A story: A man fires a rifle for many years, and he goes to war. And afterward he turns the rifle in at the armory, and he believes he’s finished with the rifle. But no matter what else he might do with his hands, love a woman, build a house, change his son’s diaper; his hands remember the rifle.
A flashlight was a moonbeam. A pen was an ink stick. My mouth was a cum receptacle. A bed was a rack. A wall was a bulkhead. A shirt was a blouse. A tie was still a tie, and a belt a belt. But many other things would never be the same.
Every war is different, every war is the same.
For most problems the Marine is issued a solution. If ill, go to sickbay. If wounded, call a Corpsman. If dead, report to graves registration. If losing his mind, however, no standard solution exists.
Suggested techniques for the Marine to use in the avoidance of boredom and loneliness: Masturbation. Rereading of letters from unfaithful wives and girlfriends. Cleaning your rifle. Further masturbation. Rewiring Walkman. Arguing about religion and meaning of life. Discussing in detail, every woman the Marine has ever fucked. Debating differences, such as Cuban vs. Mexican, Harleys vs. Hondas, left- vs. right-handed masturbation. Further cleaning of rifle. Studying of Filipino mail order bride catalog. Further masturbation. Planning of Marine’s first meal on return home. Imagining what the Marine’s girlfriend and her man Jody are doing in the hay, or in the alley, or in a hotel bed.
What would you say if I told you I was gonna kill you for fucking me over like that?
An accident. Right. Like when the trigger slips. Of course, your nice little mom and dad are where?
Cottonwood Falls. They’ll be sad. They won’t have their little boy to send fucking cookies to. I’ll say it was an accidental discharge. I might spend some time in the brig… but it’ll end this fucking waiting. And I don’t know what it’s like to kill a man.
I’m in the firing position known as the sitting position. After the prone position, it is the platform most likely to enable a Marine to effectively kill his target. His target being a human, generally an enemy but sometimes a friend or friendly. We call this friendly fire, or friendly fucking or getting friendly fucked.
What do you think Cortez? You think I’ll accidentally kill your homeboy from boot camp?
See that kid? The one dreaming to serve his country. That Jarhead is me.
Look, I’m twenty years old and I was dumb enough to sign a contract. I can hear their fucking bombs already. I can hear their bombs and I’m fucking scared, yeah.
The Marine must learn to kill. He may wear a tattoo, or display his medals, or tell lies in bars. But he is not a true marine until he has seen combat.
The M16A2 service rifle is a lightweight air-cooled, gas-operated, magazine-fed shoulder weapon. It fires a 5.56 mm ball projectile at a muzzle velocity of 2,800 feet per second. This is my rifle. Repeat after me.
A story. A man fires a rifle for many years. and he goes to war. And afterwards he comes home, and he sees that whatever else he may do with his life – build a house, love a woman, change his son’s diaper – he will always remain a jarhead. And all the jarheads killing and dying, they will always be me. We are still in the desert.
