This is my first attempt at a romance, I'm fully aware that I probably missed the point so reviews and comments are highly appreciated. I usually do much more hardcore and violent work. So I hope you all enjoy!
It was the same day he'd lived before and in all likelihood the same day Corporal Renaud had been stuck in for almost three months. He turned over and kicked his sweat soaked sheet away from him down onto the sand covered wooden floor. The sound of scurrying rats was nothing new to him; he didn't really pay them any attention as he pulled on his desert camouflage trousers. "Another wonderful day in the Corps." He muttered sarcastically reaching down to lace up his beige steel-toed boots. Renaud didn't bother pulling on the olive green tee shirt, instead walking out into the pleasant warmth of the Kuwaiti morning.
He was in a tent nearly big enough to be considered a house, fifty feet long and close to thirty across with an aluminum frame. The floor was built from boxes, discarded wood and cardboard, anything they could salvage from the dump. Little walls were erected here and there with sandbags giving the illusion of privacy, if you lay down and stared straight up. It only took the guy beside you flinging his blouse up to hang on the wall to ruin the illusion though and the Marine had long since surrendered to reality of it all. Besides since they'd built the second deck and used it to store most of their equipment things had opened up, a little.
The rest of the compound hadn't quite gotten up yet, the sun hadn't even risen yet over the distant horizon but it was already uncomfortably warm. It wouldn't be long before it was unbearably hot, probably well above one hundred degrees. Shrugging off the thought he strode through the sand toward his Port-a-san to relieve himself.
Right above the port-a-potty's toilet someone had taped a picture out of Hustler, a pair of girls with their faces partially covered in goo. Around them were several crude drawings of women spread-eagled or in various other lewd positions and a few rotten poems to spice things up. "Here I sit to take a dump. How awful would it be to get a bump? Oh that would be it, me covered in shit!" He shook his head as he buttoned up his pants and stepped out of stall closing the door behind him.
A voice from somewhere behind him greeted him. "Mornin Corporal."
"Not good morning?" Renaud asked slowly turning to see who'd spoken. He fought to keep the smile from his face as he turned to find Private Stien standing and parade rest, hands clasped behind his back, head held high.
"Nothing really good about it." He responded his military bearing shattered as Renaud started to smile at him.
"Yeah I guess not." He replied walking past the barbed wire fence separating his tent and shitters from the workplace. He stared over at the giant wall designed to protect him from his own ordnance should it mysteriously start exploding. Where he was standing, his toes against a single piece of steel, was the minimum safe distance from the missiles, rockets, bombs, warheads and bullets. One more step forward and if they went off he would go with them. He didn't often think about that possibility, the idea that he might die in this desert fighting a war that he didn't believe in, but he did that morning. Thought about it as he crossed the threshold toward that gigantic sandcastle he'd helped build.
He ran his fingers slowly over the steel wrapped paper bags as he walked around to the backside. Looked up at the tower remembering how he'd helped guide the forklifts to build it. On the far side of the wall were four little cells filled with weapons. The first belonged to demolition; it was made up mostly of damaged weapons that could never see combat. Some of it was just unlabeled or too old to be considered stable. The second was filled with bullets, crate after crate of bullets. There had to be well over a million shells stacked up before his eyes. The third was filled with missiles. Renaud loved that cell; there was something special about hundreds of missiles all packaged in bright green boxes, or coffins as they were usually called. There was one in particular, in the back left corner that was "his" even had his name scrawled on it in black marker. "To Saddam. Much love motherfucker. Corporal Kristoph Renaud United States Marine Corps." He always spent the morning here laying on the cool metal and watching the sky turn from ebony starscape to a cloudless azure sky. It helped him get ready for the day, helped him cope with the fact that his own family was thousands of miles away comfortable and safe.
In the cells you could pretend you were away from it all. He couldn't hear his fellow Non Commissioned Officers, NCOs, shouting at the Non-NCOs to do this or that. Didn't see them all standing with military precision addressing the Corporals and Sergeants. He didn't want to, not this early in the morning. This early he just wanted to enjoy the sunrise and let his mind wander to all of the things he had back home.
Chris remembered he had a younger brother named Kamal who would be graduating from elementary school in his absence. A sister named Martha who in all honesty probably hadn't really noticed he was gone yet. A mother and father who were losing their minds with worry over a bullet with his name inscribed on it. He wasn't worried about death. It's not something you think about on a rear base. You worry about your generator going out, you worry about your Playstation breaking, you worry about your superiors deciding they want to make you play stupid games. You don't worry about bombs when it has been a month since the last time a bomb was launched at your base. You don't worry about bullets racing out of nowhere and splattering your skull into the sand.
You worry about the same thing he was worried about. You worry about how your friends are going to forget about you. How you won't remember how to dance, or know who's in style. You're terrified that the girl you left behind has met someone else, someone better and it drives you insane. At least Chris wasn't worried about the girl he'd left behind, a little slut named Katherine. She'd at least been kind enough to drop him for some thug a few months before he'd gone to Kuwait. Cut him off cold too, refused to return his phone calls or his letters.
"Love isn't brain's kiddies, its blood screaming in your veins to work its will." He whispered. He always said that when he thought of Katherine and how much he wanted to hold her again. He knew it was stupid, knew he should just move on with his life but somehow he couldn't manage it. "Yeah, I'm love's bitch." She was just the most amazing woman on the planet, gorgeous green eyes and curly red hair. Skin the color of sweet caramel with soft lips. A smile well worth waging a war for and tits to die for, full bouncy d-cupped with pierced nipples. She wasn't super model sized; he even teased her about her tummy, a bit of a spare tire that did nothing to distract you from her firm ass and thick thighs that tapered down into slender ankles. When she wore her thigh high boots. "Least I'm man enough admit it." He grumbled pushing the vivid image of his ex out of his mind. "Spike, truer words were never spoken." He thought aloud as he finished the peroxide blonde vampire's quote.
"Doesn't mean I have to like it." He said as he sat up and turned to finish watching the sun rising over the distant sand dunes. He only had a few minutes to get back now so he took in his practiced purposeful stride across the sand and past the fence. Ignoring two of his own superiors he shoved his head into one of the tents barking. "Come on, its 0715 and if you don't want to be left behind you need to get up! Complete uniforms. That means boonie covers, blouses, flaks, kevlars and gas masks! Come on!" A few bodies rolled over and pulled their sleeping bags up over their heads." Renaud couldn't care less, it was the ones who'd managed to oversleep that he was concerned with. He just pulled his shirt on over his head and started buttoning his blouse having left the rest of his gear in the bus. They were scrambling right now, tripping over their own boots, racks and bags to find everything they needed to leave the tiny compound and travel less than three miles up the road.
Corporal Renaud grinned slightly and yanked his head out of the tent repeating the process in the next tent before striding to the first van. "Who's driving?" He asked the pack of Marines milling around the doors. When eyes started shifting quickly from one to the next he pointed to one of them. "PFC Garcia would you go get the goddamn keys?" It wasn't really a request and Garcia didn't take it as one turning quickly and jogging back to what was affectionately referred to as the Head Shed. It was where all the planning for the compound took place, three computers and the Captain and Master Gunnery Sergeant slept and spent most of their days.
"You guys expected the van to drive itself?" He asked looking slowly over the men still gathered. All around sheepish smiles broke out as they shook their heads. "See all you Lance Corporals and below are dumb as rocks." He pointed to the second bus where another group of Marines stood staring at the doors. "But if you look over there you'll see that the sergeants and staff really aren't any smarter. I'm gonna go help them out, save my seat."
"Yes Corporal." Several responded as he turned and walked over to the group of sergeants. "Who's got the keys?" When they glanced around like the Lances had before them he smiled. "I'll get the keys but you gotta take the girls."
"You don't make deals with us Corporal."
