Fives and Twenty-Fives by Michael Pitre Read Free Book Online Page A

too. Never could stay in one place for too long or they’d take fire. Sergeant Gomez always nipping at their heels, telling them to hurry the hell up.
    Gunny Stout kept going when the plane noise faded away. “When the vehicle commanders roger-up,” he said, “clear inside five meters, then the dismount team executes the twenty-five-meter sweep, on my order.” Gunny’s voice got tight. Not loud, just tight . “Dismount team, eyes up.”
    Most Marines stared at the dirt during a convoy brief. Tucked their hands inside their body armor and rested their chin against the ballistic plate. But when Gunny Stout said, “Eyes up,” they rolled their shoulders back and locked onto him. In unison, you know? Like one creature.
    “When I say go, do not hesitate. Three seconds.” He held up three fingers. “Every door open. Every door closed. All Marines working a tight search pattern in three seconds. It takes three seconds for a triggerman to initiate a device, and you can’t let that happen while that armor seal is broken. Move with a purpose. No sidebar conversations. No laughing.”
    Sergeant Gomez explained it to me, once. How Marines managed to do everything in time, on a silent drill count. She smiled and said, “Oh, you mean that Snap, Pop ?”
    It was how they spoke. How they did every little thing: Snap, Pop .
    Satisfied, Gunny Stout tapped his notes. “Right. Dismount leader, when you confirm no devices, no threats to dismounted troops inside twenty-five meters, return your team to the vics. On my order, or as you were, on the lieutenant’s order, we set security.” He pointed to Lieutenant Donovan. “You all right with that, sir?”
    Lieutenant Donovan looked up and smiled. “Sounds fine, Gunny.” He crossed his arms and swung his dangled feet off the hood of the Humvee.
    He had that Alabama gentleman’s drawl, the lieutenant. I never could tell—was he even paying attention? Was he just relaxed? Lieutenant Donovan had a gunnery sergeant of his own. Gunny Dole. But that guy never went outside the wire. A fat pension-grubber on his last deployment. He’d wander around the company office talking about the promotion boards coming up. Talking about his retirement. Talking about his deployments to the Philippines in the nineties. How much fun they were. Not like this shit, he’d say.
    Gunny Stout never talked about anything but the mission. He gave us a smile and looked around, studying us.
    The turret gunners wore bandannas to keep the sweat out their eyes. Under her helmet, Gomez wore the sleeve of a green T-shirt stretched out over her hair. Corporal Zahn had grenade pouches on his flak to hold cans of Skoal. We all wore tan flight suits. Flame resistant, for a little extra protection.
    Gunny Stout looked to Lieutenant Donovan. “You have anything to add, sir?”
    “I do.” He nodded. “Just one quick item.” He jumped off his Humvee and strolled into the briefing circle, glancing over at the command building to make sure Major Leighton was watching from the steps before he addressed the platoon. “This isn’t the best forum for this bit of gouge, I know. But the company commander wanted it passed to all Marines before noon today: He’s fed up with the bathroom graffiti. He says he’s over it. The stalls in comfort trailers get painted today, and we’re due for new Porta-Johns tomorrow. So, it’ll be a fresh slate. All graffiti removed. Then, starting tomorrow, if any drawings of penises or gossip about female Marines shows up in the bathrooms . . .” He paused and peeked over at Sergeant Gomez, kind of an embarrassed look on his face. “If the company commander sees anything like that, he’ll have the first sergeant post a twenty-four-hour watch in the shitters with orders to check each stall as Marines come out.”
    Corporal Zahn closed his eyes and bit his lip. Probably trying like hell not to laugh.
    Gunny Stout didn’t miss a beat. “Good deal, sir. Thanks for the gouge. Anything