He found a bench with a view of the alley entrance from a safe distance, sat down and waited. He didn’t have to wait long. Less than ten minutes later, the quiet street was suddenly, almost surreally, filled with the sight of Marines.
Not in combat gear, but some in their crisp service charlies, others in their utility uniforms if they’d been on duty. Gunny Miller, looking like a coiled spring, led a group of about eight Marines, a mix of recruiters and young poolies, recruits waiting for boot camp, who clearly looked up to him. They moved with the disciplined speed and purpose that was the hallmark of the Corps, not running but covering ground with an intimidating efficiency.
They didn’t make a sound. The group of Marines reached the mouth of the narrow alleyway. Gunny Miller held up a hand and they fanned out, two taking positions to block any escape from the alley’s entrance, their expressions grim, their posture radiating an unshakable authority that no mall cop or local police officer could ever hope to emulate.
The other six, led by Gunny Miller, turned and disappeared into the dim confines of the alley. Arthur, watching from his bench, couldn’t see what was happening inside, but he could hear, or rather he could hear the abrupt cessation of the teenagers’ loud chatter and laughter. A sudden, shocked silence fell.
Then, after a moment, he heard Gunny Miller’s voice, not shouting, but carrying clearly, each word laced with cold, hard authority. He couldn’t make out the exact words, but the tone was unmistakable, the tone of a drill instructor dressing down a particularly witless recruit, a tone that promised swift, unambiguous, and deeply unpleasant consequences for disrespect and stupidity. There were no sounds of physical violence, just that relentless controlled verbal barrage.
After what felt like an eternity, but was probably only about five or six minutes, Gunny Miller’s voice stopped. Then another marine voice started, equally firm, perhaps explaining some finer points of respect for elders, for veterans, for the community. More silence.
Then the group of teenagers stumbled out of the alley, one by one. They looked utterly different from the arrogant youths who had swaggered in. Their faces were pale, some looked like they were about to cry, their earlier bravado completely extinguished, replaced by a look of profound, shell-shocked terror.
They didn’t run. They walked, almost crept out of the alley, avoiding eye contact with anyone, and scurried away down the street as fast as their trembling legs could carry them, looking back over their shoulders, as if expecting the wrath of God himself to descend. Gunny Miller and his marines emerged from the alley, their expressions still stern, but with a hint of grim satisfaction.
Gunny Miller spotted Arthur on the bench, strode over, and snapped to a perfect salute. Master Gunnery Sergeant Green, sir, the situation has been addressed. Those young men have received a thorough orientation on the core values of honour, courage, and commitment, with a particular emphasis on respecting their elders and those who have served.
Arthur slowly rose, returning the salute with a steadiness that surprised him. Thank you, Gunny, and thank your marines for me. No thanks necessary, Master Gunny, Miller replied, his eyes still hard.
We take care of our own, always. And we don’t tolerate disrespect to the Corps or those who built its legacy, he paused. Are you sure you’re all right, sir? Need a ride anywhere? Medical attention? I’m fine, Gunny, Arthur said, a small genuine smile finally touching his lips.