!”

“Go ahead recruit. Take him to the deck.”

WHAM! With the speed of a hummingbird’s wing, Chris performed a perfect hip toss again. “Kill!” he screamed as his boot slammed into the floor inches from Small’s head.

Sergeant Collins turned around and looked at Sergeant Fitzpatrick in amazement. Sergeant Fitzpatrick mouthed the words “Holy shit”.

Keeping his composure and straight face, Sergeant Collins looked down at Smalls, where he laid on the ground, gasping for air.

“Let me guess. You tripped over your ego again? Maybe you should learn to compliment your fellow recruits, instead of making excuses, trying to make yourself sound better.”

Sergeant Collin’s maintained his focus on Smalls, but held his left arm out and pointed at Chris.

“How many times have you practiced this move?”

Chris responded with uncertainty, “Sir, including the one Sergeant Collins just observed. Two, sir.”

Sergeant Collins turned and looked at Chris, while still pointing at him. “And you’ve never done this before?”

“Sir, no sir.”

“Then explain to me how the hell you just put this pussy on his ass, twice. Because you moved so fast and smooth, I would put money down that you’ve had prior training.”

Chris tried to think of an explanation, but he didn’t really even know the answer himself.

“Sir, uh…balance sir.”

“No shit. Smalls, the clutz down there doesn’t have any. I’m talking about you.”

“Sir, no sir. I meant it’s this recruit’s balance. …like Tai Chi, sir.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Like that shit crazy old ladies do to stretch and relax?”

Chris knew that as a recruit he couldn’t talk freely to the instructor and would never be able to fully explain the true art of Tai Chi, so he decided to cut his losses.

“Sir, yes, it’s something like that sir.”

“You hear this shit Sergeant Fitzpatrick? This recruit fights like an old lady and still kicked Smalls’ ass.”

Sergeant Collins waved his hand at Chris. “You know what. I don’t give a rat’s ass. Whatever you’re doin’, keep it up.

“Sir, yes sir.”

Later that night, Chris’ entire platoon was sitting on their wooden foot lockers Their foot lockers were all aligned with the foot of their beds, with the main aisle dividing them into two sides. The recruits were allowed to talk quietly, as long as they didn’t get carried away. Most of the recruits were writing letters to their families.

Smalls glared at Chris with vindictive eyes from across the aisle. “What the fuck do you think you were doing today?”

Chris didn’t want conflict so he chose to ignore the question.

“I’m talking to you, jackass,” Smalls demanded.

Chris looked up at Smalls with curiosity. “This recruit is wondering why recruit Smalls is referring to himself in the first person. Recruit Smalls should know that he could get this whole platoon in the sand pit for shit like that.”

“Oh, okay.” Smalls said angrily as he sat up straight and pressed his fists firmly into the footlocker he was sitting on. “Being a smart ass isn’t gonna get you out of this.” Smalls took up a mocking tone. “This recruit is pretty sure that we’re training with pugil sticks tomorrow and this recruit is gonna see to it that that sorry ass recruit is put on his ass.”

Shaking his head, Chris responded. “This recruit doesn’t understand recruit Smalls’ anger. All of these recruits are on the same team and should be helping each other. This recruit was only trying to do his best today. It wasn’t meant to be personal.”

“Stop trying to get out of it, shit for brains. These recruits will see who’s better tomorrow.”

The next day came earlier than the day before, as was the case in the Corps.

“Good morning recruits!” Sergeant Collins shouted.

The recruits sat in a semicircle around their instructor. “Sir, good morning sir!” They shouted back.

“Today we’re gonna give you a chance to kill each other with a bayonet. However, this bayonet is a pugil stick. The red pad at the end of the stick simulates the bayonet on the end of your rifle. The black pad at the other end will be the buttstock of your rifle. A strike to the torso or head with the bayonet is a kill. The only way to get a kill with the buttstock, is a strike to the head. If a recruit falls off the bridge, they are dead. Are there any questions?”

One of the recruits raised his hand. The others around him moaned and grumbled. The recruit with his hand up was wearing thick framed military issued glasses and the lenses looked like they were half an inch thick. Every day this same recruit had questions. Every question served only to piss the instructors off. Pissed off instructors made life harder for the other recruits.

Sergeant Collins looked at the recruit who had his hand raised, wondering what he could possibly have to ask. “Yes, recruit. What’s your question?”

The recruit stood up to address the instructor. “Sir, this recruit was wondering if these recruits have to like hop on one leg if they get hit on the leg with a bayonet, or something? Like it was cut off or something, sir?”

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” Sergeant Collins’ facial expression was a mix between intense fury and bewilder.  Sergeant Collins stood in absolute silence, as if waiting for the recruit to know better. Beads of sweat ran down the recruit’s face as he realized how stupid his question actually was.

After what felt like an eternity, Sergeant Collins pointed at the recruit and yelled, “Sit the fuck down, before I kill you.”

The recruit sat down with the speed of a viper, letting out a breath of air that he didn’t even know that he had been holding in his lungs.

“Let me clarify.” Sergeant Collins said as he looked back and forth across the crowd of sitting recruits. “You will not jump around on one leg. You will not put your hand behind your back if it gets hit by the bayonet. All you will do is try to kill the scumbag in front of you, until one of you is dead. You will know if someone dies, because I will blow this dag-gone whistle! Do you understand?”

The roar of the future warriors sounded off. “Sir, yes sir.”

“That’s more like it! Form a column of two’s.”

The recruits moved like a school of fish, until they had formed two columns, leading to the fighting bridge. The fighting bridge was four feet wide, twenty feet long, and stood two feet off of the ground. It was sturdy, built similar to a residential deck. Below the bridge were several inches of mulch, which would break the fall of an unfortunate recruit who’d lost his battle.

Smalls locked his eyes on Chris. He skillfully moved through the crowd, cutting in line while counting heads. He was determined to ensure he was in line to oppose his new nemesis.

Each group of two recruits would enter onto the bridge and simulate a fight to the death. Some fights were long, but most were very short. As Chris watched a sad reality struck him. He saw that a real fight to the death wasn’t a long drawn out duel like Hollywood portrays. There was no glorious struggle. There was no heroic death lock. There was no witty banter. The whole encounter only lasted a few seconds. That was all he would have – a few seconds to ensure he lived and some other poor sap died. Another battle on the bridge began, and Chris’ thoughts turned to Smalls. He didn’t want to make things worse by defeating him again, but he also didn’t want to throw the fight and let Smalls win. Chris began playing out different versions of the fight in his head. A realization pricked his heart. Walking through each scene he realized he could do his absolute best, but still loose.

There were only a few recruits in front of Chris now. Smalls began to hum the song Another One Bites the Dust. Chris decided. The right thing to do was give the battle all he had and let the cards fall as they may.

The recruits in front of them were next and began to put on helmets and groin protectors.

The battle on the bridge ended quickly. Chris began putting on his protective gear. He looked up and watched as Smalls did the same.

The whistle blew.

“Next two.” Sergeant Collins yelled as he waved them onto the bridge.

Smalls leaped in with arrogance. He jogged to the far end of the bridge, then turned and returned to the center, shaking his head left, then right to crack his neck. Chris briskly walked in, calming himself, and preparing for the imminent brawl. Face to face, with their pugil sticks held up, they waited for the whistle.

“Ready for this? ‘Cause I’m about to kick your ass,” Smalls said, with a smirk on his face.

The whistle blew.

Smalls charged Chris, pushing his pugil stick forward with both hands. Chris anticipated an aggressive kill strike, not a forceful push. It took him off guard. He absorbed the full force of the push, and fell backwards, stumbling, then falling onto his back. Chris was impressed by the strength of his opponent.

Smalls advanced towards Chris’ right side, thrusting his bayonet towards Chris’ chest. Chris’ veins surged with adrenaline. His thoughts sped to a mile per minute. He used the buttstock end of his pugil stick to deflect Smalls’ bayonet, while kicking his right leg into Small’s back calves. Smalls fell on his butt and Chris completed a full circle with the buttstock, bringing it in alignment for a strike to Smalls’ head.

“Balance. Continue the momentum until it’s no longer needed,” Chris thought to himself as he thrust the buttstock towards Smalls’ head. Smalls leaned forward, dodging the attack. Chris’ buttstock missed, just to the left of his head. “Momentum,” Chris thought as he continued pushing the pugil stick forward, pulling his body with it, up to his knees, behind Smalls.

Chris’ movements were fast and fluid. Smalls almost lost track of Chris’ location and began to turn towards him, rolling to his right, onto his knees, placing the pugil stick with his fists on the ground to steady himself. Chris locked his sight onto Smalls’ head out of the corner of his left eye, and as he turned his body to the left, the bayonet turned with it, like the turret of a tank. He lunged forward, thrusting his bayonet towards Smalls’ head. Smalls looked up to reacquire his sight of Chris. He found his opponent just in time to see the tip of Chris’ bayonet accelerating towards his face, inches away. The end of the pugil stick smashed into Smalls’ helmet, snapping his head backwards, and sending him back to the ground.

Sergeant Collins opened his mouth just enough to let the whistle fall out and drop to his chest, where the lanyard caught it. “Good fight, recruits. Well done. Now get off my bridge. Next two!”

Chris stepped over to Smalls and extended his hand, offering to help him up. Smalls reluctantly accepted and pulled himself up. They both made eye contact for a moment before Smalls walked away. Chris didn’t know what to say. He wondered if this rivalry would continue until their graduation.

Most of the recruits looked forward to Sunday. The anticipation had nothing to do with religion or wanting to go to church, even though most of them attended the services. Church was the only place where drill instructors weren’t haunting their every move. In fact, drill instructors didn’t step foot in the building. It was like being free for two hours, without stress, and the worry of doing something wrong.

Chris’ platoon had just finished marching to the church from their barracks, and dismissed from formation. Each recruit filed through the main entrance, taking off their covers as they crossed the threshold of the building.

The church auditorium was large and elaborate for a modern building. It had stained glass windows around the outside that depicted famous Marine battles through history. One of the main windows pictured two Marines in their dress blues guarding the gates of heaven, with a crowd of soldiers, sailors, and airmen lined up to enter. The tall ceilings had wooden beams sprawling out from the center of the room towards the outside, similar to a spider web without the smaller cross members.

Church was also a way to see the progression of the different battalions. The recruits could tell how far along each other were in their training. They were small, subtle things that most people wouldn’t pick up on. During the first couple weeks, the recruits wore tennis shoes, instead of boots. After that, they wore boots, but didn’t blouse their trousers around them. Then they bloused their trousers around their boots. In the last couple weeks, recruits stop getting their entire head shaved, and their hair started to get cut with the almost trademark “jarhead” style. The recruits with the jarhead haircuts were respected. They were almost finished with boot camp. They were close to earning the title of “Marine”.

Filing into the church pew, Chris heard some loud whispering.

“By your leave recruit. Excuse this recruit. Thanks.”

He turned around to see what was happening and saw that Smalls was working his way past the other recruits, towards him. Chris arrived at his seat on the pew and sat down, wondering what Smalls was up to.

Smalls squeezed past a couple more recruits. “Excuse this recruit. Do you mind if this recruit sits here?” He said to another recruit, as he was pointing to a space just big enough for him to sit , between the recruit and Chris.

Chris inched over as much as he could to give Smalls a little more room to sit.

The navy chaplain walked up to the pulpit, wearing his dress blue uniform. The Marines don’t have chaplains. They don’t have their own medics either. But, being a department of the navy allowed them to work together, utilizing the navy’s chaplains and corpsmen (the navy’s version of a medic). “Let’s stand and sing praise to our Lord.”

The soft sounds of wooden pews creaked across the auditorium as hundreds of recruits stood up.

“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved…” The recruits voices filled the room as they sang together in unison.

Smalls leaned slightly towards Chris and began to speak just loud enough for Chris to hear. “I was the undefeated state wrestling champion in my senior year of high school. Un-de-feat-ed. I’ve never been beat the way you beat me with the pugil stick.” Smalls paused for a second and shook his head. “I just can’t figure it out. I’m bigger than you. I’m stronger than you. But, you still beat me. I don’t know man. I just can’t figure out how you did it.” Smalls leaned back over, standing upright with his hands firmly planted on the pew in front of him.

Chris leaned towards Smalls. “Strength and size isn’t everything in a fight.” Chris stopped to think about what he should say. “Your strength is impressive man. When you pushed me after that whistle blew, I thought you had me. You caught me and had me on my back. It was close.”

“I thought I had you too.” Smalls looked at Chris and couldn’t help but smile. “Look, I’ve been thinking about how shit has been between us, and I was thinking about what you said. The bottom line is that I would rather have you fighting next to me when the shit hits the fan, than most of these other nutbags.”

“Same here, man. I’d fight next to you any day of the week. You’re a tough dude.”

The song ended and cut off their conversation. The chaplain spoke for a few minutes about the struggles of life, relating it to the struggles of boot camp, then started another song.

“Our God is an awesome God he reigns…”

Smalls leaned over again. “So we’re cool then?”

“Yeah man. Don’t worry about it. We’re good,” Chris said with relief. He was happy the conflict was over and looked forward to training with Smalls in the future. Smalls was motivated and strong. He was determined, aggressive, and had grit. Chris liked that and thought it was a good contrast to his own temperament and skills.

It was graduation day. Four platoons stood in formation on the parade deck. They were each perfectly aligned and standing like statues, donning their dress Alpha uniforms. The dress Alpha uniform consists of glossy black shoes, a circular dark green dress cover, dark green trousers, and a dark green coat, with a long sleeved collared khaki shirt and tie underneath. All of the new Marines were proud of their accomplishments. They could hardly wait to meet with their families again after twelve weeks of intense training.

The new Marines’ families were sitting in the sun covered, aluminum bleachers, admiring the discipline and structure of their young warriors. The sand fleas were out in full force, subjecting the families to their itchy bites. Bug spray was hardly deterring the tiny pests. As the Marines awaited their last command from their senior drill instructor to dismiss them, they scanned the bleachers for their loved ones. They were also being eaten alive by the little flying menaces, but their training and discipline was paying off, and they ignored the nagging itch that begged to be scratched. It was how much they had actually changed, as they watched the crowd in the bleachers uncontrollably itching and smacking themselves to eliminate the irritating bugs.

The First Sergeant yelled out a command to the senior drill instructors. “Senior drill instructors, dismiss your platoons!”

Simultaneously, each senior drill instructor responded. “Aye First Sergeant” Then they did an about face in unison, turning 180 degrees, and were now facing their respective platoons. “Marines, dismissed!”

“Aye, senior drill instructor! Oohrah!” The platoons took one step backwards, then about faced. They were finished with bootcamp.

The new Marines shook each others hands and congratulated each other on their accomplishments. The families stormed the parade deck, homing in on their beloved ones, fighting through the crowds they had inadvertently created themselves. Families were crying and hugging their newly disciplined Marines in amazement at how different they were.

“Recruit… I mean Chris. Come here, I want you to meet my family.” Smalls was waving towards himself, hoping to get Chris’ attention amongst the crowd.

It had been a while since Chris was in a family environment. He walked over to Smalls with a smile on his face, feeling a little nervous.

“Chris, this is my mom, Sarah and my dad, Henry. …and this beautiful thing here is my girlfriend, Alessandra. Everybody, this is Chris”

Chris extended his arm and shook Henry’s hand, immediately taking notice of his firm, calloused hand. “It’s good to meet you, sir.” Swinging his arm towards Sarah’s hand and gently shaking her soft, caring hand. “Ma’am.” He said, nodding his head slightly. Turning slightly to the right and holding his hand out to shake Alessandra’s hand. She shook it delicately, saying “I’ve heard quite a bit about you”.

“Like how I beat him with the pugil sticks?” Chris said, with a big smile.

Smalls chuckled. “How about we not talk about that, ever” He pushed Chris’ shoulder, as he laughed a little more.

Henry patted Smalls’ back and held his hand there. “Well, I hate to be the party pooper, but we need to get scootin’ son. Our flight leaves in a few hours.”

After the completion of boot camp, the new Marines were given ten days of leave, before having to report to combat training, or the school of infantry.

Chris and Smalls shook hands, then pulled each other in for a manly hug.

“I’ll see ya man. Maybe at SOI?” Smalls said as they separated from the hug.

“Yeah, that’s definitely possible. See ya bud.” Chris shook everybody’s hand once more. “It was nice to meet all of you.”

“It was nice to meet you too. Take care.” Henry said, before turning around and walking away, holding Sarah’s hand.

Smalls put his arm around Alessandra and waved with his hand on the other side of her head as they turned and walked away.

“Hey, don’t forget about balancing!” Chris said loudly to Smalls as he was walking further away.Smalls didn’t turn around, but held his left hand up and waved backwards to Chris. “Ha ha. Yeah, yeah.”

Chris watched Smalls’ family as they walked away, until they all piled in their Buick and drove off.  He stood there for a few minutes relishing the time he had just spent with them, until he came to the realization that it was time to go.  He walked over to the roadway and sat on a bench, patiently awaiting the next bus off of the island.

Pay Dirt


October, 2002

The apartment consisted of one room; two if you count the bathroom. If it had been located in an up-and-coming neighborhood, or over a popular bar, or dressed up with hardwood floors and fancy appliances, people might have called it a “studio.” But it was far from being a hip, or cool, or modern bachelor pad that might warrant such a fancy name. Rather, Chris’ apartment was a small dry-walled cube decorated only with left over take out containers.

A normal sized person could barely fit in the bathroom, and the kitchen could only be described as an eye sore that destroyed all ambiance in the living room, or was it the bedroom? There were no any pictures hung, no lamps, no flowers, no knickknacks, no decorations of any kind. All four walls were painted flat white. There was a futon, a coffee table, and an old television on top of a cardboard box. The television antenna was made of tin foil and pieces of old clothes hangers. But Chris didn’t care. He didn’t mind the small size. The apartment was home. Besides, it’s all he could afford, and he wouldn’t be there long. His days in the place were numbered.

At 3:50am the clock screamed “BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP.” Chris was not a morning person. He cracked his eyes open and wondered how many times he’d already smacked the snooze button. Deciding the contraption had not had enough punishment yet, Chris reached his arm out and pounded on it once more.

The clock screamed again. Chris rolled over and squinted at the bright red digital numbers to check the time. “Shit”, he shouted, as he realized how long he’d overslept. This was Chris’ routine: pound on the alarm, oversleep, curse himself for getting up late. He jumped out of bed and darted to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

“Son-of-a,” he yelled as he kicked the coffee table with his right foot, jamming the leg of the table between his two smallest toes.

Five minutes was all Chris needed to get out of the apartment door and start driving to the park-and-ride. His boss, Willy was use to Chris’ routine. But that didn’t make Chris feel any better about it. Especially since Chris’ time with the big man was running out. He’d hoped to impress his boss before he was taken away.

Chris’ clothes were old and sloppy. It was difficult to find a spot unstained with dried paint, caulk, PVC glue, green pipe sealant, or remnants of a past lunch. His boots were the cheapest ones he could find at Walmart. They hurt his feet. His jeans were faded and the bottoms of them were frayed. He wore multiple layers to keep warm during the winter. He couldn’t care less about how he looked.

Driving in the vicinity of Chris was never boring. He cursed loudly out the window at slow drivers. He yelled pointlessly at traffic lights. He leaned on his horn if someone, even an old lady with a walker, tried to cross the street in front of him. It was a miracle he made it to the park-and-ride without killing someone.

Willy was always there, waiting in the far corner of the parking lot. Chris jerked his second hand BMW to a halt in the spot next to where Willy was standing. Willy stuck his head out of the driver’s window of his car and yelled, “It’s about damn time!” The greeting made Chris smile. He was going to miss it.

Willy was a tall, burly man in his mid-thirties. His look was as unchanging as the face of a mountain: a five o’clock shadow, short dark hair, strong chin and broad shoulders. Willy’s hands were huge, each finger was as thick as two average sized fingers. He wasn’t fit, but he was freakishly strong and had an ungodly high tolerance for pain. Chris had seen the brute injure himself on multiple occasions, but then continue working as if nothing had happened. These attributes combined with his heavy forehead made Willy a shoe-in for a role on television as a caveman.

Chris hopped out of his car, and grabbed his tools from the back seat. In his hurry, he flung his hammer under the car next to him. “Ugh” he mumbled to himself, as he laid down on the asphalt to retrieve it.

Willy stuck his head out of the window again. “This is no time for a nap. You can sleep in the car. Get up off the ground. And don’t forget that we’re doing groundwork today. You forgetting something?”

Chris turned around and walked back to his car. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys. He knew exactly what Willy wanted him to have. He struggled to get his trunk unlocked. The key had to go in just right or the car would refuse to open. In frustration, Chris whacked the lid with both hands and yelled, “Damn this car!”

“Take a breath and slow down,” Willy called. “But hurry your ass up. We’ve got to go.”

Chris breathed. Then he tried the key again. He felt it click into place. The trunk swung open and maneuvered the shovel out of the car. With the tool in hand, he walked back to Willy’s truck and threw everything into the bed. Climbing into the cab Chris asked, “Why do I need to bring a shovel, if you already have three in the bed of your truck?”

Willy put the truck in gear and began to drive out of the parking lot. “Because those are my shovels. Not your shovels. Every good construction worker should have his own tools.”

Chris should have known. He had heard Willy’s rants before about how a construction worker should buy at least one tool per paycheck until he had everything that he needed.

The only thing Willy talked about more than tools was the Marines. Willy had hoped to spend his life in the Corps, but he had been discharged after a year for a back injury. Chris thought at that moment about telling Willy what his plans were. He glanced over at the big man and felt a pain of sorrow.

Chris didn’t know if Willy understood, but the man was more than Chris’ boss. He was the first adult who’d given Chris a real chance. Chris started to speak, but Willy turned up the talk radio so he could catch up on his daily dose of politics. Chris sighed and decided he’d tell Willy everything during lunch. “Lunch was a better time to talk,” he thought. Rolling over in his seat, he pulled his sweatshirt hood over his head, leaned against the door, and began his napping routine.

Today’s job site was two hours away. They would be installing the waste line for a new military recruiting office. It was a big project that would take seven months to finish. As he drifted off Chris wondered who Willy would find to take his place.

At five-minutes-to-six Willy punched Chris in the arm. “Wake up!” he yelled in Chris’ ear, causing Chris to lurch in a panic. This sent Willy into an uproar of laughter.

Chris zipped up his jacket and forced himself out of the warm truck and into the cold, crisp air. It was December and still dark outside. A voice came from the trench in the ground they had dug out yesterday, “Hey there feller.”

Chris walked around the corner of the truck and saw Carl’s head poking out of the ditch. No one knew how old Carl was, but they all assumed he was old. His back was hunched, his teeth were all yellowish-grey, and his hair was mostly white. He smoked three packs of unfiltered cigarettes per day and could barely finish a sentence without coughing. He was also an alcoholic and was infamous for disappearing for long periods of time. Willy kept him on the crew because Carl knew everything there was about plumbing. He was their go to guy for pipe work.

“The wind ain’t as bad down here,” Carl said with a laugh and a cough.

Walking down the slope, into the ditch, Chris saw the old man was right. “You weren’t kidding, old-timer,” Chris said.

“Enough chit-chat,” Willy called from the top of the ditch. He tossed the four shovels in and descended into the ditch next to his guys. “Let’s get to digging.”

They worked in silence for the rest of the morning. Twelve-thirty found the three men sitting in a small circle on cinder blocks, as they took their lunch break. Carl magically ate a sandwich and calmly smoked a cigarette at the same time.

In contrast, Willy ate like it was the first meal he’d had in a month. He shoved mounds of chips and bites of sandwiches down his throat. It was like watching trash go down a disposal.

Chris smiled at the two men. “This is a good time,” he thought. “I should tell them now.”

He’d said the same thing to himself every day for the past three weeks. This time he was sure it was going to work. He opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come. It was going to be hard to leave them. They were the closest thing he had to family.

“Good afternoon gentlemen,” a strong voice said from behind Chris. Chris turned around and saw the Marine from the recruitment office. He looked commanding in his dress blue uniform. The Marine wore a white circular dress cap with the short, shiny black bill. His khaki shirt was tucked in tight. Even the creases on his shirt had been meticulously ironed. His blue dress pants were the same. They had red stripes that ran vertically down the outside, center of the pants. The cuffs sat perfectly on the top of his impeccably shiny black shoes. His belt buckle was aligned with the zipper of the pants and the center buttoned flap of his shirt. The belt buckle, the insignia on the front of his cap, and his medals were all spotlessly shined and glistened in the sunlight. He wasn’t the most muscular guy, but he was definitely in shape, with very little body fat. To Chris, the recruiter seemed perfect. Nothing was out of place. He was like a superhero.

“Hey, gunny! Semper Fi!” Willy said loudly and with pride, as he stood up, saluted the recruiter.

“I’m Gunnery Sergeant O’Neil,” the recruiter said, shaking Willy’s hand. I know you guys just started the job, but I wanted to stop by, see how things were going. We appreciate the work you’re doing.”

The Marine was a mystery to Chris. He was confused by how someone could look so intense but relaxed, confident but nice, busy but pristine – all at once. It struck Chris why Sergeant O’Neil had come. Chris cursed himself under his breath for procrastinating.

“Somebody’s gotta do it,” Willy said, with his goofy laugh.

“That’s a fancy uniform you’ve got there,” Carl said, as he hacked. “Sure beats the shit you’re wearing,” the old man said whacking Chris in the leg. Turning back to the Marine Carl added with a hack, “How much did all those fancy medals cost ya?” Chris was confused.

“I thought the government gave those to him?” Chris said. “You’ve got to buy that stuff yourself?”

Carl, Willy, and the Marine laughed. Willy lovingly rubbed the teen’s head. “No, no, no,” Carl started, but was interrupted by a coughing fit. Willy picked up where Carl left off. “He didn’t buy them. He earned them.”

“Those things can be expensive,” Carl said, recovering. He took a long drag of his cigarette and continued. “My brother was in Nam. Came back with a whole bunch of those shiny metals, but left his mind and soul overseas.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the marine recruiter said sadly. With a smile he did exactly what Chris hoped he wouldn’t. “Mine didn’t cost that much,” he said. Then nodding to Chris he added, “I have no doubt you’ll earn a set just like this one. You ready to ship out?”

Willy and Carl looked at Chris in shock. “What’s he talking about?” Willy said.

“You know how when we started the job I went in to the bathroom,” Chris said staring at his feet. “Yep,” Carl said puffing on his cigarette.

“You were gone for an hour. Willy and I thought you were in there jerking off or something.”

“I was enlisting,” Chris said, choking back tears, afraid they’d be angry, they’d yell at him, they’d feel abandon, they’d tell him it was a big mistake.

“You were what?” Willy said astounded.

The words poured from Chris in a rapid fire of emotion. “I wanted to tell you but I was nervous you’d be upset and all since you gave me this great job. It’s not that I don’t like it. I love working for you and everything, but you’re always talking about your time in the Corps and stuff and so I thought, I need something like that too, you know? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love working with you and everything and I’m really thankful, it’s just, it feels right you know.” The dam burst and tears leaked from his eyes. He waited, looking at the ground, sad he hurt this man who’d given him so much.

“How long do we have until you ship out?” Willy said.

“Two days,” the recruiter replied for Chris.

“Well what in the hell are we doing in this hole,” Willy yelled, smacking Chris on the back. “We should be celebrating! Let’s go get a real lunch. Beer’s on me!”

“Beer!” Carl cheered, jumping up from his seat.

“None for you,” Willy said pointing at the old man.

“Well shit,” Carl said, sitting back down.

Willy wrapped his massive arms around the teen and lifted him up off the ground in a huge hug. “I’m so proud of you,” he whispered in Chris’ ear. A wave of acceptance and joy came over Chris. Willy put Chris down on the ground and looked up at the marine. “You’re more than welcome to join us Gunny,” the big man said.

“Thank you, sir. But I’ll have to say no. I’ve still got work to do today,” Sergeant O’Neil said with a smile. Then nodding to Chris again he said, “I’ll see you in two days. Don’t be late.”

“Oh he won’t be,” Willy said, smacking Chris on the back again. “Now let’s get out of here. We’ve got partying to get to. Our little Chris is joining the Corps.”

Climbing into the truck Chris said, “Hey Willy, you know I’m only nineteen right?”

“Yep,” Willy said as he started the truck. “But don’t tell the waitress that or no beer for you either.”