Thomas Short
Game Faces
The last vestige of winter hid in the shadows of the headstones, spanning the ground in long rows like a marching platoon. Sergeant Brian Simmons stood on a narrow path, his dress blues enough to stave off the mild cold blowing in from the ocean. He waited for the first sign of the incoming procession, his eyes scanning the line of willow trees draping the side of the road.
“Should be any minute now,” Simmons said to the others standing near the gravesite. Behind him, the usual chatter began—speculations about how he’d earned his Bronze Star.
“I heard he ran over a haji,” Mathers said, smacking his hands together. “Kersplat!”
Flowers laughed. “Nah, he pulled a wounded Lance Corporal out of a burning Humvee.”
“You’re both wrong,” Simmons cut in, ending the game. “I see them. Finish your smokes and get ready, game faces.”
The Marines quickly stubbed out their cigarettes, stashing the butts in an empty soda can. They formed a tight formation, standing shoulder to shoulder as the funeral procession crept past. Simmons had done this countless times—different cemeteries, different families, different towns—but the faces were always the same. Hollowed-out eyes, vacant expressions, the weight of grief on their shoulders. The flag he handed them was meant to be a token of gratitude, but it never felt like enough. To Simmons it was just another check in the box until his year as funeral NCO was done, and he could pin on the achievement medal his command used to coax volunteers.
The last vehicle, a long black limo, slowed to a stop. Simmons broke ranks and stepped forward, opening the back door. An elderly woman sat inside, her frail hands resting in her lap. He reached out, guiding her gently to her feet by the elbow.
“Take your time, ma’am,” he said softly, escorting her from the vehicle.
She nodded, pressing her lips together to keep them from quivering. Behind her, three men—her sons, most likely—filed out of the limo. Simmons walked them to their seats by the graveside, offering condolences before falling back into place.
The flag bearers stood at either end of the casket. The priest delivered a short prayer. Family members spoke, their voices shaking as they recounted memories of the deceased: a veteran who had served three tours in Vietnam, it wasn’t the enemy that got him but the cigarettes.
When it was the Marines’ turn, Flowers and Mathers lifted the flag off the casket, their faces as emotionless as statues. Simmons tilted his bugle slightly, concealing the black speaker hidden inside. He pressed the play button, put it to his lips, and the solemn notes of Taps flowed over the graveyard.
When the final note faded, the flag bearers moved like an animatronic performance, folding the flag into a tight triangle. Simmons took the flag, inspected it one last time, and knelt before the widow. He met her eyes, holding them for a moment. Neither the flag nor the rehearsed speech could ease her loss, but it was part of the ceremony.
“On behalf of the President of the United States, the Commandant of the Marine Corps, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a token of your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.”
Her hands trembled as she accepted the flag. Simmons removed his white glove and shook her hand. “I am sorry for your loss.”
Simmons faced the coffin, signaling the others to come to attention. Silently, they marched back to the van, quickening their pace as they got closer. When the doors shut, Simmons unclasped the cumbersome collar, easing the brass studs off his throat.
“Fuck, man,” Flowers shouted. “I know this is the best uniform in the armed forces, but why they gotta make it so damn uncomfortable?”
“So, you all wanna do Hooters or Famous Dave’s?” Simmons asked as Mathers started the van.
*
The headquarters building was as uninspired as ever—a blocky, government-issued slab of concrete. Inside, the duty NCO waited behind the desk, flipping through the logbook.
“Sergeant Major wants to see you,” the duty said.
Simmons exhaled sharply. He had hoped to head back to the barracks after the long day.
He knocked on the office door, and a gruff voice called him in.
“Good evening, Sergeant Major. Sergeant Simmons reporting as ordered.”
“Hey, Devil Dog,” the Sergeant Major said, waving him inside. “Close the door. Have a seat.”
Simmons did as he was told, clasping his hands in his lap.
“You know why I called you in,” the Sergeant Major said.
“No, Sergeant Major.”
“You’ve done a goddamn good job with the funeral detail,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “But your year is about up. Just wanted to pick your brain about a replacement.”
Simmons exhaled a bit of relief. Of all the extra duties, this was the one they all dreaded the most. “Not sure. Mathers is a jag-off, and Flowers is okay, just lacks the maturity, I think.”
The fax machine on the corner desk whined to life. The Sergeant Major sighed, pushing himself out of his chair to grab the printout. As he scanned the page, his expression hardened.
“Shit,” he muttered. He turned the paper toward Simmons. Casualty Notification.
Simmons’ stomach tightened.
“Looks like you’re not done just yet,” the Sergeant Major said. “You and Captain Lee are up. I know it’s been a long day but get squared away.”
*
Captain Lee gripped the wheel, knuckles white, jaw tight. Neither of them had spoken since they left the base; the nerves were thick like fog but neither wanted to admit it.
The GPS directed them through a quiet neighborhood, past manicured lawns and neatly trimmed hedges. It looked like any middle-class suburb. Not the kind of place where life-shattering news should be delivered.
Lee exhaled sharply through his nose as he pulled to a stop in front of the house. It was a modest, single-story home with blue shutters and a clean driveway. Parked along the curb was a silver SUV. On the back window, in bold gold lettering, was a decal: Proud Marine Mom.
Simmons’ stomach twisted. He swallowed, hard, trying to shove the feeling back down, but it stayed, blocked by a prickly lump in his throat.
Captain Lee sat still for a long moment, gripping the steering wheel so tight it looked like he might snap it in two.
“We’re doing this by the book,” he said, more to himself than to Simmons. “Say the words, answer any immediate questions, and get out of there. No extras. No mistakes.”
Simmons nodded, forcing himself to breathe. He had folded dozens of flags, played Taps a hundred times, handed that triangle of cloth to weeping widows more times than he cared to count. But this was different.
They stepped out of the car, deadpan faces. Each step up the driveway felt heavier than the last. Simmons’ chest felt tight, his fingers cold. The door in front of him was just a door, no different than any other—until Captain Lee raised his fist and knocked.
A few seconds passed. Simmons dug the blunt end of his thumb into the side of his index finger. The door swung open.
The woman who answered was in her early fifties. She wore jeans and a grey USMC sweatshirt, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. For a brief moment, there was polite curiosity on her face. Then her eyes dropped to their uniforms.
Simmons saw the exact second her world shattered. No words needed to be exchanged.
“No.” The color drained from her face.
Her voice was barely a whisper, but it hit Simmons like a hammer. She took a step back, gripping the doorframe.
Captain Lee started speaking. Simmons barely heard him. He was too focused on the way her knees wobbled, on how she clutched at her chest like she had been physically struck. A second later, a man appeared behind her. He was taller, broad-shouldered, dressed in an old flannel shirt. His eyes moved from his wife to the Marines standing in his doorway, and then something inside him shut off.
“No,” the mother said again, shaking her head. “No, not my boy. Not my boy.”
Then she collapsed into her husband’s arms, sobbing.
Simmons locked his jaw, standing stiff as stone, forcing himself to stay in place. He had become aware of how tight his jaws gnashed together, his teeth throbbed as he eased up. The weight of the Bronze Star on his ribbon rack felt heavier on his chest and mind.
The father didn’t cry. He didn’t even move. He just stared, silent and hollow, holding his wife as she crumbled against him. His mouth parted slightly, like he wanted to speak, to demand an explanation, to plead for a different answer. But nothing came out.
Captain Lee finished the notification, reciting the scripted words as gently as he could. He told them there would be a call from Casualty Assistance, that Sergeant Simmons and himself would be in touch to help them through the process, that their son had served honorably. None of it mattered. None of it ever mattered.
When the mother finally lifted her face from her husband’s chest, she looked straight at Simmons.
“What happened?” she choked out. “How did my baby die?”
Simmons hesitated, trying to remember what he had been instructed to say. He opened his mouth, but Captain Lee answered first.
“Ma’am, the details will be provided as soon as they’re confirmed.”
She let out a breathless sob, clutching at her husband’s shirt.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Captain Lee said.
Simmons couldn’t do it anymore. He dropped his gaze and closed his eyes, then turned on his heel and walked straight back to the car. He got in and stared at the dashboard, willing himself to keep it together. He felt something running down his cheek. He wiped at it quickly, hoping Lee hadn’t noticed.
Captain Lee slid into the driver’s seat a minute later. He put the car in drive, pulled away from the house, and they drove in silence.
“Do we really not know how he died?” Simmons asked.
“He was shot in the head,” the captain said, scowling. “I just… I couldn’t bring myself to tell them.”
The car felt too small. The uniform too tight. His hands curled into fists on his knees as his shoulders started to shake.
Simmons pressed his fingers against his temples, elbows braced on his thighs, trying to hold himself together. But it was too much.
“Fuck!” Simmons wailed, his head collapsed into his hands.
*
The funeral had to be perfect. Every movement had to be sharp, every uniform immaculate, every Marine flawless. There was no room for mistakes. Not for this one.
Simmons buried himself in the preparations. If he was awake, he was working. When he wasn’t checking gear, he was drilling the team. When he wasn’t drilling the team, he was inspecting uniforms, rechecking rifle placements, measuring distances between the casket and the rifle team, making sure every goddamn crease in every goddamn pair of pants was aligned just right.
The casket arrived on the 14th of August, what would have been the deceased 24th birthday.
Simmons felt the weight of that fact settle into his chest as the C-130 landed on the airstrip. The tarmac stretched wide and empty beneath a clear blue sky, the air thick with the smell of jet fuel and burnt rubber.
His detail stood in formation, their dress blues sharp, every ribbon and badge carefully placed. Not a single loose thread, not a single scuffed shoe.
The plane taxied to a stop, engines humming low, and the rear ramp slowly descended. Simmons stood still, hands clasped behind his back, as the six Marines of the honor guard stepped forward, standing in two files as the bay door opened. They marched into the cargo bay where the casket waited.
Draped in an American flag, it seemed too small, too final. Simmons swallowed hard and kept his gaze forward as the honor guard lifted it, their movements silent and exact. Every step was rehearsed, every breath measured. There was no room for error.
The family stood a short distance away, waiting. The mother, dressed in black, clung to her husband’s arm, her body taut like a wire ready to snap, eyes locked on the casket as if staring too long might make it disappear.
The honor guard lifted the casket, gripping the handle with both hands, their steps synchronized. Then, just as they were lowering it onto the rollers, the mother spoke.
“I want to see him.”
Simmons blinked, glancing up at the mother, and then to Captain Lee. The officer hesitated, shifting uncomfortably. He didn’t want to be the one to answer.
Simmons cleared his throat. “Ma’am,” he said carefully, “I strongly advise against that.”
“I don’t care,” she said, gripping her husband’s sleeve. “I need to see my son.”
Her husband exhaled through his nose but didn’t argue. His grip on her arm tightened, as if to steady her, but he wouldn’t deny her.
Some families needed proof. No matter how painful, no matter how many warnings they were given, they had to see with their own eyes.
Still, he hesitated. “Ma’am…”
“Please,” she whispered.
Simmons inhaled through his nose. Then he nodded.
Stepping forward, he unclasped the latches, he froze for a moment and took a deep breath, his jaw tightened, and eyes closed. The casket lid lifted smoothly, just a foot—just enough.
But Simmons didn’t look. His eyes stayed locked on the mother. Her breath caught instantly. Her shoulders jerked as if she had been jolted by an electric shock. Then she recoiled, collapsing into her husband’s chest, a wretched sob tearing from her throat.
The father’s eyes stayed locked inside for a second longer. His face, already hardened, twisted. His lips parted, and his breath came out sharp, his hands gripped the fabric of his black trousers.
The mother’s body shook violently in his arms. Her sobs quieted, but when she finally spoke, her voice was hoarse and hollow. “What have they done to my boy?”
“This is the worst day of my life,” the father said.
Simmons exhaled through his nose, then closed the casket, securing the latches back in place. Whatever force was holding back his tears was fading.
*
Simmons adjusted his gloves for what felt like the hundredth time that morning, making sure they were snug, fingers straight, perfect. He sat stiff-backed in the limo, across from the family, the weight of the folded flag already pressing against his hands even though he wouldn’t be handing it over for another hour. Then, up ahead, Simmons saw them.
A cluster of people on the side of the road, holding neon-colored signs, screaming words that couldn’t yet reach them.
Westboro. Simmons clenched his jaw.
Their signs were the same garbage he had seen before. God Hates Your Dead Marine, Thank God for IEDs, This Is God’s Punishment.
Captain Lee exhaled sharply next to him. The father, still staring out the window, blinked slowly as he took it all in.
The mother didn’t look, just gripped her husband’s hand tightly. She hid her face but their screams picked up as they got closer, penetrating the limo with their hate.
“Sergeant,” the father said breaking the silence. “I see you have a Bronze Star. If you don’t mind, can we hear the story of how you earned it?”
Simmons hesitated. He didn’t like talking about it, the jeering of the protesters still breaching the limo. “I didn’t earn it.” His words stole the attention of the Captain. “Iraq, 2008. There was a local man that was hit in a fire fight. A couple of my guys and I went to get him to safety, but one of my guys took a round, and I carried both wounded back under fire.”
“Did they make it?”
“The civilian lived, by my Marine bled out waiting for evac. My choice got a man killed. I didn’t earn it.”
“But you saved a life,” the father was quiet for a moment, then nodded, eyes still on Simmons. “I think my son would have liked you,” he said.
Simmons felt something in his chest tighten. He held the man’s gaze for a beat, then nodded back, allowing himself the smallest smile. “Thank you, sir.”
Outside, the protesters were drowning out, the streets were lined with locals who came out in mass. They stood in clusters along the sidewalks, some with hands over their hearts, others simply watching in silence as the motorcade passed. The town had shown up. All of it.
The cemetery came into view a few moments later, the rows of headstones stretching out in neat lines, the dark earth freshly turned where the grave had been prepared. The procession slowed to a stop, and Simmons straightened his cover as the limo doors were opened.
The grounds were filled to capacity, people lining the streets outside just to be present, to pay respects. Even those who didn’t know the family personally had come, standing shoulder to shoulder.
The rifle team executed their volleys, the cracks of their M-16s cutting through the still air. The flag was folded with sharp, perfect corners. Simmons kept his breathing even as he took it, pressed it tight against his chest, and turned to the mother.
He dropped to a knee, looking up at her. “On behalf of a grateful nation…”
She cradled the flag tight against her body, squeezing it as though it were her son.
Simmons held the position for a second longer than necessary before rising to his feet.
It was done, but Simmons knew he’d carry this one with him forever.
*
The ride back to base was quiet. Captain Lee stared out the windshield, hands steady on the wheel, while Simmons sat beside him, shoulders squared, eyes locked on some invisible point in the distance.
The day had gone perfectly. The town had shown up. The rifle volleys were clean. The flag folds were sharp. The words had been spoken. But as they pulled into the base, Simmons felt the weight of the day pressing down on him.
Captain Lee cleared his throat. “You good?”
Simmons nodded. “Yeah. I think I’m gonna stay on.”
Lee glanced at him. “Yeah?”
Simmons didn’t feel like he was hiding behind a mask anymore, that it meant something more than medals and praise from the command.
“Yeah,” Simmons said, adjusting his cover. “Feels like the right thing to do.”
“The story is based on my time on the Marines while stationed at a reserve center. I served as funeral NCO and it is loosely based on real events.” —Thomas Short
Thomas Short is a Marine Veteran, Colorado State graduate, and regular at Yale Writers’ Workshop. He lives in the Mojave desert where he enjoys writing weird stories that excite him and traveling the world. His favorite books are The Sirens of Titan, Catch-22, and A Confederacy of Dunces. He has published work in the Military Experience in the Arts, Free Spirit, and Half and One.