The goal of war is not to die for your country, but to make the other bastard die for his. —General George S. Patton

"Follow me or get the hell out of my way." Frank yelled, as he paraphrased the quote of one General Patton. Patton had crazy notions, but was undoubtedly a brilliant soldier. A general worth studying, and Frank had, when he first became an officer. Demanding, divisive and eccentric—Patton had good advice. Some of which Frank had incorporated in his own leadership. A good soldier, Frank maintained to the men under him, sharpened his mind with books and knowledge.

The fighting was intense, brutal and bloody. Frank found himself leading the vanguard, with the other Captains and Majors respecting his experience by letting him take the point of attack. They let him lead. He made an intimidating figure as his 'Pig' cut swathes through the Chinese horde.

Bullets hit their targets and bodies crumpled, Marine and Chinese alike. Dust rose up from underneath combat boots to sting eyes and mingle with sweat. Curses of pain and death rattles, wet and gurgling noises, went unnoticed by Frank.

When his weapon ran out of ammunition, he picked up the rifle of a fallen soldier and continued to wage war. Bloody and horrific moments like these were when he felt the most at peace. Keep the innocent safe. Keep my family safe. Those goals spurred him on even as he was tackled by two Chinese adversaries.

The three of them hit the dirt with a jarring impact, limbs entangled, blows exchanged

He bit at one man's face, blood spurted over his own. During the frantic struggle, Frank used a free hand to liberate his Ka-Bar. The blade found a new home in the other enemy's side. Frank twisted it to cause more damage and felt his knife scrape against the ribcage. That purchased him enough time to scramble to his feet. He stomped on their necks, hard enough to crush windpipes and neckbones.

Frank retrieved his newly acquired weapon, a QBZ-95, from the ground and continued the attack, blood spattered his face and uniform. Deadly blue eyes contrasted sharply against crimson and men trembled before him, convinced they had just ran into a demon.

After the fighting, the Punisher company trudged back to their camp. The company had lost thirty Marines. Frank would send out letters of condolence to accompany the flags sent to mourning families. A rough estimate of five hundred Marines fell, Frank reckoned, but they defeated the enemy. The Marine Corps did their duty but paid for it in blood, sweat and loss. Frank brought his people together and told them they could go back to the encampment.

Body recovery would be done by others, groups composed mostly of Corpsmen and the National Guard. EMT personnel and firefighters from nearby towns were pulled in to assist. Autopsies were scheduled be performed at the nearest National Guard armory and it was probable that civilian coroners would be called in to conduct those solemn examinations. After the grim procedures were over with, the bodies were due to be shipped out for proper burial.

Eleanor, weary to her DNA strands, kept pace but desperately wanted to rest. She wondered who was going to pull firewatch tonight and she decided to volunteer if no one else was willing. It was unspoken, but Eleanor sensed that she needed to prove her mettle and earn respect among her fellow Marines. She also knew there probably weren't a lot of women with her strength and capability; she was an anomaly. Combat was physically and mentally difficult and not for the sensitive and faint of heart. The blood and death weighed on her and invited dark thoughts of revenge. It gave her more fuel to use

"Hey, are you ok?" One of her fellow company Marines asked. His nametag said Jacobs. He seemed concerned as he walked alongside her.

"Just a little tired, I guess." She grudgingly admitted. She noticed they were getting close to their encampment. Close to food, probably MREs, and shelter. "Gotta prove my worth, you know? I don't want to be seen as a walking mattress." Eleanor cringed at the term. She knew walking mattress was derogatory slang for a female military member sleeping her way up the ladder.

Jacobs snorted. "You're not seen like that, I can assure you. You're doing a good job, but maybe you're trying too hard."

"What do you mean?" The question came out edged and tense, harsher than she meant it to be but Eleanor apologized for it.

"No worries, Castiglioni. It's been a long day—no, make that a hard day." Jacobs paused. "You're putting a lot of energy to prove that you're a worthy Marine. You are worthy, or you wouldn't be here. Everyone knows about your ordeal at Camp Lejeune. What I'm trying to say is always do your best, but relax when you can. I don't want to see you burn out. Just keep doing your job well."

Eleanor saw his reasoning. "I feel as if I'm representing my gender in battle. There's not many women that have been cleared for going out to the battlefronts. Most women can't meet the physical requirements. I don't want to make future female Marines look bad by the precedent I set."

Jacobs appraised her. So earnest, so damned determined. She still had that new "boot" smell, the enthusiasm and pride radiated off her. "Other women will or will not make themselves fit for combat. You need to worry about your performance and perhaps where you'll go in the Corps."

Eleanor did muse about where she wanted to end up in the Marine Corps. She loved the sense of brotherhood that permeated every aspect of life in the service, but she also felt drawn to punishing evil doers. That time for her grandfather was—hopefully—over. Someone needed to get the criminals that slipped through the cracks. Lord, let nothing happen to his new family. Please. He deserves some happiness— but I could take on his burden. She wanted to follow in her grandfather's footsteps, but in the meantime, she needed to take in all the knowledge about warfare tactics that she could. He did not like bullies. Neither did she. "I'd like to go into Recon, but that path hasn't been opened to women yet."

"Do some more time, build a good reputation, and request a transfer from the chain of command. It won't hurt to ask and the Marine Corps is changing. Three years ago, you wouldn't be here." Jacobs said with the wisdom of a seasoned veteran. He wondered if she had a boyfriend, a thought that came out of the blue. Eleanor had more height than he did, and her build was solid. He suspected she was pure muscle underneath her uniform.

They entered the impromptu camp. Men were housed in roughly built barracks. Eleanor had a one-person tent. Showers were available on a limited basis; she was scheduled first then followed by her male counterparts. She had her own 'outhouse'.

Both Corporal Jacobs and Eleanor were intercepted by their commanding officer. Frank looked them over—it seemed like he had seen better days himself. Blood and dirt combined to make a reddish-brown mess on his face. "Corporal Jacobs, you're on firewatch tonight, so get some food, take a shower and go about your duties. PFC Castiglioni, you've been given the night off due to the mission earlier this morning. You have mail; Staff Sergeant Ortiz has it. Hit the showers before the men do." With that, and ever to the point, he was off to take care of his own.

"Well, I've got my marching orders. See you around, Castiglioni." Jacobs smiled at her before he went to prepare for what he was told to do.

She went to her tent to pick up a fresh uniform before she jumped into a lukewarm shower. Eleanor kept it short then dressed in her gear. Eleanor felt much better as she drug herself over to retrieve her mail. Ortiz handed her two letters and she didn't bother to notice who sent them. She decided to read them in her tent after she ate.

A sober mood inhabited the mess hall and she tried not to notice the absences. A black hole of melancholy where there was laughter and rowdy jokes. Most of the Marines just consumed their food in silence, some just pushed food on their trays. Some glanced to where their friends would have sat next to them.

Out of a desperate need to distract herself, Eleanor glanced at her letters. One was from her father. The second had her brother's name on it. She resisted the temptation to burn it up. What does Kevin want? To apologize and beg for forgiveness? Or is it a sick and twisted love letter? She remembered the good times they had, how close they had been growing up, in constant competition with each other. Who am I kidding? I still love Kevin as my brother. Mad as hell at him, but he needs help. Serious help. I'll read the letter and decide what to do from there.

She finished her meal; Salisbury steak with mashed potatoes and green peas. No MRE's tonight. She bused her own tray and then walked back to her tent. Thirty sets of boots with helmets and rifles were set up in the main part of the camp. This is reality. This is hard. People DIE. Her mind flashed back to all those bodies in the dirt, coagulated blood pooled around them. The screams of the anguished living echoed in her bones.

Her small tent was located next to Major Castle's larger one, so she was afforded a chance to watch General Hicks enter. Hicks glanced at her, frozen in honest assessment. She stiffened and gave him a salute. He nodded at her, as if to say carry on, then slipped inside.

She entered her own tent and pulled off her boots once she gingerly plunked down on her cot. Eleanor wiggled her toes with sheer relief and ripped open her father's letter. She relished every word of it, love and concern pouring through the slim and fragile paper. Communications were down and the only way to contact her father was through the snail mail.

I'd write now, but I'm so fucking tired. I need to let him know I'm fine. She made a mental note to write him in the morning, time permitting. I miss you, Dad. She tucked the letter back in the envelope and placed it on an empty wood box that served admirably as an impromptu nightstand.

She examined the other envelop. It had a heft to the envelope; it seemed to be weighed by an anchor. Eleanor touched the bold scribbling of her brother. Easy to read but there was an uncertain shake to his handwriting, as if he wrote this in a highly emotional state. I'm not sure I can handle this shit right now.

Her hands opened it with a slow deliberateness to reveal a substantial message.

Eleanor,

I know what I said wasn't right and I opted, for my own well-being to seek help. My chaplain, who is a therapist along with being a Catholic priest, told me that I should tell someone in my family. I can't talk to Dad. He's got enough shit on his plate and I don't want to burden him with this. It would only bring him more pain and perhaps cause a relapse. I couldn't live with that. So that leaves you.

From the age of twelve to fifteen, I was sexually abused. It makes me physically ill to think about, let alone admit it to some cold and anonymous slip of paper. I fear that you'll toss it in the trash, instead of reading it. If you do throw this away, I understand. I deserve not being heard for what I've said to you. The act of committing my personal thoughts in writing hammers home the reality of what happened to me. The thought of engaging in a relationship revolts and frightens me. Me. A six-foot two Navy SEAL. Afraid of having real feelings and connecting to someone, afraid of using someone like I was used. You are the only one I feel safe with, other than Father and Grandfather.

I can't help wondering how I could have stopped this from happening to me. I keep playing the memories over and over in my head. Maybe I should have been more aggressive in stopping it? Maybe it's my fault, maybe I started it. Maybe I should have talked to Dad when he clearly saw I was troubled. But, Eleanor, I was told I would break up the family if I ever confessed so I remained quiet.

Eleanor noted, with burgeoning tears which clouded her vision, that he was deliberately not naming the individual responsible for abusing him. She brushed them aside. She believed him; Kevin had never lied to her. As she read his words, pain emanated from every letter. She touched where he had pushed the pen deep into the paper, hard enough to leave a visible indent.

"Wait, what?" She spoke out loud and questioned what she just read. Break up the family? Eleanor's stomach roiled, and she thrust the letter aside to grab her canteen. The papers fluttered to the ground like her heart. She searched for a distraction and gulped down water, but it was only temporary. Eleanor had to finish reading the most painful missive she had received.

She leaned over the edge of her cot and scooped up the letter.

Mom did this to me. She started off with saying, "With your father out of the house so much, it's time for you to step up. You're a big boy now."

That was true. Mother had said that within her hearing, Eleanor thought to herself. She continued to read.

I'll spare you the graphic details. Those you don't need to know, and I lack the strength to talk about the specifics with anybody other than my counselor. Eleanor, the thought of her possibly moving on to Cameron or Trent—haunts me. Keeps me up at night. The guilt and shame have been eating at me for so long, I doubt if any amount of counseling will ever make me feel whole again. I just want a chance to become the man I should be.

Please forgive me.

Your Brother,

Kevin

She grabbed a blank envelope, a scrap of paper, and a pen. She needed to send out an immediate response. She kept her message brief:

I believe you. I support you. I forgive you. Thank you for trusting me. Keep working on yourself and in the meantime, I will make sure I find a way to discuss this in person with you.

Always Your Sister,

Eleanor

She settled her mail on her night stand and laid down. Eleanor did not even have time to worry about falling asleep before exhaustion gripped her and pulled her down into a dreamless repose.

# # #

Frank shifted in his chair as he began to sign condolence letters to be given to the newly minted Gold star families, along with folded flags. This was solemn business and, as with his other tasks, handled it with strict professionalism. He had been hardened to losses by his previous service, but spared a thought or two for the spouses and children left behind. They were victims of war and would be treated with respect by the military personnel chosen to deliver the news.

He heard General Hicks announce his presence and Frank gave his permission to enter. He put the pen aside.

"Damn. I didn't know you had an Amazon in your midst." Hicks drawled and leaned against the tent pole, albeit lightly. A newspaper was rolled up neatly under his arm.

"That would be Private First Class Eleanor Castiglioni—a good Marine." Frank said and questioned himself why General Hicks was here. To talk tactics? To rag on the lone female Marine in his company?

General Hicks smiled like a crocodile. "Her father is the FBI Director? And your granddaughter?" He tossed the newspaper toward Frank and his eyes read the headline: FBI DIRECTOR IS THE LONG ASSUMED DEAD SON OF THE PUNISHER. "Thought you'd like to know. Is it true or is Francis David Castiglioni Jr pulling shit out of his ass? I've got to say that he certainly bears a family resemblance."

Frank burrowed his brow in deep contemplation. Frank's first impulse was to be angry, not so much for his sake, but for Eleanor and Kevin's safety. But David had a high rank in the intelligence community where shit was often brought to the light. Secrets often did not stay secrets for long, at least among those members. Frank came to the working hypothesis that David was forced to admit his true familial history. Control the story, control the damage. "It's true. He's my son."

"He told a helluva story, Frank. I'm sorry that he was stolen from you." Hicks' gruff voice softened in an emotion akin to sympathy.

"Maybe he was safer that way." Frank admitted, before he changed the conversation. "What else did you want to talk about?"

Hicks got the point. Frank clearly did not want to continue this discussion. Hicks respected that. "We've got five hundred and fifteen Marines dead. Three hundred wounded, some are not expected to make it tonight. Others? I'm not sure they'll be fit for combat again."

"How many recruits are due to graduate?" Frank asked. The casualties were heavy and would make an impact on their fighting force.

"About three thousand, even with the eleven to fourteen percent attrition rate. And, more good news, enlistment has gone up among both men and women. It does this Marine's old heart good to watch youngsters step up to defend the country." Hicks sighed. "The generals have authorized us to open two more boot camps to accommodate more recruits. We hope to build up the Marine Corps to roughly three hundred thousand." The current limit for active duty Marines was one hundred and eighty thousand.

Frank stayed quiet and guarded his opinions. At least this is a just war and not one we caused.

"Are we going to stay put or relocate? Frank asked, his gravelly voice was as cold as the grave. Sleep called to him, but he had responsibilities and people to check on before he could rest.

"Stay, for the time being. Be prepared for a bug out. Oh, and comms will be on again tomorrow, so let your people call home." Hicks said. A month more, and Hicks would be retired. This 'honor' was not his choice, but that of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. "Unless you have any questions, I'll be on my way. Semper Fi, Castle."

Frank shook his head. "Semper Fi, War Horse." After Hicks left, Frank focused on getting the letters signed. Then he'd make sure his Marines were bunked in for the night.