Marine Corps Stories: A Tight Group

SAPI plates and rucksacks and knee pads and rifles and more gear that kept these warriors in step pervaded the vehicle. As Christmas neared in this far off land away from home in America, these men traversed the unyielding elements. The sixty degree weather remained welcoming, though. For all of the scorching summers with heat that would make Lucifer blush, the infantrymen of this Marine Division all focused on the main objective: ensure that cement trucks full of contractors reached a school zone.

“Why do we have to do this Ted?” Lance Corporal Vado McNeil said.

“I don’t know. We just have to. That’s it,” Sergeant Ted Desko said.

“I mean goddamn, Teddy,” Corporal Kasdan Hinkle chimed.

“Look, once we get there, they’ll be plenty of time to hand out candy to little kids and make our presence felt.”

“Yes, and get blown up again. I didn’t hear that last part you said, my ears are still shot to hell.”

“Shut up, Kas,’” Sergeant Desko said.

“What? What was that?” Corporal Hinkle said. He smirked.

The armored vehicle rumbled over the rocks like an aircraft braving turbulence. The Marines grew even sleepier; their feet remained sore in their boots, little spots of blood from cuts, a few bruises, and ringing headaches like bells tolling at a new hour all would leave the unknowing to believe that they felt miserable. Nothing could be further from the truth.

“I don’t know about y’all, but I could go for a steak and lobster plate right about now,” McNeil said.

“Check your MRE. The government may have blessed us all with those kind of victuals,” Hinkle said. “But seriously,” he turned back to Desko. “Why are we going on this mission just to have everyone hate us even more?”

Desko bristled. “Look Kasdan, Colonel Overbrook has assigned us to go along with these trucks. We’re capturing hearts and–”

“Don’t say it.”

“Alright then. We’re doing a good deed.”

“The good deed that we do is to put rounds down range and take out these bastards. That’s our good deed.”

“And these kids...they’re not the enemy. Why should they suffer under tyranny? We can give them schools and some fast food joints maybe even a mall. We can Americanize them,” Desko said.

Hinkle sighed. “It may be nice to help them. But let some non-profit chip in a few coins. We’re out here in an armpit playing 4-D chess with Death, and all you can think about is whether some little kid, who may be used as a decoy or worse, has the chance to chow down on a cheeseburger. I don’t see the logic.”

“There is no logic out here, Corporal,” Sergeant Desko said. He became even more indignant.

Hinkle put up his hands. “Hey, if you want your legs blown from under you or your face melted, be my guest.”

Sergeant Desko gave a long look at Hinkle. It was like an older brother giving a stern look at his younger sibling who had just stolen a pack of cigarettes.

“Sar’ent?”

“What do you want, Vado?”

“If we give, and I mean this most respectfully to these people, how can they ever have the chance to fend for themselves? I mean, to get into the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of the United States of America. Why should we be the ones building sewers, and schools, and putting up restaurants? These people should have documents like we do that liberate them without us having to do their work. And to add–”

Desko put up a knife hand. “Save it, Lance Corporal. You both have no clue of the magnitude of the mission that we are on right now. We are aiding those who can’t help themselves. We are putting forth good will, especially around this time of year.”

“Do they even celebrate Christmas?” McNeil asked.

“No, but that’s not the point. All we’re doing is making it easier for these contractors to make it into this treacherous region.”

“At least that’s a little selfish,” Hinkle said.

“Selfish?”

“Yes, that’s right. Selfish. We ought to be more self-interested in our approach to these war campaigns. Everyone’s always talking about selfless service, and self-sacrifice, and altruism. Goddamn. It’s like you can’t even turn on the news without a reporter expounding on the alleged ‘virtues’ or giving up a greater value for a lesser or non-value.”

Desko shifted in his chair. Then an explosion right in the back of them rocked the vehicle only slightly. The shrapnel did not penetrate the armor.

“Jesus,” Hinkle said quietly. “Those goat lovers timed that one ass wrong—“

A second explosion shook the vehicle. This was closer and the exterior sustained some damage but not much.

Small arms fire erupted.

“Contact right!” shouted McNeil.

Desko and Hinkle trained their rifles in that direction. Rounds headed their way. McNeil climbed up to fire the .50 Cal turret mounted atop the vehicle. McNeil didn’t sweat. Adrenaline pulsed. With every round sent the enemy’s direction, the Marines became even more confident, aggressive, and relaxed. Once the fighting had ceased, the trio checked for injuries. No one was hit.

The contractors ran up to the vehicle thanking them for saving their lives.

The Marines just waved for them to get back into their trucks.

“Yes. Another firefight. Noted,” Hinkle said.

“I think I had a tight group on one of them. The rest were headshots,” McNeil said.

Desko sipped from his canteen. “We’re all good?”

“I’m alright,” Mcneil said.

“I’m feeling well,” Hinkle said.

“We’re resuming,” Desko said signaling for Hinkle to continue down the road.

“We need to start something new,” Hinkle said. He pressed his foot to the accelerator and got back in line with the convoy.