Distant Valor

by C. X. Moreau

  As the fifth delivery was made one of the Arabs turned and blew a kiss to the Marines. Within seconds a shot from one of the Marine bunkers shattered the masonry beside the group of Arabs. They quickly scurried around a corner and the deliveries stopped for a period of about an hour. A woman dressed in the traditional black flowing robes of the Shiites appeared and walked toward the bunker. In her arms she carried one of the boxes, wrapped in the same brown paper. The woman walked purposefully to the bunker, never glancing at the Marines. She disappeared into the bunker and emerged again, seconds later, minus the bundle. After she slipped around the corner of the building two more women appeared, both obviously nervous as they walked quickly to the bunker.

  Within minutes two young Arabs approached, warily looking in the direction of the Marine lines. As the first man went in the second climbed onto the face of the bunker, laid his tools at his feet, and smoked a cigarette as he sat calmly watching the Marines. After finishing his smoke he picked up a hammer and chisel and began chopping a small window into the face of the structure. Griffin watched carefully, trying to gauge the thickness of the concrete by the difficulty the man had in piercing it. As he chipped at the concrete Griffin guessed it was probably an inch thick, possibly two. The man enlarged the hole until it was big enough to accommodate the muzzle of a machine gun. He had no real idea of how much dirt was behind the concrete, but he knew no round fired from an M-16, or an M-60 machine gun, was going to penetrate it. And those were the only weapons available to the squad under the Rules of Engagement specified by higher headquarters. The Rules of Engagement required that they fire only after being fired upon, and that they use only the minimum amount of force necessary to accomplish any mission. The platoon had LAAW rockets available, and 40mm grenade launchers, but technically they were not to be used unless they received fire from like weapons first. Even then, Griffin knew, only a solid hit upon the firing port punched out by the man would do any real damage. The chance of such a hit at this range while taking fire from a heavy machine gun was slight at best.

  While Griffin continued to study the man Staff Sergeant Whitney approached and squatted down beside him. “Sergeant Griffin, how are things looking today?” he asked.

  Griffin grunted, and passed the older man the binoculars. “Okay for now. But this is going to get ugly later on, Staff Sergeant.”

  Whitney took the binoculars and raised them to his eyes. “Yes, sir, that looks like the recipe for trouble.” Whitney looked down the Marine lines, and said, “Maybe we’ll get a little help.”

  Griffin looked at the other Marine without amusement then said, “How do you figure, Staff Sergeant?” he said. “There’s no way battalion headquarters will approve a request for any artillery missions.”

  The staff sergeant inclined his head down the line of Marine bunkers. Fifty meters away, kneeling in a shallow depression, were two Marines. Griffin watched as they approached, catlike, staying under the line of sight of the Arab, who continued sitting smugly on his newly constructed bunker. The two Marines paused, then moved cautiously forward. Griffin noted their approach, but did not recognize their faces. The first man carried his M-16, the other had his weapon slung over his back. Griffin took in the slung rifle and thought, not good. You’ll never get it off your shoulder in time to use it. As he continued to study the two he saw the long fiberglass case the man was carrying. He looked at Whitney as comprehension dawned on his face. Under his breath he said one word, “Snipers.”

  Whitney chuckled and said, “More than one way to skin a cat, Sergeant Griffin.”

  The snipers approached the rear of Downs’s bunker and dropped to a crawling position, moving slowly to the rear of the sandbagged emplacement. Downs, sitting atop the roof, turned to see why the two were making such a cautious approach. Other Marines in the vicinity took little notice of them, their attention focused on the Arabs. As the first sniper reached the rear of Downs’s position he sat up and looked at Downs. “Just stay where you are, Corporal,” he said. “If they know we’re here they’ll get spooked.”

  “Okay,” replied Downs.

  “Are we about even with that bunker they’re building?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” said Downs flatly. “About dead even I’d say. You two planning to do something about it?”

  “Yeah,” the sniper answered as his partner gained the rear of the position and nodded hello to Downs. “I guess we can make it hot for them. Do us a favor and stay where you are. We’re going to set up inside your hooch. Let us know if they bring that gun up. And if you see an airliner lining up to land or take off on the east runway let us know.”

  “Why, you waiting for a flight home?” quipped Downs with a smile. The two snipers grinned mischievously at each other, then entered the bunker. Once inside they arranged sandbags to block two thirds of the existing firing port.

  Mac, Smith, and Ferris continued with their game of spades as the two snipers fashioned a rest for their heavy rifle. They then laid the rifle into its bed, the muzzle of the weapon some six inches inside the sandbagged outer wall of the bunker. They removed the rifle from its position and lined the sandbags surrounding it with towels they had brought with them.

  “What are you going to do? Give it a bath?” asked Ferris sarcastically. The snipers turned to face Ferris and laughed. “No, but these towels are pretty clean, and they reduce the amount of dust kicked up by the rifle. Once that gunner realizes it’s us firing at him he is going to suppress us with his fire. It’s kind of hard to concentrate on getting a clean shot with those big slugs coming at you. If we can get a shot through his firing port it’s probably going to be hard for them to find another gunner willing to step into that position.”

  Smith looked at Ferris and said, “Yeah, any asshole but you would’ve known what the towels were for. Sometimes you embarrass the shit out of me. It’s a wonder you even graduated from high school.” Ferris laughed as the sniper continued, “We’ll lay a couple more towels just in front of the firing port on the ground. That way we shouldn’t get much of a dust signature. I guess we ought to tell you that we’re going to draw a lot of fire when this starts. You might want to go to another bunker.”

  Mac looked at the other two, then said, “Fuck those assholes. I’m stayin’ here.”

  The sniper shrugged and stepped outside. His partner walked up to the firing port, laid the rifle in its rest, and took a pencil and paper from his pocket. Looking through the rifle scope he used the scale on the lens and a mathematical equation to determine distance to the enemy bunker. After completing this he replaced the paper in his pocket and dialed windage and elevation onto the telescopic sight. Having completed that he rechecked his computations and returned to the rifle case. He removed a box of specially loaded 7.62mm cartridges, and after careful examination, loaded one into the breech of the weapon and rolled the bolt forward with a metallic click. Just as he sat down on an empty cot his partner dropped into the bunker and said, “Plane!” The sniper snapped forward, then asked, “Our runway?”

  “I don’t know. All I can see are his approach lights. He’s five minutes away at least and it’s hard to tell which runway he’s going to use. Are you all set up?”

  “Yeah, but recheck me. And check the dope I put on the rifle. Set up the spotting scope where you can get a good view so we can make any changes. Did you talk to the corporal outside about being a lookout?”

  “Uh-uh. You’ll have to do it.” The sniper exited the bunker, a pair of powerful binoculars around his neck. He looked directly behind the bunker and gauged the distance to the runway. Maybe 150 yards, 175 tops, he thought. He noticed the heat radiating directly off the surface of the concrete and smiled when the thought came to him that there was no wind this afternoon. He looked in the opposite direction, toward the bunker. An open field stretched some three hundred yards from him to the Arab now chipping away at the concrete on the face of the bunker. Well, he thought, 330 yards to be precise. And precision is what this is all about.
<
br />   He brought the binoculars to his eyes and searched the field in front of him. After a few seconds looking he found the small bush he was searching for. Two months previous he and his partner had spent most of one night tying small pieces of cloth to bushes and shrubs in front of the Marine lines. These pieces of cloth were small and inconspicuous, and moved by the slightest rustle of wind.

  He had learned the trick from a gunnery sergeant at sniper school, who had learned it in Vietnam from a VC sniper. The pieces of cloth aided snipers in gauging wind direction and speed. He had made sure to use cloth that blended well with the terrain. He grimaced inwardly at the recollection of the gunny’s story. The Vietnamese had given away his position by his use of the homemade range flag. It had taken the gunny only one shot to end the man’s career.

  He moved the binoculars onto the bunker. The man was smoking again, his tools lying on the sloping face of the concrete. He noticed the sniper watching him and waved. From the top of the bunker Downs waved and said, “Hi, asshole.” A green flag bearing the symbol of the Amal, the Shiite militia, now floated above one of the houses. It hung limply by the staff. All that work for nothing, the sniper silently thought. These amateurs supply their own range flags. He looked at his watch, then at the sky. The plane floated to the north of the runway, at least two minutes from touchdown. The sniper looked at Downs. “Hey, Corporal, do me a favor?”

  Downs looked at the man. He had seen him around the battalion but had never before spoken to him. “Yeah, what do you need?” he asked.

  “If you see an officer or a staff NCO coming before that plane gets here, jump into the bunker and let me know.”

  “All right,” said Downs unsure. “What’s the big deal about the plane?”

  “Camouflage,” answered the sniper with a malicious grin as he shared a conspiratorial wink with his partner. Downs smiled and said, “Good luck.”

  “Yep. You get your ass in the bunker after the plane rolls past us.” Downs nodded as the sniper descended into the bunker and positioned himself behind the rifle. “Did you figure range?” he asked his partner.

  “Yeah. I get three hundred twenty yards,” the other Marine answered.

  “Okay, that’s good. I make it three-thirty, so we’ll just split the difference.” He made a minute adjustment on the fine-tune elevation knob of the rifle scope. He set the windage adjustment for “zero” as the Amal flag still hung limply on its staff.

  “No wind,” said his partner, then asked Downs, “where’s that plane, Corporal?” Downs looked to the north. The big MEA airliner was approaching the runway, nearly at stall speed. He could already make out each wheel on the landing gear, they were no longer fused into a single indistinguishable black blur.

  “Not long now, maybe a minute or two,” said Downs from outside the bunker. The sniper looked at his partner, who grunted to acknowledge Downs. He peered through the telescopic sight and told himself to breathe evenly. He moved the crosshairs into the middle of the man’s chest, then relaxed and closed his eyes. When he opened them again a few seconds later the crosshairs still rested at the same spot on the man’s chest. Good, he thought, my position is nice and tight. Now all I have to do is wait for the plane.

  The sniper knew that the noise from the plane’s engines would obliterate the report from his rifle. So long as no officer or overzealous staff NCO was looking directly at the bunker when he fired, the shot would go unheard and unnoticed.

  He and his partner had used this trick before when the Lebanese, or the Palestinians, had been bold enough to challenge the Marine position. He didn’t relish the act of killing in this manner. Somewhere in his mind the idea existed that it was cowardly to shoot a man in this fashion. At such close range he could pick any area of the man’s body and hit it with virtual certainty. The thought occurred to him that he should deliberately wound the man. Aim high into the right shoulder, or maybe at a leg. It would be easy enough to do, and no one would question him. Maybe the guy was just a carpenter or masonry worker who the militia had persuaded to do their work for them.

  The sniper heard the high-pitched whine of the plane’s engines and knew he would kill the man. At least I’ll do it cleanly, he thought, with one shot through the heart and lungs. As the huge plane settled onto the runway the pilot reversed the engines and the air itself vibrated. A sudden fury rose in the mind of the sniper, alone behind his weapon, his finger on the trigger. The rifle flung itself into his shoulder, and he had a quick vision of blue sky through the scope before it settled back down onto its bed of sandbags. Through the sight he again saw the man, sprawled across the front of the bunker, his legs kicking spasmodically as he convulsed in death.

  A large red stain spread across the Arab’s chest as Downs lowered himself into the bunker. He looked at Mac who had watched it all with Smith and Ferris from another firing port. The four exchanged silent glances. “Jesus Christ,” said Downs, then he sat on his cot at the rear of the bunker.

  “Jesus Christ,” he repeated. Smith, Mac, and Ferris remained at the firing ports. All the Lebanese disappeared off the street. From somewhere down the line of Marine bunkers rifle fire pierced the afternoon air as the noise from the plane fell to a low rumble. The Marines yelled wildly as the first shots rang out and the firefight began.

  The sniper backed away from his weapon. He could smell his own nervous sweat as he rose to leave the bunker. He avoided the faces of Downs and the others. As he stepped past his partner the other Marine laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “It’s a war, man. Remember that,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Awaad awoke in the early morning, before the sun rose, and washed. The stones of the floor were cool and refreshing on his feet as he shuffled to the basin and ran water from the tap. He allowed it to run until it became clear. He splashed his hands in the pool of water, then onto his face. The water was cold and washed away the sleep from his face. He felt the beginning of a mustache and whiskers on his chin. When this day is done he thought, anything I ask will be mine. My name will be praised by generations and I shall be a great martyr. He thought of the photos taken of him by the Brotherhood. He had sat upon a beautiful green chair, the kaffiyeh of the Brotherhood wrapped around his head, an AK-47 rifle clasped defiantly across his chest and the flag with the emblem of the Brotherhood draped behind him. They had taken many photographs of him, and after his death he knew that these would be made into posters and nailed to every house, wall, and communal building in his village and many others. Beautiful girls would gaze at his photograph and be saddened that they would not know him. He smiled to himself at the image of a beautiful dark-eyed girl standing in front of his poster, her heart made heavy by the loss of one so young, and so committed to the purity of Islam. The thought warmed him as he sat on his small bed and began to dress. He would not take food this morning. On this day, of all days, he wished his body, and his mind, to be pure.

  He thought often of the girl standing in front of his poster. Perhaps she would have a younger sister or brother with her. She would tell the child of Awaad’s exploits, and his great victory, and say that the child should strive to be like Awaad. The girl herself would be young, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old. She would be innocent. Not like the woman they had brought for him in Damascus. She had not been young, or innocent, or even beautiful. She had not been pure in her thoughts, and the Syrian officer who had brought her to him had laughed when he refused to lay with her.

  He had never liked the Syrian officer. He did not trust the man. The Syrian was perhaps forty years old, with a muscular build that belied his age. Awaad had noticed that he rarely wore his uniform, but his bearing identified him as a military man. Awaad had seen the Syrian alter his clothing as well as his demeanor when the situation demanded it. He knew that behind the Syrian’s calm demeanor and smooth manners lurked a repressed fury that casual observers missed.

  The others members of the Brotherhood respected him and said that he had great influ
ence in Damascus, and was a great warrior. Awaad and two others had been selected by this man only one month ago. He had taken them to Damascus for training. There was no talk of the holy Koran, or the Prophet in the Syrian training center. His days had been devoted to the study of electrical apparatus, learning to fire the AK-47 and Tokarov pistol, and to driving various-size vehicles. Awaad and the two others, Salem and Rifat, were poor village boys. They did not understand mechanical devices, and only Rifat had any experience driving a car. Awaad had done poorly with the driving and electrical and explosive studies, but he had been the best shot with both the pistol and the rifle. These were the matters he felt were most important. A warrior must know how to handle his weapons.

  Two days before they were to complete their training Salem had wrecked the small truck he had been given to drive that day. Although he was not hurt badly the truck was demolished, and the Syrian officer had been furious. After he learned of the incident he had slapped Salem across the face, then hit him with a leather belt. That night, after swearing revenge, Salem had slipped out of the barracks. When his absence was discovered the next morning, the Syrian had berated Awaad and Rifat, saying that all Lebanese were weak, and this was why the Israelis and the Palestinians were able to invade Lebanon and make its people do their bidding. He had not hit Awaad, or Rifat, but that evening, after the day’s training was completed, they had been moved to a small room with one narrow window, and locked in for the night. From that moment at least one of their Syrian instructors was always with them.