Authors: Denise Kahn
“Always in my dreams,” he whispered back.
The sergeant saw Max’s lips move. He moved directly in front of him, his face about two inches from his face. “IF I HEAR ONE MORE FUCKING SOUND OUT OF THAT PIECE OF TRASH YOU CALL A FUCKING MOUTH I WILL TEAR YOUR FUCKING TONGUE OUT RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW!” He said all in one long breath.
Max especially appreciated Smokey’s spittle hitting him in the face.
What the fuck have I done? What the hell did I get myself into this time?
Later that night a barber, some civilian with a small case, showed up. The men lined up, one at a time, and took turns sitting in the guy’s chair. With the precision of a neurosurgeon who had flunked out of med school, and lasting no longer than thirty seconds at a time, the barber managed to make them all into bald eggs.
Max combed his head with his hand, felt the almost nonexistent hair and wondered what ever possessed him to join the Marines.
During the next few days the new recruits were shown the different areas of the island, given clothes, went through physicals and orientation, and listened to lectures and classes on Marine Corps traditions. The Instructor was precise and a hard ass. Of course no one liked him. Although the young men had hardly slept in several days, they pushed themselves to stay awake. When they were finally allowed to sleep they immediately past out. As soon as they closed their eyes the doors flew open and three Drill Instructors, the ones that would be with them for the next three months, stormed in. They had slept a few hours, but to the recruits it felt more like a few minutes. The young men lined up as fast as they could in front of their beds. Some stumbled, others literally fell over each other. They were young, all-American boys, ranging between seventeen to twenty-two years old. They had dreams and questions, but all of that completely vanished when the Drill Instructors stormed in as if they had just landed once again on the beaches in Normandy. The young men held their breaths, their faces trying vehemently to hide their fear and the knots in their stomachs. In a split second their green t-shirts started to get soaked from their perspiration, but the cold sweat of panic running down their spine was worse. For the next two hours the three Drill Instructors took turns, or even all together, hammering the recruits until they were soaked, not only from their own sweat, but from the maniacal screaming, spitting, swearing and overbearing comportment. The effect was draining, and the recruits forgot any dreams or questions they ever had, as well as their past life in the civilian world. By the end of their training at boot camp they would be on their way to becoming a finely crafted military force. At that precise moment they would have never believed it, but the young men would become proud Marines and discover a brotherhood they would intensely love and which would always exist in their lives.
♫
BOSTON 1999
CHAPTER 4
Samantha Baxter grew up in Newton, a posh suburb of Boston. She was the only child of Frank and Mildred, old New England families that were said to have come over on the Mayflower. Her young life had been a happy one, filled with the love from her parents and the wealth that provided nannies and a good education. She had tutors for languages, and a teacher for her beloved guitar she had purchased in a little store in Madrid during one of the trips around the globe with her affluent parents. Her friends were of the same milieu and she excelled at sports. She was of course up to date with the latest fashions from Paris and Milan. And she had Sandstorm, the beige cat she rescued in the middle of a snow blizzard when he was just a half frozen kitten. She was a happy teenager in her last year of high school before going on to college, her sights set on a medical degree from Harvard.
But her young, happy life changed dramatically when she was summoned to the principal’s office her senior year. She waited in front of the secretary’s desk to be called into the office. The older woman kept glancing at Sam, not saying a word. She thought the older woman’s behavior odd. Ms. Nagel looked like she had perhaps been crying, or was very upset about something. Sam was curious to know, but didn’t want to be rude by asking. Why was she seeing the principal, anyway? Had she done something wrong? She didn’t think so, and she was a ‘straight A’ student.
The principal opened his door and waved her in. Out of the corner of her eye Sam shot another glance at the secretary.
“Ms. Baxter, please sit down.” Sam did as she was asked. “I’ll get straight to the point. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
“I’m not graduating?”
The principal laughed. “No, no, of course not, you’re one of the best and brightest students in the school.”
“Oh,” Sam said, relieved. “So why am I here? What’s the bad news?”
“There’s been an accident, a terrible accident.”
Sam’s eyes grew very wide. She sat motionless, trying to understand, and then it hit her. “Mom?’ She whispered. “Dad? Are they alright?” The principal didn’t answer. “Are they alive?”
“I’m very, very sorry. They didn’t survive.”
“Dead? They’re dead? Both of them?”
He nodded slowly. “A truck ran a red light. They never had a chance. They were killed instantly.”
Was that supposed to make her feel better? Well, maybe a little, at least they didn’t suffer. What was she going to do now? “What happens now?” Sam asked. She was in a daze. Sam was usually in complete command of a situation, a smart girl and a quick thinker, with what she loved to say ‘a solution to every problem’. But there was no solution to death, and she was furious that she couldn’t remedy that. She now had no idea what lay ahead of her or what she was supposed to do.
“You can of course take some time off and return to school when you’re up to it. Do you have any relatives?”
Sam shook her head. “No, Mom and Dad don’t…didn’t have any other siblings, and my grandparents died a long time ago.”
“Alright, I’ll make some phone calls. Ms. Nagel will take you home and will stay with you.”
When Sam entered the historic, hundred year old beautiful house, the once happy home seemed dark and gloomy. It was so empty. Even the house must know, she thought. How could her parents not be here? Would there ever be laughter again? Would she even be able to smile? The fact that she was all alone in the world was starting to hit her and then, like the survivor that he was, Sandstorm jumped into her arms. She hugged him so tight the poor cat could hardly breathe.
“Thank you, Ms. Nagel, I’m going up to my room.”
“Of course, Sam, I’ll go to the kitchen and make something for you.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I know, but maybe later.”
Sam nodded, deciding the effort to decline the offer too much of a hassle. “Thank you,” she said simply, and climbed the stairs with Sandstorm in her arms.
She lay on the bed, motionless, the cat on her chest. With the extra sense that animals possess he didn’t move either. He knew something was wrong and had to be there for her. Sam’s eyes were glassy. Her heart was in a knot and the lump in her throat was painful. And then it came, a deluge that had been held back so fiercely now just burst uncontrollably. Sam never knew so many tears could come out of one person, and the spasms racked her young body. She cried for hours, Sandstorm faithfully by her side. She didn’t bother to get out of bed, never went down to eat, and never felt so alone. She stared at the ceiling, watching her short lifetime as if a film was projecting the highlights, the laughter, the travels, and the good times with her doting parents. Would she ever be happy again? Even just a little? The tears streamed down her lovely young face and Sandstorm gently wiped them away with his paw.
♫
PARRIS ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA
SUMMER 2001
CHAPTER 5
Max made the mistake of staring at his Drill Instructor, and it would be the only time.
“ARE YOU EYE FUCKING ME?” The sergeant screamed. Was he not supposed to look at him? Was that what he meant?
I was just being polite
, Max wanted to say, as he remembered his mother always insisting on manners. One of her pet peeves was not looking at someone in the eyes.
Forget that one, Mom!
Max never felt so alone. His parents weren’t there, the support system he vehemently knew would always exist was a very distant memory. There was no one to ‘bail him out’ of whatever predicament he found himself in. He was on his own and insisted he would make the best of it.
The Drill Instructor screamed at the recruits for hours, interspersed with PT, physical training, which consisted of endless repetitions of pushups, jumping jacks and pull ups. When Max firmly believed that these screaming maniacs were trying to make his body explode with flames internally burning him, he knew he was just about ready to pass out. And this was only week one. Twelve more to go. Max had to get through this. Others had done it, so would he. He listened to the sounds around him—men panting, groaning; boots repeatedly hitting the earth, bodies falling from exhaustion, and Drill Instructors yelling at the top of their lungs. Max smiled at the idea forming in his mind. He listened again: bam, bam (the boots), humph, humph (the panting), boof, boof (a couple bodies dropping), and the inevitable “YOU CALL THAT A PUSHUP? GET YOUR FUCKING DICKS OFF THE GROUND! OR I’LL PERSONALLY PICK YOU UP BY THOSE PEBBLES YOU CALL BALLS!” Max’s mind went into ‘music’ mode. Boof, boof, humph, humph, bam, bam, dicks, pebbles… Oh, this was becoming a great tune, Max thought and smiled. His mind forgot the pain as he concentrated on the waves of sounds emanating all around him. He did another fifty pushups and never felt the fire in his arms. He kept building on his melody and repeated it time and time again until he actually created a song. He then sang this to himself over and over, letting his mind concentrate on the music in his brain. His body mechanically did the exercises, without the prior pain he had experienced. His temperature decreased and his limbs seemed to have enough oxygen for any PT the Drill Instructors were throwing at them.
After hours of exhaustive training, physical as well as instructional, the recruits headed to their barracks where they received guidelines on how to make their beds, better known as racks. Max’s eyes opened wide as he realized he had never made his own bed before, other than throwing a blanket over the sheets at a buddy’s house the morning after a night of debauchery. And the ensuing hangover certainly didn’t help in the precision of any semblance of a well-made bed. And now these screaming lunatics, the Drill Instructors, wanted their racks to be so precise that quarters were supposed to bounce off the blanket. This, to Max, would be a greater challenge than any of the PT exercises, but eventually he mastered the ‘art of the rack’.
That evening Max stood outside the barracks, craving a drink and a smoke. He couldn’t have either and he was miserable. He kept repeating to himself that it would pass and soon, and he hoped sooner rather than later, that the cravings would go away. Thankfully the Corps kept the men continually busy and that was a great help.
Colin Haferty walked up to Max. It was the big guy from the bus. He wondered what he wanted.
“Hey, can I ask you a question?” Colin said.
“Sure.”
Today at PT the Drill Instructors pushed us to our limits, and even beyond. The guys on the field were breathing hard, some were vomiting, others were bent in half, and a few more were trying to catch their breath, except you. “How did you do that?” He asked.
“Do what?”
“You never seemed to get tired. Here we were dying and you looked like you were going on a picnic or something.”
“It’s all in the mind.”
“Yeah, I figured that much. So what do you do, some sort of meditation?”
“Kind of.”
“Spit it out, man.”
“If I tell you you’ll tell the others and then I’ll never hear the end of it, especially if the Drill Instructors find out.”
“You can trust me.”
“How?”
“You have my word of honor. As a gentleman from New Orleans, and as a soon to be, God willing, a U.S. Marine.”
Max liked this guy, and his gut confirmed it. “I believe you are a Southern gentleman,
Monsieur
.” Max knew that most Louisiana natives spoke some French or were even fluent.
“Thank you. Now spit it out.”
“Music.”
“Music?”
“Well, music and rhythms.”
“Now I really want to hear this. I’m into music myself.”
“What are you into?”
“I sing.”
“I believe you again. Every person from New Orleans has music in their blood.”
The big man smiled. You’ve been to my city?”
“I have. One of the greatest places in the world, and one of my favorites. That city has soul, and most of its soul is made of music. Although the Jell-O shots on Bourbon Street are pretty good too.”
“Christ, I could use one of those now.”
“Yeah, I could use a couple myself.”
“So tell me, what’s your secret?”
“Okay, here it is. Now listen.”
Colin waited. “To what?”
“The sounds around you.”
Colin listened. “Okay, now what.”
“You’re not listening.”
“I am.”
“No, really listen, what do you hear?”
Colin listened again. “I hear the wind, a door shutting somewhere in the back, a truck driving farther down, boots on the sidewalk, someone yelling orders on the other side of the building…” he listened some more. “The cable from the flag clanking on the pole…”
“Very good.”
“Okay, so now what?”
“When you get tired, especially when you think this is it, I’m going to drop dead any second now, you make music.”
“You make music? That’s your secret?”
“Yup.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“You make music with all those sounds, or even more and maybe less.”
“Boy, are you playing with me?”
“No, man, look, or rather hear.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Okay, let’s start with the pole. Clank, clank, clank.”
“Yeah.”
“Now, the boots: tap, tap, tap, tap.”
“Okay.”
“Add the wind: whoo, whoo. Now put them all together: “Clank clank clank tap tap tap whoo whoo, and whoo whoo tap tap clank clank, and so on, and you make a melody with the sounds. You can also count, make beats, see notes floating in the air, see yourself writing them down on sheets even If you can’t read or write music. Since we very well can’t sing it out loud it stays in your mind.”
“Which is what you’re trying to do, get your mind off the pain from the body.”
“Exactly.”
“It is a kind of meditation.”
“It is. But in meditation you try to empty your mind, with this you fill it with music.”
“You know, Music Man, I think you’ve got something there,” Colin said.
“I knew you were a fellow musician, and I’m pretty sure I can trust you.”
“That you can,
mon ami
, most definitely. Your secret is safe with me.”
“Merci.”
The two men walked off, quietly creating music in their minds.
♫