"Why Women Don't Belong in the Marine Corps" Based on a True Story Ginger Jordan
“A little yellow birdie with a little yellow bill,” the cadence rang out, and the members of the battalion repeated the lines.
Sgt Johnson sang along mechanically. This was another day for him and his squad. Every morning at 0530, they held morning physical training. The only difference in today was the considerably slower pace, thanks to the rest of the battalion being there. In one week, they would be in Iraq, hence the celebratory formation run. This is what they trained for, and he was ready.
Combat wasn’t new to him, but he did have several newbies in his squad whom he personally trained. The pride and joy of the battalion belonged to his squad, LCpl Smith. He watched as LCpl Smith, carrying the battalion flag, proudly led the formation with the SgtMaj. Smith was on the fast track to promotion, and this deployment would solidify that. There was nothing quite like combat to separate the real Marines from the pretenders. Smith was first in all their physical training by leagues over the others, and his enthusiasm for all tasks was unparalleled. It was his reliability that got him put in charge of the squad’s ammo. Only he could be relied upon to sprint with the heavy containers of ammo under the deadly pressure of a firefight.
“Get back in formation!” The angry shouts broke Sgt Johnson from his thoughts, and he glanced back to the source of the screaming. Of course, a female Marine was falling out of formation, and a red-faced Sgt was attempting to get her to keep up. “There’s a shock,” muttered Cpl Taylor, another member of his squad who ran beside him.
The female in question was LCpl Henderson. Smith didn’t know her personally, but the ground side females were famous by default in the battalion, since they weren’t common. She worked in motor T, which was considered a noncombat job. They fixed and drove vehicles around base or while on deployment. “And I hear she’s coming with us,” Taylor added with a curled lip. Johnson copied the gesture before turning his focus back on the run. “I hate female Marines.”
* Bullets ricocheted, kicking up the dusty sand of Iraq. Taylor fired his weapon, keeping the enemy down as Johnson sprinted from his cover to the next closest cover. He slammed into the hard earth as he landed prone with his rifle firmly gripped in his hands. More enemy bullets sprayed their way, so he returned the gesture, suppressing the enemy’s fire. As Taylor sprinted to join him, Johnson heard his weapon make a dreaded thunk. He was out of bullets. He quickly unloaded the magazine and reached for another, but they were all in his dump pouch,
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