The Command Investigation Ch. 01

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Fucking colonels. I fucking hate colonels.

They’re always coming up with stupid shit to do; they feel like they have to show everyone they’re in charge, and so they come up with bullshit. Thanks to our fuckhead Colonel, my platoon was out in the field doing “non-lethal weapons” training.

Hey, dickhead! We’re Marines, remember? We’re lethal.

It was the summer of 1994 in Camp Lejeune, North Carolina aka Swamp Lagoon, North Cackalacki.

Things changed when the XO called me to the Battalion Main CP, and I left my platoon sergeant in charge of the current training evolution: riot control—shields and batons. I guess we’re cops now, eh Colonel?

“Division needs an independent CI,” the XO told me. “They came to us. I’m assigning you, Lieutenant.”

I almost forgot what the hell “CI” meant. I was quick enough to hide the confusion on my face a second or two later when it finally came to me—command investigation. This meant I was being temporarily assigned to Division HQ as an investigating officer. Kind of cool, especially if it got me out of shitty field training like this non-lethal bullshit.

“What’s it about, sir?” I asked.

“I think you’ll be investigating something in 10th Marines. I’m not going to say anything else. Pack up your shit, pass your orders, and get back here. I’ll get you a lift to Div HQ. I already talked to your Company Commander. “

“Roger that.” I left and came back twenty minutes later. The XO put me in a Humvee and had me dropped off at the Division Adjutant’s offices—another fucking colonel.

But, he was actually kind of a cool dude. After I reported, he had me sign my temp orders and let me sit. He handed me a folder with a cover letter paper clipped to the front.

“Still got your investigations stuff from The Big Suck?”

The Big Suck—actually The Basic School, TBS—that was our introductory officer course. We got haphazardly trained in investigations there. “Yes, sir.”

“Break it out; bone up on it. It’ll come in handy.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” I said.

“We need a full report with recommendations no later than Friday, 0900.”

It was Tuesday afternoon. Damn. I nodded.

“The General wants to make his decision before the weekend,” the Adjutant explained.

I nodded, and I opened my mouth to ask something.

He said, “Read the cover letter. Just the cover. That’ll answer half your questions.”

I did. Oh, fuck. I looked up at him.

He said, “It is what it is, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.”

Then, he said, “Now, listen: anyone—and I mean anyone—from 10th Marines or anywhere gives you any shit about getting your job done, you call me. I will drop the power of 2MARDIV on their heads, got it?”

“Yes, sir.” I had the backing of the Commanding General of the Division. Hell, yeah.

“General Buck’s already talked to the CO of 10th Marines, Colonel Stick. He knows you’re coming, and he knows you get his full support. Hopefully, he’s talked to his bubbas. Shouldn’t be any problems.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Last thing. Two careers may be on the line here. Use discretion. This is Napalm, muchacho. Don’t be the spark. This gets out—whatever ends up being true—both Marines get fucked.”

“Can I talk to anyone outside?”

He considered this. “You have my permission to pick one trusted officer friend for advice and counsel.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Read the file—the misconduct reports; read your investigations stuff. Do it by the book, Lieutenant. Keep all of your paperwork. File it all with the report. This has got to be spit shined.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“0900 Friday,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”


I shook my head.


Back in the Bachelor Officer’s Quarters, I re-read the cover letter. A female Marine, Lance Corporal Glashing, a motor transport Marine, was under barracks arrest for the alleged sexual assault of another female Marine, Lance Corporal Highrider, a ground ordnance Marine—her job probably involved maintenance on the unit’s big howitzers.

Here’s where it got even more fucked-up: Highrider, herself, was also under barracks arrest for the same offense against Glashing. As it was 1994, both Marines were under suspicion of having violated the terms of their DoD contract regarding abstaining from homosexual conduct.

Inside the folder were two misconduct reports, both taken by the women’s First Sergeant, a Marine named Wolverton. The first, taken that very morning at 0815 hrs, was Highrider’s accusation of Glashing. The second, taken just 35 minutes later, was Glashing’s counteraccusation against Highrider.

The two were bunkmates, sharing the same quarters, just the two of them. Most barracks are set up for three per room. Not the female ones, apparently. There had been alcohol in the barracks the night before—some kind of party among the female Marines in the regiment. Not against the rules.

Highrider alleged that she and Glashing had returned to their barracks room at around 0100 hrs. Highrider had passed güvenilir bahis out on her bunk. When she awoke, she discovered she was being fondled and orally penetrated by Glashing. She immediately put a stop to the activity, asked Glashing to return to her bunk, and then passed out again.

Glashing’s story was almost exactly the same, except she claimed that Highrider had put Glashing in Highrider’s bunk, and then climbed in beside her before she passed out. When Glashing awakened, she was naked. Glashing further claimed Highrider’s mouth was on her breast and that Highrider was manually penetrating her. Glashing says she then forced Highrider off and went to her own bunk, where she fell asleep.

Wolverton noted in his report that both Lance Corporals approached him immediately after morning formation to speak privately.

My mission was to determine the facts of the case, find out if either of them needed to be charged and arrested for sexual assault, and recommend whether one, none, or both Glashing and Highrider were to be administratively separated from the service for violation of the sexual misconduct policy. In other words, who should get kicked out for being gay?

I dug around to find my old TBS Investigations hand outs and read them. Then, I put a call in to 1/8, where I had a buddy who had done an investigation last winter.

“Holy shit,” he said after I described my case.


“Talk to the chain of command, starting with the Battery Commander and go right on down to their team leader, okay?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Get copies of their evals.”


He added, “Get a tape recorder, and record every interview. Pain in the ass, but you’ll need to transcribe them. Did the Adjutant give you an assistant?”


“Shit. Anyways, let what you find out from the chain of command help you figure out which of the two to talk to first.”

I said, “That’s a damn good idea. Anything else?”

“Send me a copy of the tape recording after you interview the Lance Corporals?”


“Get them to give you the details—the good stuff,” he said with a laugh.

“Fuck off.”

He gave me some more shit and laughed. I thanked him and started setting up my interviews.

1stSgt Wolverton was a squared-away Marine, very helpful. He got me an interview with the Battery CO, himself, the women’s Officer-in-Charge, their chief, and their sergeants all on Wednesday morning. He had already made copies of their evaluations and files. He told me that every member of the Battery would be available for interviews in the afternoon.

Good staff NCOs, like Wolverton, are what makes the Marine Corps able to kick ass, I decided.

I went to go scare up a tape recorder and some blank cassettes and figure out my interview questions.


I finished five interviews by 1030 hrs—way faster than I expected. None of them were helpful. The evaluations were not helpful. The chain of command loved these two Marines. No prior misconduct. No NJPs (non-judicial punishment). They were rock stars, both of them.

And, they were pals, eating together in the chow hall, heading out into town together on weekend liberty. The event—the accusation—was totally out of the blue to everyone in the chain.

I concluded that I needed to talk to their peers, not their leaders. I got some names from their respective NCOs, and I pulled the barracks roster and identified the next door neighbors on either side of Glashing and Highrider’s old room.

The two accused had their own, private rooms, now. And they were locked in by order of Colonel Stick.

I finished afternoon interviews before 1430 hrs. Again, way earlier than I expected because, no shit, none of them were helpful. Everybody fucking loved these two Marines.

I had to talk to them. I figured I’d start with Glashing; her name came first in alphabetical order.

I set it up with the First Sergeant. It would be in her barracks room due to her restricted status. I wanted to get it done tonight, and Wolverton gave me a master key, and he called both Marines in their rooms to tell them I was coming and to cooperate.

Before I went in, I needed to consider my approach. I do my best thinking alone, where I can talk out loud to myself. Yeah, I’m fucking weird. I headed down to the river that separated the air station from the base and looked across, thinking.

The General would want this to go away. He wouldn’t want a ruckus. He wouldn’t want the division embarrassed.

Based on the worthless interviews, my theory was that the two of them were, in fact, lesbians who had deliberately chosen to room together, were definitely sex partners, but they’d gotten too drunk and had one of those relationship annihilating arguments. One falsely accused the other; the other had little choice, but to fire back. This theory assumed that no actual sexual assault had taken place.

If I was correct, they were both goners: administrative separation. History. Pack your trash, ladies, türkçe bahis and catch the next hop home. This, I concluded, was a result that the General could handle: swift and decisive.

But, I needed one of them to tell the truth. Shit.

The water rippled, and out toward the middle, I could see a fat tree branch stuck in the current; it looked almost like a periscope.

I ran to my car and drove back to my own battalion headquarters, made a quick request and found a guy.

Afterwards, I changed uniforms, ate some chow, and thought hard about my questions. Then, I drove back to 10th Marines.

I gave the women time to finish their own meals before I knocked on Glashing’s door, stuck the key in, and entered. I was wearing my Alphas—my most formal working uniform, a forest green suit with a khaki shirt and tie. I closed the door behind me. She was standing at attention.

“At ease,” I ordered.

She relaxed. I approached her and shook her hand, introducing myself. Seeing her in person, I could understand how anyone, male or female, might be interested in getting naked with her.

She was short, just over five feet. Her sandy blonde hair was pulled tight and pinned behind her head. Her face had soft edges and her grey-blue eyes had a hazy and dreamlike quality about them. Her mouth was tiny, but her lips full. In camouflage utilities, her body was somewhat unreadable, other than that she was very fit.

“Have a seat.”

She did, and I sat across from her on the other bed.

“Do you know why I’m here?”

“Yes, sir.”

I set the tape recorder on the deck in front of me, but I didn’t start recording. “Let me be frank, Lance Corporal. I’m here as a formality. I do not need your sworn statement to make a determination. I don’t need Highrider’s, either. I have an audio recording of the incident.”

Here, I pulled one of my cassettes out of my pocket, held it up for her, and set it on the bed next to me.

She started at me. “But, sir, there’s no…”

“The USS Springfield is out there right now, Glashing. Very lucky for me they needed to stop in New River before deploying to the Mediterranean. Not so lucky for you. It’s a state-of-the-art attack submarine. It has on board the most advanced array of sonar equipment the world has ever seen. It is constantly listening and recording what it hears, and it hears everything. Colonel Stick, at my request, got me on board last night. I spoke with the Skipper, and he decided to help us. All he needed was the time of the incident, and the grid coordinates and elevation of this room. He had his sonar man go back to their tapes and narrow the sonar sweep recording to those parameters, and then made me a recording.” I put my fingers on the cassette.

She looked doubtful, so I stood up and gestured her to the window. She walked over, and I opened the blinds. I pointed down to the parking lot.

“See that sailor?”

She didn’t say a word.

“That’s my sonar operator.”

Actually, he was just a Navy Corpsman from my battalion. I made him put on his finest cracker jack uniform. He looked up. I turned to Glashing. “Want to hear it from his mouth?” I asked her.

She shook her head, deflated.

“Okay. Have a seat.” I gestured to the bed where I had been sitting.

She walked to it and sat near the pillow; I waved the Corpsman away.

“Like I said, Lance Corporal, this is a formality. But, it’s an important one. I can make a recommendation to the commanding general that will save you or crush you—both of you—depending on how you decide to play this.”

I sat down at the foot of the bed and put the fake tape in my pocket.

“If you can be honest with me, then it doesn’t have to be jail time and a dishonorable discharge.” If my theory were right, there was no actual possibility of jail or a dishonorable discharge, but I pushed my massive bluff forward. “If you’re honest, then I can maybe get you a transfer and a fresh start: New River, Parris Island, or Quantico. The rumors won’t follow you there. A new beginning.” Lies and more lies.

She looked up at me, and there was hope in her eyes.

“What do you say? Can you tell me the honest truth?”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

I leaned down and started the recorder.

“This is the investigating officer. The time is 1917 hours. We are in Building H-2160, room 219. I am interviewing Lance Corporal Samantha Glashing. Glashing, please confirm your identity.”

She did.

“After you and Lance Corporal Highrider returned from the barracks party, what happened?”

She started slowly and hesitantly. When she glossed over things, I pressed her for details, asking questions like “How did you know that?” or ordering her to “Speak more precisely about what you did and what she did.” I encouraged her to use casual language.

She was drunk, but not blotto. Glashing went to the head first, stripping off her civilian attire down to her panties and a tee shirt. When she came out, Highrider went in. Glashing climbed into her rack; güvenilir bahis siteleri Highrider into hers.

Highrider asked if Glashing ever masturbated. She said she did. Highrider asked who she thought about when she did it, and Glashing described her last boyfriend, a civilian back home.

I may have shown surprise when she told me this. My Lesbian Theory of the case might have to evolve.

Highrider asked Glashing to tell her about the sexiest thing that she and her boyfriend ever did together. Glashing described an event, and while she told the story, Highrider began to masturbate, encouraging Glashing to give more details.

Highrider was becoming very aroused. Here is a good example of where I asked, “How did you know this?” in order to elicit specific details.

She was moaning and breathing heavily.

Glashing, surprised by this, climbed out of bed and walked over. She asked Highrider to show her. Highrider pulled down her blanket, and she was naked from the waist down.

Glashing watched her and became aroused, herself, and she began to masturbate. “Speak more precisely about what you did.” She pulled off her panties and rubbed her clit with her fingers.

Highrider turned on her side to watch. After a few moments, Highrider reached out and caressed Glashing’s breasts through her shirt. Glashing took off her shirt, and Highrider asked if she could kiss Glashing’s tits. She leaned forward and Highrider began to taste and suck on Glashing’s nipples.

Glashing cupped and fondled Highrider’s breasts. Both continued to rub their pussies.

Highrider invited Glashing into her bed, and both girls stripped naked. Both talked about how they had never been with another woman.

Damn. This was destroying my theory.

Laying on their sides and facing each other, they kissed and began to touch and caress one another. Soon, both girls had their fingers in each other.

At this point, I was wishing I had worn my camouflage uniform. It wouldn’t hide my giant boner, but it might break up the pattern of it, and cammies were definitely better at containing an erection than the wool slacks of my Alphas. I held my hands together over my lap.

Next, Highrider asked if she could lick Glashing’s pussy. She nodded and Highrider got between her legs. Highrider began to lick and suck there. Some few minutes later, Glashing had an orgasm.

Glashing and Highrider switched positions. “Did she ask you to? Speak more precisely, Lance Corporal.”

Neither said a word. She just did it. Glashing sucked Highrider’s nipples and finger fucked her, and then she kissed down Highrider’s tummy all the way to her pussy. She licked Highrider’s pussy and…

Here Glashing hesitated, and I insisted the record needed complete honesty.

Highrider asked Glashing to put a finger in her ass. Glashing did so while she ate Highrider’s pussy. Highrider came. Then, they both fell asleep in Highrider’s bed.

Glashing fell silent, and I thanked her for being honest. I wiped a small bead of perspiration from my forehead, and then quickly covered my hard on again. I hoped and prayed my next set of questions would give me time to cool down.

“Okay, how is it then, Glashing, that the two of you came to accuse each other after Tuesday morning formation?”

Highrider had woken up first. She flipped out when she felt Glashing in her bed and remembered the events. She said they were going to get kicked out. She blamed Glashing, said she was a lesbian, said Glashing attacked her because she was drunk. Told Glashing she was going to the First Sergeant.

Glashing tried to calm her down and explain that no one had to know, but Highrider was adamant. She couldn’t be in a room or be friends with someone like Glashing. She had never wanted it to happen. It was sexual assault.

They prepared themselves for morning formation in cold, angry silence. After dismissal, when Glashing saw Highrider walk purposefully toward the First Sergeant, Glashing followed.

When it was her turn to tell the story to Wolverton, she lied to protect herself.

Glashing was crying and I stopped the tape. I scooted down and put my arm around her, keeping one arm across the steel barrel in my pants.

Excepting, of course, the end of Glashing’s tale, it was the hottest, sexiest fucking thing I ever heard. And it blew my theory—and my plan—completely to hell.

These women weren’t lesbians; they probably weren’t even bisexual. They were 19 year old kids who got drunk and horny and fooled around. Could they be lesbians or bisexual someday? Sure, I thought. Maybe. At 20, who really knows who the fuck they are?

I felt bad for Glashing. I wanted to help her.

But, I needed to keep the General happy.


Holding Glashing, I said, “Quit crying, Lance Corporal, that’s an order.”

“Aye, sir.” she wiped her eyes. She stood up and walked around.

“You told the truth, so I’m going to take care of you. Are you a Marine?”

She stopped. “Yes, sir.”

“So, am I. I’ve got your back here, now. And, someday, when you’re a Gunnery Sergeant, you’re going to save my ass. That’s what we do.”

Wiping her eyes, Glashing forced a smile at me, and then hesitated. “What about Highrider?”

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