by C. X. Moreau
Downs peered around the corner and saw the back of a heavyset man, kneeling on the stone floor, his bare feet tucked under his buttocks. The man was carefully straightening his prayer rug, smoothing the cloth over the stones of the floor. Downs watched for a few seconds, noting the man’s awkward, heavy movements. As he moved behind his column, out of sight of the man, he looked at Mac and mouthed the word “one,” then shrugged his shoulders. Downs again leaned around the edge of the column as the man scooted to the other end of his prayer rug and began to straighten it, repeating the motion for perhaps one minute as Downs looked on. He noted the man’s dirty robe and unshaven face, estimating him to be somewhere between forty and fifty years old. The Arab continued humming happily to himself. He reached behind the column and Downs quickly brought his rifle to his shoulder, leveling the muzzle at the man and taking up the initial slack on the trigger. The Arab locked eyes with Downs and half stood, a second prayer rug in his hand. Mac moved up to cover Downs as the man made a noise that was half sob and half scream. He quickly turned his back on the two Marines and shuffled off down the arched corridor, obviously frightened by the sight of the two. As Downs and Mac looked on he disappeared through a dark doorway, blubbering noises echoing behind him in the stone hallway.
The two Marines continued to stare down the arched corridor before Mac broke the silence by asking, “What the fuck was that?”
“Who knows?” shrugged Downs, “but something ain’t right.”
“That guy looked retarded or something. The whole thing isn’t right, Steve. Did you see the way he was working on that rug? And he almost fucking cried when he saw us. Call Sergeant Griffin, man. Give him the scoop, and let him bring up the rest of the squad. This situation is fucked. We’re too far from the squad, and we’re out of sight of Smith and Ferris. Let’s just ease out of here.”
“Too late, Mac. We’ve got company.” Downs nodded down the corridor, indicating the approach of a dignified older Lebanese in a flowing white robe. His beard was neatly trimmed and his head was wrapped in the traditional headdress of a mullah. A few paces behind him the first man followed, obviously too frightened to stay behind by himself, but hesitant to approach the Marines, even with the mullah present.
The mullah slowed his gait as he drew closer, his hands open, his face friendly. “Welcome, young gentlemen,” he said easily in English. “My name is Ibrahim, and I am the keeper of the mosque. This is my brother, Zouhair, whom you have already met. Please forgive him. He is feebleminded and I am afraid that you frightened him.” At the mention of his name Zouhair bobbed his head and emitted a strangled sob, confirming that this was indeed his name. He remained a few cautious steps behind his brother, wringing his hands, his back firmly against the stone wall of the courtyard.
“May I ask what brings you into our mosque? I do not wish to give offense, young gentleman, but the mosque is only for believers of the true faith. Of Islam.”
Downs nodded and asked, “Where are all the men who usually say their prayers here?”
“Ah, this morning I am afraid there has been some trouble. Young ruffians frightened the faithful who usually come to pray. These are difficult times, as you know. Most of the worshipers here are old, and easily frightened. They wish only to come and go quietly. In Lebanon, in these times, that is often asking too much,” said the mullah.
“Is anyone else in the mosque?” asked Downs curtly.
“No, just my brother and myself. We are alone.”
Downs looked at Mac, who shrugged. “Who are the guys out front, on the steps?” asked Downs.
“I do not know. I was preparing for morning prayers when my brother told me you were here. I know of no one else.” Downs took the small radio from his flak jacket pocket, depressed the transmit button and said, “Sergeant Griffin, this is Downs. Over.”
“Go, Downs,” came back Griffin’s voice sounding metallic and far away.
“The place is empty except for the mullah and his brother. He says there was some trouble in the ville last night and everyone is afraid to come to morning prayers. Says he doesn’t know about the wounded guys out front. We haven’t searched the place, but I think it will be okay to bring the squad up. How do you copy?”
“We’re comin’ up. You sit tight and hold onto the Arabs, Downs. Out.”
“Roger,” answered Downs, noting Ibrahim’s quick glance toward the front of the mosque at the mention of the wounded men, and his genuine look of surprise. Downs decided that he believed what the mullah said, and felt a pang of conscience over his unwelcome entry into the mosque courtyard. As Downs replaced the radio in his pocket he noticed that Ibrahim seemed agitated for the first time, his calm demeanor shaken. “Please, sir, if there are men hurt in my mosque I must see to them. It is my duty. I am the mullah and must extend the hospitality of the mosque to them. May I go to them?”
Downs hesitated, then looking around at the stone walls of the mosque, he answered, “Yeah, sure. Let’s go see about them.”
Downs led the way as the two brothers fell in behind, Mac bringing up the rear. Downs felt the impatience of Ibrahim, who walked quickly toward the front of the mosque. He noted Smith and Ferris, and Downs saw a look of surprise cross the mullah’s face as they left the inner court and saw the squad moving steadily toward them in a skirmish line. Downs felt a wild surge of pride as he looked at his squad moving menacingly across the open field. Griffin had kept them in a skirmish line so as to have maximum firepower to the front if an ambush were set in the mosque.
Downs stood at the top of the steps and noted the confident stride of the Marines, and their dark, ominous appearance. The image of his comrades moving across that field would remain with him the rest of his life, and in later years would evoke a bittersweet sense of pride and loss.
Ibrahim gasped as one of the wounded men moaned. He quickly descended the steps and knelt over the man, whispering under his breath in Arabic. The only word Downs understood was “Allah.”
“So who do you think did up those dudes in front of the mosque this morning, Steve?”
“I don’t know, Mac, but whoever it was meant business. Those guys were pretty messed up.” Downs absently stirred his can of beans and franks as it cooked over the low flame of a heat tab. “This stuff burns okay, but whatever you heat with it smells like fucking gasoline,” he observed.
Mac grunted and stirred his own lukewarm concoction. “Do you ever wonder what the hell we’re doing here? I mean, at first it was okay. We walked patrol and everybody was pretty friendly. Now it’s different, man. I can just feel it. It’s not just that they don’t like us anymore, now they’re afraid of us. You know what I mean?” he asked.
“Yeah, I know, but there’s nothing we can do about it. Just sit tight and hope for the best.” Downs and Mac ate in silence, each absorbed by his own thoughts.
“You ever think about going home, Steve?”
“You mean Camp Lejeune?” asked Downs. “Yeah, once in a while I guess. You?”
“No, man, not Lejeune. Home, man,” said Mac. “Real home. Do you think about that?”
Downs stared into his C-rat can for a long moment before answering, “No, not really.” Downs knew that Mac understood he was lying, but he trusted his friend to brush over the topic.
“I do. I’m going to get out, Steve. I mean, I’m proud of being a Marine, but it just isn’t what I thought it would be. The only guys who stay in are the losers like the first shirt who couldn’t make it on the outside anyway. They get promoted ’cause everybody else gets out, then they wind up being in charge and screw with whoever comes in. I’m doing my four years and then I’m going back home, find some babe, get a job, and do the suburban routine.”
“Are you going to make a down payment on the station wagon with the money you save up over here?” chided Downs.
“I’m being serious. Look at this company. Some of the staff NCOs are okay, but most of them are just doing their twenty years and no more. They’re just marking time
.”
“Yeah, maybe so, but some of them are all right. There’s some professionals in the company. Look at Staff Sergeant Whitney. He’s the real thing, and Sergeant Griffin knows what he’s doing. Captain Ward, too. They’re not all losers, man. It’s just the fucking bad ones are so miserable they make the rest of us suffer. Just ’cause they’re lifers doesn’t make them pricks, Mac.”
“Yeah, but those three are the exceptions, not the rule. You know I’m right. Shit, Steve, we’ll both hit our discharge within a couple of days of each other. Let’s get out together and hit the road for a month or so. We’ll stop in New Jersey and see Anderson. Remember him, man? He wrote me a couple of months ago. He’s working with his old man, doing construction. He got out and he’s making it. You and me can do the same, but we can do it together,” said Mac. “Look, Steve, I know you don’t like to talk about it, and that’s cool. But I guess you don’t have much of a family to go back home to. That’s okay, man. You can just come home with me. My family is okay. They already know all about you from my letters, and everybody wants to meet you. We can crash in my house while we look for work, then get a place together. It can work, man. What do you think?”
Downs looked away from his friend, Mac’s words having found a deep, private pain. He felt exposed, naked. He struggled for the right thing to say, something witty or funny that would turn the conversation back to the friendly banter he was used to. “Look, Mac, it’s not like that for me. Maybe a lot of losers do hang on in the Corps and fuck things up, but I’m not denying that. Hell, even they admit there’s ten percent of ’em that shouldn’t be here. But I belong here. For the first time in my life everybody accepts me because I’m earning my own way. No more, no less. I appreciate what you’re saying about your family, but they’re just that, your family. No matter how great they are they can’t be my family. Do you understand, Mac? I’m going to stay in because I don’t have any other place to go, and because these guys are my family, no questions asked. No matter how fucked up I am, or they are, I belong here. And it doesn’t matter that guys come and go. I still have a place here.” Neither of them said anything as they continued stirring their rations. Downs was unwilling to continue the conversation, and Mac was unsure of how to proceed.
The two finished eating in silence as Griffin approached. “Corporal Downs, I need to see you in my hooch when you’re finished eating,” he said.
“I’m finished now, what do you need?” asked Downs, making no move to rise from the wooden ammo crate that served as his chair.
“C’mon,” said Griffin. As the two strode off for Griffin’s bunker Downs tried to think of what Griffin might possibly want to discuss. Platoon or squad matters were routinely passed in a communal fashion, with all of the squad and fireteam leaders present. Since Griffin had singled him out for personal attention, it must be something involving Downs or one of the Marines in his fireteam. He tried to think what infraction of the Marine Corps’ plethora of rules and regulations he might have infringed upon. Unable to think of anything specific he concluded that he was about to answer for the actions of Smith and Ferris.
Griffin descended into the bunker he shared with the other squad leaders. Downs had been inside only rarely and he glanced about, trying to pick up details that would reveal some facet of Griffin’s personality. Even in the Spartan confines of the bunker the other two sergeants had put up a photo of a wife or girlfriend, or a centerfold. Griffin’s area above his cot was unadorned, nothing showing but the sandbagged wall or the red clay of Lebanon. All business, thought Downs, all the time.
Griffin motioned for Downs to sit on one of the empty cots and dug into the pocket of his pack. He withdrew a small green memo book from his pack and tossed it to Downs. “Okay, Corporal Downs, now you get to learn about mail call. All my corporals do this because I expect it of them. So before you start giving me the thousand-questions routine, shut up and listen. When the platoon gets mail the individual pieces are given to squad leaders to tally before the staff sergeant passes it out. I’m sure you’ve noticed second and third platoon get their mail before we do. The reason why is the squad leaders tally how much mail each guy gets every time there’s a mail call. We do it so that if one guy quits gettin’ mail all of a sudden we know about it. The reason for this whole procedure is that morale depends on news from home. The only thing worse than bad news is no news. So I like to know who is getting their mail and who isn’t. Are you following me?” Downs nodded and Griffin continued, “Good. That little book is so you can keep track of your fireteam’s mail. Here’s this week’s mail call, so start with these letters and mark it down by date. Got it?” Downs marked each piece as Griffin called it out to him. When they had finished Griffin put the mail back into his cargo pocket.
“Okay, Downs, now I’ll take all of this back to Staff Sergeant Whitney. If you or I notice one of your Marines isn’t getting any mail we’ll pull him aside and have a talk with him. Sometimes they aren’t writing home, or sometimes they get dumped by their girlfriends or wives.
“It happens, Corporal Downs,” said Griffin, noting the look of disbelief on Downs’s face. “And when it does, guys get crazy. Especially out here. So take this shit serious. It’s part of being an NCO. There’s more to it than just wearing the extra stripes.”
Downs contemplated Griffin, then asked, “Is that all, Sergeant Griffin?”
Exasperated, Griffin ran a hand through his hair and said, “Corporal Downs, are you still writing to that girl back home?”
Turning away from Griffin, Downs mumbled “no,” attempting to make his voice sound casual and unemotional. “It was no great romance, Sergeant Griffin. So you don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine.”
“I didn’t think that I did, Downs. You’re a damn good Marine, and you’re going to be a good squad leader one day. Just relax and let it happen. All you need is some more experience.”
Downs turned to face Griffin, “Okay. Thanks, Sergeant Griffin,” he said.
“Hey, Corporal Downs. Sometime if you want to drop by and discuss broken hearts, let me know. I’ve got a story or two to tell you,” said Griffin.
Downs smiled. Feeling uncomfortable, he turned and left the bunker. Just the mention of her by Griffin had been enough to reawaken his memories. As he absently made his way back toward his bunker Downs was lost in thoughts of her. Amid the noise and confusion of the battalion he heard her playing the piano on a long-ago summer evening. Downs was able to see the curve of her neck as she bent over the keyboard during a difficult passage, and hear her laughter as she missed a note.
Downs felt her near, the warmth of her touch, the smell of her hair, as they sat in the twilight on some anonymous evening. Slowly making his way back to his bunker, Downs’s reverie was broken by a shouted command, and she was lost to him again.
He wondered how much Griffin actually knew. Without understanding why, he knew he wanted to keep her from Griffin and the others, to prevent them from knowing of her. Downs knew that he never wanted her to be touched by the Marine Corps, or by Lebanon.
He can’t know that much, Downs reasoned. Just her name and the city where her letters were postmarked. He surmised that Griffin’s tallying of the squad’s mail was just another method of controlling them, being constantly in command of them. Even as the thought occurred to him Downs knew he was being too hard on Griffin. The plain fact was that Griffin was genuinely concerned, and he had gone about letting Downs know of his concern in the least awkward manner possible. The thought struck him that Griffin was not merely a hard-as-nails professional with no personal life.
He began to think of Griffin outside the context of a Marine sergeant. He pictured him with a family. Even Griffin had to have some sort of family, a mother at least. Downs drew a mental picture of Griffin as a small boy, sitting at a table blowing out candles on a huge birthday cake. The incongruity of the image hit him, and Downs laughed out loud. Not Griffin. He had never been a small boy, and undoubtedly was an orphan. Proba
bly abandoned at birth by his mother.
Downs was still chuckling to himself as he walked up to Mac, whom he cuffed on the back of the head and said, “You wimp, figures you’re going to get out of the Corps before your thirty years are up.”
CHAPTER
6
Downs, Griffin, and most of the platoon watched as the bunker was constructed two hundred yards from the Marine perimeter. A bulldozer, American made, but painted with the green cedar symbol of the Lebanese government, had arrived and began pushing dirt into a barricade that straddled the street and tied into the houses on either side. The Marines stood by as the bulldozer scraped earth from nearby empty lots and piled it well over six feet high. From their vantage point they could see men with shovels working on the far side, doubtlessly hollowing out the rear of the bunker to accommodate a gun emplacement. As the afternoon progressed a truck arrived, loaded with flat, brown sacks. The puzzled Marines watched as the sacks were laboriously hauled to the top of the bunker, split open, and the contents spread over the sides of the bunker.
After this was done water was thrown on the bunker, and men began working it into the gray powder that had spilled from the sacks. Griffin had been the first to deduce that the powder was actually concrete mix, and that the afternoon sun would harden the mixture in a matter of hours. Silently he had risen from his position and walked off in the direction of the company command post. He had returned a short time later and ordered the platoon to fill sandbags and reinforce their own bunkers. The Marines had angrily gone about their task, then watched incredulously as the tripod for a heavy machine gun was brought up the street by two smiling young men wearing the distinctive black and white kaffiyehs of the PLO. Before entering the bunker they waved to the watching Marines. This was followed by a steady stream of young men entering the bunker carrying boxes wrapped in heavy paper. They would appear from around the corner of the building, in groups of three or four, walking heavily under their burdens. Griffin had concluded that the boxes were ammunition and that it was being ferried to the location by the young men in their own cars.