Marine Corps Stories: Quarrel

Cold desert nights became the sense of normalcy for the Marines at the forward operating base. A lance corporal from the base had just perished in combat and an unease crept through the Devil Dogs like influenza. But they plowed forward, not forgetting the pain but simply processing it. Newton Kolby had fallen just hours ago. He had not survived his injuries from a roadside bomb. The young Marine would go on to earn the Navy Cross and the Silver Star for his actions, posthumously. His feats saved the lives of four other Marines. Oscar Pohlad, about 6’1” and weighing 190 pounds looked at the picture on the battlefield cross of the young man with his own rank. He shared the same complexion that looked like cashews. He kept walking back to his rack.

There he found Corporal Donovan Rice. He was standing over Pohlad’s belongings reading notes from home.

In a subdued tone, Pohlad said, “What the hell are you doing, Don’”?

Donovan Rice stood at about 5’8” 170 pounds and possessed significant muscle build. He showed a light skinned complexion like the lance corporals.

“You know that he died because of you,” Rice said, acidity in his words.

“That’s a goddamn lie.”

“You were supposed to take his place. You were supposed to be on that vehicle. And you were supposed to get blown up.”

“What the hell kind of talk is that? He was assigned to that particular mission. I had nothing to do with Newt’s death. What the hell is your problem?”

Rice slammed a journal shut and approached Pohlad.

“I’ll leave bruises on your chest. Maybe crack a rib. Punch your stomach and only leave marks that’ll show if you take off your shirt.”

Pohlad stepped to the corporal. “The hell you will, Donovan. You’re way out of line. We’re on the same side, rock brain. Who even made you the main authority over what I do? You’re no CO. You’re not even the XO or Smaj. You come talking about ‘leaving bruises.’ The enemy doesn’t give a goddamn about whether we fight, quarrel or hold hands and sing songs together. They want us all dead. Don’t you get that?”

Rice smirked. “The next time that we’re outside the wire and you’re with me, I’d make sure that you get hit. It’d be friendly fire, but few would know about it. I’d ensure that the other guys know how much of a FUBAR you are. Most people will think that you would have died bravely in battle and the ones who would know the truth would say that our enemy did it and tell the command the same. They’d have ceremonies and memorials for you, not knowing that it was I who had struck you down. The other guys wouldn’t mind it all. They’d be saying, ‘yes, that was a good Marine’ all the while knowing that you were a blue falcon.”

“Blue falcon?! You’re the one issuing threats and talking a bunch of nonsense, talking about murdering me in the field. What kind of backstabbing foolishness is that? What’s all the fussing for? You say all of these things, bloviating over my stance as a Marine when we’re supposed to be fighting on the same side. How dare you even form your lips to say that hot garbage? We’re fighting an enemy that doesn’t give a goddamn about our petty problems. They want to see us zipped up in plastic. While you showcase your little minstrel show of tough guy attitude, they’re plotting to kill us all. Now, why is it that you want to continue your inane way of feeling?”

Rice remained dumbfounded. “I am an NCO, you are just–”

“Save it. You’re just one stripe above me. And if you tell Staff Sergeant Haverfill or Gunny, I welcome that. Please tell them that you made terroristic threats against me. I’d love to hear what they would have to say about that.”

“Nobody would believe you.”

“I would,” PFC Woodard said rousing from his rack.

“I would,” Corporal McKellan said jumping down from his sleeping space.

“I would,” Gunny Travers said at the hatch to the hooch.

Shaken like a martini with pieces of ice in it, Corporal Rice’s mouth became sandpaper.

“I–” Rice started.

“Save it, Corporal,” Gunny Travers said. “Why don’t you come with me and we’ll talk about this with the MPs and the sergeant major.”

“Aye, Gunny,” Rice said, completely deflated. He walked towards the gunnery sergeant with light speed and headed out of the space.

Lance Corporal Pohlad felt like he had just placed down a fighter jet from his arms. “Thanks, guys,” Pohlad said. He gathered up the gear that had been meddled with and straightened up his rack. With tight corners and a top as flat as a blown tire, he reached for his large green blanket and retired for the moment.