by C. X. Moreau
“Yeah, Sergeant Griffin. That little bitch got me. I’m okay though.”
“Doc,” said Griffin as he continued to check the position of the squad, “Samson is next.”
“Roger that, Sarge,” came the reply.
Griffin stifled a curse as another Marine began to wrap a pressure bandage around Samson’s calf. Griffin looked on angrily and asked, “Can you walk on that, Samson?”
Samson glanced at him and answered, “I don’t know. I think so.” Griffin noted the last announcement with some concern. Samson’s position had been very carefully arranged within the squad. Being large, well muscled, and uncomplaining, Griffin had deliberately saddled him with extra ammunition for Tiger’s M-60 and positioned him just ahead of the gun. Now Griffin confronted the possibility that Samson’s ammo would have to be given to another Marine. Not very serious in and of itself. But if Samson couldn’t walk then the heaviest man in the squad, other than Griffin himself, was going to have to be carried out. That would require two men at worst, none if he could walk out. With a total force of only fifteen Marines and one navy corpsman Samson was destined to become walking wounded if at all possible. As the corpsman darted across the road to check Samson, Griffin flinched as another call of “Corpsman up!” rang out. He turned to face the direction of the call and asked, “Who now?”
“It’s not one of ours, Sergeant Griffin. There’s a kid under the car behind Tiger, and she ain’t moving. I just noticed her,” said Samson.
“Okay,” said Griffin, “Tiger, hold your position.” He circled the car, moving past Tiger and along the wall, noting that Tiger appeared to be okay. Without allowing himself to look down, Griffin knelt beside the car and attempted to locate the child by touch alone. Samson, just to the rear of Griffin, looked over and attempted to give aid. “She’s on the other side, closer to the street,” said the big Marine.
Griffin circled the car, gave the small body a quick visual inspection, and reached under the car to grab an arm and pull her out. To his astonishment the child inched away from him, seeking refuge farther under the car. Griffin noted the alert, frightened look in the child’s eyes then lunged under the car, catching her by an ankle, and unceremoniously dragged her out.
Griffin held the child as the Doc scuttled over. He listened as the corpsman gave the status of Tiger and Samson. “Tiger is okay, but he’s got some shrapnel in his legs and ass. No concussion as far as I can tell. A real doctor will have to look at him once we make it back to the battalion. Samson’s foot is fucked up, and I’m afraid to take the boot off to look at it. It will probably swell and we won’t be able to get it back on.”
Griffin nodded as the corpsman then turned his attention to the child. He peered at the squad sprawled along the narrow street and realized again the vulnerability of remaining where they were. “Samson! Give your ammo to somebody else. You’re walking out of here. Got that?”
“Yeah,” said the big Marine. Griffin hoped that by letting Samson know he was expected to carry on he wouldn’t ask for any assistance. He also made a mental note to observe Samson once the patrol moved out and consider giving him some help before allowing him to slow the patrol too much. Griffin glanced over at the corpsman and asked, “Doc, what’s the story on the kid?”
“She’s okay. Scared shitless, but then ain’t we all?”
Griffin ignored the sarcastic jibe and asked, “Doc, did you see where this kid came from?” An incredulous “shit” was his only answer. Griffin turned and looked down the length of the street, noting the closed doors and shuttered windows, as if expecting to see an aproned mother holding her arms out to the child. Seeing nothing more than closed doors and half the squad nervously scanning every building, Griffin knew he had to do something. The thought occurred to him that the squad had been motionless now for almost five minutes, plenty of time for an unseen enemy to arrange another ambush, or complete this one.
He looked at the frightened child. She was perhaps six years old, with curly black hair and big dark eyes set in a round face. Silent tears ran down either cheek as she attempted to press farther into the back bumper and trunk of the car they sheltered behind. Griffin remembered the lack of struggle once he had grasped the slim brown ankle. It wasn’t that she was frightened; it was more a quiet resignation on the part of the little girl, as though she had sensed her inability to decide her own fate. The child’s complete lack of expression and listless crying also disturbed him. Griffin noticed that one hand held a round foil-covered disc, containing the waxy chocolate that was standard fare among the combat rations of the Marines. Fucking Downs no doubt, he thought. He had probably seen the little girl as the patrol passed and given her the candy when he should have had his mind on his business. He made another mental note to speak to Downs about it, then said quietly to the corpsman, “Okay, Doc, we’re gonna put the kid in that house,” nodding to indicate an ancient faded blue wooden door. “Follow me.”
Griffin opened the door and he took a quick look inside. Seeing no one, he motioned the Doc up, who then deposited the silent child in the room. She continued to stand where the corpsman had left her and stare after them as Griffin reached in and closed the door. His last image of the child was one of her standing immobile and doll-like on the stone floor of the empty room, arms at her sides as her eyes followed him out of the room before the door cut her stare.
The Doc moved off to resume his position in the squad as Griffin fingered the radio in his pocket. “Downs!”
“Yeah.”
“We gotta get the fuck out of here. You ready?”
“We’re set. Mac’s got the map out and it shows an open field about two clicks from here big enough for an LZ if we need one, but we have to leave the patrol route. Anybody down bad?”
“Maybe,” answered Griffin. “Samson’s foot is fucked up, but he should be able to make it eight or nine clicks back to the wire. We can’t get the company up on the radio. How does the route look to this LZ?”
“Okay, I guess. Map shows a built-up area. Same shit we’re in now.”
“All right, give me the grid, then get ready to move.” As Downs read off an eight-digit grid coordinate Griffin plotted the position on his laminated map and marked it with a small black circle. He made a mental note of the sparse map features so as to have an idea of the squad’s position as it moved. He was also aware of the effects the Israeli invasion had had upon the village. What appeared as a village or town on the map often turned out to be little more than mounds of rubble. Even worse, the maps were so old that often what was marked as clear areas on the map had since become a small village, or an extension of a larger one. The best “maps” available to the Marines were actual aerial photographs taken by reconnaissance aircraft then superimposed with grid lines. Although awkward, they provided up-to-date information not available on maps issued to the squad leaders. For reasons incomprehensible to Griffin and his peers, these photos had become the prized possessions of the lieutenants who invariably chose not to accompany their squads on the long, hot, usually monotonous patrols.
The Marines picked themselves up and moved off, and Griffin recalled the complete absence of civilians on the street prior to the grenade’s explosion. He made a mental note to check with his corporals to see if any of them had seen anything that could be interpreted as a prearranged signal for the locals to clear the street.
Griffin’s biggest concern by far was his lack of radio contact with the company. Even under the best of conditions the PRC-77 radio carried by the squad was of doubtful quality. Until the squad moved into an area clear of buildings tall enough to block transmission they were out of touch with the company, and any chance for timely relief if they needed it. Once contact was reestablished the resources of the battalion could be mobilized to lend whatever assistance was necessary.
Griffin grimaced as he thought of the reaction of his superiors to the attack. They would no doubt blow the whole incident out of proportion, he was sure. He was also sure that a rea
ction force would be sent to relieve the squad and bring it safely back to the Marine perimeter.
Griffin found the prospect of this type of “relief” humiliating and therefore dreaded the moment when contact would be reestablished with battalion. The patrol had left the wire under its own steam and, even taking Samson into account, it was fully capable of returning without assistance.
Seven years ago when Griffin had gone to Parris Island for boot camp, the Marine Corps had been a different animal—leaner, harder, less a place of refuge and more a home for the capable who chose its Spartan lifestyle. Staff NCOs and officers who hadn’t proven themselves in the steaming jungles of Vietnam had quietly left or been relegated to out-of-the-way units in the air wing. Griffin and his peers had been trained by men who didn’t need to rely on worn phrases emphasizing their ability to impart lessons that could “save your life one day.” Their lessons had been brought home with a quick, sharp blow to the solar plexus, or worse, a contemptuous stare. Their credentials came from nameless battles and lesser firefights in Vietnam. Griffin knew that the officers who now awaited his contact report at the battalion command and control center were, for the most part, too junior to have seen action in the Vietnam War. He resented what he felt would be their unwarranted intrusion upon the conduct of his patrol, and it awakened the frustration and anger that lay buried deep beneath his professional demeanor.
The patrol swung west, heading for the spot selected by Downs and MacCallum, clearing the buildings that had been blocking radio contact. Griffin listened in silence as the radioman read off the contact report including the number and severity of casualties. Almost immediately the battalion operations officer’s voice crackled over the speaker and ordered that the patrol’s “actual,” or ranking NCO, be put on the radio. As Griffin took the handset from the man he chafed at the breach of procedure. In theory something as small as this ambush should be handled by the officers at company level, with the information and relevant requests for reaction forces being relayed to the battalion operations center. As Griffin had anticipated, with the first word of the ambush arriving at battalion, all thought of proper procedure so rigorously insisted upon by the battalion officers at other times had been abandoned. Instead, a rush to be a part of the action was made by each officer then manning the battalion combat operations center. The net result was the abandonment of the chain of command and established procedures for the flow of information from the unit making contact to its parent unit. Griffin’s company commander, known to his troops as “Captain Rock” due to a rather prominent jawline, now listened to Griffin relay an incredibly expanded version of the initial report directly to the battalion operations officer.
Normally such information would have been passed by radio operators with the rank of private first class or lance corporal. As Griffin wound up his version of the contact report he informed the operations officer that the patrol was now heading for a possible LZ, and gave the locating grid coordinate.
The voice of the officer shot back over the radio ordering Griffin not to leave the designated patrol route. Griffin sighed and avoided making eye contact with the radioman, although the two were physically linked by the pigtailed cord of the radio handset. Although he appreciated the conventional wisdom of not leaving the patrol route and thereby avoiding the possibility of the patrol being “lost” to battalion, he had resigned himself to the inevitability of relief by the react force. Accepting this, he and Downs had figured the easiest and least complicated means of extract for the patrol. The LZ selected would facilitate removal of the wounded by helicopter while not taking the squad too far out of the way. Griffin and Downs were also familiar enough with Hooterville to know that the area chosen could be fairly easily defended if that became a necessity.
As these thoughts raced through his head the tinny voice of the operations officer again came over the radio. Griffin was given the grid for another LZ selected by the officer and told to proceed there with all possible speed. As he gave the handset back to the smirking radioman he avoided the temptation to voice his opinion of the battalion’s officers in general, and of the operations officer in particular.
Griffin was well acquainted with the inequities of the system in the Marine Corps. He had lived with the disparity between the ranks and the staff NCOs and officer corps for years. He accepted the system because he knew it was necessary, and because it worked. Griffin also knew, from prior experience, that the operations officer would have the last word, and that he had no choice but to obey the order. He was silently amused that in the compressed atmosphere of Beirut the operations officer, with the rank of major, would make decisions that would otherwise be made by corporals and sergeants.
Griffin’s amusement faded into resentment as he gave Downs the new grid. Every Marine in the squad knew the operations officer had ordered the change to demonstrate his own abilities to handle a crisis. Only Griffin and Downs viewed it as a personal insult.
CHAPTER
2
“Hey GI, you want boom-boom maybe?” piped MacCallum as he jumped heavily into the bunker occupied by Smith, Ferris, and Downs. He was greeted by a flurry of obscene gestures and vulgar suggestions. “Does that mean no?” he asked innocently.
“Eat shit and die, asshole. How are Samson and the other fallen heroes?” asked Downs.
“Doc says they’ll live, but Samson has been flown out to the Iwo Jima so the real doctors can peep out his foot. How else are they gonna get their Navy Achievement Medals?”
“Jesus, Mac, you’re a salty bastard. You been hanging around that boot Downs too much,” said Smith.
“My protégé,” chimed in Downs, “so when will we see those other skates, Mac?”
“Company gunny says they’ll all be back tomorrow. But we’re not due for another patrol until Saturday. So I guess we got tomorrow off.” All the Marines looked at each other, then burst into laughter.
“Shee-it! With that sandbag-happy bastard we got for a first shirt, I’d rather make a patrol, even if I have to volunteer for it,” Ferris said, shaking his head in amazement and contemplating Mac’s optimism. “Man, we haven’t seen a day off since Christ was a corporal, Mac. I’m not even sure they really exist anymore.”
“Yeah, they exist alright,” added Downs, “but only for those with the rank of Staff NCO and above.”
“What exists for Staff NCOs and officers?” asked Griffin, as he appeared in the narrow sandbagged entry to the bunker.
“A day of rest and recreation for us, Sergeant Griffin,” Mac said. “I asked the company gunny what the patrol schedule was and he said the poop at the head shed is first platoon has tomorrow off. Sort of a mini liberty call, Beirut style.”
Griffin shared a conspiratorial grin with Ferris before addressing the group further. “Well, I hate to interrupt your liberty run, Mac, but the first shirt has arranged a little party for us tomorrow. And the last time I checked the chain of command, the first shirt was still in charge of the company, Staff Sergeant Whitney was still in charge of the platoon, and I’m still in charge of first squad. The company gunny will take whoever he needs from first platoon to fill sandbags, but our squad has drawn the listening post for tonight. Corporal Downs, your team is going out. Have them ready by nineteen-thirty tonight. See me about comm gear, flares, and anything else you think you’ll need. We’ll go over the set up a little later.”
Downs acknowledged Griffin with a nod and withdrew from the conversation to think about the night’s assignment. Although initially flattered that Griffin had selected his fireteam for the listening post, he couldn’t be sure it was not due to the fact that Griffin wanted to spare his senior corporals the monotony of a night spent on an LP.
Downs silently considered the wisdom of a listening post. The strategy was to place a four-man fireteam a short distance in front of the company’s night defensive perimeter. The purpose was to provide the company with advance warning of an enemy attack, with the listening post directing supporting arms on
to the intruders if possible. Downs judged the reasoning sound, but the assignment itself difficult and possibly extremely dangerous. Although he didn’t really expect any trouble from the villagers, or even the various militias, Downs hated having his fireteam positioned directly in front of their own perimeter. If the company came under attack its outgoing fire would be aimed primarily in his direction.
Forty-five minutes after exiting the company perimeter under the watchful eyes of Griffin, Downs had selected a spot he felt reasonably secure, below the company’s line of fire, and settled the team. He made the required comm check with the company command post and mentally prepared for a long night. Speaking in the lowest possible whisper he leaned toward the other three Marines and said, “Everyone awake until midnight, then Mac and I will take the first two-hour shift. We’ll alternate that way until dawn.” As soon as he had finished he felt foolish. He had gone over the conduct of the watches before leaving the wire, and no further explanation was needed, especially here when the slightest sound could betray their position.
Downs flattened himself against the ground and faced the village some four hundred yards to the east. He noted with approval the actions of the three others. All of them had pressed themselves into the hard-baked earth and sparse knee-high grass. Anyone passing within six feet of them would probably walk past without being aware of their presence.
He turned to his left and nodded slightly to Mac, less than a yard away, sprawled comfortably on the ground, rifle across his forearms. Mac smiled back, but Downs could only make out the whites of his teeth and eyes. The rest of him appeared only as an indistinct dark silhouette, somehow more dense than the shadows forming the background. To Downs’s right sat Ferris, then Smith. Ferris caught his eye and gave a slight thumbs-up motion. Downs acknowledged it with a nod, and had to make an effort not to smile. The other two members of the four-man fireteam were lean, good-natured cousins from Georgia. They had enlisted almost three years before on what the Marine Corps referred to as the “buddy plan,” a recruiting gimmick designed to allow buddies to stick together throughout their first tour of duty.