by C. X. Moreau
CHAPTER
11
The squad stood idly by as the bulk of the platoon moved off to resume their position in the line. A few Marines joked with their buddies in first squad as they moved past. Griffin nodded to Whitney, who winked as he led the way in the morning darkness. Griffin watched as the two squads swung around a corner and disappeared from sight. He had discussed the mission with his three corporals, and looked again and again at the route the little convoy would take through the city. A lieutenant from the battalion operations center had explained to Griffin and the staff sergeant that, although the assigned route was longer, and more difficult than necessary, it would make its way around areas judged hostile by battalion intelligence. The staff sergeant had said, half jokingly, that he thought all of Beirut was hostile since the embassy had gone down.
Griffin moved the squad onto the waiting trucks, three dark behemoths guarded at each end by a jeep mounted with a .50 caliber machine gun. He would ride in the first jeep, the map balanced on his lap. Griffin had no real confidence in the map. He knew from experience that it was practically worthless. It had almost no detail, and many of the roads marked on it were now impassable due to the fighting. He had gratefully noted that the route made its way past several prominent landmarks that were well marked. This would allow him to judge the progress of the convoy and hopefully stay on course. Maybe someone at battalion knew what was going on after all, he thought gratefully.
The convoy moved out of the perimeter in the predawn darkness. As each vehicle passed the checkpoint at the entrance to the Marine compound, bolts went home on weapons and the Marines shifted their rifles to point outboard. A quarter of a mile north the convoy passed a Lebanese Army checkpoint, the sleepy soldier inside waving as the convoy gained speed and roared past. Griffin held his rifle awkwardly across his lap, one finger on the spot on the map that he judged to be the approximate position of the convoy.
The jeep topped a small rise and Griffin could see the concrete shanties and dirty trees of what he knew was Shatilla Wood. To the west was the Sabra refugee camp. No lights showed from either area as they passed quickly by. The driver looked at him and made a motion as if wiping his brow. The corporal manning the gun in the rear of the jeep said, “Drive, Watson. Forget about being funny.”
As they passed through a small traffic circle and entered a broad boulevard the gunner said, “That’s the French headquarters, behind that stone wall. I know this area. We make a right up here, Sergeant.” Griffin nodded and shifted his weight to maintain his seat as the little jeep rounded the corner. He turned and checked the rest of the convoy. It was still dark but he could make out all the vehicles, which ran with just their blackout lights showing. All of them were in place, maintaining the proper spacing. The driver moved his jeep into the center lane and slowed as they approached a French checkpoint. Before they came to a halt a French soldier stepped from behind his sandbagged wall and waved them through. Griffin nodded to him, noting the man’s weapon tracked them until they were past.
The jeep moved under a darkened overpass and the gunner said, “Indian country from here on in, Sergeant.” Griffin looked at the eastern sky and noticed the first gray hints of dawn. Multistoried apartment buildings blocked his view of the mountains. He noted that few lights were visible in the buildings, all of which bore the scars of fighting. The roadway was clear of vehicles, and Griffin was suddenly aware that they had not passed a single vehicle since leaving the Marine compound. He quickly glanced at his watch. He checked the map and knew that they should soon be making a series of turns. He had the driver slow down. His apprehension built as he failed to locate his landmark. Without warning he realized they were at the intersection marked on his map. He looked down at the map, checking the reference point, noting the configuration of the roads, the odd angles at which they met, then said, “Okay, right up here. Go south here.” Before the vehicle turned Griffin spun around in his seat, memorizing the buildings from the perspective he would see them on his return trip. He had worried half the night about this turn, for it was only an intersection with no real landmarks. Even had he been able to read Arabic, no street signs existed to guide him. He had gauged the distance between landmarks, and by calculating the speed of the convoy had gotten a rough estimate of how long it would take them to reach this intersection. When the convoy reached the more rural areas he would use terrain features to fix his position.
Griffin ordered another turn and the convoy resumed its eastward trek. The broad boulevard wound uphill past more houses, spacious châteaus with high stone walls. Clusters of smaller homes, and multilevel apartment buildings were grouped near the intersections. Griffin noted the occasional light showing in a window and glanced down at his watch. Half past six and most of the people were still asleep. Not like the City he thought. Any time of the night or day someone was moving in New York.
He thought back quickly to his own neighborhood in the Bronx. The summer after his graduation from high school he had worked nights on the docks, rising early to load produce trucks that carried fresh vegetables to every corner of the city. He had worked long hours loading and unloading the big trucks as most of the city slept. Huge reefers kept the produce cold, and he and the others had worn jackets to stay warm even though it was the middle of summer. Not wanting to ruin his own winter coat Griffin had taken his father’s old field jacket. The left breast pocket was still emblazoned with the black eagle, globe and anchor and the USMC below the emblem was clearly legible. The other men on the docks, mostly older Italians from the surrounding neighborhood, had chided him about the field jacket. They had asked him when he was going to join up, and not just sport the emblem. Griffin was seventeen, and had already asked his father to sign enlistment papers for him, allowing him to join the Marines. He had caused a terrible fight between his parents. His mother had openly defied his father, something Griffin had never before seen. In the end his father had told him to wait until the end of the summer and join when he turned eighteen, if he still wanted to then. So Griffin had found himself spending the odd months on the docks.
Midway through the long hot summer a new man had hired on. He was the son of one of the foreman. He had been friendly to Griffin initially, then turned sullen. Griffin had been puzzled until the man told him he was a veteran, and had served in Vietnam. Griffin could still remember the words, but not the name of the man. “It’s not you, kid. It’s the emblem. You ain’t earned it. You wanna wear it, go earn it. Then you can wear it. Understand?”
Griffin had understood. At the end of the summer, the day before he left for Parris Island, the dockworkers had taken him to a corner bar. It had been his eighteenth birthday, and everyone had crowded around to buy him drinks. Before he left the veteran had walked up to him with a shot glass full of warm whiskey and said, “Here, you dumb bastard. I’ll buy you another one when you get back. Look me up, tiger. I’ll be around.” Griffin smiled at the memory. Well, he thought, now I really do understand.
“Okay, Sergeant, here it is. Don’t worry, this road isn’t marked on your map but it winds around this hill, and up at the top is a little gate and then you’re there. I know ’cause I brought these guys up here and I usually come up with supplies and shit. Another five minutes and we’re home.”
Griffin grunted his assent and automatically turned to check the position of the convoy. All of the vehicles were clearly visible in the morning haze. “This road is pretty narrow, will the six-bys make it through?” he asked, looking to the corporal for an answer.
“Yeah, it’s tight, and they usually scrape in places, but they can make it if the driver has any balls.”
“Great,” said Griffin. “What the fuck happens if we need to get out of here in a hurry?” The driver geared down and the jeep ground up the hillside. Griffin reflexively pulled his weapon in closer. He could have reached out and touched the side of the hill. He noted the steep slopes, the loose rock and sand. Cedar trees clung precariously to the sides of the hil
l.
Griffin looked up but could not catch a view of the house, or any Marines. The air was scented with the pungent odor of cedar, belying the closeness of the city. He looked to his left, where the hill fell away sharply. The city now lay below them, and Griffin noted that the area they had driven through was coming to life. A few vehicles moved in the streets, and lights were visible in most of the houses. Below them the tops of trees testified to the steep angle of the hill. Griffin rose in the seat to get a better view, but couldn’t catch a glimpse of the ground, only shrubs and trees.
“It’s pretty steep, Sergeant Griffin. No place to hang a wheel over the shoulder,” said the driver. Griffin looked behind him at the truck inching its way around a tight turn. The bumper constantly gouged the side of the hill as the driver hugged the road. At some points the tandem wheels on the rear axles actually had the outer tires freewheeling as the hill fell away from the narrow road.
“Yeah, I see what you mean about the driver’s needing a set of big brass ones. This ain’t much of a road,” he said. The corporal grinned widely. “Maybe so, but at least we know the Lesbos can’t come up here with any tanks to get us.”
Griffin looked forward instinctively as the driver slowed his vehicle. The lance corporal shot a glance at him and said, “When we round this next curve we’ll be in front of the gatehouse. They have an M-60 set up in there, and a fireteam with it. We’ll also be in sight of the house, from the roof they’ll have a good view of everything, and also from the second-story windows.” The driver hit the horn twice, a prearranged signal, then rounded the corner.
Griffin took in the small stone gatehouse with its one sandbagged window. The black muzzle of a machine gun barrel peered at them from its interior. He noted the pockmarks from small arms fire on the structure before lifting his gaze beyond the gate and into the courtyard. The house was a solid looking three-story stucco affair with a large flat roof. It reminded Griffin of something out of an old Western, right down to the large windows with no glass in them. A Marine stood on the roof behind a waist-high wall of masonry and observed the entry of the convoy into the court. A slender sentry stepped out of the gatehouse and waved them forward. He threw a heavy bar to the ground and opened the wrought iron gate that blocked the road. As the jeep inched past he grinned and said, “Welcome to the Alamo.” Griffin noted that he quickly crossed the road back to the gatehouse before the first six-by could pass. Clever bastard, thought Griffin, if the truck rolls over the side he can just watch instead of being crushed.
The convoy pulled into a sizable courtyard paved with large stones. Griffin noted the unfinished look of the large house, as if construction had stopped once the walls and roof had been completed. The top of the hill had been leveled and the house rose from the far side, the hill falling away to give the occupants a spectacular view of the city. A low stone wall ran in an unbroken circle around the top of the hill, enclosing the courtyard. Cedar trees rose above it all, leaving Griffin with the impression that whoever had built the place had a desire for privacy and enough money to afford it. As the squad jumped from the trucks Griffin walked to the wall and leaned over. Below, he glimpsed part of the road, perhaps fifty meters beneath him. The steep sides of the hill were covered with small wiry cedar trees and juniper bushes. He stood on top of the stone wall, perhaps two feet wide, and walked its length, moving toward the house. Nowhere was the slope of the hill angled to allow an advance that would be anything less than heroic under fire. The house itself appeared to rise from the bedrock of the hill. Griffin leaned out over the wall, attempting to see if the house had any windows on the lower floors.
“Well, are you gonna buy it or what?” a voice asked in a heavy southern drawl.
Griffin spun to see who had spoken. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “Figures you would get the cushiest billet Ole mother green has to offer. How are you, Bobby?” he said.
Griffin jumped from the wall, offered his hand to the other Marine, and added, “You fucking boot.”
“Boot!” said the other Marine with an air of dismay. “Boot?” he repeated. “Is that what you said? Shit! I got more air time jumpin’ out of the back of six-bys than you got in the Corps. I’ll give you a boot. A boot right in the ass!” The boy shook his head good-naturedly and asked, “How are you, Dave? Long time, man. Where’s that fucking no-good Samson? I didn’t see his fat butt fall off that truck y’all rode in on.”
Griffin smiled and shook the hand of his friend. “Shit, Slocum. Samson is probably in your hooch right now, eating your chow and looking through your mail.”
Slocum grinned wildly. “Aw, he ain’t nothin’ but another muscle-bound hoodlum from New York, Dave. Figures the two of you are still hangin’ around together,” said Slocum. Slapping Griffin on the back, Slocum continued, “Hey, how’s Downs doing? I bet you and he are big pals now that he’s a corporal. He get his PhD yet?” asked Slocum sarcastically. “I hear you can get ’em through the mail now.”
Griffin smiled at his friend. “Bobby, it’s reassuring to know that some things never change. You being a smart-ass and the first shirt being a jerk are real constants in my life.” Griffin looked at Slocum, then asked, “How’s the pride of North Carolina anyway? Anybody ever teach you how to box yet?”
Slocum laughed, “Hey now, boy. I’m a hundred and seventy pounds of fighting wildcat. Never you mind all that fancy-ass city-boy boxin’ you’re so fond of. So just don’t you go abusin’ my hospitality and all or I’ll have to teach you some proper manners.” Slocum smiled broadly and asked, “No shit, they sent you up to help out little ole me?”
“Yeah, they sure did,” answered Griffin. “The reason I’m up here is to escort you and your squad out.”
“Oh yeah. Somebody did mention it to me. I guess you’re right for once.” Slocum turned to look at the house. “Sure will hate to leave though. This is one grade-A piece of real estate, Dave. Good living. Away from the battalion and all the Zeros. I hate to leave, that’s for sure.”
“Yeah, I can understand that. Nice view from up here. Not to mention not having to deal with the command. How did you swing it?”
“Just lucky, I guess. They figured nobody in Lebanon knew how to drive a tank anymore, so the dragon platoon didn’t really have much of a mission. We ran mobile patrols up through the city for a while. You know, drive the jeeps around, wave at the girls, don’t spit on the sidewalk bullshit. The usual ’Create a Presence’ crap on the patrol reports.”
“Beats walking,” said Griffin.
“Sure does,” grinned Slocum. “Anyway, this place was going to be the U.S. ambassador’s residence if they ever got it finished. Guess he was getting tired of the old mansion. Who knows? They sent us up here with a few guys from a radio unit. There’s four of them and about fifty tons of their gear that we lugged up to the roof and sandbagged in place.” Slocum nodded, indicating the roof. “Guess the officers will want us to bring all that shit back with us, right?”
“Yeah, they’re funny like that, Bobby. They usually want us to hold onto the crap they give us.”
“Umm, well, I guess we can drag it back down in the morning. Right now we got other problems.”
“Like what?”
“Well some fucker named Ahmud, or somethin’ like that, was up here yesterday afternoon. Gave me a bunch of shit about how this land belonged to Lebanon. The people, you know. I couldn’t understand him very well, but the gist of it was he wants us off his fucking hill.”
“Yeah, so what did you tell him?” asked Griffin.
“Well, what do you think I told him? I told him the great white father in Washington bought and paid for this place fair and square and he sent me here to mind the store. Jesus, what the fuck was I supposed to tell him? I ain’t no real estate agent. Anyway, our twenty-four hours ain’t up until sixteen-hundred this afternoon, so if we hurry we can be gone by the time he gets back.”
Griffin stiffened and stared at his friend. “Fuck you, mister. I ain’t leaving this dam
ned hill until I’m good and fucking ready.”
Slocum laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I told him. Figures a nosy bastard like yourself would want to know though.”
Griffin relaxed. “Well, what do we do now?”
“Ah, who cares? Ol’ Ahmud won’t be back until sixteen-hundred or so. He’ll come trotting up the road there with his little white flag and that big-ass pistol strapped on his hip like he’s John Wayne or some shit. You talk to the fucker this time. I cain’t understand him, except about every fifth word anyway. Besides, he smells like he’s been bathing in goat piss. And his breath could kill elephants. It would take a regiment to get us off this hill if we decide to stay. You looked at the place, what do you think?”
“It’s good ground, no doubt about that. Really only one way in, and that’s right through the gate,” said Griffin nodding toward the iron gate. “I brought two fifty cals and an extra M-60 with me, plus plenty of ammo. The house covers the approaches up the hill and I assume there’s some sort of view of the entrance from the road?”
“Yep. I got a gun on it now. We saw you come in, you asshole.”
Griffin ignored his friend’s jibe and continued, “Good. The road’s too narrow for armor, except maybe the light stuff, but I’ve seen plenty of that around here. Panhards mostly, maybe a British Ferret. Can you handle something like that?”
“What kind of jerk-off do you think I am? We’d nail him with a dragon before he could even start up the hill. We got a few LAAWs laying around that might come in handy. We strung a line of claymores around the hill, as well as trip wires for our flares and about a half million dollars worth of concertina wire. Any more questions?”
Griffin smiled. “Well, not really. Staff Sergeant Whitney had me bring a lot of extra ammo, which leads me to believe battalion may have already gotten word of this somehow. You said anything to them?”