Don't Ask - the story of America's first openly gay Marine.

by B. K. Dell

  “If she hates the media, why do you think she had all the clippings?” Jackson asked, ignoring Michael Ponce.

  Caleb smirked, “Because I’m her boy. I know she hated seeing them. Maybe locking them into one file provided her some sort of therapy. It sure felt good to me when I shoved them back in and slammed the drawer.”

  “And you didn’t know the whole time you were in boot camp?”

  “I didn’t.” Caleb shrugged, “And I still try not to think about it. Being half a world away changes your perspective. Everything that the media seem to think is so important, doesn’t make any sense to us here. ” Caleb took a sip of his water. He swallowed and added, “Of course, the same could be said about living in Texas.”

  Jackson laughed. “Ditto, Arizona,” he nodded proudly.

  Brit came in and sat down next to Jackson. He gave Jackson a playful, and slightly painful, nudge hello.

  Jackson smiled warmly.

  “Hey, who else have you seen?” Jackson asked Caleb after a moment.

  “What?”

  “At Camp Sydney, anyone we know?”

  Caleb’s face suddenly changed. His expressions became demonstrably forlorn, partly because he felt genuine sadness, but also as a handy tool to warn Jackson of impending bad news.

  Jackson understood what this had meant and asked only one word, “Who?”

  “Trey Tucker,” said Caleb solemnly.

  “He’s dead?” asked Jackson.

  “No,” Caleb made haste to say, realizing that he had overshot. He quickly repeated, “No, his team was approached by some villager. They didn’t know who he was, so they had all their guns aimed right at him. The translator had both hands up and was mumbling some garbage, transitioning from one dialect to the next, trying to get the guy to stop advancing. Then suddenly the guy started running toward them, but no one knew what was going on.”

  “They didn’t shoot?”

  “They hesitated.”

  Jackson’s face showed aversion, “Because of the Rules of Engagement?”

  “They didn’t want to kill an innocent Afghani,” Caleb nodded. “Finally Tucker shot him, but it was too late.”

  “He was a suicide bomber?”

  “Yep.”

  Brit said, “A buddy of mine told me that his platoon stopped when they saw an animal twitching in pain on the side of the road. They approached it carefully enough to see that one of the terrorists had taken a dog and cut it open to shove an IED inside.”

  “That’s sick,” said Caleb.

  “Yeah, it was still alive. But they had to detonate it, didn’t they? They couldn’t leave live explosives for another platoon to come and find.”

  Jackson shook his head in disgust. He turned back to Caleb, “So what happened to Tucker?”

  “He was the only one that survived, but he lost half of his body: his left arm, left leg, half of his face.”

  Jackson mumbled a swear word. He let out a long sigh.

  Caleb frowned. He put his hand on Jackson’s shoulder and said futilely, “I’m sorry. At least he’s alive though.”

  Jackson gave the world’s least visible hint of a head nod.

  Caleb began to get up from his seat. He said, “I’ve got to go make a head call.” He turned to Michael Ponce, “Media Man, I hope you don’t have to report on that.”

  Michael Ponce smirked and teased him, “Yeah, whatever, just don’t forget your e-tool!”

  Every man in the chow hall laughed. Caleb shot him a confused look and said, “I think I’ll just use one of the port-a-johns behind the hooch, thanks.”

  Michael Ponce’s face turned bright red. Brit held his hand up for Jackson to give him five. Jackson was in no mood to laugh, but reluctantly slapped Brit’s hand as to not leave him hanging. He made effort to console Michael Ponce and said, “It was all in good fun.”

  The first few weeks were the hardest on the embed. He developed a hacking cough; his body was not yet used to all the sand. When he went to write a story, there was sand on his laptop between every key. He kept asking, “What about the scorpions? Are they really all poisonous? Can they get in the tent?” all the while knowing that he could never fully trust the answers. They had even told him about a Marine who woke up with a scorpion in his sleeping bag. The corpsmen were unable to save his life after it stung him. They almost had Michael Ponce believing it until they told him that the man’s name had been Private Parts. He was having trouble figuring out if the hard time they gave him was merely a boys-club rite of passage or if they really just hated his guts.

  Some of the Marines passed the downtime by trapping different scorpions, pitting them against each other in a fight, and placing bets on which would win. Before each fight, they would make sure that each new scorpion gladiator had a name. At first they used the names of un-captured terrorist leaders from the FBI’s most wanted list. It didn’t take long for all of those bugs to be killed. Wadoud Muhammad Abdullah Husayn Al-Ibrahim had a pretty good winning streak, but alas, he died miserably before a throng of Marine cheers. After that, they opened up the names to anyone they disliked in general. It bothered the embed a little to discover that one of the scorpions had been named Michael Ponce. “It’s all in good fun,” they assured him again. Still, he was glad when it lost rather quickly to Jane Fonda.

  Caleb treated Michael Ponce no better. When he would try to get Caleb to sit down with him for an interview, Caleb would refuse. He would always brush him off with some dismissing statement like, “I’m just here to kill the enemy.” Sometimes he would add, “But, I can talk to Major Nash about finding you a ride back to Manhattan.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Caleb sat in the corner of the hooch, out of the way. His arm was leaning against a pile of packs and flak jackets. He was hunched over a large drawing pad, leaning his head on his left arm while his right arm busily worked his set of charcoals. With each piece he picked up, chosen for its shape and its value, his hand would travel over the entire page, touching down in broad strokes that seemed unrelated to what he was drawing. As he continued to work, he opted for smaller and smaller pieces of charcoal and when they weren’t available, he would meticulously break new ones. Slowly, as the details were being filled in, the unrelated strokes became less mysterious, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that were positioned first and connected later. The whole picture was emerging before his eyes. He was drawing from his imagination. It was the naked body of a young and beautiful woman.

  “What’s this?” Teflon snatched the pad from Caleb’s hands. Caleb knew that it was only a matter of time before this happened.

  Brit, upon seeing what Teflon was holding, jumped up from his cot and moved in closer. “Wow,” he said sincerely. The two of them stared wildly at the curves of her naked body like small children seeing snow for the first time, or the ocean, or just staring at glossy presents reflecting twinkling Christmas lights.

  “Art lovers, huh?” Caleb asked dryly.

  “Well, this is real art, isn’t it?” said Brit and added, “I thought you only liked the blokes?”

  Before Caleb could answer, Rider butted in and asked, “What is it?”

  The two of them tilted the pad proudly in Rider’s direction. Caleb shot a sideways glance at Rider’s face, leery of how he would react. Rider turned to him and Caleb instantly looked away. Rider scoffed loudly and snapped, “Who are you trying to fool?”

  “No one,” said Caleb as he stood up and seized the pad back.

  “Switched teams again, have you?” asked Brit with more playfulness than Rider had shown.

  “I didn’t draw it to lust after,” explained Caleb.

  “Why’d you draw it?” asked Teflon.

  “He drew it to overcompensate. It’s a pathetic attempt to fit in,” said Rider.

  “No,” said Caleb. He looked at Rider for only the slightest of seconds then turned back to the pad. “I have always drawn stuff like this. I draw all kinds of things.” Slowly he began to flip the corners of his draw
ing pad and display different depictions of female beauty. Each one was an exquisite work of surprising talent. A crowd of Marines began to form as he continued to hold up images of naked women. “I also have a drawing of a horse,” he said as he found the right page. “And a building…and a mountain…and I don’t want to sleep with any of them.”

  “Let me see,” demanded Rider as he stepped closer to Caleb. Begrudgingly, Caleb handed the pad over. Rider flipped from drawing to drawing. Each page gave off a loud sound as it rebelled against the wind resistance and strained its connection to the spiral binding. Caleb wished Rider would be more gentle when he thought about the literally hundreds of hours that he had put into the work contained in that pad. They were works for which Caleb had poured out his soul through each stroke, yet Rider flipped through them like he was searching for a number in a rolodex. Caleb worried that Rider might maliciously tear the entire thing to shreds. The memory of the first art pad taken from him was emerging from the dark recesses of his memory. He continued with the steadiest voice he could muster, “Just as I am sure that most of you, while standing in front of it, would be not only appreciative, but moved and inspired by Michelangelo’s David…a naked man.”

  Rider’s eyes moved to Caleb’s. Caleb did not look away. He had not meant anything he said as an insult, but Rider acted like he had taken it that way, or that the subject itself was insulting to talk about – or at least for Caleb to talk about. He closed the cover of the pad and thrust it back toward Caleb, the spiral edge thumping against his chest. Caleb struggled to hold onto it as it bounced off him, but was able to catch it before it hit the ground. Rider found a seat on a nearby cot.

  “I mean it,” Caleb said as he walked back to where he was sitting and set the drawing pad aside. “Haven’t you seen Michelangelo’s work? It’s awesome. And, it’s not about lust. It’s about beauty. No, it’s about more than beauty. It’s about perfection. It is about correctness.” Most of the people who had gathered around the impromptu art show had dispersed after no more naked ladies were being shown. The few that stayed found places to sit on the cots or leaned against the edge of the table.

  Caleb had chosen his words as an intro for a conversation, but only Jackson seemed willing to bite. He asked, “What do you mean by correctness?”

  “Michelangelo was a Neo-Platonist. He believed that even in aesthetics there is a right and wrong, or a correct and an incorrect. Plato theorized that there existed one perfect form for human beings that represented the ultimate correctness, and every person on Earth was an imperfect copy of that form’s greatness. That was how Michelangelo also saw life, but he wanted his paintings to be greater than life. In his paintings, everyone was perfect. Every body was the epitome of strength and health, and every face was an example of perfectly proportioned symmetrical beauty. Even his depiction of Jesus was muscular.”

  Rider laughed and said to the men, “I do believe this is the very first art appreciation lecture ever given in the United States Marine Corps.” Then he added, “And I hope it’s the last.”

  Everyone laughed, but Caleb did not wait for the laugher to die down before he objected. He looked right at Rider and said, “It’s not just about art, this has to do with us,” he waited for the last bits of laughter to quiet and when people could actually hear him, he repeated, “This has everything to do with the Marines.” The excitement in Caleb’s mannerisms and voice – calling out for attention – were like that of an evangelist. “For example, it is correct to see a body healthy, alive and young. It is incorrect to see it blown to pieces…bones broken…skin torn off…flesh burning. Also, what we are fighting for is correct. It is correct to form a culture around life. It is incorrect to glorify death. But, it goes broader than that. Patriotism is correct. There is something correct about loving a great nation, and loving it just a little bit more because it happens to be yours. But, focusing only on the flaws of a great nation is definitely incorrect. There is something incorrect and unnatural about hating something just because it is yours, or hating a group just because you are in it. Honoring courage is correct; fighting evil is correct. Fighting those who fight evil is incorrect, unnatural, and must inevitably lead to honoring evil and honoring cowardice. The straight, perfect parallel lines of a building, soaring courageously toward space is correct and it is beautiful. Flying planes full of people into such buildings is incorrect, unnatural, and should be fought against with all of our might.”

  Jackson walked over to find a spot closer to the conversation. He had been watching the look in Rider’s eyes, the unchecked masculinity in which he so prided himself. Jackson knew that most of the stuff that Caleb had said was stuff that Rider would agree with. It was the exact type of rhetoric he had so often heard from Rider. Jackson, more than anyone, knew how much the two actually had in common ideologically. He wondered if these similarities would help Rider find some respect for Caleb, or irrationally make him hate Caleb more – hate him because his existence threatens too much of Rider’s worldview. Jackson imagined it was the latter. Rider needed to believe that all homosexuals were like those he saw in the news. He needed to believe that every gay man was as vile, hate-filled, incorrect, and unnatural as Stacy. Separating homosexuals from homosexual activists was too much nuance for Rider, and too much compromise.

  “What about,” Rider put up one finger to interrupt Caleb and then paused. He waited until every eye was on him, then he smiled slyly and began again, “What about a man who is sexually attracted to a woman? Isn’t that correct?”

  Every face, like house cats watching a tennis match, turned to look at Caleb. Caleb said nothing. No one could tell if the look in his eyes was anger or deep sadness.

  “What about a marriage between one man and one woman?” Rider continued, “Wouldn’t that be correct?”

  Caleb’s face relaxed just enough for him to regain control of his lips. He said, “Yes, that would be correct.”

  “And, what about a boy who chooses to be attracted to other men?” Rider piled on, “Wouldn’t that be incorrect…or what was the other word you used? Unnatural?”

  Caleb nodded slowly, then added, “But it’s not a choice.” Caleb said it quietly, but with authority. People – still unsure about his eyes – detected no anger in his voice.

  “It’s a choice,” said Rider and added, “It’s a sin.”

  No Marine there was hunting for a conversation like this. If Caleb had just kept his head down and started drawing again, the whole crowd would have dispersed. Instead, he surprised everyone when he stepped into the center of the floor, like giving a school presentation. He said to Rider, “If I chose to be gay, that means I was heterosexual before I was gay. After all, you don’t believe I was gay before I chose to be gay, that makes no sense. No, you believe that before I made the choice to turn gay, I was born heterosexual and lived heterosexual – heterosexual just like all of you.”

  “That’s right,” said Rider.

  “But, then by your logic, any of you here could choose to be gay.”

  “We all can choose our behaviors,” said Brit.

  “I could choose to be gay, I just don’t want to,” said Teflon. “But that is my choice.” For added emphasis he reasserted, “I just don’t want to,” for those that may have missed it the first time.

  “No one is talking about choosing our behaviors,” said Caleb, “The subject in question is whether we can choose our desires.”

  “What are you talking about?” Jackson asked.

  “The word passion, comes from the same root as the word passive. We don’t control our desires, we passively submit.”

  “But, we could resist our desires,” Jackson interjected. “You are talking about freewill. I don’t believe that it was your choice to be gay, but I know for certain we have freewill; that was given to us by God.”

  “I don’t believe in freewill,” said Caleb. Someone laughed. Caleb added very succinctly, “Freewill is a myth invented by people who were too comfortable with their ha
bit of judging and did not want to give up their system of judgment,” he turned to Jackson and added, “or their fantasy of a just God. If we choose our desires, why would anyone ever elect to suffer? Why would things like heartache even exist on this Earth? Couldn’t any Marine in the Corps simply stop desiring any Suzy the second he learns about her cheating ways? Schopenhauer said that we can surely do what we want, but we cannot want what we want.”

  “Oh-kay,” said Teflon sarcastically, making it into two isolated syllables.

  “In other words, if we choose our actions – and I believe we do – then on what is that choice based?” Caleb asked rhetorically, then answered, “It is based on the type of person we are. But what then chooses the type of person we are? We cannot say that who we are determines who we are – that would be circular. No, who we are is determined by our genetics and our environment, neither of which we have any control over.”

  “Save your empty pabulum for the ivy league fairies,” Rider injected. “This is the Marines, Plato, not a college dorm.” His tone was flippant, yet commanding.

  Jackson, wanting to give his own statement more weight, moved to the center of the room by Caleb. He said, “He’s right.” He gave Caleb a conciliatory look, then clarified, “Rider is right.” Jackson was surprised just how right Rider was. He had learned it when he first arrived at boot camp: the shear impotence of sophistry. He explained, “Marines don’t deal with theories, we deal with a reality as absolute as bullets and authoritative as death.”

  Caleb stood up taller. Like smart war strategists, they were trying to bring the fight to their turf. “I hear you, no BSing,” he said as he went to his belongings, reached in, and produced a pistol. “Let’s start with bullets then.” He cocked it as he walked back to center stage. The familiar metal on metal sound from the slide slapping into place woke up anything that had been sleeping in his audience like a jolt of caffeine. Every man in the room straightened his posture. Everyone had heard the ubiquitous stories of Marines getting shot in the face because their best friend wanted to prove to them that the gun wasn’t loaded, or countless others with similar themes – stories that seem like they should never happen, yet do. People looked toward Jackson to see if he would object, hoping he would be the one to step in as the level-headed mediator. Before Jackson had the chance, Caleb threw the ball definitively into Rider’s court. “Rider, why don’t you be my volunteer?”