The Marine

A young Marine battling major personal demons contemplates suicide, but experiences an intervention that turns it all around

The young Marine sat alone in the dark alley, listening as the sounds of the city echoed around him. The tears that trickled down his cheek began to flow faster as he reflected on how his life had gotten to this point. He fondly remembered the day he had enlisted. His father, a Vietnam Veteran, had retired from the Corps just 3 years before he joined up, having devoted 30 years of his life to the service of this country. His grandfather had been the start of it all. Richard Cross had enlisted in 1942 and joined the Greatest Generation as they beat back tyranny on two fronts. He had proudly fought on Iwo Jima, and had won the Navy Cross for taking out a machine gun nest with only his 1911 and a satchel charge. It was one hell of a legacy for our young Marine to live up to, being the third generation of Cross men to pass through Paris Island.

When he returned from Afghanistan, he had done so with the intention of surprising his wife, Susan, but the surprise had been on him. She had greeted him with divorce papers, and taken their 4 year old son and left without so much as a forwarding address. After she left, he had walked to the nearest liquor store and crawled into a bottle, and there he remained, almost three years later.

He glanced down at the only material possession he had left: his grandfather's 1911. He hefted it, testing the weight. It was time for him to leave this world of sorrow and pain behind. He inserted a magazine containing one cartridge into the weapon and slammed it home. He then racked the slide back and released it, hearing the satisfying "snick" as it returned to battery, chambering the round. This was it, no turning back now. He placed the muzzle against his right temple, wincing as the cold steel touched his flesh. He closed his eyes, allowing the tears to come freely as he thought one last time of his son.

"I'm so sorry" he sobbed, and then he pulled the trigger.

Some moments later, he wasn't sure how long, he opened his eyes. Puzzled, he looked at the pistol. The hammer had fallen, but there had only been a sickly "click" as the weapon misfired. He pulled back the slide, ejecting the round. Picking it up, he examined it closely. The primer was sufficiently dimpled. It should have fired, and yet here he was. Disgusted, he got to his feet and began stumbling down the alley. He couldnt even get suicide right. No matter. He would find a cop and point the empty handgun at him. The officer would take care of the rest.

As he walked, he pulled a bottle from the inside pocket of his jacket, finishing what whiskey remained, and tossing the bottle; the sound of the shattering glass sending a tomcat scurrying beneath a dumpster. Shivering he pulled his fatigue jacket close around him. It was rainy and wet, and the water-resistant fabric offered some respite from the night's chill.

Turning a corner, the lights of a church caught his eye. The sign identified it as the Fourth Avenue Church of Christ. It was Monday night, but for some reason, the lights were on, and the door was open. For reasons he could not explain, he began walking toward the building. With each step, his resolve to kill himself lessened, until at last, he crossed the threshold and collapsed in a sobbing heap on the floor.

The pastor looked up from his desk when he heard a thud from the sanctuary. Going to investigate, he saw a tattered and disheveled young man crying on the floor. He strode toward him quickly, but stopped short when he saw the gun clutched in the man's hand. He pulled his phone from his pocket to call the police, but then his eyes fell upon the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor insignia on the crying man's jacket collar. Without hesitation he dropped to his knees and wrapped the young warrior in his arms.

"Hold fast, son, hold fast. I've got you" he said.

The man looked up at the pastor. "Help me, please" he pleaded.

The clergyman helped him to his feet and led him down the corridor to his office. Once there, he seated his troubled visitor on the couch and handed him a box of tissue.

"I'm Reverend Michaels" he began, "and you are?"

"C-Cross" the young Marine stammered. "Aaron Cross."

"Ok, Aaron. What troubles you? How can I help?" The minister queried.

Wiping away his tears, Aaron regarded the preacher with some apprehension.

"Why do you care?" He asked flatly.

Reverend Michaels chuckled. "My being a man of faith isn't reason enough?"

When Aaron didn't reply, the preacher smiled softly and began rolling up his left shirt sleeve.

"Let's just say I wasn't always a preacher" he said, holding his bare forearm out for Aaron to see.

Aaron's jaw fell open as he gazed at the tattoo on the minister's arm. Big bold letters that read "USMC".

Dropping his guard completely in the presence of a Brother Marine, Aaron told him everything, every last detail. He held nothing back.

When he had finished, Reverend Michaels quietly studied him for a moment, then, standing up, he said

" Wait here, Aaron. There is someone that I know will want to talk to you. I'll be right back."

With that, the good Reverend left the room, and Aaron realized for the first time how tired he was. He stretched out on the couch and closed his eyes. He would rest while he waited for the preacher to return.

"Aaron! Aaron! Wake up boy!"

The stern voice caused Aaron to open his eyes, and he sat up with a jolt when he saw where it came from. His grandfather, who had died nine years ago, stood before him. He didn't look like Aaron's memories of him though. He looked to be in his very early twenties, as he appeared in the old war photos Aaron had seen as a child. He was even dressed in the WWII-era uniform of a Marine.

"Grandpa?!?" Aaron gasped. "But...but this is impossible"

His grandfather smiled. "Nothing is impossible for a Marine. We improvise. We adapt. We overcome.".

His smile faded as he continued. " At least" he sighed, "We are supposed to."

Aaron's head dropped and he stared at his feet. His grandfather knew he had tried to kill himself. He had never been so ashamed in his life.

He felt the firm but gentle touch of his grandfather's hand on his shoulder.

"Aaron, listen to me. You can beat this, but you have to cork the bottle. Alcohol killed your father. My son. I will be damned if I will let it take you."

"It just hurts so bad, Grandpa. The war in my head never ends. I can't take it anymore."

"Have you thought about Daniel?"

Aaron's sobs returned at the mention of his son's name.

"I miss him so much, Grandpa" he heaved.

"And he misses you, too, son. You cannot abandon him" his grandfather flatly stated.

Aaron quietly cried as the elder Cross continued.

"This separation from him is not forever. On the day he is sworn into the Corps, you are gonna stand beside him, just as your father did for you."

"Daniel is gonna enlist?"

"Yes" replied his grandfather, "And when your daughter chooses her career, well...let's just say the two of you are gonna enjoy giving each other s**t about it."

Aaron stared at him blankly. "Daughter?!?" Was all he could say.

The elder Cross chuckled. "Yes, she won't be born for a few years yet. She belongs to you and your second wife, Elizabeth"

Aaron continued to stare at his grandfather as if he were speaking an alien language.

"Oh you will meet her soon enough" he went on. "The point is, you are nowhere near done here. You are going to reenlist, and eventually retire from the Corps, after a long and distinguished career"

Aaron thought for a moment, then said "But how do you know all this?"

His grandfather gave a dismissive wave. "Never you mind. The time will come, of course, when you will join your father and I at Arlington, but not for many, many years."

His grandfather looked him in the eye, and his voice grew hard. "People are depending on you, Aaron. Your nation calls you to service. Permission to die denied, Marine. NOW SNAP TO!!"

"Mr Cross? Mr Cross, can you hear me?"

Aaron slowly opened his eyes and a harsh white light filled them. He squinted against it and slowly his vision cleared and he found himself staring into the face of an angel.

She smiled and said "Welcome back. Do you know where you are?"

Aaron looked around the room. "Hospital?"

"That's correct. I'm Dr. Watson, and you've been treated for dehydration and acute alcohol poisoning."

Aaron tried to clear his head. "Did Reverend Michaels bring me in?"

Dr Watson looked confused. "Reverend Michaels?"

"The preacher from the Fourth Avenue Church of Christ" Aaron explained. "He was helping me."

The furrow in the doctor's brow deepened. "Mr Cross" she began, "That church has been boarded up for decades. It's abandoned. You collapsed in the street a few blocks from here. A good Samaritan brought you in."

Aaron was trying to make sense of it all when a tiny voice shouted "DADDY!!"

He turned just in time to see a child-shaped blur streak across the room and launch itself onto the bed.

"DANIEL?!?" He exclaimed as he wrapped his arms around his son for the first time in three years.

"Hi, Aaron" said a voice from the door. He looked up and saw Susan softly smiling at him.

"I'm still listed as your next of kin. They called when you came in.".

She seemed embarrassed. " I'm so sorry I took him from you" she began softly crying as she spoke. "I'm not cut out to be a Marine wife, but Daniel needs his father."

The tears spilled down Aaron's cheeks freely as he squeezed his son tightly and replied "Thank you."

Dr Watson finished checking his monitors and said "OK. I'm going to go finish my rounds, and then I will check back on you"

As she turned to leave, Aaron caught a glimpse of the credentials clipped to the front of her lab coat.

Elizabeth Watson, MD.

Aaron was sure he heard his grandfather chuckle from somewhere behind him, but for right now, he just held his son and let the world go.


Thirty-two years later

Aaron stood at the edge of the parade deck and watched as his daughter took responsibility for the first command of her career. His dress blues still fit as well as the day he hung them up. As he watched his baby girl approach him, he broke into a goofy grin. Imagine, the daughter of a third generation Marine going entirely the opposite direction. She was getting closer now, so he forced the grin away and came to attention.

When she stopped directly in front of him, he saluted and said, in the most official sounding voice he could muster, "Ma'am, Sergeant Major Richard Aaron Cross III, United States Marine Corps requesting permission to hug his daughter, Lieutenant Commander Rachel Maria Cross. Commanding Officer, USS Ronald Reagan, United States Navy"

Returning his salute, eyes glistening, Rachel replied "Permission granted, Sergeant Maj....DADDY!". She threw herself into his arms as her voice broke.

Squeezing her tight, he said quietly, " I'm proud of you, Squid."

As they left the ceremony, Aaron carried Daniel's daughter, Emily, in his arms. Daniel followed behind, also clad in dress blues and sporting the rank of Gunnery Sergeant. Aaron turned to greet his wife as she joined them.

"Dr Cross" he said, kissing her quickly on the lips. Elizabeth blushed, even after all these years, he still made her blood run hot.

"What time is your meeting?" She asked.

Aaron instinctively slid his hand into his left pocket and squeezed the twenty eight year AA coin.

"Not till eight" he replied. "Plenty of time to celebrate"

As they turned the corner, he thought he saw a face from his past. A preacher. A Marine. An angel? As quickly as he saw him, though, the face disappeared.

"Daniel" he said, turning to his son. "It's not every day a Naval Officer slums it with a couple of Devil Dogs"

He put his arm around Rachel as Elizabeth rolled her eyes and gave him The Look.

They continued to the end of the corridor and, carrying his precious granddaughter, Aaron led his family out the door, and into the rest of their lives.

The End