Hemmingway Marine

The Marine woke again at first daylight and, putting his arm out, he felt the stinging air where aching memories surrounded him. He looked at the frozen tomb where the dead grass wore a frost-rimmed coat. A shadowed figure came out of the tree line with a rifle slung over his shoulder like a medal.

The Marine slowly cocooned out of his mold-infested bag, and felt with his hand the light frost that surrounded him. He could still hear the receding voice of the unidentified fire-watch Marine announcing the wake-up call. He loo

The gunny was short and heavy, white-faced, with broad cheekbones; gray haired with dark green eyes, a thin-bridged, curved nose line an Italian’s, a long upper lip and a broad, thin mouth. He was clean-shaven and he walked toward the Marine, moving with the bow-legged walk that went with his rank.

ked at his watch. By now the cow truck should be on its way, the early ones anyway.

“After chow get your men to secure the outer skirts of the tree line so that we can move north to the Delta,” the gunny said to him.

“Good morning devil dog,” his Gunnery Sergeant said.

The end of the chow line seemed never-ending. The Marine watched the others reaching impatiently for their canteens, anticipating the watered-down soup, seeing the steam rising from the camouflaged canisters, slowly inching their way through the line.

“What is going to happen today?�

Some topics in this essay:
, Gunnery Sergeant, Marine Maine, tree line, chow truck,