“War leaves you with open wounds that no one can see – until you try to come home.”
Anthony Swofford fell in love with war movies when he was a boy growing up in Sacramento, California. He dreamed of being a part of it: the exhilaration, camouflaged exertions, and brotherhood amid the danger. Concrete replaced his boyish dreams the day he enlisted, though. Since deploying to Saudi Arabia with a Marine rifle platoon, he has endured friends laughing, cursing, and enjoying the sunlight that shown upon them. And then there’s this mundane desert, dirt as far as the eye could see. This is where Anthony spent his days occupied with anxieties growing throughout the rank-less squad as they anticipate being too far from the war’s active zone. It takes one lifeless Iraqi corpse to quickly shift that wait-and-see attitude.
Chapter 1: Enlistment
Anthony Swofford’s parents insist Smith and Wesson hold great value and arrange a gun club membership before his eighth birthday. Everyone mentioned how much he admires his fun-loving Dad simply to learn that his father is a sniper in Vietnam. Anthony cuts something more meaningful, path-dividing; since he would have the bravery to fight and use a rifle, he chose to become an US Marine like his father when he marches through the recruit depot building. One-time privileges of laughing, conversing freely, and even sleeping outside are forbidden now. The depot represents a shock to everyone despite pre-recruit gossip like horror stories about training sergeants becoming assaulters at seeing the wrong empty bed. Only corporals’ and privates deal humanity and can highlight slack soldiers. Troops struggle through endless drill weeks, runnings times hundreds of miles under sun or rainstorms, and inspections so recurring oxygen becomes mandatory for order fabrication practice. All to prepare them for the formidable fence to genuine combat preparation.
Platoon life ran in erratic patterns between camp-watch Yugo-duty, classes, cleaning rifles, pressing shirts, policing tubes, shining boots, acquiring orders, and annoying superiors in subsequent mannerisms. Despite everything, Anthony made it during push-up competitions with recruitment officers and being bullied whilst sighting through a modified weapon. He trained for the proper baseline attitude in that same exasperating but standard basic layout as many boys with guns together handled forty or fifty pound loads on marathon marches. They dreamed of an array of awards, titles or exit-rates offered, all dependent on their prowess in drills, through much grit, will, incentive or circumstance.
Upon graduating, a new world opened for Swofford. It was new friends the sport of killing; always being ready to takse someone out from distances which camouflage cover deserves when unknown sounds alarm for conflict. Ever-prepared minds are always whetted with finer weapon customizations as crucial during every briefing, attitude thrusting him for success. The Marines taught all of that.
Somewhere having yet to commence bodyloads and planned charges, Anthony reflects poor driving, ad set ashore. The solid rattle feels him and the departure lounge disappears ominously as though to migrate to the plane, war desires listed at his feet, private lives unknown, and echoing footsteps in his brain dragging protesting, while others felt gravital, volitional, overtaking both will and passions.
The choppy channels and moments served on a slow journey. Activities among buddies vary for anyone. Bouquets made, letters written, recommendations or easter babes read – Anthony wrote many of future plans upcoming in the Corps. Unsure of earlier failures reviewed, but anxious for a revival and with vengeance overpowering new committals. He managed smuggling disparate career ideas about squad responsibility, drill mastery, versus an educational degree.
Onward as weeks go arriving near Yokohama, then before more marine issues, Pearl Harbor offers him some enjoyment. All on plane transfers until new hogs get him clanking at secure rest barns on Okinawa; he stands there while buddies squeal over snake memories of the carrier letting them in water too deep to swim.
Sea-borne gadgets landing strategically were next only to having his own fault – besides rattles here are fires, emergencies, working after midnight and too far away from dear ones. Hunted were private plans simmering, going fishing, never camp guardings or motor transportation with badly working vehicles repairing unless signaled by clashing gongs.
Anthony developed, wiped a table previously useless due posture or smoking while the Corps accomplished a giant leap, sent him to the Middle East aboard aircraft, Boeing flying habitually urgent missions over the week before Ground War and ending abruptly overseas. Little did he know the role this event would fulfill him into play – a role where mental breaks and killing desires commix sickly; where atrocities compete unfairly with ego, anxiety, and US patriotism.
Note: This work is a creative interpretation of the original film ‘Jarhead’ with no acts of plagiarism intended.
Chapter 2: In-Country
The first Gulf War had started, and every soldier in Operation Desert Storm felt the excitement boil within him. So did Sgt. Sykes and his boys. Excitement screamed above the windmills, wailed in the planes, and bellowed in the empty desert blasted with air from hoardes of metal machines.
As the awkwardly assembled group of Marines surged down the gangways leading out of their plywood-walled barracks, another noise filtered through the air above them. Canadian geese perfectly pooping without the slightest hesitation over the surprised heads of newly-arrived leathernecks.
After the excitement of the booming sirens leading up to the deployment subsided, the Marines began the curious task of engaging idle minds. Anthony Swofford conversing with other fellow Marines recollected that he had heard his comrades’ predictions drumming in their various opinions – this war ride transport the team where they’d learn how to kill simply but dramatically. Thus, most of the men are utterly disappointed when they become helicopter fuelers merely loaded with suppressing fire weapons without using some landing craft that enhances their experience, as seen in apocalyptic movies.
As the 11th Marine Expeditionary Unit raced toward something they didn’t quite understand while flattening humans across their way, appearing as delicious fun for most disappointed souls, Swofford thought that all warriors would likely look the exact same, indifferent to this foreign environment.
Despite rooting for gaining his duty experience via heroic acts, Swofford had waited in vain. Having to swap between sweltering tropical and freezing desert conditions, he strove to adjust to several decommissioned outdated military tactics of boots on un-thrown landmines. Some recruits gently talked about surviving tragic fallouts, but he couldn’t quite cogently feel anything tangible except stifled rugged disillusionment masked therein.
They wage through suppressed guilt and ever-compromised freedom, scrounging snacking and shaving vouchers to join another, more admirable unit in protecting home base. Sgt Sykes’ standby order that ends, ‘Lay alone in the holes, stay frozen drinking only snipers;” has since been etched into Swofford, and its influence weighs on him.
”Rise up and push through!”they yell.
”In bird boxes, in filth and in factories!” they declare while their footsteps slammed the burning desert ground.
Swofford coped with the heated scenarios, a sandpaper environment that peeled with consistent insults smothered with dust everywhere around him. Every present thought was suddenly muffled with compassion-bereft images from faraway lands he wished could cease to engulf his entire headspace while still trying to prove relevant
to the military.
Every day tapered towards twisted weeks and torturous months of blank sights and sagacious methods neither accompanied by tremendous gain nor satisfactory engagement activities.Immersed in isolation, purpose-impaired Marines believed
they were ready to challenge anything, but in truth, they had twitched from idle practicality.
Desert combat proved more arduous than Swofford had envisaged in his thoughts, risking collateral death threats from a competent sniper stocked for warm conduct of weapon emplacement position ingrained to the skilled military training he had passed age-like years. He had become possessed by considerations of possible girlfriend cheating so real it took objects like Deadpools cutouts to shake-off when not surgically removing such a layer of mental obstacle around him.
Chapter 3: Welcome to the ‘Suck’
Anthony and the rest of the Marines adjust to their new life in the desert. The heat is intense, and it’s already getting to them as they wait for their mission to take some action.
Anthony stares at the scorching sand, gritting his teeth from inside the humvee, feeling equally heated in intensity. As he hunches to take refuge under his caps, loosening his collar to get a quick breath of sore gasps, his captain calls their attention.
Marines, range is empty- No contact has been made as Mr. Sandman makes himself cozy on your objectives like poor defenseless Joes. Do not stand down your guard, though. Wait for our phone call or update later. That’s all.
“No but shooting beers and ja-ger meister back home in a goddamn sea of unemployment and whores,” yells a soldier meanwhile, with the empty noise overwhelming every breath for a second.
The lack of adrenaline is unnerving Anthony. For someone who dreamt of fighting for his country, all the waiting indeed proved his weakness. Something that he hadn’t accounted would have a profound effect on him. The only thing that made every day endurable had to be letters from a lady he had been seeing back in America- Barbara.
Anthony, slightly sitting up on his seat, picked up her letter, taking a deep breath to check what her sweet nothings are saying- “Truth or dare, darling, truth or dare? While you thirstily wait for thy mission of purpose and salvation, do you think of anything to remind you of home? Something you might want to do with thy lips, for example?” After reading such remarkable lines, Swoff teared up with hesitation, regretting every letter he had ever dashed, how alien this seemed, shot guilty spikes through his fingertips, as Sylvia cutting her wrists over Bush seemed more affectionate than the vague force.
The house next door erupted with sound through the tiny, shaking shelf that functioned as his overcrowded bed. Anthony cupped his ears in a fury, his eyes involuntarily widening in humiliation as he shoved his face into the moldy, uncontrollable fabric- Too much shouting, too much living in tandem with roars and whispers, too much interfated of sweat and dead living space.
He was like a fish suffocating out of water and in search of solace from his burrow. He needed action. He craved action, to prove himself to his comrades, to serve his country with everything he possibly could.
Antsy from all his energy, he attempted rock climbing, riding around on a rusting bike which almost toppled him over, yet yielded in temporary amusement, and smoked nervously while driving around and standing on top of vehicles, catching lizards, and shooting sandblocks for fun.
Anthony silently sighs, as duty calls. Damn his smoking “habit.” Between his thirsty lips and dwindling craving for strong sensations, he places his faith in higher power, adjusting his shade as all is alert again.
Chapter 4: Pool Hall
It had been a week since Swofford had received a letter from his girlfriend Kristina. In it, she wrote about her insecurities with his departure to war and how she felt so alone in their relationship. He tossed and turned in his bed at night, unable to forget her words but also unable to feel truly connected with her. This brought him to Flaherty’s, a local joint that he had heard about from his fellow Marines. It was a place where they could drink and get their minds off of the war even for a few hours.
As Swofford walked into the pool hall with his friends Troy and Fergus, he immediately felt relaxed. He breathed in the smoke-filled air and felt a sense of familiarity. The neon lights and the sound of the falling racks felt like home. They could only drink non-alcoholic beers, but it didn’t matter much as they felt a buzz just being there.
A group of older Marines, bearded and unshaven, catcalled at them from across the room as they made their way to the pool tables. Swofford smiled, feeling a sense of camaraderie. As they played pool, Swofford’s attention drifted to the man on the payphone. He was agitatedly talking about his wife and kids, his voice almost breaking with emotion. Swofford could sense the despair surrounding the man’s life and empathized with him.
The sound of the phone abruptly stopped, and the man slumped down on a nearby couch. Noticing his sorrow, Troy approached him while Swofford and Fergus continued their game. Troy had always been the initiator of this type of conversation, something that Swofford had both admired and been intimidated by.
Swofford watched as Troy spoke with the man, unable to discern what they were talking about. Shortly afterward, though, the man embraced Troy and whisked him away into a different room. Swofford was both curious and a little envious. He was never comfortable with addressing someone’s problems.
The game with Fergus was now complete, and Swofford aimlessly made his way to the jukebox putting money in before even thinking. It dawned on him that he might as well spend his cash; all of it would be worthless once the Marines quit the war. As he perused through the selection, he came across the same song that had passed through his head each day like a charm. “Something in the way,” by Nirvana brought back the old memories.
“I saw the spine of the fu$king world, and it’s twisted” chimed in Fergus as Skinny Puppy resumed having him hopelessly dance, pretending like he deserved his pension plan.
“I used to cover dad’s ears every time a Kurt song came on,” Swofford initially asserted.
“But, what are we supposed to do now?” Fergus grunted. “All these people back home- It’s just asking more of it”… He shrugged and fixed his fading buzz cut. “I thought the Marine way of eliminating problems at once to aid would be refreshing- but they might just have more.”
Swofford kicked back out, leaning onto the jukebox. “I don’t worry much. When we get home shit will unwind.” Fegus blinked acknowledging Swofford but Swofford maintained his views- soundless regarding Nicole’s infelicitous letter.
He was exhausted from long drags without extra ammunition or feasible engagements with Iraq. Nic gave everything. Nevertheless, she had inadvertently photographed the substance-He was thriving without her issues checking up regularly, trouble-with-the-aircrafts’ troop chief, pee breaks, anything that relocated primary mode thoughts breaching other parts of his perseverance as a Marine – he was serving within his mentation, sanely alone out here.
“I just wanted to make sure you guys are planning your return. Is your home clean to contribute?” their Captain growled, already buzzing unnecessarily across Swofford’s shoulders.
They both spun around unequally, an instinct in the eyes and bodies since day one. “Absolutely Clean,” Swofford brooded up at the captain.
Captain Wilkins exhibited wholly different emotions than friendly in any definition. “Clean the motherfvckflr,” he heighted, looking pointedly at Troy conservatively sitting before them. “You match is expendable one, dont just idly whiles your shift.”
Swofford contrived, rising to face the captain sternly, or that was his hurried attempt. More accurately, he haggles himself on the now-dropped stool trying to bring Captain’s obtrusion, which thought unmatched. Submerged in the image are only one thing left to him- strive to make it home alive- just once at least. The method he goes about it seems ineffective for the last couple of days.
Chapter 5: Jarhead
Swofford stood before his fellow Marines, explaining their distinctive state of minds to the clueless beauty school drop-out corporal from Pacoima., named Fergus O’Donnell. Concerning–that Marines get ornery and mean when they go too long without the opportunity to get themselves into the fight.
“This war is ugly, and until you’ve been there, you’d have to take my word for it that nothing could break soldiers simple as the beauty of a woman. You’ll see soon enough,” said Swofford.
After the debrief, Swofford returned to his tent with some mail he had received. He went through his letters, grinning ear to ear about seeing one was from Kristina, his girlfriend. He began reading the three letters, but it was the third that caught his attention. Kristina affirmed her love for him: SWOFF!
I’m reflecting on you a great deal these days. Suppose always? But even more as we approach Christmas.
Having tracked the entire list of potentials and updated friends and classmates he wished to see, Anthony Swofford gradually drifted up in dread, face buried in his hands.
It is her “wish list:”
1. Diamond earrings that are or at least appear to be expensive, 2. Vacation in Portugal or London, 3. A black Les Paul Custom guitar, 4. Rhino Herbal Tea’s nine boxes, 6 pictures of Swoff in uniform, preferably desert. 5. A letter informing me that Swoff has bought me an expensive, attractive wristwatch.
Swofford slammed down the letters and grasped his field-issued ‘poncho’ to his mouth to soundproof himself from the on-going racket.
There was none surrounding him caught by surprise nor anyone who seemed to interpret the letters about purchasing merchandise pulled apart—from California or the relatively commonplace.
Was this what it was about? This what he got up in the middle of the night for, sweating, fretful? It jolted at that which was developing to real killer horror whenever the battles ever did heat up.
How should he respond? Anthony picked up his machine-made tuna as he deliberated his future. The sun beat down on Swofford in the furnished tent the wounded had vacated. Anthony grasped Kristina’s letter and initiated set fire to it but hesitated and then tucked it near his palm.
Additionally, the attractiveness of a woman only needed to go so far, should you know that girlfriend stuff…
So now what?
Between hearing about how general middle America viewed the war as a sort-of get rich opportunity, Swofford contemplated divorce. Getting the utmost that the Marine Corps would fund in relation to enough body armour modifications and supplements like hopped-up guns, for dear life, he hoped they outfight their adversary.
Nothing was in it for the lowest-ranking-who worked around with Grunts -Anthony figured, they didn’t shell out any big bucks regardless of whether it was a win- real or dreamed.
And rain suiting-up or bounding forward on orders illuminated the vibrant picture.
If you were occupying Anthony’s tent anytime that he woke up in the middle of the night gasping, possibly shouting or staring yourself infertile for fear of him attacking you, examining memory lapses trying to approximate or recollect how many, on how frequent a range, had became accustomed to having sex with both men and women or kink, loving and retaining at that his values of being responsible were probably the ideal self.
Lastly, if a music video made of the fire bombing using Madonna’s ‘Live To Tell’ went worse, come a couple of months from now, when he could forecast pacing kicking-in for wicked as hell infantry guys on base that had genuinely been afforded full use of an outside life of seductive intercourse or flirting, possibly ending up buried by a boot.
But it was fine, nothing stopping him-before the nuttiness started –from scrimping up toilet tissue from almost anywhere for nine greenbacks from black advertisers hustling dreams: “Come on sweetie with cheeks rosy! This voucher provides new coca soft snacks, and 66 mint green sugar something and over the counter health essential, designed for army service members intensely needing fun-congregating via face.” Some were this trip-sorted delivered each month care packets the government tried to brush-off as third-party donations of much needed freedom joyous humor guns shawarma nudes squids moon gravel popsicles thongs spicy sauce candles school sup.
But: “No crap from it and don’t you forget it, you hear boy. They all lines of domestic bullshit got married for a reason which washall equal.
Those dead from boot to is who’re short betting almost have your sheet in the fist-thumps thickly hurt you whenever you give it the stink eyes. Swofford displays apparent dread when he responds to attempts to extend an olive branch or any connecting tactic from peaceful savvy.
He couldn’t wait for the Americans to make their use of those gleaming metal arms they held high in tents still more grim at dawn muster-def jute jerks, cramming M16 against forearm, feeling powerful until their contempt trapped them. He’d ventured wild honey from South Pacific at the Bazaar as he never got enough of Vario kissing another men’s wife in the head with spurs.
In preparation for the slaughter postponed blood; over and out, Baby Jarheads.
It was then some terrorists flew planes into Swofford’s beloved hometown Twin Towers, The Pentagon, anthrax poisoning began, war took over, and he was sent back to Iraq.
Chapter 6: Burning Oil Fields
The sun beats down relentlessly on Anthony Swofford’s neck as he gazes out at the burning horizon of the desert warscape. He wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his gloved hand, squinting to try and get a better look.
“Jeez… It’s like jelly goddammed doughnuts,” says Jonesy, one of his fellow soldiers.
A plume of thick black smoke towers over the horizon where the retreating Iraqis set one of their oil wells on fire. As the Marines travel through miles of oil-soaked sand, they witness the impossible show — pillars of flame flicking up into the air as the fuel below the earth throws a circle of fire dozens of feet in diameter. Every few hundred meters, another blaze rages on, sending shadows printed with soot leaping across the desert floor.
“This ain’t so bad,” says Trombley, flirting with danger, his thin coat of sweat showing in the harsh sun; he didn’t care if puffs curled out from dirt-filled shrapnel shells can kill him. “We can just dump down in the burn-filled trenches” Swofford saw his humoristically-inclined friend even light a cigarette amidst.
Dangerously a piece of fiery scrapmetal suddenly shells through the clear air headed to not-so-far Trombley when the colleagues scream to get his attention. stunned momentarily but back in his senses, Trombley shoots the danger out of the sky instantly restoring his menace of boldness.
For hours, the unit navigates through the crude and ashy terrain, playing music and making senseless conversations between soldiers. Someone turned out huge aut barrels, flammable material dumped in the surrounding trenches to burst the flames upwards leading to explosions in the scene, shocking the tired soldiers.
The way with frequent hazards on burning concrete canisters now became arrows to civilization, to something different. The rumors in the camps across the desert sometimes even showed that they might head home. With the exceptional victory stories, the comments on their amazing demolition, even claiming themselves ‘the oil babies’, were sometimes cherished reminiscences.
But before safety is achieved, Brasso’s frantic voice crackles onto the units radios UHF channel 812 from nowhere-
“All right, listen up, boys. We don’t know what’s coming, or when it’s coming. But we gotta be ready. Dress those rifles!”
Ready to face firepower from enemy troops, their heart racing, the unit walk back ammoing-up guns as a matter of aim could lead the marines still struggling to wage war. Each prepares to fight, with adrenaline making the unit agile once again.
“Deblur and scan,” warns Sykes, ever vigilant. “Isolate dog tracks or excessive birds. Priority shots will now all be brief.”
Amidst such havoc, through far, over the seas even bigger disaster was on its way.
Chapter 7: Psyching up
The desert sun pounded relentlessly down causing sweat to stream down Anthony Swofford’s forehead. The comradery among the Marines could not keep their spirits up as they remain idle, feeling their adrenaline started to drip, leaving them in a constant state of preparedness that slowly dulls their senses.
Swofford was focused entirely on his desired outcome during the war, which gradually leads his mental well-being to deteriorate. The waiting, the anticipation of action-fuels imaginations, and the constant tentative moments left the Marines paranoid, edgy, and frustrated. These conditions led to bouts of irritability with one another, and the smell of testosterone gathers around them like dust over time.
Despite having an acute survival instinct, he feels powerless since they’re not making a difference on the frontline. His vivid imagination prompted him to engage in sexual acts to pleasure himself and others off the base. Swofford accounted for many lonely frantic sex sessions, which provided a much-needed respite from the frustrating and maniacal emotions he now continually experiences. Swofford recalls many women he slept with’s faces, but none left a lasting impression on him in a way that feels meaningful.
In contrast to his comrades’ restless thoughts, Anthony uses the amount of idle time he got to think openly on many subjects. During the war, things weigh heavily on your consciousness; you stuff new and exciting experiences midst the ruthlessness and bloodshed that accompanies it. Swofford was shaken by the concept of human eternity while being deployed. He considered how every form of life projected to a point of ending, and the sheer thought worried him to his core. This revelation disguised itself in a deadly omnipresent thesis at the forefront of his subconscious, and he secretly began to entertain the idea that this dust-flecked venture could be the last time.
Chapter 8: Sniper Training
Anthony Swofford was happy, and he knew it wouldn’t last. Just thinking about the possibility of suddenly being taken from training to a politically or militarily sensitive mission sent shivers down his spine. He did enjoy routine, repetition, and the predictability in utilizing his newly-taught skill sets. Almost nothing was better than showing off, designing his targets then knocking them off within seconds for applause from all those in the immediate vicinity, and even from the more experienced snipers lurking about. It was one thing to be respected by fellow Marines, but there was a certain pride in the approval of those within the elite field, to hear one of them say “you’re pretty good for a kid.” He had nothing to complain about. A hot environment is preferable when considering being handed over to bad conditions forced to stay in limbo or unceremoniously transported to a deadly warzone under orders that effectively sound like “keep killing until you run out of bullets or until your enemy has been extinsguished forever.”
The land was similar in many aspects while not visually appealing the contentment observed by the experienced Marines was bountiful. They griped about their sleeping conditions or lack of amenities in state of the art and fully equipped rugged camps, but compared to sleeping bags spread out under a clammy, stuffy, and foul-smelling tent, those in Sunny provinces had it better.
After Anthony Swofford’s blade-proven and battle-goof training and sporadic patrols, they relocated to another province in Iraq as factions assaulted hard-to-obtain supply zones for American military havens. The younger Mason seemed pleased a decent firefight had killed 8 enemeis and none from their side.
Sanjay Gupta’s unit switched spots with them at Sand Hill, and he overheard testimonial compliments about Anthony Swofford’s talents. He could not freeze the grin from his face while discussing him even if his deranged aplomb helped confirm he similarly thrived under circumstances saner people would flee. The task at Sand Hill as tests felt less being at work than taking precisely choosen leisure pursuit resulting in massive winning streak,.
Weapons Sergeant/Scout Man could you shoot Marina? There isn’t time to do it and the Lt doubts she’s worth ammo. She responded through gritted teeth alive: “I think it’s disgustingly fun, which I recollect makes me a terrible human being.” before adding, “but this is the Corps so who knows?” as everyone laughed. However, best Sergeant Siegfried Wade was not entertained, as he examined closer and said edgy: “hey Swofford, I don’t care to be responsible for someone throttling an assembled colleague.”
Posing what felt like series of unescapable problems, “What Hunt?” Anthony Swofford agreed through gritted teeth although he’d immediately put his sights on Ronald McDonald’s likeness before Mason smiled,, suggesting: “Go for Bevos” and they vibed best chilling high in their thirst-off quarry rabbits.
Anthony Swofford encouraged him to practice more often, and Mason obliged: picking out metal crates with consistency while being te-thoaped as target selectors. A meeting emerged about whether for liability’s sake he riskage with remote homing darts anytime entering the exchange fire zone with scant assurance of an exit strategy beforehand upon contact with possible unfriendlies. Anthony Swofford merely gave him a nostalgic expression while informing his impressions to lift or receded in duration, follow impulse decisions made only for defense’s behoof and require observation so astute one gets less that returns planning effectiveness.
It was time well spent in improving their sniper abilities. It reduces casualties, focuses fire-range into one draw-in attacker, resolves problems, and ensures efficient targeting when inciting chaos during an enemy approach. As the killing needle prolong and bonds tended to acquaintances beyond where they pitched their complementary MRE shakes to scoring best friends, lugging an uneaten packet or squirrelling away actual pressed meats reached accidental sage badges of trust entre unexpected camaraderie that the Marine reality required best.
Hours of range time exercised many soldier until Day-Night Mountaineering Practice for weaponised prototyping to equal presence of various rocks, plants and arrows that allowed them better ambush sequences in shadows or illuminousness for production of their own modular fixed platform terstructure too large fpr backpack deployment. The only downer was that Swoffgy originally rejected Sanjay’s offering of included induction suite recording a penitentiary level rules booklet, even if full-green recruits shy away or realize even mere foot handeling can trigger changeable preset map lock-on-design plans.
Anthony Swofford repeatedly saved lives during their stock takedown with his instinct-based shooting against armed harm which previously saved 3 Marine hazed staff all targeting lethal members of the tactical configuration company opposing poorly placed mnow punter on Black when De La Garza weathered verbal fallout for 12 entire units on surrounding green cycle. The team’s performance issued collateral damage until they introduced him to Mortuary, a man-hunting killing machine well worth the addition to the mix of expert snipers. His dialogue, albeit sparse, would echo down to the hallways and soldier quarters in a most profound and memorable way. Anthony grew to quietly admire him.
All said, it seemed methodical efficiency would make or kill you it usually down (usually away from the people) or around the rigours of American outrage behind glass and their smug sense of superiority or power.) that abruptly intensifies, so speed up enduring sacrifices in answering the call to duty can channel the top to experience bravery garnered over time necessary for success.
Chapter 9: Family Hurts, Too
The sandstorm that had plagued them for days lifted just as abruptly as it had descended, and Swofford found himself standing on flat, empty land that stretched out in every direction. Brick huts that seemed haphazardly constructed dotted the landscape, providing a subtle reminder that humans did reside here.
But Swofford could not connect with the environment as his mind was tormented with distressing thoughts on the news of his grandmother’s illness, evident at the apex of the most recent ‘phone check’. She had raised him since she was seventy-three and deceased his entire childhood.
He missed her incessantly, and he was distraught thinking of what he could have done had he not enrolled, a choice he had always made knowing it was his life’s destiny to follow his parents’ professional line. Besides the impact upon her fragile coping mechanisms – and her mind – to know he was in the war zone reduced his emotional reserve to breaking points.
On the one interrogation, seeing all the equipment found in routine searches flitted his admiration toward safety and self-indignation; the continuous threat that Earth threw in people’s path, things like rotting flesh among others rendered him nostalgically mature beyond his age.
Blood was running from Swofford’s camo shirt, staining it deeply a lesser cut in cleaning exercises growing apparently infectedly ever filcing which alarmed Joker so he told Godfather; a reference to Staff Sergeant Sykes.
Equally, things for Troy fell into disrepair too when he finds illicit mail from Alma disconcerting him as much as it does for Swofford over Kristina who has been apart from him by the state for such a while.
The routine patrols, squad drills, and the daily mundane grind amplified by unforeseen worries until Wednesday arrived with terrible news from Sabrina thereby making Swofford break down in tears beside the telegraph intending to leave it untouched like no soldiers checked their external lines not to cause emergent abuse towards Swofford.
Up to this moment, this war had engulfed every part of him except for his demeanor in the face of battle susceptibility, and for a night he willfully showered to reminiscence and let the complete picture of his love flood his thoughts.
Chapter 10: Scott Stapp’s Detachment
Anthony and his comrades were awakened in the early hours of the day and gathered unceremoniously that they’d been ordered to locate and save a downed pilot. Anthony was excited to spring into action and part of him was elated to use his sharpshooting skills at last. Following preparations, the Marine convoy got moving towards the location of the pilot unrestrained with high spirits. The Humvee slogs away through the dust with bodies jammed within before their excitement turns into regular reminders of the enormous nature of the occasion that sent them out into the sandy desert.
As they approached a firebase, the thick smoke-filled sky lifts the blackout allure into the fain glow of the sun as the brush fire and Blackhawk-chopper fire-team push off. The vastness of the terrain highlighted in grainy green hues sends a chill into everyone’s spine as the men head towards the potential hostiles they anticipate any minute.
A Scout made an intelligence worth discussing ensuing which two of the Marines were to stay a km away to offer over-lap security as cover for the rest. Meanwhile, to secure two other entry points to preempt any affront, another two members of the crept tactfully ahead cautiously. They take sniper positions atop tracks in wait for everyone else to invade the target on overheads.
Anthony realized his clarity, reassurance and trust in his skills when he could the anxiety curl around as he handles observation in charge of this part of the mission. And quiet drills of the interpreters conveyed no affirmative sightings of dug openings or foot trails. Hence they advance towards an offensive position knowing that remaining complacent has its perilous challenges.
As they got to descend terrain through large Rocky and a roadblock hard on the squad’s trail an Mi-24D gunship swoops infuriatingly low rumbling through the desert storm emphasizing the brutality of which they are facing.
“Press him into double drive” the CO barks into his walkie willing beast mode upon his navigator to be on red alert everyone tense, serious and operating on getting this mission in the bag before running into any deadly any.
The Blackhawk support and the mobile assault converge seamlessly as breaches lead into each room with the computer terminal relaying contrasting viewpoints revealing a potential setback. Things soon cut-off upon shorting of the charge which pushed up the Marine Marines troubleshooting spirits.
Acting immediately to continue the momentum, the Apache Zero-One on standby awaiting the next approach. Rapid coughs from distant automatics hang like a storm cloud overhead and everyone moves forward by expecting the muzzle flush of exchanged gunfire from NATO spotters concealed everywhere.
In gripping trepidation from behind the glass, Anthony litters the SOG headquarters holding copious amounts of data listing covert intelligence it has over gun bearings, whether the enemy thinks the same or possibly planning outscore a featureless geographic driving route in the quarter-milers.
Anthony singled out his targeted elevation deftly, breeching with enthusiasm he left a soldier dazed looking back and bemoaning the loss of such a formidable feat but also the punishing lack of clarity that kept progressing contrary to reality.
Satisfied with their strategic manuevres, fighting in mixed silhouettes of copter, boat and vehicle brings a well-received warrior vent that sent Antoine wonderstruck by such fantastic improvement in their precision weapons, night vision and motherly over-watch.
Drama strikes at midnight gleamed on night provided reality from a the action uprooting their anxiety for all divided to uphold certain abilities to conquer confidence as they embark on returning to base. When they got to their whereabouts calm overshadowed the fuzzed evening into the numbing revelations only war stories whispered.
Chapter 11: Burn Chair
Swofford and Troy find themselves out on patrol with no plan and no tasks, compelling them to consider evacuation in moments. With Boozy dead, Charlie company has been depleted to the survivors, and seeing how the end of the war is near, the soldiers officially receive news that celebrated aces are being sent home. Swofford’s comforting thoughts of returning home are interrupted with orders for one final mission before their actual return.
The sniper team is cautious as the company takes ambling steps through the desert. Promises of seeing active-duty again fill them with a buzzing already missing the zone despite the war experiencing diminished activity. Probing eyes and ungainly postures accompany cumbersome gear gradually wilting the audience watching Swofford through peeks from the tiny screen protected beneath layers of armor.
He reaches into his bagpack without wires superfluous clothing inside and exhuming the acoustic guitar that largely fills their tents when passion as fighters worth jotting about is low. Using time permits rhythm dictated with heart-wrenching emotions conveying feedback sorrow is woven into croon-worthy harmonies of tone.
Dazzling beauty strikes and a pictorial view held so dearly cements atop the notion that one last task probably won’t hold the epitome of danger reputed to the company so far. The patrol passes through a burned down ember emanating the potent ambiance of past destruction. In the deserted field confirms there would be no hope of sightings anytime soon at those ample spaces, the solitude of Swofford’s gentle melody is spruced with a definitive realization of closing time ultimately cascades uncontrollably amid raving thoughts about warfare.
Perhaps as time catches up, possibly boots tiptoed on the zone in the smoky atmosphere shimmering death looked beautiful under the maroon wask and cap while pieces combined caressing one last drum. The surprise carnage in the dead-end ensues immediately company realizes much late; they’re held unfit.
A language movie with shots dripping wetting camaraderie, oxford initial engagement even with excess flesh proves they win with less except sometimes fires dawn sufficient power spread the oil wells beyond remarkable ability. The poignant unfolding of past accumulated words prove little succor.
As the compound got swept, Swofford’s critical eye falls on a cap-like a flashlight designed for burning back every target. The Chief sees in the calm of the company to recall a pep talk helping to supplement the burn bag, having his first grip and debunks records that increased lighter jackets to go with burns. Their mission is the flame and when Troy takes the Burn Chair, they all know they won’t soon be forgotten.
Swofford shakes from the torrent poured into him as he wipes away tears of recollection. Certainly, every day strains the tension extreme to grasp all violence involved helping to detect pattern trace present on a round globe but what has gone flame unlocks head cues of legends.
A bug quickly stirs up beneath one troop member protective unyielding fighting. His shift final as memory detonated exhaust exposing them for all that followed engaging other troops without backup. The culmination of pride, honor, everything dangled in swoosh promise flowing as they profited, pushed on the walls as the balance tilted negatively on matters of zeal.
One day also over another cursed listening to anti-war tracks and inching alongside greater dividends much human agony roars promptly, whereupon K Pilling while tracing back takes precautions have denied further contact with the world. Attests to bad dreams that wouldn’t have company affirm every night.
All through some power dancing with thoughts and possibly frisky backgrounds, past unravelings unravel afterward. Each survivor tries to hand over testimonials to encouraging sense so burned as flames alive at those seemingly never-ending fumes grace over flames inside a Burn chair. Cultural art illuminates that contemporary tune fine-tuning with the heavy grit from dust clouds.
Chapter 12: Cleanup
The sun falls across the Tigris River as it winds through Baghdad, casting a golden hue. The city rises on both sides of the river, as if it fought against the desert’s sandy grip to remain above ground. Patrols wound along the road, all in APCs, which left tracks down the highway behind them.
They were headed to one of the country’s massive petroleum processing centers, with some of its massive factories looming high over nearby cities, nicked Knight Metal Neleum along the Jafar flows had been recently infiltrated. Uncle Sam had to clean it up.
Captain Stone rearranged his weapon slightly in its sling, inhaling the thick dust stuck in it before giving his squad not so much of a ready signal as indication, and off they climbed on their hardware.
Gary waited at the CP by the outer edge telling the last arriving APC squad about the detailed orientation of the extensive amounts of mess they were headed to.
Half the facility was burning, by time of arrival bombs under a police headquarters while others flew dangerously low throngs of newly-trained folk trying ever so hard to avoid a round to the neck attempted punctuating the horizon with tank shells. It was worse than Swoff had imagined; it was bodies, stench of petrol and slowly-blooming fresh blood that covered their tracks, decimated structures as far as he could see.
While struggling to stay alive and chasing down enemies, trained soldiers put massive amounts of gunmetal to use through nights and days of deadly infighting that could spite resolve on occasion. They’re all uneasy, says Troy, who no longer intitiates concern but acknowledges they move time on when it is spent while battle sowed seeds of madness.
Harkston, the corporate type nearby complained as he measured the oil that had thickly painted his gloves black, his muzzle hanging low frothing quietly under his breath; zero entertainment, and everywhere I turn they chain on more cords to measure the liquid.
Teddy stirred inside the up-armoured vehicle amidst every sound like a metallic groove of invisible dungeons over their location, regal and moving unifications of flame-lit damp, corrupted with a sick craving planted professionally in diverse ranks against the small detachment authorized stile.
Danger lay waiting for humans behind any bend where snipers operated from – be it a building, a tree, a blown-out car all produced clever panoramas of protected sight lines, and explosive bullets topped him and some soldiers take the shot as they twisted the press.
It was almost a pantomime of fire at night, disassembling one structure before rapidly squinting carefully through it, as all corners of each structure could spring an assistant in arms perusing well-aimed ammo throwing stone-flash points. Retaliation time crept closer like enemies eyeing satellites nights after they missed daylight hours, through weather that threatened their ability not to lose ground, before one set of people that bore their stance standing met others and perhaps discovered then each other decent, but competition shifts values like grain in the great wind, it becomes unreliable.
Intel was painting veins of the viral toxicity that spoiled the mood in combat, though in humid sarcasm they conceal it, wishing backup will please converge and rapidly happen.
Enough to plant hardened warriors ground to a stop, gazing unbelieving as traffic seems unmatched, tanks scream going west, enemies surrounded every compass point then as they were streaming out a large chunk of land twisted into fragged dirt sending pressures from an unseen earthquake into cracked settlements.
Stone sighed from underneath dust as opposed to his usual brooding, this pit was secured, and his boys had cared and sprayed fire into silent scared men believing God would favour them, following whose dialogue that should never be within earshot of grunts tasked with weapon or explosives handling, performed, adjusted, disregarded or refreshed, but served.
“Anything,” Stone reported back to Gary’s sounding board communication despite knowing Jerry and Charles would retaliate with snark about dirty bus drivers far away.
The team dragged themselves by finishing their assignment down sites that oppressed with its futile carnage, returning to the safety of their hardwares with total exhaustion lurking behind. But the silence of the journey and the loneliness one knows by chance that when we exist, it is great tradition to calm each other in teams is not new, numbing beside slumping frames felt just about voluntary as Teddy stayed lost in the embrace stolen by sleep far from incoming fractions.
And maybe in all that sadness, deep and and eternal gratitude bore large for such moments, that maybe help them understand still within humans hold of sentience more events have the potential of movement like everything else, all a child can do for example is tangle their own air at birth.
And there they could park out of site of enemy eyes; Charlie tripping on empty receptacles filed under gossip came, and Gary joked to keep energy up. Shaneyface and La Roux stayed in silence joining flight above Baghdad wishing they can junk Charles for hitting One Dance too many times that he memed the tapes.
“Ready for setup, boys?” Stone blew, gathering up his grizzled jaw as they form around him trying to decipher if he’s grumpy, hopelessly bone tired or simply sucked.
Charles trailed behind the squad, meanwhile making binary base loading much easier than it is build friendships.
But eventually, they got a ceasefire together well enough to load from the ruins they’ve sweated under the intensity, formed somewhat on the coalition against masses’ threat sharp like syringes needles befitting war stockpilers after removing away themselves from denial that comes aid illegal black-op incomes.
Human function death strikes of Iraq on the Americans clock lay waiting.
Chapter 13: Upgraded
Swofford felt different. After spending fierce years fighting as a Marine, patrols and ‘Kill Me Quicks’, he was returning as a far cry from the little lady-seeking boy who had enlisted. With just weeks left before his official discharge from the Marine Corp, he started attending transition classes, a glorified term for ‘How to Search for Jobs.’
Swofford spent his days sitting motionlessly throughout the day, classes after classes his mind attempting to retain the meagre lessons he would need as a civilian once again. The information was not just about the job application but also on interview techniques; every word he spoke, his tone, posture, and ideas of things such as giving a firm handshake. Comfort was gone. From his body, he’d sludged off that desire for it like an undesirable snake newly moulted clearing its vision after disappearance to shed off scars.
Joining this utility college class led to his learning of the new and unusual concept’s existence outside. Computer programming, digital artwork, and artificial intelligence had seemed non-existent when he had walked into “HELL”, the infamous Marine basic training’s echoing hallways’ looming gates. Pre-embarking on the Marine Unit, Swofford slaved through makeshift obstacle races and gathered around fire pits, fitting numerical values and clicking keyboards out of his reach, all mere fantasies. However, unknown to him, the armed forces influenced a dramatic different sphere, compiling ‘cryptography (mathematical-code decipher messages) code breaking;’ and directed multi-parental tests deciphered from linear and non-linear maths. These subjects had little explanation bit had the task of drastically transforming global communication and information leaks over the years.
By mastering skills like this, young soldiers could be concealed somewhere outside skyscrapers and hovercrafts all over the world, analyzing and evaluating the modern cyber defense systems of the king’s links, seeking vulnerabilities to Chinese or Russian-American weaponry sharing confederacies forming imminently in ungentle protocols. Cyber presence connected to knowing and always considering the threats and horrid potentials, just as they had line-cleared semaphored tactical codes to rival fighting ships due as conventional types of naval warfare forgot.
It left Swofford yearning, with no outlet available back then, impossible activities unit detail’s through quite impossible until currently ways stopped out by institutionalizing. His term had lapsed before he could have the achievement mindset composed and labeled for the Marines, his young ageing had made acuity on present career striving impossible, and that had priviledged him with a nostalgic whippomority flood amidst dissenter trends humdinging.
Regulations on policies were fickle, the shift that had since occurred now towards STEM careers and a general multi-disciplinary panacea was remarkable from what he had been raised in. Rather like taking notes in high school just before the teachers let you change course- the promises between the phases reflecting the adjustments made by incoming upcoming technological advances set in fluid classes.
It left Swofford seeking any opportunity. A nugget astoundingly rare taught by software design specialists, the type seen in movies where a grey box is suddenly able to display textures and surfaces enclosing voice activation as well. The attraction could rule out voicing narratives unveiling patterns owned by generations all change modus operandi instituted as Swofford found sought uses among electronic tag architecture, from machine learning computing to dedicated DSLR camera equipment, dragging lines and moving along errant chips. The conclusion made its worth evident.
A call pended. The memory of the squad’s dwindling frequency had faded for little more than occasional facebook noost having reminded of old photo charms. “Hey,
Your war, as you fondly call it, is upgradin to 4K.” Louis Monfreid, a repeat and official supplier to the Marine Corp team, started on the different tangent.
Swoff panicked, his head swooping towards a side, aware of mis-normalizing with only alternative cyber worlds recognized, – his heart rate was at an ardent high level bordering a purple-ish outlook.
Monf only blinked, “Too much? LA Voice.” Incorruptible pace circulated stable money dispensations, despite liability for pecuniary delinquecy connected, always wracked by the off-chance that monfarade wouldn’t get down last stint. Also, it was imperative that Swoff hawd coufhed up his correspondenciew currently gone bac unless you’re calling about unit brass.
Swofford blurted out in a hurry, “Will the upgrade affect the official records only, or?” his voice echoed uninspired resistance, his nerves and anger had stemmed from experience.
“That, and your hand carbines. Also the CHIAM.” Monfreid added non-dramatically.
Even through the speaker electronic vice gouging, Swoffs lenses’ marinating burst dyes still aguish freeness overdarkened with feelings he could hardly contain. The last facet missing altogether for all the good it would count towards maverick elites selected despite competitive edges zooming in from small towns and single parents only-to even levelling it effortless by robotic assistant online lending support. Swoff asked definally now, “When am I scheduled to have my weapon training gone back?” his thought subsided previous conjectured besides reminded unfalterink bouts of shooting the quarry still hungering after his tone’s consistent placement, and return to some territories of surviving behind walls.
The intonation of silence that blared a split reaction could not unearth the military’s hidden intentions amidst conversions like intermissions demarcating stints at tech symposiums that rank high in anticipation ratings from programmers and official records specialists before and after. One very systematic view held was that the military had arrived finally at the historical age, that leadership were computing data openly shared as intelligence already breached and long sold out to counterfeit operators.
Chapter 14: Reflections
Anthony Swofford sat alone in his living room, staring blankly at the TV screen playing silently in front of him. The images it displayed held no interest to him; they were mundane scenes from everyday life that his mind could barely register. He was deep in thought, reflecting on his experiences during the Gulf War.
It had been years since he had returned home, yet the memories of the war were still firmly ingrained in his mind. The vision of Kuwait’s oil wells burning endlessly looped through his head. The faces of his comrades – some of whom lost their lives in the conflict – flashed across his property. And the intense void he had felt returning seems insurmountable.
He found the adjustment to civilian life challenging, which was saying something since his initial officer training required enrolling into the Marines for a continued several prolonged years. Perhaps the time spent fighting somewhere in the war already unique made that difference all the more fatal to process.
Anthony Swofford arrived back in the United States as a confused and conflicted man. The wartime experiences imprinted permanent stains on his persona, he had internalized them in involuntarily, tasting relief only at the possibility of others also being victorious, hence bonding and detachment happened seemingly simultaneously. He hit the bottle especially hard in his depressed and inactive times, experiencing quakes of deep trauma increasingly to extreme degrees.
And now besides with his aftermath depressions, he became plagued by the grave realization that the conditions that made someone need each other and banding together were now corrupted. Interaction with people didn’t give him well rather alienated him instead. He needed his fellow soldiers around him, but again the trauma the war planted furthered desolated him.
Chapter 14: Reflections
Anthony Swofford glanced up from the TV screen at the sound of a knock on the door. He sluggishly climbed up from the couch groovy demeanor casting sullen towards the actual stage father figure presenting the glare a form of rhapsodic reminiscence.
“Hey, Tony. Long time, no see,” greeted his old commanding officer, Sgt. Sykes walking through his resolute look, yet expressing modest enough enthusiasm.
“Hey, Gunny,” replied Swofford. He motioned his old friend towards a seat leisurely set next to the walls.
For some reason or another, they still seemed a cozy connection or probable delusional consolation there. He, intuitively or otherwise, felt like it had something to do with sharing humor-based on weird human experiences or just predicaments they faced during the trials and adversities of warfare.
“How are you doing?” asked Sykes, losing his inflection posture in the strange vulnerability oozing from the taciturn figure across the room.
“I’m surviving, Gunny,” he replied insincerely. Each internal recollection brings a resurgence of trauma had come fairly to Anthone to lose trust in the steadiness of just about any judgment. His tone, low enough for a puzzled Sykes, to scrawl his senses lightly.
“What’s on your mind, Tony?” asked Sykes, probing the why’s of his latter statement, the atmosphere gave an edge of forceful stubbornness determined one way or another that they become as open and honest with each other as friends or prospective. colleagues.
“I’ve been thinking, Gunny,” Swofford confided, trembling his left wrist taking consistent shrifts, yet shy surprisingly enough the slight inclination showing on the rare visible cracks on his face. Yet, the sable emotion already brewing, nudging him towards expressions.
“I’ve been thinking about the war, and… and the people who didn’t make it back,” he added, looking tortured as he recalled the gruesome visuals of his time at war. He understood only too well why so many affected by wars struggled with PTSD or extreme cases give up most irrationally.
Sykes nodded grimly, showing recognition, lowering his head momentarily in memory of those they couldn’t save or avoid their inevitable lot. He knew he would have to tread carefully now realizing how open Swofford had suddenly become. Battles stormed in Ts conflating through continuous wait and patrol, even as this night they were fighting for mental resilience and each other struggles to move beyond a previous uncertain horizon. His voice dull but reassuring all the same asks more about his mental state.
“You know, Tony, what you’re feeling is normal. We all go through a phase once that ordeal is over, trying to come to terms with the experiences encountered and being bereft of solidarity. You aren’t less of a warrior to me because of where your power lies.”
Swofford pauses slowly and abruptly surfaces entirely from the newly acquired remoteness.
“Maybe not. But that doesn’t change what happened, what we did in Kuwait. The situations yanked most of us.” The past obligations weighed on him more than ever considered lately.
“Tony, what happened happened. We can’t change it now. Sometimes it’s kind of hard to make sense of these things,” said Sykes with singular understanding tonnage.
“Hard to make sense of? Gunny, we went into a war where people died, needlessly even,” retorted Swofford, his voice bitter.
“Yes, and we did what had to be done,” Sykes replied evenly, although he conceived the answer Tony needed was hardly that linear.
“I can’t help thinking that there must have been a better way, Gunny. A better outcome to all of it,” Swofford spoke bluntly and resolutely. His opinion echoed the collective disillusionment his brotherhood silently bore keen to evade delving any further.
“There often is, Tony. But we are on the side tasked with ruthless errands time and chance forsake. No point crying about spilt milk or speculations.”
Swofford gave no reply for some time before he mentioned something more primal.
“Sometimes, I think I can still smell the smoke of those burning wells, you know? Hear the screams of our wounded comrades costing other bravery’s personification with a future relinquish,” said Swofford slowly half-heartedly ruminating.”
Sykes eyed Swofford shrewdly. The distress seemed more than idle reminiscence or habit. He knew firsthand how fragile memories were yet failed to offer certainty to soothe this former brother in arms persistent sallow build-up.
Chapter Abstract: Big sighs tore through both the atmosphere and the brick walls either end. Sykes yielded a sweat sticking to his forehead, calling for anger and frenzied and vital opportunity. Sykes: business was never personal as far as a chain of command meant one of the things.
He later did all he could, seldom ever passing up therapy for older veterans, trying to ease the often overwhelming desires for permanence in the here and now so that his guys could have the peace they so sorely cut when deployed.
Some scenes from the AI movie Jarhead
TITLE: “Jarhead’s Mental Landscape”
EXT. A DESOLATE MARINE RECRUIT CAMP – IMMEDIATE POST 9/11
We see candid shots of the Marine recruits vigorously receiving this intellectual and mindset overhaul.
INT. BOOT CAMP DORMITORY HALL
Our focus narrows into a skinny rookie, ANTHONY SWOFFORD. He’s walking through a Boot Camp dormitory hallway carrying an M16 rifle.
Swofford approaches a dressing room stocked with M16 racks.
Swofford is seeing putting the M16 together easy to mind mechanism.
The CHAPLAIN (mid-40s), walks over; Swofford halts and thrusts his weapon to the chaplain’s chest.
Swofford grunts something sarcastic as the Chaplain clears his throat jokingly:
(thick southern accent)
“What’s this fellow, sonny? This a new way of pullin out your Johnson?”
Swofford chuckles, rolls his eyes and turns it over playing along physically.
(lines in clearance)
“They’re handing out their own scholastic enrolments over the barracks, Swofford.
Yeah, war is definitely coming.
EXT. BOOT CAMP OVERHEAD – 7000 ft
We glimpse an intrigue overview of the Boot Camp.
EXT. BOOT CAMP PARADE GROUNDS
Swoff’d and his fellow recruits snap to at Camp Pendleton’s parade ground.
GUARD SERGEANT SIEKACZ (40s) approaches them:
’s at stress levels that put these right here’ with a slap up on a seat, and personally aims his head!
The 55-gallon drum bangs down on real rock solid to begin recruits’ workouts.
Swofford battles the significant mercury soaring into triple numbers patrolling over floor heat.
His mental emphasis dwindles, packing in tight taking labored, almost hopeless breath patterns.
Platoon faces away undergoing through drills sequence drill-sergeant-kindled fury peaks at an intense level.
Continue to fade back:
EXT. SOLITARY COMPARTMENT IN BOOT CAMP CAMPUS
We literally notice face-distorting distortions in a person who it even occurred to somebody, baby-faced recruit COURTNEY MASSA (18).
The hair on his short hair stood on the back of his neck, slicked back with all-crown ovals expressed with drama attached extending abysmally down her temple and throat.
RELATED BOOM, LIQUATING IN PARADE HALL HUGE SPEAKERS
Ha! Ohohohoho! AAAAGGHHHHH, that is funny!
Pulling back up then onto
EXT. CAMPUNTMENT BETWEEN TENT AND LATRINE
Swoff’d whacks at the refretting black ants on a sandpile. GALLY, FOWLER and SYKES_ swig Pepsi’s close-by at their break.
One comrade dons a parboiled bo-brain, no on a delicious postcard-ed beach scene.
We hear BREAKBEAT & DARK RUMBLE in the distant back, the coming first chapter to the ceaseless * dubscapes of deployments bringing home authentic
emoting-jargon scaliwags in terror.
FADE TO BLACK –
INT. SARA’S OFFICE – DAY
Sara sits at her desk, surrounded by stacks of files and papers. Her phone rings, and she picks up.
This is Sara.
Hey, Sara, it’s Paul.
Hi Paul, how are you doing?
I’m good. Listen, I was wondering if you can make it to lunch today? There’s something I need to talk to you about.
Uh, sure. Where do you want to meet?
How about that new place on Fifth Street? Around noon?
Sounds good. I’ll see you there.
Sara hangs up and takes a deep breath.
INT. SPINNING DENVER RESTAURANT, TWO HOURS LATER
Paul and Sara sit at a small table overlooking the street. The mood is slightly tense.
So, what did you want to talk about, Paul?
(chuckles nervously) Straight to the point, huh? Okay. Here’s the thing- we’ve been friends for a long time, right?
(becoming cautious) Yeah… and?
Look-I don’t want to beat around the bush, but the reason I asked you here is-I think we should start dating.
Sara blinks in surprise.
(eyes widen) What?
Paul takes a deep breath.
Yeah. I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and I finally realized that I want to be more than just friends with you. What do you say?
(skeptical look in her eyes) I-I don’t know, Paul. I never thought of us like that before.
(rapidly) Well, maybe you should start. Think about it-sure we’ve been friends for a while, but don’t you think we could have something more? We’ve always had amazing chemistry, and I can feel tension between us every time we’re together. I think it’s time to explore that.
Sara looks at Paul, unsure of how to react.
(uncertainly) I don’t want to risk ruining what we have, Paul.
(smiling softly) I understand why you feel that way, but I promise we can take things slow. Just think about it, alright?
The waitress approaches, and they both fall silent to order lunch.
The camera zooms in on Sara’s face, as she gazes off into space, weighing the cost of the decision, unsure of what to think.
Sorry, if you could provide me with more details like the title, characters, and plot of the screenplay/novel, I will gladly continue writing. Thank you.
EXT. DESERT – DAY
The scorching sun beats down on the vast, barren desert landscape. In the distance, we see a group of black SUVs speeding towards us, kicking up dust as they approach.
As the SUVs get closer, we see that they are being chased by a group of rugged pickup trucks, filled with men brandishing rifles. Gritting their teeth against the overhead wind and clearly in hot pursuit.
INT. LEAD SUV – DAY
In one of the lead SUVs, we meet our protagonist, JOHN NISHIO (35), a rugged, tough-looking man with a kind face, but eyes that speak of a past clouded with darkness. John is focused on driving and does his best to avoid the piercing bullets that rattle the car.
Beside him, in the passenger seat, is his tough-as-nails partner, ANNA (30s), dressed in tactical gear, firing back with a machine gun aimed out the window. JOHN grabs the intercom:
(into the Intercom)
Alex, give us some support from above, we cannot afford to lose those documents!
Alex (40s), their tech specialist, responds in the communication system in his steady, strong voice.
Roger that, John, copter delta heading your way.
With that, an accompanying helicopter roars into the air, flying overhead, and starts to rain hellfire down on the enemy pickups.
As John and Anna approach the closest part of the pack of enemy trucks, determined to stop them dead, John suddenly loses control, veering off the road and rolling over the dunes.
ARID LANDS OF FEEDBACK AND BLOOD – Main Title flashes over.
The film is directed by Matthew Woods.
EXT. MAIN STREET – DAY
We see ANTHONY, in his early thirties as he thinks and strolls down Main Street. He is wearing casual clothes – jeans and a tee. He’s stubbly, and his hair is a lot longer than before white winter helm.
Anthony vividly recalls the day his life took a turn when a middle-aged woman, CLAIR bumped her car precisely into a down store he owned fifties debt at the time. Since he overcame odds to go back to school, to own a small business he takes great pride in.
Suddenly, sirens on patrol cars emerge in from every direction, cockpits sounding and newspaper presses deafening. People drag their customers around, and shops shut their doors.
Anthony confronts a police officer who appears near.
What’s happening officer?
Stay put man! It ain’t safe now.
He doesn’t persuade Anthony to stay, who takes his time to come in.
EXT. CRIME SCENE – DAY
The air is thick with FLAMES and THICK BLACK SMOKE. A Propped up porch and part of the roof on the abandoned shop appear to have fallen.
Police officers deploy patrol cars and law personnel conduct an initial scan of the affected building, unmindful of the hustle and bustle surroundings. Corridor filled with ashes, white smoke, they tend and inspect the site with magnifying glasses, gloves and jacket covering the extremities to prevent contamination.
Anthony rushes to see from the distance, and despite the barriers, he encounters the detective working the crime scene, DETECTIVE JOHNSON’s a tall dignified man approaching five-nine, well-dressed stylish sensation, defensive system intui.
ANOTHER OFFICER beckons to Anthony from the street and asks him to move back. Looking out-of-place at the scene, Johnson calls him over to talk.
Johnson then shows Anthony some charred documents that likely belonged to whoever started the fire. Amongst what’s clearly ruined fil, he sees a clear photo of Clari’s License ID card, leading him to suspect it was someone and somebody he knew.
My apologies, but I cannot write further without knowing the context of the story or novel. Please provide me with more information so that I can accurately continue the script.
INT. HALLWAY – DAY
We see KELLY rushing down the hallway to her office. She is on her phone and almost bumps into her secretary, JEN, who is carrying papers.
Watch where you’re going.
Kelly mouths “sorry” and continues talking on the phone. Suddenly, she stops and hangs up.
(whipping around) Jen, did I hurt you?
I’m fine. Are you okay?
I need you to call a meeting with my dad’s attorneys. Now.
Jen nods and rushes to make the call as Kelly enters her office.
INT. KELLY’S OFFICE – DAY
Kelly paces back and forth in her office, staring out the window.
Jen enters, followed by two ATTORNEYS,
MR. JOHNSON and MS. SMITH.
Kelly stops pacing and sits down behind her desk.
Thank you both for coming. My father’s will has been updated, and I need a copy now.
They hesitate, looking at each other.
Kelly, your father’s updated will has left everything to your mother.
He believed that she should be taken care of, and he entrusted her to take care of you and your siblings in his absence.
Kelly stands up, raising her voice.
I don’t care what he wanted! I want that will, now!
The Attorneys shift in their seats, trying to calm Kelly.
I’m sorry, Kelly. We can’t give it to you without written authorization from your mother.
Jen interrupts from the doorway.
The media is calling for a statement about your father’s death.
Kelly looks at her phone, sees the many missed calls and notifications.
Tell them no comment.