The Atoll
Author's Note/Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Where on Earth is Carmen Sandiego characters in this fanfic. You might want to read Guns of October to get a sense of this world wide war against a ruthless foe that threatens the earth. And be patient, I'll get to the ACME part of this shortly.
~ ~ ~ ~
And when he gets to heaven.
St. Peter he will tell.
Another Marine reporting sir.
I've served my time in Hell.
- Marine Corps marching cadence.
~ ~ ~ ~
With the blue green of its mountains and the even darker green of its jungles Guadalcanal might have been something out of a travel brochure. Faded greens and browns of its grassy plains and coconut groves added still more to the picturesque beauty of the Island - as the United Systems Marines came to call it in 2143.
However, to the Marines, the Island was just an ugly perimeter, five miles long and three miles wide. The Solomon islands, lying just to the south of the Equator provided its Marine guests with a hot, humid, mosquito infested and muddy vision of hell interspersed with kunai grass as tall as a Marine and sharp as a K-bar, the standard Jarhead fighting knife, the two uses of which were vicious close in fights and opening cans.
The latter of which was the venture of Private "Spud" Spudetsky, of Des Moines, Iowa. The short, round figured Marine was currently spearing chunks of canned fruit out of a tin.
"Did you hear that?" Jim Stokely - Private Stokely of Mobile, Alabama - said, aiming his Lacrima-99 Pulse Rifle into the fog.
Spud continued eating faster, determined to finish his snack for it could very well be his last. Guadalcanal was a tourist trap, alright, a land of foul, fetid swamps, humid jungles alive with insects as large as birds and even larger lizards and snakes. Crocodiles prowled the rivers and streams and swarms of mosquitoes flew about the Island, making life hellish with malaria and disease.
The men who fought and survived Guadalcanal's countless clashes against the Foe, an indomitable adversary created by the Biohazard, would carry wounds and remnants of tropical diseases into further fighting, and for the lucky survivors, into a post-war civilian life. They would fight these battles again and again in fever tinged dreams. Some still do.
On the morning of September 8, 2143, the 1st Battalion of the 3rd Marine Division went ashore. The enemy, which had taken over a small Army camp, fled post haste, thinking a major landing was underway, leaving valuable supplies to the Marines who could damn well use them.
The Marines later re-embarked, sailing onto Lunga Point, pockets stuffed with rations and extra grenades. Upon their arrival the Marines were told that the Foe was on their way to them, hacking its way through the jungle with the intent of taking the airfield.
Manpower was far too limited to maintain a continuous perimeter around the island, so all the Marines could do was guard the more obvious approaches to the airstrip while the Army continued to try to pacify the inland areas of the island.
That was the bigger picture that was far from the mind of Corporal Gene Locksley of Orlando, Florida, sent in on September 12th to reinforce his fellow Marines at Lunga Point. None of the sergeants had made it off the landing craft and Lieutenant Barco had been killed the night before. It had taken a full five minutes since the Gollum's barbed projectile imbedded itself deep into his chest for Barco to die choking and gasping out orders. "Gene, h-hold this beach." were his dying words.
"Yes sir." Locksley replied.
With that, on September 13th, Corporal Gene Locksley was left in charge of his first command with orders to guard a godforsaken beach in the middle of nowhere with very little ammunition against a foe that did not know when to quit. His men were behind him, ducked behind rocks, fallen logs and the litter of warfare. That was what he knew and little else as the thick fog swirled around them.
The fog was thick and ethereal; the sounds of footsteps seemed far away and very little could be seen by the defending Marines. It was as if the smoke and clouds from all the war's battles had been balled up and tossed onto Lunga Point. The sounds of boots across the sand, of gear clanking together, of breathing seemed far away, even though the men that made those sounds were but a few feet distant. Even the distant moan of zombies seemed far away, even though they were fairly close to the Marine positions.
He sent a burst of voltage from his electric gun into the fog, hoping to God the lethal current had killed one of those creatures and not some poor Jarhead bastard that had gotten separated from his unit. That was not a good thing in these circumstances, considering the dismembered remains of the last Marine that had done so lay about five feet in front of his position.
Locksley seemed to be firing forever, the solid state contact at the business end of his electric gun glowing white hot as it sent lethal voltage into the fog. Was this a dream? It sure as hell felt like one, the sort of dream where limbs feel mired in quicksand and where enemies move far too fast for the eye to follow. A zombie fell dead not more than eight feet away, the remains of its brain overridden by the massive jolt of electrical energy fired into it. And suddenly the dreamlike feeling of sloth that enveloped Locksley vanished as sharper shrieks penetrated the fog punctuated by more unearthly mewls of hunger for human flesh. Even more frighteningly several Gollums were shouting, "Die Marine!" as they advanced inexorably.
Suddenly Locksley's perception sharpened as several ogres came charging the Marines out of the fog followed by several zombies and Gollums behind them. His electric gun burned down several of the creatures like chaff before the flames but the shiny flash of a lance flashed past his blind spot, much too late to react in time.
The lance, however, did not strike him, it buried itself into the shoulder of Private Miles Hendon of Dover, England. At first Hendon didn't feel the impact, he was numbed with shock, but suddenly he screamed in agony as the ogre twisted the lance. The creature only twisted the thing partially before Locksley sent a burst of electricity into it's midsection at point blank range. The Gollum turned into a spray of red mist as the current sent it flying back into the fog from whence it came.
Another scream ripped from the fog. It was Spud, clutching a forearm that spurted red blood onto his camouflaged sleeve as he dropped his destroyed and useless rifle to the ground. The kid, he was just a kid, was only eighteen years old yesterday.
Stokely continued blasting his pulse rifle into the fog repeatedly towards the phantoms. The enemy had pulled back, but was it permanent or only temporary. And now Stokely's trigger clicked on an empty chamber as the bolt made a ping and stayed open, indicating that the weapon was empty of the sixty rounds in its clip.
"Running outta ammo Gene! Gotta pull back!" Stokely shouted, his brown eyes going wide as he fished about his belt for another clip.
Locksley hoped that none of the Gollums lurking in the fog understood English as he sprayed the mist with another short burst of electricity. He seemed to not hear Stokely over the electrical discharge but in reality he was ignoring the kid. They had their orders, didn't they, hold the damned beach. There was nothing ambiguous about it.
"Jesus Christ Corporal, look the fuck around!" Stokely shouted, voice almost shrill and girlish.
Reloading, Locksley took a glance around the position. Half a dozen scared, demoralized men walking amidst the corpses of their buddies and bunkmates with the occasional enemy corpse thrown within, the sand damp with their blood. The fog made it seem less real but no less horrible.
Stokely was at his sleeve. "Shitcan this, Gene - lets get the fuck out. Nobody else needs to die."
Locksley gave Stokely a hard look, glanced at the others, the handful of remaining men who stared at him with desperate eyes. He did his best to keep his face a stone mask.
On his knees, as though praying, Spud held a hand now entirely slick and red with blood, tears cutting clear paths through the dirt and blood that covered his face, "Gene, I wanna go home."
Who didn't want to go home in all this death, blood and noise? Babies all of them. They were all just babies thrown into the damn meat grinder after being violently dragged away from mommy's skirt. Feeling his jaw muscles tense, Locksley fired another burst of lethal electrical energy into the fog, making the demoralized men around him flinch.
"We've got orders." Locksley replied, wishing to God that he wasn't the man in charge, wishing that this was some other poor bastard's decision, and not his own to make, "Hold the beachhead, they said, and that's what we're going to do!"
"With what Gene!" Stokely shouted, "We're fucking almost out of ammo!"
Locksley strode over to Spud, and the other Marines recoiled, fearing Locksley was going to knock him down. Instead, Locksley slapped his Springfield Armory XD pistol into Spud's good hand.
"On your feet Marine! You've got a job to do!" As he swung around to the other men he shouted, "We all do!"
Stokely and Hendon jumped back, afraid that Locksley would unleash the electric gun's destructive power on them.
"Hold the God damn beach!" Locksley shouted intently.
As if the enemy and not his own men heeded his advice another wave of creatures came crashing violently against the Marines' position. Locksley turned to see a loathsome tide of creatures charging violently across the sands towards him, some carrying stolen weapons and machetes, the latter of which the ogres and Gollums used to carve their way through the mangrove swamps. The six remaining marines opened fire, bayonets and rifle butts flashing in the fog as Locksley and his men, their ammo soon goon, fought the loathsome fiends with rifle butts and knives. When their knives got knocked from their grasps they fought it out, fist against blade and tooth.
"God damn you Gene Locksley!!!" Stokely shouted with half sobbing agony, his white face streaked with blood from his lips, grabbing the front of Locksley's shirt with bloody hands as several crimson heads dragged him into the fog.
Very soon Locksley could hear the sounds of the creatures devouring Stokely, feasting upon the Marine while he was still alive. He could hear his screams, piercing animal wails of agony that cut through the fog. Locksley threw his last grenade into the mist. The screaming stopped.
Spud kept firing the pistol in his hand, emptying it into the tide of creatures, even throwing the empty weapon at a zombie's face just as a crimson head's sharp claws stabbed violently into his rib cage and through his heart.
Locksley saw this and had no time left for regret or remorse, luckily he had just enough charge remaining in his weapon to share with the boy's killer. The electrical burst blasted a large hole through the crimson head and spilled more blood upon the jungle floor. Just then, Miles Hendon's body fell, cut in half, atop Spud's round framed corpse.
As he took this all in, Locksley felt an impact against the side of his helmet. It was a crude explosive of some kind made out of a soup can with a few chunks of metal taped to it. He threw it back at the enemy, hoping to save any other living Marines, though he doubted there were any, and possibly himself. It was a lousy throw; Locksley never really had much of an arm for baseball. The grenade exploded less than a foot away and Locksley tumbled to the sand.
The wind blew away the fog, but Locksley could not yet see the carnage racked terrain he and his men fought to hold. He could see a pool of blood forming in the sand beside his left ear. He could see Stokely's half eaten, half exploded corpse less than eight feet away. He noted with grim satisfaction that six crimson heads lay in various positions of death near the corpse. He could, however, see the platoon of Marines rushing towards their position, killing the remaining attackers.
Soon Marines were moving amidst the men strewn about the sand like the toys of a sloppy child.
Upon reaching Locksley a Marine shouted, "Hey Doc! This one's still moving!"
"Corpsman up!" the platoon commander shouted.
A Navy corpsman with the platoon raced towards Locksley and helped him up, "Tell me your name Marine."
The corpsman was a boy, a seventeen year old Arab with olive brown skin and brown eyes, he stared intently at Locksley, trying to keep him conscious. "Where are you from?"
"Gene Locksley. Orlando, Florida."
"Hamid Karghouz. Cairo, Egypt." The Navy corpsman said as he wound bandages around the Marine's head, careful not to move him, for his neck could be broken.
"Stretcher!" Karghouz shouted and two Marines appeared, helping Locksley, clinging to life as a shipwrecked sailor would to a piece of floating wreckage, onto it.
~ ~ ~ ~
The field hospital was crowded with wounded Marines and sailors, a testimony to human suffering and misery. Orderlies, corpsmen, and doctors moved about constantly in the ordered chaos of combat triage. To his right, Gene Locksley saw a corpsman close the eyes of a young Marine, shot through the stomach by shards of metal. Two orderlies moved him from the cot and another wounded Marine was lain in his place.
A tired man in his late thirties, the battalion surgeon, a fellow with eyes as gray as the Florida skyline before a thunderstorm, replaced fresh bandages around the wounded Marine's head. A loud shriek of agony from two beds over sent the doctor hurrying on his way.
Grown men screamed and openly wept and no one thought any less of them for it. Gene Locksley turned his head slightly and looked into the gentle blue eyes of the wounded Marine beside him. The eyes were framed in a young face that did not have the beard stubble of most of the veteran Marines since puberty had barely passed.
Babies, all of them babies, just like Spud, barely eighteen. The kid should have been hanging out a the mall, or watching war movies in the theater not lying six feet under ground in a shallow grave on some Godforsaken island.
Locksley could hear a faint voice, "Gene, I wanna go home." Spud said.
Either asleep or awake it didn't matter, he could still hear their voices, he could still hear their screams, he could still see their faces. Only now Stokely's face was replaced by a Marine major, his battalion commander. "Locksley, I hear you went above and beyond the call of duty at Lunga Point."
"Yes sir." Locksley replied. As he replied, Major Enders put a medal into his palm. Gene Locksley stared at the Purple Heart in his hand, the award given to anyone wounded in action.
"Gene, that's just a down payment. I'm putting you up for the Silver Star." Enders replied.
Gene Locksley, for all the four years he had spent in the Marine Corps, had never thought a medal would feel this bad. He fell asleep wondering, "Is that how you win a medal by fighting for your life while you watch your friends die around you?"
Author's Note/Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Where on Earth is Carmen Sandiego characters in this fanfic. You might want to read Guns of October to get a sense of this world wide war against a ruthless foe that threatens the earth. And be patient, I'll get to the ACME part of this shortly.
~ ~ ~ ~
And when he gets to heaven.
St. Peter he will tell.
Another Marine reporting sir.
I've served my time in Hell.
- Marine Corps marching cadence.
~ ~ ~ ~
With the blue green of its mountains and the even darker green of its jungles Guadalcanal might have been something out of a travel brochure. Faded greens and browns of its grassy plains and coconut groves added still more to the picturesque beauty of the Island - as the United Systems Marines came to call it in 2143.
However, to the Marines, the Island was just an ugly perimeter, five miles long and three miles wide. The Solomon islands, lying just to the south of the Equator provided its Marine guests with a hot, humid, mosquito infested and muddy vision of hell interspersed with kunai grass as tall as a Marine and sharp as a K-bar, the standard Jarhead fighting knife, the two uses of which were vicious close in fights and opening cans.
The latter of which was the venture of Private "Spud" Spudetsky, of Des Moines, Iowa. The short, round figured Marine was currently spearing chunks of canned fruit out of a tin.
"Did you hear that?" Jim Stokely - Private Stokely of Mobile, Alabama - said, aiming his Lacrima-99 Pulse Rifle into the fog.
Spud continued eating faster, determined to finish his snack for it could very well be his last. Guadalcanal was a tourist trap, alright, a land of foul, fetid swamps, humid jungles alive with insects as large as birds and even larger lizards and snakes. Crocodiles prowled the rivers and streams and swarms of mosquitoes flew about the Island, making life hellish with malaria and disease.
The men who fought and survived Guadalcanal's countless clashes against the Foe, an indomitable adversary created by the Biohazard, would carry wounds and remnants of tropical diseases into further fighting, and for the lucky survivors, into a post-war civilian life. They would fight these battles again and again in fever tinged dreams. Some still do.
On the morning of September 8, 2143, the 1st Battalion of the 3rd Marine Division went ashore. The enemy, which had taken over a small Army camp, fled post haste, thinking a major landing was underway, leaving valuable supplies to the Marines who could damn well use them.
The Marines later re-embarked, sailing onto Lunga Point, pockets stuffed with rations and extra grenades. Upon their arrival the Marines were told that the Foe was on their way to them, hacking its way through the jungle with the intent of taking the airfield.
Manpower was far too limited to maintain a continuous perimeter around the island, so all the Marines could do was guard the more obvious approaches to the airstrip while the Army continued to try to pacify the inland areas of the island.
That was the bigger picture that was far from the mind of Corporal Gene Locksley of Orlando, Florida, sent in on September 12th to reinforce his fellow Marines at Lunga Point. None of the sergeants had made it off the landing craft and Lieutenant Barco had been killed the night before. It had taken a full five minutes since the Gollum's barbed projectile imbedded itself deep into his chest for Barco to die choking and gasping out orders. "Gene, h-hold this beach." were his dying words.
"Yes sir." Locksley replied.
With that, on September 13th, Corporal Gene Locksley was left in charge of his first command with orders to guard a godforsaken beach in the middle of nowhere with very little ammunition against a foe that did not know when to quit. His men were behind him, ducked behind rocks, fallen logs and the litter of warfare. That was what he knew and little else as the thick fog swirled around them.
The fog was thick and ethereal; the sounds of footsteps seemed far away and very little could be seen by the defending Marines. It was as if the smoke and clouds from all the war's battles had been balled up and tossed onto Lunga Point. The sounds of boots across the sand, of gear clanking together, of breathing seemed far away, even though the men that made those sounds were but a few feet distant. Even the distant moan of zombies seemed far away, even though they were fairly close to the Marine positions.
He sent a burst of voltage from his electric gun into the fog, hoping to God the lethal current had killed one of those creatures and not some poor Jarhead bastard that had gotten separated from his unit. That was not a good thing in these circumstances, considering the dismembered remains of the last Marine that had done so lay about five feet in front of his position.
Locksley seemed to be firing forever, the solid state contact at the business end of his electric gun glowing white hot as it sent lethal voltage into the fog. Was this a dream? It sure as hell felt like one, the sort of dream where limbs feel mired in quicksand and where enemies move far too fast for the eye to follow. A zombie fell dead not more than eight feet away, the remains of its brain overridden by the massive jolt of electrical energy fired into it. And suddenly the dreamlike feeling of sloth that enveloped Locksley vanished as sharper shrieks penetrated the fog punctuated by more unearthly mewls of hunger for human flesh. Even more frighteningly several Gollums were shouting, "Die Marine!" as they advanced inexorably.
Suddenly Locksley's perception sharpened as several ogres came charging the Marines out of the fog followed by several zombies and Gollums behind them. His electric gun burned down several of the creatures like chaff before the flames but the shiny flash of a lance flashed past his blind spot, much too late to react in time.
The lance, however, did not strike him, it buried itself into the shoulder of Private Miles Hendon of Dover, England. At first Hendon didn't feel the impact, he was numbed with shock, but suddenly he screamed in agony as the ogre twisted the lance. The creature only twisted the thing partially before Locksley sent a burst of electricity into it's midsection at point blank range. The Gollum turned into a spray of red mist as the current sent it flying back into the fog from whence it came.
Another scream ripped from the fog. It was Spud, clutching a forearm that spurted red blood onto his camouflaged sleeve as he dropped his destroyed and useless rifle to the ground. The kid, he was just a kid, was only eighteen years old yesterday.
Stokely continued blasting his pulse rifle into the fog repeatedly towards the phantoms. The enemy had pulled back, but was it permanent or only temporary. And now Stokely's trigger clicked on an empty chamber as the bolt made a ping and stayed open, indicating that the weapon was empty of the sixty rounds in its clip.
"Running outta ammo Gene! Gotta pull back!" Stokely shouted, his brown eyes going wide as he fished about his belt for another clip.
Locksley hoped that none of the Gollums lurking in the fog understood English as he sprayed the mist with another short burst of electricity. He seemed to not hear Stokely over the electrical discharge but in reality he was ignoring the kid. They had their orders, didn't they, hold the damned beach. There was nothing ambiguous about it.
"Jesus Christ Corporal, look the fuck around!" Stokely shouted, voice almost shrill and girlish.
Reloading, Locksley took a glance around the position. Half a dozen scared, demoralized men walking amidst the corpses of their buddies and bunkmates with the occasional enemy corpse thrown within, the sand damp with their blood. The fog made it seem less real but no less horrible.
Stokely was at his sleeve. "Shitcan this, Gene - lets get the fuck out. Nobody else needs to die."
Locksley gave Stokely a hard look, glanced at the others, the handful of remaining men who stared at him with desperate eyes. He did his best to keep his face a stone mask.
On his knees, as though praying, Spud held a hand now entirely slick and red with blood, tears cutting clear paths through the dirt and blood that covered his face, "Gene, I wanna go home."
Who didn't want to go home in all this death, blood and noise? Babies all of them. They were all just babies thrown into the damn meat grinder after being violently dragged away from mommy's skirt. Feeling his jaw muscles tense, Locksley fired another burst of lethal electrical energy into the fog, making the demoralized men around him flinch.
"We've got orders." Locksley replied, wishing to God that he wasn't the man in charge, wishing that this was some other poor bastard's decision, and not his own to make, "Hold the beachhead, they said, and that's what we're going to do!"
"With what Gene!" Stokely shouted, "We're fucking almost out of ammo!"
Locksley strode over to Spud, and the other Marines recoiled, fearing Locksley was going to knock him down. Instead, Locksley slapped his Springfield Armory XD pistol into Spud's good hand.
"On your feet Marine! You've got a job to do!" As he swung around to the other men he shouted, "We all do!"
Stokely and Hendon jumped back, afraid that Locksley would unleash the electric gun's destructive power on them.
"Hold the God damn beach!" Locksley shouted intently.
As if the enemy and not his own men heeded his advice another wave of creatures came crashing violently against the Marines' position. Locksley turned to see a loathsome tide of creatures charging violently across the sands towards him, some carrying stolen weapons and machetes, the latter of which the ogres and Gollums used to carve their way through the mangrove swamps. The six remaining marines opened fire, bayonets and rifle butts flashing in the fog as Locksley and his men, their ammo soon goon, fought the loathsome fiends with rifle butts and knives. When their knives got knocked from their grasps they fought it out, fist against blade and tooth.
"God damn you Gene Locksley!!!" Stokely shouted with half sobbing agony, his white face streaked with blood from his lips, grabbing the front of Locksley's shirt with bloody hands as several crimson heads dragged him into the fog.
Very soon Locksley could hear the sounds of the creatures devouring Stokely, feasting upon the Marine while he was still alive. He could hear his screams, piercing animal wails of agony that cut through the fog. Locksley threw his last grenade into the mist. The screaming stopped.
Spud kept firing the pistol in his hand, emptying it into the tide of creatures, even throwing the empty weapon at a zombie's face just as a crimson head's sharp claws stabbed violently into his rib cage and through his heart.
Locksley saw this and had no time left for regret or remorse, luckily he had just enough charge remaining in his weapon to share with the boy's killer. The electrical burst blasted a large hole through the crimson head and spilled more blood upon the jungle floor. Just then, Miles Hendon's body fell, cut in half, atop Spud's round framed corpse.
As he took this all in, Locksley felt an impact against the side of his helmet. It was a crude explosive of some kind made out of a soup can with a few chunks of metal taped to it. He threw it back at the enemy, hoping to save any other living Marines, though he doubted there were any, and possibly himself. It was a lousy throw; Locksley never really had much of an arm for baseball. The grenade exploded less than a foot away and Locksley tumbled to the sand.
The wind blew away the fog, but Locksley could not yet see the carnage racked terrain he and his men fought to hold. He could see a pool of blood forming in the sand beside his left ear. He could see Stokely's half eaten, half exploded corpse less than eight feet away. He noted with grim satisfaction that six crimson heads lay in various positions of death near the corpse. He could, however, see the platoon of Marines rushing towards their position, killing the remaining attackers.
Soon Marines were moving amidst the men strewn about the sand like the toys of a sloppy child.
Upon reaching Locksley a Marine shouted, "Hey Doc! This one's still moving!"
"Corpsman up!" the platoon commander shouted.
A Navy corpsman with the platoon raced towards Locksley and helped him up, "Tell me your name Marine."
The corpsman was a boy, a seventeen year old Arab with olive brown skin and brown eyes, he stared intently at Locksley, trying to keep him conscious. "Where are you from?"
"Gene Locksley. Orlando, Florida."
"Hamid Karghouz. Cairo, Egypt." The Navy corpsman said as he wound bandages around the Marine's head, careful not to move him, for his neck could be broken.
"Stretcher!" Karghouz shouted and two Marines appeared, helping Locksley, clinging to life as a shipwrecked sailor would to a piece of floating wreckage, onto it.
~ ~ ~ ~
The field hospital was crowded with wounded Marines and sailors, a testimony to human suffering and misery. Orderlies, corpsmen, and doctors moved about constantly in the ordered chaos of combat triage. To his right, Gene Locksley saw a corpsman close the eyes of a young Marine, shot through the stomach by shards of metal. Two orderlies moved him from the cot and another wounded Marine was lain in his place.
A tired man in his late thirties, the battalion surgeon, a fellow with eyes as gray as the Florida skyline before a thunderstorm, replaced fresh bandages around the wounded Marine's head. A loud shriek of agony from two beds over sent the doctor hurrying on his way.
Grown men screamed and openly wept and no one thought any less of them for it. Gene Locksley turned his head slightly and looked into the gentle blue eyes of the wounded Marine beside him. The eyes were framed in a young face that did not have the beard stubble of most of the veteran Marines since puberty had barely passed.
Babies, all of them babies, just like Spud, barely eighteen. The kid should have been hanging out a the mall, or watching war movies in the theater not lying six feet under ground in a shallow grave on some Godforsaken island.
Locksley could hear a faint voice, "Gene, I wanna go home." Spud said.
Either asleep or awake it didn't matter, he could still hear their voices, he could still hear their screams, he could still see their faces. Only now Stokely's face was replaced by a Marine major, his battalion commander. "Locksley, I hear you went above and beyond the call of duty at Lunga Point."
"Yes sir." Locksley replied. As he replied, Major Enders put a medal into his palm. Gene Locksley stared at the Purple Heart in his hand, the award given to anyone wounded in action.
"Gene, that's just a down payment. I'm putting you up for the Silver Star." Enders replied.
Gene Locksley, for all the four years he had spent in the Marine Corps, had never thought a medal would feel this bad. He fell asleep wondering, "Is that how you win a medal by fighting for your life while you watch your friends die around you?"