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Yellow Footprints

A young woman with shoulder length, sand-colored curls lay entwined in her lover's arms, a thin top sheet the only thing covering their bare bodies. With her left pointer finger, she traced a faded black and white tattoo on her lover's forearm. The Greek letters spelled out the Latin phrase 'Semper Fidelis,' which Dan had once told her meant 'Always Faithful.' Goosebumps erupted in the wake of her touch, and Dan shifted in his place behind her.

"What are you thinking about?"

He always knew when something was on her mind, and he never failed to ask after her thoughts. It was a stark contrast to her last lover, who had little care for her feelings, even when she was crying in front of him. The difference was jarring, and for a reason unknown to the young woman, she found it difficult to confide her true thoughts in Dan. It might have been the intimidating aura he gave off, or maybe it was their significant age difference that made her worry he would find her childish. Whatever the reason, Allison usually would end up telling him an edited version of her thoughts or blurting out something nonsensical and embarrassing.

"Nothing, really."

A blatant lie. Her head was so full of thoughts, she thought they might consume her. That wasn't new to Allison, and she had long convinced herself that Dan wouldn't want to be burdened with the truth of her storm-blown mind. Silence followed her lie. She ignored the little voice in the back of her mind that hoped Dan would press her for the truth. He didn't. As he settled against her back and drifted off, she shoved down her disappointment, both in him, and herself. Instead, she lay awake, and let herself spiral into her ever present anxieties.

The present semester had started a few months ago. Desperate to meet her family's expectations (namely her mother's), she had changed her major for the third time, hoping this one might inspire her to stick with classes. It hadn't. With half the semester left to go, she was already failing three out of her four classes. No matter what she did, Allison couldn't bring herself to attend classes past the first few weeks. They bored her, and the pile of homework was so overwhelming, it made a terrible feeling she couldn't name claw at her throat. She had struggled with school since sixth grade, failing enough classes to require summer school twice. With each failure, her confidence dropped until she became convinced she was just stupid. Her parents thought she was lazy. They became increasingly furious with what they considered her lackluster effort until one day, they blew up. Her father later said it was supposed to motivate her to pass. She'd made it through high school by the skin of her teeth. Now in college, his words had haunted her along with every failure.

If you don't pass your classes and at least get your diploma, you'll end up with no way to support yourself except as a prostitute! Is that what you want?

Almost four years later, when others from her class were just a few months away from earning their degrees, Allison had a grand total of nine credits and a score of incompletes. It made her want to scream and toss all her books out of her car window, but she was desperate not to disappoint her parents. So, she kept going, finding the time for classes in between her forty, sometimes fifty-hour work weeks at Turkey Hill.

The convenience store had been a much-needed escape from her tumultuous home life for the last three years. She worked hard and took on as many extra shifts as she could, so that she wouldn't have to go home until her family was asleep. Since she started getting serious with Dan, she spent most evenings in his bed, only going home to wash clothes. Unfortunately, she had secured a job for her ex-boyfriend at Turkey Hill after they had broken up. From a place of refuge, her job became another source of stress.

With a sigh, Allison forced her thoughts away from the man who had caused her nothing but pain and turned her thoughts to the one pressed against her back. She looked down at the arm wrapped around her waist, eyes tracing over the tattoo again. The words were Dan's tribute to his years in the Marine Corps. The way he reminisced with fondness about his former comrades, deployments, and the ridiculous and often dangerous shenanigans he got into as a young Marine sent an unfamiliar shiver of excitement through her. He had done and seen so much. Was that the reason for his quiet confidence and intimidating air? Would she be able to do amazing things? Could she also learn to feel comfortable in her own skin?

Then, the image of her mother's face, drawn, with once bright blue eyes listless and her lips stuck in a permanent reflection of her grief, rose in her head to combat the hopeful thoughts. At the tender age of three, Allison had watched as the paramedics rushed mommy to the ER to stitch up the bloody, too-deep lines carved down the length of both her arms. Her father dropped her off at the babysitters with little word of comfort or explanation of what was happening. Several other children played on the wooden play set in the backyard without a care in the world. She sat alone on the top deck of the pretend pirate ship, waiting with dread for daddy to come back and tell her that mommy was gone. She didn't cry. Couldn't. There was a strange hollowness in her chest that she'd never felt before, blocking the tears from coming. While the other children ran about the yard, fighting imaginary enemies with play swords, little Allison wondered what she had done to make her mother so sad that she hurt herself. All she had wanted was for mommy to unlock the door and play with her. That day, she promised to be a better daughter, to make her mom happy so she would never have to hurt herself again. Since then, she'd done whatever she could to keep Kelly from slipping back into that darkest of places, even if that meant keeping her own feelings locked away.

How could Allison even think of leaving? How could she be that selfish? And who would take care of mom if she left? Her brothers and father weren't up to the task, and Angie, her mom's new girlfriend, was too new to the family to be burdened with it. No. Joining the military was nothing but a selfish, fleeting thought that needed to be buried and forgotten.

For months, Allison thought of nothing but school, work, and her mom. Her relationship with Dan didn't last long, giving her another reason to put the Marines out of her mind. No matter how hard she tried, however, the idea pricked at the back of her mind again and again. Like the needles of a tattoo gun carving a picture into her skin, the image of herself in that tan camo uniform, hair pulled tight into a sleek bun, and sleeves rolled and pressed with a perfect edge, was inked into her skull.

She distracted herself with another lover, a man twice her age with four fire-haired children. He showered her with compliments, always reminding her of how beautiful or smart he thought she was. She almost believed it, wanted him to be right more than anything. He made her feel wanted. She adored the two youngest children, and the relationship between Chris and his teenage daughter had eerie parallels to her own relationship with her parents. The girl, who was only a few years younger than her, went back and forth between keeping her feelings locked away, to lashing out at her dad, who she blamed for their mother leaving. Chris responded in kind by coming down hard on his oldest child, treating the smallest of mistakes like they would ruin the girl's entire future. If Chris had some perspective from someone closer to his daughter's age, maybe she could help their relationship heal. It was selfish of Allison to dream of leaving everything behind when there were so many people she could help here.

But the dream persisted until the almost twenty-two-year-old couldn't ignore it any longer.

She had been sitting in the school cafeteria one morning with her laptop when it finally happened. She was supposed to be in Sociology (a class she detested almost as much as its teacher), but Allison was instead reading through every page of the Marines website: from the history of the corps to what boot camp would be like, to the hundreds of different jobs she could have. Once she navigated back to the home page, the stark white bold letters that read 'Request Information' were impossible to ignore. She gave in. It wouldn't hurt anyone just to learn more, right? If she talked to someone at the recruitment office, she could get the ridiculous idea out of her head. She would realize that military life wasn't for her and go on with her day.

Of course, that wasn't how it went at all.

A recruiter at the local office reached out to her within twenty-four hours. The next week, Allison sat in front of his desk, sorting a dozen little black rectangular tiles with words etched in white ink, arranging them from most important to least. Self-Confidence, Self-Discipline, and Self-Reliance found their way into the top three with little thought. Her manager at Turkey Hill, Ryan, had warned her that recruiters would spew whatever lies they could to convince Allison to sign her life away. She believed him. The marine corps was the smallest branch of the military, with the highest quotas and which met the most resistance from worried parents. Of course, recruiters would have to get creative.

Sergeant Wical was a handsome, charismatic man with a laugh that made you feel at ease. Experience taught her that men like that could lie with a grin on their face and think nothing of it, but she didn't need any pretty words or false promises from him. She had made her decision the moment her fingers brushed over the hopeful words etched into the cold ceramic tiles. What Allison wanted more than anything, in that insignificant moment in time, was to join the ranks of the few proud men and women who worked hard to earn the title of United States Marine. For the first time since she was a little girl who only knew how to want, Allison made a conscious choice, one that she knew might hurt people she loved, but that was wholly for herself.

That decision was the hardest of any to stand by. Almost as if the universe was challenging her resolve, it threw everything it could at her in the next few months to make the young woman change her mind. The most difficult was the revelation that her grandmother was suffering from late-stage throat cancer. Allison put her commitment to the Marines on hold as she traveled with Angie and her mother to visit her Grandma Grant, who they fondly called GG, in the nursing home. She sat at GG's bedside, trying not to choke on the smell of bleach, which failed to mask the noxious scent of vomit and urine. Her grandmother, who she remembered always having a bright grin on her face, turned to Allison with a pained grimace as she asked.

"How are you doing in school?"

Allison had bitten her lip, hesitant, but mustered up the courage to answer.

"I dropped out of college. I'm going to join the Marines."

She had expected admonishment. Their family saw success as earning a degree and making good money. The military wasn't an option. Instead of scolding, or asking why, GG only cried. Allison watched the silent tears find their way through the deep lines of GG's face, dripping from her chin to the scratchy tan hospital blanket covering her lap with shock and a heap of shame. Never, in her almost twenty-two years of life, had she witnessed her GG cry.

Not when her grandkids knocked into one of her pain-ridden, sarcoid-covered legs.

Nor when Grandpa Gary disowned her mom for being married to a woman, and GG had watched from inside the car as Kelly and her grandkids got smaller and smaller as they drove away from the hotel they had met at.

Not even when Allison had lost her temper after being scolded for talking to her little cousin about her two mothers, screaming at GG that she was an awful person for shunning her daughter.

For her to make the older woman cry, she must have done something terrible. Guilt stuck in her throat, making it hard to breathe, and Allison rose from the chair and ran from the room before her mother or Angie could say a word.

For a few months after returning home, Allison avoided Sergeant Wical at all costs. All his calls went to voicemail. Emails and text messages went unread. They had made nothing official, so she had no obligation other than good manners to answer him, and the shame was still too fresh. What could she say to him? What excuse could she offer, other than she made her dying grandmother cry, that would justify her sudden choice to back out? He was practically a stranger. She wasn't about to tell him her sob story. He would give up in no time. There were plenty of other people desperate to get out of their dying, crime infested city.

She went back to school after a fourth (and final, she promised herself) change of major, determined to succeed this time. Everything was going right for once. Her high school boyfriend quit his job at Turkey Hill, so she didn't have to deal with him. She and her new boyfriend, Chris, were spending more and more time together. Her mom and Angie were talking about marriage.

Then she came home from work late one evening to her mother's wrenching sobs, echoing down the stairwell through her closed bedroom door. GG was gone. She had chosen, against everyone's pleas, to stop treatment and live out the rest of her days in the home she had built her life in.

At the service, everyone spoke of how generous she was, how she lived her life for others and in service to God. GG was the glue that held their family together, Aunt Patty said. The programs featured black and white pictures of one of her grandmother's paintings, and they had decorated the funeral home with them.

While her children, sisters and husband spoke of her generosity, sacrifice, and incredible strength, Allison couldn't help but wonder what might have happened if GG hadn't given up her career as a nurse to raise four children, or if she had dedicated more time to her beautiful paintings. Would Allison have been able to view one of her precious works of art in a museum? Or maybe she could have become the breadwinner for the family, with a long and fulfilling career at the local hospital. Allison would never know, because GG had put everyone before herself until her last days. It wasn't the wrong choice, but Allison at last understood it was the wrong choice for her. She didn't want to spend the rest of her life doing what would make everyone else happy, even if she hated it.

Just days after the funeral, Allison walked into Sergeant Wical's office and apologized for blowing him off. She told him everything, about her grandmother's cancer and death, about her fear of disappointing her mother, or worse, not being there to pull her back from the edge. The young woman held her head high, wiping the tears from her eyes with the back of her sleeve, and met the recruiter's stare as she said, "There's nothing holding me back now. I'm ready. How soon can you get me sworn in?"

Sergeant Wical held her stare, looking for any sign of hesitation. When he found none, the amiable smile returned to his face as he answered.

"We can go through the paperwork today and get a drug test done. If that comes back negative, we can ship you up to MEPS to swear in next week. As long as you make it through the screening process up there, we'll be able to give you a date for when you'll be leaving for boot camp. Once you swear in, there's no backing out. Are you sure you're ready?"

"Yes."

There was nothing but conviction in her answer. The following week, she rode for three intense hours to the processing station in Harrisburg with Sergeant Wical and two other soon-to-be recruits. He escorted them into the building and signed them in. He then turned to them; smile gone from his lips in favor of a stern expression as he gave them a last reminder.

"The job of everyone in this building is to weed out those who aren't fit to serve. Don't give them a reason to declare you unfit because it's difficult to appeal. Whatever it says on your paperwork, those are the answers you give to questions. If they catch you lying, you will be permanently barred from military service. They will put you under immense stress to get you to confess to anything you might be hiding, even threaten you with jail time. Don't let it scare you. When you're done, I'll meet you in the oath office."

The next few hours felt like a lifetime. They had arrived in Harrisburg just an hour after sunrise. By the time she made it through the grueling questions and terrifying threats and rejoined Sergeant Wical in the oath office, the sun had almost set. Allison knew she would fall asleep the moment her head hit the cold glass of the car window. The group was instructed to form four lines, facing an American flag hanging off one wall. A thrill swept through her veins, fighting off the settling weariness. Sergeant Wical stood at the front of the room, along with a handful of other recruiters, dressed in the signature pressed khaki blouse and royal blue trousers with the red blood stripe sewn along the length of the leg. The white vinyl caps with shining black brims were tucked under their arms.

Next to them, the oath officer explained the oath they were about to take, making them practice the words until every soon-to-be recruit could repeat the oath without stumbling. The officer called them to attention, and Allison snapped her eyes forward, arms tight against her sides with hands balled into fists, and brought her feet together, heels touching and toes pointed out in a V. Sergeant Wical had stressed before they left that morning when he taught them how to come into the position, not to lock out their knees. He would never let them live it down if any of them passed out. Allison took the advice to heart, keeping a slight bend in her knees as the oath officer instructed them to repeat after him, though with the way her heart was hammering against her chest, she might pass out anyway. Unable to shake her head to relieve the stress, Allison took a deep breath instead as she said her oath of enlistment.

"I, Allison Simmons, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God."

It was done. The oath officer dismissed the group into the care of their respective recruiters, and Sergeant Wical let the amiable smile spread across his face as she and the two boys she came with approached him. He shook each of their hands and said,

"Congratulations, you are now official recruits of the United States Marine Corps. I'm proud to serve with you."

Her chest swelled, and joyful tears sprung in her eyes.

The month and a half before her ship date passed in the blink of an eye. Sergeant Wical and the other recruiters had kept her busy with grueling physical training. They ran miles through the forest in a line on Saturdays, passing a weighted baton back until it reached the last person, who then had to sprint to the front while trying not to trip over loose rocks or tree roots on the trail. She, who had always preferred music and sitting in a comfortable corner with a book, to things like sports, struggled to meet Sergeant Wical's high expectations, but she pushed through, determined to head to boot camp with the best possible advantage she could manage.

And so, here she was almost two months later, likely just minutes away from the goal she had longed for. Silvery rays from the moon filtered in through the bus windows as it made its way southeast, leaving the small town on the border of Georgia where her plane had landed, and across the wide expanse of South Carolina to the tiny island that would be her home for the next few months. The giant steel box and its driver were undeterred by the unlit, empty road, but a heavy, apprehensive silence oppressed its passengers. Around forty young men and women sat in pairs on the weathered leather seats. There was no way for the group to know their location, and yet they all seemed to sense that their destination was drawing near.

The group had filled the start of the ride with chatter. The recruits swapped stories of their childhood homes, their aspirations for the future within the military, and their reasons for joining. Each recruit had vastly different backgrounds and motives, and Allison wondered how the drill instructors would transform this wild, diverse gang, all just barely adults, into uniformed soldiers who obeyed orders without question. Now that the conversation had died down, the young recruits stared out the window or into their laps with anxious faces. They looked even younger somehow, even less like future Marines.

She remembered the conversation she had with her recruiter just before he dropped her off at the hotel in Harrisburg. He said that every recruit had a moment where they asked themselves what the hell they were doing there. Why had they signed up for this hell? His own, like many, was the moment their own bus of recruits arrived at the recruit depot on Parris Island. The moment when the first of their many drill instructors, with their cold eyes under their signature olive green campaign covers with the extra wide brim, had stepped into the bus and screamed so loud that it echoed off the aluminum walls and nearly deafened him.

When would her moment come?

The bus slowed, then came to a stop. She peered out the window, trying to glimpse the island, but it was too dark. The doors opened with a hiss, and a dark-skinned mountain of a man with arms as large as tree trunks, wide-brimmed hat tipped low over his fierce eyes, stepped into the aisle and said with a booming rasp that rattled her bones, "What the hell are you looking at, piss ants? Put your goddamn heads down against the seats and listen!"

Everyone rushed to comply. Allison peeked at the terrified faces of her comrades from behind the leather seat back. There was no doubt. At least half of them were regretting their decision, a few even had tears welling in their eyes. Her heart was hammering against her chest again, but not with anxiety or dread. Excitement thrummed in her veins as she listened to the burly drill instructor scream instructions.

"You will exit in a single file line and make your way to my yellow footprints! You will keep your heads forward and your mouths shut. Do not move off those footprints until I tell you! If you take even a step off my footprints or whisper a word, you will regret the day you were born! If one of my drill instructors addresses you, you will call them Sir or Ma’am! When you answer a question, you will scream like your life depends on it! Is that understood? Scream ‘Aye-Aye, Sir!’"

"Aye-Aye, Sir!" the recruits answered.

The drill instructor's face screwed up in fury, and spittle flew from his mouth as he yelled.

"Louder!"

"AYE-AYE, SIR!"Some of the recruits' voices cracked as they struggled to answer.

"Now get the hell out of this bus and onto those yellow footprints! Scream ‘Aye-Aye Sir!’"

"AYE-AYE, SIR!"

Everyone scrambled to follow his orders, grabbing what little belongings they brought and rushing out of the bus. Allison shimmied into the aisle. On her recruiter's advice, she had chosen not to bring anything with her. It would only be taken and shoved into a brown paper bag with her name scribbled on it in black sharpie until she graduated. Even her phone was left with her mom. They would bring it to her when they picked her up on graduation day.

She kept her head forward as she followed the line, not daring to let her curiosity get the best of her as she stepped onto a small set of sun-colored footsteps painted onto the black tar. The girl in front of her shook like a leaf as several more wide-brimmed hats swarmed around them, their screaming blending together and the words difficult to pick apart. Her arms and legs trembled as well, but Allison suspected it wasn't for the same reason. It was all she could do to keep the grin off her face.

At last, after a year of doubt and struggle, she was here. The months ahead would be the most challenging of her life, but they were hers. Allison had made this choice for no one but herself, and the power that instilled in her drowned out any fear. She would hold that eagle, globe, and anchor in her hand and transform into a woman with strength and surety.

The drill instructors of November company worked hard to drive the moment of regret into her. The next forty-eight hours were filled with screaming, confusion, and zero sleep as they processed the newest batch of recruits. A pile of gear that she had no clue how to use was thrust into arms that had gone numb from the series of vaccinations needed to prevent illnesses that she'd never heard of. A giant rucksack was filled to the brim with uniforms, a bulky vest filled with ceramic bullet proof plates, magazine and grenade pouches, a gas mask, and a dozen other items which made the sack so heavy, she struggled to lift it onto her back. Coupled with her exhaustion, the hike back from the supply issue left her legs shaking. Once she was finally permitted to sleep, Allison collapsed onto the hard mattress of her bunk bed, one of twenty arranged in two parallel lines along the concrete walls of her squad bay. She could have slept for days, but four hours was all the time allotted to her before being ripped from a dreamless sleep to start the day's training. The glimpse of sky from the barred windows was still pitch black. It would be another two hours before the sun rose, but that didn't stop them from being herded into the chow hall to scarf down as much as they could in fifteen minutes before being led out to the grassy training grounds. In the dark, the multitude of fire-ant hills that dotted the grass were impossible to spot, and more than one recruit jumped up from their morning stretches with surprised shrieks of pain, only to be rounded on by their unsympathetic drill instructors for interrupting.

By week four, the comfortable layer of fat on her body, formed by years of a sedentary lifestyle and lazy diet, was gone, replaced by lithe muscles in her arms, legs, and core. Even her face had thinned, high cheekbones more pronounced than ever. Her friends back home would be concerned by the rapid transformation, but Allison had never felt stronger. She no longer wheezed and lagged behind during runs, and the weight of her pack, which she had buckled under at the start, was little more than a school bag. She could throw one of her fellow recruits over her shoulder and run with them or hold them in place as she squatted during their morning exercises. The first phase of boot camp, designed to tear them down to nothing, had come to a close. Week five marked the beginning of the second phase, the build up, where they would learn the skills shared by all Marines. Allison had been looking forward to combat training more than anything else, and so couldn't contain her excitement the morning they were led to the dirt pits for their first instruction.

The martial arts instructor's firm but uplifting lessons were a welcome break from the constant belittling of their usual wardens. They were still marines, but the black t-shirts in place of a pressed blouse and crisply rolled sleeves, and the lack of wide-brimmed hats covering steel eyes put them at ease. Allison listened intently, eyes never straying from the woman at the front of the group as she demonstrated a chokehold. They were then divided into pairs to practice. A tawny haired girl whose name she couldn't remember approached her with a relaxed grin, something that would have earned her a trip to the sand pit and a hundred push-ups if their drill instructors caught sight of it. She settled into a fighting stance, fists held too low to block a hit in time, and feet too close together as she said, "I'll go first. Just tap out so the instructors think we're doing it right. Then we can switch, and I'll do the same thing."

Allison raised a brow but said nothing, moving into her own stance, fists held on either side of her face and feet shoulder width apart. She crouched low, keeping her center-of-gravity close to the ground so she would be harder to push off balance. Her partner snapped forward, grabbing onto one arm to twist it behind her back while sweeping her feet out from under her. She hit the dirt, her partner's arm locked around her throat, but there was no pressure applied to her airway. The other recruit held her, waiting for Allison to tap out so they could switch, but she refused, and one of the instructors took notice and approached. She looked down at them with a scowl and said, "Let her go and both of you get up."

"Aye-Aye, Ma’am!"

They hurried to stand and come to attention. The instructor turned to Allison and asked, "Why didn't you tap out?"

"Ma’am! This recruit didn't tap out because she wasn't choking me, Ma’am!"

From the side, where the instructor couldn't see, her partner shot her a sour look, but Allison ignored it. She wasn't here to goof off or make friends, and fudging the training would only come back to bite her at the end when she couldn't pass the assessment. The instructor hid a snort of laughter by ducking her chin for a moment, a common tactic used when one of the recruits did something funny and they didn't want to lose their bearing, though the lack of a campaign cover to hide her expression made it less effective. When she looked back up, her face was blank again as she said.

"Switch and show her how to do it right, then."

"Aye-Aye, Ma’am!" Allison answered and turned back to her partner, who was flushed pink with anger and embarrassment. She tried not to feel too guilty as she shifted back into a fighting stance. It hadn't been her intention to get the girl in trouble. The instructor took a moment to correct her partner's stance before telling them to go. She surged forward, copying the grab and twist and locking her elbow around the girl's throat as she pushed her chest into the dirt, using her right hand to grab her left fist and tighten the hold until a satisfying choking sound was dragged from the girl's lips. She reveled in the feeling of her partner's stubborn struggling underneath her. The moment her partner's hand slapped the dirt, she let go and backed away, looking at the instructor for approval. She nodded with the ghost of a smirk on her face and said, "Good. Hart, you will practice with me. Simmons, you can work on your punches and kicks until we move on."

The boost of confidence from the rare moment of praise energized her throughout the rest of the day. Even when she messed up during drill and her primary drill instructor, known as the kill hat, pulled her out of the formation, ordering her to hold her rifle out in front of her until it felt like her arms were about to fall off, her mood didn't dim.

At week five, as they stood outside the chow hall waiting for their turn to eat, their senior drill instructor, referred to as Senior, caught Ramirez, their platoon leader, laughing as she conversed with the squad leaders. She was the second guide to be unceremoniously fired that week. The first time, Senior had chosen Ramirez from among the squad leaders to be the replacement. This time, she stood at the front of the chow hall as the recruits finished eating and asked for volunteers. For a few minutes, no one spoke. Then Henderson, their original guide, rose from her seat, only to be shot down before she had a chance to speak. Allison looked around the room at her comrades, waiting for one of them to step up. When no one did, she scarfed down the last bite of her bland lunch and stood, arms clamped tight to her sides as she said as loud as she could, "Ma’am! This recruit volunteers for the position, Ma’am!"

Senior, a beautiful woman with smoothe skin and dark eyes that were kinder than anyone's she'd ever met, stared her down. She raised a brow as she took in Allison's earnest, but unkept appearance. Her wild curls had proved impossible to tame, and Senior had threatened to make her cut it on multiple occasions. Unlike some of the other girls, she had no military experience, and struggled to force her hair into the signature slick donut shaped bun. Stray curls stuck out at all angles, and by the end of the day, her bun had often come undone entirely. Senior pursed her lips, waiting another moment for anyone else to volunteer, before she gave in and said,

"Since you're the only one who managed to stand up and address me properly, you've got it. But your hair had better be perfect tomorrow morning."

"Aye-Aye Ma’am!"

She'd never struggled so hard not to smile in her life. One of the squad leaders was kind enough to gel and braid her hair for her that night after lights out, so that come morning it was flawless.

Weeks six and seven were range week. Allison had never imagined she would feel so comfortable with a rifle tucked into her shoulder. The only experience she had with a gun was the one time at summer camp when they'd gone to the range and shot fake deer with a shotgun. She had been a terrible shot, not even grazing the target once. But as she lay in the grass, elbows kept tight to her body for the best support, and practiced her slow, controlled breathing as she took aim at a rusted steel barrel with several bright yellow targets painted on it through her scope, she was at ease and brimming with confidence. Her kill hat came up behind her. She tensed, waiting for the usual derision that accompanied her presence. The woman never had a kind word for her, not that she expected any. It came as a surprise then, when she only smirked down at her and said before moving on,

"I think Simmons wants to shoot. Maybe you'll finally be good at something other than hiking."

She almost slipped up and let her shock show on her face. That was two compliments in one sentence. Invigorated, she returned her eye to the scope, making sure to keep the other eye open as she breathed deep. She compressed the trigger with a slow, controlled pull as she exhaled. The empty rifle clicked, but she imagined a hole appearing dead center of the target in her sights. She checked to make sure no one was watching before allowing a wide grin to spread across her face for a moment, wiping it away as soon as her kill hat came back into view.

At last, after three of the most difficult months of her life, the second to last week of boot camp was ending as Allison led her platoon on the hike home, having completed their three-day long graduation assessment, the Crucible, and earned the right to call herself a Marine. She wasn't a guide or squad leader anymore. Her leadership position had only lasted about a week, but that was par for the course, and she didn't let it bother her. Despite not being a platoon leader, Senior had pulled her to the front of the formation because she was the best hiker in the platoon. She needed people who could keep the proper pace at the front for their return from the Crucible, which would be witnessed by nearly everyone on the island. Allison held her head high, no longer needing to hide her grin as she marched. Her tan camouflage utility uniform, with the painstakingly starched and ironed rolled sleeves, was covered in dirt, and she, like the rest of her platoon, stank of sweat. The smell had sunk so deep into her blouse and trousers and the dirt was so thick, she would have to soak the uniform in a tub of bleach to get the filth out. Her feet ached, and the soles of her boots were so worn she could feel every slap of her toes against the pavement. Still, as the sun rose behind them, bathing the platoon with its summer warmth, and they rounded the corner onto the main street that led through Parris Island, she joined her drill instructors and new comrades in their uplifting cadence, screaming "Marine Corps" after each line Senior sang.

A 1, 2, 3, 4

A ARMY, NAVY WAS NOT FOR ME

AIR FORCE WAS JUST A TOO EASY

WHAT I NEED WAS A LITTLE BIT MORE

I NEED A LIFE THAT IS HARDCORE

PARRIS ISLAND IS WHERE IT BEGAN

A LITTLE ROCK WITH LOTS A SAND

I CAN'T FORGET ABOUT HOLLYWOOD

SAN DIEGO AND IT'S ALL GOOD

PT DRILL ALL DAY LONG

KEEP ME RUNNING FROM DUSK TO DAWN

A 1, 2, 3, 4

TELL ME NOW WHAT YOU WAITING FOR

A 1, 2, 3, 4

MOMMA NOW I'M GONNA SING YOU SOME MORE

FIRST PHASE IT BROKE ME DOWN

SECOND PHASE I STARTED COMIN ROUND

THIRD PHASE I WAS LEAN AND MEAN

GRADUATION STANDING TALL IN MY GREEN

TO ANYBODY WHO ASKED ME WHY

HERE'S THE DEAL I GAVE MY REPLY

I'LL BE A MARINE TIL THE DAY I DIE

MOTIVATED AND SEMPER FI

Her drill instructors timed the end of the cadence perfectly with the end of their hike as they came to a stop in front of the Iwo Jima Memorial. They scrambled to drop their packs and arrange them in four neat rows, before forming ranks five steps away from the stone statue. Senior took post at the head of the formation and called them to attention so she could give instructions.

"When I step in front of you, you will go to rest, receive your eagle, globe, and anchor with your left hand, and go back to attention when I move to the next person."

Her heart pounded as Senior made her rounds. What felt like an hour before the drill instructor stepped in front of her was really only half that, but her sore feet and sleep deprivation made the wait agonizing. At last, Senior arrived, and she addressed the drill instructor by her rank, a privilege earned along with her new title.

"Good morning, Staff Sergeant."

She held her hand out, heart stuttering as the black eagle, globe, and anchor, no bigger than a quarter, was placed in her sweating, open palm. Staff Sergeant offered her a secret smile as she said under her breath,

"Good morning, Marine. Congratulations. You earned this."

She stepped away. Allison snapped back to attention, clutching the little pin that she had worked so hard for in her hand. She kept the silent, joyful tears at bay until her drill instructor made it to the end of her row. A subtle glance on either side revealed that most of her comrades were crying as well. Their official graduation ceremony would take place in a few days, with just enough time to celebrate Independence Day with their family as new Marines. Her parents would get to see the results of all her efforts, and Allison was proud to show them. She couldn't wait to stand in front of them in her dress uniform, trousers pressed with fresh, perfect creases, shoes shined, and hair pulled back tight and sleek. Allison imagined their awe as they watched her march onto the stage, rifle held tight against her shoulder as she moved with her platoon in sharp, synchronized movement. For the first time in years, she was confident in the future ahead, so she took a moment to appreciate the men and women who came before her. Thanks to them, Allison would build a life that she could enjoy and be proud of. She would sacrifice her life if she was called to, but she would never again sacrifice her wellness for the sake of someone else's happiness. The bright yellow footsteps she had stood on three months ago were the start of a meaningful, fulfilling future, and nothing and no one would take it away from her. From that moment on, the words inked into Dan's arm, always faithful, would hold new meaning. Allison would strive to remain always faithful to her own heart.

This story was previously published in the 2022 Wild Women issue if The Tuliptree Review. I retained all publishing rights. Please do not post this anywhere else without my permission.

#creative writing #creative nonfiction #narrative essay #writing #authors #short story

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