It was the last night in the field, after we’d been out for about a week. We’d be hoofing it back to base camp in the morning.

We’d set up in a new bivouac area for the night, having been on the move during the day. A slit trench had been dug away from the tent area behind a screen of bushes. For the necessaries.

Braxton usually didn’t worry about the necessaries. For him, it wasn’t necessary. He forewent canned C-rations on field ops of limited duration, subsisting instead on dry dog biscuits.

Much lighter to carry; available in a variety of pleasing flavors; and with the added benefit of constipation. Some guys just dearly hated to take a dump in the field.

“Milk Bone, B?”

“Only the best, OP. Only the best. Go first class or don’t go at all.”

“You Don’t go at all. Don’t it back up on you?”

“We get back in the rear, that’s what Exlax is for, my man.”

Someone melted half a box or more of Chocolate Exlax into Murphy’s unattended canteen cup of hot chocolate once as it heated on the stove. He was pale and shaky after several days.

But on this last night in the field, the necessaries became necessary for me. And it was getting dark.

The dirt from the excavation of the trench would be piled along one side of it. SOP of common courtesy was to, after you finished your business, grab a few handfuls and toss ‘em in to cover what you’d just left.

I went to do so, and my heart sank as I contemplated the indifference of fate in a cruel world among foul heathens I called friends.

Someone had gone to the trouble of leveling off a spot on the top of the dirt pile, taking a dump on That spot, and then putting a thin layer of dirt over it to look like the rest. That was what I’d just grabbed a handful of. And it was still warm.

We were all in PT gear and in formation. And waiting. The Company run was supposed to have started some time ago, and our new Company Commander had not yet arrived to lead it.

Our Platoon Sergeant Hardass was checking his watch again, and getting angrier by the moment. He and our new CO hadn’t been getting along well.

Presently the Captain Did appear, and as he moved to take his place at the head of the formation, Hardass loudly admonished, dripping sarcasm: “Glad you could make it, Captain!”

“As you were, Sergeant.”

H was openly insubordinate sometimes, and he got away with it when no one else could. It was recognized that he got results, and that counted for a lot.

There was one occasion when our Company had just beaten the last contender to win the Division Football Championship. Very big deal, and Officers and their wives and families had been in attendance.

A cookout laid on for all by Mess personnel, and celebratory drinks afterward.

And Hardass had corralled the Captain: “Somebody give the Skipper a beer.”

“That won’t be necessary, Sergeant.”

“Fuck that! Give the Skipper a beer!”

“I don’t drink, Sergeant.”

“And I don’t give a shit! Your guys just did something great, and you’re gonna have a drink with ‘em to show your appreciation!”

Popping the tab on an offered can, he instructed “Now take the damn beer!”

There was a picture someone took and kept (Mason, probably), of the ensuing tableu:

The Captain standing holding an open can of Budweiser, looking decidedly uncomfortable with Hardass’s grinning gargoyle presence standing beside him looking into the camera with one of his own, and his other arm over Cap’s shoulders, lol.

My first Platoon Sergeant (Hardass) was a study in contradictions in some ways. One of the best Plt Sgts that I’d know in the ten years I spent in the Corps, he was all business during working hours, and demanded our best. We were, therefore, one of if not the best-performing Plts in the Battalion in the field. Perhaps a little more trouble-prone out of it than most, but the two sometimes went hand-in-hand.

As was he himself. There was a small nucleus of us within the platoon whose company he favored when off-duty. Perhaps because we were much like him. And off-duty, he tended to get us into more difficulty than he ever kept us out of.

There was one occasion, however, when he might have taken things a little too far. It went like this:

We were visiting a certain Naval base on a weekend. There were four of us again this time: Gary, Larry, Hardass, and myself.

We’d been drinking lightly at either the enlisted club on base or out in town. It was still fairly early in the day, though, so probably the former.

Three of us had, at any rate. As usual, Hardass had shown no such restraint.

When we got the idea to visit the Officers Club on base and see how the better half lived. Easily done. We were in civilian clothes, and no one asked for ID at the door. We simply walked in, found a vacant table, and got a few rounds. No one paid us much heed at first.

We’d crashed a shindig of some sort, it was apparent. Many many Naval Officers of varying ages and ranks in dress whites, and their ladies dressed to the nines in evening wear. We’d never seen so many ice cream suits in one place before.

A small raised stage at the other side of an expansive stretch of dance floor upon which no one was dancing at the moment hosted a four-piece band playing shoe tunes.

In front of it a beribboned podium.

Apparently an awards or promotion ceremony of some sort in the offing. Maybe a retirement ceremony for a high-ranker, who knew. But interesting.

And Hardass, a dedicated Hank Senior fan (he rarely listened to much else), didn’t like the music. So he took it upon himself to make his way across the floor to the bandstand, where he was soon arguing with the quartet leader. Then made his unsteady way back to us (listing to one side a little), and resumed his seat. Remarking: “They’re gonna slow it down some.”

They didn’t, and he didn’t notice. Gary, Larry, and I exchanged a look. We knew him, and it was time to get him and us out of here while we still could. A fight in some bar with other lowlifes from another unit was one thing. But if things went south here in this more refined setting, we might have trouble we wouldn’t so easily get out of.

And Hardass’s eyes had attained a certain degree of redness now that we’d seen before. And he was looking around now in a manner that he often did just Before things went south and sideways. Time to finish up and leave.

Too late too late too late.

A younger Naval officer and his Very attractive female companion chose that moment to walk past our table. And true to truculent form, H looked up at her admiringly as they psssed, agd loudly asked: “Wanna dance, slut?”

Oh shit! Oh no! NOW we were getting attention.

Her husband, of course, spun on his heel and started back our way. But she, bless her, grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back toward the direction they’d been going: “Let it go. He’s drunk.”

Definitely time to go now, and the three of us got up and were about to pull Him to his feet and get him out of there. But he just had to get in a parting shot as they walked away: “Sit on my face, bitch!”

And that tore it, of course. The husband was making a furious beeline back toward us, and refused to be restrained this time. And a good number of his angry pirate brethren were now heading our way, too. We might be walking the plank soon, and surely someone would be on the phone to Base Security quickly, if they weren’t already.

Gary and Larry yanked Hardass out of his chair and were bodily dragging him toward the door as he cursed and fought to get loose.

I ran interference to try to buy them a little time by placing myself in front of the offended party and keeping him from getting past me. Just continuing to block his way and apologizing profusely. No touching - assault on an officer was no small thing.

Then with the pirate crew closing in, broke and ran and assisted in manhandling Hardass out of there and quickly deciding on which direction in which to run once we gained the outside. He’d calmed down some by then, after I’d threatened to deck him if he didn’t.

Expecting him to behave himself was as pointless as putting lipstick on a pig. We just couldn’t take him anywhere nice.

But come Monday morning, he’d once again be doing his job like no one else could.

Jake was the best friend I had in one unit. And he was as mad as a wet hen when the first night in a new port he was selected as part of one team of uniformed roving Shore Patrol. Their job to wander around on foot in three or four man teams headed by a senior or staff NCO and keep an eye on things. Corral any Sailors or Marines they encountered who were having Too good a time and get them back to the ship before local authorities got involved.

I asked him the next day how his night had gone.

“We had this one sumbitch, OP, gettin’ rowdy. On the way back to the ship he tries to run from us. I tore the knee out of my trousers tacklin’ the bastard. They were my best trousers, OP.

And he kept tryin’ to fight us all the way back to the ship.

And you know, once we got ‘im back to the ship he fell headfirst down a ladder well and broke his arm?”

“He tripped?”

“I might’ve helped a little.”

Back at home base, he’d stolen two fire extinguishers from MP Headquarters one afternoon and emptied them both into one of their official vehicles in the parking lot.

One of them had even been so kind as to hold the door for him as he was exiting the building, seeing that he had both hands full.

That had engendered a new directive from the top: “Henceforward all official vehicles will be securely locked when not in use.”

But his crowning achievement was one for the books.

We’d been in the field cross-training with the mortar crews.

Break for noon chow, mortar tubes left in place and unattended. Near the bivouac area.

I’d looked over to see Jake at one of the 81 MM tubes. He’d cranked it up to its highest elevation and it looked for all the world as if he was kicking and wedging something under the leading edge of the baseplate.

What the hell was he doing now? “Oh shit oh shit oh shit…..more elevation”, I realized, as he picked up an HE round and dropped it in. Could’ve sworn the tube was nearby perpendicular now.

A great many things happened all at once then.

One of the actual mortarmen, sitting nearby on some ammo crates chowing down, heard the round fire. Looked up and took in the situation at a glance. Then dropped what he was holding, leapt from his seat and spun around in one single fluid motion, and sprinted for the tree line behind us. Get in among the trees, you see, and put some tree trunks in between his beloved physical person and what was coming.

He voiced no warning that I recall, but he didn’t need to. Everyone else was running, too. The instinct for self-preservation is a wonderful thing.
And they also were saving their breath for maximum physical effort.

All except for the two Marines in the wooden observation tower. They were a tad further out and had no Time to run.

One of those things had an admirable effective kill radius from point of impact. One had just gone up, and following the laws of physics, would soon be coming back down closer than it had ever been intended to.

When I glanced that way, one of them was now on the ground at the base of the tower and in the princess of running and diving behind a nearby sandbag revetment. He might’ve just jumped out without bothering to use the ladder, but I really can’t say.

His buddy had hit the wooden floor of the tower itself, and now was loudly vocalizing his opinion of the situation. You know, it’s possible, in extremis, to curse and pray with equal alacrity, in between brief pauses for breath and frequently uttered “I’ll Kill that motherfucker!!” And expressed opinions of the MF in question’s morals, intelligence, paternity, and heredity. It can be done.

There were two stars of the show that day that I’d be remiss to not give honorable mention:

Leonard was one. He was a tall and unusually round Marine. Leonard was overweight, slow and lazy, and always hungry - man loved to eat. Nothing comestible was safe around him. One day I’d purchased for an afternoon treat a pair of Little Debbie cupcakes from the vending machine.

Then been so unwise as to leave ‘em in open sight on my footlocker in the squadbay while I made a brief head call. I came back to an empty wrapper upon my return, with the culprit furtively making his getaway:

“Leonard, you thieving asshole!”

“It wasn’t me!”

“You have crumbs on your shirt, you sneaky bastard!”

But Leonard was moving faster than I’d ever seen him now. Others who’d been lounging in the bivouac area, enjoying (not really - C-rats) a repast were leaping two-man pup tents or dodging around ‘em.

Whereas Leonard, lacking in such physical dexterity, was bulldozering Through everything, leaving destruction in his wake. One separated canvas shelter half was wrapped around his torso, midflight, ends trailing, uprooted tent pegs on their lanyards bouncing along the ground behind him. He wasn’t wasting any time.

The other was the Captain himself, which surprised us all. He had ten years or so on most of the rest of us, and in truth could have stood to lose about ten pounds himself.

But he was passing younger Marines as if they were running through mud.

A quick glance around to take it all in took but a moment. Then I realized I was fairly close to the tower myself, and had therefore a bit further than most to travel, so maybe I should be trying to catch the rest.

A loud “Whump!” behind me, and a fleeting thought it’d be better to get hit in the head rather than the back, if those were the options - rather be dead than lose the use of my legs.

Pieces of metal hitting tree trunks make a loud “Tock!!” sound. More of a zipping, snapping sound through leaves. A not unpleasant buzzing as they pass close by your head on both sides.

But, as in a somewhat similar situation once before, I didn’t get a scratch. Neither did anyone else.

Gunny kept everyone off of Jake as he stood in front of the Captain afterward, required to explain himself:

“What the hell were you thinking?” Cap was the most equitable of men - he didn’t rattle easy.

“A shrug from Jake, and “I thought it’d be funny.”

“You thought…….” Ok, he was upset Now.

I was standing close by listening to the tirade. I was a little perturbed myself. Idle thoughts:

I could shoot the dumbitch, right? Just wing him - he was a friend……No, ain’t got no rounds.

Eyed the Captain’s sidearm. Maybe he’d let me borrow it and look the other way for a moment. Shoot Jakey in the foot. Just take a toe - that’d be fair, wouldn’t it?……But he prob’ly ain’t got none either.

And you know, he plumb got away with it like he did everything else. No one hurt, no equipment damaged, or damaged much. So no official report or reprimand. It’d be handled off the record, in-house.

And in truth, it didn’t take too long for most to See the funny side of it. And Jake was actually promoted to Corporal a few months later.

And we all knew the Captain was up for promotion himself soon. My thought that it’d be easier to let it slide than for him to have to explain how something like that had happened under his Command, and with himself present.

But a number of near misses due to friendly fire were swept under the rug that way. If no one was hurt, and no equipment damaged in a way that could otherwise not be explained; no harm, no foul, and no higher ups needed to know.

A storm blew in that night, bringing with it torrential rain. Then the temperature plummeted to below freezing overnight, and everything was covered in ice by morning.

We shook the ice off of the shelter halves, packed up all of our gear, and waited for the trucks that had been scheduled to pick us up. They arrived two hours late. In the interim, the Captain had Gunny close-order drill us on a hard-frozen dirt road to keep us from freezing half to death.

Jake? I picked up Corporal not long after he did, and we had some good times together for most of another year before both being reassigned.

The last I heard of him, he’d gotten out eventually and risen to Chief of Police in a small southern town.

This the guy who didn’t Like the police, lol. The world goes ‘round and ‘round.

I am coming down with something. I have a cough starting up. I take a shit ton of Vitamin C, so I decided to crawl to the pharmacy for cold meds, and pick up the essential Peanut Butter Cup (because I’ve never walked out of a store with out one).

I decided I am NOT changing out of my Jammie’s. I have long pants and a tank top and a TShirt on. They can deal. So, I slapped on a mask, got out of the car, went in and got my candy, prescription, & cold meds. Got it all done no no one even looked at me.

Of course, it wasn’t u til I got home that I noticed my Jammie’s & T-shirt were inside out.

It’s funny as hell. But it’s my local pharmacy. 🙄 😂

It had been a quiet Sunday, and then we got a call. I was driving, my Captain filling in for the Lt in the shotgun seat.

All aboard, and I gave her the gas to exit the engine bay. And at the same time pressed the remote to close the open overhead bay doors behind us as we left. Those old wood panel doors closed slowly - plenty of time.

An unfortunate miscalculation on my part.

I stopped and leaned and looked out my window at the broken pieces of metal, glass, and plastic strewn the length of the apron behind us. The Captain was enjoying what I assumed a similar view in his side.

The light bar and every topside light that Had been on the top of the truck no longer were.

There were pieces of wood in the mix, as well. I’d taken out part of the door, as well.

“Damn it, OP!”

Note to self: “Don’t do this again.” Gonna be hearing about this when we get back.

I’m a prophet: just seem to know things:

“Got anything to say for yourself, OP?”

“Well, Sir, you know half of those lights weren’t working right anyway. They Needed to be replaced. You remember I’ve been saying that.

And that door was pretty old, Sir. Now we’ll get a new one.”

“OP?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Get out of my office.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“OP, wake up” from Larry. “You gotta come see this”, he continued, with a happy grin.

Now, our not always beloved Platoon Sergeant (Hardass) had a room/office in the barracks with a rack in it to call his own; where he slept.

The rest of us dwelled in open-fronted cubicles in the squadbay; individual racks divided by ranks of metal wall lockers.

I got to the scene of the crime being committed, and saw that Mason was already at work with the fancy camera he had.

Hardass had stumbled in three sheets to the wind again. Not unusual for him. And instead of making his way to his own rack had climbed into the first one he’d come to. That it was already occupied had escaped his notice or consideration, in his current condition. And he was now spooned up tight against Crenshaw.

Crenshaw was in no better shape sobriety-wise than H was, and so didn’t know he now had a bunk mate pressed tight up against him all lovey-dovey. Both out cold and not gonna wake up for anything short of a gunshot.

Crenshaw was in his skivvies, but H still had his street clothes on. No matter - we could make it work. Just gently and subtly rearrange the tableu in minor ways for a little variety. Make it appear that the two of ‘em had maybe been being more friendly than the norm.

“Put his (H’s) hand on his (Crenshaw’s) crotch” Ralph suggested quietly.

Larry was offended by this: “Crenshaw’s a friend, dude! We can’t do that! What’s wrong with you?”

“Yeah, you’re right. Sorry.”

“Just drape H’s leg over ‘im” Larry suggested instead. “Make it look like they was porkin’.”

“‘At’ll work” agreed Mason.

Someone suggested unzipping H’s fly and pulling his John Henry out for a little more manufactured evidence, as I recall. But that idea was quickly abandoned when a more conscientious soul stated flatly: “Ain’t nobody here wants to be touchin’ that man’s dick. You wanna see it so bad, You do it.”

“Pass.”

In short, we got lots of nice pictures. They were a big hit within the platoon after Mason got the film developed. Copies sold well (Mason was always looking to make a buck), and they got traded around like playing cards.

And maybe we could, with the threat of disseminating them more widely, blackmail Hardass. Make him behave himself the next time he started to abuse our young selves too much.

We should’ve known that wouldn’t work. Our supermodel inevitably found out before long, and a few of us were summoned to his office:

“Here’s what’s gonna happen now, you shits. I’m gonna have every damn copy you made in my hands before the end of the day. And I Better get all of ‘em.”

“What makes you think We had anything to do with it? Mason asked, offended.

“You got that damn camera, Mason! Always takin’ pictures of ev’ry damn thing! And don’t be standin’ there lookin’ all innocent, OP. I know you had a hand in it. You’re a little smarter than the rest of these assholes, but believe me - that ain’t sayin’ much. Anytime weird shit goes down around here, you two and your girlfriends are mixed up in it.”

Mason wasn’t happy. To get the pictures back, he’d have to give everybody their money back. But he agreed to eat that loss if Hardass would be willing to pitch in a few bucks to help cover production costs. Film and development and such. Seemed reasonable to Him. Mason didn’t always think things through, but he had a pair on him, no denying it.

But Hardass had a counter-proposal: “How about I don’t give you shit, and I kick your asses instead?”

“End of the day, you got it.”

But Mason still held some back for his own amusement, I’m sure. And he still had the negatives anyway. Those hadn’t come up.

The matter was done with and forgotten. No further repercussions, and no further mention of it. Which should have made us suspicious.

We had a two week training operation coming up in another country, and no sooner had we boarded ship and gotten underway when Mason and I were informed that the two of us had been selected for scullery duty. At Hardass’ suggestion - he insisted it had to be us.

Scullery duty on dry land is no picnic. On a decrepit rust bucket soon to be decommissioned, misery is amplified considerably. Daily, from early in the morning until late at night, we were sloshing around in dirty water due to a faulty floor drain that barely worked and we couldn’t clear.

Then we hit rough seas, as we always seemed to.

Then the scullery’s exhaust fan broke down and we were working in billowing clouds of steam in temperatures that never dropped below 110 degrees.

Sleep deprived, bleary-eyed, losing weight, and with headaches that wouldn’t go away, following the bags of garbage we threw overboard would have been a mercy.

And Hardass, for one of the few times either of us could remember, was cheerful and happy when he’d occasionally check in on us and tell us what a great job we were doing. Smiling. He even walked away whistling once, lol.

He seemed to hold the two of us primarily responsible. We thought we’d been forgiven, but he’d just been biding his time.

It has been years ago now, but many Christmases ago my husband and I went to his grandma's house for Christmas dinner.

We had had our fill, and were leaving for the night when I saw a small cat walking down the middle of the street, approaching us. My husband saw her too and ran over and picked her up.

She immediately began purring and was trying to make biscuits. He commented on how skinny she was and when I petted her I could feel her spine and every rib as I ran my hand down her back.

We took her home and gave her a great Christmas dinner of dry cat food and tuna, which she devoured.

She had obviously been an outdoor cat, as she would refuse to stay inside and would sneak out whenever one of us opened the door.

She would always come home and would meow at the door to be let in.

Over the next few months she gained weight, and we noticed her belly seemed "bigger" than normal.

Ohhh CRAP. BITCH GOT PREGNANT.

I took her to my veterinarian to get checked out, have her spayed, and any kittens aborted. We aren't rich, and really couldn't afford 6 to 10 new mouths to feed.

The Vet called me later that morning:

"Yeah, we put Sandy under anesthesia and then shaved her stomach for surgery. That's when we found a previous surgery scar. She's not pregnant. She's just fat. And she's already spayed. You can pick her up this afternoon. No surgery so no charge for that, just a boarding fee for the day."

$15 to find out I have a fat ass cat.

When Queen Elizabeth died in 2022, my favorite "misquote" was when a presenter said:

"Upon the death of his mother, Prince Charles is now his majesty, the Queen."

Honestly, I think he should have run with it.

The Fam gathered for dinner at our younger daughter’s house for Christmas Eve (Momma did the ham).

The kiddos ransacked their gifts. Pronounced them acceptable, lol.

The boys afterward expressed their intention to come home with us.

“You know we’d like that”, I replied, “but tomorrow you’ll see your Other grandparents. They want to spend some time with you, too.”

“But we want to go home with you!”

“If you come with us, how will you get the presents They have for you?”

“…..Oh, yeah” from Jack.

“Goodnight, Grampa” from Littlest.

How easily swayed, the greedy little beasties. Loyalties wavering like the flame of a candle in currents of air through an open window. Purchased with mere baubles.

Speaking of baubles, their parents recently gave them tiny collectible Minecraft figures. Predictably, they ended up strewn across the floor. If you think Legos hurt - these damn things are made of metal. I’ve been wearing shoes Inside the house. And I’ve been looking online for some metal jacks sets to send home with them.

As we’d been getting ready to leave at the end of the evening, their older sister Sugar came from her room wearing a facial mask she’d decided to try, though her complexion needs no help.

Littlest had never seen her in one. He took one look, screamed in terror, and ran and hid behind his mother.

“It’s ok, Baby. It’s just your sister.”

“That’s not my sister!”

😂😂

So, I worked in law enforcement for 18 years both on patrol and as an investigator.

I only had ONE time I needed to use the "photo lineup."

It was a disgusting case of felony cruelty to animals where the owners moved out of their house and left their dogs in the backyard, chained up, to starve to death. In DECEMBER.

They had been renting their home until they moved out with no warning. Apparently, they moved out in NOVEMBER, and the leasing company was going to move on formal eviction after 90 days with no payment.

Their 2 dogs didn't have a chance, and I found them both dead, chained up, in the backyard.

I created two lineups of 6 faces. One for each of the suspects in the case. I separated the two staff members of the rental company who dealt with my suspects, and presented each of them with the line ups.

Both identified my suspects, and I just asked them to circle the picture of the person they identified and write a statement below along the lines of "this person rented the house at 1234 address."

I went before a judge with my evidence and arrest warrants were issued for both suspects. Bond was set at $100,000 for both due to the egregious cruelty of situation.

Both were arrested. Both pled guilty. And both did not spend enough time in jail.

Merry Christmas, y’all! And you’uns have yerselfs a Happy New Year.

So, I was wrapping presents tonight. Okay I used gift bags. Hubby's present didn't fit in any of them. The bag was either to small or wayyyyy too big. Said fuck it. Went into my bedroom and gave him his present.

What did he get? Electric blanket with 5 hour timer, 6 heat settings. Fleecy feel.

There are times that try mens’ souls, sure enough. Try the rest of ‘em, too. But you reflect afterward that you’d actually had a good time, and that you’d do it again.

There were situations that would arise sometimes that had to be dealt with. It was inevitable. Sometimes minor, sometimes more vigorous in terms of the number of personnel involved: “NOW it’s a party! Ee-haw!”

Three of the latter immediately come to mind. Two of those were ably orchestrated by our Platoon Sergeant Hardass, though he hadn’t been present for the third.

Not surprising - he had a certain effect on people. WE didn’t like him much upon occasion. And much of the time he seemed to hate Us.

A small group of us within the platoon, anyway. And me in particular sometimes, it seemed to my affronted young self. We were both from Back Home in the hills, though, and therefore contrary by nature.

Let’s see…….

There was Incredible; a young Marine who looked older than he was, hardly ever spoke a word, and always had an amused smile on his face at some joke he apparently got that no one else did.

Dog, who had a propensity for barking at people and howling at the moon.

Mason and his camera that got us into trouble once.

Ralph of the thrice broken nose. That mostly from just not getting out of the way in time - he wasn’t too bright.

Larry, who really should have hung out with a better class of people. But he liked us for some reason.

Gary, a barker and howler himself. But that little bastid would Bite you, too. The Staff Sergeant in charge of the guard shack found that out the hard way one night, as they were trying to get the G-man in the cage. Stitches had been required.

I’d run into one of the Camp Guard guys not long afterward (we knew each other - separate incident), and he’d inquired about Gary:

“Your boy doin’ ok? You know - the biter?

“Yeah.”

“There’s somethin’ wrong with him.”

“I know. How’s Staff?”

“He’ll live. But get this - he asked Doc if he should get a rabies shot, hahaha! You believe that shit?”

“No he didn’t.”

“Swear to God.”

Gary was busted back down from PFC to Private for the second time. He’d managed to retain his new rank for an entire two weeks this time, a personal best.

One of us would sometimes sing to him in passing, you know. When we were feeling adventurous, and there was a ready escape route at hand: “🎼Once…….Twice…….Three times a Private…..🎼

“Damn you, OP!”

…….Could you retire as a Private? None of Us knew.

A few others who drifted in and out.

There was myself.

And then there was Hardass. On duty, the man had no friends. Off duty was another matter. For reasons that he himself might be hard put to explain, he seemed to prefer the company of our small group of oddballs and outcasts. Maybe because we were as much assholes as he was.

And so it was; the night of one of the three more memorable occasions mentioned. There were only four of us out together that time.

Was it Ralph?…..No, it was Dog.

Gary.

Hardass.

And me.

It was the Okoura Club, I believe. You got to the bar by way of an interior stairway opening off of the street. Not a particularity big place, but then most places in the ‘Ville weren’t.

Janie (not her real name - don’t remember it) was tending bar that night. Beautiful Eurasian girl in her twenties. She was one of those who was a useful source of good information. If we wanted to know what training we’d be doing in coming weeks, we’d ask her or one of several other barmaids we knew in different places. They usually knew our upcoming schedule before we did. We were continually being adjoined to watch what we said and talked about in those places, but it seemed the same restriction didn’t apply to higher-ups for some reason.

Hardass had I had been sitting at the bar when he needed to make a head call. Dog and Gary were in there somewhere.

That particular bar wasn’t fancy, but it was cleaner than some. Still, it usually smelled of stale spilled beer, with a slight odor of stale piss and a stronger odor of pine disinfectant from the direction of the head (restroom).

As His HardHeaded As Well Honor (you know who) was coming back from that direction, someone else slid onto his vacated seat.

And you know, we’d been having such a good time. I suspected that was about to change.

A tap on the interloper’s shoulder by Hardass, and “You’re in my seat.”

What was this? He was being Civil? Wasn’t like him. Drink up, OP. It won’t last long.

Ignored, he tried again: “I Said you’re in my seat. Get out of it.”

“Fuck off.”

And away we go! H hit him hard enough to knock him off the barstool. And it quickly became abundantly evident that at least half of the Marines in the place were friends of his. We were getting mauled.

It was a Custer situation, and now as then, our fearless shithead leader had gotten us into it.

If you’ve ever noticed, if you get bodily thrown/slammed into a wall hard enough, you seem to kind of stick there like a cockaroach for just a moment before sliding down it.

But, you know, I’ve never been big, and at that time I was in good fighting trim at a hundred and forty pounds. And where had that big degenerate come from?

You can get pared down to just what you need and nothing more if you’re worked hard enough. There was a rumor within the battalion that we had trucks to ride in, but you couldn’t’ve proven it by most of us, since Command preferred we walked everywhere we went, and carried all of our gear and weaponry along with us when we did. Saved on fuel and wear and tear of machinery.

Gary and I, of course, Knew they existed. We were assigned guard duty at the motor pool often enough. For reasons of which we were both entirely innocent, of course.

“This is your fault, OP.”

“BullShit it’s my fault!” A dirty lie of the lowest sort. It was him every time.

“Hot night, OP.”

“Yeah.”

“Guess we should make our rounds.”

“Yeah.”

“We gonna make our rounds?”

“No.”

I’d pass the time by telling stories from Back Home. He’d list out loud by name people he wanted to kill. I was used to it.

Hardass was down in a corner getting the boots put to him by then. No less than eight guys were enjoying themselves at his expense. Those who weren’t kicking and stomping like they were auditioning for Riverdance were on their knees shoving each other out of the way to try to land punches on his face. He could annoy people like nobody I’d ever known.

Dog had been hosting his own party, and Gary was likewise occupied.

On my feet again and on the run. If I could get some of H’s new friends involved in kicking My ass, he could get back on his feet.

Worked like a charm.

🎼It’s a long and winding roooad🎼

It can be a long walk back to Base and then your Company area, too, when you were kind of helping each other along.

🎼Lean on me……when you’re not strong…..🎼

We parted ways at one point: “I’m gonna get this prick to Medical” from Gary.

“Woof woof”. Weakly.

“Shut up, Dog.”

“Whine.”

“You an’ me, OP,” from Hardass a bit later, “we’ll go back out an’ find them assholes - git some payback.”

I spit out another mouthful of blood, and: “We done got our asses kicked once tonight. That ain’t enough for you?”

Felt like a molar was loose. Hoped I wouldn’t lose it.

“Yeah, you an’ me………I’m jist gonna rest a little”, and he passed out. He had the discernible pattern of the partial sole of a combat boot centered on his forehead. It reminded me that I’d soon need a to buy a new pair.

I squatted down, got his arm over my shoulders, and straightened up: “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”

It was a nice night. Pretty quiet. The evening out had gone well, and now the various friends were homeward bound.

A buddy and his girl were beside me at a red light. I looked over and caught his eye. Gunned my engine a little: “Wanna go?”

He nodded and smiled, and started revving it up. The light changed, and he took Off!

I proceeded at a sedate pace. Passed him a little further down, pulled over by the PD officers who’d been sitting watching traffic. HE obviously hadn’t seen ‘em until too late.

In retrospect, it was a lousy thing to do to a friend, but it was funny at the time, lol.

X came to me with a quandary once. He’d attended a concert, and someone he knew had given him money to buy some band t-shirts for him after the show. 4 shirts, if I remember right, priced at ten dollars each.

Only they’d been available for five dollars each.

“Should I tell ‘im, and give ‘im back the twenty bucks?”

“You know you should.”

“You give him back his money?” I asked a day or two later.

“Nope. Told ‘im they’d been fifteen dollars each, and he gave me another twenty.”

“That ain’t right, X.”

“He’ll never know. So he’s happy, I’m happy; what’s the problem?”

I loaned X the miser my last ten dollars once when he Said he was broke. And found out not long afterward that he’d had fifteen dollars of his own all along.

When asked why he’d cleaned me out when he Had money, his answer was a simple and honest one: “Well, I didn’t want to spend My money.”

But he gave me back the ten he owed. I kind of insisted on it.

Then immediately asked to borrow fifteen dollars.

“Now, why would I do that?”

“Look, I just paid you back the ten I owed, so now you know I’m good for it. So can I borrow fifteen dollars?”

I thought it over, and that seemed to make sense. So I gave him another ten and a fiver.

It only occurred to me later that I’d just given back the ten that he’d paid me back with, and another five besides. I’d been had again.

X had his own ideas about finance, lol. Where money was involved, ethics didn’t enter into it.

Figured we could all use a laugh today.

We had a guy in one unit who didn’t like needles. Big strong Marine, but he just ……couldn’t. Pass out every time.

Which was a problem for him during every pre-deployment work up. We moved around a lot. So much so, in fact, that a letter from home once took a year and a half to catch up to me.

And each time, we were given a whole series of inoculations suited to whatever part of the world we were going to. Anything you can think of, pretty much.

Got to see a lot of different places that way.

The record of those was kept on small yellow cards maintained in your medical records, attached to each other by perforation to fold up accordion style. As time went by, the attached cards, unfolded, would get longer and longer as they were updated and redone. I still have mine, or my last one. Unfolded, it’s nearly as long as I am tall.

So we got a Lot of shots, and you got used to it. Well, except for Jerry.

On one occasion, there were to be a total of 24. But out of mercy, perhaps, they were to be administered in two sessions on two different days of 12 inoculations each time.

The Corpsmen had an efficient system for doing it, in pairs of two set up on both sides of a narrow aisle down which you’d step from station to station. Step up to the first station, get a jab in each shoulder, then step up between the next two needle jockeys and get stuck again. Repeat repeat repeat repeat repeat.

Some of the Corpsmen Tried to be as gentle as time permitted, but there were a lot of Marines to get through, and some just kind of tossed the needle into you like a dart and pressed the plunger. Next!

Except for Jerry.

Jackson and I were stepping with him from station to station to catch him each time his knees buckled and hold him up.

“You ready for this?”

“No.”

“Thought so. It’ll all be over soon.”

“Screw you, OP.”

“That’s what your Mama said. Ok, here we go.”

First station, double jab, his eyes rolled back in his head, “And there he goes!” We held him up until he came to again a few seconds later.

“Welcome back, Jer!”

“Fuck you Twice, OP!”

“Your Mama And your sister. And here comes number two.”

We were pretty much holding him up all the time by the time we dragged him through all six stations. His knees were pretty wobbly.

We guided him to a chair out of the way and sat him down to have some time to recover.

“See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“I don’t like you, OP. I ever told you that?”

“That’s a fine way to talk to somebody just got done helping you. You want a lollipop, you big baby?”

“How about I just kick your ass?”

“You’d have to catch me first, Jer, and right now I don’t think you could.”

We were aboard ship and underway on a deployment.

And the first night out……What was this?

“Why are you sleeping with a Teddy bear, Mitch?”

Light brown in color. Moderate in size. Little black eyes. A cutie.

Mitchell was betrothed, you see. He and Melody were to be wed upon our return. She had, as Mitch explained, given him the bear to take with him to remind him of her in the interim. Gag gag.

We knew Melody, and we liked her. But she was, in a sense, about to take Mitch away from us. And she should have known better.

A Teddy bear? What would other jarheads think if word got out? Next thing you knew we’d all be accused of wearing pink silk undies and reading romance novels. Dirty lies! The bear had to go.

The execution took place the next day. Mitch not in attendance, of course. He probably would have objected.

He later found his erstwhile companion with a blindfold covering his eyes and his arms tied behind his back. Hanging from the noose around his neck.

A hole had been punched with a pen to permit a cigarette to be placed between his lips. Every condemned man/bear is permitted a last one.

Asked if he had any last words, he’d made no reply. Stoic to the end.

Dinnertime at the fire station. The crews gathered at the table in the common room.

Everybody eating their own grub this time.

Sometimes one of the guys would cook for the crew. That could be hit or miss, though. We had one guy who put so many hot peppers in everything he made that it was all you could taste as your taste buds screamed for mercy.

Another, bless him, who had a love affair with garlic so intense that his ancestors must have had a serious problem fending off vampires in some distant past. We all put our collective foot down when he tried to introduce us to homemade garlic ice cream. Enough was enough. He was a little annoyed, but we did not care.

I’d been mildly vexed recently myself when my honesty had been questioned after one particular story. Wouldn’t have been a problem if it Had been a lie, but it was entirely true (I’ve had an interesting life). No need to make stuff up when the truth is so much weirder. “Just the facts, Ma’am.”

And I hadn’t forgotten. Ok, you disrespectful animals, if that’s the way you want to play it, let it be so. It was a matter of honor. Mine had been impeached.

The subject of football had arisen, and the game was on, so to speak.

“I had a cousin Back Home” I inserted, “who was a Hell of an offensive lineman in high school. Scouts were so impressed that a full ride scholarship was offered to the state university.”

That got their attention.

“For real?” Nibbling at the bait.

“For real, Javier. Kid was Brutal, dude!”

Everyone Very interested now. Set the hook.

“Big as a house, ugly as sin, and just plain Mean, she was.”

“…….Wait a minute - She?”

“Yup. Poor girl was so ugly I don’t remember she ever had a date. Nobody had the guts to ask her out. Afraid of her - had a nasty temper. And you don’t wanna date a girl you know can beat you up.”

“Bullshit! You’re lying again.”

“Am not”, and I managed to look hurt rather than offended. “Why you wanna call me a liar, Carl? I thought we were friends. Anyway, she would’ve been the first woman on a mens’ college team in the history of the state - she really was that good.”

And now they’re buying it. I could be convincing. Arab rug merchant somewhere in my distant ancestry maybe. Reel ‘em in.

“Would’ve been?” from the Lt. “What happened?”

“She turned it down.”

“Turned down a sweet deal like that? Why?!”

Time to land the little fishies.

“They told her she’d have to shave off her beard, and she wasn’t about to.”

Silence for a moment.

“You sonofabitch!” from Sanchez.

“Should’ve known!” from Javier.

The Lt was so disgusted he gave me a glare and picked up his plate to go eat in the kitchen.

“…..Ask you somethin’, OP?”

“Sure, Carl. What?”

“Do you lay awake nights makin’ this shit up, or does it just come natural?”

“It’s a gift.”

Call Me a liar, well…..ok.

Hello FUckers, it's been a minute! I wanted to poke my head in the school door, wax a little philosophical, and wish you all the blessings of the season.

I've had a helluva 2024, how about you? I have learned so much about myself physically, emotionally and spiritually, and liken my usual year-end life assessment to my lemon tree with the bigger-than-giant lemons. I'm a legacy FUcker, #142 I think, so some of you may remember them, but probably most not. For the noobs here, I bought my house five years ago. My backyard had two mature citrus trees, one being a lemon which produced ripe fruit at Christmas. My first year saw an ample crop of normal lemons, Eureka I think. There were about 4 dozen in all. Year 2 brought only 6 lemons, normal size, but in year 3 there were only 3 lemons - HOWEVER - they were big! The largest weighed 5 pounds and measured 7.25 inches across when cut diagonally. The juice was amazingly sweet!

This year, 2024, I have a crop of 29 GIANT lemons! I have selected the biggest one to symbolically pick on New Year's Day to start 2025 with a bang...and to make Lemon Drop martinis! I’m guessing it is a minimum of 7 pounds and I'll need a lot of Grey Goose vodka!!

Here's the moral of my lemon story vis-a-vis the year's end: life can be normal, and then it can morph into myriad of experiences and changes, good and not-so-good, which are inexplicably tied to your well-being. But if you remain positive, pray, learn, grow, be loyal, kind and giving, and most of all love fiercely, you will be rewarded as I have...and I'm not just talking in lemons.

This year I beat breast cancer and I recovered fully from a fractured back. (Tomorrow is my last PT session - yay!) Most importantly though, this year I learned that inner strength and self-respect allows the gift of love from someone special to live in my heart forever, and that's just nearly perfect! Because you see, when love is given, it is given with the best of intentions no matter for how short or long a time. And when we receive that love, it is our special opportunity to let it find a place to rest and be cared for in the heart forever... ❤️

I am ready for 2025, lemons and all!

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and all best wishes for a fantastic New Year to each and every one of you! 🍾 🥂 🎉

Take good care of yourselves.

Your friend,

Chik