When I arrived in Washington DC I was assigned to Company B, Headquarters Battalion, billeted at Henderson Hall in Arlington, Virginia. I was assigned a room in the Batchelor Enlisted Quarters from which I could look out onto part of the National Cemetery, the Pentagon and the Washington Monument. I went through the typical mandatory checking-in process, made slightly atypical by the fact I wasn't really part of the regular Marine Corps anymore. I had been seconded to a joint agency few had ever heard but which had great influence and it, in turn, had sent me to work as part of the Joint Staff. In short order I had been transformed from a Marine with a rifle, body armor, and an obligatorily overweight ruck-sack, part of a well defined and coordinated platoon to an almost orphan in the utmost rear-echelon of rear echelon commands. To say I was feeling somewhat adrift would be an understatement.
I groused about being wrenched from my Marine world and thrust into this mish-mosh of civilians and suspiciously colored other uniforms to my sponsor, another Marine staff non-commissioned officer. He laughed and basically agreed with the main gist of my logic and did his best to cheer me up. As we walked down one of the innumerable corridors of the Puzzle Palace he pointed out that the Pentagon was far from any other duty station at which I had ever served. "Look around you," he said, widely sweeping his hand before him, "really look. Not just at who you see here, but everywhere you go. Man, chicks dig uniforms and a girl who likes uniforms is going to like Marine uniforms most." He glanced at me and I frowned, thinking.
"No light-bulb yet?" He shook his head. "This town is loaded with people who come here to work for a while, people who only come to visit. They all want as much of a Washington DC, the nation's capital, experience as they can get." He grinned. "What's more capital than getting laid by a good looking guy wearing dress blues?"
"Yeah," I grumbled, unwilling to be too easily cheered "but I don't want to blow my money chasing pussy."
He rolled his eyes. "Gunny, Gunny, Gunny. They come with their
own
money, they don't need yours!" Such are the words of prophecy.
After settling in and learning a bit of the out-lying terrain I found myself assisting a pretty woman with a Spanish accent, an impressive chest and an overheated car. Only meaning to provide a little help getting her back on the road, I applied some duct tape to a split water hose, dropped in a quart of water, followed her to a car repair place and gave her a ride home when it turned out they had to order a replacement hose. She insisted on feeding me and then thanked me in a more intimate way and for the first time I heard a woman cum in Colombian Spanish. Maybe this duty station wasn't going to be so bad.
Henderson Hall was not much more than a cluster of buildings wedged between Fort Meier, home of the Old Guard, the National Cemetery, and the old uninspiring office building housing Headquarters, Marine Corps. One had to hop the fence to the Army base for a good gym workout but we had our own enlisted club and it was fairly popular. Sure, a few retired war-horse Marines would be found at the bar soaking in beer, but for the most part it was like any other E-club I'd been, full of young rowdy jarheads but with a decidedly different mix of women. Not only were Women Marines vastly over represented, many of whom were students of one kind or another so, not being in anyone's chain of command, the whole fraternization hazard seemed to disappear. If that hot looking corporal who happened to be here for the court reporter course wanted to get laid by that wiry staff sergeant who spent his time preparing personnel files for promotion board scrutiny, it wasn't going to cause command problems. Better yet, girls from all of the other armed forces made appearances to check out the grass on our side of the fence.
One of the girls who had sampled said grass and would come back for more was named Judy. She had joined the Air Force to escape the hills of Kentucky and was quite happy with the results of the deal. I knew her from numerous quick conversations as the music blared and people swirled. She was pretty enough in a fresh faced country way and dressed to flatter her steep curves. One of Judy's mannerisms was to suddenly, and for no discernable reason, throw out her chest and loudly proclaim "36C! Whoo-hoo!"
As luck would have it, we were both at the club the night I ran into a familiar very attractive female face. The last time I had seen Monica Jones she couldn't have weighed more than 100 pounds, and stood maybe an inch over five feet tall. She was in her first ever Marine unit and she was as green a Marine as one could meet. How green? At our first meeting as she had reported aboard while I was the battalion officer of the day I had asked, "What's your name, Marine?" before directing her to the Admin shop.
Her stance went from straight and tall, nearly at attention, to a relaxed, hip out-thrust, shoulder slump pose and she looked up at me with big brown eyes while she said, "Monica. What's yours?" I smothered my laughter and proceeded to establish an appropriately professional senior-to-junior rapport by reminding her Marines answer my question with rank and last name. Over time I would see her occasionally and wonder who was tapping that cute, petite ass and munching on her B cup boobs.
This night I glimpsed her face in a group of four women of varying degrees of attractiveness but all of whom were relaxed and comfortable, not gawking as many first-timers do. I made my way over, approaching her blind side. Her companions gave a warning look and she turned to see what had garnered their interest.
"As I live and breathe, Monica Jones," I grinned.
She looked at me with a frown, the same brown eyes set in a more mature but still young face. "It hasn't been Jones for a while," her eyes narrowed, "I know you, don't I?" The question brought a general easing of wariness among her friends. I waved at them in vague greeting and reminded her of our shared command history. With that she turned to address her group, "Oh, he's okay," and then resumed our conversation.
For the next few minutes we played the usual catch-up and I learned she had married one of the men in her section, a common occurrence, was currently stationed in North Carolina and was in town for a short training course. Two of her group had split off, looking for some attention but one remained at her side, doing her best to not act like a self-appointed guardian she had obviously become. My judgment was Monica had done just enough drinking prior to our meeting that her friend suspected her ability to make good choices was a bit impaired.
We were making small talk, discussing people we knew and providing filler on certain events that had taken place during our shared time. I learned I had something of a reputation among junior troops as an amiable hard-ass, switching from making someone laugh to tearing a new ass-hole over some infraction of my Holy Marine Corps rules, but the few women in the command thought I was "doable" if it weren't for the stick up my ass. Yeah, she'd been drinking.
"What about you, Monica? Did you think I was 'doable'?"
She sipped through her straw and took exactly the same stance as years before, hip out, eyes wide. Slowly, she raised her left hand to display her wedding band. I took that for an unspoken "Yes, but..." and laughed.
She smiled cutely and then her attention shifted behind me. I turned to see Judy, of the US Air Force, approaching with a drink, a smile, and towing a mutual acquaintance by his hand Wayne, my BEQ neighbor.
"Hey, John," she said, pulling up, "Whatcha doin'?" Her eyes flicked up and down Monica's slight form while Monica took in the expanse of Judy curves. Except for skin color, there may not have been a greater contrast in the place.
I made introductions, letting Monica handle that for her friend who still had not given her name. Judy didn't spend much time on getting acquainted chat.
"Hey, I'm bored here and I was thinkin' we could git on over to GW's and do some dancin'" GW's was an oddity in the DC area, a country-western bar catering to the urban crowd who thought it was a place where they can get a honky-tonk experience, but authentic enough to bring in a real boot and hat crowd. Behind Judy, Wayne rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders, indicating he didn't really give a shit. I did. Was opportunity knocking? I turned to Monica.
"Sounds like fun, you wanna come?"
Indecision showed on her face. Her guardian angel leaned in with concern on hers.
"Oh, hey, I don't know..." she said.
Judy cleared her throat. I looked back at her and she tilted her head, "I'm driving." She had an F-150 with a short cab. I turned back to Monica who was by that time talking to the angel.
"No, I'll be fine. I know him, it's cool," she was saying.
The guardian glared at me and jabbed me in the chest, "Nothing better happen to her, I don't give a shit rank you wear!" She looked at Monica again, who nodded, and then she stomped off.
Judy sighed. "
Ah'm
drivin'!" she said again.
