The boys came out every day to line the fence of Tiger Base near Arishah, Syria, and the Khabur River. It wasn’t supposed to be known that a U.S. Marine base was even here, although it was more a small temporary-building and tent camp. But of course the locals knew. So did the remnants of Iranian-backed militia groups that were left after the backbone of the ISIS caliphate was broken in the region. The Americans wanted the terrorists to know the Marines were there. The base was there to proclaim continued U.S. presence and prevention of the reawakening of ISIS in northern Syria.

The boys came to sell whatever goods or services to the Marines that they could and they continued coming because, in their loneliness and boredom, the Marines encouraged the boys. They bought a few trinkets and they dispensed candy and coins and, occasionally, outdated ration packs—and, of course, smiles and a bit of chit chat. Sometimes a few men ventured outside the fence and played a form of American baseball with the boys.

Although the boys were there constantly during daylight, not being permitted to be there when the sun was down, the Marines came out to the fence on very erratic schedules, ever aware of the possibility of terrorist attack. In fact, the major job of the base commander, twenty-nine-year-old squared-away Marine captain, Mark May, was to be ever mindful of base protection and the possibility of terrorist attack. He took this job very serious.

Still, he had his fetishes, as did a few of his men, which included fourteen-year-old boys. Such fetishes festered in the Syrian desert. And he was ever mindful of the possibility of serving that need too, even out here in a remote region of the world.

Thus, he didn’t discourage the presence of the Syrian boys at the fence line and he often walked the line himself—searching and assessing opportunities.

One day while walking the line he stopped across the fence from a handsome, slim, dark-haired and -eyed young Syrian boy with an ornately decorated wooden shoeshine box under his arm. The boy had smiled at him in a certain way as he approached and had called out, “Talmie sayid alhidha’ alkhasi bika?—Polish your boots, Master?”

Captain May understood Arabic and knew that the boy had asked to polish his boots. It was unusual for one of the boys to be enterprising enough to offer a useful service rather than trinkets for sale. Polished boots wouldn’t be a big deal out here in a remote area of Syria except that this was a Marine base. The soldiers did, in fact, spit polish their boots to a high gloss. They were judged on the shine of their combat boots.

The boy looked down at May’s boots when the captain stopped in front of him and then, with a strategic pause further up, raised his face to look into May’s. The gesture wasn’t lost on the captain. The boy’s gaze had paused at the Marine officer’s crotch. He only stopped briefly in front of the Syrian boy that day, but he came out to the fence at nearly the same time the next day, and the boy was there. This time he was carrying a swagger stick. Again he paused in front of the boy during his walk down the line.

The boy called out the boot shine offer, “Talmie sayid alhidha’ alkhasi bika?” again as the captain approached and May stopped in front of him again. A couple of Marines had come to the fence with him. They had candy bars, which May directed be given to the other boys through the opening between the metal links of the fence. He kept two himself in his left hand. He held the swagger stick in his right and periodically flicked it against his right leg.

After a pause, he spoke to the boy. “Hal turid talmie hidhayiy? ma asmuk? kam eumaruka?—You want to polish my boots? What is your name? How old are you?”

“I speak English,” the boy said, and it was, indeed, passable English. “My name is Labhan. I am fourteen-years-old. Yes, I want to polish your ... boots. I give very good service.”

May smiled at the boy’s declaration that he was fourteen. He would have guessed as much. He was very pleased he was right. “Why is it you speak English?”

“My father once worked at the American embassy in Amman,” Labhan said. “My family loves America. We would do anything for America, Master.” He looked up into Captain May’s face then, and the Marine officer saw what we wanted to see in the boy’s features.

“Perhaps tomorrow or the next day,” Captain May said. “Come again and maybe I and a couple of more of the soldiers here might be interested in your services.”

“I give very, very good services, Master,” Labhan said. “You will be very, very pleased to use me.”

“We’ll see.” May turned to walk away, but then turned back. “You have looked at my swagger stick a couple of times.”

“Yes, Master. I have seen how you strike it against your leg. It attracts attention.”

“Does that interest you, Labhan?”

“Yes, Master. Very much so.”

“Here, Labhan, I meant to give you these.” He pushed the two Hersey bars he’d held in his left hand through the fence and Labhan took them with a smile. The other boys had been given only one each.

“That boy there. Let him through the gate.”

The gate was opened the next day and Labhan, clutching his ornately brass-embossed wooden shoe shine box entered the compound and was directed over to where Captain May was standing, with a solider on either side of him, Sergeant Bill Wallace, mid-forties, ebony back, body-builder muscular to his right, and Corporal Dirk Plavisic, a ginger-haired twenty-five, slim, hard-bodied, and slightly sneering to the left. In front of each of the soldiers was a pair of dusty combat boots.

“You wish to polish these boots for us?” the captain asked.

“Yes, very much, please,” Labhan said, going down on his knees in front of the boots.

“You will give good service?” Captain May asked. He had his swagger stick, which he was flicking against his leg.

“Yes. Very, very good service, Master.”

“You should be paid before you do it,” May said, and at his signal, each of the three handed Labhan enough Syrian currency to make him gasp and knock his head three times on the ground. By this time, he understood that they weren’t talking about boot polishing services, but even with that he was completely overwhelmed with what they were willing to pay him.

“Corporal Plavisic here will stand with you while you polish the boots and will help you bring them into my tent for inspection and approval when you are done.”

With that, May and Sergeant Wallace retired to the captain’s sixteen-by-sixteen-foot general purpose tent, the sides of which had been reenforced with sandbagging.

When the boots were polished, the corporal took up his and the sergeant’s and nodded to the captain’s. Labhan took those up and the two entered the commodious tent. Three camp chairs were set in a semicircle. A plans table was off to the side, and a twin-sized bed was in the background. May was sitting in the middle chair, with Wallace sitting in the chair to his right. After depositing Wallace’s and his boots in front of their chairs, Plavisic sat.

Labhan set the captain’s boots down in front of him and knelt. He knocked his head to the ground three times.

“Be honest with us now, Labhan,” Captain May said. “Did you come to the fence to shine soldier’s boots or with the hope that the soldiers would pay you to take their cocks?”

“I would shine boots if that was all that was wanted,” Labhan answered, his face looking down at the dirt of the tent floor.

“But?”

“But if the soldiers wanted some other service, I would be happy to provide.”

Captain May laughed. “We three would like to be happy,” he said.

When Labha looked up, it was to find the three Marines pulling their tight camouflage T-shirts over their heads, their ID tags jangling, and unbuttoning their flies and pulling half-hard cocks out. All three were buff as could be expected under these conditions. The captain had a nice cock, but it wasn’t as long as Plavisic’s or either as long or as thick as Wallace’s jet-black monster.

“Take your robe off and turn for us, Labhan,” the captain said.

Not being surprised at this turn of events, Labhan rose, pulled his white thobe over his head and unknotted his loincloth, letting that drop and becoming naked. He had a beautiful small, smooth-skinned, desert-kissed, berry-brown body. He was boy enough to be slim, willowy, and narrow hipped, but he was becoming man enough to show some forming up of muscle and to attain an erection. He was on his way to an erection now. The three soldiers were ahead of him on the score.

But Labhan clearly knew the score.

The captain raised a hand and moved it in a circular motion, and, understanding what was wanted, Labhan turned slowly for the men, giving them a full view of the goods.

“I don’t think my boots are polished enough,” the captain said. “We do spit polishing in the Marines.”