WHEN THE MAJOR KICKS ME I know he knows I missed deliberately. How can't it have been? Such an easy hit. . . . When he sinks like a sack of potatoes at my elbow I know this man's corps is no place for a capricious, pacifist sharpshooter. How I ever suspected otherwise I don't know if I'll ever know.
Deliberate, but not intentional. I'm powerless. Haven't slept in two days.
Police are trained to hold fire until threat is beyond a doubt. How is it that Marines have to adopt exactly the opposite attitude? Some asshole ad exec at the Pentagon thinks up catch phrases like "search and destroy" and "free fire zone," so the Major can enforce ask-questions-later mercilessness with an iron hand. Another pansy with a pedicure advocates "harassment and interdiction" and (the cake-taker) "pacification," and I have to lock my filthy, bloody feet between the crosshair of the cot all night long to keep from kicking his imaginary ass.
A month and a day until my estimated time of separation. ETS. Yes.
pssst. . .sign the guestbook!