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SOLDIER TALES Nerve Gas for Christmas
By Mike Harris
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| IT'S CHRISTMAS EVE, 1995, and I’m standing on a racketball court. “ATTENTION!” bellows our superior. The sound echoes in the tight spaces between the kids in my platoon, all who answer proudly to names like “Killer” or “Life-Taker.” We jump to our feet, a school of camouflage fish trying to leap over the same rock. “As you were!” floats through piped-in Okinawa air. “Merry Christmas Marines!” says the Old Man. “Merry Christmas Sir!” we answer. I elbow my buddy and whisper, “move your fucking knee” as I try to take a seat in the sea of green. He flips me off and moves his knee. My buddy’s name is Mullins. He comes from Texas, and embodies every stereotype I ever held regarding Texans. I often plead with him to actually remove his state from the Union (as he so often threatens) just so I ain’t got to put up with his shit. But not today: we don’t sit on racket ball courts on Christmas Eve to receive praise for our defense of the Japanese. Something is wrong. “Marines, we train to fight for our country. Well, we might goddamn good and well be in for a fight soon, but it’s OK— we’re United States Marines, the finest fighting force in the world.” The Old Man is full of shit. In the movies, a briefing like this always leads to the grotesque massacre of young men in fatigues who look a lot like me. The first drop of sweat rolls down my spine, as Mullins catches my eye. What the hell are we doing here? his eyebrows ask. I suddenly realize how young we all are. And then it happens, as it always happens every time a group of Marines sits in close space with no ventilation. Someone farts. The stench shoots up my nose. Luckily, boot camp taught me how to deal with such a situation. “Thank you Marine Corps,” I whisper with the in-breath. “Thank you for giving me this experience to make me stronger,” I chant with the out-breath. Our superior tells us how tense the current situation is. South Korea has taken a number of prisoners, shot down several planes, and sunken a boat. The North Koreans are patrolling the DMZ. What the fuck is going on? I think to myself, as I tense up and puff out my chest. I don’t want anyone around me thinking that I am afraid. I whisper to Mullins, “Doesn’t God know it’s His son’s birthday? What the fuck is that guy thinking?” Mullins nods, but strains to hear more details. Mullins can be smart for a Texan, so I follow his example. “North Korea has a ready supply of nerve gas. We expect that it will be used on us during combat.” What? WHAT?!?!? I think of the training video we once saw of goat dying of nerve gas poisoning. The goat was in a lot of pain. My brain loops the video, and the goat dies over and over again. Mother fucking shit. The Old Man makes our mission simple: “It is imperative that we buy enough time for reinforcements to come in from the States.” A junior officer then tells us to call our families and wish them a Merry Christmas, and with that, the briefing is over. Mullins and I go outside the rec center for a smoke. He looks worried. I wonder how tough I look. Mullins tells me that I look like I am about to cry. “Fuck you,” I say. I ask Mullins for a favor. “If I get that nerve agent shit on me and can’t get my mask on in time…” He is looks at me like I’m transparent. “What’s that, Harris?” “I want you to finish me off.” “Yeah,” he says, “ and you to do the same thing to me. You know, if that shit happens.” “Yeah,” I say. We look at each other like two brothers mourning the sudden death of a parent. Minutes later, I’m next in line for the phone booth, trying to rehearse what I’ll tell my mother. It’s Christmas Eve, and her youngest son, her baby, is about to die a horrible death. The kid ahead of me is crying. I vow not to. The Drill Instructors couldn’t make me cry back at Parris Island. The idea of chemical warfare doesn’t make me “all wet” either. Fuck this, I decide, I’m getting drunk! Mullins is at the bar with a pitcher of beer in either hand. I order a Long Island Ice Tea and get carded. You have to be twenty to get hard liquor on base, but my twentieth birthday is three months away. I ask for beer instead. I grab the pitcher’s handle and spill foam over the side. “Don’t you need a cup?” asks the bartender. “No,” I reply. “Get over here you fucker!” Mullins says out of the side of his face. “Get over here before I slap the taste out of your mouth!” I sit down and see Mullins already half way through one of the pitchers. “Hoorah Marine Corps!” I bark, a Samurai heading into his final battle. “Hoorah!” reply a dozen doomed voices from around the room. I laugh and sit down. |
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| Mike Harris was honorably discharged from the U.S. Marine Corps in the late nineties. He currently attends Naropa University and practices zen, and wouldn’t think twice about killing mice at a meditation retreat. |
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