World War?” Sean shifted on his bunk, and stood up.
“No.” Sean snapped, and shifted on his feet. .
“And are you so certain your father was a .... ‘baby killer?’” The words twisted in the stranger’s mouth. “What branch of the service was he in?”
“Marine Corps.” Sean said, quietly. “You’ve seen what they say in the news... the Marines, our people over there... killed babies!” As sean made his argument, he started to weaken. A feeling of trepidation washed over Sean as the stranger walked towards him. He was tall, and seemingly grew taller as he neared Sean
“So you spoil the legacy of your father by getting in bar fights and disrespecting your mother? And not even considering that he was serving his country?” the stranger loomed over Sean.
“I didn’t—” Sean started to protest when the stranger cut him off. The stranger towered over Sean, and stepped closer to the pacing young man.
“I...” Dread filled Sean, he couldn’t move out of his spot. He couldn’t yell for help. He felt as if something, or someone, were crushing his chest, his body immobile. Sean opened his mouth to speak, and only a squeak came out.
“You, little brother, need to learn your place in this universe. Follow the footsteps of your father. Join the Marines, instead of disparaging them.” The stranger said.
Sean’s next clear memory was when the police officer came to the cell to let him out. Sean discovered he was the only person in the cell that morning.
“Where’s the other guy?” Sean asked the officer. “My cellmate? I don’t think I caught his name.”
“You were alone in the cell. It’s just been you and your partner in crime in the cells all evening. Ya’ll were the only inmates. Quiet weekend, I’d say.” The overweight officer said.
“And the shout from the women’s side?”
“We had no women in the cells last night. Say, are you certain you didn’t get bumped on the head, kid?” The officer asked, warily.
I joined the corps the next week; the stranger showed me, as he looked in my eyes, I saw my future: a long and healthy life in the Corps, or a short one if I stayed a civilian. I honestly would have been dead on the streets by my 21st birthday had I not gone into the Service.
One rainy night after a long day on duty, Lance Corporal Sean Andrews lost control of his car, and swerved off the road, hitting a tree. Out in the woods, he heard a screech, similar to the one he’d heard in his one night in prison. Not to be deterred, Sean grabbed his hat and a flashlight and followed the sounds.
He found a single woman, screeching at the top of her lungs. She looked old, like a grandmother, and was bent out over a boiling pot. Her clothes were ragged, and Sean was convinced she had leathery batwings.
Sean hid behind a tree while the woman danced around the pot, throwing things into it with gusto. Was she making a soup? An evil potion? What was she making? Sean wasn’t certain. He snuck around the trees and coughed.
She squealed, in a language that Sean didn’t quite understand. He placed his hands in front of him, as if trying to approach in peace.
She lunged at his throat., pushing Sean onto the ground. He rolled, grappled onto her wing, and broke her arm. She squealed, and Sean rolled back onto his feet. She took her uninjured arm and slashed her claws at Sean, who evaded by moving quickly out of the way, only to be tackled from behind by the winged girl’s equally nasty sister.
Before Sean knew it, the two women had him pinned to the ground, the one who tackled him from behind had him pinned by the neck to the ground. She whispered something, staring Sean directly into the eyes as she spoke.
Her eyes were like a void, eating away at Sean’s internal strength. He felt his body age while he lay there. After an eternity on his back, Sean remembered something. She was standing over Sean, her sister standing back by the boiling oil screeching in pain.
He was a Marine, and there was no way two harpies were going to kill him out in the woods while he was on duty. He channeled his inner Ares and kicked her directly in the back. The sudden movement startled her, and she let go of the demigod’s throat.
Sean woke up the next morning in the on-base hospital, a slash to his neck, his ribcage broke, his right hand burned severely, as if he’d thrown his hand on a burning boilerplate. He healed from his injuries rather quickly, but continued to wear the scar across his throat from the harpy’s slash.
♂♂♂
I never told anyone in the Corps about the harpies who attacked me; and I’m certain that’s what they were. Women who were half-buzzard, working up spells. For years I had nightmares about the bird women. I’d hear their screeches at night, and when I’d sleep. Or I’d see the Stranger’s face haunt my dreams, fear, dread, terrible things that could happen if I didn’t continue on my path as a Marine.
I still bear the scar on my throat, a scar I later used to terrify the Recruits when I did my tour of duty as a Drill Instructor. My Recruits made up all sorts of stories about the origin of the scar: cut myself shaving with a machete, Survived an attack, single-handedly, against a group of insurgents in South America, that I cut myself on a dare to out bad-ass an Army Drill Sergeant, that I’d survived a bayonet to the throat. My favorite ‘rumor’ about the scar was that I’d been taken hostage for three days in Iran and had fought my way out with a slash on my throat.
♂♂♂
Gunnery Sergeant Sean Andrews was a Marine Corps Drill Instructor, “making Marines.”
After becoming a Drill Instructor, Sean dug into his father’s military records. He could find enlistment papers for an “Ian Andrews,” matching the date-of-entry, but could not find death records. On a further research, Sean couldn’t find records of the two marines who came to tell him of his father’s death. Staff Sergeant Herman and Lieutenant Martin seemed to never exist.
It bothered Sean that someone would imitate a Marine to let him know of his father’s death, but bothered him more that the Marines did not show record of his father’s death. It made him suspect his father was little more than a deserter, someone gone awol. Except the Stranger’s calling, that unusual prison dream he’d had as a teenager, told him that there was something deeper. His father had served in the military... but did he die or vanish?
Today, however, he was on leave, taking a rare week off to go to a College Bowl game; the Elysian State University Spartans were facing the North Peninsula University Pirates in the Marble Bowl. Albert, his stepfather won 6 tickets to the game in a radio contest and had been enthusiastic about showing off his “stepson the Drill Sergeant” to “the guys.”
Sean took it as a personal triumph that he didn’t pummel the man senseless for calling him a Drill Sergeant.
Joining the military did not improve his relationship with his mother’s husband, but at least the man had stopped drinking the day he started boot camp. Sean would not have gone, but his mother insisted. He’s so proud of you, he spent so much money on the tickets, it would mean so much to him... Bah! His mother even insisted he go to the game in his Uniform.
Not that Sean minded, he found his uniform to be quite comfortable, even with the itchy wool collar. If the Marines wanted me to have civilian clothes, they would have issued me some he thought to himself. Besides that, he loved the look on his mother’s face when he was in uniform: the pride she felt made it worth the trip worth it.
He was glad that his mother was going to the game with him.
Today, he watched the game with only half interest. His stepfather was a proud Alum of North Peninsula University, and was completely thrilled to see ‘his team’ in the game. Sean rooted for the Spartans, if only because it irritated Albert to no end. Sean wasn’t really enjoying the game; he much preferred Hockey or Soccer to football.
At the end of the first quarter, Sean looked up at the screen to see the Spartan’s Assistant Coach: Harry Zeuner. Except, Harry was his father, Ian Andrews.
He was sure of it. Yes, it had been seventeen years, but Sean still r
emembered what his father looked like. He’d seen the man’s picture every day of his life, the framed, official portrait of his father in the Marine Corps Uniform.
“Hey, Mama,” he said, quietly leaning to his mom, “Does the Spartan coach look like Dad to you?”
“Don’t be crazy, Sean. Your dad died almost 20 years ago.” She said with a whisper. “Don’t talk about him- Al’s right there, he won’t be happy.”
There was a sore spot for Sean: Albert didn’t allow talk of Ian Andrews around his home, and had actively discouraged the teenaged Sean from talking about his father. Before Sean could speak, The announcer on the intercom made a grandiose statement.
“The teams playing in today’s bowl want to take this moment to recognize all active-duty military and Veterans in the audience. Will all our Veterans and Active-duty service members please rise?”
Sean rose, to the cheering of the fans around him. As he stood, he looked around the large stadium and saw someone in a nearby section that sparked his memory. The young woman who had been part of the team dispatched to tell him of his father’s death, Lt. Gwendolyn Martin, standing, raising her arms in pride.
Now, Coach Harry Zeuner might not have been his father, but that girl was defiantly Gwendolyn Martin, the chaplain’s assistant who’d visited the day his father died. He didn’t need to have a picture to