by C. X. Moreau
Huge sections of the embassy broke away from their shattered supports and tumbled to the ground below. A thick cloud of black smoke arose from the center wing of the building as ruptured gas mains ignited and set fire to anything combustible. Vehicles that had been parked in front of the building were instantly ignited and spewed oily black smoke into the morning sky.
Rubble blown into the air above the embassy fell back to earth as a layer of dust and grit covered everything in the vicinity of the embassy. Papers floated back to earth at a leisurely pace or were carried away by the breeze from the sea. Chunks of concrete smashed to the ground as terrified embassy personnel descended the remaining stairs and ran from the dying building. In the first few minutes after the explosion the area around the embassy was a scene of utter chaos and disorganization.
Within minutes Lebanese civilians in the area recovered from their shock and began to search for survivors amid the wreckage. Vehicles driving along the corniche were stopped and injured from the embassy were unceremoniously thrown inside, the driver having been instructed to take them to the nearest hospital. Rescue workers appeared shortly thereafter and began to scour the rubble for survivors buried beneath tons of concrete.
The boy had placed the truck perfectly. The building was built in three wings facing the broad boulevard and the ocean. The two outside wings faced slightly inward, as if attempting to embrace the lawn and half moon drive leading to the center section of the building. He watched in satisfaction as the center wing of the embassy disintegrated before his eyes. The rumbling he had heard was the successive collapse of the eight floors of the embassy toward the foyer, where the boy had detonated his truck full of explosives. The building had been gutted and large chunks of concrete hung from steel reinforcing rods. In several places the face of the building had been ripped away by the force of the explosion and the collapse of upper stories. Offices now lay visible to people on the street in front of the burning structure.
The thought occurred to him that it was a bit like looking in a neighbor’s window, except the people inside were not visible. He realized as he reached for his coffee that his hand was on the detonator. As the first sirens began to wail in the distance he settled the bill and headed for the hotel.
CHAPTER
8
Griffin walked away from the platoon sergeant, unsure of the task that lay before him. The platoon was to pull out of the line, be loaded on trucks, and driven to the U.S. Embassy somewhere north of the airport, in the heart of Muslim west Beirut. All the lieutenant and the staff sergeant could tell him was that some sort of bomb had hit the embassy. First reports indicated that part of the building had collapsed, and there would be civilian casualties.
Griffin passed the word to his corporals as a squad from Bravo Company came up to relieve them. They sat in the grass, resting on their packs while first platoon packed its gear, drew rations and ammunition, then loaded onto six-bys. Two jeeps, each having a .50 caliber heavy machine gun mounted in its rear well, rolled into place at the front and rear of the small column. The squad sat in the trucks, laughing and joking among themselves.
Griffin sat down with Downs and his squad and pulled a laminated map from his pocket. The map showed the entire city, with major routes and buildings clearly marked. He spread it over his knees and began searching for the American Embassy. Street names appeared in Arabic, but, mercifully, the glossary and corresponding numbered buildings were marked in English. “It’s around here,” said Downs, looking over Griffin’s shoulder and stabbing the map with a dirty finger.
“You sure?” asked Griffin.
“Pretty sure. What does the glossary say?”
“Fuck me, who can read this rag-head shit anyway,” said Griffin annoyed. Samson lifted a corner of the map. Looking toward Downs he asked, “Do you know where it is, Corporal Downs?”
“Yeah, up north, on the coast. The locals call it the Corniche, or something like that. I think it’s even numbered, maybe one fifty-three. I’m not sure.”
“Son of a bitch, he’s right. It’s right here. Look,” said Samson. All three bent to take a closer look at the map, then automatically checked the distance between their position and that of the embassy. “It’s a long way, Sergeant Griffin,” continued Samson. “How long do you think it will take us to get there?”
Griffin looked at Samson, then shrugged, “Who knows? Downs, you got any idea?”
“Not really. An hour maybe. Give or take a few minutes.” The driver of the heavy truck came around to the rear of the vehicle and slammed the gate into place. He looked at Griffin and said, “Five minutes, Sergeant.”
“Okay,” nodded Griffin absently. “You people lift that canvas up so you can see out,” he ordered the squad. “I want every man facing outboard. Tiger, you put your gun up front, over the cab. We’re gonna be the last vehicle in line so the jeep with the fifty cal will cover our ass. I want a rifleman and a grenadier at the rear of the vehicle. Corporal Downs, you sit up front with the driver and help navigate. Don’t let him get separated from the rest of the convoy.
“Is comm up?” he asked the radioman.
“Yeah, Sergeant Griffin. We’re up,” replied the radioman.
The truck lurched forward as the convoy turned north out of the Marine perimeter. The Marines stared at the traffic in the street. Lebanese drivers honked their horns and waved gaily. Occasionally a Marine would lift a hand and return the gesture. The convoy moved north on the coast road, traffic moving out of the way as the vehicles gained speed.
Griffin noted the battle-damaged buildings, periodically consulting his map for references to determine the position of the convoy. As they moved past a series of rocks off the coast Griffin jabbed the map and said, “We’re here.”
Samson looked over his shoulder and grumbled, “We’re a long fucking way from home. How much farther do you make it to the embassy?”
“We’re about halfway. Maybe another twenty minutes if we keep up the pace.” As the vehicles turned east along a wide boulevard they slowed in traffic. Ahead they could see a black column of smoke billowing into the sky. Traffic choked the street and the lead vehicles moved onto the median, crawling ahead. Griffin noted that very few of the buildings now visible had any battle damage. The convoy ground to a stop and the troops began to dismount and form up. One squad was left behind as security for the vehicles as the platoon moved off, the sea on their left some twenty yards away.
Lebanese civilians lined the sidewalk and looked out of windows of houses fronting the street. Griffin nodded occasionally, not understanding what they said. He decided their tone was friendly, if somewhat confusing. He noticed a line of vehicles with red lights and red and white markings on their sides. As the squad drew abreast of the last vehicle he decided that they were ambulances, lining up in order to pick up the wounded.
Crowds of curious Lebanese were pushed aside as the platoon drew even with the embassy. French military vehicles were parked on the boulevard in front of the building and at least a dozen charred cars were tossed haphazardly on the street and drive in front of the embassy. Oily smoke rose from the center wing of the eight-story building, obscuring most of it, but Griffin could see that it had borne the brunt of the blast. The floors of the center section had collapsed, leaving a huge pyramid shaped mound of rubble covering what was once the entry to the embassy. Flames leapt from the rubble and periodically chunks of concrete and other debris would fall, scattering the myriad of rescue workers moving in and out of the ruined building.
The squad moved to form a perimeter in front of the embassy grounds. French Marines acknowledged their presence with curt nods. Griffin noted that French medics were treating a number of casualties on the sidewalk across the street. Other casualties were brought to the first ambulance in line, which would then speed off, sirens wailing. Griffin even saw two bleeding people placed in the back of a station wagon which appeared to have been commandeered for the occasion. He heard staff sergeant Whitney shout “S
ergeant Griffin!” and turned to face the platoon sergeant.
“Yeah, Staff Sergeant,” he answered.
“We are going to have to clear people out of our perimeter. I want you to anchor your squad on the far end of the building and tie it in with the second squad somewhere near the center of this yard in front of the embassy. When we’ve done that we will limit the number of people moving in and out of our area. All of this paperwork blowing around here belongs to the embassy, and most of it is probably classified. As soon as possible we’ll assign a detail to start picking it up. The French are going to put up roadblocks on the boulevard in front of us and on that street leading up the hill, away from the embassy. They will also provide security for the rear of the building. There’s some sort of parking lot back there and they are going to set up behind the retaining wall.”
“How soon will third squad be up?” Griffin asked.
“I don’t know. Soon I hope,” answered Whitney. “When they get here we’ll pull the vehicles in front of the embassy fence. That will give us some cover and block the view of the curious. We’ll put a jeep on each flank to cover traffic from either direction on that boulevard.”
Griffin surveyed the wreckage in the embassy compound, then looked at the tall buildings lining the street. “How is our comm, Staff Sergeant?”
“Not good. The radios are blocked by all these office buildings. There’s a captain around here someplace though. He’s assigned to the French as liaison officer and he’s trying to work through their net to get comm with the battalion or with MAU.”
Griffin grunted then said, “Okay, Staff Sergeant. I get the picture.” He walked away frowning and got the squad on line, the last man a few paces from the first man in the second squad. Anyone not helping the rescue effort was moved back, away from the crumbling building. As the squad moved farther away, the distance between each man increased. When they were almost ten yards apart Griffin halted them, and each man took cover behind whatever was available. Most just stood, stealing glances back at the embassy, whose center section continued to burn unabated. The ground around the drive was littered with broken glass, fragments of masonry, and other bits of debris. As the wind shifted the smell of tear gas hit the Marines. Griffin approached Downs. “You smell gas, Corporal Downs?” he asked.
“Yeah. You?” came the reply.
“Yep. Our fucking masks are on the trucks with our packs, too. Great,” said Griffin sarcastically.
“Where do you think the gas is coming from?” asked Downs.
Griffin glanced back at the embassy. Flames leapt from the pile of rubble. “Well, I’m not sure,” he shrugged. “Probably it was in the armory that the Marine detachment kept. Maybe the heat from the fire is cooking it off.”
“Well, if that’s the case then some of their ammo might start cooking off. Wouldn’t that be great.”
Griffin rubbed his chin, thinking, “It could happen. What a kick in the ass. First they bomb our fucking embassy, then we get shot in the ass by our own ammo. Serves us right. They should’a shut this place down months ago. It’s nothin’ but a pain in the neck anyway.”
Downs cast a quick look at Griffin. “How could we do that? Closing down our embassy here is like saying we give up on them as a country. If we did that they wouldn’t have any faith in us.”
Griffin raised an eyebrow and looked quizzically at Downs. “Tell me something, Corporal Downs. What fucking planet do you come from? Do you think we came here to save the world? Didn’t you even notice that we are holding the airport as well as several kilometers worth of the Israeli supply route for their troops on the other side of those mountains over there? Shit, we’re just here helping out our good buddies in the IDF. Helpin’ to make sure that if their MSR is cut off at some point they can use good ol’ Beirut International to keep the boys stocked up on beer, chips, and ammo.” Griffin nodded at the smoking embassy, “This ain’t nothin’ more than a sideshow, Downs. Somebody’s way of making a point. And the point is, watch your ass.”
“Ah, I don’t know, Sergeant Griffin. I think a lot of these people, Muslim and Christian, really want our help.”
“Yeah,” Griffin said in agreement, “sure they do. But we took sides, Downs. Did you really think nobody would get pissed about all those shells the navy threw up into those hills the other day? Or had you forgotten about that?”
“Maybe, but it only takes a few individuals with some explosives or a TOW to do something like this. Then everybody at home focuses on this and not the bigger picture. When that happens, the guys who blew up the embassy accomplish what they set out to do.”
Griffin shook his head and continued, “I don’t know, Downs, but I’ll tell you what I see. I see my platoon, and a French platoon, in a city of two million people. We’re an hour from any real help, they won’t give us supporting arms even if comm were up to ask for it. We’re standing around while what’s left of the American Embassy slowly collapses and burns. This is not what I consider an ideal tactical situation. So until help gets here let’s make sure we watch our collective ass.”
Downs grinned, “Sure, no problem, Sergeant Griffin. We can handle this.” Griffin shook his head and walked away as Downs moved off to speak with Mac who stood nearby.
Mac shifted his weight to the other foot for the thousandth time and nodded toward the crowd on the sidewalk, “What do you suppose they want, Steve?”
“I don’t know. Some of them are just curious no doubt. Like people who follow fire trucks to a fire just to watch the building burn. Probably some of them had relatives working in the embassy. I saw some Lebanese being carried out on stretchers. I guess the embassy might have some Lebanese employees. I don’t know. Maybe the embassy is only in part of this building and the rest is office space for companies.”
“No, I’m pretty sure the whole thing belongs to us,” said Mac. “Jesus, look at it. This whole place is just all fucked up. Ferris stepped on somebody’s hand a while ago. Just a hand. Nothing attached to it. God, Steve, what the fuck is going on here?”
Downs shook his head. “I don’t know, but Sergeant Griffin says this is just payback for the navy shelling that ridgeline and those Lebanese villages the other day.”
“That what you think?” asked Mac.
“Who knows,” shrugged Downs.
“Did you see that girl they brought out of here this afternoon? The one in the red skirt that the Doc was working on over by the trucks?”
“No,” Downs lied.
“Well, I did,” continued Mac. “She was American. I don’t think she had been here too long. Christ, Steve. She died right there on the sidewalk. What sense does that make? You tell me. If they’re pissed at the navy and they want to fuck with us, fine. But Jesus, why this fucking place?”
“I don’t know, Mac. They’re not like us I guess. Not in a fight anyway.” Downs turned away and looked again toward the sea. Images of the girl played across his mind’s eye. He had watched as she was lifted from beneath the rubble and brought to the aid station. Downs saw again the first trickle of blood slip from the corner of her mouth. He felt again the terrible sinking sadness in his chest. He had known the girl would die. He heard her ask for someone to talk to, but he couldn’t go to her. While he watched Griffin had knelt next to the girl and spoken with her. Although Downs couldn’t hear their conversation he saw Griffin take her hand, and he heard the girl’s sobs. Downs had looked on as the girl’s face was covered with a dirty piece of cloth. The corpsman had moved off to the next casualty, but Griffin continued to kneel by her. The battalion chaplain had arrived and tried to comfort the girl. Downs had watched as the chaplain pulled the white chasuble from a small case he carried and draped the cloth over his shoulders. The girl’s red skirt peeked out from beneath the cloth used to cover her as the priest made the sign of the cross. Downs had watched numbly as the priest administered the last rites.
He had felt like an intruder, someone who accidentally looks into a house while passing by and sees s
ome private moment of the family inside. He was unable to turn away until the priest broke the spell by mumbling something to Griffin, who nodded his head. Downs turned and fought to control his emotions. He was horrified as he realized the people around him were oblivious to the girl’s death. Everywhere rescue workers moved about, searching for the wounded, dodging falling rubble, loading the injured into ambulances. Downs noticed two French soldiers standing at the far end of the building, sharing a cigarette. He could not comprehend the girl’s death.
The bombing of the embassy, the death of nameless people who happened to be inside at the time, that was real enough to him as long as he wasn’t personally involved in it. News accounts of the event read in the paper over breakfast, his mother remarking what a tragedy it was. That would be more real to him than the scenes that had passed before his eyes.
An oily cloud of smoke had drifted by and the heavy stench of burning rubber forced him to turn. He saw Griffin, still kneeling next to the girl, run a dirty hand through his hair. From the liner of his helmet Griffin took a handkerchief, wet it, and cleaned the girl’s face. Then he had pulled the cover over her and walked away.
CHAPTER
9
Griffin looked at the squad as they shuffled toward the six-bys. They seemed tired, dispirited. There was none of the usual banter and horseplay. Well, it’s been a tough couple of weeks, that’s for sure. No fucking way to train for this kind of shit, it just happens, he thought.
“Well, what do you think, Sergeant Griffin? Will they make it?” Griffin turned to face Staff Sergeant Whitney. He looks like a new fucking penny, thought Griffin. How the hell does he manage that all the time?