Corpsman by Jonathan P. Brazee Page A

steins on the table and filled it from the only one of the three pitchers that still had beer in it.
    “So, where’s the belle of the ball?” she asked.
    “Veal?  Don’t know.  She’ll be coming soon, I’m guessing.  Ask her bunkie.”
    “She wasn’t in the room when I left, but she’ll be here,” Fanny said.
    With the unexpected mission to Wyxy interrupting their shake-down cruise, their scheduled full deployment had been pushed back to let the battalion and the ship finish hitting their pre-deployment checks, so they were all back on Tarawa.  Tempo was high, but the battalion had moved into their final admin stand-down, which meant the junior Marines had been cut loose after noon chow, and they had the evening free.  When Tamara Veal had said she wanted to meet everyone at the Down ‘N Out, it seemed like a good excuse to have one last party on Tarawa before shipping out.
    Liege took a sip of the beer and made a grimace. 
    “What’s this Munchen piss-water?” she asked.  “Let me get something decent,” she added, standing up.
    “They’re your credits,” Wythe said.  “But I’ll drink whatever you bring back.”
    Liege bought three pitchers of Wolfshead Red and brought them back to the table.  Wythe drained his stein, refilled it with the Red, and immediately drained half of it.
    “Oh, I’ve got to hang out with you more, Doc.  This is the good stuff!” he said.  “But it sure runs through you.  I’ve got to go pay the rent,” he said, getting up to use the head.
    Within the next ten minutes, the entire squad, minus Veal and Vinter, had arrived, and spirits were high.  It was good to unwind like this, Liege thought as she sat back for a moment, just listening to the chatter.
    “So what’s the scuttlebutt about Crow?” Corporal Francewell Sativaa asked no one in particular.
    “Hell of a shot, hot as a volcano, but rather a bitch, from what I hear,” Tyrell Goodpastor said.  “Why do you ask?”
    “Veal invited her here, you know, to thank her for zeroing that SevRev.”
    Liege hadn’t known that someone else would join them this evening.  She felt a little disappointed.  But Tamara had organized the party, so it was her call.
    “You’re right about her being hot,” Vic Williams said.  “She hits the gym late sometimes like me, when it’s less crowded, and she’s mighty fine to look at.  Won’t talk to anybody, though.”
    “And did little Vic try to pick up on the corporal?  Get turned down?” Fanny asked as if talking to a baby.
    “Not me,” Vic said with conviction.  “I like me a woman with a little personality, if you please.”
    “Oh, yeah, sure.  Like that green-haired dancer on Left Out?” Killer Wheng shouted as most of the table erupted into laughter. 
    Vic mumbled something, his face turning bright red.  Liege hadn’t been with the squad the last time they were training on Left Out, so she had no idea what they were laughing about.  But if the volume of the laughter was any indication, she sure wanted to know that story.
    “What’re you laughing about?” Wythe asked, returning from the head.
    Corporal Wheng said, “Vic and the dancer on Left Out.”
    Wythe started laughing himself as he took his seat again.  Since no one started to expound on the story, Liege cleared her throat to ask.
    She wasn’t about to find out anything as Fanny shouted out, “Hey, it’s The Blonde Terror!”
    Tamara Veal was making her way through the tables to join them, a sheepish smile on her face.
    “Sit down, Veal.  I’ve got a pitcher with your name on it!” Wythe said, waving a mostly full pitcher of beer.
    Tamara wormed her way onto the bench seat against the wall.
    “Took you long enough,” Fanny said.  “We’ve almost drunk all the beer Jessie here bought for you, and the next pitcher’s on you.”
    “That true, Wythe?  You buy this?”
    “True that.  I told you on the Caracas I was buying, didn’t I?  An’ a Marine never goes back on