A Loss of Innocence, Chapter Two, Part Eleven

Of the sixty men and women who entered our program, forty-two graduated. Eight failed outright, while another ten voluntarily left. Shannon was among those who made it through to the end.

During the last few weeks, I felt as though I had been hollowed out. I never realized how much I had relied on her presence. I would go to eat dinner after class, and I would find myself alone in the mess. I had put a certain mount of distance between myself and the other students, spending my free time either studying or with Shannon. I had maintained a certain amount of aloofness through my success in both class and our physical tests.

I began to pay more attention to those around me. I would catch snatches of conversation while walking down corridors or before and after class. I was widely respected by my peers, but considered somewhat unapproachable. I had gotten the reputation of being a hard ass, but it was nearly universal that people would follow me unquestionably into battle.

I began to lay awake at night after studying, unable to sleep. I would stare at the ceiling, listening to my heartbeat in the utter silence of my tiny room, wondering how I had ever become so lonely. Was isolation the price of success? If I was to be a successful commander, would this deep feeling of aching loneliness ever subside?

 I noticed that Shannon was equally isolated. She continued in her listlessness in social settings, picking at her food in the mess, never doing anything with any of the other students. I tried several times to contact her through a phone call or through instant message, but she never responded. I suspected that I was the last person that she would want to see, but I at least wanted the opportunity to explain my actions. I wanted her to know why I did what I did. I wanted her to know that no matter how she acted, that I still loved her.

In the classroom setting, though, she became extraordinarily adept, making up for some of her earlier failures. She began to grow confident in her answers when called upon, and volunteered frequently to recite or work problems in front of the class. Her normally excellent performance in the physical components of our coursework improved to such a level that Sergeant Abrams forgot to swear when he was speaking with her.

I suppose I should have been happy. After all, Shannon had done what I had wanted her to do. She was becoming the Marine that she could be, and I knew that I had no small part in it. But was it really worth it? Did I have the right to be so manipulative of a fellow human just to achieve a goal that I felt was worthy? The answer of course, is that the race needed people like her, and if I could do something to ensure that she served in a capacity that benefited our new manifest destiny of expansion, I would. It didn’t really matter that I sacrificed the first true love of my life on the altar of necessity, as long as the Marines got the job done.

Bitter sarcasm filled my thoughts. How different that attitude was from the boy who had defied his father to become a soldier. I had made an admittedly selfish and rebellious choice, thinking that I could save the world, thinking that my presence among the Marines would elevate them to glory. They weren’t the dregs of humanity that my father had painted them to be. They were a highly specialized, highly trained brotherhood (and sisterhood) that was being forged as the sword that would protect our home world. The cruel, the lazy, and the stupid never made it past basic training. My reasons for joining were certainly complicated, but at their core was rebellion.

And now, once again I had attempted to make an altruistic decision that was in reality selfish. Why did I want Shannon to be successful? I had some notion that her success would be tied to my own; we would see combat together, coming through victorious. We would be heroes, day in and day out. I never asked what she might want. I had bullied her, manipulated her, cajoled her, and then finally intimidated her into doing what I had wanted. And now, she was stuck on a course that her sense of honor and her stubbornness would never allow her to deviate from.

I remembered that one shared moment with Shannon in a bathroom, just before we had started our training. I remembered how mortal I felt when I realized that all of my experiences could be gone in an instant. Who knew if I would survive my next deployment? Who knew if Shannon would? Would I ever get the opportunity to run my fingers through her hair again? Would she ever know that I had only done what I thought was necessary, and that all I had truly wanted was for her to be happy? Would I ever get the chance to confess my selfishness to her?

On graduation night, I stared into an empty shot glass in the NCO bar. An unopened bottle of tequila sat beside me. I had a table to myself in the corner where I could see people entering and leaving without being noticed. The bar was lively with celebration, a loud, happy chaos of singing, swearing, and boasting. My fellow students were shouting their relief at having passed their courses. Some of them were singing in time to a jukebox modeled on an ancient design. Occasionally, someone would glance my way and hoist a glass. I would return the sentiment with my own empty glass, wondering if Shannon would come in and share a toast with me. No one made a move to sit with me as I continued to watch the festivities, so I hung back in the shadows and remained a voyeur.

After nearly an hour of waiting, watching my fellows travel down the path of inebriation, I finally cracked open the bottle and poured myself a drink. I threw it back compulsively, gasping at the acidic burn in the back of my throat. I slammed the shot glass on the table and wiped my mouth with my sleeve.

“Need help with that bottle, Sergeant?”

The gravelly voice snapped me out of my thoughts. Sergeant Abrams loomed over my table, a hand extended towards me. I stood and regarded it for a moment before taking it in my own. We both tried for the bone breaker grip, but when neither of us got the advantage, I released his hand and gestured to an empty chair. “Help yourself, sir.”

He settled into the chair with a contented sigh, producing his own shot glass from the breast pocket of his uniform. “Always drink out of your own glass, son,” he said. “It always tastes better.”

I raised my eyebrows as I poured him a drink. “How so?”

He waited until I had poured myself one before he threw back the shot. “Mmm. That hits the spot.” He leaned back in his chair. “Always carry your serious drinking glass wherever you go. This one has seen me through Iran, Zaire, Panama, and through the garrison postings in the Belt.” He smacked his lips. “If you’re like me, you drink to reflect or to forget, depending on the mood you’re in.” He tapped his glass with his finger. I threw back my own shot before pouring him another one. “This glass,” he said, holding it up and looking at me through the liquid with one eye closed, “represents all the things that I’ve seen and taken in.” He held the glass under his nose and inhaled. “All the experiences, good and bad, are here…in this glass.” He tossed it back. “Every time I sit and drink, I remember everything. And once I’ve remembered everything, I just want to forget again.” He sighed. “That’s why I only drink the hard stuff. I honor the memory of those I’ve lost along the way, and then I move on. That’s all you can do as a Marine, son.”

Who knew that the drill sergeant had so much poetry in his soul? I poured both of us another shot. “To Rogers,” I said, hoisting my glass. “He covered my ass on a Rak’Lan space station in Jovian orbit so that I could make it back to the assault boat.”

“To Rogers,” Abrams replied, and drank with me.

We had a moment of companionable silence for a moment, each of us lost in our thoughts. It occurred to me that Abrams had been in combat longer than I had been alive. How many friends had he buried on a nameless battlefield? How many men and women must he toast every time he used that shot glass of his?

“Sarge?”

“Yeah?” His voice was more raspy than usual from the tequila.

“Has it been worth it, sir? I mean, do you wish you’d done things differently?”

His eyes glazed over for a second. “The Corps was always a family to me, son. I never knew anything different.” His eyes met mine. “Yeah. It was worth it. I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

“Even if it would bring back a friend or a comrade?”

Abrams poured himself another shot. “Even then. Most of the ones I drink to died honorably, defending or fighting for something they believed in. I wouldn’t take that away from them.” He regarded me for a moment. “You’re second guessing your choice of career at this point?” He chuckled. “I would too, if I was just barely twenty-one and already a buck sergeant. Hell, most boys your age are still doing panty raids and hacking university computers, not leading men and women to battle.”

“I’m not really second guessing it,” I replied. “I’m just realizing how lonely it can be sometimes.”

The bottle clinked as Abrams filled my glass. “Let me be honest with you, son. If you survive your next deployment, you’ll be an officer so fast your head will spin. You’ve got exactly what we’re looking for in that regard. They’ll place you with some old battle axe like me to put the final spit and polish on you before they turn you lose with a platoon or a company of your own.” He drank deeply. “You’ll make friends along the way…and lose them, like as not.” He carefully put the glass down on the table. “But that’s part of it. You’ve got what it takes.” He leaned across and tapped my chest over my heart. “Use it.”

“To friends along the way,” I said, a rueful smile forming.

“Gained and lost,” Abrams replied.