PART 1: THE SILENT WAR
“Sir, does your voice always shake like that? Or is today special?”
The question didn’t just cut through the air; it severed it.
I was standing three aisles away in the Base Exchange, skimming the back of a tactical gear magazine I had no intention of buying, when the silence hit. You know the kind of silence I mean. It’s not the absence of noise; it’s the sudden, violent death of it. The low hum of the refrigeration units, the squeak of boots on waxed linoleum, the distant chatter of a cashier scanning items—it all evaporated instantly.
I didn’t turn around immediately. As an officer, a Lieutenant, you learn that sometimes observation is more effective when the subject doesn’t know they’re being watched. I lowered the magazine just enough to peer over the rim.
Corporal Mallerie was standing in the center of the main aisle, his posture aggressive, his chest puffed out like a rooster who had confused a grocery store for a battlefield. I knew Mallerie. We all knew Mallerie. He was the kind of Marine who thought volume equaled leadership and that a sharp crease in his trousers was a substitute for combat experience. He stood with his boots planted wide, arms crossed, chin high—a performance of authority that felt brittle to anyone who had actually led men into fire.
And standing in front of him was an old man.
From my angle, I could only see the old man’s profile. He was wearing a civilian windbreaker, beige and nondescript, the kind you see on grandfathers feeding ducks at the park. But pinned to the chest, slightly crooked, was a row of ribbons. They were faded, the vibrant colors muted by decades of sunlight and time, but they were there.
The old man was holding a small paper cup of coffee. And Mallerie was right—he was shaking.
It wasn’t a violent shake, but a rhythmic, persistent tremor. The coffee rippled inside the cup, threatening to spill over the white plastic lid.
“I asked you a question, sir,” Mallerie pressed, leaning forward, invading the old man’s personal space. “Are those ribbons real? Or is that just something you picked up at a thrift store to feel important?”
My stomach tightened. I felt that acidic rise of bile that comes when you witness a profound injustice. Around us, the PX had frozen. Marines—privates, corporals, even a stray sergeant—had stopped in their tracks. They were statues in camouflage, caught between the instinct to look away and the morbid curiosity of watching a car crash.
The old man didn’t flinch. He didn’t step back. He simply looked at Mallerie.
I focused on the old man’s eyes. They weren’t fearful. They weren’t angry. They were… tired. But not the kind of tired that comes from a lack of sleep. It was the exhaustion of a mountain that has weathered a thousand storms. He adjusted his grip on the coffee cup, using both hands now to steady the tremor.
“I earned them,” the old man said softly. His voice was gravel, worn smooth by years, but it cracked slightly on the last word.
Mallerie laughed. It was a cruel, sharp sound. “You earned them? Look at you. You can barely hold a cup of joe without spilling it on your shoes. You expect me to believe you were a Marine? Marines are made of steel, old man. You look like you’re made of glass.”
I should have stepped in then. My rank gave me the authority to shut Mallerie down with a single word. But something stopped me. It wasn’t cowardice; it was an instinct. A tiny voice in the back of my lizard brain whispered, Wait. Look closer.
I stepped out from behind the magazine rack, moving silently toward the periphery of the confrontation. I needed a better angle.
The old man shifted his weight. And that’s when I saw it.
Most civilians, and even most sloppy soldiers, stand with their weight unevenly distributed—slouched on one hip, shoulders rolled forward. But this man? Despite the curvature of his spine, despite the tremble in his hands, his feet were positioned at a perfect forty-five-degree angle. His heels were aligned. His thumbs, though shaking, were curled along the seam of his trousers.
It was muscle memory. The kind that doesn’t fade with age. The kind that is drilled into the marrow of your bones until it becomes as natural as breathing.
“You know,” Mallerie continued, emboldened by the lack of intervention from the room, “impersonating a military official is a federal crime. I could have the MPs here in five minutes. Maybe they can help you find your nursing home.”
A private standing near the energy drinks looked at me, his eyes pleading. Do something, Lieutenant, his eyes said. Make it stop.
But I was fixated on the old man’s belt.
Clipped to his waist, looking jarringly out of place against the civilian slacks, was an old metal canteen. It wasn’t the plastic gear we issued now. This was old-school aluminum, dented and scratched, the canvas cover worn down to the threads. It was a relic.
I squinted. There was an engraving on the metal, barely visible under the harsh fluorescent lights of the exchange. I moved a step closer, pretending to inspect a display of beef jerky.
COLE. E. USMC.
The name didn’t ring a bell immediately. But the initials… E. Cole.
“Corporal,” the old man said. He didn’t shout. He didn’t posture. He spoke with a quiet, devastating calm. “You have a lot of passion. That is good. But you are mistaking volume for strength.”
Mallerie turned red. The gentle correction hit him harder than a scream would have. It was dismissive. It treated him like a child throwing a tantrum.
“Don’t you lecture me!” Mallerie barked, pointing a finger at the man’s chest. “I am an active-duty Marine Corporal. I am the tip of the spear! You are just a sad old man playing dress-up.”
I pulled my phone from my pocket, my heart rate starting to climb. I didn’t know why, but my hands were sweating. I typed the name into the internal database search, my thumb hovering over the screen. Cole. Everett.
The signal in the PX was spotty, the loading circle spinning agonizingly slow.
Come on, I whispered to myself. Come on.
While the phone loaded, I watched the dynamic in the room shift. Mallerie was losing the crowd. He could feel it, too. The younger Marines weren’t looking at him with awe anymore; they were looking at him with embarrassment. But Mallerie was too deep in his own ego to retreat. He had committed to the bully’s path, and now he had to escalate to save face.
“Show me ID,” Mallerie demanded, holding out his hand. “Right now. Prove you served, or get out of my Exchange.”
The old man sighed. It was the sound of a heavy door closing. He reached into his back pocket. The movement was slow, agonizingly deliberate. His hand trembled violently as he reached for his wallet, fighting against his own nervous system to perform a simple task.
“Look at him,” Mallerie scoffed, turning to the audience of frozen Marines. “He’s shaking like a leaf. Probably scared I’m gonna call his bluff.”
My phone buzzed. The search results had loaded.
I looked down at the screen, and the air left my lungs.
It wasn’t just a service record. It was a scroll. The text was dense, filled with operation names that were spoken of in hushed tones during history briefs at Officer Candidate School. Vietnam. The Tet Offensive. Hue City.
Awards: Silver Star. Navy Cross. Three Purple Hearts.
But it was the bottom of the file that made my blood run cold.
Drill Instructor – Parris Island. 1970-1974. Chief Instructor – DI School. 1978-1982.
I felt a phantom shiver go down my spine. I looked up at the old man—Master Sergeant Everett Cole—with new eyes. I wasn’t looking at a frail geriatric. I was looking at a dormant volcano. I was looking at the man who had likely trained the men who trained the men who trained me.
I needed confirmation. The database was one thing, but I needed to know the legend.
I backed out of the aisle, slipping into the vestibule near the exit doors. The automatic doors wooshed open, letting in a blast of hot, humid air, but I barely felt it. I dialed a number I hadn’t called in six months.
“Gunny,” I said the moment the line connected.
“Lieutenant Harris?” The voice on the other end was gruff, surprised. “Everything alright?”
“I need a history check, Gunny. Fast. Did you ever hear of a Master Sergeant named Everett Cole?”
Silence.
The silence on the phone was heavier than the silence in the PX. It lasted so long I thought the call had dropped.
“Gunny?”
“Where are you hearing that name, Lieutenant?” Gunny’s voice had dropped an octave. It wasn’t casual anymore. It was sharp, alert.
“He’s here. At the Base Exchange. Some loudmouth Corporal is tearing into him because his hands are shaking. Says he’s a fake.”
“Harris,” Gunny whispered, and I could hear the genuine fear in his voice. “Listen to me very carefully. You stop that Corporal. You stop him now.”
“Who is he, Gunny?”
“He’s the Architect,” Gunny said. “That’s what they called him. He didn’t just train Marines, Harris. He broke them down and rebuilt them from the soul up. He trained General Mattis’s first squad leader. He’s the reason half the protocols in the Drill Manual exist. If he’s shaking, it’s because his body is worn out from carrying the weight of the entire damn Corps for thirty years.”
My grip on the phone tightened until my knuckles turned white.
“He’s being humiliated, Gunny. Mallerie is demanding his ID.”
“Get back in there,” Gunny commanded. “I’m calling the Colonel. Do not let that boy touch him.”
The line went dead.
I shoved the phone back into my pocket and spun around, rushing back into the Exchange. My boots hammered against the floor, no longer caring about stealth.
The scene had deteriorated. Mallerie had snatched the worn leather wallet from the old man’s trembling hands.
“This is ancient,” Mallerie sneered, holding up a laminated card that was yellowed with age. “You really expect me to accept this? It looks like you printed it in your basement.”
The old man stood tall. He didn’t reach for the ID back. He simply waited. His dignity was a fortress that Mallerie was throwing pebbles at.
“Corporal!” I barked, my voice cracking like a whip across the room.
Mallerie jumped, turning to face me. He saw the silver bar on my collar and stiffened, but the arrogance didn’t leave his eyes. “Lieutenant Harris. Good. Maybe you can help me escort this fraud off the premises.”
I walked straight up to them. I didn’t stop until I was toe-to-toe with Mallerie. I could smell the peppermint on his breath and the cheap cologne he wore.
“Give me the ID,” I said, my voice low and dangerous.
“Sir, with respect, I’ve got this under control. He’s—”
“I said, give me the ID.”
Mallerie hesitated, then slapped the card into my hand with a huff of petulance. I looked down at it. It was real. God, it was real. The photo showed a young man with a jawline like granite and eyes that could burn through steel. The eyes hadn’t changed.
I looked at Master Sergeant Cole. “Sir,” I said, my voice softening. “My apologies.”
Cole looked at me, and for a second, I saw the Drill Instructor peek through. He assessed me in a heartbeat—my uniform, my stance, my intent. “No apology needed, Lieutenant,” he rasped. “The young man is just… vigilant.”
“He’s disrespectful,” I corrected.
“He’s blind,” Cole said gently. “There is a difference.”
Mallerie scoffed, throwing his hands up. “Are you kidding me, sir? You’re buying this? Look at him! He’s shaking! Marines don’t shake!”
“Shut your mouth, Mallerie,” I snapped.
“No!” Mallerie stepped around me, looming over the old man again. “I am sick of stolen valor! I am sick of people pretending to be us! If you were really a Master Sergeant, you’d be commanding this room, not standing there vibrating like a coward!”
The word coward hung in the air like toxic smoke.
That was the line. Mallerie had crossed the line from asshole to enemy.
But before I could physically intervene, the atmosphere in the room changed again. It wasn’t silence this time. It was pressure.
The air density seemed to shift. The light from the open door at the front of the store was blocked by a silhouette.
Heavy, rhythmic bootsteps echoed on the tile. Thud. Thud. Thud.
They were slow. Deliberate. Terrifying.
Every head turned toward the entrance.
Colonel Nathan Briggs, the Base Commander, was walking down the main aisle.
Briggs was a man of few words and even fewer smiles. He was known for being hard but fair, a man who ran his base with clockwork precision. But right now? He looked like a storm cloud manifesting in human form. His face was set in stone. His eyes were fixed on one point.
He wasn’t looking at me. He wasn’t looking at Mallerie.
He was looking at the trembling old man.
Mallerie, realizing the Colonel was approaching, snapped to attention. A smug grin plastered itself onto his face. He thought backup had arrived. He thought the Colonel was coming to drag the “imposter” away.
“Colonel!” Mallerie shouted, his salute crisp but overly eager. “I’ve detained an individual impersonating a Master Sergeant! I was just about to—”
Briggs walked right past him.
He didn’t even blink at Mallerie. It was as if the Corporal didn’t exist. The wind of the Colonel’s passing ruffled Mallerie’s sleeve.
Briggs stopped three feet in front of the old man.
The entire store held its breath. I watched, mesmerized, as the Colonel’s composure—usually ironclad—cracked. His jaw trembled for a fraction of a second. His eyes, usually cold, flooded with an emotion I couldn’t place. Was it fear? awe?
Love?
Colonel Briggs squared his shoulders. He snapped his heels together with a sound like a gunshot. And then, slowly, with agonizing precision, he raised his hand in a salute.
It wasn’t a standard greeting. It was the slow, reverent salute one gives to a fallen king, or a monument.
“Master Sergeant Cole,” Briggs said, his voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t know you were in the area, sir.”
The old man, shaking hands and all, returned the salute. It was slow, imperfect, and beautiful.
“Hello, Nathan,” Cole whispered. “You’ve done well for yourself.”
“Only because of you, sir,” Briggs replied, his voice breaking. “Only because of you.”
Mallerie let out a strangled sound, like a dying engine. “Sir? Colonel? What… what is going on?”
Briggs turned slowly. The warmth vanished from his face, replaced by a cold, predatory focus. He looked at Mallerie, and for the first time in my life, I saw a man wither under a gaze.
“Corporal,” Briggs said softly, and the quietness of his voice was far more terrifying than any shout. “You have just insulted the man who taught me how to breathe.”
PART 2: THE ANATOMY OF SILENCE
“He… trained you?”
Mallerie’s voice was barely a whisper. The bravado that had filled the room thirty seconds ago had evaporated, leaving behind a terrified kid in a uniform he suddenly didn’t feel big enough to fill.
Colonel Briggs didn’t answer him. He didn’t have to. The silence that stretched between them was heavy, suffocating. It was the kind of silence that precedes a verdict.
“Lieutenant Harris,” Briggs said, his eyes never leaving Mallerie’s pale face.
“Sir,” I answered, snapping to attention.
“Secure this aisle. I don’t want anyone entering or leaving this immediate area until I say otherwise. And get the Master Sergeant a chair. Now.”
“Aye, sir.”
I moved quickly. I grabbed a folding chair from the display of camping gear and set it up behind Master Sergeant Cole. The old man sat down slowly, exhaling a breath that sounded like it had been held for forty years. He placed his trembling hands on his knees, the paper cup still clutched in his fingers. He hadn’t spilled a drop.
Briggs turned his full attention to Mallerie.
“Corporal,” Briggs began, his voice dangerously level. “You asked this man if his ribbons were real. You asked him if he picked them up at a thrift store.”
Mallerie swallowed hard. I could see the sweat beading on his forehead, right along the hairline of his high-and-tight haircut. “Sir, I… I was just following protocol. We’ve had reports of stolen valor in the area. I saw him shaking. I thought—”
“You thought,” Briggs cut him off. “That is your first mistake. You didn’t think. You assumed.”
Briggs took a step closer. The Colonel was not a large man physically, but in that moment, he looked like a giant.
“Let me tell you about the man you just tried to humiliate,” Briggs said, his voice carrying through the silent Exchange. “In 1968, during the Tet Offensive, a platoon was pinned down in Hue City. They were cut off. No radio. No support. Their Lieutenant was dead. Their Gunny was wounded.”
I watched Cole. He was staring at the floor, his eyes distant, lost in a memory I couldn’t see.
“A young Sergeant took command,” Briggs continued, his eyes drilling into Mallerie. “He held a defensive line for three days against an enemy force four times his size. When they ran out of ammo, he used enemy weapons. When those ran dry, he used a shovel. He carried three wounded Marines two miles through a burning city to get them to the evac chopper. He refused to board until every single one of his men was inside.”
Briggs pointed a finger at the old man.
“That Sergeant was Everett Cole. And the reason his hands shake, Corporal, is because of the nerve damage he took from a mortar blast while shielding a nineteen-year-old private.”
The color drained from Mallerie’s face so completely he looked like a ghost. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“That nineteen-year-old private,” Briggs whispered, leaning in until he was inches from Mallerie’s nose, “was my father.”
The revelation hit the room like a physical blow. I felt the air leave my own lungs. His father.
“So,” Briggs said, straightening up and smoothing his uniform. “When you mock this man’s trembling hands, you are mocking the reason I am alive to stand here and court-martial your ass. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Mallerie squeaked. Tears were welling in his eyes now—tears of fear, tears of shame.
“I don’t think you do,” Briggs said coldly. “Lieutenant Harris.”
“Sir.”
“Escort Corporal Mallerie to my office. We are going to have a very long conversation about the definition of the word ‘Legacy’.”
“Aye, sir.”
I stepped forward and grabbed Mallerie by the arm. I didn’t differ to him. I didn’t handle him gently. I gripped his bicep with the force of an iron clamp. “Move,” I hissed.
As we walked out of the Exchange, the atmosphere was surreal. The Marines who had witnessed the scene parted like the Red Sea. They weren’t looking at Mallerie with curiosity anymore; they were looking at him with disgust. They had seen the truth. They had seen a legend dressed in beige, and a fool dressed in cammies.
Briggs walked beside Master Sergeant Cole, matching the old man’s slow, rhythmic pace. He offered his arm, not as a crutch, but as an honor. And for the first time, Cole took it.
We walked across the base in a strange procession. The sun was beating down on the asphalt, the heat rising in shimmering waves. Usually, a base is a noisy place—engines roaring, sergeants yelling, boots stomping. But as we passed, everything seemed to quiet down.
Word travels faster than light in the Corps. By the time we reached the Headquarters building, I could see faces pressed against the windows. They knew. Everyone knew. The Architect is here.
We entered the Colonel’s office. It was air-conditioned, smelling of lemon polish and old paper. Briggs gestured for Mallerie to stand on the carpet in front of the massive oak desk—the “carpet of doom,” as the junior officers called it.
Cole was given the leather armchair in the corner. He sat heavily, placing the now-cold coffee on the side table.
Briggs sat on the edge of his desk, not behind it. He wanted no barriers.
“Corporal,” Briggs said. “Take off your rank.”
Mallerie froze. “Sir?”
“You heard me. Take off your rank insignia. Place it on the desk. You don’t deserve to wear it right now.”
It was a brutal order. Psychologically, it was a castration. Mallerie’s hands shook—ironically, just like Cole’s—as he unpinned the black metal chevrons from his collar. Click. Click. He placed them on the mahogany wood. They looked small and insignificant there.
“Now,” Briggs said, crossing his arms. “Tell Master Sergeant Cole why you shouldn’t be discharged for Conduct Unbecoming.”
Mallerie looked at the old man. For the first time, he really looked at him. He saw the scars on his neck. He saw the way his left leg sat slightly stiff, likely from an old shrapnel wound. He saw the eyes—gentle, forgiving, but incredibly deep.
“I…” Mallerie started, his voice cracking. “I wanted to be a good Marine. I thought… I thought being a Marine meant being perfect. Hard. Unbreakable.”
He looked down at his boots.
“I saw you shaking, and it scared me,” Mallerie admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper. “It scared me because… if a hero like you can break… what hope do I have?”
It was a moment of raw honesty I didn’t expect. Mallerie wasn’t just a bully; he was a terrified kid masking his insecurity with aggression. He attacked the weakness in others because he was terrified of the weakness in himself.
The room went silent. I looked at Briggs. His expression had softened, just a fraction. He knew that fear. We all did.
Then, the leather chair creaked.
Master Sergeant Cole stood up.
PART 3: THE FINAL SALUTE
The old man walked over to Mallerie. He moved slowly, every step a negotiation with gravity, but he didn’t stop until he was standing right in front of the disgraced Corporal.
Cole reached out. His hand, trembling and veined, hovered for a moment before resting on Mallerie’s shoulder.
“Son,” Cole said.
His voice wasn’t the voice of a Drill Instructor. It was the voice of a grandfather.
“Look at me.”
Mallerie lifted his tear-streaked face.
“You think I’m broken?” Cole asked softly. He held up his shaking hand. “You think this is weakness?”
“I… I don’t know, sir,” Mallerie stammered.
“This isn’t weakness,” Cole said. “This is the cost. Being a Marine isn’t about being unbreakable. Everything breaks, son. Steel breaks. Bones break. Minds break.”
Cole tapped Mallerie’s chest, right over his heart.
“The only thing that matters is how you put it back together. You don’t honor the Corps by pretending you don’t bleed. You honor it by bleeding for the man next to you.”
Cole smiled, a sad, crooked smile that lit up his weathered face.
“My hands shake because I carried heavy things for a long time. One day, if you do your job right, your hands will shake too. And I hope, when that day comes, a young Corporal doesn’t ask you if you bought your ribbons at a thrift store.”
Mallerie broke.
He didn’t just cry; he wept. He collapsed forward, burying his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving. The facade was gone. The ego was dead. All that was left was the human being underneath.
“I’m sorry,” Mallerie sobbed. “I’m so sorry, Master Sergeant.”
Cole didn’t pull away. He kept his hand on the boy’s shoulder, steadying him. “I know, son. I know. Pick up your rank.”
Mallerie looked up, confused. He looked at Briggs.
Briggs nodded slowly. “You heard the Master Sergeant.”
Mallerie reached out and grabbed the black metal chevrons from the desk. He clutched them in his fist like they were diamonds.
“Put them back on,” Cole instructed. “But this time, wear them differently. When you put that uniform on tomorrow, you remember that it doesn’t make you better than anyone else. It makes you a servant. You serve them. The weak, the scared, the broken. That is your job. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master Sergeant,” Mallerie whispered. “I understand.”
“Good.” Cole patted his cheek. “Now, dry your face. Marines don’t leak.”
Briggs stood up. “Dismissed, Corporal. Get out of my sight. And if I catch you yelling at a fly on the wall, you’ll be peeling potatoes in the mess hall until you retire.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Mallerie saluted Cole—a real salute this time, filled with reverence—and practically ran out of the office.
When the door clicked shut, the energy in the room shifted. It became warm. Intimate.
“You’re soft in your old age, Everett,” Briggs said, a small smile playing on his lips.
“He’s a good kid,” Cole said, sitting back down. “Just lost. We were all lost once, Nathan. Until someone found us.”
“You found me,” Briggs said quietly.
“I just pointed the way,” Cole replied. “You walked it.”
Briggs walked over to the window, looking out at the base. “The men know you’re here. They want to see you.”
Cole sighed, rubbing his knees. “I’m not much to look at anymore.”
“You’re history, Everett. They need to see that history is flesh and blood.”
Briggs turned to me. “Lieutenant Harris.”
“Sir.”
“Organize a detail. We’re going for a walk.”
Ten minutes later, we stepped out of the Headquarters building.
I expected a few curious onlookers. What we got was a parade.
The walkways were lined with Marines. Hundreds of them. They weren’t in formation; they weren’t ordered to be there. They had come out of the barracks, the mess hall, the motor pool. They stood in silence, lining the path from the HQ to the main gate.
As Master Sergeant Cole stepped into the sunlight, a ripple went through the crowd.
Someone—I don’t know who—called it out.
“Attention on deck!”
Five hundred heels clicked together instantly. The sound was like a thunderclap.
Cole stopped. He looked around, his eyes widening. He looked at the sea of camouflage, the faces young and old, all turned toward him.
He looked at his trembling hands, then he looked at Briggs. “You did this?”
“No, sir,” Briggs said. “They did.”
We began to walk. It was the longest walk of my life, and the most important.
As we passed, Marines didn’t just stand at attention. They saluted. Slowly. One by one. A wave of hands rising to brows, tracking the old man as he passed.
I saw a Gunnery Sergeant with three combat tours crying openly. I saw young privates who had never seen combat staring with awe at the man who wrote the book on it.
Cole walked taller with every step. The tremble in his hands seemed to steady, absorbed by the collective strength of the men and women around him. He nodded to them. “Thank you,” he mouthed. “Thank you.”
We reached the visitor parking lot. An old, beat-up sedan was parked there.
Cole turned to Briggs. “You have a good command, Colonel. Keep them safe.”
“I will, Master Sergeant. Because you taught me how.”
Cole opened his car door, then paused. He looked back at me.
“Lieutenant,” he said.
“Sir?”
“Keep an eye on that boy. Mallerie. He has fire. If you can teach him to control it, he’ll be a hell of a leader one day.”
“I will, sir. I promise.”
Cole smiled. He got into the car, the engine sputtering to life. We stood there, saluting, as the faded beige sedan drove slowly out of the gate, disappearing into the civilian traffic.
The sun was setting now, casting long, golden shadows across the base. The Marines began to disperse, returning to their duties, but the silence lingered. It was a different kind of silence now. It wasn’t the silence of fear or tension.
It was the silence of respect.
I walked back toward the Exchange, my mind racing. I thought about the ribbons. I thought about the shaking hands. I thought about the canteen with the name scratched into it.
I saw Mallerie sitting on a bench near the barracks. He was alone, staring at his rank insignia in his hands. He wasn’t wearing them yet. He was just holding them, feeling their weight.
I didn’t approach him. I let him sit. He had a lot to think about.
I looked down at my own hands. They were steady. For now. But I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that one day they might shake too.
And if I was lucky—if I was truly, damn lucky—I would have earned that tremble, just like Master Sergeant Cole.
I took a deep breath of the humid evening air. It smelled of diesel and cut grass. It smelled like the Corps.
“Dismissed,” I whispered to the empty air.
I turned and walked back to work.
