by C. X. Moreau
Downs allowed himself a grin as he contemplated Ferris and Smith. The two of them seemed to accept whatever conditions they found themselves in without complaint. They didn’t question the reasons for the Marine Corps’ involvement, and hence their own, in Lebanon. They simply did what they could to accomplish the task at hand without serious questioning or contemplation.
In both demeanor and looks the cousins were a great deal alike. Each of them was well over six feet tall and more than once on a battalion forced march Downs had envied them their ground-eating stride. No amount of hardship ever outwardly affected the two, and even in the worst of circumstances Downs had listened as they laughed over some shared experience from their childhood in Georgia. Both of them had been Marines longer than Downs, and he had thought this might be a source of resentment when he had been promoted to corporal over them. Instead, both Ferris and Smith had congratulated him, chiding him about being a “boot” corporal at length.
The four remained on an informal first name basis that Downs knew grated Griffin. He and Mac had come through boot camp and Infantry Training Regiment together, and Mac remained his only confidant in the squad. Downs looked again at Mac, noting that Mac was facing away from him, scanning the village for signs of movement, listening for sounds that might mean someone from the village was approaching. With his soft-spoken manner Downs knew that Mac would leave the Marine Corps without ever becoming an NCO. He was a quiet boy who had joined to prove something to himself, and Downs understood that his friend, although proud of being a Marine, would leave upon completing his enlistment.
Downs realized that he knew the members of his fireteam better than boys he had grown up with, or even his own brothers. He knew that if he were to leave this minute and not see them again for years, he would still recognize their silhouettes in the dark, or the rhythm of their steps in a quiet hallway. As the darkness crowded around them, Downs felt the village quiet down for the night. Engine noises from cars gradually ceased, and the murmur of voices died away. The only noise beyond the usual night sounds was the soft click of Mac pressing the transmit button on the radio receiver to make his periodic check with the company.
At 0200 Downs woke Ferris and passed the radio to him. After allowing a few minutes for Ferris and Smith to become fully alert, he began to relax. He felt sleep coming on as Ferris whispered his first comm check. Downs rolled onto his back and gazed at the stars, comforted by the steady breathing of Mac. As he retreated into his own thoughts he remained alert to the sounds and smells around him, but his mind drifted to another place.
He allowed himself only a few minutes each day to think of her, always hating himself for it. He husbanded these moments carefully, his mind playing back scenes of her. He needed the comfort these images provided, resenting himself for being weak and needing her. Lying there on his back, his eyes no longer focused, he saw only her. Every detail of her came back to him, her scent, the clothes she wore, the slightly crooked smile, her frailties, the grace of her movements. The daydream absorbed him and for a few minutes he was a different Downs, unencumbered by the heavy boots, flak jacket, and rifle. His own callousness, discovered at Parris Island, melted away. He no longer felt the need for the ordered existence the Marines so readily provided. She smiled her mysterious smile and he smiled back.
They had spent the summer before he left for the Marine Corps together. He had known her his entire life, and for as far back as either of them could remember they had shared a silent understanding. They had never actually had a first date, they had merely remained together as they grew up, their shared childhood merging slowly into something different. Nothing could have been more natural. She had always been a part of his day, and a part of his thoughts.
Downs blinked as a familiar sound registered vaguely in his brain. Familiar and nonthreatening, but alarmingly loud in the stillness of the night. She disappeared and Lebanon returned with a rush. Downs heard a low chuckle from the direction of Ferris and Smith and concluded that the noise had been that of air rushing into the vacuum of a soda can. Before he could realize his worst suspicions, the unmistakable smell of warm beer reached him. Muttering a low “shit” he glared at the spot in the darkness where he imagined Ferris to be. “I can’t fucking believe you two! Now pour that shit out! Jesus fucking Christ!” he said in a harsh whisper. Ferris smiled into the darkness, took a gigantic swallow of warm beer, and belched. Smith chuckled and Downs swore, “Pour the shit out now!” he said.
“Relax, Steve. It’s just a beer, man,” drawled Ferris.
“I don’t give a flying shit. Pour it out, man. I don’t need this bullshit, and since when do you bring fucking beer on post, you asshole?”
“Christ, Steve, it’s just my lousy ration of beer, man. I ain’t drunk and the Lesbos are all crashed for the night.” Ferris’s voice reached Downs, low and husky, but with a chiding quality that wasn’t lost on him. He knew that he was being tested by the cousins who had more time in the Marine Corps than he did. He also knew that one beer each wouldn’t affect the performance of Ferris or Smith, and both of them considered the whole idea of an LP asinine and useless. To their minds they were simply making the best of a bad situation. Downs restrained a sigh of relief as he heard the remainder of the beer gurgle out of the can and onto the ground. “Thanks, asshole,” he muttered.
“No problem, Corporal Downs,” came the sarcastic reply from Ferris, “although I do hate to waste perfectly good beer.” For the remainder of the night Downs fumed in silence. Although he knew that Ferris had intended no harm he was furious that he had brought beer on post. He was also resentful of being placed in the dilemma of what to do about the whole matter. To do nothing might only encourage the cousins to pull similar stunts in the future. If he chose to report the incident to Sergeant Griffin he was relieved of the responsibility but probably at the cost of harmony within his team. Downs also knew that Ferris and Smith felt a bond of kinship, a fraternal affection formed during long forced marches and shared hardships. He hated to betray that bond by reporting them to Griffin. The easiest thing to do would be to assign them some sort of extra duty, but that couldn’t be done without attracting the attention of Griffin. As dawn broke Downs was still undecided as to just what action to take.
The team made radio contact with Griffin who met them at a predesignated spot in the company wire. As the four filed past, Griffin attempted to catch Downs’s eye and ask how things had gone. “Boring,” was the only reply from Downs, who carefully avoided looking into Griffin’s face. Griffin was quick to catch the unsure tone in Downs’s voice as well as the hasty exchange of glances between Downs and Ferris. As the other three moved off to drop their gear and find a few hours sleep Downs felt Griffin bearing down on him. “What happened out there that I should know about, Corporal Downs?” asked Griffin.
Downs noted the almost conciliatory tone in Griffin’s voice. He hesitated before answering, still unsure of the proper role for himself. “Nothing. The usual boring LP shit,” he answered. Downs moved to the faucets at the front of a five hundred-gallon water bull and began to draw a helmet full of tepid water. He splashed his face from the half-full helmet, feeling a layer of grit and oil dissolve beneath his grimy hands. The water ran down his neck and dribbled into the steamy green T-shirt under his camouflage blouse and flak jacket.
“Look, Downs,” began Griffin, “you’re gonna have to do better than that. Something here is fucked up and I want to know what it is.”
“I can handle this, Sergeant Griffin. Isn’t that the idea behind my promotion to corporal?”
“That’s for me to decide. Now give me the breakdown on what went on out there. If I think it’s better left to you, then fine, you get to handle it. If not, just remember that your team, including you, is part of my squad.”
Downs continued to splash his face, feeling the stubble of beard and the clamminess of his T-shirt. The words came out with a rush, not really a conscious decision, and Downs struggled to retain an emotion
less quality to his voice. “Ferris and Smith brought a beer out on post. I heard ’em open it, but I made ’em pour it out. No big deal. You know those two, they just wanted to fuck with the boot corporal. Good ole boy shit.”
“They did what?” asked an incredulous Griffin. Downs bent to cup one hand under the faucet and drank. As the water began to splash into the gritty muck below he shot a smile at Griffin and laughed, “Yeah, guess the boys from Gawgh-ah figured it was Miller time,” said Downs imitating the drawl of the two cousins. “It was just the one beer.”
“I’ll give them fucking Miller time,” said Griffin. “You go find those shit birds and tell them I said come see me. Jesus fucking Christ, Downs, what the hell was going on out there?”
“C’mon, Sergeant Griffin. You know those two. Why don’t you just let me take care of this? No real harm was done. It’s just their way of testing me. You know, boot corporal tryouts. I need to handle this, not you. If you do it they’ll just think it’s because I couldn’t handle it.”
“Bullshit, Downs. Both of them know this is carrying it too far. I oughta go to the platoon sergeant with this. Goddamn it! He’d bust both of them back to private and he’d be right. You just go tell those two to come see me, and you make sure you’re with them. Got that?”
“Yeah, I got it, but I still don’t think it’s the right decision.” Downs slapped his helmet liner into the steel helmet and filled a canteen, debating whether or not to pursue the question further with Griffin, but still not looking at him. He didn’t know Griffin well enough to decide if he was really angry or just doing what he saw as the right thing. Downs turned to go back toward the squad’s tent and find Ferris and Smith, almost colliding with the company first sergeant. A feeling of liquid electricity moved through Downs’s stomach as the first sergeant stood glaring at him, hands on his hips, “Corporal Downs, collect your fireteam and be in my office in five minutes. You can expect to go up on charges, mister.”
Downs returned the contemptuous stare of the first sergeant, not trying to mask his own anger and said evenly, “Aye, aye, First Sergeant.” Without further comment the first sergeant spun on one highly polished boot heel and strode off, his back ramrod straight in a freshly starched set of camouflage utilities. As Griffin nudged past Downs he said under his breath, “Air wing motherfucker.” Downs almost smiled.
CHAPTER
3
“Shit, Steve, I knew the Rock Man wouldn’t do us in. Me and Jimmy been in the company since before he was. Anyway, he knew we was just havin’ a little fun out there.” Downs shot an exasperated glance at Smith, who continued to shovel sand into the mouth of the bag being held open by Ferris. “Yeah, ol’ Captain Ward was gonna let us go with just the loss of pay if it wasn’t for the first shirt. He’s the one seen to it we got all this extra duty. Rock Man knows we can’t spend any money out here anyway. Shit, Jimmy, you remember the first shirt’s face? He was so mad he almost spit on the Rock Man!”
At this both cousins chuckled and Ferris screwed his face into a grimace and imitated the first sergeant, “Captain, I insist these men be given extra duty at my discretion!” Ferris and Smith burst into uncontrolled laughter and Downs tried not to smile before adding, “He did look just a bit disappointed, didn’t he?” All three of them again laughed and Downs wondered silently at the ability of the other two to find humor in an incident he could only view as humiliating.
They returned to filling the bag as Mac ambled up, smiling broadly. “You boys sure are one happy-extra-duty-sandbag-filling work party. I’d like to help, but I’m not sure the first sergeant would appreciate my efforts.”
“Aw, c’mon on over and lend a hand, Mac,” drawled Ferris. “We’re all just one big happy family. First sergeant knows that.”
Ferris grinned at Smith, who winked and added, “Yeah, ain’t there something on our Band of Brothers cards about always rendering assistance to fellow Marines? I bet the first shirt would understand. Hell, he might even help us himself if ol’ Corporal Downs was to explain it to him that way. You know, us being a Band of Brothers and all.”
“Yeah, I just bet he would,” answered Downs as he took the canteen proffered by Mac, passing the other to Smith. As he drank, Downs thought about the Band of Brothers card jokingly referred to by Smith. The card listed a code of honor for all Marines, printed on a small yellow wallet size card and emblazoned back and front with the Marine Corps emblem. The cards, and slogan, had suddenly appeared around the division when Downs was a private, undoubtedly the brainchild of some public affairs officer. Both had been heartily embraced by the division commander, an old Marine risen from the ranks who sought some means of closing the gap between his young troops and his too often arrogant officers. He had quickly issued an order making the card a uniform item, requiring individual Marines to carry it on their person at all times. The first sergeant was fond of stopping Marines in the company and ordering them to produce their cards. He had even gone so far as to have the company clerks laminate one card for every man in the unit, thus assuring the cards unmarred survival in the wallets of the Marines. Downs snorted and mumbled to himself, “Sort of like a Marine Corps Ten Commandments.”
“What’s that, Steve?” asked Mac.
“I was just saying those Band of Brothers cards are just like a Marine Corps version of the Ten Commandments.”
“Oh. I guess so,” smiled Mac, not really knowing if Downs was being sarcastic. “Anyway, I came over to tell you there is a company formation at sixteen-hundred this afternoon. And the first shirt, or Moses if you prefer, has specifically requested your presence.”
“I’d be delighted, Mac,” said Downs. “You tell him I said that.” Mac shook his head and said, “Formation in fifteen minutes. I wouldn’t be late if I was you guys. Some people might not understand, you know?” He ambled off in the direction of the company area where men were beginning to form ranks.
As Mac took his place in the formation, he nodded to Sergeant Griffin. Griffin watched the dirty men shuffle into formation, wary looks on their faces. A gritty layer of red dust covered them from head to foot. Their camouflage uniforms showed worn spots from the constant friction of body armor and various pieces of web gear. The once-new flak jackets were faded from exposure to the summer sun and stained by the sweat from countless patrols. Scuffed and torn boots augmented the wrinkled, hand-washed uniforms. Only the weapons of the Marines carried a semblance of newness. Rifles and machine guns appeared black and well-oiled, a menacing extension of each man’s arm.
As every man not then on duty slowly found his proper place in the ranks, Griffin listened to the idle remarks and comments. He had known most of these boys since their arrival in the company. Formations were usually preceded by a good deal of friendly banter between individuals and platoons. Now the Marines appeared unusually quiet, almost sullen. As Griffin stood in ranks, Staff Sergeant Whitney approached and nodded to him. Griffin nodded his hello without speaking, noting Whitney’s squared away appearance. Griffin silently studied Whitney, noting his rugged features, and the slightly worn look of his uniform. Griffin almost smiled as he realized the staff sergeant deliberately hinted at disaffection by his appearance. Griffin knew that Whitney was squared away, and that he just as deliberately did things that drew the ire of the company first sergeant.
The staff sergeant turned to Griffin and said quietly, “I suppose we can expect a sermon from on high this afternoon.”
“This is going to get ugly, that’s for sure,” said Griffin.
“Yep,” said Whitney. “No time to be one of the little people. Any idea why the first sergeant had the beer and soda stacked up like that?” asked Whitney. “I don’t mind it warm, Sergeant Griffin, but I don’t see any reason to put it out in the sun and cook it,” he said amicably.
“I don’t know. No fucking telling, but it ain’t a good sign,” said Griffin, shifting his gaze to the large canvas covered rectangle in front of the formation. Working parties had spent half the morning
moving the cases of beer and soda from the sandbagged tent that served as a makeshift enlisted club for the company to their present location. Marine Corps policy was to issue one beer or soda per day per man to troops in combat zones. At the “suggestion” of the company first sergeant the Marines had agreed to pay fifty cents per beer or soda. The idea being to use the cash raised to purchase beer and soda locally and thereby ensure a plentiful supply for the whole company. The idea had worked so well that it had been emulated by the other rifle companies as well as the headquarters units. Much to the chagrin of individual Marines, a limit of two beers per man per day had been instituted. The practice of saving beer had quickly been adopted, often resulting in weekend hooch parties in the bunkers of various squads.
Although this practice didn’t escape the attention of the platoon sergeants, they realized the frustration and boredom that was rampant among their troops. Five months of unending heat and monotonous patrolling had begun to have its effect. For the duration of their deployment in Beirut the Marines had had no diversions other than each other’s company and the nightly firefights between various armies and militia in the surrounding hills. Although a few men had been selected for liberty runs to Greece or Turkey, the numbers were so small as to be barely noticeable. The inevitable result had been the flaring of tempers and the occasional fistfight. The most vicious of these were often among the closest friends. All the older NCOs feared a lowering of morale and were willing to overlook the hooch parties, trusting the corporals and sergeants not to let them get out of hand. As far as Griffin knew, none of them had. The logical assumption was that the first shirt was going to make some sort of example of Downs, Smith, and Ferris.