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Every man here was worth Nate’s absolute admiration and they had it even before he got off the bus. Grizzled and vaguely fatherly Johnson. Blaring, spittle flying Dorich. Friendly-eyed Hernandez, who looked like he spent his time away from the parade ground laughing. But none of the NCOs drew Nate’s attention like Sergeant Brad Colbert.
A list of descriptors applied: tall, tanned, blond eyebrows that were so pale they almost disappeared into his skin, diving watch on his left wrist. He stood appropriately (rigid, demonstrating correct form) as he was introduced. Reconnaissance trained, jump school, master diver, decorated, impossibly young to have all of that under his belt. But, in contrast to the others, Colbert defied Nate's attempt to categorize him.
Sergeant Instructor Sergeant Colbert looked Nate over and moved on to the next OCS candidate without a word. Nate wanted some kind of acknowledgement. Thumbs up or thumbs down would have been a motivator, a clue for how to succeed. Middle of the pack, overlooked or unexceptional was not what Nate was here to achieve.
Nate stared straight ahead, watching Colbert in his peripheral vision as he moved from one candidate to the next. He spoke to some of them. Most of them, actually. Telling them that a rolling suitcase had been a fuckpoor idea for coming to OCS, or that a family name meant nothing here, or that a perfect SAT score probably meant the candidate would be more comfortable at the library than Quantico. He spoke to all of them except Nate.
Colbert took a spot in front of the candidate array and took his time looking them over. It was a mindfuck. Nate was being fucked with. They all were, but Nate felt singled out.
Maybe Nate was an open, naïve book. Or, Colbert had a slightly sadistic streak to go along with his healthy dose of perceptiveness. Perhaps Colbert had read the kind of acknowledgment Nate wanted right off of his face and that was why he’d given Nate nothing.
The next weeks were going to be a challenge. Nate steeled himself.
****
Sergeant Instructor Gunnery Sergeant Hernandez had them doing circuits at dawn. It hadn't gotten cool enough overnight to take down the bugs, so they were running through clouds of them. Between the gnats and the sting of salt in his eyes, Nate almost missed Colbert. He was in sweat-darkened PTs and go fasters instead of cammies and boots like the candidates. Long strides took him down a path that Nate's team had belly crawled yesterday. Then he was out of sight behind the trees.
A morning jog seemed absurd in contrast to the telephone pole his team was heaving around the perimeter of the mess hall.
Sadistic. Nate almost laughed, but he knew the gnats would take the opportunity to fly into his mouth. Colbert was having a nice, morning jog in conspicuous view of them.
The thought gave him a good thirty seconds of distraction from his current discomfort. It was enough of a reprieve for Nate to think a silent thank you toward Colbert's back.
He wondered what kind of things had kept Brad Colbert hardened through his own training.
****
They were in the pool, lugging weights from one end to another and wishing for gravity to lessen. Nate’s lungs burned. He was on the verge of aspirating lungfuls of water. Chin-deep, on tip-toes, he gritted through the pain.
Colbert was in there with them, hauling a weight just like they were. Nate wondered if this was an attempt at camaraderie, an opportunity to scrutinize them from up close, or setting an example. Or all of the above. If Nate was in Colbert's position it would be all of the above. Proximity matters. So does data gathering and perspective. Hearts and minds, and all of that. Colbert seemed like the kind of person who would pick something (or someone) apart just to see how it worked.
He pushed through the water until he was keeping pace with Nate.
“Work with the buoyancy that the water gives you.”
Nate flicked his eyes over to Colbert and kept trudging forward.
Colbert explained, “Think about what you’re learning at the firing range.” His voice was low and close. “Bone support. Lock out your arms so that weight is hanging on the rigid line of your bones. Rest your muscles while you can. Natural point of aim. Move with the water. Time your breathing so you don’t get a mouthful.”
Colbert’s hand dropped down beneath the water to pull Nate’s arms and wrists into alignment.
“Sight picture. Put that goal in your sights and know you’re getting it.”
“Yes, Sergeant Instructor Sergeant Colbert,” Nate sputtered.
Colbert’s hand closed around his shoulder and gave him a shove forward, intentionally submerging Nate to his eyeballs. “Work on it.”
Nate focused on the residual warmth on his shoulder. And then, when Colbert climbed out of the pool, Nate focused on him standing at the end of his lane. Colbert's PTs dared to cling to him. He was still holding that weight like he was in this with them. The rest of them had so much to learn before they were ready.
Nate was going to rise to meet this challenge.
****
If he’d been a Spartan, he’d have been wondering if the gods had cursed Quantico. When it stopped raining, it was 100 degrees and oppressively humid. When it started raining again, Nate was sure he’d was going to lose toes to trenchfoot. In a word, it was miserable. Half of Nate reveled in the abuse his body was withstanding. The other half dreamed about a massage and a beer. No part of him wished he wasn't here.
Sergeant Instructor Sergeant Colbert cut through the downpour like the rain couldn’t touch him and got right up in Nate’s face.
“Candidate, I suggest you get your team in order.” It wasn’t a yell, but it made Nate hyperaware of his current deficiencies.
Nate snapped to attention so hard that vertebrae popped all up his spine, muscles screaming as the mud caking him weighed him down. He tried to picture it as armor. “Yes, Sergeant Colbert.”
He knew his mistake before his mouth even closed.
“What did you say, Ivy League?” Colbert was impossibly closer. Nate wondered if steam was rising from his face. Colbert’s voice went low. “Are we on a first name basis? You think we’re boyfriends, candidate? Are you going to read me sonnets and then suck my dick?” He looked at Nate’s mouth with a smirk that lingered a fraction of a second too long.
Nate was disarmed. He wondered if the wobble he felt in his balance was in his head or if he really looked as unstable as he felt. Then, in the next heartbeat, he gathered his wits. Still, there was no way Nate could say yes or no to Colbert’s question. There was no right answer.
Instead he yelled, “Getting my team in order, Sergeant Instructor Sergeant Colbert.”
And he did. His team finished 4 minutes ahead of any of the others. That gave them an extra 60 seconds in the showers, and Nate spent it thinking about things with no right answers.
****
Nate returned to Dartmouth. He went through the motions, but he knew already this place wasn’t for him anymore. TBS couldn’t arrive soon enough.
He was ready to wed himself to the Corps. If there’d been a way to elope, he would have gone early.
****
When Whitmer offered Nate a spot in Recon, there was no question in his mind. He wanted this.
He wondered if Colbert would deem him worthy. Nate found himself hoping so. It brought a private smile to his face. OCS had been an age ago, but Nate still held Colbert in the highest esteem. He wondered if today's candidates were as soft as he had been before Colbert's hand pushed him to go harder.
****
“When they told me we were getting you, sir, I thought someone was fucking with me.” Colbert snapped a salute and smirked.
“I finished composing that sonnet,” Nate replied. The back of his neck warmed under the Californian sun for how inappropriately familiar he was being. How often does an officer end up commanding his Sergeant Instructor? This had to be atypical.
Colbert met his eyes. His surprise burst into laughter. “I can’t wait to hear it.”
****
Brad took a long pull on his beer. "Same as most guys: 9-11. After that, I asked to come back."
Nate nodded. He understood the feeling.
"What got you here?"
It was Nate's turn for a drink and a moment. "Autonomy. Avoiding a career writing orders instead of actually executing them."
Brad nodded and took a fry from Nate's basket.
"Plus," Nate said, "I was afraid you'd find me and kick my ass for taking the easy way out if I turned it down."
Brad smiled. "I would have."
Between the lines, there was pride.
****
“What the shit is this shit?” Person kicked the flat tire of his humvee. “Tell me, LT, you’re smart. Are there jungles in the desert now? Has global warming truly fucked it all up? Because why else would we be looking at green camouflage paint jobs?”
“Now, Ray, aren’t your driving skills going to transcend any challenges derived from subpar equipment?”
Brad joked, but Nate could tell he wasn’t any happier about this than Ray was. Nate was getting used to reading between Brad’s lines. They’d spent the last month planning with the other team leaders for the upcoming mission. Maybe Nate was still an open book to Brad Colbert, but the same was now increasingly true of Brad to Nate. The first thing that became apparent was that there was no sadism in Brad Colbert like Nate had once considered. Sarcasm, yes. Copious amounts of it, and perhaps a measure of masochism. Above all else, Brad was the most cerebral Marine that Nate had met to date. He held his cards close to his chest, even with Ray, but Nate could tell this worried Brad.
Nate spoke up. “Let’s go, gentlemen. The hardware store will have paint.” Paint was a battle they could win.
****
Ray rolled his eyes. "If you two are done picking out swatches for the honeymoon suite."
Brad didn't look up from where he was inventorying the cart full of duct tape, rolls of plastic, and various painting accoutrements. "There will be no huffing of the spray paint, Ray."
“Whatever. I’m going to go look for something to sub for gun lube. Ask the Lieutenant here if you forget how to count higher than 10.”
Brad waved him off. When Ray disappeared around the corner, Brad wheeled the cart over to the check-out and picked a hula dancer doll off the rack. “Fifteen cents of plastic assembled in China, representing oppressive colonization of an indigenous people, marked up to five bucks. I think this is the perfect representation of America to plant on my dashboard.”
Nate smiled. This was going to be a hell of a mission.
****
Wheels down in Qatar was strange for a reason Nate hadn’t anticipated.
Enlisted Marines had their tent, and Nate bunked with the other officers. Whereas training at Pendleton had meant an increasingly cohesive set of teams, now Nate felt orphaned as the distance (that should have always been there, probably) was reestablished.
He made excuses to run down there. Reporter was just the latest in a line of tasks that took him down the dusty path between shelters. He acknowledged Brad every time he stopped through, to reel them back together over the distance. This time they met eyes and Brad’s asked if this new fucker was to be trusted. Nate made sure to toss in the Rolling Stone part of the introduction just to watch Brad’s face react.
****
They should have Pappy and Poke here for this. But Gunny had them off doing something.
Nate pulled a roll of electrical tape from his vest and used it to weigh down the corner of the map in the breeze. He and Brad were leaned over the hood of his victor, trying to plot the best route through Al Gharaf.
“This looks less bad,” Brad said, nudging Nate’s hand out of the way with his own to point at the map.
“That’s what we’re dealing with, isn’t it? Less bad versus more bad.”
“Less bad versus dead.”
“Shit.”
Brad bumped their shoulders together. “I’ll put up with less bad. Haven’t heard that sonnet yet.”
“It’ll come eventually,” Nate smiled. He rolled up the map and parsed what he’d just said.
****
The clusterfuck at the airfield left them all with dark circles under their eyes. Nate stood away from his men while the worst of it rolled over him. The sight of tears in Brad’s eyes had been almost unbearable. Never had Nate ever felt more impotent than in that moment. The man this platoon needed most was cracking under this stress, and Nate could do virtually nothing to prevent it. He was supposed to protect them from this shit, and he hadn’t.
Brad didn’t need this on his conscience. Even if he could withstand it, he shouldn’t have to bear it. Nate always had visualized himself as something of a shield, deflecting the spears that came from the enemy. He hadn’t considered that the wounds would come from another direction.
The memory of those tears was why Nate chose to elevate Suhar above reconning that amusement park. Maybe they could make one thing right in this place, show one family that they weren’t here with the sole goal of making things worse for Iraqis. Plus, the look on Brad’s face when he saw her… they had to try.
By sundown, Nate was empty. Brad’s eyes were hollow. He had no idea if he’d made the right choice.
****
“You can’t single-handedly save everyone.”
Nate clicked off his red light and stood there in the darkness. “Do not fucking tell me that. I will not take that bullshit from you.”
Brad let him have ten seconds to dissipate the misdirected rage.
“You are not alone in this.”
“Brad,” Nate sighed. “This, right here, is the world’s loneliest job. I’m not going to burden you with this.”
“Sir, as soon as humans crawled out of the sea and sprouted feet there was war. This isn’t a new invention. There’s always one more kid, one more town.”
“But there have to be ideals. Something to strive for. Otherwise what’s the point?”
“Maybe there isn’t one.”
“Maybe we have to make there be a reason.”
“Maybe.”
They stood in silence against Brad’s victor for a long time.
“At Quantico, it was my job to find your weak spots. Compared to the rest of them, you had so few. Now you have even fewer. One. You have one: this.”
“What? Compassion?”
“No.”
More silence. Nate breathed through it.
“Don’t lose yourself,” Brad said softly. “We need you. Plus, I am still waiting on that sonnet. By this point, it better be really good.”
Nate managed a laugh.
****
Nate’s memory replayed vividly. “Bone support. Natural point of aim. Sight picture.” It was in Brad’s voice.
OIF was like trying to stay above water with weights on his wrists and ankles and no land in sight. He needed to get his men out and then himself.
****
Brad sat down with him on a pile of sandbags and opened his MRE. He traded out Nate’s peanut butter for his own jalapeno and cheese. They ate in silence.
****
Pendleton was too clean. It was disorienting.
Nate suggested Poke and Rudy pull together a camping trip for all of them the week after next. After they’d all had a few days to see their families, they should get dirty again. Starve themselves a little bit, and pack too much unnecessary shit into a backpack. Climb a mountain.
Brad didn’t need to say out loud that he understood what Nate was doing.
Instead of graves, they all unrolled their camping mats and down sleeping bags, passed around a bottle of something that wasn’t homebrew, ate like kings from the fish Pappy and Gunny caught. They got dirty again. It helped.
Under the cover of snores, Brad quietly observed, “You’re out.”
He always could read Nate. “Yeah.”
“Where to?” He laid shoulder to shoulder with Nate, looking up at the night sky. The crackle of the campfire added a familiar pop, like gunfire at 5 klicks.
“School.”
Brad rolled onto his side and watched him. Nate turned to face him. It was too close, too familiar, but they had the cover of snores.
Brad whispered, “You’re too good for the Corps to let go.”
“I’m too--” Nate stopped before he said lonely, but that was what it was. “Disillusioned.” The structure of Recon kept him separate.
Brad smiled morosely. “It’s like marriage. After the romance wears off, you have to deal with the bullshit.”
“That’s a good way to make me feel like a failure.”
“Sir, shut the fuck up and stow that shit.” Brad’s fist was inside his sleeping bag, but it still punched into Nate’s chest to make his point. “You are the only thing that held Bravo 2 together out there. And now.”
“Who’s the bullshitter now? Like you didn’t matter?”
“You mattered more.”
“I don’t know.”
“If you won’t believe that, believe this: You got me through it.”
The truth of it was on his face. Nate nodded. “I believe you. Me too.”
Brad nodded.
****
Brad came over at least once a week after that. And vice versa. Usually it was just to drop in, say hi, maybe have a beer or borrow a book. Sometimes Nate borrowed a tool from Brad’s shop.
Nate never announced his separation date, but Brad knew it was coming. It was circled on the calendar in his kitchen.
“What?” Brad caught Nate staring at him while Brad made them a couple of sandwiches. No peanut butter.
Nate smiled a little sadly. “Nevermind.”
“Hm.”
****
It was only a few days now.
“Hey,” Nate said when Brad answered the door.
“Hey,” Brad smiled.
“Came to collect my books, because…”
Brad’s smile faltered. “Yeah, of course. Come on.”
He led Nate through the living room, down the hall to his bedroom. Nate felt hot when he saw the stack of his books on Brad’s nightstand. Nerves crackled through him at the thought of being done with this.
“Or, are you still reading them?”
“It’s fine.” Brad handed him the stack.
“No, you should keep them.” Nate put them back on the table. It felt bold.
Brad scanned Nate’s face. He nodded.
“Want to stay? I was going to fry up some Chinese later.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Bullshit.”
Nate smiled a little. “Ok.”
****
In school, sight picture finally meant something again. He had the rhythm of this place. Natural point of aim.
Nate’s email pinged.
Our new LT arrived. Gunny is reserving judgment. Ray has (loudly) confided in me that he is not nearly as pretty as you are.
Plan is to deploy again in May. Spring Break plans?
--B
****
Nate hefted his rucksack over his shoulder.
“Should I comment on the wisdom - or lack thereof - of a rucksack over a rolling bag at the airport--”
“No, you should not.” Nate smiled and dragged Brad into a hug.
“Let’s get out of here, Ivy League.” Brad’s breath moved the fine hairs beneath Nate’s ear.
****
Brad stirred the pot of beans and sausages over the campfire. “When am I getting that sonnet?”
Nate stopped everything -- retying his boot, breathing -- and read Brad’s face. He was giving them an out; he was giving Nate an opening.
“Take the food off the fire.”
“Not hungry?” Brad smirked slightly at Nate’s command.
“I will be.”
Brad’s smirk widened.
Bone support. Nate cupped his hand around the back of Brad’s head to keep it from colliding with the ground as he laid him back. This was what had been missing.
“You sure?”
“Since they sent you to Recon.”
Nate breathed. He felt Brad’s heartbeat where their chests touched, his breathing matched Nate’s. It was hard to say when admiration turned into friendship and then into this. Maybe when he got to Oceanside. Maybe earlier. Brad’s eyes were on his. They flicked to his lips and back. Natural point of aim. Nate kissed him. Their lips were dry; Brad licked his and then slid back against Nate’s. Better. The fire crackled impatiently next to them. Nate flicked his tongue across the tip of Brad’s. Brad’s hands were on him, solid and gentle, but still pushing him forward. It made Nate smile against Brad’s lips. Brad shifted below him and Nate’s thigh slid between his, anchoring them together.
“After this long, I think we should skip the sonnet and move right to the blow job.”
Brad laughed. “You were always the smart one.”
“My writing skills are subpar anyway.”
Brad sucked Nate’s tongue into his mouth. “And your other talents?”
“You be the judge, Sergeant Colbert.”
Nate backed away from Brad’s lips, finding the button and zipper of his jeans with his fingers as Brad laughed.
“Are we boyfriends now?”
Nate laughed against the bend of Brad’s thigh and groin. He pulled aside the denim and kissed him there in response.
As it turned out, some things did have right answers.