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Marine Corps Stories: Firstly

by Skyler Saunders 2 years ago in marine corps
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Is it personal or just business?

First Lieutenant Zalia Serra wiped her palm on her cammie blouse. The brown skin of her circular face glistened with sweat. She tied her blonde hair in a tight bun. Her eyes were like a mood ring and appeared to change when you caught them in the right light. She had a figure similar to a dumbbell.

“Goddamn sweat,” she said.

“I know,” said Captain Farmiga “Familia” Torres-Black.

Farmiga’s oval face, pearl-colored skin, and black hair all unified as one.

The two Marine officers trained their drones over the city of Dammam in Saudi Arabia, joysticks resting gently against their palms trying to avoid the perspiration caused by too-tight a grip.

“I’m glad we’re doing this shit,” Zalia said.

“I am, too,” Familia said.

“I mean they always acted like our friends.”


“And now we get to bomb them. That’s justice,” Zalia said.

They dropped their bombs and then hightailed their aircraft back to a Naval ship on the Persian Gulf.

“I’m glad that that’s over,” Familia said.

“I’m not. We should have dropped even more bombs on them,” Zalia said, her upper lip quivering.

“Jesus, Z. You got worked up there didn’t you?” Familia asked.

“I’m just so pissed about what we had to go through to convince the American people these Saudis were the real enemy all along.”

“It’s settled.” Familia sounded like a judge. At age twenty six, she listened to Zalia who was two years her junior.

“Do you ever think about it?” Zalia asked.

“About what, Z?”

“The bastards who soaked up all that oil, called it theirs by ‘national right’ and then used it to sponsor terrorists. Goddamn them!” She kicked over a chair.

“Hey, Lieutenant! Listen to me,” Familia said. She sounded like a counselor suddenly. “I know that you have personal ties to people who perished in a Saudi-backed attack. I get it. But you can’t let that anger ruin your life! What we just did—”

“What we just did was not enough. There weren’t enough women and children, firstly. When they kill our people, do they ever say, ‘Oh, well I can’t explode this C4 strapped to my chest because there’s a pregnant woman about to take a bath’?” Zalia asked.

“I hear you.” Familia replied.

“Do you? We’ve been doing this for the past few months, and it seems as if you don’t share the same enthusiasm.”

Familia sighed. “I get it. I’m just not throwing emotion into this. I get it that you want more blood. Cool. We can make the grass grow all day. But we have orders and protocol. The brass want surgery, not butchery.”

“Not the Commandant.”

“That’s speculation.”

“No, I know she wants their women and children to die rather than our own, along with whatever man is walking.”

“That’s conjecture, Z.”

“I still hold to it. She wouldn’t have sent those generals in to tell us to keep fingers on triggers.”

“You’re making this personal. It’s understandable, but it could make you a liability. I don’t want to see you busted down, or even worse, thrown into the brig. Do you get me?”

“I hear you talking, Fam,’” Z said with a pop of her tongue and a twist of her neck. She wore a brilliant smile.

“C’mon. I’ll take you into town. We’ll do some shots.”

The smile grew wider.

The two Marines made it to the Green Lizard in the town of Yuma, Arizona. They lined up shots and took in the ambience. Country western music pulsated in the club and seemed to reckon with the sentiments both women harbored.

“I’m sure of it. The Commandant. Yes, General Misha Wainwright is looking to smother those sons of bitches, and the bitches, too,” Zalia said.

“I’m telling you, I just see that as conjecture.”

“Say that all you want. I know it. And I’m not saying targeting collateral damage, but if they’re in the crosshairs with the rest of them….”

Familia took a swig of beer and Zalia took another shot.

“Goddamn! I feel like dancing. Come dance with me, Fam.’ We might even meet some men,” Zalia said.

“I think we’ve already attracted some.”

A tall, angular looking young man approached Familia. He wore neat khakis and a tucked in collared shirt.

“How are you doing—”

“I am a captain in the United States Marine Corps...PFC.”

He put his hands in the air like he was caught in a stickup, and backed away smoothly.

“How can you spot those PFCs so fast?” Zalia asked.

“First, it’s the high and tight haircut, then the fresh-pressed attire, and finally, the nervousness belied by overconfidence.”

Zalia took another shot. “I’ve got to dance, now.”

“Let’s go Captain. It’s about time to let your hips do the talking, and let your lips do the smooching!”

“I’m definitely going to regret this. Alright, what the hell!”

marine corps

About the author

Skyler Saunders

I am a forever young, ego-driven, radical hipster from Delaware. Investor. Objectivist for life. Instagram: @skylerized


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