By Tommy Guns
I awoke the next morning, still hog chained, and with a pounding headache that was beating rhythmically with my heart. I knew where it came from. I still had a raging hard-on, and the lack of blood flow from the head below the waist to the one on my shoulders was creating a problem for me. I had never gone this long without relieving myself, and no matter how hard I tried, I could not get the images of last night out of my head. They kept me harder than I had ever been before, and I was in dire need of release of some kind.
I had never been able to just rub myself off against a mattress, and this time was no different. This was going to be a serious and growing problem.
I had been awake for what seemed like hours before I heard footsteps outside my cell. It was a single set, so I assumed it was only one of my Marines from the day before, probably returning to see if I was still ready to service them. I would have been glad to, but now I really needed to pee as well as jack off, and things down below were getting serious.
To my surprise, the Marine who entered my cell was one I hadn’t seen before, but I can tell you he could have been the model for a recruiting poster. Tall, blond, blue eyes, ramrod straight, his tight fitting uniform seemed to have been airbrushed on him. He was a recruiter’s dream. He took one look at me and at the paper he was holding, and pulled out his radio and called for the Brig Commander, a grizzled Staff Sergeant who looked like he’d been passed over for promotion too many times and had the shitty attitude to match his disappointment.
The BC entered my cell, and immediately removed the tape from my mouth and pulled out the dirty briefs that I’d been sucking on all night long. Next he instructed the guard to release me from my shackles, and ordered me to stand at attention. I barked out, as best I could through my dry throat, “Sir, prisoner number 65, cell number 48, cellblock number 4, requests permission to make a head and water call Sir!” He replied, “Do it prisoner!” I immediately relieved myself of the previous day’s urine build up, and took in as much water from the attached sink as I could get with my hands, being careful not to take too much, since I didn’t know when I would be allowed to pee again. After I finished, I returned to a position of rigid attention in front of the BC, and waited for his next order. Instead, he turned to the guard and asked, “Corporal, who is this prisoner?”
The guard sputtered out something to the effect that I was not on his roster of prisoners who were supposed to be confined to the maximum security cellblock and had no idea who I was. This did not please the BC at all, and he turned to me and asked, “Just who the fuck are you, and what are you doing in my Brig?” I replied, “Sir, prisoner number 65, cell number 48, cellblock number 4, is also known as Gunnery Sergeant __________, Thomas R., Service Number ________, assigned TAD to Special Rehab Unit, Balboa Naval Hospital, and this prisoner does not know why he has been confined in the Brig Commander’s Brig Sir!” At the mention of my rank, The BC’s face became ashen, and he turned to the Corporal and instructed him to get the booking log from the previous day. The Corporal immediately left the cell and I could hear his footsteps as he hurried down the passageway to wherever the command center was. Back in the cell, the BC was clearly uncomfortable, and I got the sense that he didn’t quite know what to do next. He hesitated, but then instructed me, “The prisoner may stand at ease.”
We waited in the cell for what seemed like a long time, the silence between me and the BC becoming more uncomfortable as the minutes ticked by. At last the Corporal returned with the booking log and handed it to the BC. The BC studied it for a few minutes and then looked up at me and asked, “Has the prisoner received a charge sheet?” I replied that I hadn’t, and was rewarded with an expletive filled diatribe about what he planned on doing to the three assholes who had brought me in. I did learn, however, that I had been picked up by the Shore Patrol on Monday night for doing my best to redecorate a local bar with a few soldiers down on leave from Fort Ord. When they tried to remove me from the bar, I apparently broke the nose of one of the SPs after taking his nightstick away from him and kicking him in his nether regions. They apparently did manage to subdue me and brought me in shackles to the Brig instead of to the SP lockup in town.
As a result of my little adventure, the BC informed me, I would likely wind up being charged with assault, resisting arrest, and conduct contrary to good order and discipline. Depending on how they viewed the charges, I was looking at a long stint in Portsmouth Prison, and at least a bad conduct discharge. Because they were General Court Martial charges, I was automatically considered an escape risk to be confined in the maximum security cellblock of the brig. The assault on the SP meant that I would always be shackled whenever I was outside of my cell, and escorted wherever I went by two armed guards. Finally, the seriousness of my situation became clear, and erased all memory of the night before and the really fantastic sex I had enjoyed. The Brig Commander then instructed the Corporal to leave us, and to close the door.
The BC told me to sit on my bunk and relax. He pulled out a pack of Camels and offered me one, which I accepted gratefully. Next he asked me what the fuck had happened to me. I started to reply with the formula, but he stopped me and said, “This is just between us, so cut the formality while we’re alone, and tell me your side of the story.” I told him I didn’t really remember a whole hell of a lot until he had read me what the log book said. I had vague memories of being in the bar and minding my own business, when the Army grunts started loud talking about wanting to kick some jarhead ass. Ever the volunteer, and in a bad mood already, I offered to accommodate any of them or all of them, one at a time or all at once. One thing apparently led to another and a brawl broke out. I apparently got overly exuberant with one of the doggies, which prompted the call to the Shore Patrol. I couldn’t remember if it was just me fighting with them, or if some of my fellow patients from the Rehab Unit had joined in the fray. At the mention of the Rehab Unit, the BC asked me what I was doing at Balboa, since it didn’t look like I was either sick or injured.
I explained to the Brig Commander that after the third time I had zigged when I should have zagged, I was ordered evacuated back to the States for further treatment. Because I had been assigned to SOG, MAC-V, as a sniper for nearly three years, after I was patched up once again I was assigned to the Special Rehab Unit at Balboa along with about 40 other special operations troops from all branches of the military. It was an experimental program designed to ease us all back into normal military duty or back into civilian life. Since all of us in the unit had substantial body counts, and knew countless ways to make those counts grow, we were considered too unstable to release back to our regular units or, God forbid, back into our communities, without intensive counseling and retraining. For all of us, this was an assignment that would last no less than 18 months, and could last as long as the powers that be figured it would take to bring us back down from the semi-permanent testosterone highs we were all on. I had only been in the unit for about six months, and still had at least a year or more to go before being reassigned to a regular duty unit.
Because we had done nothing wrong, and had not been diagnosed as suffering from a chronic mental disease or defect, they could not keep us confined to the unit without allowing us some privileges. Based on our cooperation during sessions with the shrinks, we gradually earned privileges that allowed us regular liberty on weekends, provided that we went as a group and were escorted by at least one Corpsman and an MP. For all practical purposes this was, of course, a joke. There was no way that a single Corpsman, with or without the help of an MP, was going to control any one of us, never mind a group of ten or more of us. Usually, the first thing we did when we got on the bus and left the hospital grounds was disarm the MP, and take the medical bag away from the Corpsman. They were good guys for the most part, and cooperated with us. For them it was a night out on the town as well. Until my little run in with the three Army grunts, nothing serious had happened on any of these field trips. But now I was afraid that I had screwed the pooch for everyone in the unit, and had at the same time destroyed my own career.
The BC and I shot the shit a little while longer, swapping war stories and just getting a better feel for each other. When he learned that I had earned three Purple Hearts, Two Bronze Stars and one Silver Star in my nearly three tours of duty, and had a whole chest full of other geedunk medals, he seemed to have a new respect for me. He stood up to leave and said, “Gunny, let me see what I can do about this shit storm you seem to have created. Meanwhile, I would greatly appreciate it if you cooperated with the program here, and not do any damage to my Brig or my men.” I stood to attention, and barked out, “Sir, yes Sir.” He just smiled and left me standing at attention, and locked my cell behind him. I heard his footsteps echoing down the passageway, and hoped that I would meet him again under better circumstances.
To be continued …
