Semper Fi
- Chautauqua Journal
- Nov 20
- 7 min read
Updated: Nov 26
Kristen Dorsey
From Boundaries
Every stitch of a Marine uniform represents the ethos and spirit of the Corps.
I dress carefully, ensuring my uniform is clean, pressed, and free of “Irish pennants.” My drill instructor reminded us every day in a very loud voice that woman Marines are “separate but equal,” and we have to work extra hard to get the “equal” part. I’m nineteen years old, a brand-new Marine, only five months out of boot camp at Parris Island, and newly graduated from my MOS—Military Occupational Specialty—training here at Camp Johnson, NC. Today I pin my hair up with extra bobby pins and make sure my neck tab is perfectly straight before shrugging on the black buttoned green coat with its unique, wooly scent.
Normally, during MOS training my uniform is a khaki shirt and scratchy green skirt, but today I have “office hours” with the Commanding Officer. This sounds like a nice day of maybe filing or sipping coffee at a chunky wood desk, but I know from boot camp training that it means that I am in trouble.
My hands tremble as I again attempt something—anything—to minimize the purple, yellow, and red disfiguration on the right side of my neck that extends from jaw to collar bone. Tooth marks can clearly be identified within the rainbow blemish. I am alone in the head at the long wall of sinks and mirrors, my office hours being a little past the typical time when the barracks full of recently graduated Marines must report to duty.
The story of my monumental hickey spread as quickly as the scuttling swarms of cockroaches that run along the walls and ceilings throughout the old, wood-frame barracks. Every woman had gathered around me at reveille, silent and in awe. Even the band of Dark Green Marines—who had claimed the best corner of the barracks for themselves and typically addressed me only to sneer at my “pretty little white girl” personality (like the time I broke down in tears when a box of Christmas gifts my mom sent disappeared from under my bunk and they laughed and laughed)—were present.
That morning there was a Sunday church reverence from every young woman Marine, and gentle advice: “Try toothpaste.” “Massage it really hard.” “Put on a boiling hot compress.” “Here, try this cocoa butter.” And even, “Maybe you ought to try blackface,” with a loud snort that was only half-joking.
Finally, they drifted away to their own duty agreeing, “Dorsey, you’re fucked.”
Honor—the base of a Marine’s character. It is the quality that empowers Marines to exemplify the ultimate in ethical and moral behavior: to never lie, cheat, or steal; to abide by an uncompromising code of integrity; to respect human dignity; to have respect and concern for each other.
“Private Dorsey, reporting as ordered, sir.” I stand at rigid attention in front of the Commanding Officer of the Financial Management School and adopt a thousand-yard stare so I will not cry. I pray that he will not order me to speak as I am sure I can’t find my voice. I have been in the Marine Corps for less than six months and am already facing disciplinary action from the CO of the Financial Management School.
My graduating class of privates and PFCs are all at Reynold’s trailer, off base in Jacksonville, where he and his wife and baby live. She sent the baby to the neighbors and the music is blasting. We guzzle cups of grain alcohol and Kool Aid—cheap and effective—mixed up in a garbage can we purchased just for our celebration: we have graduated from MOS training and will soon receive orders to our first duty station.
The Captain is leaning back in his office chair, head cocked at a forty-five-degree angle, two fingers of one hand rolling the end of his mustache. He considers me in complete silence for long moments. He does not invite me to stand at ease. I remain at attention, chin up, shoulders back, as Marines do, exposed to his inspection.
When Warrant Officer Deschamps crashes through the door of the trailer, it is clear he is ugly drunk. He’s our Officer In Charge and MOS instructor and is still in uniform. He shouldn't be here. He's crossed a rigid boundary: officers don't fraternize with enlisted Marines. But we do not dare challenge him. He grabs a cup from Reynolds's hand, laughs, and as he stumbles, spills half of it. We are freaked out.
Finally, the Captain sighs loudly, sits forward in his chair and looks at me, his eyes hard as a poke with a sharp finger, and I desperately want to cover my neck, which feels as if it is on fire.
“Marine, you understand that what you have done to your neck is considered destruction of government property and that you could face charges for that?”
“Yes sir,” I squeak.
“You call this a party?" Deschamps bellows and spills more of his drink as he raises it and spins to look at all of us. “At ease, Marines. Cheers and congratulations!” We laugh uneasily as he weaves amongst us. He makes his way over to me and stands so close I can feel his heat and smell his stale breath. I move away, and he follows. He allows his hands to cup my ass, he leans in to sniff my hair, he stares at my breasts. I keep moving. He follows.
Finally, the Captain sits back abruptly. “Go to sickbay and see if they can do anything with that.” He waves a hand in the direction of my face. “Then you are confined to barracks for the remainder of the day. You’ll get the rest of your punishment in the shame of looking like a walking Marine mattress. Dismissed. Get out of here. I will not see you again in my office, understood?”
“Yes sir,” I whisper. I execute a wobbly about-face in my regulation patent leather oxfords and exit the office. I keep my eyes forward as I walk out, avoiding the looks on the other Marines’ faces.
0102. GENERAL Nonjudicial punishment (NJP) provides commanders with an essential and prompt means of maintaining good order and discipline.
—MCO 5800.16-V14
I am breathless and dizzy and my legs tremble like jello. PFC Reynolds, our class leader, is waiting outside. He grabs my arm and pulls me inside the classroom for MOS 3432, Finance Technician.
“How did it go?” he asks quietly as he removes his cover, revealing a pink scalp under his blonde high-and-tight. He leans in to look at my neck. His young face is earnest and concerned. I pull my arm out of his hand and cover the monumental stain in embarrassment.
“How do you think?” I fake courage because Marines are brave, even nineteen-year-old female Marines.
“Did you get written up? NJP?” Reynolds asked.
“I got inspected, shamed, warned, and confined to the barracks,” I mutter, looking down at my shiny shoes.
Reynolds’ brow smooths in relief. “Oh great, that’s not so bad, is it? God, I feel so awful that it happened at my trailer. What could I do, though? I mean, he’s an officer. Our OIC.”
Reynolds tries to defuse him by stepping in front of him and engaging him in conversation, but Deschamps is focused on his target, and we all know it. I put down my cup to bolt for the bathroom. I am jerked to the floor. His heavy body straddles me. I can’t breathe enough to scream. He pins down my arms and buries his red, enraged face into my neck. He bites me—hard—then sucks the side of my neck so intensely that his head shakes with the effort. When he finally releases me with a loud laugh, I half crawl and half stumble, crying and shaking, to the bathroom and barricade myself in.
We both look up as Gunny strides in like the DI he used to be. He is grizzled and square-jawed and only slightly less tapered at the waist with age. He thuds a ham sized hand on my shoulder and shows me his teeth in a wide smile.
“I covered you, Dorsey. I told the Captain that it was just a graduation party that got out of hand and requested he go easy on you. You did the right thing. It all worked out for everyone.” He bangs my shoulder hard, once, twice, and it reverberates through me. I stare up at him, processing his words. I was trained to speak respectfully to all senior Marines, but the voice I could not previously locate won’t be silent now.
“It worked out? Are you joking? Everyone just stood there and watched him assault me. What was he even doing at an enlisted party? I get called in front of the CO while he fakes being sick with a massive hangover, but it all worked out for me? The base slut?” I am looking back and forth between them, voice shaking, fists clenched.
There is a loud and insistent banging on the bathroom door, and a woman’s voice implores me to open it. “Please,” the voice says, “It’s okay.” I open the door a crack and a slender, middle-aged woman pushes through. I back away and tuck my face into my injured neck as she reaches for me, but she gently takes my chin and turns my head to look. She gasps, and our eyes meet. “I’m his wife. I came to get him. I’m very sorry,” she says and exits the bathroom.
“Okay, okay at ease, Boot,” Gunny growls at me, his smile turning sour. “One small indiscretion with an enlisted isn’t worth ruining an officer’s career. It was just a little accident.”
Which is a lie. In boot camp I learned everything they taught us by heart, including the official motto of the United States Marine Corps: Semper Fidelis. It means “always faithful.”
Image © Europeana
Kristen Dorsey is a writer, USMC veteran, and award-winning visual artist. Her writing has appeared in Chautauqua, Collateral Journal, Press Pause Press, Atlantis, Written Tales Magazine, and Litmoshpere: Journal of Charlotte Lit, where her nonfiction was a finalist in the Lit/South Awards. Dorsey’s nonfiction work has twice been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.