Sea Legs
As you lay in your coffin rack, feeling the gentle swaying of right to left, and back again, the only thing keeping you from puking is the overly exaggerated spasmic sounds of the female orgasm.
You've been feeling sea-sick for the past few days of being on ship, although you're starting to think that most of it comes from putting up with the retarded Jarheads of your platoon. You press the headphones tighter against your ears and close your eyes, trying to drown out yet another dick and name calling competition from some of the younger Marines living with you in the same berthing area. You open your eyes again, hoping to fantasize about something else as you stare into the screen of your portable dvd player, watching some poor young girl get rammed by an oversized jumbo cock. Its been three weeks, and already, you're starting to lose your mind.
The racks (Marine jargon for beds) are stacked three high and built into the bulkheads (walls) of the ship. They're about two and a half feet deep, maybe six feet long, with head room of about another two feet. Not exactly the most comfortable living conditions. You take off the head phones and jump down from your top rack.
"Hey old man! You done with my porno yet??"
The ship tumbles to the left and you try to swallow back the lunch that's been yearning to come back up your throat.
"Calm down," you tell the Marine whose dvd you've been watching "I'll give it to you later."
"Yea ok, go jerk off in the head and give it back to me soon. My dick needs a beating! Know what I mean? HAH!"
Fucking idiot.
You sigh as you stumble out of the berthing, supporting yourself against the bulkheads as the ship continues its rocking back and forth, ducking your head as you pass through the hatch (doorway) into the head (bathroom).
As you step in, you're assaulted by the stale stench of several hundred varieties of Jarhead urine. Someone really should come in here to clean up a bit. Well, you know you're not going to do it, so you feel a little hypocritical about complaining. But still... ughh. Disregarding your previous thought, you make it to the first urinal, again leaning one hand against the bulkhead, and un-button your trousers (pants) to add your own scent to the area.
The ship makes another steep incline and you almost lose your balance.
"Fucking hell..." you whisper.
Staring down to the deck (floor), you realize you just pissed on your boots. You sigh. Figures.
Another steep incline into the other direction sends the butterflies in your stomach into a frenzy. This time, you know there's no appeasing them and you hurry into the first stall, collapsing to your knees as you exhale your last meal into the toilet. Stinging bile burns your throat. Your stomach spasms as it ejects itself of all available content. But even that's not enough, so you painfully dry heave into knotting cramps, over and over, for what seems like an eternity.
Finally, the Gods seem to have had enough of your libation, and your insides settle down to their normal rhythms. You simple lay there, on the floor, exhausted, staring into the sloppy mess.
"Holy shit Rivera!"
You look up and feel something gooey slide off your cheek. Then you realize what this might look like to someone who just happened to enter into the bathroom. Your pants are around your ankles, you're laying on the floor, and there's vomit all around you. Very sexy.
"You ok Old Man? You look like shit!"
"Yeah Pancakes," you say as you wipe off whatever else might still be clinging to you, "I'm fine."
"Right... well I'm supposed to come get you. All Marines are mustering on the Flight deck. I think we're finally getting a brief on where we're going."
"Ok." You try to re-dignify yourself by pulling up your pants, but somehow, at this point, it might just be a lost cause. "Let me clean up a bit, I don't think the C.O. (commanding officer) will like it if I show up looking like this."
"Roger. I'll see you up there man." You ignore the disgusted sneer on his face. Oh well. Not like you're trying to impress anyone.
The flight deck is jammed pack with every single Jarhead on ship. They're formed up into platoon squares, all facing inboard along the edges of the ship, with a group of Officers huddled in the center.
"Rivera! Get your ass over here!" You hear your platoon sergeant yell out, and you make your way to them to take your place.
As you stand there, at parade rest, hands neatly tucked behind your back, feet shoulder width apart, you can't help but gaze out into the horizon. Clear blue skies, a clearer blue ocean, a gentle breeze blowing. It seems so peaceful. Not a single marine is speaking, waiting for the word from the higher ups as to what the hell it is we're doing. A calm before the storm. You gaze out, almost forgetting where you are. Almost.
"BATTALLION, ATTENNN-HUUUU!"
With the ease of countless drill and practice, hundreds of marines stamp their heels together in one swift union and bring their arms straight down to the seams of their trousers. A dangerous perfection exists in our formality.
We stand there, at attention, for a few minutes while the top ranking Marine Officer makes his way to the center of the mass. Then he stands there, staring out at us. At that moment, you wonder what his thoughts are.
"Bring it in Marines."
With that, the several hundred Jarheads on deck rush to form a circle around their Battalion Commander. Sitting, kneeling, bending, straining, and pushing in closer to hear what is he has to say.
"Gentlemen," he begins, "I'm here to tell you..." the silence stretches on, then you realize, you're holding your breadth. "...we are not going to Thailand." Groans erupt from the crowd. He puts his hands up into the air, waiting for the groans to subside, then he begins again. "Its not completely official yet, and it may yet change, but its very likely that we'll be going straight to Iraq." He stops to let it sink in. Not a sound can be heard as we're all lost in thought. "The U.S Army is putting the squeeze on Baghdad. As you probably know, the shit's been hitting the fan pretty heavy in that city. Lots of bad guys running around doing nasty things. And as you might also know, just like squeezing a handfull of jello, a lot tends to seep out through your fingers. So our job will be to head to the Al Anbar province to stop the flow of bad guys from regrouping there. This will be a return to Anbar for a lot of you Marines out there. It will be the first time for a lot of others. We'll be staging in a pretty nasty area. I won't lie to you gents. Just remember your training, stay calm, follow your orders, and we'll try to bring everyone back in one piece." He stops again, listening to the empty silence. "That's all I have for you know. We'll be sending more information to you at the platoon level. But start preparing gents. Iraq is a very likely outcome."
We're called to attention again, formed back up, and then formally dismissed.
Excited whispers are heard as we head back into the depths of the ship and to our respective berthing areas. Your own thoughts are racing as you duck and squeeze through the passage ways, almost forgetting to notice the still rocking ship and the queeziness in your stomach. Almost.
"Holy shit Old Man!" You hear some Jarhead yell out. "You excited about going into Iraq? We're going to kick some fucking ass!"
"Yea... sure."
"Right on Old Balls! GET SOME!"
You try to ignore their bravado as you ignore all the rest of their retarded comments and just jump back into your coffin rack. You turn on your dvd player, place the headphones into your ears, and close your eyes.
The overly exaggerated spasmic sounds of the female orgasm lull you into a peaceful state, and you dream of home.
As you lay in your coffin rack, feeling the gentle swaying of right to left, and back again, the only thing keeping you from puking is the overly exaggerated spasmic sounds of the female orgasm.
You've been feeling sea-sick for the past few days of being on ship, although you're starting to think that most of it comes from putting up with the retarded Jarheads of your platoon. You press the headphones tighter against your ears and close your eyes, trying to drown out yet another dick and name calling competition from some of the younger Marines living with you in the same berthing area. You open your eyes again, hoping to fantasize about something else as you stare into the screen of your portable dvd player, watching some poor young girl get rammed by an oversized jumbo cock. Its been three weeks, and already, you're starting to lose your mind.
The racks (Marine jargon for beds) are stacked three high and built into the bulkheads (walls) of the ship. They're about two and a half feet deep, maybe six feet long, with head room of about another two feet. Not exactly the most comfortable living conditions. You take off the head phones and jump down from your top rack.
"Hey old man! You done with my porno yet??"
The ship tumbles to the left and you try to swallow back the lunch that's been yearning to come back up your throat.
"Calm down," you tell the Marine whose dvd you've been watching "I'll give it to you later."
"Yea ok, go jerk off in the head and give it back to me soon. My dick needs a beating! Know what I mean? HAH!"
Fucking idiot.
You sigh as you stumble out of the berthing, supporting yourself against the bulkheads as the ship continues its rocking back and forth, ducking your head as you pass through the hatch (doorway) into the head (bathroom).
As you step in, you're assaulted by the stale stench of several hundred varieties of Jarhead urine. Someone really should come in here to clean up a bit. Well, you know you're not going to do it, so you feel a little hypocritical about complaining. But still... ughh. Disregarding your previous thought, you make it to the first urinal, again leaning one hand against the bulkhead, and un-button your trousers (pants) to add your own scent to the area.
The ship makes another steep incline and you almost lose your balance.
"Fucking hell..." you whisper.
Staring down to the deck (floor), you realize you just pissed on your boots. You sigh. Figures.
Another steep incline into the other direction sends the butterflies in your stomach into a frenzy. This time, you know there's no appeasing them and you hurry into the first stall, collapsing to your knees as you exhale your last meal into the toilet. Stinging bile burns your throat. Your stomach spasms as it ejects itself of all available content. But even that's not enough, so you painfully dry heave into knotting cramps, over and over, for what seems like an eternity.
Finally, the Gods seem to have had enough of your libation, and your insides settle down to their normal rhythms. You simple lay there, on the floor, exhausted, staring into the sloppy mess.
"Holy shit Rivera!"
You look up and feel something gooey slide off your cheek. Then you realize what this might look like to someone who just happened to enter into the bathroom. Your pants are around your ankles, you're laying on the floor, and there's vomit all around you. Very sexy.
"You ok Old Man? You look like shit!"
"Yeah Pancakes," you say as you wipe off whatever else might still be clinging to you, "I'm fine."
"Right... well I'm supposed to come get you. All Marines are mustering on the Flight deck. I think we're finally getting a brief on where we're going."
"Ok." You try to re-dignify yourself by pulling up your pants, but somehow, at this point, it might just be a lost cause. "Let me clean up a bit, I don't think the C.O. (commanding officer) will like it if I show up looking like this."
"Roger. I'll see you up there man." You ignore the disgusted sneer on his face. Oh well. Not like you're trying to impress anyone.
The flight deck is jammed pack with every single Jarhead on ship. They're formed up into platoon squares, all facing inboard along the edges of the ship, with a group of Officers huddled in the center.
"Rivera! Get your ass over here!" You hear your platoon sergeant yell out, and you make your way to them to take your place.
As you stand there, at parade rest, hands neatly tucked behind your back, feet shoulder width apart, you can't help but gaze out into the horizon. Clear blue skies, a clearer blue ocean, a gentle breeze blowing. It seems so peaceful. Not a single marine is speaking, waiting for the word from the higher ups as to what the hell it is we're doing. A calm before the storm. You gaze out, almost forgetting where you are. Almost.
"BATTALLION, ATTENNN-HUUUU!"
With the ease of countless drill and practice, hundreds of marines stamp their heels together in one swift union and bring their arms straight down to the seams of their trousers. A dangerous perfection exists in our formality.
We stand there, at attention, for a few minutes while the top ranking Marine Officer makes his way to the center of the mass. Then he stands there, staring out at us. At that moment, you wonder what his thoughts are.
"Bring it in Marines."
With that, the several hundred Jarheads on deck rush to form a circle around their Battalion Commander. Sitting, kneeling, bending, straining, and pushing in closer to hear what is he has to say.
"Gentlemen," he begins, "I'm here to tell you..." the silence stretches on, then you realize, you're holding your breadth. "...we are not going to Thailand." Groans erupt from the crowd. He puts his hands up into the air, waiting for the groans to subside, then he begins again. "Its not completely official yet, and it may yet change, but its very likely that we'll be going straight to Iraq." He stops to let it sink in. Not a sound can be heard as we're all lost in thought. "The U.S Army is putting the squeeze on Baghdad. As you probably know, the shit's been hitting the fan pretty heavy in that city. Lots of bad guys running around doing nasty things. And as you might also know, just like squeezing a handfull of jello, a lot tends to seep out through your fingers. So our job will be to head to the Al Anbar province to stop the flow of bad guys from regrouping there. This will be a return to Anbar for a lot of you Marines out there. It will be the first time for a lot of others. We'll be staging in a pretty nasty area. I won't lie to you gents. Just remember your training, stay calm, follow your orders, and we'll try to bring everyone back in one piece." He stops again, listening to the empty silence. "That's all I have for you know. We'll be sending more information to you at the platoon level. But start preparing gents. Iraq is a very likely outcome."
We're called to attention again, formed back up, and then formally dismissed.
Excited whispers are heard as we head back into the depths of the ship and to our respective berthing areas. Your own thoughts are racing as you duck and squeeze through the passage ways, almost forgetting to notice the still rocking ship and the queeziness in your stomach. Almost.
"Holy shit Old Man!" You hear some Jarhead yell out. "You excited about going into Iraq? We're going to kick some fucking ass!"
"Yea... sure."
"Right on Old Balls! GET SOME!"
You try to ignore their bravado as you ignore all the rest of their retarded comments and just jump back into your coffin rack. You turn on your dvd player, place the headphones into your ears, and close your eyes.
The overly exaggerated spasmic sounds of the female orgasm lull you into a peaceful state, and you dream of home.