“I’ll spare you all the gory details and the war-story rhetoric, but in the end, your father saved the lives of many men in our platoon. I don’t know if you’ve read the award for his Medal of Honor yourself. Half of it is bullshit, but the fact is, if it were not for your father, I would not be here today. I watched him run with his usual mastery, shooting, reloading, and picking up the weapons of the dead, using them instead of reloading his own to save time. I thought to myself: ‘This guy is Superman.’
“A third or fourth mortar landed behind me, and I got shrapnel in both my knees. I could still return fire and fight, but I could not move—not even an inch. Your father shot the first Vietcong who walked up behind me to put a bullet in my head, and then he shot another. We were pinned down all over the place. In between the smoke and the weapons fire, your father was everywhere—moving, shifting, and shooting. Unbelievably, he never hit the ground. After spending two more tours in that hellhole, what I witnessed in your father was the most impressive combat expertise I have ever seen. Your father was a true warrior.”
Hager reached across from his chair and extended his hand to Briggs. “Congratulations, Marine.”
Briggs beamed as he reached out and firmly clasped his hand in Hager’s palm.
“I know you’ve been called a Marine after you passed your Crucible. That’s just a bunch of feel-good, warm-and-fuzzy trash the grade types came up with when the company commanders started getting jealous when they found out they would never wear a Smokey.” The grin on Hager’s face was deep and mischievous. “Trust me, it doesn’t mean shit until you’ve been called a Marine by a Marine who has been there.”
Briggs assumed “been there” meant having been in combat, which made a lot of sense.
“I bet Sholtz hasn’t called you a Marine yet. He’s old school like me. Even though he hasn’t been around that long, he still holds on to the true values of the Corps.” He shifted his weight from one side to the other, and the dark maroon-colored leather squeaked as it stretched. “I wanted to be the first, because I owe your father an incredible debt that I will never be able to repay. And I suspect the acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
Hager stood, walked over to the other end of his desk, and opened one of the mahogany drawers. He removed a set of Eagle, Globe, and Anchor emblems, which he handed to Briggs.
“It would be an honor if you would wear these on your uniform. A small token of my gratitude, which I hope you cherish, as I have.”
Briggs blinked, awestruck. “Thank you, sir. This means so much to me, and I will indeed cherish them. Without a doubt.” He gazed at the emblems in his upturned palms and warm memories of his father and his family washed over him, accompanied by a whisper of sadness because his father wasn’t alive to enjoy this experience with him.
A thought trickled through his mind, and he looked into Hager’s eyes. “It was my mother who let you know I was coming to Parris Island, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, she gave me a call and told me you were on your way down here. It was nothing more than that, just a phone call. After Vietnam, your father got out of the Marine Corps, but I stayed. We kept in touch, but it was a once-a-year thing. I was even at your house once on the Outer Banks before . . .” Hager paused.
Before your father died, Briggs thought.
“You weren’t there at the time. I think you were out fishing or something,” Hager recovered quickly.
He smiled as he returned his attention to the conversation. “She is your mother and she gets to do things like that, whether you like it or not.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Well, I guess I will see you and your family this Friday at graduation.” Hager stood and held out his hand. “Then I’ll get a chance to shake your hand in public and we’ll have a proper introduction.” With that, Hager slapped him on the arm and said, “I’m proud of you, Scott.”
The irony of the statement didn’t miss Briggs. He knew his father would have said the same thing.
The night before graduation Sholtz quietly called his men to the quarterdeck and asked them to gather round. After spending weeks under Sholtz’s command, Briggs recognized this was not an order, not a command, but a request to a group he respected. The platoon stood shoulder to shoulder in a tight formation with just enough room between them to sit cross-legged on the deck if told.
“At ease, at ease,” Sholtz began as he motioned his hands down in a gentle pushing motion. Briggs and the entire platoon stood at ease. “I want to start by saying thank you for voluntarily enlisting into the world’s finest fighting force, the United States Marine Corps, and coming here to keep me entertained these last seventy-three days.”
The platoon broke into laughter, which slowly tapered off as Sholtz held up his hand to continue his speech.
“I am proud of you. Each and every one of you came here knowing that you are about to step into harm’s way. For two hundred twenty-nine years, brave men like you have stepped forward to join a brotherhood that stands against tyranny, for justice, and with pride—a gesture of selflessness, which holds great honor. It’s been tough on you, I know. It was tough on me when I was in your boots, and that is now something we share in common. This is my Marine Corps, and you can’t come in unless you measure up, unless you pass the test—or this would just be daycare.”
Laughter broke out again as Briggs and the entire platoon stood a little taller at Sholtz’s words. Sholtz extended his arms and pointed at the young faces before him in sweeping motions. “And thanks to all of you for allowing me the joy of passing on the tradition of my Marine Corps to you.
“You now all share two birthdays that will define you for the rest of your life. November 10, 1775, the birthday of your Corps, and June 18, 2004, the day you officially become Marines. But tonight, as you spend your very last night together as a platoon, before you close your eyes, remember this place and what you have learned. The sound of your boots striking the ground in unison as one, like thunder.”
His voice rose to a climax as he lifted his chin, clenched his fists, and closed his eyes. The platoon roared in response to his obvious emotion. Slowly, the cheers of the platoon faded and calmed, but Sholtz was still bathing in the moment as he lowered his chin and opened his eyes.
“No matter if you stay in for one more day or retire after thirty years, you are a Marine forever. Take what you have learned here and use it to better your lives.”
The platoon soaked in every word and could barely contain their emotions at his candid, fatherly words. They patted each other on the backs and let out the occasional oorah. All around Briggs, the recruits’ normally stone-faced expressions softened as they smiled in satisfaction at this, their moment. More of that was to come tomorrow.
“It is my honor to embrace you as my brothers—as Marines.”
At the completion of Sholtz’s speech, the squad bay erupted into an explosion of applause that blasted through the windows and reverberated off the bulkheads louder than thunder, louder than combat. It continued while Sholtz waded his way through the crowd of smiling faces to shake the hand of Briggs and every Marine in his platoon. He was proud of them all.
The euphoria lasted well after lights-out as the fledgling Marines milled about, talking and spending just a few more moments, trying to cut the edge of the excitement enough to fall asleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
June 18, 2004
The drive home from Parris Island to the tiny town of Gloucester, North Carolina, was a little over eight hours. During the drive Briggs realized that to his family and friends, he was Scott, the boy who grew up on the Outer Banks and loved fishing and being on the water. For everyone who knew him as a Marine, he was Briggs. He felt like a man with two identities, two lives—and he was okay with that. In fact, the two identities fit him well.
Scott was glad to be going home after the rigors of boot camp. Gloucester was just a little stretch of sand held together by pine trees, live oak roots, and sea oats perched atop
a clay bed. It had defied hurricanes and brought forth generations of good folk who made their living from the marshes and shallows behind the protection of the Outer Banks, a two-hundred-mile string of barrier islands along the North Carolina coast. His treasured hometown existed at the mercy of the Outer Banks, which stood between the strong surf of the Atlantic and the mainland. Situated between two massive bays and the Pamlico Sound, Gloucester was his world, his joy, and all he’d ever wanted—until his father died.
Even now, the hunger to fish and be a part of the heritage of the Outer Bank was embedded in every aspect of his life. This was his home, and he took from the waters what would sustain him and his family.
More importantly, he felt like a steward of this spectacular place—“a keeper of the sand,” his father had called it. His father had told him that even though a hurricane and the mighty hand of Mother Nature could sculpt the Outer Banks and change it as it saw fit, it was a man’s responsibility to maintain a balance that benefited all. Scott understood that. He recognized that each little thing, no matter how miniscule it seemed, was the reason something else thrived, each giving life to the other. Scott never looked at anything in an ordinary way.
Time flew by with the markers on the side of the road. Scott, his mom, his sister Michelle, and her husband Mike all took turns driving the minivan as Briggs regaled them with stories about how his drill instructors went from scaring the hell out of him to relying on him to help lead the platoon.
The van was crowded with luggage and conversation; however, nothing took up more room than the elephant that grew with each passing mile. No one mentioned Anita, and Scott was afraid to ask. His biggest fear was that she had met someone and was lost to him forever. He wanted to know, yet he didn’t.
Finally, the wanting to know won out and he blurted, “How is she doing?”
A collective silence fell so quickly that for the first time they noticed the car radio was on. His mother, Alma, turned down the volume to increase the silence, then reluctantly told him that Anita was seeing someone else. He was the son of a wealthy investment company owner who was buying up waterfront property wherever it was available.
“They even made an offer on the fish house, Scott,” Michelle said, trying to divert the conversation. “It’s a tempting offer,” she added when he didn’t respond. Michelle and her husband owned a fish house, one of the few remaining businesses on the water’s edge, where they sold bait and purchased fish and crab from the local fishermen. They also sold bulk-cleaned fish that were trucked out daily to several restaurants in the area.
At the mention of Anita’s new love interest, Scott felt his stomach knot up. Silence returned to the group. No one said another word until Scott resumed his boot camp stories as if Anita had never been mentioned.
But the damage was done. Scott had known it would hurt when his biggest fears were confirmed; he just wasn’t prepared to be trapped in such a small space when he found out, unable to escape the stinging echo of the truth. If he were home, he could have picked up a rod and reel, walked across the backyard, and jumped into his boat. The sound of the outboard running would have soothed the pain, and the splashing water on the hull would have drowned out the sound of his heart breaking.
They arrived home late that night and piled out of the van, stretching and yawning. Those who’d slept for the last hour of the drive retrieved everyone’s belongings while the others stumbled into the house, exhausted.
The next morning, Scott was the first to rise. The habits of boot camp were hard to break, and the joy of greeting the sunrise as it flooded the morning air with color was worth the effort. He was walking across the dew-covered grass when he heard her voice.
“Welcome home.”
Scott turned to see Anita standing by the side of the house. She wore short blue-jean cutoffs and a button-up shirt. The top two buttons were undone, giving him an enticing view of her freckled, tanned chest. Scott stood frozen, entranced by her beauty. Her bike leaned against a tree behind her—she’d ridden her bike the three miles from her house, the same ride she’d made every day during grade school to get on the bus with him until he got his first car and drove them to school.
“It’s good to see you,” Scott said, but he did not approach her. He studied her as she slowly moved toward him, stopping just beyond a hug’s length away.
“I like the haircut.” She giggled nervously. “It looks good.”
“Yeah, I’ve gotten used to it. Are you okay?” he asked, suddenly feeling shy.
She shook her head lightly as tears welled up in her eyes. She broke from her position and dashed the short distance into his arms. She buried her face in his chest and mumbled, “I miss you so much.”
She felt as soft as a pillow as he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed. Her long blonde hair smelled of jasmine and fresh linen. He drew in a deep breath, indulging himself in her scent, her touch. They had never been apart for more than a week since they were eight years old, and seventy-three days had just passed without them seeing each other. She held him tightly and softly sobbed. For an instant he thought everything was going to be all right, that she had changed her mind and was going to go with him, be with him wherever he went. Afraid to speak, he just hung on and hoped. The choice was all hers, of course, and he would have to live with it, no matter what her decision was. But the moment felt good, so he held on and pretended that his dreams would come true.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
He felt her embrace start to slip ever so slightly, so he did the same.
“I’m so sorry, Scott.” She slid from his arms and turned so he could not see her face. She broke away from him and ran, her hair shimmering behind her in the rays of the sun as it rose over the Outer Banks, bouncing off the water in brilliant yellows and oranges.
Unlike the rising sun, his moment of bliss disappeared, the joy in his heart and head shutting down like the slam of a door.
He heard the sound of her bike as she peddled down the shell driveway. His heart was crushed. The only remnants of their relationship now were his tear-soaked T-shirt where her face had pressed against his chest.
The rest of his leave went by in a blur as he pretended everything was okay. But he was breaking on the inside as he tried to accept the fact that Anita was no longer a part of his life.
In July, he returned to duty and was assigned to the 2nd Marine Division, 2nd Battalion, 8th Marine Regiment in Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, only a few hours from his home.
When he was able to go home, he had to force himself to stop looking for Anita. It was difficult to do in such a small town. Instead, he would go fishing.
Fishing was like therapy for Scott. He would lose himself in the tangled backwaters of the islands. Some weekends, he would bring home one of the guys from the base who were thankful for the opportunity to be away from the lonely quiet of an empty barracks. They would camp out under the stars of the windswept beaches, feasting on the day’s catch of crab, flounder, and the occasional cast net full of shrimp.
One evening, after dinner, Scott and his family settled onto the back porch with cold beers, watching the setting sun fading into the water. Wade, who was his Marine guest for the weekend, asked, “How could you ever want to leave a place like this, Scott?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “I guess it’s like having lobster every night of your life. It becomes so familiar that you don’t appreciate it as much as you should.” That was the convenient answer; the truth was far more painful to talk about.
Wade hoisted his drink and laughed. “Yeah, I sure would like to get tired of this.”
Scott let out a sigh, holding back his mixed feelings about being home.
Over the next year, the months of military training that followed were a welcome distraction, keeping him from thinking about Anita. Marine combat training, school of infantry training, and desert training at Twentynine Palms Base, California, occupied his life. The trips home became less frequent as Brig
gs’s combat training continued and progressed. Duty weekends and additional desert training at Twentynine Palms also kept him away for longer periods of time. In a way it made things easier because he didn’t have to worry about running into Anita. When he did go home, even though his friends didn’t mean to bring up the subject, news would inevitably reach his ears about Anita and her now-fiancé. Scott tried to let the comments roll off his back each time—his friends and family meant no harm. It was a small town with small-town gossip. The subject was premium fare.
The gut punch came the day he found out that Anita had married and moved to Morehead, North Carolina, a half hour from Gloucester. Because they were so close, now there was a good chance he would not only run into Anita but into the newlyweds—double the agony.
When Scott’s order came for Iraq, he was almost relieved to be able to put more distance between him and his past—behind him and Anita.
CHAPTER FIVE
June 2005
Iraq was cold the morning of his first patrol. Briggs was the newbie, the fish, the one most likely to die first because he was as green as a brand-new sea bag, void of discolorations and scars from journeys traveled. Everyone gave him a wide berth. But as the patrol went on through the day, the more experienced Marines could see that he fit in; maybe he was green, but he was instinctively smart. He rarely spoke and flawlessly executed and responded to every hand signal. Mostly he observed, taking in the activity around him, both obvious and subtle, learning, turning things over in his mind, cultivating his understanding. His footfalls light and balanced, he moved phantom-like, soundless and purposeful. He was aware of his proximity to cover, and he knew to keep the sun and shadows in his favor. Briggs’s gear, which would normally rattle as he moved, was rigged to his body as if it were no more than a loose-fitting shirt, making no sound and allowing him the freedom of movement. Outwardly Briggs had a calm demeanor, but underneath he was a coiled spring, ready to take action.
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