A Marine Called Jason
(Revised)
by: Peter

(© 2007-2011 by the Author)
 

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

Chapter 13
Bringing Jason Home 

We lifted off out of Saigon just after sunset on a big C-130 and began island hopping back to the States. I sat with Jason's casket the whole way, or laid beside it, wrapped up in a blanket, staring at the flag-covered coffin.  I took off my uniform so it wouldn't get wrinkled and lay in my shorts and T-shirt, hovering under Fnever knewa blanket.  I tried to picture him inside the casket. I couldn’t. He couldn’t be dead, I tried to tell myself.  Not that stud of a man. He was invincible. Indestructible.  One of the crew came back with a cup of hot coffee. 

“Sarge said you probably need this. You doing all right?” he asked.

“Next time I’m requesting first class,” I said.     

In the cold black of the night I lay beside the casket and shivered and cried.  Sometimes I slept.

We landed in San Diego for re-fueling.  I quickly donned my uniform, making sure the OD green handkerchief was in the pocket.  I hadn’t given a thought to what it would feel like being back in the States again. The plane taxied to the edge of the field, to a hangar apparently reserved for receiving the bodies of dead GIs.  A Marine honor guard was standing by, as well as a crew to unload.  I was stunned when I got out of the plane to see a gathering of protestors just a few hundred yards away, on the other side of the fence.  They were waving peace flags and yelling angry epitaphs.  I stood and watched them for a moment, welling up with anger.

“Don’t let ‘em get to you.  That’s what they want,” said one of the honor guards.

“Geezuss, how do you put up with that?” I asked.

“Those scum bags meet every plane,” he said.    

“Hey, it’s what you’re fighting for, their right to protest,” said another Marine. “I just wish they would take a fuckin’ bath once in a while.”       

“Just give me a rifle or a hand grenade, they won’t need a bath,” I muttered. It frightened me that I meant it. I actually think I could’ve gunned them down. They were yelling things about my best buddy.  The anger was about to burst out of me.  I started off in their direction.

“Hey!  Do Not Approach!” someone yelled.

I turned around to see the master sergeant from the plane.

“I’m fighting for their right to protest but I got no say in the matter?”

“That’s the way it is,” he said. 

“Of course, if you happen to meet up with one of them in a dark alley, that’s another story,” drawled one of the Marines. 

Walking away was the hardest thing I had to do.  In the terminal I found the head where I washed up.  I had a light growth of beard but it would wait till we landed in Dayton.  I grabbed a bite to eat at the cafeteria and hung around the lounge till time to fly out. I watched the caskets being separated and loaded onto different planes for their final destinations.  There were several more escorts now and we were taken from the military terminal to catch our civilian flights. 

There were more protestors in the terminal, not protected behind a fence. I took it as long as I could then approached someone and asked if they couldn’t put a stop to their chanting.  He said he was an employee of an airline, not the terminal, but he suggested I get hold of airport security. Just then I saw two of the pricks go into the men’s restroom. To hell with security. I followed them in.

“You guys are in the wrong restroom. This is the men’s restroom,” I said as I stepped up beside them at the urinals. I couldn’t help noticing the guy next to me glance down at me. “No, I guess you are in the right place,” I said sarcastically, shaking my cock at him. He quickly looked away.  I didn’t have to piss.  I just stood there for a moment then stuffed my cock back in my pants and zipped up. I stepped back to wait till they were finished.  One of them stepped back and rushed out without even washing his hands. I think he sensed something. Smart guy. I looked around as his buddy was stepping back from the urinal, and seeing no one, I grabbed him by the front of his shirt.

“Listen, you filthy scumbag, they’re wrong.  I did not fight to give you the right to yell shit about my best buddy laying under one of those flags, and he didn’t give his life for the likes of you bastards.  I’m telling you, haul your sorry asses out of here till I board the plane with my buddy to take him home.”

“We have the right to peaceable assembly,” he said in a mincing tone.

I grabbed him around the neck, tight, as I pushed him against the wall.  I was so angry I couldn’t even speak. I held him in my grip till he was turning a funny color, and for a split second, I thought I might squeeze the life out of him.  I let go, but slammed my knee into his groin, hard.  I’d choked him too tight and he couldn’t cry out but he doubled over and slumped to the floor.  "Have a peaceable assembly," I said.  I left him there; turned to walk out just as someone was walking in.  I didn’t know if the guy saw what happened or not. I think he did, and didn’t care. He looked at the guy lying there, and walked past him to the urinals.  I was shaken as I left the restroom; shaken that I could’ve killed the guy with my bare hands.

The plane took off for Wright-Patterson in Dayton, Ohio, with six caskets aboard. There was some hassle over me staying with his body on that flight but I won out.  I stayed with his body every leg of the journey, except in the hearse.

In Dayton, along with the waiting hearses, there was also a military sedan furnished for me to drive.  So I followed the hearse on the drive to his hometown, a small town called Dunnsport, between Dayton and Columbus. I showed the funeral director the letter putting me in charge but told him I wanted the family to be there to oversee the arrangements. I was there only to see that he had full military honors. He said he would call Jason's parents to make an appointment. 

From the funeral home I found my way to Jason's parents' house. I was welcomed and treated with restrained respect. I thought they might be angry over their son’s death and would have liked to take it out on me, maybe even blame me for it.  I wouldn’t have blamed them if they did, if it helped them with their grief.  They had every right to blame someone and I would take it for them. The four of us, Jason's mom and dad and his brother, Allen, went to make the arrangements.  I didn't like Allen from the start. 

Allen was an ass from the get go. I offered him to ride with me to the funeral home, thought we might get to know each other.  He looked at the military sedan with contempt, said a surly no thanks, and got in the car with his parents. He was no better at the funeral home.  As we were standing aside while the funeral director talked to his parents, he asked "Does that make you feel proud?" indicating my uniform.

"Damned proud," I said, unflinching. "He was a good man and a fine soldier."

"Well, I guess this isn't the place," he said and let it go.

His parents accepted the fact that Jason had asked me to make his arrangements and they seemed okay with it, especially when they saw that I was depending on them to make the decisions. I wanted them there. His brother was another story. The casket was picked out and we were back in the office where the funeral director explained that he would arrange for an honor guard and order the flag, and a military marker to be placed later. That's when Allen interrupted.

"Look we don't really want all the military honors, the uniforms, the guns," he said.  "We would like to simply put my brother to rest in peace."

I looked at his parents, wondering if he had talked it over with them, but I couldn't tell whether or not they agreed with their son.  I was hoping they didn't and would speak up. When they didn't say anything, I did.

“He wanted military honors,” I said.

“That decision isn’t up to you,” Allen said curtly.        

"I'm sorry, but I have a letter that the deceased wrote to Sgt. Courter stating his wishes and requesting him to be in charge of the arrangements," the director said, "even so far as to making him beneficiary of his life insurance."

"Well, now, that's interesting," Allen said.

"For your peace of mind, I've signed the insurance policy over to the funeral home," I said in as kindly a voice as I could muster.  "They will return the unused portion to your Mom and Dad."  I would have been dubious about doing that but the couple obviously knew and trusted the man.  I didn't mention the twenty  bucks I'd kept out of Jason's personal stuff.  I wasn't stealing it.  He told me to have a beer on him, and that's what I would do.

Allen glared at me.  I looked at his parents again but got no clue what they were thinking.  Finally, his mother spoke up.

"You know better than anyone what he would have wanted," she said to me.

"He made his wishes known," I said simply.

"There is the decision whether to have an open or closed casket," the funeral director said.

"Open," Mrs. Seaborne said, without hesitation.

"Open at the wake, but closed for the funeral," her husband put in.  She patted his hand in agreement.

When the arrangements were made I started to excuse myself and leave the family alone.

"Where are you going?" Mr. Seaborne asked.

"I was going to get a room at the motel," I said.

"You'll do no such thing," Mrs. Seaborne said with indignation. "You can take Jason's room.”

I was taken aback.  “I… don’t think I should do that.”

“You brought him all the way home. We would be honored to have you stay in our home and I think he would want you to stay in his room,” she said.

It would have been impolite to argue so I went back to the house.  Allen dropped his parents off and left.  Mr. Seaborne was waiting on me and met my car in the driveway when I drove up.

"I'll get your bag," he said when I opened rear door.

"No, that's all right, I'll get it."  But I stopped in mid-motion when I saw the firm determined look on the man's face.

"The Marines didn't teach you to respect your elders?  I said I'll get your bag."

"Yes, sir," I said and backed off.  It was the first I really noticed the resemblance to Jason.  The man could easily handle my bag.  I went around back and opened the trunk.

He paused to look at the duffle bag when I lifted it out. I wasn’t sure he saw Jason’s name, rank and serial number or if he even realized it was his.  I almost asked him if he wanted to carry it but he had my travel bag so I hefted the duffle bag onto my shoulder.       

Mrs. Seaborne met us at the door and I followed her up the stairs with her husband behind me, carrying my bag.  He set the bag down at the door and she showed me into Jason's room. The first thing to catch my eye when I walked in was the weights and the workout bench that took up about a fourth of the space. I set the duffle bag down.

“This is Jason’s personal belongings,” I said, shrugging the duffle bag off my shoulder.

“Just put it over there beside his dresser, we’ll get to it later,” Mr. Seaborne said.

"Make yourself at home,” she said.  “The room is just like Jason left it.…he was just here, you know…..," she said. "We thought he would….."  She stopped again, choking off her words.  But then she quickly recovered.  "We thought he would want to use it for a little while when he got back, before he went on with his life. But he told us he re-enlisted."

She seemed nervous about being in the room and I understood why she probably couldn’t change anything in it.  I thanked her quietly but profusely, which seemed to give her permission to leave.  It wasn’t what I'd planned but I was grateful for her hospitality. When I was alone, I stood in the middle of the room and looked around.  It was eerie; both comforting and disturbing at the same time. The room seemed to wrap itself around me, as Jason himself had done so many times.  It was easy to imagine him there; I could almost feel his presence.  I tried to imagine the day he walked out of this room to become a Navy SEAL, expecting to return and find everything just as he'd left it; and when he did return, he would find that nothing was as he'd left it. 

I walked around the room taking in every detail.  The bed that he'd slept in such a short time ago was still wrinkled where he'd sat on it, I suppose, to put his boots on.  There was still a towel draped over the barbell from where I was sure he'd worked out when he was home.  There were several pictures of bodybuilders stuck to the wall. A football sat cocked against the pillow. A bulletin board displayed some concert ticket stubs, a dried boutonniere, some old newspaper clippings from the sports page, several pictures of him and his teammates as well as pictures of him and various girls.  There was a concert poster on the opened closet door.  I thought it poignant that even his closet door was open, no doubt the way he’d left it.  His clothes still hung in the closet, including his athletic jacket.  I checked it out.  It hung heavy with medals and awards, and I wondered if he felt the same about his athletic honors as he did about his military medals….no big deal. Probably so.

Oddly, there was a GI Joe doll standing on his dresser, barefoot, with no shirt. I couldn't help noticing the striking resemblance. I would learn later in conversation with his parents that he had patterned himself after GI Joe.

Mrs. Seaborne called me down to supper.

"You take Jason's chair," she said, pointing to a chair at the opposite end of the table from her husband.

I felt uneasy about it but I didn't argue.  Whether it was meant as a gesture of hospitality or honor to her son, these people were not to be argued with. 

“I expect you call it dinner, but in Dunnsport, we call it supper,” Mr. Seaborne said.

“I call it chow, all three meals a day,” I said.

The three of us made casual and pleasant conversation during supper.  I wondered but didn't ask where Allen was.  I thought he should have been there to comfort his parents.  He was, after all, the surviving son.

"You've probably gathered that Jason and Allen didn't see eye to eye on things," Mr. Seaborne said.

"Allen and Jason never saw eye to eye on anything," Mrs. Seaborne said, laughing softly.  "Sometimes I wondered how they both ended up in the same house.  You would think one of them was an orphan," she joked.

"Jason was very proud of his brother, being in law school," I said. I wanted them to know that.

"We were very proud of Jason," she said.

"He would be glad to know that," I said.  I did my best to steer the conversation away from matters of war and military and began asking about Jason when he was a little boy and a teenager in high school. They told me stories that made us laugh, and some that made Mrs. Seaborne tear up.  It was a much more relaxed conversation.  I offered to help with the dishes after supper.

"Oh, my, no," Mrs. Seaborne said, throwing up her hands.  "The kitchen is my domain, I would never allow the men-folk in there."

"So you’re saying Jason never had to do dishes?" I asked light-heartedly.

"He did plenty of other things.  He was a hard worker at anything he did, but no, I never let him in the kitchen, except when he pestered me," she said.

So Mr. Seaborne and I got out of her way and retired to the living room.  A picture frame on the bookshelf held two pictures of Jason; one of him in his dress whites, the other in combat uniform.  Another frame had pictures of him in high school; one in a tux and another in his gym shorts and sneakers. And wearing the tattered jockstrap, I was sure. Surprisingly, Mr. Seaborne didn't turn on the television as I expected he would, if only as a focal point to ease the tension.  Instead, he sat down, cocked one leg over the other and started talking.

"Tell me about my son," he said.  "We never really knew him after he joined the Navy."

"I can sum it up in a few words.  He was the best fighting man and the bravest man I ever met," I said.

He nodded.  "That doesn't surprise me.  He was never one to let a wrong go unnoticed and he never waited for somebody else to do something about it.  If he saw it, or heard about it, he took care of it.  Got himself into a few scrapes that way,” he said with a smile.

“He was never one to shy away from a scrap, I know that first hand,” I said.

“Got into a few fights, did he?” he said with a chuckle. He nodded thoughtfully, as if he were remembering something. “There was a young punk kid who rode his bike through the neighborhood….didn’t live around here….and he would make vulgar remarks about the girl who lived next door.  She wasn’t such a pretty thing, but she didn’t deserve that.  Jason beat the tar out of him.  He must’ve been no more than ten or eleven.  We never saw hide nor hair of the kid after that.” 

“That doesn’t surprise me,” I said, and I related the story of how Jason and I had taken down the four GIs in an alley in Saigon.

I tried to walk a fine line, talking about Jason, without getting into details about what he did. I wanted to offer his medals but Jason had been specific that they should ask for them.

"Tell me about my son," the man said again, this time with a firmness in his voice that wasn't to be ignored, a tone that demanded answers to questions unasked.

I dropped my head like a little boy being chewed out.  "He was a Navy SEAL, I’m sure you knew that," I said, looking back up at him.

"What do Navy SEALs do exactly?" he asked.

"I'm a Marine so I don't know exactly, only that they're the most highly trained and the toughest fighting force in the world."

“I thought the Marines held that distinction,” he said.

“We do, publicly,” I said. “The SEALs shy away from any kind of publicity.”  

“Well, I guess that explains why we were never able to get much of anything out of him.”

“Understand, he wasn’t allowed to divulge much of what he did,” I said. “And the rest…. well, they just don’t talk about it.  There's a code of silence.”

He sat quietly, looking at me, his eyes unwavering, as if he were waiting for me to continue. I was about to tell him that his son was a sniper but just then Mrs. Seaborne came in from the kitchen to join us.  I was glad for her presence.  She turned the conversation to Jason's boyhood again and that was much easier for all of us to talk about, although I got the impression that her husband wanted to know more about his military life.  It got late and the conversation waned and I excused myself to go up to bed.  No, I asked if I could be excused.  That was what you did with people like Mr. and Mrs. Seaborne.

"Let me know if there's anything you need," Mrs. Seaborne said.

I undressed and hung up my uniform, trying to imagine Jason there with me; two high school boys, and I was staying over.  After I showered, something compelled me to dig his jockstrap out of my bag. I stood naked in front of his workout mirror and pulled it on.  For that brief moment, I was Jason, stuffing my manhood inside his worn jockstrap.  I was Jason stretching out on the workout bench to do some bench presses. I wasn't going to work out but I wanted to press the same weight he did. I quickly came back to the reality that I wasn't Jason when I could barely push the barbell up off the rack. I didn't bother the plates on the bar though.  I left them the way he'd left them.  I was awash with emotion as I got in his bed, still wearing the badly tattered jockstrap. It looked like somebody had been chewing on it.  I crawled between the sheets he’d slept on only a short time ago and tucked his football in my arm and cried.

The next morning, Mr. Seaborne came in to wake me. I noticed that he was careful to stand back from the bed; he never touched me.

“The Missus is starting breakfast.”

“Thank you,” I said, stretching languidly.  Surprisingly, I’d gotten a good night’s sleep. I was a little embarrassed when the football tumbled out of the bed.

“Jason used to sleep with his hand wrapped around that football,” the man said.

“Yes, it was here, on the bed, I didn’t think I should move it,” I said.

He looked all around the room.  “I suppose she’ll turn the room into a shrine for a while,” he said, rather absently.

“I can understand that,” I said.

“Well, come on, son.  We didn’t have a chance to finish our conversation last night, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to pester you while you shave and get dressed.”

“I don’t mind, no, sir,” I said. I kicked the sheet off and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. Again, I was embarrassed to be wearing Jason’s old, ragged jockstrap. I saw that he noticed but he didn’t say anything. I wondered if he knew it was Jason’s. He probably did.  It was probably the only jock Jason had worn all through high school, from the looks of it; maybe even in grade school.  I was long accustomed to being naked around other men, but it was different, the man being Jason’s father. But he was waiting.  I dug out a pair of shorts and slipped them on over the jockstrap to go shave.

Mr. Seaborne stood in the doorway of the bathroom and watched me shave.

“Used to stand here and watch Jason after he started shaving,” he said.  “It was the only time we had to talk.  Stood here and talked to him when he was home the last time, while he was shaving.”       

I wondered if he was trying to picture me as his son. “I don’t mind, sir,” I said again.

He delved into the war; what it was like being in Vietnam, and the people. He asked me what I thought about the protestors.

“I don’t like ‘em much,” I said.

“As far as I’m concerned, they need to all be rounded up and sent over there,” he said flatly.

It sounded like he was including his other son in that statement, and that surprised me.  He glanced down for a moment then looked up at me; a penetrating look that made me turn my head toward him.  The look in his eyes sent a chill down my spine.

“I don’t know how or what to ask, but I know there’s a lot you’re not telling me,” he said, his look unwavering.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” I said.

“You don’t have to call me sir.”

“If you don’t mind, sir, I do,” I said, glancing at him in the mirror, unblinking.

“All right,” he said, nodding. 

He waited.

“I wasn’t in his outfit. I don’t know everything he did on a day to day basis,” I offered. It wasn’t a total lie.

“You know more than you’re telling me,” he said.  “Was he ever hurt?”

“He was shot in the shoulder by a VC sniper,” I said. “He laughed about that; said the guy was a lousy shot.” 

I glanced in the mirror and the man met my glance, still waiting.  He knew there was more that I was keeping from him. I felt guilty telling things that Jason would not have wanted me to tell.  But he wasn’t the one standing there facing his father.  And I thought the man had a right to know.

“He was a POW for a while; but he escaped,” I went on. “He got mangled up pretty bad one time in a vehicle accident.”

“I noticed some scars when he was home. Were they from the accident or was he tortured?” he asked bluntly.

“I honestly don’t know,” I lied. 

“You don’t lie much better than he did,” the man said.

I glanced at him again in the mirror and our eyes met.

“You don’t have to tell me, but by God, don’t lie to me,” he said.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I said, lowering my eyes and holding the razor down to rinse it off.  “Yeah, he, uh… some of the scars were probably from his time as a POW.”

“Did they put him in one of those cages down in the water, do you know?”

I began to tear up. I laid the razor down and gripped the edges of the sink. “Sir, it’s hard for me to talk about this, he was my best buddy,” I glanced back up and looked in the mirror for some understanding. But he was relentless. I could see where Jason got his steely eyes.

“It’s hard for me to ask the questions and hear the answers; he was my son,” he said sternly.

I hung my head then looked back at him. “Yes, sir, he spent some time in one of those cages and I honestly don’t know what else they did to him. He only talked about it one time when we were….” I caught myself, about to tell him we were lying together after his son had fucked my eyeballs out. “We were having a beer right after he escaped,” I finished. “He told me just so much, then he clammed up. I never asked him about it again and he never talked about it.” I would’ve liked to tell him how he managed to survive, with his big cock.

“Were some of the marks I saw cigarette burns?” he asked in an even tone.  

“Yes, sir.”

“Those bastards will rot in hell,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

Again, he waited. There was only one more thing but I was reluctant to tell him.  Maybe it was against regulations. But the colonel had told Jason the mission--taking out the commanding general of the North Vietnamese Army--didn’t happen.  

“He was a sniper,” I said, finally.

“Was he good at it?”

“Yes, sir, the best.  He was an expert rifleman.” I wanted so bad to tell him that his son had assassinated the president of Vietnam, but of course I didn’t. I wanted to say, “And the man fucked my brains out every chance he got,” but of course, I couldn’t say that either.

“We won’t talk about these things to his mother,” he said, with a tone of finality that told me the conversation was over.

“Yes, sir.”

I was surprised when Mr. Seaborne went to work.  She said it was his way of coping.  I sat and drank coffee with Mrs. Seaborne at her breakfast table for a while and listened to her tell stories about Jason as a boy growing up. She didn’t ask any questions about his military service or the war.  I still wondered where Allen was. As a way of excusing myself, I told her I needed to gas up the car.  I needed gas but I wanted to be alone in Jason’s surroundings. I drove downtown, parked and walked around, trying to absorb what Jason might have felt when he was a teenager.  I went in and out of a couple of stores; a clothing store and a sporting goods store and it was easy to see him there.  Dressed in civvies, it was easier to blend in. I found his school and walked out on the football field.  I felt his presence everywhere I went.

"Can I help you, mister?"

I turned to see a burly youth walking toward me. He was younger than me by a couple of years.

"I was just looking around," I said.

"You're the escort for Jason Seaborne," he said.

"Yes.  I just wanted to see where he played."

"Would you like to see the locker room?"

"Yes, I would."

We walked across the field to the school, the boy chattering about Jason's athletic prowess.

"He was ahead of me in school," he said.  "Everybody looked up to him. Especially the freshmen and sophomores.  He was a great athlete." He chuckled softly.  "The guy was a stud, actually.  Everybody wanted to be like him."

He led the way into the locker room and showed me Jason's locker.  It still had his name on the door that stood ajar.

"Another guy, Patterson, was using the locker but he never took Seaborne's name off the door; he put his name below Seaborne's name and he left his helmet and jersey right where Jason left it," he said as he opened the door. "When we heard he was killed, Patterson moved his stuff out and ripped his own name off the door.  It's Seaborne's locker now and that's the way it'll stay. He was a Navy SEAL, but he was a jock first.”

With little imagination, I could picture Jason there in the locker room, naked, dripping wet from his shower, laughing and joking and cavorting around with his teammates, and I was envious of them. I was overwhelmed by the boy's near hero-worship. Jason would have been impressed, too, if a little embarrassed.  The way the boy went on talking about him, it was obvious that Jason had attained legendary stud status in his old school.  I thanked the youth for his time and the tour.

"I'll see you at the wake," he said.

I ate lunch at a small café.  Again, even out of uniform, I was recognized as Jason’s escort.  When I’d finished eating I asked for my ticket.

“There is no ticket,” the man who I took to be the owner said.

“Why not?”

“I wouldn’t charge Jason for a meal here, I won’t charge one of his buddies.  Especially the one who brought him back.”  His voice was stern.  Like Jason’s father, the man was not to be argued with.  I thanked him and left.

I walked and drove around for a while then went back to the house to change into my dress uniform for the wake. The honor guard arrived at the funeral home; a seven-man contingent from a Marine detachment from Columbus. I supposed that was okay with Jason, that they were Marines instead of Navy. I introduced myself as the escort.  One of the Marines took his place at the foot of the casket, at stiff attention.  I went up to him.

“Listen, you can stand at parade rest, but come to attention when his parents come in, or any military,” I said. Then I took my place at the head of the casket. The rest stationed themselves around the room, standing at parade rest.

          I had a hard time not looking at Jason lying in the casket.  He looked so damned handsome in his uniform, his chest covered with ribbons, and I was so damned proud of him. The funeral director brought Mr. and Mrs. Seaborne into the room and we all snapped to attention and remained so till they had seated themselves in the comfortable chairs near the casket. People began to arrive and it surprised me and pissed me off how many people seemed to ignore us in uniform, or looked at us with contempt, and it saddened me that the anti-war mentality had permeated even this small community.  I spoke to or acknowledged people only if they spoke to me first.  I wondered where his brother was.  Maybe he wouldn't show. 

I was appalled and really pissed when he showed up in jeans wearing a black armband.  He was with four other guys, all wearing armbands, with two girls who had black ribbons in their hair.  I began to seethe inside.  I couldn’t stop them all but there was no way I was going to let Allen walk up to Jason’s casket wearing his black armband. I motioned for one of the Marines to take my place at the casket and I went to meet the "protestors" before they could move into the viewing room.  I motioned his brother into the small anteroom next to the office.

"Give me the armband," I said.

"We're all wearing them,” he said in a surly tone.

"Those other cowards can do whatever they want.  You're his brother."

"Who the hell do you think you are to order me around?  I have the right to express my feelings in any way I wish."

"Yeah, he fought for that right, but you’re not going to do it here," I snapped in calm anger.  "You know, Jason told me he was proud of you and he understood why you couldn't be proud of him.  Well, I don't understand and I'm not even going to try.  This isn't about you or your asshole cowardly friends.  This is a military service to honor the bravest man I ever knew.  Now give me the arm band, or I'll take it off of you."

"You wouldn't dare," he said, laughing nervously.

"Watch me," I said in a low, even tone.  "Trust me, you will lose, and it will not be pleasant," I added.  “Now give me the armband; if I have to take it off of you I’ll shove it down your throat.”

He hesitated then took off the armband.

"Wise choice," I said as I stuffed it in my pocket.  "You can have it back after the wake," I said.

"Fuck you. There're plenty more where that one came from."

"Don't show up wearing one at the funeral tomorrow," I warned. “And tell your friends.  Nobody wears the armbands tomorrow.”

"I don't know why my brother put you in charge of the arrangements in the first place," he growled.

"I think I'm looking at why," I said.  "He didn't trust you.  And obviously with good reason."

I took my place at the head of the casket again. Allen came through the line with his friends just like other mourners, not as his brother. I considered it an insult. He should’ve been standing with his parents. He paused at the casket with a look of sad contempt.  I wanted to smash his face in.  I half hoped I might get a chance to do that later.

It was apparent that Jason had impacted a lot of lives in one way or another. It didn't surprise me that a lot of girls were at the wake; a lot of very sad, emotional girls crying on each other's shoulders or with their heads buried in their boyfriends’ chests.  In my perverted grief, I wondered which or how many of them had lain under his muscular athlete's body and known the awesome pleasure of his manhood thrusting inside them.  There were a lot of his high school buddies there, too, looking even more studly with tears running unashamedly down their faces. What did surprise me were the younger kids, some barely in their teens, who I'm sure Jason never knew. You were a hero, I thought; more than you knew.

At one point Mrs. Seaborne took two young men up to the casket and she turned to me and asked what all the medals were for. "The boys want to know, and I would like to know, too," she said.

I approached the casket with her, and her husband joined us. "I can explain them, but they are all listed on his discharge papers," I said. Then I went on to explain the ribbons. "That is the Expert Rifleman Badge, that one is the Good Conduct Medal, that's the Purple Heart, Bronze Star, Silver Star," I said, pointing to each one. "That one is the Republic of Vietnam Gallantry Cross, the Distinguished Pistol Shot, Distinguished Marksman, Republic of Vietnam Campaign Medal, the Vietnam Service Medal, that's the POW Medal, Combat Action Medal, Navy/Marine Achievement Medal, Overseas Service Ribbon, the Navy/Marine Commendation Medal and his jump wings."

"Wow!" one of the boys said.

"He was a real Marine," the other said.

“No he was Navy.  A Navy SEAL.  I hate to admit it but that’s a cut above a Marine,” I said.

"My goodness, we had no idea," Mrs. Seaborne whispered.  She looked at her husband.  "We didn't know he was a POW.  He never wrote us about that."

Mr. Seaborne gave me a wary look but I felt I had to say something.  "He was captured but was held for only a short time before he escaped.  He said he was treated okay," I lied.

"Thank God for that!"

"Well, you can thank him partly, because he escaped," I said with a kind smile.

"He never wrote us much, period," Mr. Seaborne said.

"He didn’t talk much about what he did, not even to me," I said.  "For him it was just another day at the office."

I didn’t know how long the line was outside to get into the funeral home but it went by without interruption for four whole hours and a bit beyond the scheduled time.  When everyone had left, the funeral director excused the honor guard and gave Mr. and Mrs. Seaborne some time at the casket.  Allen stood with them for a moment then left; his friends were waiting. Mrs. Seaborne put her hand out to me and pulled me in close to the casket.  She squeezed my hand and sobbed quietly.

"He was so young," she whispered, patting his hand.  "He was only seventeen when he went in.  We should've never signed the papers."

"He wouldn't want you say that," I said, putting my arm around her frail shoulders.

The two moved back and left me at the casket alone. I stood with my hands clasped over the edge of the casket, fighting back more emotions than I thought I could handle.  These were the last moments I would ever see him; tomorrow the casket would be closed.  I closed my eyes and it was if I had died with him.  God, I wish I had!  Our entire time together passed before me in that brief moment. I could almost feel his hard muscles rippling against me, his hot breath and rough beard on my neck, his massive cock invading my body.  God, let this not be true!  Let it be a dream that I can wake up from! But it wasn’t. When I opened my eyes I saw the awful truth of him lying there in his uniform, still so fuckin’ handsome, and his hand was cold to the touch.  My shoulders slumped and I broke down in sobs.

I felt a gentle hand on my arm and a firmer hand on my shoulder. His parents were comforting me.  Again, I mouthed the words, ‘I Love You’ as I had when he walked away the last night I saw him.

After the wake, Allen again didn't show up at his parents' house.  I didn't ask why, or where he was.  For me it was better that he wasn't there but I thought it showed great disrespect for his parents. We sat on the front porch for a short while and I listened to them relating stories about various people who had come to the wake, and how many people were there and how wonderful the Marines looked.  Nothing was said about their other son. I was tired and I ached inside and I again asked their permission to be excused to go upstairs to bed.

“Sergeant,” Mrs. Seaborne said as I was at the bottom of the stairs.  They had walked me in.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Dad and I were talking and….if there is something of Jason’s you would like to have, we would be honored for you to have it.”

“Maybe you’d like to have his football,” Mr. Seaborne said with a knowing look and I knew he was remembering me with the football, wearing his son’s old jockstrap.

“Or his GI Joe,” Mrs. Seaborne put in.

Their generosity struck me. I bit my lip to keep my emotions in check till I could speak. “Yes, I would like that, thank you very much,” I said.

I was more at ease my second night in Jason's room.  I felt like I belonged there, in his bed, hugging his football, sleeping in his jockstrap.

To be continued...  

Posted: 02/20/15 rp