The Undying Marine 4 - (CoD/BlackOpsverse, PvtMiller!SI)
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'PR Sucks'
D.C., North America
December 14th, 1942
LCpl. Charlie Miller
1st Marine Division
There's such a thing as 'hating journos' as a soldier.
It was less about the politically-aligned papers and more about the noisy attitude the reporters had at the time. When I finally got back to Los Angeles, I had been spared from the mob of those bloodhounds because the entire US Military didn't want me 'wasted' on first contact.
I had my orders, which included keeping my head down and go to Washington without doing anything stupid.
I didn't need to be told twice as I got in the first C-47 available for the trip- actually, a bit of a white lie.
There was just a C-47 just for me. And the few guards I had because people were 'nervous' of what I just pulled. And they didn't want me gone just yet.
Ah... I can't dodge this element of surprise, I guess. But I can make it pleasant enough.
After all, I was given access to some fine booze.
Stuff that went beyond what little rewards we got during the island-hopping, and I came to realize one thing through that spree.
My healing factor, allegedly meant to handle injuries, influenced my own capacity to get drunk.
In simpler terms, I couldn't. Which really confused those folks seeing me drink four bottles of fine Whiskey and yet I managed to work as a proper living being without falling on myself like a moron.
After that little stunt, I just behaved as we arrived in Washington D.C. to a, shocking I know, huge crowd of people that were all there to see 'The Guy that Stole the Yamato'.
The propaganda was rolling in without me doing much but strut like a hot US Army model.
The convoy of cars which I was stuck in got to the White House where I was checked, told of the etiquette, and then told to wait untilt it was time to met with the President.
The good soldier in me told me to sit and wait and ignore any unwise urges.
The memetic goblin had me glaring at the portrait of President James Buchanan. Guy was the kind of prick that pretty much lined things up for the Civil War about a century ago, so I felt compelled by my patriotism to ruin that piece of art.
I wanted to draw Teddy Roosevelt's stache on it. Maybe add some flying poops, or perhaps go even childish than that.
But then there's no pencil or pen to color with.
We can use the candles' wax.
What if the hot wax burns the portrait?
What if indeed.
We could be incriminated for burning the White House.
Bah, the place needs some renovation anyway.
After shadow-boxing with my own pure dankness for a solid five minutes, I was told by some members of the staff that the president would be willing to receive me in the oval office.
Security was still around, as expected, and I ended up finding FDR himself sitting by his chair and... not getting up to greet me.
"Lance Corporal, it is a pleasure to finally meet you," The old politician spoke up, smiling and yet sighing. "I can't get up- too tired after going through the rounds with those documents."
"Fine by me, Mr. President. I wouldn't mind sitting for a while myself."
I walked up to him as calmly as possible, shaking his hand as he offered for that and then took a seat.
"So, Miller- May I call you Miller?" I nodded, and he continued. "How's the war going in the Pacific?" Roosevelt asked, sounding curious. "I have heard many high officials saying many conflicting things. We are moving to doing somersaults to make things work in Europe, but the Pacific is the priority in the eyes of the Navy."
I nodded. "We are working it slow and easy, sir. But the truth is that we have to deal with a tougher opponent than the Germs- I mean, the Nazi."
FDR smirked at my 'lapse'.
"I heard the Japanese are fighting with utmost determination. That they prefer death to capture."
"Honor, sir. They sure are sold to that stuff."
The president nodded at my words and then huffed.
"Still, the duty of a marine is more than just deal with the normal battles for the standard G.I.s, the landing and the assaults... I have heard they were difficult."
"They are," I half-corrected, then smiled. "But war is hell, and we aren't there to have fun."
"True, true. But what I wish to know, Miller, is something the generals aren't too keen to tell me much about. I was told by some sources you don't like the Garand. And that you favor more the Thompson Rifle. Why so?"
Oh? That made it to the White House?
I actually had to hold back a grin at that amusing discovery.
"I don't hate the Garand, sir. Good gun, definitely ideal in Europe or Africa. But I doubt the folks in Tunisia are going to find the Italians doing suicidal charges and yelling like 'Pizza!' several times a day," I explained with a hint of comedy, one that made the old guy crack a grin. "Still, the issue is that it doesn't work in close encounters. Eight bullets, as means as they can be, will not be enough in a split-second decision. The SMGs give breathing space in not needing to be aimed with utmost precision to make the shots count."
"A fair concern. I wished to know since... I assume that Springfield has grown a bit annoyed with this 'rumor'. I suggest you keep your head low on the matter while you are away from the front."
"I will not do anything troublesome, sir."
The rest of the conversation was fairly tame. He told me that the Marines pleased him with the progress of the war, and that we shouldn't be too surprised if we were to be redeployed in Europe if we finished our campaign in the Pacific before the end of 1944. There was another handshake, and I gave him a warning as I left.
"Oh, and... sir?"
The president turned to me with a quizzical look.
"Quick advise since you are a good man. Don't pick the guy from Pendergast."
He spared me a surprised look but... nodded. "I will keep your opinion close to my mind about it."
I nodded back and I was soon out of the oval office.
This part of the visit had been the 'funniest' bit yet. And... it preceded the worst part of the visit. After all, I was meant to suffe- I mean, deal with a news conference mere hours after the meeting with the prez.
It happened after lunch (I had a nice tuna sandwich), and I was pretty much bracing for impact from the very first question.
Which, as I was soon to learn, was the wrong way to handle this kind of stuff.
Sure, the first questions sounded tame in regard of my experience on the front, how the rule of conduct was handled with prisoners of war, and how we were faring with the rations. But I was already on alert as the first big question struck me.
It was a journo from the NYT and he hit very close to home. Literally.
"Lance Corporal, is it true that you don't plan to spend Christmas with your family despite being given permission by your superiors that you could take a break?"
I could see why they brought it up. Deadbeat relative? A potential grudge between siblings? The shame of ditching the family for the glory of war?
"That's true. And, before anyone press on this- no, I am not doing it because I don't want to go home. But I have taken a commitment with the military to see this war done and as a proud son of the Miller family, we finish what we start. We never give up when there is such an important task at hand- this is not just a war for our right as a nation, but also for our capacity to be a free folk. The Japanese, their current government is led by a Bald General of the Fascist degree. Doesn't take a scholar to know that letting them wins means no more freedoms or hopes to achieve even more rights among ourselves."
"So, you will keep by the front because you want to finish this fight."
"Correct. The Japs and I have a score to settle. The capture of the Yamato we already mentioned- it is just the beginning. By the time I get my hands to the true responsible for this, the utter bastards behind the attack on Pearl Harbor and the pitting of their own soldiers as lambs for the slaughter- I will make sure that there will be no new war between our countries."
I pretty much made my war declaration clear - Tojo, I am coming to slap your bald head!
The rest of the conversation was a slaughter on how I conducted myself into the war. Too harsh, too beastly, too scary.
I was glad that I didn't have a gun on me, because these intrusive thoughts were getting me acting most unwise as of recently. I sure missed the air of war around me. And Sullivan calling me a dumb bastard for being too insane.
I want to say there was more beyond it. But I was told the good news - I was truly done with this shit.
I didn't make it out with flying colors, but I crash-landed where I needed to and the propaganda guys wanted me out of the country and back to butcher our enemies in the Pacific.
And I couldn't have asked for better!
AN
Argh! It feels so itchy to not write more bullshit CoD stuff. Also, some guy in FFN wrote that this story was a 'Blatant Power Fantasy' and that it was ruining it- bish, it is meant to be that! It is a power-stroll of the biggest dankness!