by C. X. Moreau
“Yes he will, Bobby, because we won’t fire on him on the way up.”
Slocum glanced over at Griffin, rubbing his chin. “You’re a mean son of a bitch today. Next thing you’ll probably want a couple of claymores strung down there with enough wire to detonate them from here.”
“That’s right, and see if you can rig some flares down there, too. We might as well see what we’re shooting at.”
“Okay, what else?” asked Slocum.
“Have your people rig shelter halves across all the windows. I don’t want him to have any idea of our numbers, or of where our guns are. If he does it right he’ll bring an RPG with him and it will be a duel. We don’t want to give him any help. Also, let’s keep everybody out of sight. When he gets here you and me will go out and talk to him. Leave a fireteam at the gatehouse for now with the M-60. After he leaves we’ll wire it shut with concertina, rig some claymores, and pull the gun and the fireteam back here. That way when the shit hits the fan we can fire away without having to worry about hitting any of our own people. Any questions?”
“No, not really. I guess you mean to break their assault at the gate then?” Slocum continued without waiting for Griffin to respond, “That means they’ll be pretty close. You sure you don’t want to just hose ’em down right here with one of the fifty-cals? No assault is going to advance under that kind of fire at this range.” Slocum paused again and looked down the hillside. “It’s a helluva opportunity to hurt ’em bad without really exposing ourselves to any fire.”
“Yeah, I thought about that. If it weren’t for this house I would probably do it your way,” said Griffin.
“What’s the house got to do with it?” asked Slocum.
“Jesus, Bobby. This fuckin’ place is built like a castle. These walls are stone, man. Not brick, stone. Rock, with mortar. Nothing they bring up, short of a tank, is going to do any real damage. The firing ports in the basement are perfect. The gunners won’t even have to worry about grenades, even less about return fire. They can just rake the place with fire. Even if we get jams we’ve got plenty of firepower.” Slocum studied Griffin as he went on outlining his plan. “The assault will stall at the gate. It’s designed to open from the inside only. He’ll look at it this afternoon and he’ll think we’ll leave the gun team there. He’ll think we won’t be able to lock the gate ’cause that would lock out our fireteam in the gatehouse. They’ll shoot up the gatehouse like they did the other night. Then they’ll storm it. When they get there it’ll be their only shelter. We’ll rig it so they have to expose themselves to cut the wire off the gate and free it before it can be opened. Some claymores and flares will break their assault, if they even get that far. Until they do though, we’ll just rake the dumb bastards with small arms and machine gun fire. Even if they shelter behind the gatehouse or around the hill the grenadiers and your 60mm mortar will take care of that. That road is only wide enough for five or six of them at a time. The fifties will mow them down.”
Slocum raised his eyebrows. “It’ll be a slaughter if it happens like you said.” He looked out the window at the exposed portion of road. Without turning his gaze from the window he said, “You mean to break their assault at the gate, then use the mortar to force them off the hill. When they get here,” said Slocum, indicating the road below, “you’ll finish it with machine gun fire on them as they withdraw?”
“Not quite that easy. I want to have strict fire discipline on the guns when they are at the gate. Let them think for a while that they can pull it off. I’m betting they are a bunch of amateurs. Heavy fire will scare them off. I want to encourage a frontal assault, a rush on the gate. They’ll think they scared your fireteam out of the gatehouse. That should encourage them. They’ll rush the gate. If it’s done right they won’t be able to open it. Probably they’ll try grenades, blow it open, that sort of shit.”
Griffin paused, then explained, “If they try to bring up any sort of vehicle we’ll hit ’em with a LAAW from here. No vehicles get to the gate. Not even a jeep. After we break them at the gate they’ll retreat down the hill using the road. Since they didn’t take any fire on the way up, and since you haven’t had a gun in this window before, they won’t expect any fire on the way down. When they get there,” Griffin indicated the road below with a finger, “we hit ’em again. Just to make a point.”
“Pretty strong point you’re making, I’d say.” Slocum sighed. “You aim to really fuck them up, don’t you? I mean, this shit is more than just a firefight, isn’t it?”
Griffin shrugged and turned away from the window. “Fuck ’em, Bobby. They fight like animals. You weren’t at the embassy, man. We spent a week scraping civilians off the sidewalk.” Griffin looked at his friend. “Besides, who the fuck are they to order us off this hill, or any place else? I’m going to teach these motherfuckers a lesson.”
Slocum nodded his assent. “Yeah, I’d say you are. Well, you know what they say, payback is a medevac. I hope battalion buys our story about a truck being down.”
“They’ll buy it. The real trick is going to be making sure Ahmud attacks tonight. We can only use that bullshit about a breakdown to stall for so long. If they don’t come at us in the next day or two, we’re fucked. They’ll wait for us to leave and hit us on the way out, and we both know how that will turn out.” Griffin dug into his cargo pocket. “Here, take this and fly it instead of the colors from your flagpole on the roof.”
Slocum unfolded the scarlet flag bearing the emblem of the Marine Corps. “Damn, I didn’t know you were so fucking gungy you deployed with the regimental colors in your cammy pockets. Where did you get this anyway? Back at Camp Lejeune?”
“No,” said Griffin as he left the room, “I dug it out of the rubble at the embassy. It must’ve belonged to the Marine detachment.”
Slocum followed him out of the room. “Hey, Dave,” said Slocum. Griffin turned, “last room on the left has my gear in it. Go ahead and get some sleep, my cot is against the wall, under the window.”
Griffin hesitated, then said, “Thanks. But I’ll just go down and rack out with the squad.”
While Griffin slept Slocum prepared the defenses as he had been instructed. By early afternoon the claymores had been placed, shelter halves hung in all the windows, and sandbags had been laid in front of the tires of the vehicles. Slocum had hauled down the small American flag flying from the homemade flagpole on the roof and replaced it with the scarlet colors of the Marines. He stood on the roof watching two Arabs walk toward the entrance. The village below appeared normal, people moved about, and traffic circulated. As Slocum brought the binoculars to his eyes he heard Griffin ask, “What ya got?”
“Don’t you ever sleep?” Slocum asked, feigning annoyance.
“All the time when I’m not following after boot NCOs and unfucking their defenses,” said Griffin.
“Yeah, thanks for the help. And fuck you very much. By the way, I think our buddy Ahmud is on the way,” answered Slocum.
Griffin rubbed his face. “Let me guess. He’s gonna be pissed, right?”
Slocum suppressed a grin and looked at Griffin in wide-eyed innocence. “Not at me. I’m not the asshole that added all those nasty claymores and those machine guns.” Slocum shook his head and put the glasses back to his eyes. “He looks pretty serious, too. Got his hat on and everything. I hope you’re up to this, Dave,” Slocum said in mock seriousness.
“I’ll manage, I’m sure. What do you plan on doing during all of this?”
“Me?” asked Slocum. “Me?” he repeated. “I’m not doing anything. Ol’ Ahmud and me are buddies. You’re the one screwing everything up.”
“Yeah, thanks for your help. Let’s go downstairs and wait for him. Let your corporal at the gatehouse know he’s on his way up. Tell him to radio us when Ahmud gets to the gate.” Griffin turned and walked across the flat roof heading for the stairs. “Bobby, did you radio battalion?”
“Yep. Comm was sort of broken up, but they got the message. They’re s
tanding by with spare parts for our down vehicle if we need it.”
Griffin paused, thinking, then muttered, “Great. Do you think they bought it?”
Slocum shrugged. “Maybe. But they sent a bird out here to check on us. A Huey. He made a couple of flybys then split. Who knows? Probably sent a couple of Zeros up with the bird and told them to look and see if we were actually working on one of our vehicles.” Slocum followed Griffin down the steps and added, “Fuck ’em anyway. I don’t see any of them out here.”
Griffin searched his mind for an answer to their dilemma. To attempt a withdrawal down the hill as ordered and perhaps lead his men right into an ambush would be suicide. The simple facts of the matter were that the best solution was for the Marines to remain on the defense and hope for an attack by the militia. Before he had come up with any firm plan he heard Slocum’s PRC-68 crackle to life. “Roger,” said Slocum. “We’ll be out to your pos in two minutes.” Slocum cast a questioning glance toward Griffin. “You ready?” he asked.
“Let’s leave Ahmud standing at the gate for a few minutes. Just the one guy with him?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Both of them are packed though. Forty-fives on their belts, no rifles.”
Griffin chuckled. “Fucking John Wayne, eh?” Slocum grinned and followed Griffin to a window. Griffin was concealed behind the heavy canvas of the shelter half. He pulled it away from the side of the window and peered out. Slocum did the same from the other side. “Which one is Ahmud?” he asked.
Slocum glanced at his friend out of the corner of his eye and answered, “He’s the mean one.”
“Okay, asshole, is he on our right or left?” asked Griffin.
“Uh, our right,” answered Slocum. Griffin watched as the slender Lebanese pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He offered one to his companion, then to the Marine corporal, who shook his head. Ahmud wore the olive drab uniform of the Lebanese Armed Forces, but Griffin could not see any rank or unit insignia. He noted that his boots were highly polished, but improperly bloused. His .45 caliber pistol hung heavily from his belt and Griffin took in the two canvas magazine pouches next to the holster. He’s no soldier, thought Griffin, or his magazine pouches would be on the other side so he could feed them with his left hand as he dropped the empty from his pistol. Griffin shook his head and said, “Fucking amateurs” under his breath.
He shifted his gaze to the other Lebanese. The boy stood across the narrow road behind Ahmud. Griffin watched as he puffed furiously on his cigarette. He was obviously having a hard time deciding where to position himself, and he continually searched for something to do with his free hand, shifting his cigarette from one hand to the other. Griffin noted that the Marine corporal stood across the road, rifle held loosely waist high, covering the two Arabs. Well, thought Griffin, at least somebody out there knows why he’s here.
He turned to Slocum and said curtly, “Amateurs. Let’s go. Bring your M-16 and cover Ahmud’s slack man. I’ll handle Ahmud. I’m going to open the gate and let him come in a couple of steps.” Griffin pulled his own .45 from its holster, checking to see that a cartridge was in the chamber, then pulled on his leather field gloves. “Okay, Bobby, let’s do it.”
“Promise me you’ll be gentle. He’s the sensitive type,” said Slocum sarcastically. Griffin grunted and walked out of the house, striding purposefully across the courtyard. He caught the eye of the corporal at the gate and gave a slight nod of his head indicating the gate should be opened. The corporal opened it, then stepped back inside the stone gatehouse. Griffin noted the muzzle of his weapon, visible just outside the gatehouse doorway, still more or less pointed at the Arabs.
Ahmud took a tentative step through the gate as Griffin approached. When Griffin closed to within four steps of Ahmud he saw the Arab’s arm rise hesitantly, as if to shake hands with him. Griffin could feel Slocum tense and the corporal stepped half out of the gatehouse, clearly ready to cover Griffin and Slocum. He silently hoped that neither of them would do anything to interrupt the next few moments when he confronted Ahmud.
“You speak English?” Griffin snarled. The hand dropped reflexively as Ahmud stopped walking, his feet coming together heel to heel. Trying not to smile Griffin saw Ahmud stop himself halfway through a formal bow. Griffin knew this was the customary greeting of enlisted soldiers for their superiors in the Lebanese Armed Forces.
“Yes, I speak English.” Griffin closed the distance between himself and Ahmud, stepping well within Ahmud’s guard.
“You’re on my hill, mister. What do you want?” The menacing tone in Griffin’s voice left no doubt as to his intent. He noted with satisfaction that Ahmud wavered, then took a step backward.
“It is you who are on my hill. I am afraid.”
Griffin laughed, then looked at Ahmud as if he were inspecting a recruit. Ahmud tensed and Griffin saw resentment in his eyes. “Well, I’m not afraid. So state your business. Then get the hell off my hill. And take your friend there with you.” Griffin leaned forward as he spoke, forcing the smaller man to take a half step backward. Griffin was a head taller than the Lebanese and as he leaned forward he compelled him to bow his back or literally touch noses. Griffin had learned the technique at Parris Island when he had been on the receiving end of it. “Well?” he asked in an impatient tone.
“This is not yours, your hill.” Griffin noted with satisfaction that Ahmud was obviously angry and was searching for the foreign words. “You will leave today, or you will die. All of you.”
Griffin snorted, then shook his head. “Now you listen to me. We’re not leaving until we’re ready. Got that? You understand?”
“This hill, this house, do not belong to America. This is Lebanon. You will leave this place,” said Ahmud.
“You’re right about one thing. This hill don’t belong to America. See that,” Griffin pointed to the Marine flag that floated lazily above one corner of the building, “That means this hill belongs to the Marine Corps. And it belongs to us until we decide we don’t want it anymore.” Griffin again leaned forward poking Ahmud’s chest with his forefinger to punctuate his comments, and noting the lack of any guarding movement by Ahmud’s hands. “Get your ass off my hill, mister. Now!”
Ahmud took a half step back, glancing over his shoulder at his companion. He straightened up and spat. “I spit on your flag, and your country …” Griffin’s right fist caught him full in the face with a bruising roundhouse. Ahmud crumpled and would have gone down but was caught by an uppercut by Griffin’s left. Slocum and the corporal leveled their rifles at Ahmud’s second, who meekly raised his hands. Another quick combination to Ahmud’s head and the young Arab was prostrate on the cobblestones, his nose bleeding profusely. Griffin stepped over him and lifted him by his pistol belt. Ahmud moaned and cradled his face in his hands as Griffin rolled him onto his back and removed his pistol belt. He tossed the belt into the gatehouse and stepped toward the other Lebanese, who took an instinctive step backward and tried to cover his face with his arms.
Griffin looked at Slocum and his corporal and said, “Lower your weapons. These assholes didn’t come to fight, they came to talk.” Slocum covered Ahmud as Griffin removed the other man’s pistol belt.
“You speak any English?” Griffin asked the boy, who nodded.
“Yes or no, asshole. I haven’t got all day.”
“Yes.”
“Good,” said Griffin. “Now you take this other asshole and get off my hill. And tell him next time I see him up here I’ll shoot his stupid ass. And pass that along to whoever you work for. Got that?” The boy said nothing. “Do you understand what I’m telling you or not?” asked Griffin.
“Yes,” replied the Lebanese.
“Move,” said Griffin. “Now.” He and Slocum watched as the Arab helped Ahmud to his feet and the two limped out of the courtyard. Without waiting for them to disappear around the curve in the road Griffin turned and began walking back toward the house.
“Well, I think that went pretty w
ell,” quipped Slocum. “I mean, speaking as an ambassador in green, I think we had some meaningful communication here today,” drawled Slocum.
Griffin cast a murderous glance at Slocum, then said, “Bobby, is everybody where you come from a smart-ass?”
Slocum hesitated for a moment, apparently to consider his answer, then said, “No. Most folks are fairly straightforward. It’s a talent I’ve refined over the years. Part of my acquired charm, you might say.”
“Just my fucking luck I got to meet you,” said Griffin tightly.
“Well,” said Slocum genuinely, “some folks are luckier than others, Dave. Now take ol’ Ahmud there. He probably ain’t feeling real good about havin’ made your acquaintance today. But you and me both know there’s a bright side to it.”
“Yeah?” said Griffin.
“Yeah,” answered Slocum. “Hell, all of us had to leave the homes we love, our families, our friends, and travel great distances to benefit from the training offered by the good ol’ USMC. But, thanks to you, our friend Ahmud has received some of that same training for free, with no obligation to spend long years in service to the Corps. What more could a man ask of a complete stranger who just happens to be in his own backyard?”
“Don’t you have something you could be doing?” asked Griffin as the two entered the house. “Maybe seeing about your troops, or cleaning a weapon or something? Away from me?”
“Now, Dave. You know I live to serve. And to learn from my senior NCOs. No, sir. I think this is too important an opportunity to waste. Why, the masterful way you handled that difficult and dangerous situation is an example to us all,” said Slocum with no trace of a smile as Griffin disappeared down a flight of stairs and into the basement.
CHAPTER
12
The Syrian smoked his cigarette slowly, the remains of his lunch on the table before him. He was aware that Ahmud had returned, but had instructed the sergeant not to disturb him while he ate. He had finished eating while Ahmud fumed in the room below. Then Ahmud had told the story of his treatment by the Americans. His face was bruised and swollen, the nose obviously broken. The Syrian noted that Walid, his friend, was untouched.