Page 1 of Grunt: A Marine Romance

1

STAFF SERGEANT BRET Lordsat on the dirty floor of his tent, going through the day’s mail: the latest Men’s Fitness magazine from his sister, a care package from his mom. He ripped open the package—socks, lip balm, sunflower seeds, and a thin letter that contained an old magazine clipping.

Dear Bret,

I miss you very much. Benny asked me to send you this article. I really wish you would consider his offer. Please stay safe.

Love, Mom

He swallowed hard. A neon sticky pressed on the wrinkled page had a note scrawled on it from his former master dance coach.

Bret, m’boy,

We’ll make it worth your time.

Cheers, Benny

Thumbing the edge of the article, Bret stared at the sixteen-year-old boy in the picture and could barely recognize himself. His shoulder length, wavy blond hair was slicked back, not shorn in a “high and tight” like his current haircut. No signs of the tattoos or muscles that currently defined his body. Golden skin stained from a bottle, not the harsh sun of Iraq. His arms were wrapped around a gorgeous, curvy young girl with long jet-black hair. The jade Latin gown she wore matched the color of her almond-shaped eyes.

Bret tossed the article aside and removed his nine-mil pistol from his holster to clean it.

Lance Corporal Hernandez walked by Bret and snatched the article off his cot. After staring at it, Hernandez’s face brightened.

“Hey, Staff Sergeant, this you?”

“No, it’s my clone who’s also named Bret Lord.” Bret slid the rail back on his weapon and began disassembling it.

“Staff Sergeant, you know Selena Marcil? Did you hit that?”

“Shut up, Hernandez, or the one getting hit will be you—with the butt stock of my rifle.” Bret grabbed the paper out of Hernandez’s hands, and smacked him on the side of the head. The kid didn’t flinch.

“Staff Sergeant Twinkle Toes. Hey—can you hook me up with Selena? I’ll be her boy toy. I love her. Man, she’s smoking. Has the nicest ass. Not like all those skinny, Russian chicks on that show.” He nodded to himself with an eyebrow dancing. “Selena’s on my list. She’s Latina, too. We’d be perfect together. What was she doing with a gringo like you?”

“Hernandez, you’re way out of line.” Bret reassembled his pistol.

“My bad, Staff Sergeant.”

Bret grabbed the article, his pack, and his rifle. It was impossible to get some privacy in the tent. His only option was to sit outside in a sandstorm but even that sounded like a welcome retreat from his immature men. He walked about five hundred feet, then plopped down in the hot sand.

The red sky hung above him, thick from smoke from the nearby town. Bret struggled to catch a glimpse of the distant mountains. Sand seemed to pelt down from the heavens, blinding him and settling into every crevice in his body. He closed his eyes against the sting of the sand, and turned his thoughts to Selena. Was she the diva the tabloids made her out to be? Even after ten years, he could almost smell her buttery-coconut scent. A welcome change from the overflowing shitters, toxic diesel, and stench of his fellow Marines who hadn’t bathed in three weeks.

The deep popping sound of shots from a nearby AK-47 roused his ears but Bret didn’t move.

As a marksmanship instructor, he could distinguish the sound of any weapon system. These shots weren’t the lighter, faster rounds of his men’s M16s. Looking past the palm trees that peppered the dismal scene of dilapidated shacks, he tried to get a location on the origin of the gunfire. Probably just some insurgents outside of base. The rules of engagement were clear—he couldn’t stop them from killing each other even if he wanted to. And he definitely wasn’t going to endanger the lives of his men.

The sandstorm let up, and he reached into his pack to grab dinner. Spaghetti with Meat and Sauce was his favorite Meal Ready to Eat, even if it did taste like chalk. He hoped it came with cinnamon apples for dessert. He opened the box and laid out his day’s bounty: cherry-blueberry cobbler, potato sticks, wheat snack bread, plain cheese spread, lemon-lime beverage powder, and accessory pack “A”: coffee, creamer, sugar, salt, Tabasco, a moist towelette, toilet paper, chewing gum, and matches. Bret opened the cooking bag, placed the spaghetti pouch in it, filled it with water, and then leaned it against a rock to cook.

He stared at the picture of himself and Selena winning the U.S. National Youth Amateur Latin Ballroom Championship. Selena was the star of the hit series Dancing under the Stars. His childhood sweetheart was now plastered on the cover of magazines, billboards, and advertisements. The details of his life back then had faded away from his memory. Being at war made everything a blur.

Bret took a swig of water from his camelbak and downed two anti-malaria pills: one blue, one pink. The Marine Corps assured the troops that it was safe but Bret couldn’t help but wonder if the pills caused his daily headaches. Then again, maybe the migraines were just from the hundred-degree heat.

Staff Sergeant Ray Wilson emerged from the tent, and sat beside him. Even though Bret had wanted to be alone, he was happy to have his friend’s company.

“Slim Jim?” Ray offered. As Bret ripped the plastic off the snack, Ray nodded at the magazine article lying in the sand. “What’s that all about?”

Bret grunted. “A month ago, my mom told me that the judge on Dancing asked her if I would consider doing the show. He just sent me a note.”

“For real?” Ray took a bite of his own Slim Jim. “You’d have to be stupid to give up this paradise of sand and gunfire for the mansions of Hollywood. Your mother does realize you’re a Marine right? You can’t just leave the Corps and go on reality television.”