The Marine Corps - the military arm of the US Navy. A country's fate and freedom lies in the hands of this band of brothers and sisters.
USMC Boot Camp was extremely challenging, especially frequent highly-stressful encounters with tough, no-nonsense Drill Instructors.
“Coriolanus is underappreciated,” Dylan McCole said. “How could you say that?” Merrin Vault retorted. “It’s clearly one of his worst. There’s hardly a soliloquy to speak of to address the inner turmoil of the character.”
The spinning blades of the drone whirred with intensity. The cerulean brilliance of the morning sky was only enhanced by the presence of some small, pure-whte cumulus clouds. Each of the blades reflected the sunlight as the device raised up from the ground. Anyone looking up at the Yuma Marine Corps Air Base in Arizona couldn’t help but see the drone.
Colonel McCarthy Beal sat down as the scant amount of onlookers seated themselves as well. “First Lieutenant Claire Howard, I understand you have been in the brig for six and a half months. Is that right?”
I shouldn’t be in this shithole. They have the nerve to say this is the place of dreams. I don’t know about all that. I just want to pilot my boat, meet my girl, and sail to Aruba and get away from it all.
Vinegar and lemon juice both squeezed into the thirty ounce bottle. The one who had ordered both of these liquids together stood with his hands on his hips and legs spread apart. Gloves covered his hands and a smirk curled around his mouth. He paced. Then he stopped.
As a little girl, one of my Daddy's pet names for me was Tootsie Roll. He loved Tootsie Rolls and it was always the candy he chose when he had a choice. It was not until many years later that I learned the significance of these little candies to him and his fellow Marines who fought in the Battle of the Chosin Reservoir.
Rap music blared from a nearby wireless speaker, as junior Marines physically trained in the Yuma, Arizona sun. Fifty-five year-old Major General Patrick “Firebrand” O’Hannigan walked towards some of the enlisted Marines with brisk, certain steps. His two stars sparkled on the collars of his camouflage blouse. His uniform was as impeccable as he'd intended when he awoke at zero dark-thirty to prepare it. The rolled sleeves, crisp, clean and perfectly symmetrical, encircled and drew attention to his muscular biceps. In keeping with regulations, he'd left tiny red hairs visible below his cover, still poking through his white scalp. Unlike a baseball cap, the self-respecting Marine's cover had to be canted slightly forward, to block the sun and to improve the edginess of the overall appearance.
Colonel Bess Vaunt sat at the table in the officers’ club. She twiddled her insignia between her fingers. The door opened. In walked Lieutenant General Callagain Crispus. Bess sprang to her feet. Crispus walked over to her. They both wore plain clothes. The three star general wore a long sleeve, red collared shirt. The colonel had on a heather gray sweater.
The library was dead. No Marines populated the advanced learning center. The locale boasted a bevy of brand new computers and of course brand new books. It seemed as if Devil Dogs would rather venture into the desert and fight with the scorpions and tarantulas and rattlesnakes, however.
“So I can say I pray to….” Lance Corporal Jackson “Jack Bo” Boseman said. “You can say whatever you wish about your faith,” Corporal Yalla Powell said. The two Marines shuffled to Sunday morning chapel.
Two Marines, a man and a woman, enjoyed a night on the town. They watched a movie, and ended up in a hotel not too far from the base.