How the hell are you? You look great in your alphas, man. Of course, checking in is the last time we wear them until we get out of this bullshit training squadron and check into something permanent.”
“Thank God,” said Patrick. “If I wanted to wear a suit, I wouldn’t have joined the Corps.”
“Sir,” said the corporal, “let’s get you checked in before they pull me aside to work on this congressional visit. What time did you arrive in San Diego on Saturday?”
“Fifteen thirty.” The corporal jotted the time down on Patrick’s form.
Tim shot Patrick a quizzical—and hurt—expression. “You motherfucker! You been here all weekend and you didn’t call?”
Patrick searched for an explanation as quickly as his mind could work on a Monday morning. “You know how it is, buddy. Jet lag, and apartment hunting—looking for a new car—”
“Fuckin’ A! You got rid of that shitty old Chrysler?” Patrick knew his friend well. By switching the subject to cars, he’d caused Tim to forget about his failure to call. But the episode was disturbing. Patrick had reconciled himself to hiding his gay life from the Marine Corps because that was the policy but he hated deceiving his friends. “Hey! Now that you’re here, we need a fourth pilot in our house since our roommate deployed to Okinawa.”
“Oh shit, I signed a lease yesterday.”
“Why’d you do that?” Tim’s pained expression returned. “We talked about this in Pensacola, you know? How cool it’d be if four of us lieutenants got a house here? Remember? I thought you liked living with me, buddy. Can you get out of your lease?”
“I don’t think so. But I got a nice place. Come over anytime. Bring Melanie when she’s in town. I move in Friday. Right off the beach—great view of the ocean.”
“Sounds good, but if it doesn’t work out, we can always make room for you at our place.” Tim’s disappointment was obvious and Patrick began to see that it was the military’s ban on gays that created a wedge between him and his fellow Marines. The half-truths and secrecy diminished unit cohesion more than his homosexuality ever could. But he hadn’t made the rule, and because of the DoD Directive banning him from service, Patrick couldn’t offer his buddies an honest explanation for his seeming aloofness. The lack of understanding hung between the two friends like a thick invisible barrier. “You gotta come to our Super Bowl party on Sunday. You’ll change your mind about living at the house when you see how great it is.”
“I’m sure I will.” But he knew he wouldn’t. “Of course I’ll be at the party.”
“Also, sir,” said the corporal, “the officers have a mandatory dining-in this Friday evening.”
“There’s a dining-in this Friday?” Patrick asked Tim. “And you blame me for not calling you? You shoulda given me a heads-up. Hope I can get my dress blues ready.”
“Oh yeah, sorry about that, bro’. It’s at the U.S. Grant Hotel in downtown San Diego. I know I shoulda called but—but I didn’t wanna disturb your leave. Melanie’s flying down—”
“Gunny! Where the fuck are the messages from Headquarters Marine Corps?” Patrick lurched backward as a voice boomed through the open doorway across the personnel office.
“Oh shit!” Corporal Delarosa dropped her pen. “He’s early. Thank God the coffee’s ready.” She stood to face the man approaching from the back of the room.
Tim said quietly, “Remember all the shit they told us to expect from Sledge when we got here?” Patrick nodded. They’d hoped the stories weren’t true. “For once, the Marines didn’t exaggerate. He’s a goddamned bastard.” Tim turned to leave. “I don’t feel like dealing with that asshole after what I went through the last twenty-four hours.” Backing out of the room, Tim put his thumb to his ear and pinky to his lips and mouthed, “Call me!”
“Sir!” Corporal Delarosa said to Lieutenant Colonel Hammer as he stepped into the large open office. “Gunny’s at the pistol range this week. We’re printing the messages now.” Patrick saw signs of both nervousness and determination in her response to the large man.
“Goddamn it! Major Burr’s off to God-only-knows-where, the gunny’s not here—where the hell is my worthless adjutant?”
“I don’t know where the adjutant is, sir.”
“I oughtta fire the whole friggin’ bunch of ’em!” Sledge yelled, walking across the room to the coffeepot. “Any phone messages?”
Corporal Delarosa fumbled through a small stack on her desk. “Yes sir. The duty officer dropped these off a few minutes ago.” She carried the slips of paper to the man.
Patrick and the other Marines had been standing at attention since Sledge’s bombastic entrance. As the squadron commander snatched the messages from the corporal, he turned his attention to Patrick, much to Patrick’s dismay. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Sir, I’m Lieutenant McAbe.” Patrick stared straight ahead into empty space. He hadn’t felt this anxious around a superior officer since leaving Officer Candidate School at Quantico, Virginia, several years earlier.
“What? You a goddamned squid masquerading in a Marine’s uniform? Last time I checked, the Corps didn’t have any ‘lieutenants.’” Patrick was confused. No lieutenants in the Marine Corps? “Well? Are you a fucking mute?” Lieutenant Colonel Hammer bellowed in Patrick’s face. “What are you? First lieutenant? Second lieutenant?—Lance lieutenant?”
The two young lance corporals in the back of the room laughed at their commanding officer’s use of the fictional—and derogatory—rank of “lance lieutenant.” Patrick finally grasped the squadron commander’s point. While the Navy had an official rank of “lieutenant,” the Marines Corps’ “lieutenants” were either “second” lieutenants or, once they were promoted as Patrick had been recently, “first” lieutenants. Patrick’s mistake was minor and Sledge’s type of harassment usually disappeared after boot camp or OCS. But some officers enjoyed humiliating their juniors and Patrick’s choice was to play along or go to the brig for insubordination. “First Lieutenant McAbe, sir!”
“There. Was that so fucking hard?” Sledge’s sarcasm was annoying. Laughing, he added, “It’s my job to cure you of that Navy bullshit after you leave Pensacola. Now, First Lieutenant McAbe, you’re a Marine again. Welcome aboard!” He shouted the last statement in an apparent attempt at motivation but it came across as sadistic. Patrick’s peers had warned him about the “You’re not in the Navy anymore” attitude from senior Marine pilots but Sledge overdid it.
The Marines in the outer room exhaled audibly as their CO walked away, sipping coffee with one hand and reading the phone messages with the other. “Corporal Delarosa, you got five minutes to get me the official messages from headquarters off the system.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” the corporal responded as the Marines returned to their seats. “Hey, Devildogs, print those messages now!” She calmed down and said, “Whew. Please check over your Record of Emergency Data sheet, sir, and if everything is correct, sign here.” She stepped away to assist the Marine at the noisy printer churning out pages of documents.
“Holy Mother of God!” shouted Sledge from his corner office.
“Damn!” she said. “He read about the congressman before I could break it to him gently.”
Sledge stormed into the outer office and the Marines returned to standing positions. “Delarosa! Did you know a goddamned congressman would be here tomorrow?” Sledge Hammer was a large man, both in height and in girth. Patrick wondered how he passed the Marine Corps’s annual physical fitness test, met the strict weight standards or even fit in the cockpit of a Cobra. He didn’t doubt the man pulled strings to get around the rules.
“I just found out about it, too, sir. Five minutes before you did.”
“Why