Chapter 5 - Shadows in the Glass
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Pete poured two fingers of amber bourbon into my cleaned glass and placed an identical tumbler in front of Bull Crawford.
The eight younger Marines remained hovering near the back wall, unsure whether they were permitted to breathe.
"Dismissed to the corner booth, gentlemen," I told the squad without turning my head.
"Drink some soda water, keep your mouths shut, and consider this a leadership masterclass."
"Aye, ma'am," Corporal Miller answered immediately, ushering the remaining seven Marines into the farthest booth.
Bull sat across from me in the worn vinyl booth, his broad shoulders hunched forward like a penitent schoolboy.
He stared into the amber liquid before him, leaving the glass completely untouched.
"Drink it, Crawford," I said, taking a measured sip from my own glass.
"It will steady your nerves, and right now you look like you're about to faint."
Bull took a hesitant sip, the alcohol burning down his throat, but it did nothing to color his pale complexion.
"Why are you here alone, Marcus?" I asked, studying the deep dark circles carved beneath his eyes.
"Your battalion isn't stationed at Norfolk; you belong to the 2nd Marine Division out of Camp Lejeune."
Bull closed his eyes, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the laminate table.
"We buried Corporal Jackson three days ago, ma'am," Bull whispered, his voice trembling with an agony he had tried to drown in beer.
"He was nineteen years old."
"He was on his first deployment to Syria when an improvised explosive device breached our armored convoy."
"I was sitting in the lead vehicle."
"I picked the route."
"I told him the road was cleared."
The silence returned, but this time it was not born of shock or fear; it was the heavy silence of shared bereavement.
I knew that hollow, decaying ache in the marrow of the bone.
Every commander who has ever sent young men into hostile territory carries those tombstones on their shoulders.
"You think you killed him," I stated plainly.
Bull looked up, his bloodshot eyes swimming with unshed tears and burning with self-loathing.
"I should have been in the second truck," Bull rasped, slamming his palm softly against his thigh.
"He had a young wife and a baby girl he never got to hold."
"I’ve survived four combat tours without a scratch, and that boy dies before his life even starts."
"I came up here after the funeral to lose my mind."
"I wanted someone to hit me."
"I wanted somebody to beat me until I couldn't remember his face anymore."
"So you decided to pick a fight with a woman sitting alone at a bar," I said softly, stripping away the illusion.
Bull dropped his head onto the table, covering his face with his massive hands.
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"God help me," he sobbed quietly.
"I’m a coward."
