A Marine Called Jason
(Revised)
by: Peter

(© 2007-2015 by the Author)
 

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

Chapter 17
Still Lost

I finished my tour in country and extended for six more months.  Don't ask me why.  It was just something I had to do.  The war was still going on and maybe I thought I could make a difference in six more months. Maybe I wanted to honor my buddy by serving part of his re-enlistment that he never got to serve. Whatever the reason, I didn’t want to go home, and I didn’t, not even for the leave time I got for extending. I went to Hawaii instead.  It was nice and I met some really hot, horny guys on a beach, but like always, everywhere I went I expected to see Jason.  I missed him so much it hurt. The trip to Hawaii was mostly about rampant sex, like I was trying to get it out of my system, but it didn’t work.  Do you ever get sex out of your system?  When I got back in country I was ready to be there.

Jason's death took something out of me.  The hate.  I didn't hate the VC like I did before. They were still the enemy and I remained diligent in my job of getting information out of them but the intense hate was gone.  Maybe it was because it wasn’t the VC who had killed him.

One day I came across the roll of film I'd used up taking pictures of Jason that time at the Trent.  I stood at my locker holding the film cartridge tightly in my hand.  I had forgotten all about it and my mind was suddenly flooded with the images that I knew were on the film. The problem was where to get the film developed.  I took it to a civilian photo shop and told the little man that I was having them developed for a buddy of mine.  I also told him the nature of the pictures and said we'd taken them so he could send them to his girlfriend.  The man gave me a leering smile and nodded and said he understood.

When I went back to pick them up, the man smiled even wider. "He very big. He a stud," he said.

"Yeah, wouldn't you hate to be his girlfriend," I joked as I paid him, along with a generous tip.

I stopped at the little park across from Toby’s and found my secluded bench under some trees.  I was nervous opening the packet of pictures.  My breath went out of me and a sudden dull pain manifested itself in my chest when I held them in my hand. I gazed at the picture on top, of Jason, shirtless, in his combat fatigues and boots and web belt.  My Godd, he was beautiful.  In the next one he was in his old, ragged jockstrap.  How well I remembered that bulge; his manhood so heavy that it pulled the jock down in front.  The next one, he was in all his glory naked.  Big, muscular, so damned good looking, and....my eyes fell last at his manhood. My Godd, he was hung!  His cock was an absolute work of art in itself.  I lingered over each picture till I sucked the very essence of him into my being.  I think I was trying to bring him to life inside my own soul.

The next picture, he had a hardon.  I had to laugh at the way he posed to show off his huge cock.  I remembered that I'd said I needed a wide-angle lens. And he joked back that the pictures would be something to show my grandchildren.  He was stroking his cock in the next one.  Looking closely, I could see precum glistening in the slit of his cockhead.  The pictures I'd taken from the back made me want to cry, he was so gorgeous.  Such a magnificent butt! My mouth watered as I remembered the hours of pleasure I had derived with my face buried between those beautifully rounded, taut muscles and my tongue boring deep into his tight hole.  How he loved it.  The pictures of him in the shower and drying off were equally priceless.  His last pose was sitting on the chair with legs spread apart and his heavy balls hanging low. He had his thumb pressed against the base of his cock to make it stand up straight and tall for me.  Damn, he was HUGE! And then I had laid the camera down and mounted that huge cock.

I went through the stack of photos several times before I put them away.  I had to sit for a few minutes while my hardon went down. Jason would have laughed at that.  Now that I had them, I didn't know where I was going to keep the photos.  I could use the same story I'd used with the photographer if somebody happened to find them but I didn't want to cast suspicion on myself and I wasn't sure the Colonel would buy that we'd taken them to send to Jason's girlfriend; especially not if I still had them.  I devised a way of hiding them.  I put them in a sealed envelope and placed that envelope in another sealed envelope and wrote on it, "In case of my death, see that these pictures are sent to the address on the inner envelope.”  The address was one of a girl that I'd taken from Jason's personal stuff.  It was a bold and risky thing to do but I didn't much care if some ex-girlfriend received a mysterious envelope from a deceased ex-boyfriend.  I taped the envelope to the underside of my footlocker tray.  About once a month, I would tear the envelope off to look at the pictures again.

One day the colonel….he was a bird colonel now, one step away from being a general....called me in.

"I never had a chance to ask you how things went back home.”

“Well, I got a taste of what they think of us back there when I took my buddy back to bury him.  I don't need the crap, sir, that’s why I extended," I said.

"Does your family feel that way?"

"I don't really know for certain, sir, but they never give any indication that they're proud that I'm over here.  I have to take it that they don't support our efforts." I told him about Jason’s brother and the incidents at the wake and the funeral, and at the airport.

“Damned shame,” he said.     

"You know what, sir?  After seeing the mood back home, I would've buried my buddy over here if there was a place and I had the say-so.  He would've been more at home here."

"I expect a lot of them would.  It's just too bad we don't have something like the cemetery at Normandy over here." 

I extended for a second six-month tour.  Again, I didn't go home to see my family. Toby cautioned me to go home for good after my second extension was up, before I ended up like him. I didn't see how that would be so bad.  I'd heard that a lot of guys were taking their discharges and staying in country. 

My life was pretty much run-of-the-mill Marine issue... do my job, eat, drink, sleep and have sex, not necessarily always in that order.  But I couldn't get past Jason's death.  I missed him every minute of every day and night.  The nights were the worst because there was time to remember. More than once I buried my face in the pillow and quietly cried myself to sleep. I missed him so much it hurt. More than once I walked the streets of Saigon looking for him, knowing full well that he was not the soldier walking ahead of me or across the street. I died a little each time I looked into a soldier’s face and saw a stranger.

One night I met up with Jack Burnside at Toby's; he was the soldier who came up to me in the church to console me when Jason died.  He recognized me right away and came up to the bar.

"Hey, how's it going?" he asked, putting out his hand.

"Still hanging in there," I said.  He had big hands, and the way those long, thick, strong fingers wrapped around mine sent a chill through me for some reason. He asked if he could join me and took the stool beside me without waiting for my answer. I bought his beer.

"I thought you steered clear of Toby's," I said.

He shrugged. "I decided to take a chance.  I've heard some interesting things about the place."

I thought it was an odd thing for him to say.  Maybe he was trying to tell me something.  I didn't pursue it but I left my options open and let my guard down. He asked how I was doing... really, like he was concerned how I was doing.

"I'm doing okay," I told him.

"I remember you were taking it pretty rough," he said.

"It's still rough," I said.

"I know how that is.”

“How about yourself?” I asked.

He shrugged.  “At some point the pain becomes like an old friend. Just don't work too hard trying to get over it.  Let it work itself out, and if it doesn’t, well, that’s okay, too," he said. "It’s hard teaming up with anybody else, isn't it, when you lose somebody that close?"

"Yeah. Hell, it’s been, fuck, nearly a year?....and I’m still wandering around like a lost puppy.”

"I never did get it laid to rest completely," he said.  "It’s like I'm lost out here somewhere."

"Yeah, sometimes I feel like a zombie," I said.

"I know what you mean…. like you're not really alive, just going through the motions till you die for real.  But it makes it easier when you can talk to somebody who's gone through the same thing."

I nodded.  He was sounding philosophical, which surprised me.

"Hey, I've got a place now if you wanta go there sometime," he said.

“All right, thanks,” I said.      

“Do you wanta come with me now? I can show you where it is.  You’d be welcome to go there anytime, even by yourself, just to hang out, if you don’t want company.”

Another surprise.  I couldn't gauge what was behind his invite but I was curious enough to want to find out.

"Sure," I said, and downed the rest of my beer to indicate that I was ready to go.

Outside, he hailed a cab and gave the driver an address.

"Where is this place?" I asked.

"I'll show you."

We drove all the way through the GI district of Saigon.  When the cabbie pulled into a dark alley and stopped I began to get the jitters.  It was a better part of town but it was still a dark alley.  Jack paid him and we got out.  The cab sped away like he was running away from something.  Jack let us through a tall wooden gate into a small but beautiful garden.  It was almost surreal, so peaceful and serene. I loved the Vietnamese gardens.

"Right up these stairs," Jack said, leading the way along a path between well-manicured bushes.  Up the stairs he unlocked the door and held it open for me to go in first.

"Welcome to my little corner of Saigon," he said as he closed the door and locked it.

"Your little corner?  This is not a hotel, is it?"

"No. It's a place I keep to get away from the insanity out there," he said.

There was absolutely no trace of the war, not even the smell of it that permeated even the barracks. It was a large room with comfortable, not-cheap furniture, with wall hangings and sconces with candles. There was a state-of-the-art stereo system, and built-in shelves holding a small library of books. In one corner was a kitchenette and beyond that I could see a bathroom.  Jack opened the French doors that opened up onto a balcony overlooking the garden.

"This is damned civilized," I said.  All the while I was wondering how he managed to have such a place... how he afforded it.  But maybe he came from money.

"It's a place to come to," he said.

"This is all yours?" I asked.

"Well, it's rented," he said.  "Everything in it is mine."

"It looks like you're planning on staying a while," I said.

"That's a distinct possibility," he said. "My time's up in about three months and so far I haven't found any good reason to go back to the world.  I didn't like what I saw when I buried my buddy."  He handed me a drink.

"I know.  I didn't either."  I told him about my experience with Jason's funeral.

"I can top that," he said.  "My buddy's mother is an anti-war activist and she wouldn't allow a military funeral.  There was no honor guard, and he wasn’t even in his uniform.  He was buried in a suit.  Not even a flag.  I wasn't even allowed to wear my uniform and she wouldn't let the minister make any mention of his military service. The bitch erased the whole time he was over here; that entire part of his life.  His dad and older brother fought her on it but since she had custody when he was growing up, the judge gave her the say-so.  I was so damned pissed... and hurt.  Mostly I was hurt for his dad and brother. Both of them were in the Marines. I went out to the cemetery with them before I left, in uniform, along with some high school buddies….guys we played football with….and I had my rifle from the honor guard that they wouldn’t allow.  I told the captain at the armory about it and he let me take the rifle and ammo.  We planted flags on his grave and I gave him a fuckin’ twenty-one-gun salute myself.  Fuckin’ fired off twenty-one rounds.”  He laughed. “It brought the cops, rolling into the cemetery. I explained what we were doing and he said it was something that should’ve been done in the first place. One of the guys brought his trumpet and played taps. We gave him a proper burial.  I doubt the flags stayed on his grave very long but the guys said they would see that he always had a flag even if they had to take one out there every day." He laughed softly. “I even took some of the empty brass and buried it in his gravesite. She would shit if she knew that.”

"Geezusss, what a bitch."

"I didn't even tell her goodbye when I left.  Hell, I practically grew up in that house, but I didn't know who the fuck that woman was.  He would have been so ashamed of her."  He paused, or stopped, and quickly chugged the rest of his beer.  "God, I miss him," he whispered, swiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

I was tearing up too, remembering Jason’s funeral.  Then out of the blue he threw me a curve that hit me right between the eyes.

"Do you want to go to bed?"

I was taken aback, not completely sure how he was asking the question.  He saw my surprised look.

"I'm taking a big risk here but I think we're rowing the same boat," he said. "If we’re not, then I'm just offering you a place to sack out for the night.  If we are, then... well….."  He stood up and pulled his shirt out of his jeans.  "I'm going to bed.  If you want to join me, I won't kick you out."

I set my beer down and followed his tight bubble-butt over to the bed.

"Wow. I never had a come-on like that before," I said. "What made you think we're in the same boat?"

"In the church... I could tell you lost more than a buddy.  Losing a buddy tears your guts out, but man, your heart was breaking into little pieces. And I know how that feels."

He stripped off his clothes and stood and watched me undress.

"You top or bottom?" he asked boldly.

"Either....both, and everything in between," I replied.

"Good, so am I.  This oughta be real interesting."

I knew I would never forget Jack Burnside, any more than I would forget Tom McCord.  Damn, Jack knew how to fuck, and he knew how to move his butt.

To be continued...  

Posted: 02/20/15 rp