William Christie 03 - The Blood We Shed Read online

  But hypocrisy was expected. The dead are always the honored dead, no matter how much of a pain they were in life.

  As when Mr. Barlow asked me if I'd known their son. "Just by sight, sir," I said, leaning over the seat to make eye contact.

  Mr. Barlow smiled a little. He was a truck driver who wore his sport jacket, slacks, and tie like a prisoner in a set of chains. "My son was handful in high school, I don't mind telling you. Whenever he was out I was always afraid the phone was going to ring and he was going to be calling me from jail. When he told me he was joining the Marines I was relieved."

  That started Mrs. Barlow snuffling into her handkerchief. The little brother was stone-faced adolescent boredom. The little sister was grade school best dress and ribbons, looking out the window at the unfamiliar sights.

  Mr. Barlow went on, forcing that same strained smile on me, anything to keep silence away from the inside of that van. "We went down to Parris Island for his Boot Camp graduation. Seeing him in his uniform, standing so straight." Then, the amazement still in his voice, "He even called me sir." At that the voice cracked, "My son called me sir." He broke down, sobbing into his hands.

  There's nothing worse than a grown man crying. Dave Peters drove with his face locked on the windshield. I reached over the seat and squeezed Mr. Barlow's shoulder, then turned back around, knowing he'd be even more humiliated if I watched him too long. We'd cut the kid's hair, taught him to stand up straight and call his father sir. Then we sent him back to them in a box.

  When they went down the jetway to their plane the two lieutenants breathed a simultaneous sigh of relief. It was after dark. I said, "Am I the only one who needs a drink?"

  "Fuck no," Dave replied. And then, "You know, it'd be a shame to waste a Friday night in Wilmington in our Blues."

  Dave was a great guy. Black, a senior first lieutenant, and chairman emeritus of the Lieutenant's Protective Association. Which is an informal organization that exists in every unit, lieutenants banding together to assist each other in the face of a hostile world.

  If he was going to lead, I was prepared to follow. "You're on."

  The town outside the gates of Camp Lejeune, Jacksonville North Carolina, had a population of 873 when the base was established in 1942. Now the civilians numbered over 30,000, all of them feeding off the military in one way or another. They all loved to complain about living under the iron thumb of the Corps, but if there were no Marines Jacksonville would just be another blink twice and you're through rural farming hamlet like the others in the area, with the aroma of chicken and pig shit hanging heavily in the air.

  It was a fine town for fast food, car dealerships, pawnshops, tattoo parlors, and adult entertainment. In such matters the Bible Belt yields to commerce.

  But when you added some 40,000 Marines, the vast majority of them male, to the civilian population you ended up with a seriously skewed male: female ratio. This left the women just as snotty as men would have been with the situation reversed.

  And no officer worth his salt would frequent any entertainment establishment where he was going to bump into his troops. The only real solution to this monastic atmosphere was to commute down to Wilmington.

  Where Dress Blues turned out to be magic. The first nightclub we tried the doormen practically threw people out of the way to usher us in. Dave and I both gave each other that look of: oh, yeah.

  It was the only time in my life I didn't have to push my way through a club. The waters just parted before us.

  Dave grabbed a table and I went to the bar to get the first round. As I was leaning in to give the bartender our order I felt a hand lightly touch the fabric of my sleeve. I used my peripheral vision to make sure it was a woman. It was. A sweet looking brunette with big, soft, intelligent brown eyes. She made every other woman in the place look like they were wearing three coats of varnish. And wearing a summer dress. Ah, those girls in their summer dresses.

  "It's irresistible, isn't it?" I asked her.

  The hand shot off and she looked like she'd been caught shoplifting.

  "Go ahead," I said, smiling and offering her my sleeve.

  At first I thought she was going to bolt, but then she let out a little giggle and touched it again. "It's so heavy, isn't it hot?"

  "It's not cool," I said. "But why shouldn't men have to wear uncomfortable clothes for a change?"

  Her eyebrows twitched up, as if she hadn't expected to hear that and was reappraising me.

  "Mike Galway," I said, offering her my hand instead of my sleeve.

  "Jenny Warfield."

  Her touch gave me that little tickle of abdominal electricity. Don't blow this, I told myself. "It's nice to meet you, Jenny. Aren't you going to ask me who I work for?"

  She laughed. "No, I don't think so."

  "Okay, then what about you?"

  "I teach at UNC-Wilmington."

  "Full professor?"

  "No, associate."

  "What do you teach?" Please God, no psychologists.

  "English."

  Thank you, God. My B.A. is in History, but I could have gotten another in English if I hadn't been too goddamned lazy to do the requirements. "What's your area of specialty?"

  "Shakespeare," she said, as if she expected me to start running.

  The girl next to her, who'd been eyeing me harshly, said, "Jenny, we really have to go."

  Great, the helpful friend who was going to save her from the killer Marine. So I said, "I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee."

  She couldn't have been more startled if I'd goosed her. "Tell me what play that's from."

  "As You Like It." So much for knuckle-dragging Marines. I have amazing recall for things I'm interested in, unfortunately none of them likely to make me any money.

  "And I suppose your favorite is Henry V?"

  "I like the two Henry IVs better."

  "Jenny...," the girlfriend said insistently.

  "You can go if you want," Jenny said.

  Yes, the anchor was dropped. I restrained myself from doing a triumphal double fist pump.

  Tired of waiting for his drink, Dave Peters reached over me to get it off the bar, winking as he retired.

  "Is he with you?" Jenny asked.

  "What makes you say that?"

  She smiled. "You know, I've never met a man who wore white gloves before."

  They were sitting on the bar atop my white barracks cover, or should I say hat.

  "Part of the uniform. You have to carry them even if you don't wear them."

  "That serious?"

  "Well, otherwise the ensemble would be ruined." It was so easy; I'd never made that kind of connection at first meeting. We started talking, and of course she got around to giving me the modern dating Rorschach Test, college graduate division. "What's your favorite movie of all time?"

  "Seven Samurai." The eyebrows went up as if I'd goosed her again. "And yours?"

  I was expecting The Piano, but she said, "His Girl Friday."

  Well, what did you know? Not the woman as a mute victim, the woman as the wisecracking superior of all the guys.

  If I was just someone who could quote Shakespeare she'd be interested. But a Marine in dress blues who could quote Shakespeare fascinated her. Every question she asked me had an unspoken subtext: how could a smart guy be a Marine? My unspoken reply was: who the hell would want to be a bond trader?

  We got so into it I can't even remember the number of drinks we had, but it wasn't many. It turned out that neither of us liked talking about ourselves. We talked about everything else, mostly books. And not getting the answers we were expecting only ramped up the electricity.

  I lost track of time until I received a tap on the shoulder. Dave said, "I'm thinking of rolling."

  "Go ahead," I said.

  "You going to get back all right?" he asked, the senior man taking care of the boot.

  "Not a problem."

  "Okay, later."

  Jenny said, "Was he your
ride?"

  "He was," I said.

  "You passed it up to stay here with me?"

  "Didn't even have to think about it."

  It was hard to tell in that light, but I could have sworn she blushed. There's the kind of person who expects everyone to be attracted to them, and then there are those always amazed when someone is attracted to them. I was the second, and I think Jenny was, too.

  "I guess that makes me responsible for you," she said.

  "I'll try not to be too much trouble."

  We closed the club. I was starving, and she took me to a diner she knew. She just had coffee, but I finally got her to talk about her work. Associate professors were the infantry of academia, just one small step above grad students. All the work with none of the pay, job security, or respect.

  I tried not to talk too much about my work, because I knew the hard time she was having putting me together with it. Jenny kept stealing glances at my chest while I was eating.

  "Go ahead," I said, opening my left arm.

  She fingered the silver wreathed crossed rifles and pistols of my shooting badges. "Rifle Expert, 2nd award."

  "Just targets," I said. It was amusing to watch. She didn't like the idea of it at all, but she really thought the badges were pretty.

  I had to fight her for the check, which was also kind of amusing.

  "Would you like to take a drive by the beach?" she asked.

  "Being your slave, what should I do but tend upon the hours and times of your desires?"

  "I'll take that as a yes," she said, her tone letting me know she wasn't buying it but I was still doing okay.

  Just as well, because that was it for my repertoire of romantic Shakespearean quotes. Never much cared for Romeo and Juliet.

  "What do you think?" she said, parking the car. "I'd never walk on the beach at night, but I am with a Marine."

  I wasn't about to say no to anything she suggested—I just hoped we wouldn't run into anyone who might turn that into an epitaph.

  My contribution to the eternal boxers—briefs debate is that you can walk down a beach at night in dark-colored boxers without fear of arrest. Finally something was going right; I hoped the magic wouldn't disappear once I took the Blues off.

  "You're crazy," Jenny said as I stripped down.

  Maybe so, but not enough to go walking in the sand in a $500 dress uniform. Especially one that hard to get out of.

  She gave me her hand as we walked. The sand was still warm under my feet. The surf was beating in my ears. The sky was just beginning to purple at the edge of the horizon. The way the ocean breeze molded her dress against her body sent the tightness in my stomach up into my windpipe. Not kissing her would have been a crime.

  Her thigh was pressed against my groin, and it was no secret how my body felt about that. One hand's fingers were spread in the hair at the back of her head, the other's were following the valley of her spine. The touch of her bare arm alongside my neck, and the thumb hooked over the waistband of my boxer's were enough to make me lose my reason. She wore her perfume so lightly that this was the first time I truly appreciated its full effect.

  "We really shouldn't," she said after the kiss broke.

  Just the kind of statement that leads men to doubt what women say, since I had in fact been invited out to the beach, by her, in my underwear. Her tongue in my ear might also have had something to do with it. "Aren't all the best experiences when you do what you shouldn't?"

  I was kissing her neck, and had slipped off one of the dress straps that had gotten in the way, when my leg was swept and I landed on my back on the sand. Nice takedown. What made a summer dress the world's most erotic piece of clothing was the way the top came down and the bottom came up. I was trying to use my hands to best effect, tasting the salt on her skin, her hair teasing my collarbone as she kissed me, the fear of discovery making it even better and longer.

  Say what you will about those English teachers. There's a volcano bubbling away underneath.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Jenny drove me back to Jacksonville on Sunday night. Whenever the 3-5 date rule is broken, it's incumbent on the guy to either provide reassurance or change his phone number. I had flowers sent to her office first thing Monday morning.

  But before the florist even opened for business, Jim Nichols was at my desk. "Hey, I heard you missed the van back from Wilmington."

  "Yup."

  "Have a good time?"

  I hate talking about my sex life, which I guess makes me un-American. I also knew that whatever I told Jim would be all over the battalion by lunch. Even more reason for keeping your mouth shut. "Yup."

  Jim gave up, and then there was Staff Sergeant Frederick. He didn't want to talk about my weekend. "Sir," he said. "I've just been watching the squad and team leaders laying out the Marines' gear for inspection."

  At first that sailed right over my head. Then I said, "Wait a minute...."

  "That's right, sir. The Marines know that the NCO's and team leaders really care about looking good for inspection. So they wait until time gets short and just dump their shit out and shrug their shoulders like it was the best they could do, knowing the leaders'll have to jump in and do all the work to make it look good for display."

  The thought of U.S. Marines even contemplating doing something like that, let alone actually doing it, put me in danger of having an aneurysm. The thought of my Marines doing it made me want to run over to the armory, sign out a weapon, and kill them all for the good of the Corps.

  But Staff Sergeant Frederick was philosophical. "Sir, every platoon gets this way every now and again. It's only a disaster if they get away with it. Before all you had to do was take away a couple of their weekends and work 'em nonstop. Now we have to be a little more creative. But there's something else."

  "Which is...?" I said.

  "Lance Corporal Dean and Lance Corporal Hampton were an hour late coming back from the weekend. Car trouble," he added ironically.

  On normal liberty weekends Marines weren't allowed to travel farther than a 200 mile radius from Camp Lejeune without special permission. This was to keep them from getting in a broken-down car and trying to make it to New York City or Miami and back over the course of a weekend. Not that they didn't give it a shot anyway.

  I said, "UA is still a violation of the UCMJ, am I right?" UA was Unauthorized Absence, or what used to be called AWOL. The UCMJ was the Uniform Code of Military Justice, the military's criminal code.

  "You're right, sir."

  "Suggestions?"

  "We run them up and disk them, sir. We have to. And not just them—everyone."

  Heavy is the head that wears the crown. "Too bad Dean and Hampton had to fuck up just when we needed a couple of examples."

  But I didn't hear much sympathy for the fellow enlisted. "Sir, this job just isn't that hard. It is not that fucking hard. Everyone knows the rules. When they don't follow them it means they were trying to get over. And that's what got this platoon into trouble, sir, the attitude that every rule is just something to try and get around. They know how to stand a good inspection. They know if their car blows a valve coming back from Myrtle Beach to call the duty NCO. If they won't follow the rules, then we have to teach them."

  For a man of few words like my Staff Sergeant, that ranked up there with Hamlet's Soliloquy. And I got it: it was business, it wasn't personal—just apply the rules. We plotted and came to a meeting of minds. I got two charge sheets from the company clerk, filled them out, and gave them to the First Sergeant. Then I invited the Gunny back to our work space.

  "Gunny," I began, "you know all about 2nd platoon."

  "Only too well, sir," he replied.

  "The way we see it, the Marines are acting like punks because they've been getting away with it. We have to send a message that life only gets easy when they act like Marines."

  "I'm with you, sir," the Gunny said. "What do you have in mind?"

  "Every working party," I said. "The police of th
e company area every day. Every detail, every shitty little job that comes up. Don't bother spreading them around or being fair, just give them to 2nd platoon. If there's anything you've wanted done but haven't gotten around to, we'll do it. And we'd rather do it after the company secures for the day."

  The Gunny looked over at my platoon sergeant. Staff Sergeant Frederick nodded and said, "Penal platoon."

  "You want it, sir?" the Gunny said. "You got it."

  We war gamed with the Gunny, and then he left. I told the Staff Sergeant, "Platoon formation right after the inspection. I think I need to go off on them."

  I'd said it so casually a faint smile crept onto his face. "Is that right, sir?"

  "That's right," I replied. "Today I settle all the family business."

  We didn't spend much time on the inspection. It was what's known as a junk-on-the-bunk, where all field gear is arranged in a uniform display on a Marine's bunk. A good way to check for cleanliness, serviceability, and missing equipment. The Staff Sergeant and I went through like a hurricane, and except for the NCO's and team leaders we turned it into a junk-on-the-floor.

  When we were done the Staff Sergeant called the formation to attention and turned it over to me. I'd been working on my motivation ever since the walk over to the barracks, and I left them standing at attention. It's a misconception that Marines are always addressed using the Boot Camp scream. That's only for Boot Camp or OCS. I spoke just loud enough for everyone to hear me.

  "The platoon sergeant, squad leaders, team leaders, and I have been taking it for granted that you were Marines and men," I told them. "We were wrong. Because whatever Marines do, they take pride in being the best. And men do their jobs. You obviously don't feel this way. You even think the NCO's and team leaders should do your jobs for you, because they're Marines and men. But it's all right. If you want to act like children, we'll treat you like children. Since you can't get to formation on time, we'll hold a special 2nd platoon formation earlier, and anyone who's late for that is UA. Then you can all wait around for the rest of the company to show up on time. And now you're going to be doing a lot more work than the rest of the company. But what do you expect? They're Marines and men, and you're not. Just so we're clear, this is going to keep on until you decide to get with the program. I guarantee you, you'll get tired of it long before we do. Enjoy it—you asked for it."