The Last Marine

by T. S. Ransdell

  “Whiskey. Bourbon.” Hastings was quick to speak for all of them.

  “I like your style, Hastings.” The slightly intoxicated Edwards slapped Hastings on the back a little too hard, but with no malice. “Bartender! Four bourbons for these men!” Edwards was still snapping his fingers.

  Harris figured either the employees really liked Edwards or were intimidated by him. From what he’d seen so far, Edwards was easily the largest man in the bar, or the hotel for that matter.

  The smiling bartender set up four glasses and poured an ounce and a half in each.

  “Cheers, Devil Dogs!” Cortes, who’d been quiet up to that point, loudly toasted.

  The sweet, burning whiskey hit Harris’s throat and he felt it go all the way down to his stomach. The booze hadn’t had time to take effect, but it felt good. For the first time in over two years Second Section, TOW Platoon, Heavy Weapons Company, First Battalion, First Marines had seven days of liberty in Shanghai.

  It had been ten weeks since they had defeated the Pricks at the Yellow River. The relief that was so desperately needed after such an intense battle had been slow to arrive. At first they were baffled by the lack of pursuit when they had the PLA on the run. It was so unlike what they had come to expect in the aggressive strategy of the war.

  Despite the Allies’ overwhelming victory at the Yellow River, morale had become precariously low. Word came that General John McCullough had died of a heart attack. Though a soldier, not a Marine, he was highly respected by Marine Corps infantrymen for his leadership during the Sino-American War. Most of the Marine Corps grunts were leery of General Jordan Hinneman and his strategy of negotiation.

  Scuttlebutt on Hinneman was that he was just a mouthpiece for General Mythers, and that he and President Harmon were more interested in peace talks than battlefield victories. Not that their victories were noticed anymore. The American media had become obsessed with possible Allied war crimes and lamenting the death of the last great communist empire. Finally, when the news came that their brother-in-arms Schmitt had become some kind of media poster boy for American war crimes, it had been particularly devastating to their morale. Edwards had been especially outraged.

  “Next reporter I see, I’ll kill the motherfucker,” Edwards had privately confided to Harris. But there had been no opportunity. 1/1 had been moved to the rear. They spent two weeks positioned just south of the Yellow River. Then sent farther south to Camp Puller, where they were reinforced, then assigned to working parties and fire watch. When not folding general-purpose tents, burning human waste from the latrine, or doing some other task too menial for anyone not in the infantry, Harris spent his days cleaning weapons, exercising, or reading any book he could find.

  One highlight to Camp Puller was access to the Internet, and this allowed him to talk with and see his family through video chat. Another plus was the opportunity to get some new cammies and boots. His, like many in his platoon, were falling apart. Torn cammies and boots with holes were not a problem for those in the rear. Everybody had new and pristine gear.

  For two months they had languished in boredom and poor morale. Then Sergeant Bohanan had brought word that they were being given seven days’ liberty in Shanghai. They were taken to Camp Wronski just outside of Shanghai. It was the first time Harris had been quartered inside a building since he had arrived in China. It was also his first hot shower in two years. Before they were allowed to go into town, they had two days’ worth of classes on Chinese culture and how they should conduct themselves now that they were no longer in a combat zone. The classes had given them useful information about not urinating in public and that not all Chinese were members of the PLA and thus should not be killed on sight. As well, they were versed on appropriate behavior around women and given reminders not to fart out loud, or to force their sexual desires upon those of the opposite sex, and definitely not to masturbate in front of Chinese civilians. Most had had a good laugh about the classes. Edwards observed that whoever had created this curriculum must have had a lot of contempt for Marines. Harris had not found the classes quite as funny after that. But still he found it a small price to pay for a week in a city, and a week around women.

  The officers had made certain that all enlisted personnel were showered, shaved, and dressed in a newly issued Class C uniform. After inspection, they were formed up, given a half dozen condoms each, and marched onto buses. As they were on separate buses, Edwards had given Harris a business card of a hotel he had been informed of by a naval recreation officer, with plans to meet up.

  After two rounds of bourbon, Edwards insisted they slow down with a beer.

  “Harris, I ain’t gonna carry your baby-faced ass over half of Shanghai, so you better keep yourself halfway sober.”

  Harris thought he might be feeling some effect of the booze, so he decided to follow Edwards’s lead. At the age of nineteen, Harris had never been out for a full night of drinking with a group of men. He did not want to be too drunk to enjoy it. Besides, he’d heard stories of what Marines did to other Marines that ended up too drunk.

  “So now what?” Hastings blurted out as the Marines sipped on their first beer and stared at a muted TV that was showing President Harmon talking before members of her press corps.

  “The doorman says the Greased Monkey is a happening spot. We’ll check that out next,” Cortes answered.

  “I want to get a tattoo.” Sheridan finally spoke up.

  “What, only one?” Edwards laughed.

  “Ethan, if the man wants a tattoo”—Cortes spoke directly to Edwards—“let’s get him tattooed.” Both NCOs laughed at their inside joke.

  “What’s so funny?” Reese asked what the rest were wondering.

  “Back at Luzon,” Edwards, enjoying the moment, began to explain, “we knew this boot Boddington; he wanted a tattoo. Well, we got three days libo in Olongapo City, and Boddington wanted a tattoo really bad. So anyhow, we all went out, and he just got completely shit-faced.”

  “Fuck yeah, drinking that Mojo shit they got over there,” Cortes threw in.

  “What is it?” Hastings’s interest was piqued by the exotic drink.

  “Ah fuck.” Cortes sighed. “Who knows. It’s always different. Dr. Pepper is the only ingredient I can remember.”

  “Yeah, so Boddington,” Edwards continued, “and us, we go to—”

  “Rock’n’Roll Tattoo,” Cortes finished.

  “Oh fuck, Rock’n’Roll Tattoo.” Edwards smiled, enjoying the nostalgia. “Anyway, man, Boddington gets fucked three sheets to the fuckin’ wind and we all go out to get a tattoo. Now being the hard-chargin’ Devil Dog that he was, Boddington wanted an Eagle, Globe, and Anchor tat on the left side of his chest, and he gets it. But while in the chair, the drunk bastard passes out.” Edwards and Cortes both began to laugh uncontrollably for several seconds.

  “So we pay the tattoo guy extra to tattoo a fucking unicorn flying over a rainbow on Boddington’s stomach,” Cortes continued.

  “I thought for sure the fucker would wake up before that little tattoo guy finished. But he had no fucking clue. When it was done, we hauled his ass up and dragged him back to base.” Edwards could barely speak from his laughing.

  “The next morning when he saw it, he was so pissed off.” Cortes picked up the story again. “The real fucking kicker is he blamed me, when it was Edwards’s idea. The bastard clocked me right in the mouth.” Cortes rubbed his jaw like it still hurt.

  “Hey, let’s not play it like you’re innocent here.” Edwards could hardly defend himself for his laughing so hard.

  “Fuck you, hillbilly,” Cortes attacked good-naturedly, and Edwards took it as such. Shortly thereafter the laughter stopped.

  They were all combat veterans. Nobody asked “whatever happened to Boddington?”

  “Well, any of you bastards tattoo a unicorn on my ass, I’ll kill ya.” Sheridan broke the melancholic moment.

  “Hey, fuck that unicorn bullshit, check this out.” Hastings reached
into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “This is what me and Harris are getting tattooed.”

  “Yeah, check this out. It’s pretty badass,” Harris added while Hastings was getting his drawing unfolded.

  “That is pretty fucking badass.” Edwards was back to serious.

  “You bet, I told you Hastings is a good fucking artist,” Cortes added. “He did the whole skull and crossbones thing in the first place.”

  Hastings had drawn the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor insignia of the United States Marine Corps; however, in the globe he’d replaced North and South America with a skull and crossed bones like the ones he’d designed for their LSVs. Underneath the design read “Semper Fi,” from the Marine Corps motto Semper Fidelis: Always Faithful.

  “Fuck yeah, man! That’s like our emblem.” Reese approved.

  “Dude, you mind if I get that tattooed also?” Sheridan asked.

  “Fuck no, man! Fucking go for it! You all can feel free to use it.” Hastings loved the praise and it made him generous. “Bartender! More whiskey for my buddies!”

  The pain began to wake Harris up as his consciousness emerged from the fog in his head. His brain immediately began trying to process what had really happened and what had not. This was not easy. The thumping in his head made thinking hurt. He looked down at his left forearm. Tattoo was there, so that had happened. He didn’t remember going to sleep on the floor, but apparently he had. Reese was also on the floor, with a pillow thrown over his face to shield it from the sunlight coming in through the opened balcony door. A fresh tattoo was on his forearm as well. Sheridan was facedown on one of the beds. He too had the Eagle, Anchor, Skull and Crossbones on his forearm. In addition, he had an elaborate unicorn leaping over a rainbow tattooed on his back that had left some ink stains on the sheets. Hastings was in the other bed, with his newly tattooed forearm draped over his eyes. Harris walked out to the balcony to take in the sun and the smell of car exhaust from the street. Cortes was already out there smoking a cigarette. He sported the Eagle, Anchor, Skull and Crossbones tattoo as well. It was only then that Harris clearly remembered that they had all gotten one.

  “Morning,” Harris grumbled and lit himself a smoke. Cortes reached down into a bucket of ice, pulled out a bottle of beer, and handed it to Harris.

  “Morning.”

  “Edwards still asleep?”

  “No. Went down to the lobby to get some smokes and some orange juice.”

  “Why didn’t he just call room service?”

  “I think it was an excuse to get out of the room.” Cortes spit some tobacco from his tongue.

  “Man, I’m going to hate giving up this hotel suite and going back to living out of an LSV.” Harris was already contemplating the end of their liberty.

  “Don’t complain too much. Hell, in a few weeks living in an LSV may seem like a goddamn luxury.”

  “Hey.” Edwards walked into the room, carrying two buckets of beer and a bottle of orange juice under his arm. “Told the front desk to send up some chicken fried rice.”

  “Good man!” Cortes got up. “I got to go take a shit.”

  “Thanks for sharing, Hank.” Edwards was back to his usual sarcastic self. Cortes only grumbled in reply.

  “Fuck! I need the hair of the dog.” Reese shuffled out onto the balcony, and Edwards handed him a beer. “Thanks. Man, I don’t remember Sheridan’s unicorn tattoo looking that big last night.”

  “That’s ’cause you were passed out, getting one tattooed on your ass,” Edwards said with a smile, but Harris noticed Reese checking his backside to his relief. “He’ll have something to remember Shanghai by.”

  “We all will.” Harris held up his arm.

  “Were you serious last night when you said you’re gonna get a new tat every night we’re here?” Reese asked.

  “Might as well,” Edwards responded. “What the hell else we got to spend our money on? Besides, we should be lucky enough to live to regret our tattoos.” It was the usual Edwards.

  A feminine voice emanated from the bedroom. It was only then that Harris remembered that Hastings had brought an Asian girl back to the room the previous night. Shortly after that Hastings joined them on the balcony.

  “Morning, Devil Dogs!”

  “Well, ain’t you chipper,” Harris chided.

  “I got every reason to be.” Hastings smiled as he lit his first cigarette of the day. “Goddamn, look at that beauty. Money well spent.” Hastings was proud of his new tattoo of his design, with the words Semper Fi tattooed on his forearm. “I can’t decide what I like better. This or my bulldog tat?”

  “What about your Lil’ Red tattoo?” Edwards threw in and handed Hastings a beer.

  “Thanks. What Lil’…oh, fuck you!” Hastings picked up on the joke. “I ask you, how can one man have so many good tattoos and on such a good-looking body!” Hastings bragged.

  Edwards and Harris looked at each other and shook their heads. Reese managed to fart really loud.

  “Damn, Reese, you better go check yourself,” Hastings fired back.

  “Let’s figure out what we’re going to do today.” Harris felt the sudden urge to be productive.

  “I want to see some of the city. Believe me, there ain’t a city like this in Montana,” Reese put in.

  “No more fucking Grease Monkey for me. I just want to get some good street food and find a cool place to drink beer. None of that disco bullshit,” Edwards said as he stared down at the street, more as if he were talking to himself. “We only got six more days. I don’t want to waste them.”

  The last three months had been very good for Liu Zhiqiang. His motivation was the highest it had ever been. Despite the American victories, the PLA had stopped them just as his commanders had said they would. The media had blamed the Americans for the civilian deaths, just as his commanders had said they would. Now, the American command was caught up in investigating themselves instead of fighting. They had a new general that wanted to talk instead of fight. President Zhang of the People’s Republic of China was more adamant than ever that the People would be victorious. On top of all that, Liu had been promoted to sergeant when his regimental commander became aware of his actions.

  The promotion was quite a turn of events. He had followed the mass of troops during the retreat from the Yellow River. For a reason that he was never made aware of, a colonel had ordered the group of soldiers arrested for treason. Initially, an officer had taken Liu’s name and seemed unfamiliar with Zhang’s Gansiduì (Death Squad) Units that he was assigned to. Liu had spent three days in a PLA prison camp. Finally, he was released to a Captain Chang, a political officer, and taken to another camp. While it was not called a prison, and he was not called a prisoner, the conditions were the same as in the previous camp. He was interrogated for another three days by Captain Chang before he was promoted to sergeant and released.

  Liu was promoted to a squad leader in a Gansiduì platoon that was to go behind enemy lines, south of the Yellow River. Their mission was to kill American soldiers and Chinese traitors in such a way that Western media would blame Allied forces. The “war crime” propaganda was working, and President Zhang didn’t want to back away from it now. Not only was Liu still doing what he loved, but he had more authority and he had more confidence in his cause. President Zhang and the PLA appeared to have regained the same control over death, real and political, in this war that Liu had over in his life. He admired President Zhang; he loved the PLA; he believed victory would be theirs.

  Liu had inspected his troops before they had deployed, but he looked over them again for anything he might have missed. They looked like perfect soldiers of the Republic of China. They had set up a roadblock on a semi-busy road. They didn’t want to deal with too much traffic, just enough, ideally, to find a very likable Chinese family driving home to Zhengzhou after a weekend outing.

  Tan Li was tired, but not asleep like his wife, son, and daughter. They had had a great day. Tan already thought that this would
be a day he’d remember for the rest of his life. When his wife and he were old and their children grown, he’d be able to remember this day and see his wife young and beautiful, his children small and innocent. After more than two years of war in their homeland, the fighting had stopped. Peace talks were under way. The ROC and the United States were promising greater freedom and opportunity. Tan thought his future, his family’s future, looked promising. With the security of the peace talks, it seemed like a good time to take his family out to celebrate their survival, their fortune, and their family.

  They had gone on a day trip to Mount Song, just east of Zhengzhou. The spring weather had been perfect. They had toured the Shaolin Temple, the Pogada Forest, and found a shaded spot to picnic. Later the Tans played in a field with their six-year-old son and four-year-old daughter. It had felt good to be in the sun, to run, to be in a wide-open space with no borders, no confinement. His wife had enjoyed the day as well, and it gave him pleasure to see her happy.

  His brother-in-law had been killed fighting for the PLA a year and a half earlier, and they had not been able to communicate with her parents, members in good standing with the Chinese Communist Party, for the last six months. New ROC officials had tried to be helpful, but to no avail. Tan understood; their world had changed so much, it was hard for anyone to keep up. But today his wife had been happy. She’d even mentioned the ROC was encouraging larger families, and perhaps they should have another child. Tan loved his family, and the idea of making it bigger only gave him joy.

  “Tan Li,” the man said to himself, “this will be a day to remember.” He thought the day might very well have been the best of his life.

  The sun had just set, it was dusk, so it was hard for him to see the soldiers in the road. Tan braked just inches short of the sergeant. Tan was relieved, hitting a ROC soldier no doubt would have ruined what had been a perfect day. Tan could see that the sergeant was irritated by his late stop, but then Tan thought one shouldn’t stand in the road at dusk if you didn’t want to get hit by a car.