I watched the Marine place his broad hand on my shoulder and steer me to the back of a crowded bus. “Back of the bus, sweetheart,” he said, certain I was just a dependent who’d wandered into the wrong transport. I didn’t argue. I sat where his hand pointed, set my seabag down, and began counting the cranes. In a little over two hours, that same Marine would be saluting me, and a dead man’s name would finally be cleared by a page I had been carrying in my memory for nine years.
PART 2 Carrier Strike Group 14, arriving. The words from the 1MC still echoed across the water as I returned the salute of the side boys with an easy correctness. I walked past Corporal Tenant close enough to touch. I did not glance at him. I didn’t need to. The morning was telling him everything,…
