Chapter 2

[ CAVEAT - This is the third warning. Dark stuff follows. Click your browser’s wondrous and mystical back arrow or forever suffer the images of dark (in)humanity. ]

Joint Air Base Lackland, San Antonio, Tx

Checking in, the O’Brien noted that the same two medical clerks manned the front desk for the ‘head cases’. The same Senior Airman offered the Marine the same pleasant greeting.

“Hello, sergeant. The medical staff asked me to escort you to another building. It’s just next door. Please follow me.”

O’Brien’s id immediately ‘raised shields’, sounded klaxons, asserting condition yellow. His super-ego remained centered, as his ego measured the why-fores of the scenery change. The id asserted more control as his paranoia started to kick when the ego surmised that the medicos were seeking different ways to get into his head. The super-ego entered into the mind-fray, warning his conscious self about his paranoia levels. O’Brien’s id retorted to the super-ego ‘just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you’. The super-ego suggested to his ego to lay off the Freudian shit.

“Different building? What is this building for?”

The senior airman flashed, per O’Brien’s analysis, a simple-minded idiot’s smile.

“Mostly admin offices, and doctors’ offices, which is where your appointment is scheduled.”

As an Air Force captain walked by, O’Brien smartly saluted with the appropriate greeting.

“Good morning, sir”.

The air force captain looked startled and returned the salute. The Marine, for reasons unbeknownst to most civilians, enjoyed the confused expressions of the senior airman and the air force captain. The airman slowed down to talk. O’Brien considered that it may, in fact, be difficult for her to simultaneously walk and talk.

“Sergeant, this is sort of a no-salute zone. We are a medical facility.”

The Marine grinned his evil one-sided smirk.

“No such animal as a ‘no-salute zone’, at least stateside. The command, has not posted any regulations. I never received any briefings. You people can’t run your circus any way you want. You are either military or you are not. But I am a peon, so my opinion does not count...”

While he was at it, O’Brien could not see why this would not be a good time to further educate the ignorant airman.

“ ... and I am not a sergeant, which, in the Marine Corps, is an E-5. I am a ‘Staff Sergeant’, an E-6. In the Marine Corps, the difference is significant. But, do not worry about it, the army does titles the same way as y’all. Does not really matter to me, but ya never know when you might have a truly psycho jarhead that decides to pound you because you did not address him correctly. In the Corps, we tend to be a bit over-the-top about titles and how we address each other...”,

O’Brien was still had a slight smile, mostly as an appeasement for his lecture. Again, O’Brien noted a weird expression on her face.

The senior airman thought she was about to melt, thinking that if she wasn’t supposedly engaged to be engaged, she would be dragging this guy into the bushes. Juana Torres, still addled by the brain chemistry of the very young, was captured by the raw male sexuality of O’Brien voice, the way he walks, his posture, and many other things programmed into the foolish minds found in young brains.

Torres’ emotive-ridden estimation of the Marine was that he was ‘a man that lived in a man’s world’. Such thoughts of Juana Torres were just but one example of the many reasons that nature had refused to allow human evolution to develop telepathic communication, as too many males of the species would run screaming from the sound of female thoughts. The species would never reproduce at a sustainable rate.

Senior Airman Torres did, however, at least orally, communicate in a rational manner.

“Uh, okay, we don’t get many Marines around here. We see a few Marine reservists in the area sometimes, but they keep to themselves. So what do you think of Major Erickson?”

“Well, as she is a psychiatrist, she asks me many questions, some of them a bit weird. And I answer the questions the best I can. Otherwise, I do not know anything about her. She is just another doctor, and have probably seen hundreds of doctors and corpsmen during last several years, they all seem to blend together.”

The airman waved her hand, pointing to his ribbon stack.

“Yeah, looks like you may have spent a large part of your career around medical people. I mean, six purple hearts?”

The Marine shrugged, providing a non-answer.

“It’s a living.”

O’Brien was thankful for her silence as they continued walking. Entering a large office on the 3d deck, he noticed the name-plate on the door that indicated ‘Colonel Henderson’, which piqued O’Brien’s interest. Major Erickson was seated in a chair next to a large credenza, adjacent to a small conference table. Above the main desk were numerous diplomas and certifications and several plaques and photos. O’Brien considered the typical POG officer’s ‘I-Love-Me’ wall with an internal shrug.

The Marine, in an almost formal reporting manner, stood at parade rest about three meters from the major.

“Good morning, ma’am.”

Dr Erickson looked up from her folders.

“Hello Staff Sergeant, please find a place to park. My boss will be in shortly. I will step out for a while, but will be back shortly.”

The major exited the office with Senior Airman Torres in tow. O’Brien observed their joint departure, finding that also interesting.

Several meters from the closed office door, Colonel Henderson was waiting.

“Tell us about the conversation, Airman”

“Nothing unusual. He saluted Captain Delgado. Sergeant O’Brien seemed to think that we were being less than military and said there is no such thing as a no-salute zone without a formal regulation or something. He also explained a bit of Marine etiquette and how to address Marines. I asked him about the major, and he said some of her questions were a bit weird, but that he tried to answer the best he could, and that she was just another of the many other medical people he had seen in many years; oh, and that all of you doctors were sort of blending together. I asked about his number of purple hearts, he said ‘It’s a living’ - dunno, maybe that’s Marine humor. Other than talking about the Marines, he does not say much, but he has a nice smile.”

Col Henderson thought for a few seconds.

“Thank you airman. Please get some coffee. We will probably start in less than 10 minutes.”

As she departed, The colonel’s remarks to the major were spoken in a casual, bored tone.

“Well, I have to say, sounds like your typical career Marine. Blue, green, black, or brown; once a Marine gets to that rank they all sound alike and think in a similar fashion. The Stasi and KGB were amateurs when compared to the way the Marine Corps indoctrinates their people.”

“Colonel, what you call ‘indoctrination’ is a principle concern. The environment he has operated in for several years enables and conditions a certain way of thinking. The implications are obvious.”

“Doctor, we will see. Here’s the coffee. Let the airman go in first ... Airman, please take the coffee into my office and offer one to our guest.”

She entered to find the Marine standing next to a window, looking out, but seemingly still unaware of anyone in the office.

“Staff Sergeant, some coffee?”

O’Brien Turned away from the window, smiling at the young woman.

“Thank you Senior Airman.” Accepting the cup, “Do you know, that in the corps, an E-4 is an NCO and a leadership role? Of course, we are much smaller, so depend greatly on corporals and sergeants, and sometimes lance corporals, that lead our fire teams and squads.”

Torres felt another melt coming on. “Yeah, have a cousin that is a medic in the Navy. She says that the Marines put E-3s in charge of small teams. I don’t even rate to supervise a desk. Come see me after your appointment?”

Before he could answer, the major and the colonel walked in, and the Marine braced. “Sergeant, please sit down ... and thank you, airman.” The airman rolled her eyes at the Marine. O’Brien acknowledged with a nod and a semi-smile.

“I had thought that my office would be more comfortable than those little interview rooms. I know that chair is a hell of a lot better than the standard DOD-issue stuff.”

As there was no question, the Marine said nothing, and the colonel continued.

“The major will do the follow-up session, and we are thinking about some other tests this afternoon.”

The major watched her patient closely for any reaction. His body language indicated nothing, his expression was a null, and his eyes did not leave the colonel. The major was concerned that O’Brien offered absolutely zero response. The major longed for heart and skin monitor data.

O’Brien remained centered and super-aware as he noticed a quick inflection of concern that flashed across the colonel’s face.

“Some of these tests may be somewhat taxing and might take a while, so after this session, we’ll take you to the enlisted dining facility for lunch.”

Still no comment from O’Brien, the major became increasingly nonplussed. She wanted him to be slightly stressed about the impending tests before starting the session. It was obvious to the major that the Marine had learned from the first session. She concluded that her patient was too experienced, had seen too much combat, and had too much advanced training to be affected by these simple manipulations. The colonel and the major both knew that O’Brien was just walking barefoot through the park on a spring day.

The discussions for the session were mostly focused on O’Brien’s childhood. They tried, for the better part of the hour, to discuss his abuse, his anger, and pre-military relationships. If a query could be answered with a simple yes or no, that was it. Questions that required more expository were either answered with a short misdirection, or as tersely and minimalist as possible. The colonel noticed his major getting worn down, while the patient showed no signs of emotional fatigue. The colonel called in the airman to take O’Brien to lunch, noting that his major looked relieved the session had ended.

“Airman, Please show the sergeant to the dining facility, then return him here by 1330 hours.” O’Brien immediately got up, held the door for the Airman, then followed her out into the passageway. “Senior Airman, is your chow okay, and are there other choices?”

She thought for a second, “on base, nothing is really good in this area other than a Starbucks. But just off base, there’s a Whataburger.” Her eyes brightened on her Whataburger suggestion. O’Brien decided for off-base chow.

“To my truck Senior Airman Torres. You navigate.”

[writer’s note: Whataburger is to Texas as In-n-Out is to California; both are a revered cultural element in their native lands. Yes, I know that there are now at least one or two In-n-Outs in San Antonio.]

Driving north on the main drag of the base, the airman said, “my name is Juana. Why don’t Marines wear name tags or unit insignia?”

O’Brien smiled at the common question, “we do wear name tapes on our utilities, and some joint-assignment Marines wear tags on UDs. As the old saying goes, ‘we can remember our names, so do not need a tag’. As for unit patches, the squadrons and battalions and regiments and divisions that I know of all have their own emblems, but they are not part of the uniform. Basically, it is an extension of a fundamental Marine philosophy- a Marine is a Marine is a Marine; and every Marine is a rifleman.”

“So any Marine is expected to be able to shoot?”

“Yep. For a very good reason. We do have technical specialists like the Air Force does, but I cannot randomly pull an Air Force mechanic or technician off of his bench and expect him to reliably stand a watch at a combat post or go on a patrol. In the corps, I could easily pull any lance corporal off of his bench, hand him an M16, give him instructions for the post, and walk away with only minimal worries. We are small, and sometimes our air wing squadrons and other technical units get put in forward areas where the troops may fix aircraft and systems during the day, then run patrols at night. It is part of our training from day one in Basic. Every last one of us, from the commandant on down, except the lame and crazy, re-qual with a rifle once a year and gets tested in basic combat skills. You go unk on the range, you do not get promoted, and in some infantry units, going unk could get ya a page-eleven entry.”

“Wow, so even your cooks are considered potential combat troops?”

“Yep. Have seen it happen several times, like places outside the green zone in Iraq. And our women have to do the same stuff. Like I said, a Marine is a Marine. We are an equal opportunity employer. We do not care what your job is, we will be happy fuck up any Marine’s otherwise perfectly good day.”

Arriving at the Whataburger, Torres’ phone sounded incoming.

“Hey girl. What ya doing? ... nada, I’m at the Whataburger with that Marine I was telling ... damn, why not? Have not seem him get deranged and commit any mass killings ... bueno, see ya in 10.” Smiling, “that was my roomie, she’s gonna join us shortly. She’s an x-ray tech. I think the radiation has affected her head. Or maybe all the people in New Jersey are crazy.”

O’Brien laughed, “so you have a ‘deranged’ Marine with PTSD and now you want him to meet a crazy yankee tech with fried brains. What could possibly go wrong?”

The airman’s laughter was loud and unforced. She had become fascinated with Marine doctrine and training and continued to ask questions. At least until a tall, pasty, raven-haired, and waspy-looking woman of about 20 came bounding up to his truck.

“This is Senior Airman Tina Richardson.”

Tina interrupted the second part of the introductions as her eyes went wide and wild after looking at his ribbon stack.

“Oh my God. Like, holy shit. You weren’t lying, baby girl. A regular freaking war hero.”

“Damn, girl. Quit being such a loud gringo. And he’s a normal guy, at least normal compared to you...”

“Gringo huh, my little one? Well he’s a white boy.”

“He can’t be a gringo, honey, he’s a Texan.”

The Marine put his foot on the bumper to extract his wallet from his sock, while enjoying and observing the banter of good friends that were very different people with very different backgrounds, not uncommon for friendships formed among military members. Then it seized him, they were just like Mac and himself. His over-bearing thought was how much he missed Mac, sending him into a sharp memory-retrieval mode.

Mac pulled his pack back together and lifted it onto his back with that unique and strange hitch he did, hoisting 40kg of gear onto his body.

“Okay, changed their diaper and burped them, and don’t get fucking cranked up, but gave the kid Slash’s rifle, with a single mag, to the boy. Claims he knows how to shoot one, and does seem to know how to operate it, but we are making him keep it slung behind him on his pack with nothing in the chamber. Told the guy to save some rounds for himself and his girlfriend. Should have seen the boy turn green...”

“No problemo. Considering this shit, a good idea. And less weight for our guys ... Mac, you gotta help me. Do not let me do something stupid that gets more of us killed. Help me think of what Sergeant Jay would do...”

“Fucking-A, man, that’s been my thought at every step, what would Sergeant Jay do. Just focus, man. Don’t think about fucking donkeys and horses, or whatever you stupid rednecks think about back in Texas...”

“Fuck you, city boy. I am gonna go to your house and make your momma feed you nothing but tacos for a year...”

“ ... Staff Sergeant, are you okay?” The marine felt a gentle tug on his arm and a soft hand on the middle of his back.”

“Shit, sorry about that. You two reminded me of a good friend of mine.”

Juana gave O’Brien a questioning look.

“My friend is doing good, he’s back home in Atlanta. Ladies, shall we chow down?”

The two young women glanced at each other. Juana silently signaled to Tina to go with it and be cool. Tina said, “yeah, been too long since I had some of your high-quality Texas grease and meat.”

O’Brien, re-united and becoming one with his beloved Whataburger chow, added nothing to the banter of Torres and Richardson, O’Brien had not experienced people that were so light and innocent since his intermittent life with the lieutenant’s wife Marcia Jenkins and their twin daughters. O’Brien evaluated the human condition, conceding that the world needs more innocents, however foolish, like Juana Torres and Mrs J, and less people such as himself. As they finished chow, O’Brien did a quick note of the time.

“Ladies, I must re-enter the chamber of horrors prior to 1330 ... Senior Airman Tina Richardson, has been very good to meet you. If you’re in Southern California, look me up and I will introduce you to the Marines that own me; some are from New Jersey.”

O’Brien shook her hand and walked to his truck, ahead of the two young women. As Juana and Tina got up, Tina Richardson offered advice to her friend.

“I think he has been in the middle of too much bad stuff. I can tell that he hurts, but I don’t think he’s crazy. Baby girl, watch your heart. Don’t get into trouble over a man you can’t and shouldn’t have.”

“I know. He’s such a man. I cannot think of any other way to say it. He is just so calm and manly, just like my daddy and my brother. See ya tonight, honey.”

Driving back onto the base, Torres and O’Brien talked about, in a light way if that’s possible, how Marines do small-unit tactics vs other military branches.

“ ... so a lot of it is simply a matter of scale. I do not think that we do it differently because we are necessarily any better than the army, we do it different because the army way does not always scale to small, high-mobility units, and we do not have the resources that are available to the Army, and we seldom operate at a theater level. And that is where the over-lap is I talked about, such as with the 82d Division. We are more similar to airborne and rangers than different. Those rangers are shit-hot operators.”

Juana hung on every word. She found the Marine’s world to be fascinating. O’Brien noted the young woman’s intense expression was that of a math student trying to understand the explanation for a complex equation. O’Brien knew that the kid would not think this was so interesting if she knew that he sneaked up on people and shot them through the head. Turning into the parking lot, he asked her, “should I go wait next to his office or in that first deck waiting room?”

“Let’s go to my desk and I will see when they’re ready.”

Stopping at the Front desk, she called, waited for a few minutes, then called again.

“Yes ma’am, in the main reception area ... He’s sitting down down ... no, about 20 feet away, so probably not ... talked mostly about the Marine Corps, and whether the Air Force or the Army has more stupidity, and small unit tactics, and ... understand, ma’am. I will tell him. Bye.”

O’Brien looked up as she approached.

“Whatever they were going to do has been canceled. Someone will be down with an appointment sheet, then you are dismissed for the day.”

Torres looked around before she sat next to him.

“You need to know. The major and I have a routine we do with some of her patients. I walk them to an office or lab, engage them in conversation, then report the conversation to the doctors. And I did not tell them about your short little lapse at Whataburger.”

“Why are you telling me this? Probably unethical on their part, but you may want to consider that you are being disloyal to your command.”

“I have seen them work on people’s minds for months at a time, the patient never getting better. I am only a mental health tech, but I do know the difference between getting better and moving forward, compared to just walking in place and not having any hope. You are not broken. You are bruised, but you are not broken. My daddy says ‘never go to a doctor to get cured if the doctor cannnot cure himself. ‘nuff said.”

The other airman at the front desk signaled across the waiting area to Torres.

“Just a minute, Staff Sergeant, that may be your appointment sign-off. Returning to the front desk, she pulled out a paper from a manila envelope, her eyes filling with tears as she read the form. Looking up, she saw that O’Brien was watching. Setting the envelope aside, she picked other papers to work on, so the Marine focused his attention elsewhere.

After a few minutes, Sr Airman Torres approached the Marine holding a legal-sized envelope. Torres, with sad eyes, handed the envelope to O’Brien.

“You are released to duty.”

O’Brien caught a glimpse of her wet eyes. She walked back and sat at her desk. O’Brien stood and caught the attention of Torres, smiled and did a half-salute, then walked out. Juana smiled back then looked down, not wanting to see him leave.

O’Brien sat in his truck for a few minutes thinking. O’Brien was dumbfounded. Just like that, they sign him off as good to go. After further thought, O’Brien accepted that Mr. Watkins and his high-level JAG contacts had pulled it off.

O’Brien’s thoughts returned to Juana Torres. He was confused and could offer no rationale for her tears and sudden quiet. The Marine was further confused as he had no recollection of his saying anything derogatory to the woman.

O’Brien started to, out loud, have a discussion with himself.

“Did I do something wrong? Christ on crutches, never did real dates, so how the fuck would I know anything about women?”

Observing activity in the parking lot, he watched people come and go for a few minutes. Then he suddenly came to the realization that he could actually go back home. A quick glance at his watch.

“Fuckin-A skippy. Plenty of time to call the top about orders. Fuck the phone call, gonna just go there right now.”

Joint Recruiting Office, San Antonio, Tx

Striding into the master sergeant’s office without any preliminaries, the staff sergeant was, for the first and only time, happy to be at the station.

“Need my orders, Top. I am good to go. My first sergeant will be waiting with open arms...”

“Hold on son, you’re saying the doctors are returning you to duty?” Seeing the envelope, “Well, show me the damn papers, Marine.”

MSgt Talkins, looking at the first two forms in the envelope, picked up the phone and pressed a button.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. You asked for an immediate notification - he has been released for duty ... yes ma’am, in my hands ... yes ma’am, standing here with an incredibly stupid smile on his face ... aye, ma’am, will be ready for the captain’s signature before COB.”

“How long, top?”

“Sit down, son. We still have many other things. You’re going to be here the remainder of today. And HQMC will not see this until Monday, so the earliest possible to cut orders would be towards the end of next week.”

“Not an issue, my Master Sergeant of Marines; not as if I have a hot date waiting back in California.”

The master sergeant was busy entering data on his computer, not really listening to the young man’s continuation of happy babble.

“ ... my body and soul are hence rightfully returned to the commandant and his minions. Will be good to get back. I dunno know why you like to play rancher - boring shit...”

O’Brien’s last comment registered on the master sergeant’s conscious.

“Hah! In 10 or 15 years, your stupid ass will be old and broken and longing to return to this life. And I saw you this morning - you training to run in some fairy marathon?”

“Nah, top, sometimes I just need to run longer...”

The top yelled, “Hanks! Get the request ran ASAP. I started the authorization.”

Hanks, in a much softer yell, “Aye, Master Sergeant. I always attend immediately to your bellow.”

Looking at O’Brien, “Smart-ass. Would have killed the boy a year ago if he wasn’t so damn smart and competent. May kill him anyway when he pins sergeant.”

“Really?” the staff sergeant was surprised, “that is damn good considering how high ‘01’ cutting scores have been. Almost as bad as the ‘03’ cutting scores, they were starting to get reasonable but have recently been getting just fuckin crazy again. Would hate to be a young 0311 these days...”

Cpl Hanks entered the office with some papers and set them on the credenza next to the top’s desk, addressing O’Brien.

“Welcome back to the fleet, staff sergeant. Got some stuff for your John Hancock.”

As O’Brien was reading and signing papers, Hanks intoned “Ya know Staff Sergeant, I heard about the lack of a hot date. I have a single cousin with really big tits, but she is a royal bitch. And an older sister, not-so-big tits, but less of a bitch. Any interest?”

The staff sergeant set the papers aside as he read and signed each one.

“Define ‘really big’. Are we talkin the standard Texas ‘C’ boobs, or are we talkin major Rio Grande Valley cantaloupes?”

“Difficult to quantify. The problem with a volumetric analysis of tits is that most methods are simplistic and mathematically naive models that will assume spheroid, which is a poor model and not what manufacturers of bras use. Even if we consider the oblate spheroid model, the range of tit shapes can range to fully obovate to clavate. So the problem with a simplistic mathematical model for a tit analysis, is that it is further exacerbated by the changes of shape due to body position and activity, such that the volume also changes. It is commonly assumed that tit volume is constant, but realize that hooters are mostly fatty tissue, surfaced by the milk glands and backed by the pectoral muscles, so if we integrate over a given cross-section, we must determine how to define the interface of the fatty tissue to the muscle tissue, which would be more determinant and...”

“Holy crap, corporal. Only you could make pornography tedious. Sorry to pull my Marines’ minds out the gutter...”

Everyone in the office suddenly stood up and braced when Captain Siccoro walked in.

MSgt Talkins quickly shot up out of his chair, “Good afternoon, ma’am. Sorry about the conversation. We were all a bit...”

“Relax, Marines. Today is an outstanding day. We’re all estatic to be doing this; getting our Marine out of the claws of the medical people. Happy time it is. Do continue without any fear of mass executions and public floggings. And Staff Sergeant, I also have a little sister having significant breasts. Interested?”

The Staff Sergeant, standing at parade rest, and stuttering “Uh, ma’am, uh, well I...”

The captain pointed to his ribbon stack on his chest, “Damn, Marine, all of that metal on your chest, and all those years of facing down the bad guys, and you fall apart over this. Will definetly have to speak to Quantico about appropriate training levels for Scout/Sniper teams ... Okay, top, here’s the MCO for these orders. I’ve high-lighted the sections that need to be specifically addressed for these orders, as this will be, technically, a PCS ... Carry on, Marines.”

She turned and abruptly departed the office, leaving the comically-stunned marines. The captain laughed to herself and surmised that while some Marines may be battle-hardened heroes, all Marines are little boys and girls constantly being caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

O’Brien watched the captain exit and wondered aloud, “top, when are Sixth Marines comin back?”

“Don’t know. They’re scattered all over Afghanistan. But most should have returned by next January, barring any more extensions. But at least being a Marine, she knows stuff and doesn’t go ape-shit every time nothing is heard for a week or two. Not her first rodeo. And on that subject, if you go back soon enough for a Fifth Marines work-up, won’t that be more than four pumps in the sandbox?”

“Nah, its been more like 3.5, my first deployment was only for three months because we got shot up, boxed up, and shipped back to Pendleton. But not a problem, yet another stroll down the streets of chaos. At least I do not have anyone going bat-shit crazy while deployed. Have seen too many girlfriends and wives become basket-cases by the time we return. Shit, one time, they had about a half dozen corpsman at the airfield just to handle the emotional over-load crap from the families of returning troops. Even before we landed, they said a woman had fainted. You would think they would be happy to see their guy. All I see at MEU and BLT homecomings are fuckin crying. Who needs that shit?”

The party mood having been severely attenuated. The three Marines returned, in a workman-like manner, to the realities of the reams of paperwork required to generate a special set of PCS orders and the arrangement of the associated logistics.

O’Brien Ranch

The sun was at the horizon over his left shoulder when the Darth Vader theme played on O’Brien’s phone as he turned onto his ranch access road.