I have never inspected a dead Marine.

Corporal William Billy Bixby will be my first.

As a Marine Lieutenant, I've inspected others many times and many times, others have inspected me. Most Marines hate inspections, call them chicken-shit. But that's what makes Marines look so good, the best, sharper than all the rest.

While I wait outside International Airport, a Cadillac hearse, long, black, and brand new, glides carefully through the chain link gate and stops, safely away from the noisy flight line. Wow, since the government's paying, only the best for our vets Lt. Richards says I'll have to fight the funeral director who's nickel and dime us to death trying to jack up the price. A Duval Funeral Home decal is prominently displayed on the driver's door and also etched on the long glass windows.

The driver gets out and yells, �Yo, how ya doing? I'm a little early. Boss sez ten-thirty, it's only ten-twenty. So, is da plane gonna be heah on time?�

�Yes sir. I just checked with the airlines. Should be here any minute. Listen. Can I follow you back to the funeral home? I'm not from here. I don't wanna get lost in town.�

�Shure. Relax. We done dis lotsa times� He pulls out a pack of Lucky Strike, reaches in with his fingertips, picks once, twice, and slides one out. The driver sounds like one of Captain Barr's buddies, born in Brooklyn or New Jersey someplace. He snaps open a Zippo, hunches his back to the breeze, and lights up. Exhaling in my direction, �Ya look new. Dis your first?�

�Yes sir. Are you by yourself? How are we gonna carry the coffin, just the two of us?

�Carry da coffin? Ha, dat's a good one. Nobody carries nothing. Gotta teach you second loouies everything. We got wheels now, Lieutanant. I back right up to the plane, ground crew slides the box in, and off we go. And don't call me Sir. I ain't no officer. I wuz in da Marine Corps once. Lasted one day�

"One day ...what happened?"

�No soona I get off da bus, some skinny ass sergeant gets in my face, screaming and yelling like I'm deaf or sumthin, so I cole cock da sonavabitch.� Took four of you D. I.�s to pull me offa his bony ass.�

A roaring whine drowns out his voice as the airliner slowly rolls up, lurches to a halt. Ground crew quickly chock the wheels. Others roll the aluminum stairs into position. The plane�s cargo hatch pops open. The hearse rolls backwards, back door wide open. Luggage handlers pull the grey coffin out, guide it down a ramp covered with small roller skate wheels, and confidently ease the coffin into the hearse, like they�ve done it many times before. The driver throws a nylon belt over the coffin and ratchets it tightly to the floor. He closes the back door and screams, I�ll pull outa heah and stop. You swing your vehicle ova deah and blink your lights, twice. I�ll pull out in front of you. � Follow me to da funeral home.

The jet engines whine down and shut off. The area is suddenly quiet, the only sound is the clank of passengers down the aluminum stairs. Some actually stop the procession, look at me and the hearse, and make a silent sign of the cross.

�Sir! Lance Corporal Robert Jackson reporting as ordered, Sir!�

The boot camp scream from behind startles me. I instinctively hunch my shoulders and spin around. Standing at attention, his right hand over his right eye holding a salute, is the Robert Jackson, the body escort. His large sea bag slumps over onto his spit shined shoe. Jackson face looks even younger than Corporal Bixby�s boot camp photo. One week out of boot camp himself, an officer yanks Jackson out of Advanced Intensive Training in Camp LeJeune, tells him about Bixby�s death, and orders Jackson to serve as Bixby�s body escort.

I return the salute Stand at ease, Jackson.� Let me get a closer look at you. His garrison hat, or piss cutter as we call it, is on the top of his head, tilted to one side, like a jaunty Air Force fighter pilot posing for some magazine. Worse, I smell whiskey on his breath. Square away your piss cutter, Jackson.

�Sorry, sir, didn�t use a mirror before I left the plane.�

�Don�t bullshit me, Jackson. You pull that cover down. No more than two fingers above the middle of your eyebrows. Movie stars need mirrors--Marines measure, some things with our fingers. And another thing. When you�re wearing that uniform, you�re on duty. Did you drink on the plane?�

�Uhh, yes, sir. Someone bought it for me. It was a compliment, sir, so I drank the rum and coke. You just back from the war, Sir? Was Billy in your platoon? How did he die? What was it like, being shot at and everything?�

�Let me square you away most ricky-tick, Lance Corporal Jackson � Legal drinking age is twenty-one. You�re barely past nineteen. And, we don�t drink on duty. I don�t have time to chew your ass now. We gotta get going. Grab that sea bag and follow me. We�ll talk on the way to the funeral home.

Jackson and Bixby both pitched on the same High School baseball team, but a year apart. No college scholarships or signing offers so Jackson joined the Marine Corps right after graduation, one year to the day after Corporal Bixby.�

�Jackson, you got a place to stay? If not, I�ll give you a rack at the barracks.

�Thank you, sir. I�m staying with my family. We�re all going to the funeral.�

�You report to me a half hour before everything starts so I can make sure you are squared away. If you got dress blues in that sea bag, get em pressed out. I don�t want you looking like you slept in them.

�Aye, aye, Sir. What�s gonna happen? I�ve never done this before, sir.�

�When we get to the funeral home, I gotta inspect Corporal Bixby. No one sees him till he�s squared away. When we arrive, the attendants roll the coffin into a viewing area, open the lid, motion for us to come forward, and discreetly walk away. Jackson stays back.

Corporal Bixby�s face is waxy white. His eyes are softly closed, as well as his mouth. Make-up powder is visible along the hairline of his forehead. His dress blue uniform looks brand new, neat, clean, and tapers smartly down to his trim waist, a white gloved hand at each side. He looks peacefully asleep, a stark contrast to the dead bodies I�ve seen and carried in battle, bathed in blood, uniforms ragged and torn, first from bullets or bombs, then from desperate helping hands, ripping, tearing, urgently feeling, finding the pulsing flow, forcing bandages down, hard, trying to keep life trapped inside. In war, life leaves the body like compressed air from an inner tube, sometimes slowly, invisible leaks from tiny punctures, sometimes quickly, a ragged blowout, traumatic amputations, patches useless and impotent.

My eyes burn and I blink several times, finally squeeze them shut. Black out that image. Block this feeling. A frozen baseball floats up from my stomach, forcing itself up my esophagus, stopping and gagging my throat. I wipe my tears, then my cheeks and face, act like there�s dust flying around, attacking my eyes, and I�m fighting it off with bare hands. Be tough. Don�t cry now. Especially in front of this young Marine. Be a man, damnit. Be a leader. Be a Marine. Suck it up. Get on with the program. Let�s get this inspection over with.

It�s over for Corporal Bixby. It�s definitely finished for him. Far away, not so long ago, Bixby is carried from the battlefield and placed on a clean table. The gory rags are removed and he�s purged with popular hyssop. His wounds are numbered and washed. Synthetic essense is pumped into his body and fills his cavities. Waxy balms cover his bruises, naturalize his skin, hide his holes, delay his decay.

�Hey, Jackson. Looks like your friend Billy Bixby is asleep on duty. Very peaceful. Nice. Come up here and take a look.

Jackson walks up, ashen faced.�Sir, I�ve never seen a dead person, much less a close friend. I feel so bad, sir. What are you doing with that ruler?

�Measuring. You know. Squaring him away. Boot camp stuff. Ribbons, right distance apart, and in the proper order. Shooting badges and emblems correctly spaced. Perfect compliance with the Landing Party Manual. His uniform looks good. Head�s closely shaved, regulation haircut, and no mustache to worry about. Military alignment? Check it out. Straight line, from his neck, down his chest, and past the belt buckle, lines up perfectly with the trouser�s zipper line. Brass is highly polished. Emblems are black, no shiny spots. Help me look for �Irish Pennants. You gotta know what they are. Loose threads or lint hanging from pockets or buttons. Remember how we got punished for infractions or gigs like these? Push-ups, usually. Or worse, staying on duty when every body else goes on liberty. No more punishment for Bixby. He passes my inspection. He�s J., squared away. How does he look to you?�

�I agree with you, sir. J. squared away. He looks . . . good, I guess. What else do we have to do, sir?�

�A family member�s gotta identify the body and sign the paperwork. That�ll be tomorrow, before the wake. Then I�ll pick and practice the burial detail. We go over the facing movements and commands we�ll use. Carrying the coffin, who stands where, the folding of the flag, and then I present it to the parents. Oh, and the firing squad.�

�How do you practice the firing squad, sir. Do you use live bullets?�

�No, Jackson. No live bullets in the civilian world. We listen to trigger clicks. We need to hear the commands over and over again till we get our timing down. At graveside, we use loud blanks. Navy won�t let us practice with blanks on base because gunfire scares the shit outta the Sailors, and Marines too. It�s difficult for seven people to fire their weapons, on command, at exactly the same time. Then do it three times in a row. When it�s not done right, Gunny Sergeant Jenkins always says, �It sounds like a fart, a goddamned fart. That�s a fucking disgrace.� Then the bugler plays taps, I present the flag, and we leave.�

�Sir, I�ll bet you�ll be glad when that day�s over, won�t you?�

�Yeah, but it�s not over then. We gotta do a lot follow-up visits. I hear these casualty calls last more than six months and include everything from insurance papers, tracing personal belongings, an accurate headstone, presentation of medals, posthumous in this case, bill paying, and final receipt of all death benefits. Meanwhile, we still gotta guard the Naval base. We�re so short of men right now we�re working twelve hours on, twelve hours off, seven days a week. The Navy, they�re like scuzzy civilians, work eight hours a day, five days a week. All my Marines are pissed. Let�s get going.�

Jackson looks down at Corporal Bixby�s face, closes his eyes, and laces his fingers together, evidently in prayer. A few moments later, he asks, �Sir, do you think Billy�s soul is in heaven?

�I don�t know for sure, Jackson. Right now, I�m really pissed at God. That I am sure of. People in power, politicians, including church people, start a war. Won�t negotiate anymore. Tell us it�s OK that God�s on our side. They pray for us to win. Pray for a quick victory. Pray for peace. Ha! That one really makes me laugh. Then we all demonize the enemy. Makes it easier to kill them. Feels less guilty, at least. Going into war, we all know we�re gonna break one of God�s big ten commandments. We definitely know it�s wrong, yet we do it anyway. The classic definition of sin. Combat veterans, we�re the warriors, Jackson. We�re the ones who fire the bullets, fix bayonets, kill at close range, and do the dirty work that others can�t stomach or won�t do. Warriors can�t go to heaven. We don�t belong in heaven. When we die, we go to separate place, but not hell. We�ve already been to hell. A special place, like Valhalla, a big beer hall, where we sit around, drink, and tell war stories forever, to kindred spirits, others who�ve done what we�ve done, experienced the same things, understand and appreciate what we do, other wounded warriors. I don�t know if me, you, Bixby or anybody who participate in any part of this war process can ever be squared away with God. But I do know this. It�s time to go. Let�s get outta here. I�ll see you tomorrow at the wake.�

The wake is at two PM with interment to follow at three. During the wake, I see a large spray of colorful flowers shaped to look like the head of a German Shepherd, the dog killed with Corporal Bixby when they triggered the ambush.� The dog handler unit sent the flowers. I�m alone, admiring the flowers, and reflecting on the death of man and man�s best friend, together, inseparable, loyal, forever.

Corporal Bixby�s oldest sister walks up to me. Her eyes are dark red from crying, but no more tears are flowing. She is very attractive, blond hair freshly permed, blue eyes, trim figure, and her lips are curled slightly in what I sincerely hope is a smile. We face each other, eye to eye. She has my full attention.

Why didn�t you die instead of my brother, you smug bastard? God, I hate you and all you stand for. . . moving around here with that uniform on, ordering people around, acting like you�re in charge . . . why do you get to live happily ever after and my brother Billy doesn�t? Answer me, damnit! answer me!

Stunned speechless for several moments, I finally reply, �I don�t know. I don�t know.�Sadly shaking my head, I apologetically point to the ribbon with a gold star on my uniform denoting two Purple Hearts. I was wounded twice, on two separate occasions, and lived . . . your brother was hit once and died. I don�t know why these things happen. I don�t know. I do know I�m very sorry. Very, very sorry.�