Making Do
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” GW shook his head, thankful of the fact that the object of his derision wasn’t within earshot.
“’Fraid not Robichaux,” the Sergeant Major drawled, and Gunnery Sergeant Robichaux wasn’t sure if he should laugh or cry.
“I know we aren’t the largest post in the world, Sergeant Major,” GW wasn’t about to disrespect the senior enlisted Marine on base, “but what are they thinkin’? We’re so spread out on this island I need every experienced Marine I can get for th’ security detail. What does the Corps do? Transfer out half our people and give us recruits fresh out of boot and MP training, including a damn 2nd Lieutenant who’s so green he squeaks!” He glanced out the window of the Sergeant Major’s office, and could see the baby officer talking with one of the other noncoms out in the bright sunlight of south Florida.
The Sergeant Major chuckled, a deep bass rumble that seemed to vibrate right into GW’s bones. “Might not have noticed, Gunny, but there’s a few wars a’goin on. The Corps needs warm bodies for boots on the grounds in the combat zones. Competent Officers are ‘specially valuable.” He gestured at the stripes on GW’s uniform sleeve. “Hell, ain’t no way you’d have made Gunny with only ten years in without the war. You’re a smart cookie, you’ll figure it out. Worst that can happen is some tourist gets drunk and wanders onto base anyway. The transfers are final, count yourself lucky you ain’t goin' with em.”
GW nodded unhappily, but he understood. The war effort came first above all else, and he’d just have to make do. At least the Sergeant Major let him gripe in private. “Thanks for your time Sergeant Major, I appreciate it.”
“That’s what I’m here for son,” the older Marine told him with a paternal air, then made a shooing motion. “Now get the hell out of my office.”