by C. X. Moreau
Griffin shook his head and smiled, “Yeah, they’ll make it, Staff Sergeant. But they look like shit. I’ve never seen ’em look this bad. Not even after a desert warfare exercise at Twenty-nine Palms.”
Whitney chuckled. “Nobody gets killed when we go play war in California. ’Course, this really ain’t much of a war. It’s kind of chickenshit to bomb an embassy. Most secretaries and ambassadors aren’t gonna put up much of a fight.”
Griffin cocked an eye at the staff sergeant, who held up a hand and said, “Oh, I know, I know. I’m not taking anything away from them, son. They’ve had one hell of a sorry week. Picking up dead bodies and classified rubble ain’t anybody’s idea of a good time. Still, it ain’t exactly Iwo Jima either. And I don’t reckon these people are quite ready to call it even, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. The question is what are we going to do about it?”
The staff sergeant rubbed his chin and said, “I don’t know. Right now we are going to get our asses a hot meal, a hot shower, and a good night’s sleep in our own bunkers back at the company. Never knew I could miss that old cot so much, but just the thought of it gives me a hard-on. I can live without the other two, but I’m damn tired of sleeping on this fucking concrete.”
Griffin grinned. “I didn’t think it got to you, Staff Sergeant.”
“Well, Sergeant Griffin, it does. Everybody bitches and moans, but you have to be careful who hears you when you do it. The troops are going to give credit to anything you say. Do you see what I mean?” Griffin nodded dutifully. “Well, this has been a shitty week, that’s for sure. There’s not much worse than picking up dead civilians. I don’t much care for it. I don’t imagine they do either,” he said, nodding to indicate the platoon.
“So what happens now, Staff Sergeant Whitney? Do we just go back, dig in, hold on, and wait for the next attack?”
“Probably. Look son, this isn’t a war. Not yet. Somebody at home has decided that the United States needs to make a statement to these people, or more likely to the Syrian government. We’re just here to prove to them that they have to take Washington’s bullshit a little bit more serious than usual. Somebody had to know this was going to happen. Hell, they evacuated all the diplomatic dependents months ago. After what happened in Iran the State Department knows damn well that embassies aren’t sacred any longer. Look at this place. It’s a mess. And what do they do about it? They move in with our buddies the British two hundred meters down the street. Nobody ever seriously considered shutting down the embassy. Business as usual, with a platoon of Marines outside to fill sandbags and guard the front door.” Whitney shook his head and chuckled. “How’s that for a sermon from the mount?”
Griffin grinned again, pleased that Whitney was confiding in him. It was unusual for the staff sergeant to offer his opinion. “Well, it’ll have to do I guess,” he said.
“C’mon, let’s get our ass back to the house,” said Whitney. He slapped Griffin on the back good-naturedly as he strode off.
Griffin took his place on the truck as the driver revved the engine and pulled into traffic. He looked over the squad. They seemed tired, but wary. The adventure part of it is over, he thought.
He unwrapped a chocolate disc and began to eat it. He looked again at the squad sitting shoulder to shoulder on the hard wooden benches in the back of the truck as the convoy picked up speed and headed south for the battalion headquarters. Downs sat across from him, his rifle held lightly in both hands, warily watching the buildings lining either side of the street. God, I’m tired of all this, he realized. The staff sergeant is right, a good night’s sleep will feel great. He thought not of his cot back at the airport, but of the squadbay at Camp Lejeune. Griffin saw the rows of beds, equipment, and footlockers all precisely on line and scrubbed clean. He could almost feel the starchy stiffness of the clean sheets and hear the breathing of the platoon as they slept. His mind’s eye pictured the uniforms neatly hung within his locker, and the gleaming shower stalls. A shower would feel good. A hot, steaming shower. So hot that it left your skin red.
As the truck bounced along Griffin recalled when he had first checked into the platoon, straight out of infantry training regiment at Camp Geiger. He had arrived in the steaming North Carolina summer sweating profusely into his class “A” uniform as he struggled to carry two seabags and a hanging bag with his dress uniforms. Most of the day had been spent going from regimental headquarters, to battalion headquarters, to the company headquarters, where he was finally assigned to a platoon. After a short lecture from the company commander regarding the numerous ways he might run afoul of the regulations and incur the full wrath and fury of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, he had been directed to a squadbay by a skinny redheaded company clerk. The clerk had shown him the way but had not offered to help carry the heavy seabags. Griffin arrived late in the afternoon on a day when the platoon was in the field. A lone Marine was in the squadbay standing fire-watch. He had introduced himself to Griffin and shown him an empty rack and wall locker that he could use. At first Griffin had been grateful for the sight of a friendly face. But after the guard repeatedly referred to Griffin as a “boot” he had decided he disliked the boy.
For two days the platoon had been out in the field and the squadbay was quiet. Griffin became acquainted with the four Marines who had been left behind to stand watch. He checked into the company, disbursing, and battalion offices. He drew his combat gear, went to chow, jogged, and lifted weights. Each morning he would stand in formation in front of the company office with the clerks who were not required to go to the field, then be assigned some menial chore by the company gunnery sergeant. No one spoke to Griffin except to give him instructions, and the tone then was usually condescending.
The squadbay was cool and quiet. The concrete floors had been worn smooth by the passage of thousands of boots over some forty-odd years. Each rack was neatly made, a six-inch wide white facing of sheet turned down on each one, and the black US printed on the blanket arranged squarely in the center of each rack. The head’s white tiles gleamed, and painted on the vertical portion of each step leading to the second deck were words such as “honor,” “integrity,” and “camaraderie.” The buildings themselves were of sturdy red brick, and neatly aligned on broad green lawns. From the window by his rack Griffin could see the salt estuary called New River, and a line of oak trees guarded the road running between the buildings that housed the other regiments. Griffin had found a certain comfort in the order and neatness of everything about him. For the first time in five months he was able to unpack his things without worrying when he would be leaving next, or without a sergeant instructor screaming in his ear.
The return of the platoon had been a shock to him. They had marched in from across New River Sound, hot, tired, and smelling of sweat and the field. He had seen them coming from the second-story window where he was sweeping a passageway. First the two lone “headlights” out in front of the formation, then the solid dark green snake of men dotted by the scarlet and gold guidons. He had heard their vulgar bawling as the squadbays came into their view and they knew this exercise was over. They had formed up in orderly ranks on the lawn in front of the barracks. Griffin could see that their uniforms and even their boots had salt stains on them. As the command was given to fall out none of them ran for the barracks. They picked up their gear and walked into the squadbay.
Once inside the platoon exploded with noise. Lines of men formed at the lavatories to drink and splash water on their faces. Those at the back cursed those in front. Others threw their gear onto their racks and lay on the deck. Boots were taken off and the stench of sweaty feet permeated the air. Some walked into the showers and turned the nozzles on themselves, still fully clothed. None of them acknowledged Griffin.
A huge staff sergeant entered the squadbay and gave orders for the weapons to be cleaned and returned to the armory prior to anyone taking a shower. NCOs shouted for them to get out of the heads and beg
in cleaning weapons. Mud from boots covered everything. Griffin had felt like an intruder. He stood by the entrance to the squadbay where he had been sweeping and tried to appear busy.
The squadbay now seemed an alien, hostile place. The noise was overpowering and seemed to increase every moment. Radios were taken from wall-lockers and blared at full volume, the noise bouncing off the concrete walls.
Within a few minutes of their arrival a sergeant had introduced himself to Griffin as his new squad leader. He asked if Griffin had a place to sleep. When Griffin pointed to his rack the sergeant told him to move his things. He explained that, even when they slept, the Marines were arranged by fireteam and squad. Griffin was out of order.
For the next few evenings, after the platoon had been secured from duty, Griffin would eat alone in the mess hall. The other Marines in his fireteam referred to him as “new guy” or “the boot,” and Griffin had no desire to spend any extra time with them. After chow he would walk the mile to the base theater and watch a film. It wasn’t important to him what was playing. As soon as the lights dimmed the audience would quiet down and he had time to think. It was often the only real rest he got. He would return to the squadbay minutes before the 2200 lights-out, polish his boots, and lay his uniform out for the next day. He thought the one step, with the word CAMARADERIE emblazoned boldly across its riser was a mockery. He glared at it in silent disgust each time he entered the squadbay.
Griffin quickly found out that only NCOs were allowed to enter the squadbay from the doors placed conveniently at the ends of the squadbays. Non-rates were required to enter from the central passageways that ran between the two wings of the building and then enter the squadbay through the double doors at its center, thus avoiding the areas at either end of the squadbay reserved for the NCOs.
Griffin had unknowingly used the entrance once, the evening the platoon had returned from the field. A corporal named Mackenzie, bone thin, had berated him while he stood at attention in front of the rest of the platoon. Griffin had been furious. His squad leader had returned from chow in the middle of Mackenzie’s tirade and ordered Griffin at ease, then told him to exit the way he came. Griffin had felt the hair rise on the back of his neck as he walked past Mackenzie, who lounged on his rack, a smirk on his face as Griffin walked past glaring.
A week after the incident one of the lance corporals in his squad had suggested Griffin challenge Mackenzie at the Friday “smokers.” Griffin had asked the lance corporal to explain what “smokers” were and the lance corporal had burst out laughing. He had said that the company commander was a former Golden Gloves champion and still relished the sport. One Friday a month he would set aside an afternoon for boxing. Anyone below the rank of sergeant could be challenged, and though acceptance wasn’t mandatory, no one had the courage not to accept. The bouts were no more than three, three-minute rounds, and each man used heavy sixteen-ounce gloves. Several of the larger non-rates had scored knockouts against smaller NCOs.
That afternoon Griffin had gone to the company bulletin board and penciled his name in under the “challenger” list, and Mackenzie’s name under “challenged.” For the rest of the week he was careful to avoid the squadbay between the evening meal and lights out. He knew he was bucking the system. He was too new to challenge anyone, but he was tired of being called “the boot,” and frustrated over the public humiliation he had suffered from Mackenzie’s dressing-down.
When Friday arrived Griffin sat alone and ate his breakfast. The platoon spent the morning cleaning weapons, then the platoon sergeant marched them to chow. Griffin ate a light lunch and drank extra glasses of water. He cast a quick glance at Mackenzie, who sat laughing with the other corporals and eating a normal meal. Before the boxing match the platoon sergeant took the whole platoon on a long run, finishing with a punishing sprint back to the company area.
Griffin struggled to remain quiet through the other bouts. He had to mentally will himself to sit still. Just before his bout he walked to the squadbay and took a short sip of water from the fountain, casting a sidelong glance at the CAMARADERIE on the step. As he turned to go out his squad leader stepped through the door. Without saying a word he had laced the heavy gloves onto Griffin’s hands.
Griffin stood in silence, aware that the sergeant wanted to say something, but unwilling to initiate any conversation and thereby risk humiliation. Finally the sergeant had spoken, telling Griffin that, while Mackenzie might deserve any beating he could give him, Griffin would have to exercise good judgment. The whole purpose of the matches, from the sergeant’s perspective, was to allow the settling of such grudges without destroying the credibility and authority of the NCOs. It also served to limit the excesses of the more zealous corporals. Griffin had cynically waited for the sergeant to tell him Mackenzie was really a good guy, and that Griffin had just caught him on a bad day. The sergeant stopped short of that. Griffin had asked what was expected of him, and the sergeant replied that anytime he fought he expected Griffin to win, plain and simple.
As he walked toward the ring he expected to hear catcalls, or worse, silence. Here and there he heard a word of encouragement for Mackenzie. A lance corporal from another platoon stood in Griffin’s corner, loosely holding a towel. He winked at Griffin as he climbed through the ropes of the makeshift ring. Griffin defiantly wore the scarlet gym shorts issued to every Marine in infantry training regiment and scorned by those same Marines as an emblem of inexperience after they joined the fleet forces.
The staff sergeant who was refereeing the fight brought them together in the center of the ring and explained the rules. He then checked to see that each man wore a mouthpiece. He did not require that they shake hands.
The bell rung and Griffin felt the familiar tingling in his arms. He danced lightly toward the center of the ring and circled his opponent. He allowed Mackenzie to throw the first punches, in order to gauge his skill. He easily warded off the blows and decided that Mackenzie was a street fighter, and probably not very effective if he failed to land the first punch.
Mackenzie threw a flurry of wild punches and Griffin stepped inside his guard and landed a jab squarely on the nose. He knew that Mackenzie’s eyes would water as the rush of pain hit him. Griffin correctly guessed that Mackenzie’s next move would be to blindly charge him. He stepped to one side and landed a quick flurry of punches to Mackenzie’s head.
Griffin knew that he could finish him, but instead he drew back, allowing Mackenzie the chance to clear his head. He looked at the corporal as his eyes cleared and knew that Mackenzie realized he was outclassed. The platoon was on its feet and chanting, not for Mackenzie, but for Griffin.
The corporal approached as Griffin got a quick glance of his squad leader, standing outside the ring, arms folded impassively across his chest. Griffin threw a quick series of punches to Mackenzie’s head that broke his nose and knocked him to the mat. He noted with satisfaction the blood from Mackenzie’s shattered nose staining the canvas. Automatically, he went to a neutral corner. He had watched as the Marines screamed their delight, and the staff sergeant counted Mackenzie out. After being declared the winner Griffin had offered his hand to Mackenzie, who refused it.
That had been nearly seven years ago, and he had never again entered the squadbay through the NCO hatches. As the truck full of Marines wove its way through the city, Griffin glanced at Downs, his fine features masked by a fuzz of beard and the dirt from a week without a shower. I know you, Downs, he thought, because I know myself. It’s a cruel system unless you take it to heart. You have to surrender a part of yourself to it, or it will cast you aside and make you bitter. The hardest part is finding a graceful way to surrender to the system outwardly and still retain the inward dignity your conscience requires. It’s not so easy, is it Downs? It takes everything from you with only the promise of something better, and it’s not kind or gentle, or even likable most of the time. Every son of a bitch in the place screams at you, beats you, and humiliates you in any way he can think of. An
d the only thing you get in return is the right to call yourself a Marine and a couple more years of guaranteed misery if you make it through the training.
Griffin looked at the boys sitting in the back of the truck as it jarred along. He had known some of them since boot camp, others since they came to the battalion. All of them were his friends to some degree. The thought occurred to him that even his friends didn’t know him any longer. In order to survive in the Marine Corps he had changed himself, at least outwardly. He had become harder, less friendly. Friends he had known since becoming a Marine showed a certain coolness to him since he had become a sergeant. That was the system. No fraternization between the ranks. He was proud of having been promoted to sergeant. It was a difficult rank to achieve, especially in a peacetime Marine Corps. Still, it hadn’t come without a price.
He looked again at Downs. He sensed that Downs had some inner difficulty, some reason for escaping from home. Maybe he had gotten into some trouble, or gotten a girl pregnant. Whatever the reason he was here now, and he was Griffin’s responsibility. Downs was different from the rest, that was for sure, and Griffin had been unable to hit on the proper means of reaching him. Well, Downs, he thought, along with all the misery it gives to you the Marine Corps can give you something else. It can give you a home for as long as you need one.
The trucks pulled into the compound that served as the battalion headquarters. A massive four-story concrete structure once used by the Lebanese Aviation Safety Bureau now housed the various units of Marines. While some of the troops were combat units, most of them were support troops, and their tents ringed the retaining wall which surrounded the courtyard of the building on three sides. To the south, the face of the building looked toward the terminal across a broad flat expanse of macadam. The building itself was heavily battle-damaged and pieces of plastic and tent canvas hung in many of the building’s ruined windows.