Water is sticky.

 

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; John had been the only person in the can until this visitor arrived.  

 

It was Captain Riens.  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 was, like covered in red paint or something” 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.  The CO wants to speak to you after you get yourself together.”

 

“Aye, aye, sir” John replied.

 

Captain Reins left the shower can.

 

“Probably just 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 him 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, South Carolina, 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 Hope Family.  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 as he walked the recruiter to the door...  

                                 

 

John wrapped a towel around his waste 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 the 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, and this time as a member of Headquarters Company, 7th Marine Regiment - specifically as a senior military analyst in the S2 Shop.  

 

But 7th Marines was just a tiny spec within the boarders of the air base.  The air base was a major hub for Coalition Forces and civilian contractors.  And that meant that hundreds - if not thousands - of shipping containers had been trucked onto the base, aligned like trailers in a trailer park for as far as the eye could see, and then turned into housing for the base's occupants.

​

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; John certainly didn't mind not having to live in a HMMWV or some dusty, hot tent.  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 connecting 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 John 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.  

 

This 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 once again - John surmised - that the CO wanted to see him. 

 

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” one day and pulling out and marveling at the digital camouflage and wondering what “dad” was like back then - back during "the war."

 

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 allowed.  

 

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 day’s 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 again, 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.  

 

Zig-zagging through the maze of cans once again, John made his way to the 7th Marine Regiment headquarters building, which was really just a repurposed warehouse-office-type-building built by the Iraqi Air Force - when it was their base.   

 

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 silently to himself, “it’s kinda amazing how a glimpse of how other people must see you can change the way you see yourself - even if for but a moment and even if its only your own shadow.”

 

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.  Not today.  

​