Recoil

by David Sherman

  Having been drained of all the lessons learned and intelligence the Marines could provide, and been declared sane and mentally sound—or at least as sane and mentally sound as men whose business it was to roam in very small groups behind enemy lines to gather intelligence and raise havoc without being caught could be expected to be—nearly all of them headed for distant locations on Halfway. During the second week of their leave, the Marines drifted back toward Camp Basilone. Not that they were headed back to their home at Camp Howard, not yet. They gravitated to Havelock, and most of them gradually assembled—sort of assembled—at the Snoop ’n Poop. The members of the sniper squad preferred the Peepsight.

  On that Thirdday forty-odd members of the company were in the Snoop ’n Poop for dinner and drink. Mostly drink. They didn’t talk about the war in which they’d just fought; they’d talked about it enough in the debriefings and psych evaluations. That didn’t mean they didn’t have memories that needed to be drowned. Or maybe they hadn’t had enough to drink during the week and a half that most of them spent at removes from Camp Howard—a hard-fought war can raise a powerful thirst in a man. It could simply be that they felt more comfortable in the Snoop ’n Poop than just about anywhere else on the friendly side of enemy lines. If nothing else, the staff of the Snoop ’n Poop was friendly, efficient, and easy on the eyes.

  “What’ll you have, Mikel?” a waitress asked Corporal Nomonon; she’d already served their first round of drinks. “I mean from the menu,” she said when she saw the sudden glint in Nomonon’s eyes.

  Corporal Mikel Nomonon immediately changed what he was about to say to, “How are the mussels tonight, Gail?”

  “Really good. There’s enough garlic in the sauce to put hair on your chest.”

  “Then how do you know they’re good?” he asked, looking at the large oval of bare skin between the high stock collar and the upper portion of her breasts left exposed by the mock dress reds of her waitress uniform. “You obviously didn’t have any.”

  “You know what I mean,” Gail said with a playful swat at the back of his head.

  There was enough force behind the swat to sting, but Nomonon didn’t even blink. His gaze slowly moved up to Gail’s eyes and he gave her a crooked smile. “And you know what I mean. I’ll have a double ration of the mussels.”

  “You got it.” Businesslike, she turned her attention to Corporal Ryn Jaschke. “How ’bout you, Ryn? Your usual?”

  “You’ve got me pegged, Gail,” Jaschke said. He pointedly didn’t look at the oval of bare skin on her chest.

  “And—I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name,” she said to the third Marine sitting at the table.

  “Hans Ellis,” he said, courteously rising to his feet and giving Gail a bow. “I’m surprised you even remember my face; we didn’t have much of a chance to meet before our last deployment.”

  Gail tapped the top of Nomonon’s head with her knuckles. “You, sir, could learn a few things from Corporal Ellis—”

  “Lance Corporal Ellis,” Nomonon corrected her.

  “—Lance Corporal Ellis about how to treat a lady. He’s a gentleman. Now, Hans, what would you like for your dinner?”

  “I dearly love stuffed flounder.”

  “An excellent choice; I can vouch for it because it’s what I had for dinner myself. I’ll be back to check on your drinks.” She gracefully spun about and walked away to place their dinner orders. As she walked away, Jaschke admired her legs, most of which were visible below the hem of her skirt, the exact color and cut of the skirt of a female Marine’s dress reds—except that Mother Corps would never condone a uniform skirt anywhere near that short. Ellis drank in the whole woman.

  “Down, boy,” Jaschke said when he saw Ellis’s look. “I think she actually does like Nomonon—though I can’t imagine why.”

  “Liking Nomonon’s a dirty job, but I guess somebody’s got to do it,” said Sergeant Him Kindy from the next table. Normally, Kindy would be with his men, but that evening the squad leaders had segregated themselves from their men.

  “You’re absolutely right, Kindy,” Sergeant Wil Bingh agreed. “But why’s it got to be a nice girl like Gail? There’s got to be five or ten—well, maybe not ten, four or five, I guess—scuts around who’re low enough to like Nomonon.”

  “You know, Bingh,” Sergeant D’Wayne Williams said, “I do believe you’re right. I’ll bet if we went out and prowled around it wouldn’t take us much more than a couple of hours to find some scut so down on herself she’d go for Nomonon.”

  Kindy lit up with excitement. “You’re on! I think it’d take two days, at least.”

  “I’ll hold the money,” Bingh said and held out his hands.

  “Who said we’re betting money?” Williams said. “And what makes you think we’re dumb enough to let you hold it if we were?”

  Nomonon growled at the three squad leaders and made to get out of his chair, but stayed seated when Jaschke put a hand on his arm.

  “Ignore them,” Jaschke said. “Remember, when a Marine makes sergeant, he gets docked twenty IQ points. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

  At another table, Corporal Harv Belinski and Lance Corporals Santiago Rudd and Elin Skripska were already well into their third pitcher of ale when Mom Kass came to check on them.

  “Come on, boys,” she said, “get some food inside you. I don’t want to have to throw you out for being skunkly drunk.”

  “Ah, you wouldn’t do that to your favorite Misguided Children, would you, Mom Kass?” Belinski said, giving her his most innocent wide-eyed smile.

  She gave him that look, the one that said she was giving him a chance to retract his question.

  Kass wasn’t called “Mom” because she was old enough to be the mother to any of the other waitresses, though she was the oldest of them. Neither was it because she was older than the Snoop ’n Poop’s customers; perhaps half of them were older than she was. Nor was it because her build was stout and motherly; she was one of the more svelte and shapely women on the staff of the Snoop ’n Poop. It wasn’t even because she dressed in a more matronly manner than the rest of the young women who worked there. Indeed, her skirts were the shortest, the bare back of her mock tunic extended around her sides, and the oval between the stock collar and the slopes of her breasts displayed more decolletage than the norm.

  No, Kass was called “Mom” because of her motherly approach to the eating and drinking habits of the Snoop ’n Poop’s customers. Well, not completely motherly—few mothers would allow their sons to drink as much as these Marines did.

  “We’re just warming up, Mom Kass,” Rudd said, laughing.

  “Right, we’re whetting our appetites,” Skripska agreed. He emptied the pitcher, pouring it more or less equally among their three mugs, and held it out to Mom Kass for a refill.

  She gave Skripska that look, and said, “I’ll be back with some food. Then I’ll get you a refill.”

  The three Marines looked at one another with surprised amusement, then burst out laughing.

  Mom Kass was back well before they’d emptied their mugs, bearing a tray with a Boradu-style nacho platter and three plates. As soon as she finished placing the platter and plates on the table, Rudd hoisted the empty pitcher and said, “Mother, may I?”

  Mom Kass gave him that look, pointed at the platter, and said, “Eat.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Rudd said, and used a handful of the grain chips to scoop cheese, ground meat and sauce blend, peppers, and greens onto the plate she’d put in front of him. Throughout, he kept the pitcher aloft for her to take.

  Mom Kass gave the other two that look until they also filled their plates from the platter and started eating. Only then did she take the pitcher from Rudd’s hand and go off to refill it at the bar.

  Raucous laughter sounded from the next table, and a voice crowed, “Mom Kass sure has you three under control!”

  Belinski looked over and glowered. “That’s enough out of you, Musica,” he
snarled.

  Corporal Gin Musica barked out another laugh. Corporal Dana Pricer and Lance Corporal Stanis Wehrli joined in. They cut off and switched their attention to their own food and drink when Mom Kass came back and bestowed that look on them.

  Before Belinski could laugh, or say anything to Musica, a hush fell over the Snoop ’n Poop, and all movement ceased—even the waitresses stopped in their tracks—and all heads swiveled toward the entrance. Where a most strange sight presented itself. A group of women was coming through the door. None of them wore anything that could be identified as part of a uniform, but the cut of their hair and their bearing declared them to be Marines. A whole platoon’s worth of female Marines—a reinforced platoon. Entering the Snoop ’n Poop. An establishment that catered to male Marines, where the most commonly seen women were waitresses in mock female-Marine-uniform costumes.

  For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were the light treads of the women Marines’ feet as they moved about finding tables for themselves, the scraping of chairs on the floor as they took seats, and the light titters of their voices as they talked back and forth.

  Sergeant Kindy was the first to speak. He was afraid of how the platoon of female Marines would react to the waitresses’ uniforms, and his murmured “Oh shit” carried quite clearly through the room. Kindy had been coming to the Snoop ’n Poop frequently during his three and a half years with Fourth Force Recon, and this was the first time he’d ever seen a female Marine in the place—unless the rumors that some of the waitresses were off-duty Marines were true. His murmur spoke for everyone.

  Kindy’s two syllables were enough to break the few men in the place who weren’t Force Recon out of their paralysis. They began frantically signaling the waitresses for their checks. They were the only ones who showed intent to leave, though. Even when the door opened again to admit two more women. The two newcomers, even bereft of uniform and insignia, were instantly identifiable as Marine gunnery sergeants, most probably acting as sheepdogs, there to protect their flock from the wolves who inhabited the Snoop ’n Poop.

  The non–Force Recon Marines couldn’t exit fast enough, but the Force Recon Marines weren’t budging from their place, nossir! It was their place after all, and nobody was chasing them out of it. And if the women didn’t like it, well, they could just pick their cute little derrieres up and prance right out!

  The women didn’t seem to object to the waitress uniforms—except maybe for the two gunnery sergeants. Then again, those two looked like they disapproved of everything in the Snoop ’n Poop, quite possibly even the very existence of the establishment. Not only didn’t the women Marines seem to object, but one said to the nearest waitress, “Nice outfit! Who’s your tailor?” Her voice carried clearly throughout the room.

  A hush washed over the men, who turned their heads to the women anew. The quiet was broken by the women Marines, who burst out in delighted laughter. Realizing the laughter wasn’t directed at them, the waitresses joined in.

  All the women were laughing except for the two gunnery sergeants. One of whom not only looked like she used ten penny nails for toothpicks, she looked like she was chomping on one right now!

  Gradually, the noise level in the room returned to the way it had been before the “Who’s your tailor?” remark. The tables weren’t big; round and designed to seat four comfortably, six if they were very friendly and didn’t order too much to eat or drink at one time. The men sat three or four to a table, eating and drinking—mostly drinking—while the women grouped five or six to a table, huddled close together, talking in low voices over their food and drink—mostly food.

  After a time, Lance Corporal Ellis got up and went to the MusiKola, slotted some credits, and made several selections. When the melodious strains of the HekKats “I Sit and Watch” filled the room, Ellis began solo dancing with his back to the room. He slowly turned around and, feet, shoulders, and arms moving to the music, wended his way to a table where five women sat watching him.

  At the table, feet, shoulders, and arms still moving to the music, where the women still watched him, some expectantly, some nervously, one with glowing eyes and parted lips, he nodded at them, looked each of them in the eye, and said, “Excuse me, ladies, but would one of you care to dance?”

  “I would!” said the one with parted lips and glowing eyes. She was on her feet and leading Ellis to the small dance floor before any of the others had found their voices. The Snoop ’n Poop didn’t have a real dance floor; it wasn’t that kind of place. But the small space in front of the MusiKola would do.

  Back at Ellis’s table, Corporals Nomonon and Jaschke gaped at Ellis and the woman dancing with him. Sergeant Kindy leaned over from the adjacent table at which he sat—he had to stretch to reach—and rapped both of them on the back of their heads with his knuckles.

  “What are you doing, letting him get away with that?” Kindy demanded. The two corporals, rubbing the backs of their heads, glared at their squad leader.

  “He didn’t ask permission!” Jaschke snapped.

  “He didn’t even say what he was doing; he just got up without so much as a by-your-leave and did it!” Nomonon declared.

  “You can’t let the junior man get away with that, you know,” Kindy told them.

  Nomonon and Jaschke looked at each other.

  “He’s right,” Jaschke said.

  “Watch me,” Nomonon said back. He got up and swaggered over to another table of women.

  “Hey, babes, who wants to dance?” he boldly said.

  They laughed at him, and a couple said, “No thanks,” while the rest simply shook their heads.

  Red-faced, Nomonon marched back to his table. Gail got there with a fresh pitcher of beer just as he resumed his seat.

  “What did I tell you, Mikel? You should take lessons from Hans on how to treat a lady.”

  “What?” Nomonon squawked, looking offended.

  “Hans asked politely, in the manner of a man who just wanted to dance. You strutted over there like you expected them to rip their blouses off and spread their legs for you. Not the way to win a woman’s heart.” She spun about and flounced away.

  “Don’t say it,” Nomonon snarled at Jaschke. “Don’t say anything.” He made sure the squad leaders at the next table knew he was talking to them too.

  In another part of the room, Corporal Harv Belinski wasn’t about to be outdone by a mere lance corporal. He got up and walked, not strutted, to a nearby table, bowed to the six women seated there, and asked, “May I have the pleasure of this dance with one of you?”

  Four of the women gave him skeptical looks, but the fifth, bopping along to WizzinWacks’ “All Day Short,” looked in his eyes and said, “Thank you, I’d love to dance.” But when he reached for her hand to lead her to the impromptu dance floor, she said, “No touching.”

  Ellis and his partner were still dancing when Belinski and his reached the front of the MusiKola. There was room enough for two couples, but when a third, Sergeant Williams and a woman who looked like she might also have three stripes on the sleeves of her dress reds, tried to join in, the space was entirely too crowded. But Marines are resourceful, and in moments enough tables and chairs were pushed out of the way to make a reasonable dance floor. It wasn’t much longer before the available space was filled with dancing couples.

  In another half hour, the only table that held only men or only women was the one with the two sheepdogs, who did everything but stand up and howl to make sure the wolves knew they were there to protect their flock, and woe be to the wolf who dared trespass.

  That was the scene into which Gunnery Sergeant Alf Lytle and Staff Sergeant Kazan Fryman, respectively the platoon sergeant and first section leader of second platoon, Fourth Force Recon Company, walked. The two Force Recon leaders almost instantly assessed the situation and, without needing to exchange any words, acted. They headed directly for the sheepdogs, sat at their table, introduced themselves, and engaged the women in conversation.


  The sheepdogs may have been intent on protecting their flock, but Lytle and Fryman were just as intent on running interference for their wolves.

  And who knows, maybe the sheepdogs actually wanted some wolvish company.

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  FIVE

  Fourth Force Recon Barracks, Camp Howard, Marine Corps Base Camp Basilone, Halfway

  “There’s never a corpsman around when you need one,” Sergeant Wil Bingh moaned late the next morning.

  “Arrgh,” Sergeant Brigo Kare said in agreement.

  They occupied overstuffed chairs in the squad leaders’ lounge of the Force Recon barracks. Bingh sprawled, Kare curled fetuslike.

  It was the morning after the Snoop ’n Poop had been invaded by the reinforced platoon of off-duty female Marines. The two were in the company’s squad leaders’ lounge because when they got to the barracks the night before, second platoon’s first section squad leaders’ room was locked and the door barricaded from the inside. When they banged on the door and demanded entry, Sergeant Kindy, from inside, told them firmly to go away. When they persisted, Kindy unbarricaded the door, slipped out, grabbed them by their scruffs to march them to the lounge, where he deposited them on the overstuffed chairs and told them he’d let them know when they could return to their room.