The water was warm, but there was still a slight shiver that he couldn’t shake as he stood - head hanging, arms extended, palms flat against the wall of the shower stall.  The water left the shower head and made contact with the back of his neck, then flowed down his body, ultimately caught by the drain.  

 

He stared down; his eyes focused beyond his dog tags and onto the floor of the shower.  There was an uneasiness about the water’s red and pink shades against the white floor; it spiked a slight curiosity in his mind, but the intermittent ringing in his ears would snap away his focus on the questionable water every time.

 

“Sergeant Hope!” 

 

Then a loud creek as the door to the shower can opened and the stomp of boots louder and louder as the person moved toward John’s shower stall; he was the only one in the can at the moment.  

 

It was Captain Reins.  He stopped short of the shower curtain.

 

“Sergeant Hope, you’ve been in here for sometime now - how you doin’ Marine?”

 

“I’m good sir.  Just finishing up.  I had, like, this red paint all over me for some reason.” John replied.

 

“Yeah, red paint Hope, whatever you say.”  Captain Reins ended the conversation with a slight giggle and turned to leave the can.  “Take your time Marine.  But the CO does want to speak to you after you get yourself together.”

 

“Aye, aye, sir” John replied.

 

Captain Reins left the shower can.

 

“Probably another ‘the Marine Corps needs you Sergeant!’ speech” John thought to himself.  

 

He was tired of the command trying to get him to reenlist - the Marine Corps was doing everything that they could to get John to stay a Marine.

​

​

​

Sergeant John Hope was about to complete his five year enlistment in the United States Marine Corps.  It hadn’t been easy, but it hadn’t been bad either.  John enlisted one month after his seventeenth birthday - the June before 9/11 - and he subsequently graduated high school early and shipped out to the Marine Corps Recruit Depot at Parris Island in February 2002.

 

John’s mother and father supported their son.  They had to.  They knew there was no talking him out of it.  John had dreamt of being a United States Marine since he was a boy.  His parents had one condition however; they wouldn’t sign his enlistment contract if he chose to be a “grunt” - Marine Corps Infantry.  

 

John was okay with that though.  Sure there was a whole lot of esteem that came with being a grunt, but John just wanted a chance to earn the title of United States Marine.  

 

At a time before smart phones, virtual meetings, and never ending connectivity, the scene was ripped right from the pages of Americana.  

 

John’s parents flanked him as they all sat on the living room sofa.  Framed photos of the extended Hope Family adorned the walls.  Some were wearing United States military uniforms, but there were no Marines.  

 

The recruiter sat in a chair across from the Hopes.  Several ribbons were placed with perfection over his left breast pocket.  A chevron with three stripes up, one stripe down, with crossed rifles in the middle were sown onto the sleeves of his pressed kaki shirt.  A blood stripe ran down his blue trousers.  His “Coraframs” were shiny.  Very, very shiny.  

 

A folder with a massive Eagle, Globe, and Anchor embossed on the cover was placed on the table by the recruiter.  He opened it.  Turned it to face the Hope family.  

 

“John, this is your enlistment contract.  Mom and Dad, please feel free to read through it.  You’ll see the areas marked where John needs to sign, then where you need to sign.”  The recruiter sat back in the chair and waited patiently as the Hope Family turned each page of the contract, then one-by-one signed it.  

 

John’s mother spoke softly, “so as a Military Intelligence Specialist, John’s not really going to be out there doing patrols and stuff right?”

 

The recruiter looked directly at John’s mother, “Ma’am, every Marine is a basically trained rifleman.  If the Marine Corps needs John out in the field with the grunts, the expectation is that he’ll go.  And he’ll be trained appropriately to handle whatever may come his way.”

 

John’s mother didn’t seem all too settled with that response.  The recruiter could tell and continued, “However, most Marines in this Military Occupational Specialty generally spend most of their enlistment at the higher echelons - the Regiments and Divisions.  But every infantry battalion in the Marine Corps has an S2 Shop, so all of this really depends on the place and time and needs of Marine Corps when John completes all of his training.  He could end up at an infantry battalion.  But it’s not wartime, and nobody expects a war anytime soon.”

 

There was some relief in the eyes of John’s mother.  John put his arm around her and said “Everything will be fine Mom, promise.”

 

The recruiter stood and shook John’s hand.  “John, as of July 19th, 2001, you’ve officially entered the Delayed Entry Program of the United States Marine Corps.  You’re gonna get those last few months of high school in, starting in September, then I’d expect your boot camp ship date to be early in the new year.”

 

The recruiter then shook the hand of both Mr and Mrs Hope, “Sir, Ma’am, be proud of your son.  Few people nowadays see military service as a duty.  And even fewer people answer the call to serve in the United States Marine Corps - your son is gonna be part of the next generation to serve our great nation.”

 

“He sure is” Mr Hope replied and he walked the recruiter to the door...  

​

​

 

John wrapped a towel around his waist and exited the shower stall.  Captain Reins said to “Take his time,” but John knew better than that - even though he was only one day and a wake up from going home, then a quick two weeks of processing out of the Marine Corps - he knew that keeping the CO waiting wasn’t in keeping with the title and expectations of a Sergeant of Marines.  

 

John walked briskly to the door and stepped down and out of the shower can.  The “moon dust” kicking up from underneath his flip-flops with every step he made toward his can.  

 

Every time John traversed the landscape of the 7th Marine Regiment’s territory within the Al Assad Air Base in Al Anbar Province of Iraq, there was always a thought of “just wow.”

 

The logistics might of the United States is as uncanny as it is impressive.  Some three-and-a-half years ago, John was just a Private First Class, driving, sleeping, eating, and jerkin’ off in the driver seat of a HMMWV as him and the rest of 1st Tank Battalion, 1st Marine Division spearheaded the assault into Iraq, kicking-off Operation Iraqi Freedom.  

 

Not long after that, then Corporal Hope returned again with 1st Tank Battalion to support operations in Fallujah, Iraq.  Fast forward another year and John was back in Iraq, but this time on a sprawling air base where defense contractors reigned supreme.  

 

Hundreds, if not thousands, of shipping containers were trucked into the base, aligned like trailers in a trailer park for as far as the eye could see, and then turned into housing for U.S. Troops.  

 

These shipping containers were coined “cans” by the troops and were a welcomed relief for anyone who had participated in the early days of the war.  Honestly, if you were stationed on a major installation in Iraq by this point in the war, it was very easy to forget about the “grunts” going “outside the wire” and closing with the enemy everyday.

 

Holding the towel together at his waist with one hand, his shower bag in the other, and his M16A2 Service Rifle slung across his torso, John’s dog tags clinked and clanged against his chest as he walked to his can.  John’s head hung low - his neck a bit tight; his shoulders achy.  As he zig-zagged through the cans a passer-by spoke:

 

“Sergeant Hope.  Fuck yeah Marine.  Fuck yeah.” 

 

John looked up; he didn’t recognize the Marine delivering the message, but still managed a crooked smile and a gentle “Rah” back at the Devil Dog.  

 

It wasn’t out of the norm for Sergeant Hope.  He had a good reputation throughout the regimental headquarters section.  Sergeant Hope was for all intents and purposes, a model Marine.  He was a competent and experienced Intelligence Specialist; he exceeded in all the qualities and expectations that a Sergeant of Marines was supposed to - physical fitness, marksmanship, general knowledge, drill, and of course - leadership.

 

Which is why his peers and superiors were always on his case about reenlisting.  And which is why  - John surmised - that the CO wanted to see him again. 

 

John finally made it to his can.  He entered the can; it was nice to have air conditioning and a comfortable rack.  John unslung his rifle and leaned it against the wall.  He looked around his can.  Something was off.

 

There was a new - or what looked like new - set of cammies laying on his rack.  There was a note attached to the cammie blouse:

 

Just wanted to make sure you had a fresh set to change into.

                                                  -S/F, Capt Reins

 

John didn’t think much of it.  Sure he was only a few short weeks from entering back into the civilian world, but a new set of cammies to take with him would be kinda nice - John imagined his someday kids finding a footlocker of “the war stuff” and pulling out and marveling at the digital camouflage and wondering what “dad” was like back then.

 

But as John began to get dressed, he noticed something else was off - his makeshift flak and kevlar stand was empty. 

 

“What the fuck?” John spoke out loud.  

 

Being a member of the S2 for 7th Marine Regiment on Al Assad Airbase nowadays meant that John didn’t leave the airbase all too much; in fact during this deployment he’d only left the base a handful of times for some “ride alongs” and to get some visuals of his area of over site as an intelligence specialist.  All of this meant that John’s flak and Kevlar didn’t move too much; they stayed right there on the stand collecting dust.  

 

John became a bit anxious.  In a few days he’d back CONUS; he’d be back at the Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center in Twentynine Palms, California and he’d be turning in all of his gear ahead of being handed his DD-214 and sent out the gate and out of the Marine Corps.  

 

Missing gear was a thing in the Marine Corps; gear accountability was a basic expectation of every Marine, and there was an even greater emphasis on it if you were in a leadership position - if you were a Sergeant of Marines.  

 

John said “Fuck” to himself, but then remembered that the CO wanted to see him. 

 

With his new cammies adorned and boots bloused, John grabbed his rifle and his cover and stepped out of his can and into the Iraqi sun once again.  

 

Once again zig-zagging through the maze of cans, John made his way to the 7th Marine Regiment headquarters building, which was really just a repurposed warehouse-office-type building built by the old Iraqi Air Force - back when they had an Air Force.  

 

John didn’t sling his rifle this time, instead he chose to carry it with his right hand wrapped around the trigger guard between the magazine well and the pistol grip of the weapon - its sling dangling below, occasionally making contact with the sandy ground.  

 

As he walked, John’s shadow cast upon the ground - it was an imposing silhouette.  While John was proud of his service up until this point, there was always a bit of shame deep down in his heart.  Had he ever really been tested as a Marine?  Sure, there were times during the invasion of Iraq that John - as a young Marine - experienced a bit of combat, and there were those daily mortar and rocket attacks during his time in Fallujah, but John wasn’t a door-kicker.  John was a POG - a Person Other than Grunt - and he always reminded himself of that.  And he always questioned if he really was of the same men who fought in Guadalcanal, or Hue City, or even Desert Storm.  

 

Regardless of John’s own opinion of himself, his shadow told a different story as he walked to the headquarters building - the shadow was that of a warrior; unnamed, fit, purposeful, and armed.  John found a bit of pride again as he walked along.  

 

John thought “It’s kinda amazing how a slight glimpse of how other people must see you can change the way you see yourself - even if only momentarily.”

 

John was lost in his own thoughts; John didn’t notice the gazes and stares from the others as he walked - Marines, contractors, and locals alike.  There were always people and vehicles on the move - at all times of the day - across the busy air base.  Most of the time people passed each other like ships in the night.

 

John walked into the headquarters building; a few Marines - officer and enlisted alike - stood aside as the Sergeant of Marines made his way down the dusty corridor to the Regimental CO's office.  John was familiar with just about every Marine that frequented the headquarters building.  After all the S2 Shop - where John worked - was right down the hall from the CO's office.  As John walked - passing Marines here and there - things were oddly silent.  There were no "Yuts," "OohRahs," or even a response from any of the higher ranks as John walked by and gave each of them the greeting of the day.

 

Instead, all John received in response to his greeting was a simple nod. And while it wasn't the "Fuck yeah Marine" that John experienced earlier, John could tell that the nod was a respectful nod.

 

The Regimental CO's office door was open.  John approached cautiously and slung his rifle around his back as he came to a stop just outside of the door.  Hearing the Marine stop and plant his feet, the CO looked up and stood from his chair and moved from behind his desk and toward Sergeant Hope.  In corner of the CO's office stood Captain Reins and Gunnery Sergeant Jacobs; Gunny Jacobs was Sergeant Hope's NCOIC - short for Non-Commissioned Officer In Charge.  

 

"Hey Marine, how you doing?" The Regimental CO extended his hand to greet Sergeant Hope.  "Come on it, please sit down."  The CO continued.

 

Most of the time when one's presence is requested by the CO - in the CO's office - coming to the position of attention directly in front of the CO's desk and announcing your own arrival is the norm for every Marine.  Not today.  

 

Instead, John was walked to a chair directly in front of the CO's desk and asked to sit - by the CO himself.  The Commanding Officer of 7th Marine Regiment was a "Full Bird" Colonel.  And the 7th Marine Regiment's Commanding Officer at the moment was a highly-respected and highly-decorated warfighter who's reputation always preceded him.  John was a bit alarmed as to why the CO was being so "informal" with him.  John wondered if the whole "buddy, buddy" tactic that the CO seemed to be employing was just more theater to get John to re-enlist.  Was the Marine Corps hurting for people so badly that the organization would stoop to breaking down two centuries of military order and discipline?  

 

John did what he was told.  As he looked down to bring his slung rifle around to his side so that he could sit in the chair, a small drop of blood from John's right ear landed on the cracked leather of the armrest.  Nobody but John seemed to notice.

 

Captain Reins and Gunny Jacobs slid some chairs to John's flanks and sat down beside him.  The CO moved back to his chair behind the desk and sat as well.

 

"Sergeant Hope.  Damn Marine.  I am in awe of you.  And you're leaving me tomorrow.  You're leaving the Marine Corps in a few weeks."  The CO said with a disappointing tone.  

 

John said nothing, and just looked at the CO.

 

"How are you feeling?  I have a good mind to put you on a medical hold and delay your EAS, but I don't think I need to do that - you're a warrior and I respect your decision."

 

John responded to the CO "Med hold Sir?"  The veiled threat to keep John in the Marine Corps seemed odd; there was nothing medically wrong with him.

 

"Yeah, I know the docs checked you out and apart from some ringing in the ears, you're just fine...but you can never be too sure."  The CO replied.

 

John hadn't told anybody about the blood coming out of his ears, nor did he about the pain and stiffness he had been feeling in his upper body - today in particular.

 

"Honestly, I really just wanted to see you one last time before you left, and let you know that I'm putting you in for an award.  You deserve it.  And you definitely earned it."  The CO Continued.

 

John turned his head and looked at Gunny Jacobs, then to the other side and looked at Captain Reins.  

 

John was confused, but then it dawned on him.  Alot of Marines who are about to rotate to a new unit, or get out of the Marine Corps, sometimes get what is called an "end of tour" award.  This award is usally a Navy Achievement Medal - NAM for short - and usualy is just a summary of the Marine's contributions while assigned his or her current unit.  It really isnt anything all too special, but John was thankful.  

 

John replied to the CO "Oh, thank you sir.  I'm happy to be considered for an 'end of tour' but didn't really expect it given I'm gettin' out and all."

 

The CO, along with Captain Reins and Gunny Jacobs all snickered.  Gunny Jacobs looked at Sergeant Hope "Damn Marine, can you just give it a rest - you're always fuckin' around.  The CO is being serious."

 

John was taken back a bit, but merely replied "Roger that Gunny."

 

The CO stood from his chair; the Captain, Sergeant Hope, and the Gunny did the same.  

 

"Sergeant Hope.  I wish you the very best as you exit our beloved Corps.  I have no doubt that whatever you choose to do next, you'll be extremely successful at it."  And with a handshake, the CO gave a nod.  Sergeant Hope, Captain Reins, and Gunny Jacobs exited the CO's office and proceeded down the hall to the S2 Shop.