Marine Corps Stories: Secured

An administrative shop in Yuma, Arizona is clear except for two Marines: Gunny Galina Patrova, and Staff Sergeant Milan Haney. Galina scanned the work on her desk with weary eyes.

“A lot of paperwork,” Milan said, holding an energy drink.

“It’s like dominoes with this bunch. It’s like they think to themselves: ‘Oh, he got drunk and pissed on the side of a church, I’ve got to go to TJ and almost get arrested’.” Galina put her head on her desk and rocked it slowly from side to side.

“It’s alright, ‘Lina. We’ve still got hardchargers. They mess up. They’re Marines. That’s how we got our reputation. We win battles, we come home, we spray paint BAMCIS on the side of the local supermarket.”

“I’m noticing a pattern here,” Galina said.

“Yes, sadly. But we did have two outstanding rooms this week. It’s too bad everyone’s libo was secured because of Moore’s gin being found in his room.”

“How old is he?”

“Seventeen,” Milan said.

“I was drinking when I was fourteen.”

“But you weren’t in the Corps then, Gunny.”

“I know,” she said, lifting her head.

“Say, what is the new cutting score for SNCOs?” Milan asked.

“You don’t want to know.” Galina replied.

She continued, “They could have just whipped out their junk and pissed all over those scores.”

Galina extended the sheet to Milan who picked it up, and began reading it.

“Bull...shit,” she said.

“I tried to warn you,” Galina said.

“The Marine Corps is almost a microcosm for the meaning of life.”

“Why do you say almost?” Galina asked.

“You know that quote, ‘life is like licking honey from a thorn’?”

“Yes...and?”

“Well, in the Corps there is no honey, and we’re all licking and licking waiting for honey to come gushing out, and all we get is a mouth full of blood.”

“Goddamn, Milan. You really enlightened me right there.”

Milan curtseyed, pulling ever-so-slightly on the end of her tan cammie blouse for added effect.

“I don’t know. I love my job, but it’s kind of like a dog that was housebroken, but still leaves little pyramids all over the family room carpet. It’s just like ‘Lance Corporal Terry, can you go one weekend without getting into a fight with a K-9 officer and the dog?’ I get it. I get it. We’re the strength of the Corps. We wear it on our arms. But Goddamn, this gets to you,” Galina said.

“No one’s seen you crying in the barracks yet. That’s good news.”

“Yes, we as ‘WM’s’ can’t even show the slightest bit of emotion.”

“Either they’ll label us wusses, or say we’re ‘overaggressive.’ Whatever the hell that means. Or even worse, they’ll overemphasize it and want to ‘accommodate’ you,” Milan said.

“I know. I was just talking with the Smaj, and he tried to open every door, and did everything but take off his cammy blouse and lay it down over a puddle of water.”

“That’s in their training though. They’re told to salute and say the greeting of the day to the female Marine if she’s walking with a male Marine officer. No matter the rank difference. You can’t totally blame them,” Milan said.

“I hear you talking. It’s probably a respect thing. I’m just more tired of filling out NJPs. Maybe the punishment should be for the offending Marine to do all this paperwork.”

Milan laughed. “I know my husband is tired of me coming home smelling of puke because some yoo-hoo decided to get pissy drunk before a hump, and shared the contents of his stomach with me. You would think a shower and change of clothes would solve the problem. Nope. I can certainly do without all of that. They all can’t be Dakota Meyer, though. ”

“I’m serious. We’re getting punished just by documenting the errant Marine. Maybe the ones with the shiny stuff on their shoulders will make the change.”

“We can only hope.”