(This is the continuation of Part Seven. Scroll down the page to find Part One.
This story has come up in conversation so often that I thought it needed to be recorded. Everything is true. The timeline, facts, and dialogue have not been altered. The names have been changed, mainly because I’m not sure of the statute of limitations for those still in the service.)
Lance Corporal Bates and I marched down the slope towards Charlie Company. The Sun had made a surprise appearance, and the glare forced me to pull my visor lower to cover my eyes. It was typical of Monterrey weather; if you didn’t like the fog, come back in twenty minutes and enjoy the sunlight. If the Sun didn’t appeal to you, then a cup of coffee later, you could walk out into a rain storm or more fog.
Around us, soldiers and airmen were stopping on the sidewalk and gawking at the two Marines carrying the Army guidon. Some were even pointing. “Shit,” I muttered. “I guess the story’s out.”
“This is awesome,” Bates said.
“What?”
“Awesome, man,” he said, nodding at a pair of soldiers watching us pass with their guidon folded under my arm. “This shit’s is so going to get me laid.”
“Just shut up and let’s get this over with.”
Charlie Company’s barracks were identical to our own. Bates and I walked into the building and trooped across the quarterdeck, where the Duty Sergeant rose from his desk and asked us our names and business. We passed him without pausing, our boots echoing on the tile. At the time, I remember thinking that the duty sergeant didn’t pursue us because he knew better than to mess with a pair of United States Marines. Now I’m older and realize that there probably wasn’t a page in the sergeant’s SOP which addressed the appropriate procedure to deal with an intruder who answers your challenge with a request that you commit biblical relations with your closest blood relative.
The Army barracks wasn’t identical to our own barracks after all. It was a mirror image, which meant that the passageway that I chose was lined with barracks rooms rather than offices. This error caused Bates and me to retrace our steps and re-cross the duty sergeant’s quarter deck in order to proceed down the opposite passageway. The duty never looked up from his logbook, which was fortunate since it kept him from spotting Bates’ middle finger, raised in salute throughout our quick passage of his realm.
Thirty seconds later, we paused outside the Charlie Company Operations office and straightened our uniforms one last time (in case you haven’t identified the pattern, Marines spend a lot of time tugging and straightening their uniforms). “Fine,” I whispered, “let’s get this over with.” Bates nodded and we opened the door.
All activity in the office halted. At least 5 Army sergeants and several clerks looked up from their desks at the two Marines standing in their midst. I took a step forward and brought my heels together with a bang. “Lance Corporals Balboni and Bates reporting on behalf of MasterGunnery Sergeant Satterfield. I need to return your guidon and apologize to your First Sergeant.”
“Your G___Damn right you do!” a voice yelled from the next room. In strolled the Army First Sergeant, one arm already raised and pointing at us. “Who let you in here?”
Bates and I had locked ourselves in the position of attention. “No one, First Sergeant.”
“What?!” he yelled. “Where was the duty?”
Crap. “We didn’t see any duty sergeant, First Sergeant.” I said. Bates, bless his little butt, didn’t so much as flinch.
For a moment, the First Sergeant stared at us. Then, he turned to one of his staff and told him to have sergeant something-or-other waiting in his office when he finished with “these two.” I’ve always wondered what happened with the duty sergeant.
The Army First Sergeant was nothing like our own MasterGuns Satterfield. Short and dumpy, he didn’t portray the kind of strength that young Marines are trained to identify with leadership. I was having some trouble not staring at the way his jowls bounced over his collars. As he turned his attention back to us, I took a step forward. “First Sergeant, I’d like to apologize for disrupting your morning formation and stealing your company guidon. It was unprofessional and beneath the standards of conduct for a Marine.” I extended my arm to return the furled guidon.
The First Sergeant exploded, crossing the room in stunted steps and putting his chubby finger in my face. I snapped back to the position of attention with the guidon tucked fast under my arm, prepared to weather the storm of the First Sergeant’s attention. It was quite a storm. Aside from the profane vulgarities he expressed, I was impressed with the volume of spit that splashed all over my face and chest. I didn’t consider him much of a threat to me, physically; but his saliva played hell with my uniform creases.
The tirade continued while I let my mind wander. When confronted by someone screaming in my face, I found that the best tactic of endurance involved simply forgetting the offensive presence and thinking about other things. So, I spent several minutes planning out the details of my day, what flavor of coffee I would like to get from the bagel shop at the bottom of the mountain, whether I needed to polish my boots that night or wait one more night before making the effort, wishing I was sitting in my room in blessed solitude enjoying…- Oh, Crap. He stopped yelling. The First Sergeant’s voice had ceased while I was daydreaming.
Coming to my senses, I found the First Sergeant’s face inches from mine. “You’re not even paying attention, are you, shitbird?”
“Of course I am, First Sergeant,” I replied. Fools in power, I’ve found, can seldom adapt to a straight-faced lie. And, First Sergeant Fat-ass certainly couldn’t handle it. His face turned red. I even saw the vein on the side of his neck start to rise through the heaving sea of fat.
“You’re out of YOUR F—K’IN MIND, SHITBIRD!!” he screamed, delivering a fresh shower of crease-killing spit to my face and neck. “DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU’RE MESS’IN WITH? DO YOU? DO YOU? DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU’RE MESS’IN WITH?” He took a breath and shook his finger at us. “THIS IS THE UNITED STATES ARMY!”
Bates laughed.
Everyone in the office froze. A pin dropping in the Charlie Company Ops office would have boomed like thunder compared to the silence pounding at my eardrums. Then, all hell broke loose. I have no recollection of the passage of time from the moment the First Sergeant began to scream (not yell; but SCREEEAAAMMM!) until Bates and I dashed across the quarterdeck and escaped through the front hatch. It could have been three or thirty minutes. I do remember scattered images; the huge order manual, hurled by the First Sergeant, which passed inches before my face and smashed into the door behind me. The cacophony of sound from all the Army sergeants and clerks, who had joined in the yelling with great esprit. The tears in Bates eyes as he struggled not laugh out loud. (I was certain that he was going to get us both killed) At some juncture, the First Sergeant gave up and just started screaming, “GET OUT!!! GET OUT!!!” over and over until Bates and I decided that the better part of valor was to retreat.
We ran out into rain (of course it was raining now), stopping when we reached the sidewalk. Soldiers were streaming past us towards the barracks, but, as we stood there, several stopped, gathering into a small crowd and watching us. “What the hell are you staring at?” I asked them.
“Probably their guidon, dude,” Bates said, pointing at the furled flag under my left arm. Shit. This was getting old, and I was concerned with getting back to tell the MasterGuns my side of the story before the phone on his desk rang and the little, fat doggie Top Sergeant started crying at him. Not that I had much of a story to tell. I just figured a little verbal gymnastics might make the difference between a few all night duties and an outright ass beating.
“Here,” I said, holding the guidon out towards the soldiers.
“Yeah, you better cough it up, jarhead,” a tall, pimply soldier said. “We’re gett’in ready to kick your ass.”
I tucked the guidon back under my arm. “I’ve got an idea about where you could stick that guidon,” Bates said, helping matters none at all. “Although,” he added, “my gut feeling is that the guidon is a bit narrower than you’re used to.” I was busy counting soldiers, but got dispirited after I reached a dozen and gave up. I figured we could survive on our feet until someone broke up the fight, assuming of course, that someone cared to stop the ruckus.
Bates was in his element, commenting on the various soldiers’ ancestry, appearance, or general character without pause, while I would have been more at home reading a book and drinking coffee in the barracks. However, I was growing more and more nervous because I knew something that soldiers didn’t know. Bates embodied the “strike first, strike hard” mentality. He would get the first punch in any fight, and he was trash-talking himself into a bit of an aggressive crescendo. He was mid-sentence, complimenting one particular soldier on his mother’s ability to provide affection, when all the soldiers popped to the position of attention. I heard grass crunching behind me and turned to see a pale yellow Chevy Lumina gliding across the barracks lawn, stopping inches from me. There was a red license tag on the front, decorated with a single gold star; the symbol of a Brigadier General. I slipped into the passenger seat while Bates reluctantly climbed in the back door. The soldiers were still frozen as Joel hopped the curb back onto the road. Unfortunately, we were going the wrong direction, so Joel pulled around in a U-turn to return to our own barracks.
“You’ve still got their guidon, Balboni,” Bates advised from the back seat.
“Oh, screw it.” I tossed the stupid Army flag into the back seat as we passed the Army barracks again.
“Hey, look,” Joel said. The soldiers were still standing in front, gathered now around a small, round, and familiar figure. There was a considerable amount of animated gesturing and pointing, which led me to believe that our adventurous tale was being recounted for our old friend, the Army First Sergeant. “Should I stop so you can pay your respects?” Joel asked. I shook my head just as the guidon streaked through the rear window and landed on the sidewalk with a clatter.
“There’s their respects,” Bates said from the back seat. I saw the First Sergeant’s finger pointing towards us as he passed by my window.
“Wow. That little fat man has got some lungs,” Joel said and drove us back to the barracks.
We parked in the back parking lot and walked around our barracks towards the front entrance. At first I thought I was still hearing the Army First Sergeant’s screaming in my mind, but as we reached the front of the building, I was saw the man was standing before our barracks, yelling the tale of our adventures to Master Gunnery Sergeant Satterfield at the top of his lungs. Joel, Bates, and I stood to the side, at the position of parade rest. I could see the MasterGun’s jaw muscles working as he listened to the tirade. I hoped we could get the beating over with quickly and not drag the whole miserable experience out any further. Eventually, the yelling stopped.
“I’ll take care of it, First Sergeant,” Master Gunnery Sergeant Satterfield said in that bowel-loosening quiet voice. The Army First Sergeant opened his mouth to object, took another look at the MasterGuns, thought better of it, and walked away.
“Follow me,” the MasterGuns said and walked into the barracks. We followed him to his office, where we stood in line before his desk at the position of attention. For what seemed like an eternity, there was nothing but silence and a desperate desire not to soil myself.
“You gentlemen have had a busy day,” the MasterGuns said conversationally. Gentlemen? That seals it. We’re dead. “Stevens?”
“Yes, sir?” Joel responded.
“You’re supposed to be confined to barracks. Make it so.” Joel left the office so fast that I didn’t think his boots touched the tile.
“Bates?” Shit. That means I’m last.
“Yes, sir.”
“I expect better things from you. You’re confined to the barracks for two weeks. Get out.”
The hatch clicked and we were alone. I stared over the MasterGuns head in silence. I saw him pull something from a folder on his desk. “Do you know what this is, Balboni?” I risked a glance down.
“An envelope, MasterGuns?”
The big Marine was silent for a moment. I realized that he was trying to decide if I was being a smart-ass. I wasn’t. I was too terrified to be clever. “Your powers of perception are truly remarkable,” he said, apparently giving me the benefit of the doubt. He pulled a piece of paper from the folder. I saw “Official Orders” stamped across the top. “This conversation never happened, Balboni. Understand.”
“Yes, MasterGuns.”
He read from the sheet. “Attention to orders. On or about 13 January, you are to report to Officer Candidate School in Quantico, Virginia, for a period of …” The MasterGuns read the remaining sentences, but the meaning was clear. I was going to be a Lieutenant…unless my shenanigans had cost me my opportunity. If that was the case then I should have kept the stinking guidon, just to have something to show from the experience.
“It is apparent, Mr. Balboni, “ the MasterGuns said, “that some Marines will accompany you on errands which should be against their better judgment. That is a quality which could bring you great success as a young officer. Or,” he looked up at me, “it could get a lot of young Marines killed.” He put the orders back into the folder and placed the folder on the corner of his desk.
“It is possible, though only barely in the realm of possibility, that you possess a gift which could make you a good officer of Marines. It is conceivable, if I employ great imagination, that I can see some hints of competence, some traits which would make me respond favorably in recommending you such a post of responsibility…such a post that men like as myself salute you, obey your orders, and hold to you the honors due to an officer of Marines.”
MasterGuns Satterfield rose and walked around his desk, sitting on the front edge and looking straight at me. “I think, young Mr. Balboni, that you need some time to decide who you want to be… to decide what kind of Marine you want to be, and whether you can be the leader that mothers and wives can entrust with the welfare of their sons and husbands.” He leaned close and peered into my eyes. “Every Marine is someone’s child.” He tapped the folder on his desk repeatedly. “We’ll leave this here for a few days.” He crossed his arms. “Any questions?”
“No, MasterGuns.”
“All right, then. Here’s what we’ll do. Go get your A.L.I.C.E. pack. (green backpack used by Marines) Put a 45 pound plate in it from the gym. Put the pack on your back. Then, go behind the barracks. There’s a pile of about 40 concrete cinder blocks out there. Move the pile to the top of the mountain and report back to me.”
Six hours later, I knocked on the office door, gasping for breath and covered with filth, dirt, and sweat. MasterGuns Satterfield opened the door. “Why are you reporting to me in an unsat state of uniform and appearance?” he asked quietly. “Do you think any officer of the United States Marines would ever allow anyone to see them in anything but perfect condition?”
“No, MasterGuns.”
“Is your shoddy appearance equal with the level of respect to which you hold me?”
“No, MasterGuns.”
“Then, I suggest that you return in an appropriate state of dress.”
Thirty minutes later, I was starting to feel the effects of my sleepless night. Cleaned and dressed in a fresh uniform, with red-rimmed eyes, I knocked on the MasterGun’s hatch.
MasterGunnery Sergeant Satterfield opened the hatch and glanced at my fresh shave and starched camouflage uniform. “Somewhat more acceptable,” he said. “Now, I’ve changed my mind. Move the blocks back down to the barracks. I don’t want anyone to stumble over them up on the mountain trail. And, make sure you stack them neatly.”
“Yes, MasterGuns,” I said and started down the passage to the exit.
Oh, and Mr. Balboni?”
I turned back to see him smiling. “We’ll talk about repainting that tank when you get back.”
Epilogue
Six weeks later, I was at Officer Candidate School. Six months later, I was a Lieutenant of Marines. Two years later, I led my platoon back into our bivouac in the scorching heat of the Thai-Malaysian border, where a Marine Staff Sergeant waited to join my unit as our interpreter. Looking at my name tag, he said, “Sir, are you the Marine who painted that Army tank in California?” Eight years after that, I was a civilian, traveling in California with my wife. We drove onto the base so I could show her the tank she had heard about so often. I parked the car and walked over to the tank, showing her the red splotches which were still visible in spite of the vast and generous amounts of green paint supplied to me by MasterGunnery Sergeant Satterfield. Two young Marines overheard our conversation and approached. “Sir, one of them said, “Are you the one that painted the tank and stole that guidon?”
“Yep,” I replied.
They grinned. “Did you really have to move bricks up and down the mountain for a month?”
“Yep,” I replied. I remembered those moments in Master Gunnery Sergeant Satterfield’s office. “But, it was worth it. I learned a lot that day.”
This story has come up in conversation so often that I thought it needed to be recorded. Everything is true. The timeline, facts, and dialogue have not been altered. The names have been changed, mainly because I’m not sure of the statute of limitations for those still in the service.)
Lance Corporal Bates and I marched down the slope towards Charlie Company. The Sun had made a surprise appearance, and the glare forced me to pull my visor lower to cover my eyes. It was typical of Monterrey weather; if you didn’t like the fog, come back in twenty minutes and enjoy the sunlight. If the Sun didn’t appeal to you, then a cup of coffee later, you could walk out into a rain storm or more fog.
Around us, soldiers and airmen were stopping on the sidewalk and gawking at the two Marines carrying the Army guidon. Some were even pointing. “Shit,” I muttered. “I guess the story’s out.”
“This is awesome,” Bates said.
“What?”
“Awesome, man,” he said, nodding at a pair of soldiers watching us pass with their guidon folded under my arm. “This shit’s is so going to get me laid.”
“Just shut up and let’s get this over with.”
Charlie Company’s barracks were identical to our own. Bates and I walked into the building and trooped across the quarterdeck, where the Duty Sergeant rose from his desk and asked us our names and business. We passed him without pausing, our boots echoing on the tile. At the time, I remember thinking that the duty sergeant didn’t pursue us because he knew better than to mess with a pair of United States Marines. Now I’m older and realize that there probably wasn’t a page in the sergeant’s SOP which addressed the appropriate procedure to deal with an intruder who answers your challenge with a request that you commit biblical relations with your closest blood relative.
The Army barracks wasn’t identical to our own barracks after all. It was a mirror image, which meant that the passageway that I chose was lined with barracks rooms rather than offices. This error caused Bates and me to retrace our steps and re-cross the duty sergeant’s quarter deck in order to proceed down the opposite passageway. The duty never looked up from his logbook, which was fortunate since it kept him from spotting Bates’ middle finger, raised in salute throughout our quick passage of his realm.
Thirty seconds later, we paused outside the Charlie Company Operations office and straightened our uniforms one last time (in case you haven’t identified the pattern, Marines spend a lot of time tugging and straightening their uniforms). “Fine,” I whispered, “let’s get this over with.” Bates nodded and we opened the door.
All activity in the office halted. At least 5 Army sergeants and several clerks looked up from their desks at the two Marines standing in their midst. I took a step forward and brought my heels together with a bang. “Lance Corporals Balboni and Bates reporting on behalf of MasterGunnery Sergeant Satterfield. I need to return your guidon and apologize to your First Sergeant.”
“Your G___Damn right you do!” a voice yelled from the next room. In strolled the Army First Sergeant, one arm already raised and pointing at us. “Who let you in here?”
Bates and I had locked ourselves in the position of attention. “No one, First Sergeant.”
“What?!” he yelled. “Where was the duty?”
Crap. “We didn’t see any duty sergeant, First Sergeant.” I said. Bates, bless his little butt, didn’t so much as flinch.
For a moment, the First Sergeant stared at us. Then, he turned to one of his staff and told him to have sergeant something-or-other waiting in his office when he finished with “these two.” I’ve always wondered what happened with the duty sergeant.
The Army First Sergeant was nothing like our own MasterGuns Satterfield. Short and dumpy, he didn’t portray the kind of strength that young Marines are trained to identify with leadership. I was having some trouble not staring at the way his jowls bounced over his collars. As he turned his attention back to us, I took a step forward. “First Sergeant, I’d like to apologize for disrupting your morning formation and stealing your company guidon. It was unprofessional and beneath the standards of conduct for a Marine.” I extended my arm to return the furled guidon.
The First Sergeant exploded, crossing the room in stunted steps and putting his chubby finger in my face. I snapped back to the position of attention with the guidon tucked fast under my arm, prepared to weather the storm of the First Sergeant’s attention. It was quite a storm. Aside from the profane vulgarities he expressed, I was impressed with the volume of spit that splashed all over my face and chest. I didn’t consider him much of a threat to me, physically; but his saliva played hell with my uniform creases.
The tirade continued while I let my mind wander. When confronted by someone screaming in my face, I found that the best tactic of endurance involved simply forgetting the offensive presence and thinking about other things. So, I spent several minutes planning out the details of my day, what flavor of coffee I would like to get from the bagel shop at the bottom of the mountain, whether I needed to polish my boots that night or wait one more night before making the effort, wishing I was sitting in my room in blessed solitude enjoying…- Oh, Crap. He stopped yelling. The First Sergeant’s voice had ceased while I was daydreaming.
Coming to my senses, I found the First Sergeant’s face inches from mine. “You’re not even paying attention, are you, shitbird?”
“Of course I am, First Sergeant,” I replied. Fools in power, I’ve found, can seldom adapt to a straight-faced lie. And, First Sergeant Fat-ass certainly couldn’t handle it. His face turned red. I even saw the vein on the side of his neck start to rise through the heaving sea of fat.
“You’re out of YOUR F—K’IN MIND, SHITBIRD!!” he screamed, delivering a fresh shower of crease-killing spit to my face and neck. “DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU’RE MESS’IN WITH? DO YOU? DO YOU? DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU’RE MESS’IN WITH?” He took a breath and shook his finger at us. “THIS IS THE UNITED STATES ARMY!”
Bates laughed.
Everyone in the office froze. A pin dropping in the Charlie Company Ops office would have boomed like thunder compared to the silence pounding at my eardrums. Then, all hell broke loose. I have no recollection of the passage of time from the moment the First Sergeant began to scream (not yell; but SCREEEAAAMMM!) until Bates and I dashed across the quarterdeck and escaped through the front hatch. It could have been three or thirty minutes. I do remember scattered images; the huge order manual, hurled by the First Sergeant, which passed inches before my face and smashed into the door behind me. The cacophony of sound from all the Army sergeants and clerks, who had joined in the yelling with great esprit. The tears in Bates eyes as he struggled not laugh out loud. (I was certain that he was going to get us both killed) At some juncture, the First Sergeant gave up and just started screaming, “GET OUT!!! GET OUT!!!” over and over until Bates and I decided that the better part of valor was to retreat.
We ran out into rain (of course it was raining now), stopping when we reached the sidewalk. Soldiers were streaming past us towards the barracks, but, as we stood there, several stopped, gathering into a small crowd and watching us. “What the hell are you staring at?” I asked them.
“Probably their guidon, dude,” Bates said, pointing at the furled flag under my left arm. Shit. This was getting old, and I was concerned with getting back to tell the MasterGuns my side of the story before the phone on his desk rang and the little, fat doggie Top Sergeant started crying at him. Not that I had much of a story to tell. I just figured a little verbal gymnastics might make the difference between a few all night duties and an outright ass beating.
“Here,” I said, holding the guidon out towards the soldiers.
“Yeah, you better cough it up, jarhead,” a tall, pimply soldier said. “We’re gett’in ready to kick your ass.”
I tucked the guidon back under my arm. “I’ve got an idea about where you could stick that guidon,” Bates said, helping matters none at all. “Although,” he added, “my gut feeling is that the guidon is a bit narrower than you’re used to.” I was busy counting soldiers, but got dispirited after I reached a dozen and gave up. I figured we could survive on our feet until someone broke up the fight, assuming of course, that someone cared to stop the ruckus.
Bates was in his element, commenting on the various soldiers’ ancestry, appearance, or general character without pause, while I would have been more at home reading a book and drinking coffee in the barracks. However, I was growing more and more nervous because I knew something that soldiers didn’t know. Bates embodied the “strike first, strike hard” mentality. He would get the first punch in any fight, and he was trash-talking himself into a bit of an aggressive crescendo. He was mid-sentence, complimenting one particular soldier on his mother’s ability to provide affection, when all the soldiers popped to the position of attention. I heard grass crunching behind me and turned to see a pale yellow Chevy Lumina gliding across the barracks lawn, stopping inches from me. There was a red license tag on the front, decorated with a single gold star; the symbol of a Brigadier General. I slipped into the passenger seat while Bates reluctantly climbed in the back door. The soldiers were still frozen as Joel hopped the curb back onto the road. Unfortunately, we were going the wrong direction, so Joel pulled around in a U-turn to return to our own barracks.
“You’ve still got their guidon, Balboni,” Bates advised from the back seat.
“Oh, screw it.” I tossed the stupid Army flag into the back seat as we passed the Army barracks again.
“Hey, look,” Joel said. The soldiers were still standing in front, gathered now around a small, round, and familiar figure. There was a considerable amount of animated gesturing and pointing, which led me to believe that our adventurous tale was being recounted for our old friend, the Army First Sergeant. “Should I stop so you can pay your respects?” Joel asked. I shook my head just as the guidon streaked through the rear window and landed on the sidewalk with a clatter.
“There’s their respects,” Bates said from the back seat. I saw the First Sergeant’s finger pointing towards us as he passed by my window.
“Wow. That little fat man has got some lungs,” Joel said and drove us back to the barracks.
We parked in the back parking lot and walked around our barracks towards the front entrance. At first I thought I was still hearing the Army First Sergeant’s screaming in my mind, but as we reached the front of the building, I was saw the man was standing before our barracks, yelling the tale of our adventures to Master Gunnery Sergeant Satterfield at the top of his lungs. Joel, Bates, and I stood to the side, at the position of parade rest. I could see the MasterGun’s jaw muscles working as he listened to the tirade. I hoped we could get the beating over with quickly and not drag the whole miserable experience out any further. Eventually, the yelling stopped.
“I’ll take care of it, First Sergeant,” Master Gunnery Sergeant Satterfield said in that bowel-loosening quiet voice. The Army First Sergeant opened his mouth to object, took another look at the MasterGuns, thought better of it, and walked away.
“Follow me,” the MasterGuns said and walked into the barracks. We followed him to his office, where we stood in line before his desk at the position of attention. For what seemed like an eternity, there was nothing but silence and a desperate desire not to soil myself.
“You gentlemen have had a busy day,” the MasterGuns said conversationally. Gentlemen? That seals it. We’re dead. “Stevens?”
“Yes, sir?” Joel responded.
“You’re supposed to be confined to barracks. Make it so.” Joel left the office so fast that I didn’t think his boots touched the tile.
“Bates?” Shit. That means I’m last.
“Yes, sir.”
“I expect better things from you. You’re confined to the barracks for two weeks. Get out.”
The hatch clicked and we were alone. I stared over the MasterGuns head in silence. I saw him pull something from a folder on his desk. “Do you know what this is, Balboni?” I risked a glance down.
“An envelope, MasterGuns?”
The big Marine was silent for a moment. I realized that he was trying to decide if I was being a smart-ass. I wasn’t. I was too terrified to be clever. “Your powers of perception are truly remarkable,” he said, apparently giving me the benefit of the doubt. He pulled a piece of paper from the folder. I saw “Official Orders” stamped across the top. “This conversation never happened, Balboni. Understand.”
“Yes, MasterGuns.”
He read from the sheet. “Attention to orders. On or about 13 January, you are to report to Officer Candidate School in Quantico, Virginia, for a period of …” The MasterGuns read the remaining sentences, but the meaning was clear. I was going to be a Lieutenant…unless my shenanigans had cost me my opportunity. If that was the case then I should have kept the stinking guidon, just to have something to show from the experience.
“It is apparent, Mr. Balboni, “ the MasterGuns said, “that some Marines will accompany you on errands which should be against their better judgment. That is a quality which could bring you great success as a young officer. Or,” he looked up at me, “it could get a lot of young Marines killed.” He put the orders back into the folder and placed the folder on the corner of his desk.
“It is possible, though only barely in the realm of possibility, that you possess a gift which could make you a good officer of Marines. It is conceivable, if I employ great imagination, that I can see some hints of competence, some traits which would make me respond favorably in recommending you such a post of responsibility…such a post that men like as myself salute you, obey your orders, and hold to you the honors due to an officer of Marines.”
MasterGuns Satterfield rose and walked around his desk, sitting on the front edge and looking straight at me. “I think, young Mr. Balboni, that you need some time to decide who you want to be… to decide what kind of Marine you want to be, and whether you can be the leader that mothers and wives can entrust with the welfare of their sons and husbands.” He leaned close and peered into my eyes. “Every Marine is someone’s child.” He tapped the folder on his desk repeatedly. “We’ll leave this here for a few days.” He crossed his arms. “Any questions?”
“No, MasterGuns.”
“All right, then. Here’s what we’ll do. Go get your A.L.I.C.E. pack. (green backpack used by Marines) Put a 45 pound plate in it from the gym. Put the pack on your back. Then, go behind the barracks. There’s a pile of about 40 concrete cinder blocks out there. Move the pile to the top of the mountain and report back to me.”
Six hours later, I knocked on the office door, gasping for breath and covered with filth, dirt, and sweat. MasterGuns Satterfield opened the door. “Why are you reporting to me in an unsat state of uniform and appearance?” he asked quietly. “Do you think any officer of the United States Marines would ever allow anyone to see them in anything but perfect condition?”
“No, MasterGuns.”
“Is your shoddy appearance equal with the level of respect to which you hold me?”
“No, MasterGuns.”
“Then, I suggest that you return in an appropriate state of dress.”
Thirty minutes later, I was starting to feel the effects of my sleepless night. Cleaned and dressed in a fresh uniform, with red-rimmed eyes, I knocked on the MasterGun’s hatch.
MasterGunnery Sergeant Satterfield opened the hatch and glanced at my fresh shave and starched camouflage uniform. “Somewhat more acceptable,” he said. “Now, I’ve changed my mind. Move the blocks back down to the barracks. I don’t want anyone to stumble over them up on the mountain trail. And, make sure you stack them neatly.”
“Yes, MasterGuns,” I said and started down the passage to the exit.
Oh, and Mr. Balboni?”
I turned back to see him smiling. “We’ll talk about repainting that tank when you get back.”
Epilogue
Six weeks later, I was at Officer Candidate School. Six months later, I was a Lieutenant of Marines. Two years later, I led my platoon back into our bivouac in the scorching heat of the Thai-Malaysian border, where a Marine Staff Sergeant waited to join my unit as our interpreter. Looking at my name tag, he said, “Sir, are you the Marine who painted that Army tank in California?” Eight years after that, I was a civilian, traveling in California with my wife. We drove onto the base so I could show her the tank she had heard about so often. I parked the car and walked over to the tank, showing her the red splotches which were still visible in spite of the vast and generous amounts of green paint supplied to me by MasterGunnery Sergeant Satterfield. Two young Marines overheard our conversation and approached. “Sir, one of them said, “Are you the one that painted the tank and stole that guidon?”
“Yep,” I replied.
They grinned. “Did you really have to move bricks up and down the mountain for a month?”
“Yep,” I replied. I remembered those moments in Master Gunnery Sergeant Satterfield’s office. “But, it was worth it. I learned a lot that day.”
Brian, this was awesome. Thanks for linking me up to your blog!
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