The Last Marine

by T. S. Ransdell

  “You, over there.” The PMI pointed to the door of the drill instructor’s office, known as the duty hut. A recruit had a status just below that of an old pile of dog manure. Therefore a recruit didn’t argue, disagree, nor negotiate with a Marine. Harris walked over to the duty hut and stood by the hatch at attention. He waited for the inevitable “world of shit” that was coming his way.

  Of course, it has to be Jameson, Harris thought as the short drill instructor stormed out of the duty hut. Jameson stopped suddenly with a surprised look.

  “What the fuck you doing next to my hatch, Recruit Harris?”

  “Sir, this recruit fell asleep during rifle class, sir!” Harris shouted, still standing at attention.

  “What the fuck, Harris!” Jameson stepped in closer to Harris. The recruit could feel the warmth of the drill instructor’s breath as spittle hit his face. The young recruit thought he might vomit for a second. “You are that fucking worthless that your lazy ass can’t even learn how to shoot for the sake of your piece of shit buddies”—Jameson pointed to the other recruits without looking—“or your fellow Marines?!”

  Harris didn’t know for sure if it was a question or a statement, but bellowed out, “Sir, no, sir!”

  “Bullshit! I don’t believe you, Recruit Harris! Haul your ass to the back of the squad bay!”

  “Sir, aye, aye, sir!”

  Harris ran to the back of the squad bay, knowing he was screwed. At least outside or in a group, there were witnesses; but this was an indoor one-on-one thrashing. This was how many recruits were broken.

  “Push-ups, Harris.” Jameson stood solid with his hands on his hips. Harris cranked them out as fast as he could. He began to slow down around eighty and began to grunt around ninety.

  “So you want to sleep during weapons training, Harris?”

  “Sir, no, sir,” Harris grunted under the exertion.

  “Bullshit. Leg lifts,” Jameson said in a matter-of-fact voice.

  Harris immediately rolled over with his hands under the small of his back and lifted his heels six inches off the ground before lowering his feet and doing it again. Over the next several minutes his thighs, lower back, and stomach began to burn.

  “Push-ups,” Jameson ordered. “See that tile under your nasty face, Harris?”

  “Sir, yes, sir.” Harris struggled.

  “Your nasty ass is going to do push-ups until that tile square is covered in your nasty sweat.”

  “Sir, aye, aye, sir!” Harris managed. Harris was in the habit of doing as many push-ups as he could as fast as he could so as not to show a lack of enthusiasm; however, his stamina was starting to fail him. His hips were starting to sag. He was grunting, groaning, and breathing heavily. Harris dreaded the types of comments this always elicited from the drill instructors.

  “You trying to fuck my squad bay, Harris?”

  “Sir, no, sir!” The mental picture was repulsive to the young man.

  “Leg lifts. Now. Move,” the drill instructor ordered.

  “Sir, yes, sir.” The change of exertion was a relief, but a short-lived one. Soon he found his aching body failing him in his physical endeavors.

  “Push-ups, now move.”

  All of Harris’s energy went into push-ups, and he forgot to acknowledge the order. Junior Drill Instructor Sergeant Jameson expected this; in fact, he was glad to see it. He knew Harris was reaching his limit.

  “What the fuck, Harris? Your nasty, low-ball ass don’t acknowledge orders no more?”

  “Sir”—Harris’s voice strained—“this recruit doesn’t know, sir.” His voice was starting to fail him, so was his mind. He knew it was a bad answer, but his brain could not offer anything better.

  “Leg lifts, now. Move.”

  Again, Harris’s brain failed to verbally respond. All his energy went into moving.

  “Oh—” Jameson dragged out “—you want to move so slow. I guess you still want to do push-ups. Now move.”

  Harris went back to the push-up position.

  “Too fucking slow. Leg lifts, now. Move!”

  Harris barely got rolled over.

  “Push-ups, now. Move.”

  Harris’s arms and torso were weak. He could barely lift himself at this point. He looked out the barracks’ window at the blue sky. This time of year the sky was cloudy and gray in Kansas. He could see a bit of a palm tree. He told himself how pleasant and mild the weather was in Southern California this time of year. The thought gave him little comfort, but he was desperate. He had to find solace, he had to find comfort somehow; but he could not. Harris saw blackness form in the middle of the blue sky and spread across his vision. His arms numbed and he dropped to the floor. He could feel the impact, but not its pain. Harris lay on the ground without the strength or the will to move.

  “That’s it, Harris. You just lay there and sweat a while. When you’re done, you start doing more push-ups.”

  The smugness, the arrogance, the contempt in Jameson’s voice made Harris’s body and mind writhe.

  What the fuck is this?! Harris’s inner voice was indignant. This is not how life works. People get sick. People need sleep. This is stupid! I don’t have to put up with this shit!

  Harris jumped up with a newfound vigor. “Fuck you! I quit! I don’t need this shit!” he screamed hysterically. No sooner said, fear ran through his body and struck his mind. What had he done? Had he forsaken his God, his family, his country in a time of war? Had he just betrayed all he valued, all he loved, all he believed in a moment of fear and anger? His father had never quit, Ragnarsson never quit, nor John Basilone, nor Dan Daly. Had he?

  The realization that he had been somewhat delusional was a relief to him. He was still on the tile floor, sweating. He hadn’t quit. He wouldn’t quit. Jameson couldn’t make him quit. I’ll do more push-ups, pass out again, get up and do more push-ups all day long. Fuck Jameson. Fuck the Corps, if that’s what it takes. Fuck the ChiComs. They can’t make me quit. If they don’t want me to be a US Marine, they’ll have to kill me. I WILL NOT QUIT!

  He lifted himself up and began to do more push-ups. Jameson was not impressed with Harris’s resolve, not that Harris cared. As far as Harris was concerned, Jameson would rather see him dead than let him become a Marine, but Harris no longer cared what Jameson wanted or thought. Harris knew he would sooner die than ever surrender.

  Eventually the thrashing ended. Harris didn’t die. He even found the strength to run and catch up with his platoon as they marched to evening chow. He had lived to endure another day.

  Chapter Ten

  Harris stared directly at the head in front of him, just as he had been trained. The awkwardness was gone. It was natural now for them to move in synchronization with Senior Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant McAlister’s cadence. It was second nature to march in unison in time with the music. The young Marines’ arms and legs moved; their heads remained steady and level. All were focused. All were determined. They moved as one body.

  It was graduation day for the forty-nine recruits left in Platoon 3103, India Company. The day that had seemed so far away, so incomprehensibly distant, was finally here. Harris was under no illusion that the journey was over. He knew the hard work was just beginning, but he had completed the first step. Today he was a US Marine.

  It was a beautiful San Diego day in May. Part of him wanted to enjoy the moment, the people, the ceremony, but his brain kept drifting to the five days of leave he had coming. Five days of sleeping in, Mom’s cooking, and a private bathroom. The weather would be nice in Kansas this time of year. Five days, he could worry about the rest later; for now five days seemed like a lifetime.

  Harris was lost in his thoughts and completely unaware they had been dismissed. His fellow Marines breaking formation and heading to family members in the stands of MCRD’s parade deck clued him in that boot camp was finally done. He stood there visually taking in the whole scene. He had no family there. Harris had wanted to spare his mother the expense of flying his brother
, sister, and herself to San Diego. Besides, as much as he wanted to see the city, he wanted to see home more. He would meet his family that night at the Kansas City airport. Still, he stood there and looked around and found Hastings.

  “Congratulations, Devil Dog!” Harris stepped up with his hand out. Hastings, somewhat surprised, wide eyed, and grinning, turned and lunged at Harris. He wrapped him up in a big bear hug.

  “Semper Fi, brother! Is the world ready for the two most badass Marines that ever set foot on the planet?”

  “We’ll find out.” Harris thought his response lacked gusto, but he was happy enough not to have been knocked over by Hastings’s enthusiastic hug.

  The two of them walked over to where their platoon had staged their seabags. They debated whether to go to the base e-club and get something to eat and drink. Both agreed they’d rather do that at the airport. They’d both had enough of MCRD for the time being. They headed over to wait for the bus to take them to the airport.

  Harris and Hastings were flying on the same airline, but had different destinations. Hastings had a flight to Omaha, Nebraska. They checked in their bags and got their boarding passes. Both expressed their gratitude for President Clark’s easing of security checks on military personnel, as they were able to avoid a long line getting to their terminal.

  Feeling on top of the world, they straddled up to the nearest bar and sat down. A young woman was working, but to their disappointment a middle-aged man walked over to serve them.

  “What can I get you gentlemen?” The bartender smiled.

  “A glass of your finest bourbon, good sir! For me and my friend,” Hastings ordered with his typical gusto.

  After the briefest of hesitations, the bartender replied with a smile, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to see some ID first, gentlemen.”

  “You know”—Hastings lightly slapped the bar quickly three times—“we both have a long afternoon ahead of us. Better make it two Cokes instead.”

  “I’ll have a double cheeseburger as well. With fries,” Harris chimed in.

  “Same for me, good sir, same for me,” Hastings concluded.

  “Sure thing, gentlemen. Coming right up.”

  “What’s with all this ‘good sir’ stuff? You trying to sound like you’re from Old England or something?”

  “What’s wrong, Harris? How can you not be in a good mood? I’m just trying to be polite.”

  “Polite is one thing. You’re just acting goofy,” Harris said with a smile.

  The bartender brought over their sodas, and they both turned around to watch the crowd walk through the airport. Both agreed it was good to be back in a world that had women in it. They didn’t need to say much. Both enjoyed watching the view.

  When their cheeseburgers arrived, that got their full attention. Both took pains not to get a mess on their uniforms. They ordered another round of sodas and the bartender brought them over.

  “Dang! He put whiskey in here!” Hastings said in an usually hushed tone.

  “What?” Harris quickly took a drink. It did taste a little funny. “Are you sure?”

  “Hell yeah! Don’t you know what whiskey tastes like?”

  “Well, I’ve never had whiskey before,” Harris admitted. In fact, he’d never had alcohol before.

  “Cheers, Devil Dog!” Hastings held up his glass.

  “Semper Fi,” Harris responded as the two toasted. They enjoyed their drinks and then asked for the bill.

  “This one is on me, gentlemen,” the bartender replied. “Thank you for your service, and you men be careful out there. We want you boys home again alive and in one piece.”

  “Thank you, sir,” both Marines said in unison, still fresh from boot camp.

  The two walked down the terminal together. They agreed to meet at the same bar in five days when they returned from leave. They’d report to Camp Pendleton together. They said good-bye and went to go spend time with their families.

  ***

  “So how were your five days at home?” Joel sensed that this was a good place to conclude for the day. It was late afternoon. He wanted to head out for a happy hour somewhere and catch a dinner.

  “It was all I could have hoped it to be,” Harris’s tone was distant, as if he were still in the past. “It’s one of my most cherished memories now.”

  “Was there anyone special you saw while you were back?” Joel’s tone implied he meant more than just the Harris family.

  “What? You mean like a special girl?”

  “Well, you know, whoever.” Joel tried to imply that the sex didn’t matter.

  “This fucking world.” Harris sighed and looked down at his glass of bourbon. “I didn’t have a girlfriend back home. No, the only special people I saw were my mother, brother, sister, my dog, and some friends. It’d be the last time I ever spent with them.” Harris looked up from his glass, over Levine’s head and into the setting sun. “No, the next time I saw my mother in person was at the trial. They wouldn’t let her speak to me. She’d just sit there in the courtroom and look sad, occasionally tearing up and dabbing her eyes with a tissue. Sometimes I wondered if she believed any of the things they said about me.

  “That’s my biggest regret of all this—putting her through it. She’d been through enough; she didn’t need all that. To hear all that. To be asked all the questions by reporters. They should have just come after me and left her alone.”

  “That’s your biggest regret?” Joel was somewhat shocked. He couldn’t imagine there wouldn’t be more to regret than his mother’s hurt feelings. “What about your betrayal of the Government? What about all the people you killed?” Joel asked with more righteous indignation than he had intended.

  Harris had a hard expression on his face when he looked Joel Levine in the eye.

  “Fuck them.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The bacon was the best Joel Levine had ever eaten, but it was a guilty pleasure. He believed eating meat was bad for the planet, as well as being unfair to those in underdeveloped economies, but it smelled so good he had to try it. The hotel wasn’t serving food of this quality, so why not take advantage of the accommodations being made for Harris? After all, LaGard had been very pleased. She thought that Harris’s notions of Americanism’s supremacy over communism, America’s righteousness in the Sino-American War, and especially his lack of remorse in the murder of American civilians upon his return was perfect for their purposes. She told him he was doing an excellent job and to keep it up. So why not indulge a bit himself? Was he not moving into an elite status in his own career?

  “If the elite cannot enjoy life, who can?” Joel quietly mumbled and smiled to no one but himself as he got up for seconds on the bacon.

  “Good morning, Mr. Levine. I hope you had a good night’s sleep.” Harris wore a big smile and spoke in such a congenial tone. Gone was his harsh manner and ice-cold stare that had concluded their interview the day before.

  “I did.” Joel went to take another bite of food, but then thought better of it. “And you, how did you sleep?”

  “Oh, I slept like a baby. My room has a great bed, but the view leaves something to be desired.” Harris chuckled at his joke and sat down with his breakfast.

  Levine didn’t get Harris’s sense of humor about living in a prison cell, but dismissed it to enjoy his bacon.

  The two ate in silence for several minutes. Joel noticed that Harris had already finished when the old man limped over to get a refill of coffee from the buffet.

  “So you and Hastings met up at the airport when you got back from your five days of vacation?” Levine kicked off the day’s interview.

  “Leave. In the military it’s called leave, not vacation.”

  “Yes, yes, of course it is.” Levine chafed at being corrected over such a trivial matter. He would have thought Harris would let something like that slide given his circumstances. Who was the old man to correct him?

  “Yeah, Hastings was always a man of his word.” Levine though
t his tone became despondent at the sudden recollection. “When I got back to the San Diego airport, I went back to that bar and found him there waiting for me.” Harris sadly smiled and leaned back in his chair. “In fact, the same bartender was working there again. He served us a couple of bourbon and Cokes on the down low. We then had to head out to catch a bus that’d take us to Camp Pendleton. We had to report to the School of Infantry, at San Onofre, by 1800 or something like that. After the years some details are fuzzy.”

  “Harris, is everything all right? You don’t quite seem yourself today?” Levine conjured his most sympathetic tone.

  “How the hell would you KNOW what my self is?”

  “Now 1800, that’s eight p.m., right?” Levine’s career focus was all that kept him from saying screw you, old man! That and the fact that he was just a bit afraid of Harris despite his age.

  “No, no. You’ve got to add twelve. 1800 is six p.m.” Harris’s congenial tone had returned. “Those five days of leave. Those three days at home. That was the last time I spent with my mother, my brother, and my sister. I would never have a face-to-face conversation with any of them again. In retrospect, when I went back to Camp Pendleton, it was kind of as if they died from my life. It would never be the same again. But then at that point, whether any of us realized it or not, the whole country would never be the same again.”

  Levine felt a sudden wave of nostalgia for his grandfather. He pushed it to the back of his mind and got back to his task at hand.

  “I see, so tell me about the School of Infantry.” Levine turned on his recorder and set his fingers on the keyboard, ready to type.