Full Measure: A Novel by T. Jefferson Parker

the Marine. “Too bad we’ll give it back to the terrorists and dope growers.”
    “It’s their home,” said Patrick. “And it’s hell anyway. Let them have it.”
    “How many did you lose?”
    “Twenty-five very good men. Two hundred wounded.”
    “How many’d you kill?”
    “Four hundred seventy confirmed but a lot more in reality.”
    Someone on the other side of Iris said something but Patrick couldn’t make it out. Whoever said it, said it again. Patrick leaned forward and looked past Iris at the red-faced boy who was drinking Patrick’s generosity. A high and tight cherry if Patrick had ever seen one. “I’d go and kill another four hundred if they’d let me,” he said.
    “You’re a POG, so you don’t have to worry.”
    “How do you know I’m a POG?”
    “What’s a POG?” Iris interjected.
    “Personnel Other Than Grunt,” said Patrick. “And I can tell by looking at you.”
    “I’m a Marine air mechanic and proud of it. Jason Falk.”
    “Lance Corporal Patrick Norris. You guys wouldn’t land for our wounded in Sangin if there was fire. The Brits did it all the time, but not you.”
    “Watch your words. The pilots I know would fly down the barrel of a gun. All I said was I’d go over and—”
    “Don’t waste your time,” said Patrick.
    Jason considered this, then chugged the last half of his beer. “Twenty-five is a lot of Americans.”
    “It’s a lot of Americans to waste.”
    “I don’t agree it was a waste. Freedom is worth dying for.”
    “But Afghanistan isn’t. That’s what I’m trying to get through your thick fuckin’ skull.”
    “Lance Corporal Norris, there’s a lady present,” said Jason Falk. “That’s in case you didn’t notice. I told you once to watch your words. I’m Marine air and I don’t back down.”
    “Tell your pilots to grow some.”
    “What’s wrong with you?”
    “Boots like you,” said Patrick. He drank and stared straight ahead.
    “Time to clear out,” said Iris, sliding off the stool.
    Patrick turned to where she had been, and the blow landed blind. After that, pure reaction. As Jason chambered another punch Patrick crashed a fist hard into his face, then an even harder elbow. The sound whap-cracked through the music and Jason’s face exploded with blood. Patrick heard Iris scream at him to stop, but he hit Jason twice more on the way down. Then he felt the weight of someone on top of him, went to one knee, and threw the first Marine over his shoulder. Iris pulled him up and Patrick took her arm and guided her to the door, but hustled back and put the half-risen man back down with a short hook to his middle. Outside they ran down Sundowner to Pacific Coast Highway for the truck. The cuffs of Patrick’s too-large pants flopped down past his ankles and almost tripped him. At the truck he opened the doors with the key fob and they clambered up and in. Patrick made the U-turn too fast and the tires chirped and the headlights of a police cruiser parked across the street came on.
    “Do not consider trying to outrace that cop,” said Iris.
    Patrick checked the rearview and saw he had about a fifty yard head start and that the cruiser was coming fast, lights flashing and the siren loud. He looked at the Galleon and there was no one yet in pursuit. “I’m good. We’re good. We’re okay.”
    “Can you pass the test?”
    “Pretty sure.”
    Patrick pulled into the Harbor House parking lot and the cop car whirled and screamed in behind him. He drove to the rear and parked. In the sideview he saw the cruiser flashing. He waited while the cop ran his plates and he hoped someone back home had paid up the registration in his absence. “Just be nice and be yourself,” said Iris.
    “Can’t be both.”
    Patrick watched the prowl car door open and a chunky uniform cop climb out. The cop had his hand on the handle of his sidearm in a casual way and in his other hand was a long flashlight. He stopped short of and slightly behind the