Beyond the Barracks

Copyright © 2011 Nelson Baker

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-3257-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-3259-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-3258-7 (e)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 7/8/2011

For all of you who have lent your ears, your advice, your spirit, and your inspiration. Without you, there would be no story. And for you, Dad, for passing on your love for writing, and for being the first one to tell me that I was a writer too.

Contents

Chapter

ONE

Chapter

TWO

Chapter

THREE

Chapter

FOUR

Chapter

FIVE

Chapter

SIX

Chapter

SEVEN

Chapter

EIGHT

Chapter

NINE

Chapter

TEN

Chapter

ELEVEN

Chapter

TWELVE

Chapter

THIRTEEN

Chapter

FOURTEEN

Chapter

FIFTEEN

Chapter

SIXTEEN

Chapter

SEVENTEEN

Chapter

EIGHTEEN

Chapter

NINETEEN

Chapter

TWENTY

Chapter

TWENTY ONE

Chapter

ONE

In the darkness they walked, rifles in their grasp, fear in their eyes, but ready for anything. Their camouflaged uniforms were ragged, torn, and bloody, like they had been in combat for many hours, but by no means did they give you the impression that they were fatigued. They were as alert and responsive as ever.

Within the rapture of the woods, the two young, soon to be marines, listened to every possible clamor, any hint of an unfamiliar sound coming out from the stillness and the seemingly peacefulness of the night.

The younger looking of the two, with blood covering his entire right arm, led the way through the thick brush. Though recruit Danbury would never say it in words, especially not to his partner in arms, he was hesitant, unsure of himself. Terrified.

Behind him, his comrade recruit Demarco appeared to be about twenty-two, and carried his weight of two hundred and thirty pounds well. He looked like a corrigible, seasoned military man on the hunt for the enemy, only there was an uneasiness in him, in his eyes.

Coming up to an opening in the trees, they stopped in their tracks.

I don’t hear anything. The younger recruit tilted his head to listen more attentively.

"We were just here. Where did everyone go?"

Oh my God. They can’t all be… can they? He looked him in the eyes.

The distinct sound of something moving in still water caught their attention. They nodded at each other, agreeing that this was their signal. It was time to move.

Before Danbury knew what was going on, the butt of an M16A2 military-issue rifle rose slowly over the head of his partner, who had been at the rear. The holder of the rifle ascended up from behind him, silent like a ninja, with his chiseled, hardened features, and used both arms to crack it straight down over the top of his head. Demarco fell flat on his face, instantly unconscious, as Danbury turned his head around in disbelief.

This man, wearing a USMC drill instructor cover, lowered his rifle until it was aiming at the back of his head. His uniform was sopping wet from swamp water. I’d drop that weapon if I were you, kid, he warned, without looking up at him.

He threw down his rifle without hesitation.

You didn’t really think you could stop me now, did you? he said to Demarco, who was lying on the ground, barely moving.

He pulled the trigger, blasting sound into the quiet of the night. The shot bore into the same place that had already began bleeding from the former blow, only much deeper into his brain. Fluids spat out onto the marines’ face, like someone had shot him with a blood-filled Super Soaker squirt gun.

Recruit Danbury took off in the direction of the aperture in the woods.

"Where are you going? Never leave your wounded behind, recruit! He grabbed the lifeless body of recruit Demarco by the collar of his shirt, dragging him with one hand, and followed after him. This night has a destiny. Death is your only escape from this place. That’s right, join your fellow recruits in the swamps of Parris Island."

He knew, as soon as he saw the murky waters, that his way home was to the right and down the now visible path, leading to serenity.

Another splash in the swamp kept him from leaving. He knew that there must be someone still alive; maybe it was one of his friends. He couldn’t just run. He needed a rifle.

Halfway into the mud, inches from the onset of the swamp, he saw one. Knowing that a killer would arrive and claim his next victim at any moment, he dove for it, grabbed it as he hit the ground, and rolled over and onto his feet again.

Standing ten feet from him was the drill instructor turned murderer, his rifle in his left hand pointing downward. Opening his right hand, he released his dead, with a swift thud to the dirt.

You came to the right place, recruit. This is where it all ends. Are you ready to meet your fate? he asked with his deep, gritty voice.

The sound of someone trying to come up for air came from behind the recruit, and then more splashing. Frantic cries, gurgling, and choking echoed in the night as a broken melody of agony.

Time was precious. In seconds, those few aspiring marines that were still alive would drown, unless Danbury could find it in himself to fire, killing a man for the first time in his eighteen years. But he knew he had to do it. If ever there was the right time to take another man’s life, this was it.

No sergeant, I think it’s your time to die, he said, and pulled the trigger. Empty. The original owner of the rifle must have run out of ammo.

He had no words left to say, with escape no longer being an option.

The drill instructor began walking toward him, slowly raising his weapon. No, I insist. You first.

33 YEARS LATER

Deep in thought, recruit Darryl Jaspers gazed out the window by his bunk on this seventh day of training for the United States Marine Corps. It was lights out for Platoon 3146 in Charlie Company on this fervent, muggy August night, only he couldn’t sleep.

Parris Island, South Carolina, a place best known for one thing- some of the toughest military training in the world. Every year, more than fifteen thousand young men and women submit themselves to this grueling, life changing experience. Each one of them hope to achieve one goal of many to follow, which is to graduate and earn the title marine.

Recruit Jaspers wanted this challenge since he was fourteen, just four years prior, when he saw it advertised on television for the first time. It portrayed a small fragment of what basic training was like. Since that day, he knew he would one day be on a bus leading to a place so few have ventured. He wanted to prove that he was something special, someone with a little bit of extra drive and determination. He wanted to show the world that he was anything but ordinary.

Always in top shape, Jaspers hovered at around 190-195 pounds, and stood at a favorable 5’11. His jet black hair could make any girl turn their head, that is, when he had hair.

His opportunity had arrived, and he was ecstatic. Many nights, such as this one, he had so much going on in his head that he deprived himself of hours of sleep, but it had little affect on him. His focus was relentless, and failure was not an option for him.

There was so much to learn, so much to remember. Wanting to be on top of his training at all times, Jaspers would try to replay every significant scenario of the day in his mind, so that the next time he was faced with having to negotiate a particular obstacle or consider the answer to a specific historical fact, he would have committed it to memory.

He didn’t necessarily want to stand out, rather show the drill instructors that he could handle anything they threw at him, and with as much composure as possible. He wanted to gain their respect, but it was going to take time. After all, he was still just a recruit in the early stages of transformation.

Leaning his freshly shaven head against the pane, recruit Jaspers brought his arm up to see the time on his black, digital military watch. It was 2317 hours, or 11:17 pm, still enough time to get a few good hours of sleep before reveille.

Outside in the distance, the stomping of boots hitting the pavement in unison came to life. As Darryl listened, the cadence became a little louder, and a little closer. It was a platoon marching in perfect harmony with one another, except it didn’t belong- not now, not at this time of night.

He was uncertain as to what he was hearing, knowing how tired he was and how something like this was actually prohibited. Recruits are required to receive eight hours of sleep every night, though once in a while a drill instructor takes the chance of being reprimanded or worse by his commanding officer for the purpose of getting his platoon in line. This was understandable, even to a new recruit such as himself.

What he did not understand was why any drill instructor would march his platoon without regard, without even trying to be unheard and at this late an hour. If he was smart, it seemed to him, he would make sure his recruits had go fasters on, or sneakers, so that the sound of a heel hitting the pavement would be muffled. That is, indeed, if this was what it sounded like.

Then again, what did he know? He was only a recruit.

In the rack next to Jaspers, recruit Paniagua got up and joined his friend at the window. Hey man. You still up, you freak? he smiled.

Roberto Paniagua was 100% Brazilian but born and raised in Salem, Massachusetts. His parents lived most of their lives in Porto Seguro, which is known as the birthplace of Brazil. They enjoyed many years together enjoying beautiful seascapes, year round sunshine, and breathtaking natural wonders in a real-life paradise. But they were not financially stable, not for a long time.

With a newborn child on the way, they knew they had to make a decision that may affect the future of their child. They set off for America.

Listen. Do you hear that? asked Jaspers.

Paniagua, in his green t-shirt and skivvies, which is required nightwear for all recruits, took a glance around, with his hands on his hips.

The cadence stopped.

I don’t know dude, you’re probably just not getting enough sleep. What did you hear?

Jaspers leaned back onto his rack. Either I’m hearing things or there’s a platoon outside practicing drill.

What?

I just heard it Paniagua.

The only DI that’s crazy enough to do that would be good ole Sgt. Hack, said Paniagua.

Sergeant Hack was the senior drill instructor of the platoon. There were three instructors assigned to every platoon, occasionally four. The senior DI was the toughest, the meanest, always the most intimidating. And what he said, went.

He stood at 5’10, shorter than some of the recruits in the platoon, but it didn’t matter in the least. At twenty-eight, he was one of the youngest drill instructors. Nonetheless, he commanded the utmost respect from his peers and his students of war. He had a presence; there was a fearlessness to him, unmatched even by other marines.

There is something about an instructor’s cover that makes it seem like you are looking at some kind of machine, like a terminator, not just a man. Maybe it’s the shape, how it indents on both sides, accenting your face to look somehow, more fierce. It also adds close to a foot to your height.

Jaspers laughed. He is whacked, isn’t he? And I mean that as a compliment.

But you gotta admit, we must be getting the best training on the island.

You know what? Every one of these drill instructors are maniacs. They all have that same look in their eyes. You know, that look only a hardcore marine has, said Jaspers.

Or a serial killer. Paniagua snickered.

Whatever that look is, I want it.

Soon enough man; its only been a week. Give it a couple years and some battle ribbons or something. You’ll get there.

That’s what I’m shooting for, you know, to be a drill instructor.

I know. You’ve told me this a million times. I just feel bad for the recruits who will have to take orders from you. Just don’t kill anyone, Paniagua joked.

It was only three and a half years ago when he and Jaspers met for the first time. They were both in their junior year at Salem High and it was on this day that a bond between two friends had formed that could never be undone.

The night before, some kids from the school were having a house party in the city of Lynn, just a few miles away, and it quickly turned violent. Most of the kids at the party had been friends, but there were a few outsiders, a few new faces.

Before you knew it, bottles of Vodka were