A Question of Honor

Picture this. It’s 2027. I’m sitting in the office of the base commander at Camp Lejeune. Cool spring air wafts in on a gentle breeze through an open window. There’s no light on in the room. The sunny day is sufficient to light everything just fine. An oscillating fan clatters every few seconds as it switches direction. A fly comes in through the open window. Congress doesn’t appropriate money for frivolous things like screens.

The base commander—whom I have seen but never met—is eyeing me with an air of smug satisfaction. Everything in me wants to pick up the crystal snow globe on his desk and crash it repeatedly into the side of his head until he is dead. I know how. The Corps taught me not to lose my rifle, but it also taught me how to improvise if I ever do. And at this moment, that snow globe is the deadliest weapon in sight. I hold my temper.

I look down, disbelieving, at the piece of paper he has handed me.

“Discharge without honors for conduct unbecoming.”

I feel the rage start to boil in me again. I can’t look him in the eye. Not yet. Conduct unbecoming! How dare they!

If I look up too soon, one of us is gonna die. The other is going to Leavenworth. I won’t give the piece of shit who did this that kind of satisfaction.

I look to his desk. Most people have their photos faced inward on their desks. Not this asshole. He’s turned it outward—so that everyone who visits can see him and his arrogant smile, shaking hands with the president—smiling under the stupid red hat perched on his head.

“The president doesn’t want your kind around here anymore, and frankly, neither do I.”

“Have you ever served in combat, Colonel?” I ask quietly, not looking up yet.