by C. X. Moreau
“Good. Remember what I said about fire control. I don’t want to break their assault too quickly. Let them think they’re gonna get through. We’ll hammer ’em when I say.”
“Got it. I’ll supervise the guns,” said Slocum.
“All right.” Griffin put the radio into his flak jacket pocket and leaned forward, moving the canvas aside in order to see out the window. He peered into the darkness, the iron gate barely discernible. He ran down his mental checklist for the hundredth time. He had spent the afternoon walking the ground, gauging avenues of approach, calculating the most effective fields of fire, supervising the placement of the claymores and the flares. His most experienced corporals were in the most critical places on the line, and Slocum would see that the machine gunners covered their assigned fields of fire. He had put Downs in the rear of the building, his fireteam virtually eliminated from the expected action. Surprisingly, Downs had not questioned his decision, and no resentment had shown in his eyes. He had accepted the positioning of his fireteam without question. When Griffin had briefed the squad as to his design to break the assault at the gate, then ambush the retreating survivors as they left the hill, he had noted a questioning look from Downs. After the briefing he pulled Downs aside, mustering his self-control in anticipation of Downs’s comments. Instead Downs had accepted his instructions calmly, nodding and asking the occasional question. Griffin had gone so far as to point out to Downs that he had been selected to man this post as he was the only fireteam leader whose primary MOS had been a machine gunner. Griffin was surprised when Downs said, “I understand, Sergeant Griffin. I won’t let you down.”
That had been several hours ago, and now everything was in place. Ahmud was bringing his men up the hill. It couldn’t have worked better if he had given a schedule to Ahmud that afternoon. As Griffin looked out the window the night was ripped by the force of two quick explosions, the machine gunners behind him chuckled, and one of them muttered, “Claymores.” As the sound of the explosion rolled away the screams of a wounded man could be heard. The screaming continued for about five minutes then stopped abruptly. Griffin wondered if they had corpsmen with them, guessing that they did not. They probably just gagged the poor bastard, or he bled to death while they tried to apply a tourniquet, he thought.
A flare arced into the sky, electric-white against the black of the night. Griffin knew that they were now fifty yards from the gate, reasoning that the attack would begin soon. He was somewhat amused that their advance even continued. He glanced down at the detonators for the claymores. Well, he said to himself, getting there is the easy part, my friend, getting home won’t be so easy. He didn’t move the safety levers, judging that things would develop slowly now that they had taken at least one casualty.
A few shots from rifles echoed through the night. Griffin guessed that their point men had spotted the gatehouse and were now taking it under fire. That will hold them another couple of minutes. They’ll figure out it’s empty eventually. A bullet snapped loudly overhead, then whined off into the night. The gunner behind him shifted restlessly.
“Sergeant Griffin,” came Downs’s voice over the radio.
Griffin keyed the handset. “Go Downs.”
“We just saw two troopers go up the hill with the type of backpacks that carry RPG rounds. We didn’t see a launcher though. Over.”
“Roger. Sit tight. Let me know if you see anything. Vehicles, launchers, whatever. You know the drill. Over.”
“Affirmative. Out,” said Downs.
Griffin leaned forward and picked up one of the claymore detonators. A loud whoosh was followed almost instantly by an equally loud explosion. He grimaced and said, “Fuck,” looking at Slocum, who laughed under his breath.
“Maybe these guys mean business, Dave. That RPG must’ve hit the gatehouse,” said Slocum.
Griffin grunted, concentrating on the spot in the darkness where the gate would appear. Minutes passed in silence before the first faint clanging of metal on metal could be heard from the direction of the gate. Without warning a flare lit and sputtered to life in the branches of a tree over the gate. For a brief instant an electric-white image of two young Arabs replete in kaffiyehs, kneeling at the gate with a crowbar twisted into the chains that secured it at its center, burnt into the eyes of the waiting Marines. Before the flare could fully ignite Griffin had given the detonator the required two squeezes.
The claymore sent its dozens of deadly balls directly into the bodies of the two Arabs, the force of the blast blowing them away from the gate. The two bodies lay in the roadway, smoke from the explosion hanging in the air, the whole scene lit by the brilliant light from the still-burning flare. As Griffin looked on, another Arab moved into the roadway and knelt, bringing an RPG to his shoulder. Half a dozen shots rang out from the Marines as the rocket arced wildly into the night sky, the gunner now sprawled in the middle of the road.
The flare began to sputter and Griffin knew the Marines would not hold their fire much longer. Those who had fired had been selected earlier in the day. Griffin guessed that the next rush on the gate would be met by every weapon the Marines could bring to bear. He noted that the tree where the flare had been placed was now on fire, providing some illumination of the area adjacent to the gate. A few shots came from the direction of the gate, and he could plainly hear commands being given in Arabic. Griffin picked up another detonator, knowing he had two mines left outside the gate, one left inside. He selected the detonator that would trigger the claymore by the gatehouse.
Slocum said, “Hit it, Dave. The dumb fuckers are sheltering behind the gatehouse.”
“Yep. Here goes,” answered Griffin. He again squeezed the detonator twice, quickly. Another tremendous explosion was followed by more screaming. Slocum and the machine gunners laughed. From below Griffin heard whoops and the triumphant yelling of the Marines. Someone was calling to the Arabs, taunting them, calling them various vulgar names. Griffin could hear some of the others laughing. “I’ll go shut ’em up, Dave. God forbid somebody’s enjoying themselves while you’re around,” said Slocum. He was halfway across the room when Griffin called him back.
“Let ’em scream all they want. I want to piss this guy off so he comes after us. I just hope that second claymore didn’t get him. I’m not too sure how willing his friends are to rush us if he’s not around to make them.”
From the darkness another whoosh came as an RPG round struck the gate, the warhead splintering against one of the iron bars, then ricocheting wildly through the compound. A chorus of shots rang out from the Marine position, quickly answered by the Arabs. Griffin looked at Slocum. “Here we go. Watch your ass.” The firefight quickly escalated into a general exchange of rifle fire. Griffin could not detect the fire of an opposing machine gun, and so far none of his gunners had fired. The burning tree provided enough light to illuminate the gate, making it unnecessary for Griffin to trigger a second flare.
“Sergeant Griffin,” the radio in his pocket crackled to life.
“Go, Downs.”
“We got mortar tubes down in the ville. Ferris just saw the flashes from the tubes.” Before Griffin could answer the rounds impacted on the hill.
“Can you take it under fire, Downs?”
“No way. They’re out of range. Maybe with a fifty cal. Over.” After a pause Downs said, “Stand by. Three more shots out.” Automatically Griffin began to count the hang time of the mortars, trying to get a rough estimate of their range. He noticed that the rifle fire had died away. Three quick explosions, all overshooting the hill, echoed in the distance. Another three rounds impacted, no closer than the second salvo. He debated the wisdom of notifying battalion headquarters of the mortars. To do so would be correct procedure. He had already notified them, via the squad radio, that he was in contact, but had deliberately downplayed the seriousness of the attacking force.
“Three more.” Downs’s voice came over the radio speaker, flat and disembodied. Griffin silently counted, hearing the crun
ch of the explosions. The gunners had shifted their aim, but were no closer than before to the Marine position. He made the decision not to notify battalion. Griffin looked at the radioman, who mutely extended the radio handset. Griffin shook his head negatively. At this point he didn’t want the battalion operations officer breathing down his neck. The mortars were no threat unless the gunners improved a great deal. He reasoned that their forward observer was probably pinned down behind the gatehouse, or that his radio had failed. Otherwise their fire would have been more accurate. Their problem, thought Griffin, not mine. He stared again at the gate as three more rounds impacted. The attack should come soon. His heart sank momentarily as the thought came to him that the Arabs might be retreating down the hill without assaulting the gate. He pressed the transmit button on the PRC-68. “Downs, is anybody trying to move off his hill? Over.”
“Negative. Just a few stragglers going up the hill. Over.”
“Roger. Advise me if anybody goes down the hill. You copy? Over.”
“Roger. I copy. Over.”
As Griffin stared at the gate by the light of the flames, a tremendous explosion echoed across the compound. The shock wave hit the building as Griffin felt the heat from the blast on his face. He returned his gaze to the gate which was partially open, canting drunkenly on its hinges. “Shit, those bastards must’ve used a satchel charge.” Griffin searched the darkness for Slocum. “Bobby!”
“Yeah, Dave.”
“Make ready with the guns. They’ll try it in a minute or two. Let ’em get in the gate, then let ’em have it all.”
“You got it,” said Slocum flatly. “We’re ready.”
Griffin picked up the detonator with his left hand, holding it and bracing his M-16 against the small sandbagged firing port. Without taking his eyes off the gate he hollered at the .50 cal gunners, “Wait for the claymore. When the smoke clears, if you see anybody standing, fire them up. Got that?” A chorus of screams rang out from the gunners who had held their fire as instructed by Griffin earlier. Griffin knew their frustration had been building as the riflemen fired at the Arabs and they sat by their guns waiting for his command.
Without prelude three Arabs broke from the darkness and ran toward the gate entering the circle of light thrown by the burning tree. A dozen shots rang out and two of the men fell. The third reached the gate as all the Marines began firing. His body slumped against the heavy iron bars. Seconds later Griffin saw another satchel charge flung toward the gate, followed by another terrific explosion. Instinctively he ducked as a second shock wave rocked the building, echoing off the heavy stone walls. As he looked up Griffin saw them coming. Four young Arabs in various bits of military garb, firing wildly from the hip as they ran toward the gate. Behind them other figures emerged hesitantly and began advancing. From the darkness he heard Slocum say, “Jesus, those motherfuckers got balls.”
“No, Bobby,” said Griffin, “they’re just fucking stupid.” He hit the plunger twice and the claymore detonated with terrific force, spraying the roadway with shrapnel. The .50 cal erupted almost simultaneously with the claymore. Griffin could see bursts of tracer sweeping the roadway. The noise inside the house grew to a crescendo as all the Marines fired. None of the Arabs were moving in the roadway. Within a few seconds the firing died and Griffin cursed as he heard the sound of M-16 magazines hitting the floor. “Fire discipline, Goddamn it! Aimed fire! Aimed fire!” He swore again, “Son of a bitch, those dumb shits never learn.” Slocum chuckled softly as Griffin again screamed, “Aimed fire!” at the top of his lungs to no one in particular. “And take those weapons off auto or I’ll have all your asses.”
“Aye, aye, Sergeant Griffin,” he heard Slocum say.
Griffin ignored the sarcasm as he turned and asked, “Casualty count, Bobby.”
“You’re shittin’ me, right? Casualty count? Those assholes haven’t even hit the building yet.”
“Downs?” he asked, speaking into the small radio.
“Nothing. No movement even. Over.”
“Roger. Everybody sit tight. They may try again.” Griffin saw the flash of another RPG as it exited the launcher from beyond the gate. Instantly machine guns fired, the red lines of tracers converging in the darkness beyond the burning tree. The round impacted the front of the building as the Marines laid a deadly barrage of small arms fire on the gate. A grenadier fired his weapon, its distinctive bloop audible during a pause in the firing.
From beyond the gatehouse came the explosion of the 40mm grenade followed by screams from the wounded. Griffin screamed, “Cease fire” just as a half dozen Arabs emerged from the shadows. The fire again commenced with an incredible roar, the Arabs appearing to dance obscenely as the machine gunners found them and held them in a deadly raking fire. The gunners continued to fire long after the Arabs had gone down. Griffin sensed that this would be their last assault on the gate. At least ten bodies were visible in the roadway. He ordered the grenadiers to stand by, then ordered illumination. As the flares lit, several young Arabs froze in the electric-white light. The front of the building again exploded with fire from the Marines, their yelling audible above the din of the weapons. The grenadiers fired fragmentation rounds as fast as they were able, lobbing the rounds over the side of the hill where the Arabs were assembled on the roadway. The noise of the weapons, combined with the wild, exuberant screams of the Marines, built toward a climax. Griffin ceased to fire his own weapon as the two squads expended five months of frustration in a two-minute orgy of firing at a half seen enemy. The noise from the .50 caliber machine gun was deafening, its report echoing off the stone wall.
Griffin knew the squad was out of control, lost in its own desire for vengeance. They were unable to stop, desiring only to find another target. Griffin had heard Whitney refer to similar situations as being “lost in the flood.” Unable to control itself, the squad became a single entity whose only purpose was to kill anything before it. Griffin knew he was powerless to stop it. It would stop only when they emptied their magazines and machine guns became overheated and unable to fire. Even then they might take it upon themselves to charge the gate. He would stop that. He had already cautioned Slocum and the corporals to be aware of the possibility of such a charge.
Incredibly, the firing stopped almost simultaneously. Griffin heard the metallic ringing of a link from a machine gun belt as it bounced across the floor, the gun itself empty. Before the link could stop bouncing the squad had recovered and was screaming at the top of its lungs. Primeval screams without words or language. Screams that had echoed across countless centuries and countless battlefields, and Griffin, having removed himself from participation, acted as the conductor of this barbaric opera. He felt no part of it, no remorse, no satisfaction, no emotion.
He surveyed the gate by the light of the burning tree. The bodies lay crumpled on the ground, limbs twisted at odd, impossible angles. Already the smell of burnt powder was being replaced by the putrid smell of death. Griffin was faintly surprised that he felt no sense of accomplishment, of satisfaction. He realized, oddly, that for the first time he felt separated from the squad. Always before he had been an integral part of it. Now he was watching but not participating in the squad’s emotion. They were slapping each other on the back, triumphant, exuberant. He was an outsider. The squad was an extension of his will, but he wasn’t joined to it by emotion.
From the back of the house came the rattle of a machine gun. “Downs!” Griffin said it out loud, realizing he had been lost in reverie. He told Slocum to take over, then took the stairs two at a time. He entered the pitch-black hallway as the machine gun continued to fire in short, controlled bursts punctuated by the thump of a grenade launcher. He felt his way along the wall in total darkness until Downs fired again, the muzzle flashes of the gun lighting his way. As he stood in the doorway he watched Downs fire on the Arabs from his narrow perch. He moved from side to side on the sandbags, three feet above the floor, Mac circling and feeding the gun ammunition while avoiding Do
wns’s rhythmic shifting as he searched out new targets. The flashes from the gun muzzle lit the otherwise pitch-black room, giving the impression that Downs was firing in freeze frame action, the gun slamming heavily into his shoulder. Smith and Ferris worked as a team from a second firing port. As Smith fired and broke open his grenade launcher Ferris immediately loaded another round from a pile of grenades on the floor. The four Marines continued to fire, not noticing Griffin behind them. Griffin stepped back into the darkened hallway as the gun continued to hammer away.
As he stood watching Downs, his shoulders hunched to absorb the recoil of the gun, the muzzle moving from side to side as he searched out his targets, Griffin realized he had doubted Downs. The decision to place Downs here was purely tactical, had one of the other machine gunners been available, or one of the other corporals a better gunner, Griffin would have assigned that man here. He had never really thought that Downs wouldn’t fire at all, he had just subconsciously assumed he wouldn’t be as aggressive as Griffin wanted him to be. Looking at Downs now, Griffin knew he had been wrong. Downs was a good machine gunner, and he was laying down a deadly fire on whomever was in his view below.
Griffin took another step back into the darkened hallway. He realized that he didn’t want Downs to know he was here, checking on him. He’s come around, thought Griffin. He’ll always be Downs, always a fucking question or that slightly defiant look in his eyes. But now he understands.
Alone in the darkness, Griffin smiled. I won, Downs. It’s in your blood. No matter that you’ll leave the Corps eventually. You’re a part of it now because of what you are, in spite of yourself. Griffin looked again at the fireteam. Downs quit firing and peered down the hill. The other three leaned out the window and did the same. As they looked into the darkness Downs turned and stared directly at Griffin, who stood perfectly still, knowing he couldn’t be seen in the inky blackness of the building’s interior.