​

Dan looks up at me, the sun reflecting off a lens of his chem mask on the ground. He is cleaning his rifle and humming “Danger Zone”. I think we must have seen that movie three or four times when it came out. He always would call me Goose after that, as if my real name never existed and my baptism into the role of co-pilot to his Maverick was somehow fated. I wanted to be the more serious, less goofy Val Kilmer/Iceman character. My hair was short, spiky, blonde just like his, and I dreamed of being a pilot then – alone in my F-16, constantly moving.

      “Can you fucking believe it? Tomorrow, we are going in. I know we are. Do you know how I know dude?”

      His smile starts small, and then spreads across his mouth and face slowly. I can only guess how he knows for sure. He is almost always right when it come to these sorts of things. I decide to humor him with some wild guess.

      “You got a letter from that Colonel’s daughter divulging the attack plan from here to Baghdad.”

      He laughs to himself, the smile now with closed lips.

      “I did get a letter from her a couple days ago. Surprised it made it through. Fine piece of ass that one was. Wants to know if she can hang with us back at Pendleton when all this is over. Says she has another friend who wants to meet you. Wasn’t sure why you didn’t hit it off with her other friend. I’ll probably say she was a little too fat for your taste. Keep the bitch on her toes.”

      I am looking off into the desert as he says this. I see flat desert for miles out into the horizon, similar to the ocean with one line dividing the sky from earth. Only here it is sand, blowing one way then another, most of the time right into your eyes. You become accustomed to it over time, though it never completely goes away as a nuisance. It is still early, 0700, though we’ve been up since 0430 doing the usual prepping for another day out here. I reflect on Dan’s response, trying not to ponder too much on “ass” and “bitch” or why Alexis did nothing for me.

      “She just wasn’t my type.”

      “Not your type. Dude, not like you were gonna have to marry the chick. She wanted to get fucked pure and simple. Probably figured it was a nice way to send off a soldier who may never come back. Doing her patriotic duty and having a little fun with it.”

      He finishes putting the scope back on the reassembled rifle and aims at an Abrams about half a klick to the south of our camp. I wonder if that tank will roll tomorrow and how it will fare against the Russian T-72s. My back is stiff and sore and I know I must smell like crap. Two weeks without a shower. I realize I am being standoffish and delayed in my responses to Dan.

      “I am sure I’ll have a little something for her other friend when we get back. Just make sure this one talks less.”

      He seems to like this answer, as the full-teethed parting of his lips suggests. One thing I always admired about my best friend was his straightforwardness in regards to women. He never lacked for getting across his intentions from the beginning. In junior high, he was known for two things: kicking ass and getting the girls. I remember one day when he was to fight another toughened twelve year old during lunch recess, he was down on the lower field finger-banging a relatively new girl to the school during third period PE. As soon as the lunch bell rang, I waited for him at the top of the incline. I could see the girl, through the hedges, struggling to get her jeans rebuttoned. I had a crush on her the first day she was introduced into my math class. She wore a Human League t-shirt when we were all wearing either our Van Halen or Def Leppard tees. But her eyes are what immediately caught my attention – a deep, deep blue like nothing I had ever seen before. She was in front of the class fidgeting her hands together, having to introduce herself and say where she came from: Venice, her father moved the family inland because of work, her name was Allie. She took the empty desk next to mine, with turned down head, her blonde hair falling around her face hiding her obvious embarrassment. I would watch her in math and honors English for the next few weeks, but would never speak though I would in dreams. She was a little on the chunky side, her face full and soft.

      “We have to go in before the full moon,” Dan says. He stands up, no longer pointing his rifle here and there at the tanks and humvees. “No one attacks under the full moon. Too much light. Now or tomorrow is best. One week before the full moon. Enough light to see what we need to see.”

      I think about what he is saying, not really wanting to. At this point, I couldn’t care whether we ever go in or not. I still believe we will continue our air strikes against them. Why send in troops when we are hammering them from above with almost no casualties on our end? Every night for the last month, you can hear occasional explosions to the east, our only real reminder of any true enemy existing between us and Kuwait City. I thought I would be more nervous than this, knowing that Dan is probably right and we will be moving soon.

      He continues, seemingly reading my mind. “I hope there is still something left of them to shoot at. Didn’t come all this way not to get some action. And they better not surrender like little bitches.”

      Again, I think of the lunchtime fight from school. I catch gunny sergeant Briggs approaching quickly from my right side.

      “Kroeger, Winterbourne. Head to the mess tent. The Major is speaking shortly.”

      “I knew it. I fucking called it. We are going in”. Dan turns to Briggs who places his dry, knobby hand on Dan’s shoulder. The gunny, who has seemed to become much younger looking than his 27 years since we left Pendleton, looks him straight into the eyes. “We’re gonna teach these bastard towel-heads a lesson they won’t soon forget. And shove a fucking Buddha up their face-down, dead asses.”

      I want to correct him, but there is really no sense in it. For guys like him, most of the guys here, Buddha or Mohammed, it’s all the same to them. Dan grips onto Briggs’ bicep.

      “Semper fi.”

      “Semper fi.”

      They turn and look at me. “Semper fi,” I say, and pick up Dan’s chem mask from the sand.

​

****************************************************************************************

      Dan and I enter the mess tent and take seats next to Harmon and Williams. The room is abuzz with chattering, low-voiced marines. Williams, a lean black guy from Philly, arches forward addressing Dan across me to my left.
      “So Win. What’s the word. We going in soon?” His face is taut and the muscles in his neck protrude.

      “Yeah, we doin’ it,” chimes in Harmon, a rather average looking, brown-headed marine from Tennessee or Mississippi. I can never remember where exactly. His face and hands are always dirty looking, coated in a light tan powder, like he bathed in the gritty sand. These two, Williams and Harmon, were continually coming to Dan ever since we arrived here, somehow getting the impression he knew more than the other grunts. Most of the time, Dan was right. Plus, he had the ability to procure extras of certain supplies which he could turn for a small profit. Williams could hardly ever keep his mouth shut, making him the annoying kind of person – the person who would talk in an elevator when everyone else is quiet. He seemed incapable of handling any length of silence and I often wondered if he talked in his sleep also.

      “Tomorrow,” Dan says, looking forward. He is sitting straight-postured and I barely catch his mouth uttering the word.

      “I knew it. I knew it. Can tell by all the tension around here.” Williams turns “tension” into three syllables. “I hope they don’t have chemical weapons. Nasty shit. Makes your lungs burn, your body twitch, all kinds of shit. I didn’t sign up to deal with that shit.

      Chicken-shit fighting it is.”

      “Chicken-shit,” Harmon echoes.

      “If they had any balls, they fight us straight up. Back in Philly, no one pulls shit like that. You got a problem with someone, you let them know. Then settle it. He has a knife, you get a knife. He doesn’t have a knife, you don’t u-.”

      “-We are not in Philly,” Dan breaks in, still looking forward and focused on something towards the stage area where the officers speak.
“I know we aren’t in Philly. I am just saying what it is like there.”

      “Williams, ain’t nobody give a rats ass about Philly here ‘cept you.” I am still trying to figure out what he is looking at or for. More and more marines filter in. Briggs is talking to master gunny Jackson. Both are smiling and have a liveliness in their eyes like cats though they look more bulldoggish in their postures and frames. I give up trying to ascertain Dan’s fixation and glance around the tent. I notice the mixture of demeanor. Some soldiers sit quietly while others appear unable to quit talking to whoever is around them. One marine in particular, I believe his name is Jones, writes in a notebook. The guys around him are talking and animated. He continues writing, only looking up occasionally, as if searching out a thought or maybe a word he needs.

      Williams finally responds, “I was just sayin. If we were in Philly.”

      “Dude, we are not in fucking Philly. It we were in Philly, we would be eating cheesesteaks or some shit like that and having a beer. We are here and we go with the way things are.”

      I laugh to myself. A cheesesteak would taste good right about now and a beer would top it off. Put the Lakers game on the tube and I would be set.

      “Yeah, Win. If you had some of that Philly pussy, you would wish we were there right now.”

      I openly laugh this time. Dan leans forward, turns to Williams, and says with a face completely devoid of expression, “Stop bragging about your sistahs.”

      I look to Williams and he doesn’t seem to know what to make of the words. I am not sure what to think either, though I know a joke is looming. Dan may have a way of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, but I have never seen it work against him. Williams still seems stunned. After a pause of about ten seconds, Dan adds “Haven’t had black pussy for awhile. Guess we’ll have to work out a trade Williams,” turning his expressionless face slowly into a flattened, internal smirk. Williams relaxes and exposes his bone-white teeth. His eyes take on the cat-like vitality of the gunny sergeants’. “Yeah, trade some pussy.”

      Trade some pussy, I think. What I wouldn’t give for that right now. I glance back over at Jones, or whatever his name is. He scribbles some more on his notepad, still glancing up every now and again in apparent thought. The tent is about full and is definitely warmer inside as I am sure the outside temp is heating up plus all of the body heat in here. The chatter in the room subsides a bit, and all of the grunts are seated. I finally say something to Dan, along the lines of when will they get the fuck on with this. He points out that they are just letting everyone settle down since we all know what is coming. I grunt in acknowledgement. We sit for another ten minutes as the marines settle down and we await the Major.

      “Attention on deck,” Briggs bellows from the stage area. Everyone is caught somewhat off-guard, as we do not expect this. The Major usually enters casually and does not require this sort of protocol. We all stand upright more out of natural reaction than from our brains thinking about it. We look straight-ahead stiff and serious, exactly the way our drill sergeants wanted. From the entry behind us, I feel a light wind and see a couple flashes of light. Next I see the back of Colonel Roger’s neck and the perfectly straight grey hairline squished by two rolls of tan, weathered flesh just above his collar. The skin looks like two rolling waves striking a bleak beachhead. His stagger is wide, his desert BDUs tailored to fit his stocky body as if he were the model for that uniform. Behind him are four other officers: our major, our captain, and two 1st lieutenants including ours, Waselchuk. The much younger lieutenants noticeably mimic the stagger of Rogers. Waselchuk, who we call Weasel, looks ridiculous, and most of us have little regard for him and his ass-kissing ways. He’s not your ordinary marine, or even officer marine, by any means – real scrawny and something of a book-worm from what we hear from others who have dealt with him on a more personal level. Allegedly, he brought some books along about Roman military battles and will often make off-hand comments to those around him about such-and-such General when he dealt with the Persians. Those around him had no idea what he was talking about or why it would even matter nowadays.

      Rogers takes the microphone from the stand. He is flanked by the officers, two to his right, and one to his left. The room is silent. He glares at us, slowly turning his head from center to left back to the right returning to center.

      “At ease, men.” We all sit down in unison, a few just a little later than the rest.

      “Jarheads. Leathernecks. Devil Dogs. Marines. We have a long and noble history of defending our nation no matter the circumstances. Who are the first ones in? Marines. Who do Americans remember most from all our wars? Marines. Who was there at Tripoli, at Belleau Woods, at Guadalcanal, at Iwo Jima, at Inchon, at Da Nang? Marines. Your father, your grandfather, an uncle, a cousin, some American now dead, but still respected by way of his service to this country. You, the men sitting next to you, in front of you, and behind you, all are part of the greatest fighting force our free nation has ever seen. And we have our own battle ahead of us, our own paths to glory and honor and defending the United States of America and the world from the evil enemy we will engage and defeat. Our cause is freedom, not only ours but the people of Kuwait, our friends in this area. We are up against murderers, baby-killers, rapists, men without any regard for civility and decency in this world. Their leader is a madman, much like Hitler, who we rescued the world from not so long ago.”

      Someone begins coughing a row or two behind me. The colonel pauses, and scans the room one more time, either giving time for the soldier to contain his physical reaction or creating more dramatic suspense. It works both ways as the cough is suppressed, and I feel the pride rising in me weighed with the disgust for Saddam’s evilness. This is what I signed up for. No man, woman, or child should have to live under these circumstances. I think of the nameless men who battled at Normandy and in the jungles of Vietnam to save the world from those who would take freedom from others, from the powerless, for their own selfish power-trips.

      “I am proud of you men. I have watched you all train from day one for this campaign. You are by far the most dedicated, the most well-trained, the most focused men I have ever had the pleasure of commanding. All that is left now is for you to take your skills and prove yourselves on the battlefield set before you. Your country will be watching you, will be expecting your professionalism and commitment to defeat and punish this enemy, sending them back to their god-forsaken hell-hole of a country. Your president deserves no less than victory. Neither does your mother or your father.”

      He pauses again, this time scanning from the opposite direction. The energy in the room is intense. I notice my chest expanding and shrinking as I breathe. I imagine returning home after all of this, my mom hugging me with joyful tears in her eyes, my father turning off the television to tell me how proud he is, how he watched for me on news reports. We sit down at the table and I tell stories about the war, about the serious and the funny moments. Mom serves us tamales, as I downplay what we accomplish here. Dad laughs and looks at me with glowing eyes.

      “The man next to you and the man next to him. They are your brothers. They are your family. To him you are always faithful as he is to you. Your success on that battlefield depends on how well you work together and watch over each other. We have trained you to handle any situation you may encounter. It will be automatic and your instincts will guide you. Make us proud. You are marines, first and foremost.”

      He gestures throughout the speech, raising his right hand, and then his left. He points at us, points to the north, and points to his chest just above his heart. I hear a single voice a couple rows in front of me and to the left. It starts with a low “ewww” sound, then into the exhaling “rah.” I start to mouth the sounds as others do around me.

      “Oorah, oorah, oorah, oorah.” The volume builds, as we chant in unison. A few soldiers raise clenched fists into the air, as we hit the “rah”, louder and louder. Some begin to stand and others follow suit. My insides are throbbing more and more with the chant as it continues. We all stand and the colonel’s deep brown, weathered face beams at us. The officers’ mouths him mouths’ crack open and elicit serious smiles, except for Waselchuk. He seems unaffected by everything going on around him. He stands unchanged from the demeanor he had at the beginning of the speech. Maybe he is comparing it in his mind to what a Roman General would have said to his men on the eve of war or maybe he is thinking about how he could have said it better than the colonel. The “oorahs” peak in loudness and begin to fade. I think of mom again, of the day I told her I was skipping college and becoming a soldier. She cried, as I am sure most of my Marine brothers’ moms did. I look over at Jones with the notebook. He isn’t writing anymore and pumps his fist into the air, thoroughly caught up in the fervor.

      “Attention on deck,” we hear. Our bodies immediately conform to correct posture. Rogers and the other officers exit. I feel as one with the men around me, my family.