Locked and Loaded
Kristen Dorsey
I’m reading a paperback, struggling against the 2 a.m. weight of my eyelids when I hear a rustling sound. Probably just another gecko, I think, but swing my legs to sit at the edge of the foldable green cot provided for the Marine on fire watch. I turn my head to peer out the nearest window; I stop moving and breathing to listen.
The Okinawan night is black and noisy with the buzz, chirp, and click of millions of oversized bugs that inhabit this tropical island. My cotton-stuffed head won’t stay focused, and I recall the four-inch-long, orange, horror-movie-sized waterbug that crawled, earlier today, from an old concrete cistern outside the door, just a few yards from where I’m sitting.
It’s time for my mandatory hourly inspection, anyway, of the interior of the squat brick building that serves as the Finance Office on “The Rock,” Marine Corps Base Camp Smedley D. Butler, Okinawa, Japan. I stand and tug at the green wool uniform skirt that has ridden to the top of my thighs under the heavy utility belt that holds the holstered .45 caliber pistol. Damn, I wish we could wear our Cammies on guard duty. Wearing camouflage utilities with pants and boots would be so much more comfortable. I smooth the creases from my skirt, then reach under it to pull the twists out of my pantyhose. I spin the holstered .45 back into its proper horizontal arrangement on my hips—no sassy, low-slung, John Wayne-angled gunbelts allowed.
My jaw pops with an enormous yawn. I begin my tour of the building by “getting a visual” on the floor-to-ceiling battleship-gray steel vault that holds all the money on the island under a silent alarm. Next, I check the heads, military lingo for bathrooms, then I walk through the doorway into the dark, spacious, main office area.
I don't bother flicking on the overhead fluorescents; I work here, I know the terrain. I spend my uninspiring days calculating other Marines’ paychecks. Despite my lifelong struggle with all things math, I scored well above the average recruit on the military aptitude test, called the ASVAB. So much for the intelligence of the typical Jarhead, I think with a snicker.
I pass Sgt Montgomery’s desk: a perfect example of USMC brilliance. Every single day, he conducts a mandatory inspection of just me and PFC Johnson, the two women Marines, and he always smirks at the other men and says the same thing: “Your skirts are too low, and your top buttons are too high, Marines.” The other male Marines that work in the office laugh, right on cue. Fuckin’ hilarious.
These daily “inspections” used to make me flush hot with shame and indignation, until Johnson, a tough city girl from Milwaukee, told me to just look past him and plan my weekend. That helps.
I continue my inspection. Why do they call this fire watch? It’s guard duty. I sigh. USMC jargon. Like learning a new language. I continue down toward the front entry, glancing out windows as I go.
I lift the hinged walk-thru panel of the front counter, cross to the office’s front double-doors, and twist and tug on the doorknobs to ensure they’re still secure. As if they won’t be. I yawn again and rub my gritty eyes.
“Fuh-reeze!” A thunderous, drawn-out bellow shatters the silence of the unlit room, and I spin around with a reflexive scream. “Hands up! Don't move—Do! Not! Move!” the voice roars. “Do you hear me? I said freeze! Get your Goddamn hands up, Marine!”
I throw my hands up with a choked squeal. Pale light from a streetlamp through the front door window reveals the business end of a handgun, a scant arm’s length from my forehead.
*
The first time I looked into the barrel of a handgun, it was a Ruger Blackhawk .44 caliber Magnum. It was 1970 and I was seven years old. I was playing dress-up at Mom's vanity, a rarely granted delight.
I wore Mom’s chunky-gold, clip-on earrings, and multiple long strands of pink and white Jackie O. pearls—I loved the click and clack of them as they swayed across my slim torso. I was applying the sixth shade of lipstick to my clown-face when my two brothers entered the master bedroom.
“Hey, get out!” I said. “Mom let me be in here, not you.” I pointed with a lipstick at Mikey, two years my elder at nine, and little brother Dougie, six.
“Shut up, Krissy,” sneered Mikey. “Little crybaby.”
He made a beeline for my father's forbidden nightstand. Dougie paused in the doorway, wide-eyed, the fingers of one hand stuffed in his mouth. I slid off the harvest gold-colored crushed velvet stool. Indignant, I stomped between Dougie, still in the doorway, and Mikey, who slid open the nightstand drawer and peered inside. Slowly, reverently, he reached in, whispering under his breath. He turned. My father’s .44 Blackhawk looked cartoon-sinister in Mikey’s child-sized palms. He extended the gun with both hands, as he’d watched Daddy do countless times while shooting wax bullets—which are safer than regular bullets but can cause serious injury at close range—at paper targets in our garage. He closed one eye; his lips curled in a naughty grin.
I froze; a grown-up voice inside me calmly explained he was going to shoot me. He pulled the trigger.
The report was deafening in the small room— I barely heard my scream. I collapsed to the shag rug, shreiking and writhing in that involuntary response to intense pain. The wax bullet struck my right hip bone, missing soft tissue. During the ride to the emergency room, my mother squeezed me too tightly on her lap in the passenger seat as I sobbed against her chest. My father white-knuckled the steering wheel in silence. My two brothers huddled together, blonde crew-cuts pressed close, in the back seat.
“My children will never see or touch a gun again,” Mom growled through clenched teeth while pointing a manicured fingernail in my father’s face.
I had an impressive, rainbow-colored goose egg on my hip and walked with a limp for weeks. Mom barely spoke to Dad until I healed.
I didn’t see a firearm again until boot camp.
*
Parris Island, South Carolina, Marine Corps Recruit Depot, 1981. We crammed into cattle cars and rode to the rifle range to familiarization-fire the M-16 combat rifle; women had only “fam-fired” the M-16 since 1979. We spread out along the grassy ridge, the human-torso, black silhouette targets so far in the distance I had to squint to see them.
There was a male Marine rifle range coach assigned to each recruit. They were strutting around, laughing, and loud-talking. They took bets on which of us would get the most hits on the targets.
“I’ll bet five bucks on…this one,” one of the range coaches said as he pointed to me.
“OK,” an adjacent Marine laughed. “I’m bettin’ on this one.” He indicated another woman in my platoon by flicking the brim of her starched camouflage cover with his thumb and forefinger.
We were to fire 50 rounds total, in four positions: standing, sitting, kneeling, and prone.
We’d sat through classes about the M16 combat assault rifle: we broke them down, cleaned them, reassembled them, drilled with them. Now it was time to fire.
We prepared for the first volley: standing position. The Marine range coaches reminded us again how to sight the target, to stop breathing, to squeeze—not pull—the trigger.
“Ready on the right; ready on the left; all ready on the firing line,” the tower NCO called over the loudspeaker in his sing-song voice.
I had never fired a weapon. Ever. I looked through the rear sight. The tiny target zoomed in to sharp focus—the head and torso of a man. I steadied my shaking hands. I held my breath.
“Commence firing,” came the order.
I could not squeeze the trigger; I imagined a deafening blast and harsh recoil.
All around me came the sounds of the other women’s rifles.
“Cease fire, cease fire,” came the song from the tower. A red disk is waved back and forth in front of my target, indicating a complete miss.
“Oh shit! Maggie’s drawers! She dry-fired!” said my assigned Marine. “There goes my beer. Christ,” he moaned as he slapped some bills into the other Marine’s hand. Then he leaned down, his nose inches from mine.
“Do not do that again, recruit,” he yelled into my face. “Fire your weapon!”
My range coach thumped my thigh with his polished, thickly cleated boot as I prepared to fire from the cross-legged, sitting position. “I’m counting on getting my beer money back, recruit,” he laughed.
I fired that M16—it made a small pfoof and barely rocked me. By the time we got to the prone position, I hit the target’s center every time. I was stunned at the ease of firing this deadly weapon at a silhouette that could be a person. And I surprised at myself—my fear morphed into exhilaration. I was good at this. My coach got his money back and then some.
*
After boot camp and MOS training, I got orders to Okinawa, Japan. I was good enough at my underwhelming payroll job to get promoted to Lance Corporal just before I turned twenty years old, and I joined the mandatory rotation for fire watch: staying up all night to guard the vast stash of money in the base vault. But first, I had to qualify to carry the Finance Office’s .45 caliber pistol worn by the Marine pulling that day’s 24 hour guard duty.
My range coach took me seriously this time; there was no teasing or betting. He showed me the sidearm, explained how it worked, gave me the safety briefing. He was a handsome Staff Sergeant in sharply pressed cammies, and I felt all fluttery when he looked at me with his cinnamon-brown eyes.
On the firing range, my coach stepped behind me, gripped my elbows, and instructed me to hold my arms with tension. This pistol is so small compared to a rifle, I thought confidently, and I kicked ass with that M16. I didn’t realize that the recoil of a weapon has little to do with its physical size and shape.
I gripped the gun in both hands and looked down the barrel. It was hard to concentrate—the Staff Sergeant stood close behind me, and I imagined what it would feel like to lean against his chest. I smelled his cologne and felt the tickle of his breath on my neck as he spoke.
The tower NCO cleared the line, then gave the command to fire. I squeezed the trigger.
Boom!
The weapon recoiled with a violent kick—and I was unprepared. My arms, still held at the elbow by my sexy range coach, flew straight up into the air. I lost my balance and toppled onto him, and together we crashed to the ground.
“Range violation!” someone screamed and in seconds, three other Marines rushed to pull the firearm from my hands.
I was horrified. I climbed off the Staff Sergeant and stammered multiple apologies. My face was so red I thought it might combust.
“It was my fault,” the range coach said, palms up, fingers spread. He shook his head and dusted off his cover, which got knocked off his high-and-tight during our tumble. “I failed in my duty to properly explain the weapon.”
The other Marines walked off, slapping each other, guffawing, and hooting “ooh-rah!” and “out-stand-ing!”
I wanted to crawl under a rock and die.
We continued, more soberly, and I qualified. As I left, my coach assured me that I did fine. Besides, I would likely never be on either end of a .45 in a real exchange of fire. I was just a female admin support Marine.
*
I hear a series of metallic clicks. Five slow-moving shadow-lumps slink closer. The overhead lights snap on—I cringe and squint and barely defy the impulse to drop my hands and cower. In the glaring light, my eyes lock on to the cannon-sized black hole at the end of the MP’s gun. In my peripheral vision, I see a bloodshot eyeball through a slit down that long, long barrel. I am at utter, petrified attention; freezing-hot waves prickle my arms and tingle my scalp. The five MPs scattered around the Finance Office are also motionless, firearms locked and loaded.
“Do not move. Do not lower your hands,” barks the voice behind the loaded weapon in my face. He removes one hand from his pistol, but the dark hole of the muzzle and his eyeball don’t waver. He extends his free hand and slides slowly toward me.
“I am going to remove your sidearm,” he states, loud enough for all to hear, and the black hole looms closer to my forehead. My hip rocks as he grips my .45; he uses his thumb to flick open the snap that holds it in place. He slides my firearm from the holster and steps back.
“At ease. Stand down!” my MP orders over his shoulder without releasing me from his stare or his pointed gun. The other MPs rise from their crouches as the sound of safety locks click-click-click through the room. My captor raises his .45 vertically to his shoulder and takes another backward step, rising to full height. My vision snaps away from that endless black hole, and I whimper and lock onto his face. He and the others are in full Military Police gear—vest, armband, loaded utility belt, firearm. All six Marines holster their weapons.
“At ease, Lance Corporal,” he says again, this time at me. I slowly lower my arms with jerky movements that quake through me. “What’s your name, Marine?” he asks, and he grips my elbow and propels me into a walk in front of him. I flinch and stumble but allow it. Two years ago, before boot camp, my 18-year-old self would have crumbled to the floor in a hysterical puddle. Now, it only happens on the inside.
“Lance Corporal Dorsey,” I whisper. My teeth chatter, so I clamp my jaw. He continues to push me to the back of the building, where minutes before, I’d sat on the duty cot. The back door is wide open, and the laughing, loud-talking MPs swarm the area. They don’t acknowledge me. My MP pushes me to the duty desk; a second MP slaps a sheet of paper on the desktop in front of me.
“Gecko probably walked across the vault and tripped the silent alarm,” my escort says. “We observed you a while from outside, so I knew it was a false alarm.” He thumps a thick finger twice on the signature line of the report.
“Sign this,” he says. In a daze, I look at the paper. It is an incident report, and in bold, square print, it reads: “False alarm. Building secure. Converted to a training exercise.”
“Training exercise?” I whisper under my breath and sign as the Marine on duty. My signature is spidery—jagged and broken in spots. There’s a loud buzzing in my ears and I cannot quite piece together the meaning.
“Yep. Made the call,” he said. “Why waste a good training op? Captain will be pleased.”
He slaps his palm over the report and snatches it up with one hand; the other waves in a circular motion above his head, signaling.
“Let’s go, Jarheads,” he heads for the door. “Quit the smokin’ and jokin’.”
They stomp off into the night, their laughter fading. I close and lock the door behind them, then stumble to the head, hug the toilet, and vomit.
Kristen Dorsey is an award-winning fine artist, freelance writer, and USMC veteran. Her work has appeared in the Chautauqua Literary Journal, Press Pause Press, and the Atlantis Magazine. Her nonfiction piece, “Semper Fi,” was nominated for the 2020 Pushcart Prize in Literature.
Kristen believes that writing about being a woman in the military—all aspects of the experience—will result in positive change. “I served during a time in our culture where sexism and harassment were an expected and accepted element of military service,” Kristen says. “I boxed up and stored away most of my USMC experiences until the #metoo movement gained momentum. I was assured by women serving on active duty that gender bias and misogyny are still alive and well in our armed forces.” Kristen encourages other women veterans to find their voices and share their stories.