For the Love of a Marine

by Sharon Kimbra Walsh

  That morning, unusually for her, Katie lay for a few minutes on her camp bed, lazily studying her surroundings. It was all too clear that women occupied the less than ideal accommodation. Some of the camp beds had brightly colored blankets thrown over them, fluffy slippers or flip-flops lay haphazardly kicked off or stuffed neatly under the low camp beds, and damp underwear and other items of feminine apparel hung from every available strut and wire that was capable of holding an item of clothing. Each canvas locker top was festooned with photographs, makeup, toiletries or magazines. There were even soft toys lying on blankets or on the floor, incongruous when set next to various lethal weapons standing against lockers or propped against the sides of the tent. The air smelled of deodorant and sunscreen overlying the odor of damp and additional smells of the camp that filtered in through the tied back flaps at the tent entrance.

  Katie was Corporal in charge of the tent. Most of the tent occupants had arrived at Camp Churchill at about the same time as herself, but she had been nominated senior NCO and it fell to her to keep the women in order, the tent as tidy and as clean as possible and to deal with any problems that arose. Not one to lay down the law or order anyone around, by sticking to that policy, she had become a well-liked NCO, having earned the women’s trust and having an innate ability to get on well with them. Granted, there were rules and regulations that had to be followed, but she chose to lead by example and not by sitting on her backside and allowing everyone to do it all themselves.

  Some of the women worked night shifts, graveyard shifts or were lucky enough to work nine-to-five days so not all of them were present in the tent at any one time. They were a mixed bunch of trades from the British Army, either of corporal or lance corporal rank. They all got on well, helped each other out in times of trouble or if things became too much, there was always an ear to listen or a shoulder there to cry against.

  One example of her participation in the lighthearted humor that was prevalent in the tent was that on her arrival, after settling in, one of the women had painted a sign that she had hung on the outside of the tent. It offered a stern warning to trespassers—namely men— ‘Tent D Sorority—Enter at Your Peril’. A teddy bear in camouflage and armed with a plastic gun had been stationed outside the tent under the sign.

  Having noticed the untidiness of the tent and smelled the odor of damp, Katie knew that it was time she called an admin evening—an evening of washing and cleaning the tent, shower tents and toilet. These nights allowed for some timeout and relaxation together, and also kept the living environment fresh and clean, a complicated and difficult task to achieve in the furnace hot climate with its thick and wayward dust and sand. Katie surmised that the duty wouldn’t go down well with some of the women, but all were perfectly aware of the hazards of allowing their living quarters to become unclean. In the climate that they were subjected to on a daily basis, hygiene was of paramount importance, and they all accepted the need for the occasional arses and elbows, the military slang term for the effort put into cleaning, regardless of how much they would gripe and moan.

  Another alarm clock sounded with a subdued ringing and Katie’s tent companions began to stir. Katie quickly sat up on her bed, unzipped her sleeping bag and swung her legs over the side so she could stand up. She found her bright pink fluffy elephant slippers, thrust her feet into them and grabbed her towel and toilet bag. It was time to bolt for the shower tents before a queue formed. She had to be at the mess for breakfast and report for sick parade and patient notes at the CTH at 0700 hours. Tardiness was one of Sergeant Webster’s pet hates, one that would escalate into a crime in the making if she didn’t arrive on time.

  Katie hurried down the long tent, slippered feet shuffling on the rubber floor, through a makeshift sitting room at the rear and out through the opening to the clearing at the back of the tent where the shower tents and portable toilet were located. She was relieved to find that the showers were not yet in use, although she knew that this wasn’t going to remain the case for long as she could hear voices beginning to sound inside the tent. She quickly used the portable toilet, holding her breath at the chemical smell that was a permanent fixture, before negotiating the grid of anti-slip tiles and wiring festooning the ground like multicolored snakes in front of the showers and fastening a notice proclaiming that one of the showers was in use by a female. The idea had come about due to a wandering male, on the prowl for a vacant shower, being discovered about to enter a shower tent occupied by a woman, causing all manner of hysteria and amusement. Lifting the makeshift shower curtain and mosquito net strung across the opening, Katie stepped over the sandbags in situ and went inside.

  The inside of the shower tent was its usual dim dankness and the moldy, humid smell of damp tarpaulin and canvas purveyed the air. Thoroughly accustomed to their aromas, Katie dropped her toilet bag in the corner, hung her towel on the looped nylon rope dangling solely for that purpose from the ceiling, quickly divested herself of her nightwear and turned on the shower. She squealed audibly as freezing cold water poured from the showerhead and tumbled over her. Its icy splash raised goosebumps all over her body. She danced about on tiptoe, ducking and diving the spray until eventually it heated to a tolerable temperature and she was able to wash her hair and body.

  Having showered quickly, and after toweling herself dry, Katie sprayed herself liberally with deodorant, clothed herself in clean underwear, put her nightwear back on, collected her toilet bag and went outside into the hot, bright sunlight. Short queues of women had already formed at both shower tents and she stopped to speak to those she knew before hastening back into the hot, airless tent.

  The interior of the accommodation now resembled a harem of half-naked women. They wandered around in underwear or nightwear as they all hastily tried to find clothing and equipment, borrowed each other’s toiletries and shouted good-natured quips across the tent. Katie called greetings to everyone and sleepy sounding voices and good-natured grumbles regarding the early hour of the day responded, a usual morning ritual for the women. Someone had turned on a radio, and although static distorted the reception and therefore was not conducive to good listening, it brought a small sense of normalcy to another morning in a combat zone.

  Katie negotiated her way around the milling women and made her way back to her own bed space, placing her toilet bag and towel in the locker. “Morning, Wanda,” she greeted a tall, gangly, dark-haired girl who had just risen from the camp bed next to hers.

  “Morning, girlfriend,” the woman responded and stretched and yawned languidly.

  Wanda Webster and Katie had arrived at Base Independence together, formed a friendship almost immediately, and had remained close friends ever since. Wanda was a cheeky, outspoken woman of twenty-seven, a corporal whose trade was equipment supplier at Camp Churchill. It never ceased to amaze Katie that her friend’s ribald comments and abrupt manner of speaking never got her hauled up on a charge. However, Wanda kept everyone in the tent sane with her sense of humor—off the cuff though it was—and everyone’s spirits up, particularly when things got a little tense during an alert.

  “You look half dead,” Katie retorted teasingly. “Late night?”

  “Nope,” Wanda answered, “but thanks for reminding me that I feel half-dead. Now, it’s me for the shower, otherwise I’ll have to wait until my tour ends to have one.”

  Katie laughed and turned back to smoothing out her sleeping bag. She left it unzipped and spread out on her bed to allow it to air so it wouldn’t become damp with the humidity that tended to linger in the tent throughout the day. After tidying her bed space, she finally dressed herself in a fresh pair of combat trousers, khaki T-shirt and laced herself into her brown military combat boots. Quickly smearing sunscreen onto her arms and face, she finally put on her sunglasses and military cap. She then sat down on her camp bed to wait patiently for Wanda to return from her shower and complete her own dressing.

  Finally, Wanda returned to her bed, and at Katie’s prompting, obli
ged her by mustering more speed until she finally announced that she was ready.

  Keeping half an eye on the time, Katie waited until almost everyone was ready to leave the tent to go to breakfast before she clapped her hands together. “Hey, ladies, can I have your attention please?” Conversation immediately ceased and everyone turned to face her.

  Katie smiled at the tanned faces around her. “It has fallen to me to break the news to you all that tonight we’re going to have some fun together. We’re going to have an admin evening.”

  Loud, good-natured groans and some swearing greeted the announcement.

  Katie laughed at the various expressions, ranging from acceptance to irritation, on the women’s faces. “I’m sorry to have to spoil your plans, ladies, but our living quarters are really in need of a little bit of a clean and a tidy, and I think the shower tents could do with some venting. We’ll all meet back here at 1900 hours, and those ladies who have made other arrangements, we should be finished by 2000 hours so there is no need to cancel your plans.”

  “Thanks a lot, Katie,” a lance corporal called out. “I had a hot date for tonight as well. You do know how to curtail a girl’s social life.” The remark, made in good humor, caused a few chuckles.

  Katie dismissed the women and they began to leave the tent in groups of twos and threes, Wanda and Katie being the last to leave after they had claimed their individual weapons.

  Outside the tent, Katie glanced around. It was very hot, even though it was early morning. The sky was a pale, hazy blue, the sun a searing white orb, beating down on bare and helmeted heads alike. The ground and tents shimmered in a rippling heat haze. The smell of aviation fuel was thick in the air, enhanced by the heat, mingling with the smell of dry earth, oil and plastic that was quickly heating up in the rising temperature. Dust hung in clouds and burned the throat and lungs. The noise of the base was loud and continuous with the roar and scream of aircraft engines, the chopping noise of rotor blades, shouting and the incessant messages crackling out of the tannoy system, affectionately or not called Giant Voice.

  “Damn!” Katie exclaimed, wiping a hand across a forehead that was already damp with perspiration. “This heat really sucks. It’s like moving through hot treacle.”

  “Whatever floats your boat,” Wanda moaned in amusement tinged with apathy. “Me? I think I’m going to be a gross pile of sludge before I even get to work.”

  “Okay, here we go,” Katie said, laughing and nudging her friend’s arm. “Let’s brave it.”

  The two women left their tent, turned left, and moving as economically as possible in the searing heat, passed along the rows of tents. Music issued from open tent flaps alongside female laughter and conversation. Camp Churchill was alive and bustling as it always was, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

  The tent accommodation eventually ended and the women turned onto the main road and walked on a little farther, neither attempting to speak, as the hot, dry air seemed to stifle the vocal cords. At last, the huge mess came into sight and both women uttered audible sighs of relief.

  Service personnel, both male and female, filed in and out of the building like ants and Wanda and Katie joined the throng before entering the mess. Surreptitiously, Katie glanced slowly around her. Was she perhaps looking for a tall, blond-haired US marine? No, I most certainly am not, was the vehement denial that popped into her mind. Then why did she feel a pang of disappointment when she saw that he was nowhere to in sight?

  The room was noisy with the hum of conversation, the loud chink of crockery and utensils and the thud of combat boots on the rubber floor. Both American and British service personnel crowded the room, creating a sea of camouflage with equipment and weapons littering the floor. The air conditioning was blissful and Katie stood under a ceiling unit that poured forth almost freezing cold air before following Wanda toward the hot food counter.

  The two women collected breakfasts and bottles of orange juice and made their way to two empty seats at a table already occupied by two other women. They all nodded to each other and Katie and Wanda sat down to quickly eat their meals.

  “Do you have busy day today?” Wanda asked through a mouthful of cereal.

  “Probably,” Katie answered, glancing at her watch to keep an eye on the time. “We have four casualties at the moment, all IED incidents—horrible bloody things. They’ll probably be able to go home soon if they remain stable enough, although one is suffering some slight complications and isn’t quite ready yet.”

  “Bummer,” Wanda responded sympathetically. “I don’t know how you do it, kiddo. I know I couldn’t.”

  “Yes, you could if you had the training and you had no choice,” Katie responded thoughtfully. “I’ve lost count of the times that I’ve asked myself why in the hell I do it then we get a casualty in who’s badly injured, who may have lost one or two limbs, and we deal with it and they survive. Then my question is answered.”

  “I take my hat off to you, girl,” Wanda exclaimed. “That’s all I can say.”

  “All the patients are doing okay… Or they were when I left last night,” Katie continued. “Hopefully there’ll be no more today.”

  She had no intention of divulging to her friend who she had been with or where she had gone the night before. As lovely as Wanda was, she couldn’t keep a confidence to save her life.

  “Unfortunately, I have to get my sorry arse to work. Duty calls…” Katie began, starting to get to her feet.

  She stopped speaking, whatever movement to leave she was about to make suddenly arrested. A familiar figure had just entered the mess with three other men and was approaching the hot food counter. It was Joe Anderson. He and his companions were laughing and she watched with a great deal of interest as he turned to one of the men and laughed again. Katie’s heart jerked violently in her chest and her stomach flipped at the same time. He was definitely a very attractive man, his well-muscled body, enhanced by the combats he was wearing, his movements methodical but graceful for such a tall man. His smile was to die for-Katie was perfectly prepared to admit to that. Unable to stop staring, she watched as the tall marine and his companions collected their food and found a vacant table where they all seated themselves. He sat facing her, although he still hadn’t seen her, so she was able to watch him closely.

  Katie could hear Wanda speaking to her but didn’t respond. As if Joe felt her eyes on him, he suddenly raised his gaze from his plate and glanced around the mess. Eventually, his eyes found hers and their gazes locked. He immediately smiled in her direction and she found herself responding in kind, delighted that he had acknowledged her.

  As though no other person existed in the room, Joe and Katie kept their eyes on each other, food and companions forgotten, noise fading into the background. How long it would have gone on for, Katie would never know because a woman approached Joe’s table with a tray and sat down next to him. Katie’s spirits immediately plummeted to the pit of her stomach and she suddenly felt a sharp, irrational pang of jealousy.

  The woman was tall and blonde with hair entwined in a bun and a delicate, aristocratic-looking face. She greeted the men seated at the table as though she knew them then, turning to Joe, she began to talk with him, placing a hand on his arm in a familiar manner.

  Katie threw her dirty plate and empty bottle onto her tray and almost ran to the plate racks.

  Wanda hurried after her friend, laden with her own tray. “Katie,” she called after her, “what the hell?”

  “I need to get to work,” Katie threw back over her shoulder. “I’m late.” She almost flung the tray onto an empty rack and headed for the doors, wanting to get out of the mess as quickly as possible.

  Wanda followed her outside and, finding her friend standing stock-still and breathing heavily, she put a staying hand on Katie’s arm.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You legged it out of there like all the hounds of hell were after you.”

  Katie turned to face her. Forcing a smile, she
answered, “Nothing’s wrong, Wanda. I told you. I’m running late. I’ll see you later.” She touched the woman’s hand then was gone, hurriedly walking in the direction of the CTH. She did not look back.

  Katie, her mind alive with questions regarding the woman who had sat down in the mess with Joe, continued in the direction of the CTH. Common sense chided her that the woman could be a member of Joe’s squad and therefore would know him well. There was no law to say that another woman could not sit beside him and talk to him. She tried to convince herself that the proprietary hand on his arm meant nothing. Joe Anderson was not her exclusive property. They had only spoken a few times. Granted, there was a strong attraction on her part and the fact that he had made a conscious effort to meet her after her duties ended seemed to indicate that he was interested in her, but the jealousy she was feeling was something she had never experienced before and it made her angry. She was relieved when she finally reached the CTH and could start her day, safe in the hope that all irritating thoughts concerning the staff sergeant, could then be consigned to the back of her mind and there would be no time to think about him.

  After changing from her combats to her scrubs, Katie reported to the briefing room to hear notes about the patients still present in the CTH. The three soldiers injured in the most recent IED blast all continued to remain stable, making satisfying progress. However, they still remained under observation in the CCU and would continue to remain there for a further twenty-four hours and thereafter moved to a ward. Private Berwick was also awake and responsive, although he had asked for an increase in painkillers during the night, and the young US marine was also progressing well. There had been no further casualties during the night, no reports of firefights going on outside the wire, and therefore shift patterns would remain normal with two trauma teams and CTTs on standby and the equivalent number of trauma teams and CTTs stood down.