Marines Don’t Cry

Apropos of Veterans Day, a short short story I wrote that is included in the anthology STORIES THAT NEED TO BE TOLD 2025 (AMAZON). I am happy to share with you.

I’d been in California for a few weeks. Was nineteen years old. Received a special delivery

letter from the Military Induction Center. “Report in a few weeks,” it said.

Welcome to Hollywood!

I showed up at the downtown LA Induction Center. They got us standing naked in a

circle with thirty other guys. A sergeant strolls in and barks, “One outta fifteen of you is

going to the Marine Corps.” Guess what number I was? Yeah. Fifteen. My knees

buckled. I thought I was going to faint. When I called my parents to tell them the news,

my mother dropped the phone. Literally.

They loaded us onto a bus for San Diego. I sat next to a guy from Finland who’d

enlisted to get his U.S. citizenship. We bonded fast—fear has a way of doing that. A

drill instructor stalked up and down the aisle, screaming about how we were going to

be transformed into Killer Marines. And we’d better “shape up fast. So, we shaped up.

Sat there like terrified statues the rest of the ride. I thought, “If this is a game, I’m

gonna learn the rules.”

And I did.

Boot camp was brutal. But after two weeks, I figured out the code. I swaggered. I

cursed. I strutted in my fatigues like the rest of them.. Then there was Captain Mercer.

One morning, we’re in formation—Dress Right Dress. Heads turned right, left hands on

hips. Captain Mercer strolls by behind me and whispers, “You look like you should be wearing

furs and draped in jewels.” I didn’t flinch. Just stared ahead, poker-faced. But

my Finnish buddy heard. We named him “Captain Mabel Mercer.” It stuck.

Six weeks later, somehow, I graduated. Private First Class.

Camp Pendleton was my assignment. Just south of Laguna Beach. My job? Clerk in

the Supply Department. Handed out rifles and uniforms. Nine to five. Like a regular day

job—except with bullets. Fridays at 5 a.m., we’d issue rifles to green Marines being

shipped to Korea. Most had no clue they were about to die in the Battle of Bunker Hill. I

started praying. Hard. “Please don’t send me to Korea. And on Fridays during roll call?

Some joker would shout, “Hey, you guys going up to movie producer George Cukor’s

place for the weekend? Free beer and chow!”

Tempting? Sure. But I knew better. “Nah,” I’d yell back. “Got other plans.” Truth? I was

scared they’d find out I was gay. Because if they did? I wouldn’t be yelling anything

ever again.

Oh, and the straight guys? Some had no problem getting, let’s say… serviced. “Not

gay,” they’d insist. Sure, buddy. Keep telling yourself that.

One morning at the PX, I spotted a new guy behind the coffee counter. Tall, blond, tan,

surfer-type. I recognized him immediately—from beach volleyball games back in Santa

Monica. Will Rogers Beach. Before all this camouflage nonsense.His name was Al. Pasadena guy. We reintroduced ourselves, met that night for drinks

at a bar in Laguna. Sparks flew. Lust. Not love. Let’s be honest. We didn’t have much in

common—but hey, we were stationed together. Proximity breeds passion.

Weekends became our escape. Motels in Laguna. Quiet stretches on the beach of

Dana Point.Our secret. But secrets don’t stay secrets.

We were summoned to the Colonel’s office. A gay sailor had broken up with his Marine

boyfriend and, in a fit of bitterness, started naming names. Al and I were on his list. We

were interrogated in separate rooms. They had motel names. Details. They offered me

a deal—admit it, name others, and I’d be quietly discharged. They even promised not

to tell my parents I was a “homo.” I told them nothing. Others weren’t so lucky—or so

silent. It snowballed. Chaplains, nurses, Navy personnel—all exposed. In total? Over

120 discharged. Like a purge. No lawyers. No defense. Just thrown in the brig. My new

home: a five-by-eight-foot concrete cell with a mattress and a toilet. The highlight?

Marching to the mess hall beneath signs that read “WOMEN MARINES.” Hilarious. For

others. After a few weeks, they let me out. Sent me back to the same tent with five

guys. Four hugged me. They asked if I was ok. I quickly replied, “No, really, I’m fine.”

Then the day came. We, the “undesirables,” were ordered to wear our dress uniforms

and battle ribbons. We stood on the parade field in front of the entire battalion. The

general walked up. One by one, he ripped the ribbons from our uniforms.

Like tearing the soul out of your chest, I stood still. 

Years later, I read in the LA Times that Al had died. I remembered his sunburnt nose.

Golden hair on his legs.

It hit me harder than I expected. And then I cried.

I took a deep breath. But, but. No, really, I’m fine.