Camp Dwyer

Helmand Province

Afghanistan

December 21st, 2015

2210

MSgt Schacter POV

I had just finished debriefing and the rest, and the men of Marine Special Operations Team "Hitman 1" were all squared away. Cap'n was taking care of the rest of the administrative details, while Robbie was getting patched up by the corpsmen in the field hospital.

But, I still had one job to do: give some pilots of VMA-223, the "Bulldogs," a little thank-you for the close air support they gave us on the op earlier today. When we were pinned by Taliban fighters, danger close fires (gun runs and Hydra 70 rockets) from Stone 3-1 and Stone 3-2 unpinned us.

Yes, their squadron nickname is "Bulldog" while their callsign is "Stone." It's a pilot thing, I guess.

Nonetheless, I owed one of the flyboys a beer. As for Stone 3-1, I had something special in mind.

I arrived at their hooch, removing my cover as I entered the building. It didn't take long to find the Harrier-flying Marines of the squadron, all talking and laughing over something or the other. This included Lieutenant Colonel Rick "Ice Cube" Basley, the commanding officer; Major Phil "Nuke" Keating, the executive officer; Captain Sean "Granite" Jones, or "Stone 3-2," and of course, my personal favorite...

"Evenin' gentlemen, ma'am," I greeted, making their heads spin my way, including the most beautiful aviator of them all: Captain Molly Schacter, otherwise known as my wife

"Evening, Mass Sarn't," Basley greeted, with the rest of the boys greeting in kind. "What can we do for you?"

"I owed Cap'n Jones somethin', sir," I replied, extending the cold beer towards the captain, which he accepted with glee. "Thanks for savin' our tails."

"No problem," Jones replied with a handshake. "Nice work out there, Mass Sarn't!"

"Also, would the Colonel mind if I borrowed Cap'n Schacter for a bit?"

"We're all good here, Mother. Go have some fun," Basley chuckled, nodding at her.

My wife's nickname had many variations—"Ma," "Moms," "Mama Bird"—depending on which pilot you ask, but it's always centered around "Mother," given her motherly disposition and that she's older than her entire squadron, save for Basley.

Coincidentally, I had earned the nickname "Father" from the manner in which I handled my Marines as a squad leader in the infantry. I did everything from picking up the men that drank too much, to cracking puns, to pulling them aside and ensuring they were doing all right. This behavior persisted during my time in Force Recon and MARSOC, with the nickname sticking.

As such, the running joke is that our children consist of our two sons and—at minimum—a few platoons' worth of adopted Marines.

"Well, in that case, you may, Mass Sarn't," Molly said with a coy smile.

"See ya, Moms!" Jones said, with the rest of the pilots bidding similar farewells to their squadron's mother figure. With that, the two of us left the room and moved for the exit.

"Hey," she said as we stepped out into the cold night.

"Is there something I can do for the Captain?" I replied with a grin as I put on my cover and looked down at her.

"Well," she began. "You could drop the 'Captain,' Mr. Schacter."

"If the Captain so pleases..." I began, chuckling as she lightly bumped against my side, a similar smile on her face. "Alright, alright, Mrs. Schacter."

"Much better, hon. Your boys doin' alright?"

"They're all good. Robbie's gettin' patched up now, but—"

"What, you're not gonna salute me, Master Sergeant?" a voice asked behind me. Molly and I spun around (and I looked down) to see none other than another Marine pilot, his flight suit looking much like hers—even with the same unit patch—but he looked young and still had spots. A closer look at his ID patch revealed that he was none other than a second lieutenant.

"Molly, you didn't tell me your squadron got a new butter bar," I muttered, making my wife sigh.

"Jerry, meet Second Lieutenant O'Donnell, the newest addition to VMA-223," she sighed, waving her hand dismissively at the butter bar.

"Master Sergeant, I—oh, good evening, ma'am!" O'Donnell greeted, just noticing Molly, who rolled her eyes.

"O'Donnell, is there a problem?" she asked tersely. "Mass Sarn't Schacter and I have some business to attend to," she said, emphasizing my name.

"I... er..." the lieutenant stammered before finally composing himself. "Regulations state that enlisted Marines render salutes and greet officers! He didn't do that!"

"Listen, Lieutenant—" she began, before she was interrupted by Major Keating jogging towards us.

"Hey, Mother! Just gonna—what the hell is this?" the XO asked as he came up to us, a file in hand.

"Master Sergeant Schacter apparently doesn't realize that enlisted personnel have to render salutes and greet officers in passing," the lieutenant said, almost smugly, apparently assuming that the major would take his side.

"Is that so?"

"Lieutenant, salutes and greetings are regulation, but there are the more important unwritten rules: decency and humility," Molly lectured. "And at this time, child, you have neither."

"But ma'am, I outrank a sergeant major, who outranks Schacter, and even he's supposed to salute me. If Master Sergeant Schacter is too stupid to understand that he's supposed to salute me—well, he is an enlisted man after all," the lieutenant said haughtily.

Molly's eyes widened at the butter bar's statement, her face then morphing from one of exhaustion to one of cold fury. I wasn't offended by the boot luey's statement in the slightest—I never did go to college, and silly insults like "stupid" didn't get under my skin—but my wife seemed to take great offense to it. However, Major Keating stopped her before she could unleash a diatribe.

"Mother, can you drop this off to the S-3 (staff personnel in charge of coordinating operations) guys at headquarters? Mass Sarn't, escort her. The two of you are dismissed. Lieutenant, come with me," he ordered sternly. Nodding, I turned around, gently grabbing Molly's shoulder and pulling her with me before she could argue any further.

Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy a good fight, verbal or physical, and even if I don't enjoy it, I understand that it's necessary at times. Probably comes with the territory of being a six foot five, "jacked" Marine (at least, that's how the kids put it). But sometimes, it's better not to argue with fools.

However, I won't deny that I didn't enjoy hearing the sweet, sweet retribution behind me.

"What?!? But, sir—" the boot luey protested before his squadron XO erupted.

"SHUT UP! SHUT THE HELL UP! YOU LISTEN HERE AND YOU LISTEN GOOD, YOU STUPID SONUVABITCH! THAT MAN HAS BEEN SERVING THIS COUNTRY BEFORE YOU WERE EVEN CONCEIVED! YOU JUST EARNED YOUR WINGS, AND I'VE GOT HALF A MIND TO RIP 'EM OFF AND GET YOUR ASS DISCHARGED!"

"B-but—"

"SHUT IT, JACKASS! YOU THINK YOU'RE SO HIGH AND MIGHTY BECAUSE YOU HAVE A COLLEGE DEGREE AND MASS SARN'T SCHACTER DOESN'T?!? HE HAS MORE KNOWLEDGE, WISDOM, AND EXPERIENCE THAN YOU WILL EVER HAVE IN THAT STUPID HEAD OF YOURS, AND GUESS WHAT?!? HE STARTED OUT A GRUNT!"

After a moment of silence, Keating continued his diatribe, but somehow managed to get louder.

"DON'T YOU DARE DISRESPECT MASS SARN'T SCHACTER AGAIN! I DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE A BOOT LUEY OR THE COMMANDANT HIMSELF! YOUR FOUR YEARS OF ROTC AND TWO YEARS OF TRAINING ARE NOTHING TO HIS TWENTY-SIX! NOW GET YOUR ASS ON THE GROUND AND GIVE ME SIX BURPEES FOR EACH ONE OF HIS TWENTY-SIX YEARS! ON YOUR FACE, GO, GO, GO COUNT 'EM OFF!"

There's a reason Major Keating is nicknamed "Nuke," after all.

Drawing my focus away from the bellowing major, I looked down to see my wife giggling, clamping her hand over her mouth to muffle her laughter.

"You find somethin' funny, Molly?"

"It's always funny to see a boot luey get smoked—whether it be by a superior officer or a senior NCO—but that boy absolutely deserved it."

"Hon, you know that it doesn't matter. Like the sayin' goes: 'sticks and stones may break my bones—'" I began.

"'—but talk don't bother me none,'" she finished. "Still, you oughta at least have a master's degree by now. The only reason you never went to college was because... well..."

I nodded as we fell silent, remembering the reason why I never went to college. I enlisted without a degree, and for many years, I never reaped the benefits of the GI Bill, while my wife had. Molly and I were setting ourselves up to transfer to the USMC Forces Reserve, with me using the extra time to get a degree.

But then, 9/11 happened. On live TV, Molly and I watched in horror as planes piloted by Al-Qaeda terrorists. We were in shock for days. Hank and Chip, despite practically being babies at the time, seemed to pick up on our mood.

In the days following the attack, we each got a call from the husband and wife of Mary Willis and Billy Marshall, respectively, who relayed that the two were killed in the terror attack. Mary was an accountant working in the North Tower and Billy was an NYPD officer trying to save people in the South Tower.

This news was ultimately the straw that broke the camel's back. Mary and Molly were 6212s (fixed-wing aircraft mechanics for the AV-8/TAV-8) together while Billy was my assistant squad leader when we were 0311s (riflemen). We were good friends, and when the New York natives left the Corps to reap the benefits of the GI Bill and get their education, we made sure to keep in touch.

Molly and I canceled any plans we had for the Reserve, choosing to stay active duty. We were enraged and ready to take the fight to the enemy.

It hurt leaving Hank and Chip behind, but they were quite mature and independent for their ages. Granted, they still didn't understand much, but they understood us when we explained that we had to help our brothers and sisters.

They, like us, believed strongly in the value of family.

"It doesn't matter though," Molly said, taking a chance and grabbing my hand with her significantly smaller one. "Don't ever think that you not havin' a college degree makes you ignorant, 'cause you're one of the smartest, wisest men I've met."

"I appreciate it, sweetheart," I replied, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "And I'm glad I got you by my side, flygirl."

We quickly delivered the files to the S-3 guys at headquarters before I was finally able to lead my wife back to my team's hooch, where a campfire had been lit. I was expecting to have to deal with the rest of the boys, but all were absent, save for Gunnery Sergeant Max Graham, my MSOT's operations SNCO, who remained in his camp chair.

"Evenin', ma'am, Mass Sarn't," he greeted, raising his beer towards us.

"Evenin', Gunny," Molly replied. "Where's the rest of the team?"

"Robbie's gettin' patched up, Cap'n's at HQ, and the rest are elsewhere. As for me," he replied, finishing his beer. "I'm headin' to bed. I'm too damn tired."

"Night-night. Don't let the bed bugs bite," I joked.

"Roger that, Mass Sarn't Dad," he replied mockingly. "Good night, ma'am. Thanks for the CAS, by the way," he added before disappearing into our hooch.

"Huh, odd. They were all here when I left," I noted confusedly.

"They're leavin' us alone, honey," Molly said, smiling as she shook her head. "They wanted to give their fearless team chief some alone time with his wife."

"... oh."

"After all these years..."

"Hon, don't..." I warned.

"Still so oblivious," she laughed. "Well, that's what I'm here for, huh?"

"Yes, I married you because I needed your emotional awareness," I replied sarcastically as we sat in some camp chairs.

"Awww, I thought it was because I... how did you put it? Had 'the nicest legs this side of the Mississippi?'" she teased.

"Sure, and you married me because I was 'built like Superman,'" I shot back.

"Guilty," she admitted with a grin. "But, I have to admit, there were a few other things that did the trick."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"That one time at church when you carried ten folding chairs at once."

"I knew that would work," I said, feeling a rush of pride.

"I thought Marty said you and some of the other boys were competing to see who could lift the most chairs?"

"... guilty," I sighed. "But, I was trying to impress you at the same time."

"It helped, and so did your looks," Molly admitted. "But I have to say, there were a few other factors that were far more important."

"Oh, yeah," I said, recalling our wedding vows. "My faith, loyalty, heart, courage, wisdom, intelligence—"

"Don't get a big head there, mister," she joked, playfully shoving me in the shoulder.

"Can't a man feel good about his wife bein' attracted to him? Besides, you got the prettiest smile I ever did see."

"... flatterer."

"That's what I do best, sweetheart," I replied, scooting my chair closer to her so that I could bring my arm around her shoulders.

We fell into a comfortable silence, leaning against each other the best we could in two separate chairs. At that moment, it felt like we were back in North Carolina, sitting on our porch swing or by our fire pit, looking up at the stars as the fire crackled softly. It was a small taste of home in a war zone.

"Jerry?"

"Hmm?"

"You're okay, right?"

"Well, yes, of course."

"No, I mean..." she began before sighing, pressing herself more towards me. "Jerry, I was scared."

"Hon, what—"

"No, Jerry, stop. When I heard that I had to help provide emergency CAS, that was one thing. But then I heard the unit we were supporting was 'Hitman 1...' I knew that was y'all's callsign, and I was worried. It's one thing to provide CAS to fellow Marines, but when that Marine is your husband, the man you love most... it scared me to death. Those were danger close fires, if I screwed up—"

"Molly, Molly!" I interrupted her rambling, turning myself and her to look each other face-to-face. "When we came under fire, we had recently completed our op and were exhausted, low on supplies and ammo, just trying to get to extraction. We couldn't have birds overhead because it would ruin the element of surprise. When the Taliban ambushed us... that was a firefight I'd only walk into if I had a full rifle company and Vipers constantly providing armed overwatch.

"You arrived on station quick. You delivered precise, accurate gun runs and rocket attacks. The worst that happened to us was Robbie bein' too close to an RPG's point of impact. Despite that, Jay said he's gonna be okay! Molly..."

Keeping my left arm around her body, I raised my right hand to hold her face, with her leaning into my touch as she looked at me. The beautiful blonde—my beautiful blonde—had an expression of worry, and even terror, that I hadn't seen before, replacing the smile that often adorned her face.

She never had to provide CAS for my unit before, not during my time in FORECON, and not even during my last nine years in MARSOC. The BDA afterwards was that eighty-five enemy fighters, four technicals, and three pickup trucks were destroyed in the CAS run. If she and her wingman didn't make it in time, then we certainly would have perished.

"Darlin', today fifteen men—twelve Raiders, two SARCs, and a combat combat controller—were under attack by a vastly superior force. Those fifteen men kept on fighting, but they had nearly expended all of their rounds. Suddenly, two Harriers arrived on station, and with expert maneuvering from the pilots and proper coordination from the airman on the ground, the enemy was destroyed, and those fifteen came home alive. Molly, you did that. You saved our lives.

"And let me tell you somethin'. In the lives that we live, you can't trust everything. For me, there's a few things that I know that'll always have my back: God, our family, our Marines, and you. That's how I know I'm gonna be alright. If you're there, watchin' over me like the angel you are... how could I not walk away okay?" I asked, injecting an incredulous tone into my voice.

Molly stared at me for a few moments before she began to smile again.

"Now there's that purdy smile," I said, feeling myself grin like an idiot.

"Oh, hush," she said, leaning towards me and grabbing me tight, her head pressed at my sternum. "I'm glad you're okay, Jerry."

"I'm glad you are too, Molly. Thanks for savin' my tail."

"Thanks for comin' back to me."

We sat like that for a while, eventually dozing off in each other's arms. Even when Molly eventually had to say goodbye and return to her squadron's hooch, I felt nothing but happiness and peace.

I was at war, far from home, but my children were safe, I had my Marines, and God had sent an angel in the form of Molly Schacter to protect me from above.

No matter what, I would be making it home.

There are two purposes behind this.  First, I wanted to explore the version of Chip Schacter that I came up with, and what better way than to start with his parents: a MARSOC Raider and an AV-8B Harrier pilot?

However, there is a more important reason: I intended to post this on Veterans Day to honor the troops that protect this nation (sorry about the extreme delay).

 These men and women are normal people, like the rest of us, but rather than take advantage of the multitude of opportunities this nation offers—building richer, more prosperous lives—instead choose to take on a mission the rest of us are not willing to take on.  They are normal people with superhuman wills.  As such, this post is dedicated to the damn few that put on the uniform to serve.  Some fight, some heal, some build, some transport, and so much more, but all of these service members come together to form a fighting machine to protect the USA.

There's a line from one of my favorite movies that sums up the spirit of this well:

"For all those who have been downrange, to us and those like us, damn few." - Chief Special Warfare Operator Dave, Act of Valor