Gitmo“E
xcuse me, sir.” The chunky man, wearing a pair of rimless spectacles perched on a nose flattened and fattened by opponents over years of competition in Fleet Marine boxing tournaments, stood beside an unmarked white cargo van. “Maybe you can help.” He was dressed in pressed khaki trousers and one of those lightweight safari shirts that featured epaulets and way too many pockets. “I’m looking for some grizzled old Recon turd that claims he was a hero in our U.S. Marine Corps?”
Crazy Earl Gerheim hit a fighter’s stance and tossed a few jabs past Shake’s ears before he offered a hand followed by a hug. “Toss your gear in the van. We’ll swing by the VOQ where I’ve got you set up in tropical style. You can grab a shower and then we’ll go by the Facilities Management office and get you
