Distant Valor

by C. X. Moreau

  Mac turned and followed Downs’s stare. “What are you looking at, Steve? I can’t see shit.”

  “Nothing,” said Downs. He turned and gazed out the window, surveying the damage below. “Jesus, Mac. Look at all of ’em.”

  Ferris laughed, “Guess we really fucked up their health record.”

  “No shit,” said Smith, “they are just all fucked up, man. There must be two dozen of them down there.” The four Marines stared again at the carnage below, visible in the glow from the flare. “Well,” concluded Smith, “they were assholes to even try and take us in this place.”

  CHAPTER

  14

  Downs fingered the safety on his rifle and peered toward the gate and the scene of last night’s battle. The squad was ready to move, waiting only for a signal from Griffin. As was customary Downs would be the point man, taking the squad down the twisting road and off the hill. Today’s patrol would be different than usual. Downs and his fireteam would lead off while the rest of the squad, Slocum’s dragon gunners, and the vehicles, remained atop the hill. Griffin’s plan was to leapfrog Downs’s fireteam down the hill, blowing the claymores along the way in case any force lay in ambush. The claymores were placed in what Griffin thought were the most likely ambush sites and Downs knew the locations of the detonators.

  In effect, what Griffin was doing was dangling Downs and his fireteam out in front of the main body as bait. An attacking force would have to be extremely well concealed for Downs to miss them as he went by, forcing them to fire on the smaller force and warn the main body of their location. Griffin was counting on the claymores to break up any such ambush.

  A nod from Griffin and Downs was on his feet and moving toward the gate, which hung from one hinge, paint chips scattered about it on the cobblestones. Initially, Downs had considered the possibility that some of the bodies on the ground near the gate might still be alive and capable of firing at him, but a few seconds’ observation through his binoculars had served to convince him that they were in fact all very dead. As he approached the gate he cast a quick glance at the faces of the dead men. Already their features were distorted by death, appearing to melt into the rest of their faces, their uniforms stretched tight by bloating.

  “Jesus, what a fucking stench,” cursed Mac. Downs grunted and continued peering ahead. Several bodies lay in the roadway, dark pools of blood by each one. Griffin had instructed him to shelter behind the stone gatehouse and blow the first claymore. Downs made it to the wall of the gatehouse and signaled for Mac to come up. Mac ran across the cobbled courtyard in a crouch, his M-16 cradled to his chest, and stopped beside his friend. “What a sight, Steve. Did you see all those dead fuckers?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Keep an eye out while I look for the lead wires and connect them to the detonators.” Downs brushed away the loose soil from the wall at the foot of the gatehouse and uncovered the two wires. He quickly hooked them to the detonator then reached for the radio to let Griffin know he was ready to blow the first claymore. As he keyed the handset he signaled for Smith and Ferris to come up. They crossed the courtyard five yards apart and stopped a few feet short of the gatehouse, sheltering in the lee of a small retaining wall. Downs leaned out and peered around the corner of the small building, and looked directly into a pair of brown eyes.

  The man blinked but otherwise did not move. Downs took in the ugly blood stain that covered the man from his stomach down to his crotch. He sat with both hands folded over his abdomen, his back resting against a large cedar tree. The man opened his mouth as if to speak, but only a froth of blood issued forth. He coughed once and Downs noted with horror a bright crimson wave spread from beneath the man’s hands. The eyes closed and Downs thought for a moment that the man had died, but then his breathing became apparent. Downs keyed the handset and spoke, “Sergeant Griffin.”

  “Go, Downs.”

  “I’ve got a problem. There’s a wounded guy here, just forward of the gatehouse. He’s out of your line of sight. If I blow the claymore he’ll take the blast full in the face. Over.”

  “Roger, I copy. How bad is he hurt?” asked Griffin.

  “Pretty bad. It’s an open stomach wound,” said Downs.

  “Sit tight, Downs. I’m comin’ up.”

  “Roger.” Downs took another look at the man as Griffin ran across the courtyard and past Ferris and Smith. Griffin put his hand on Downs’s shoulder, and without looking at Downs asked, “Where is he?”

  “About fifteen meters forward, left side of the road, leaning against the base of a tree.”

  “Anybody else out there moving?” asked Griffin.

  “Not that I’ve seen. We haven’t been forward of the gatehouse though.” Griffin took a quick look around the corner of the small structure. He waited a few seconds and repeated the gesture. Downs and the rest of the fireteam held their positions.

  “Okay, Downs. This is what I want. First, hook up that detonator. Let Smith handle that. You and the other two move forward, beyond our friend at the tree. At the first sign of trouble you and your people get the hell back here. I’ll move up with you and check out the Arab. Before anybody moves, let’s radio back to the platoon and let them know what’s going on. If we do get into trouble tell Smith to blow the claymore as soon as we’re on this side of the gatehouse. The claymore is forward of there and we won’t have to worry about it at that point. And have the squad send the Doc up, we’re gonna need him if nothing goes wrong. Got that?”

  “Yeah,” answered Downs.

  “Downs, did you notice anything strange about the wounded guy?” asked Griffin. Downs peered around the corner, taking a long look at the wounded man, who stared vacantly back at him.

  “I’m not sure what’s different, but something is. What do you think?” he asked.

  “It’s the uniform, Downs. Look at the guy. He’s the only one wearing a real uniform. The rest of them are just wearing bits and pieces of gear. That guy must be some sort of advisor, or a deserter from the LAF or some shit. In any case he’s not an amateur like the rest of them, or that knucklehead that was up here yesterday.”

  As the corpsman arrived and took his position along the wall behind Griffin the fireteam prepared to move forward. Downs explained the situation to them as Griffin briefed the corpsman, who began readying sticks of morphine. “Okay, Downs. Let’s go,” he said. The four Marines stepped around the corner in single file, Griffin and Downs going to the opposite side of the road where the wounded man remained sitting under the tree. Griffin knelt beside the Arab, quickly removing his pistol and checking for any sign of a booby trap, as Downs took up a position just forward to confront anyone coming up the road. Mac and Ferris positioned themselves likewise. Griffin turned and waved the corpsman forward.

  “Okay, Doc,” he said. “Give it your best shot, and be fast about it. I ain’t got all day.” The corpsman gingerly pried the man’s hands away from the wound in his stomach. Purple clots of blood clung wetly to his shirt, and portions of his intestines bulged through the fabric where it had been torn apart. Griffin, Downs, and the corpsman exchanged glances. The wounded man remained motionless as the corpsman took the plastic cap off one syringe of morphine and injected the thigh with the clear yellowish liquid. Downs looked on as the corpsman removed a roll of gauze from his hospital bag and wet it with water from his canteen. He looked into the man’s eyes and said, “This is still gonna hurt some mister, morphine can’t do everything.”

  “Doc, is there any way in hell that this guy is gonna make it?” asked Griffin. The corpsman continued to wet the gauze and began tenderly applying it to the man’s stomach. The big Arab made a few painful noises as the gauze contacted the tender flesh, and the corpsman looked into his face. The man nodded and the corpsman continued working.

  “Not really, Sergeant Griffin,” he answered at last. “I gave him a stick of morphine to try and ease the pain, but he’s lost all sorts of blood and his stomach has just been laid open by the claymores. No doubt his intestines
are perforated in a dozen places and bile has been leaking into his bloodstream half the night. I don’t know how he made it this far. He must be strong as an ox.”

  “The morphine do him any good?” asked Griffin.

  The corpsman shrugged. “A little maybe. Not much.”

  “How long will he last?” asked Griffin.

  The corpsman looked at Griffin and shook his head. “It’s hard to say, but he’s a goner one way or the other. Even if we med-evac him we’d probably kill him trying to get him on the stretcher. His guts would just come spillin’ out as soon as we tried to move him.” The man groaned and Griffin looked into his face.

  Griffin hesitated a moment, then asked, “How much morphine to put him out of his misery?” Both Downs and the corpsman looked at the big sergeant. The corpsman shrugged again and said, “Maybe another two sticks. He’s pretty far gone.”

  Griffin turned and looked back toward the building. Nothing moved in the empty courtyard. The large stone house was framed against a blue sky and the wind moved through the trees overhead, belying the death and agony below. He looked again at the wounded man, obviously considering his decision. “Doc, give me three sticks of morphine, then get your ass back to the house,” he said.

  The corpsman dutifully went into his bag and produced the three syringes. As he ran back toward the house Griffin looked at Downs, who dropped his gaze. Griffin moved back toward the wounded man and uncapped the three syringes, laying them in a neat line on the ground. He picked them up and squeezed a drop of the drug from each one, insuring no air remained in the needle. Griffin looked at the man who seemed to be in somewhat less pain. He held up one of the syringes and mimed the action of inserting it into the man’s thigh and injecting the drug. Then he pointed to the other two syringes which still lay on the ground. Griffin held up three fingers and pointed to the syringes, then to the man, then drew a finger slowly across his own neck. After a brief hesitation the man seemed to understand and nodded his assent. Griffin noticed that Downs was looking on as he inserted the first of the three needles into the man’s leg. The Arab remained motionless, not reacting to the prick of the needles as Griffin inexpertly inserted them into his leg. When Griffin was done with the last dosage of morphine he knelt back on his heel and picked up his rifle. “Okay, mister, you ought to be feelin’ no pain in about ten seconds. Good luck, you look like the only soldier here.” The man’s head rolled lazily to one side and he struggled to speak. Griffin leaned forward to hear the man.

  “What’s he saying, Downs? Can you understand any of it?”

  “He said ‘shook run,’ Sergeant Griffin. It means thank you.”

  “No shit, huh?” said Griffin. He looked at the man one last time before turning to Downs. “Well, we still gotta get off this hill before his friends come back. No point in blowing that first claymore now, I’ll have somebody pull it down as we go by. Okay, the next set of lead wires are behind a rock, right-hand side of the road. Don’t miss any of them, and don’t get in a hurry. Form up and get your people moving, we’ve been screwing around up here long enough.”

  Downs ordered the other three back onto the road and resumed his position at the head of the little column. He looked at the road and knew that the next few steps would take him out of line of sight of the main body. Ahead lay the narrow descending roadway, flanked on each side by the steep slopes of the hill and cedar trees. He cast a glance back over his shoulder to ensure that his team was in place before stepping off. Mac, Smith, and Ferris all looked nervously forward. Griffin remained kneeling by the dying Arab.

  The road as he rounded the curve was empty of bodies, but Downs noted several large blotches of dried blood. He stopped frequently to observe the trees, rocks, and crevices that might hide an attacking force. As instructed by Griffin he detonated the claymores at the appropriate spots. The hill, except for the Marines and the dead, was deserted as far as he could determine. He was struck by the utter stillness of the morning. No birds sang in the trees overhead, and no sound came from the sleeping village below. Downs reminded himself to concentrate on the business at hand. The farther he descended, the fewer pieces of cast-off gear and blood trails he encountered.

  Rounding another curve in the road he spotted a perfectly green cedar branch lying in the center of the pavement. Downs raised a clenched fist, signaling Mac and the others to stop.

  An electric current of fear raced through Downs as he sank to his knees, his eyes searching the hillside before him for any sign of movement. He stared again at the branch, obviously newly cut and dropped or placed in the roadway. His brain frantically searched for a plausible explanation as to how the branch might have come to be there. The only explanation was that it had been placed there by someone. He slowly moved forward, his heart racing, his mind expecting the ambush at any second. Downs took up the slack on the trigger of his weapon, bracing himself for the impact of the bullets. He crouched, now even with the fallen bough, and examined it for any sign of an ambush or trip wire. Seeing none he felt no relief. As he again moved forward he heard the rasping of Mac’s boots as he followed a few paces behind.

  Coming around the next curve Downs saw more fallen branches, the white of the cut end plain on all of them. Looking up the hill he was able to discern a path of fallen branches reaching up to the summit. He signaled for Mac to close up and asked, “What do you make of all the branches? They all look as though they’ve been cut. Can you figure it out?”

  Mac looked up the hill and studied the path of the fallen branches, then shrugged. Downs again resumed the forward movement, the three others following. Within seconds Downs spotted the first of the fallen Arabs. The man was sprawled across the road, face down. Another of the Arabs lay in a pool of his own blood a yard from the first man. Downs looked up the hill and saw through the trees the window that had served the night before as his firing position. It gaped above him, a black square in the stone face of the house, the fallen branches an arrow pointing accusingly to it. He realized that the rounds from his machine gun would have acted like a saw, cutting any branches before them as he sprayed the roadway. He resumed his inevitable descent, each step revealing new horrors from his attack the night before. Downs automatically looked at each body, realizing that he was hoping to find at least one of them still alive. A dozen bodies sprawled before him, none moving. Weapons were strewn about the road and flies buzzed around the dead men. Blood covered large parts of the road surface, dried black where it had not been absorbed by the soil.

  Downs fought the urge to vomit, kneeling to regain his composure. His face was wet with his own sweat, cold and smelling metallically of fear. He noticed one body in particular. The man had obviously crawled to the side of the road nearest the hill and taken shelter behind a large rock. The blood stain on the front of his shirt and the dried black puddle at his feet were all the evidence needed to conclude that the man had bled to death. Noticing the .45 holster slung across his chest Sam Browne-style, Downs knew it was the militia leader he had watched Griffin beat the day before. He noted absently that the holster was empty.

  He glanced back at Mac, who was staring in horrid fascination at the scene before them. Mac shook his head from side to side, as if to deny what he saw. “Let’s go, Steve. We’re holding up the rest of the squad. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  Downs picked his way through the bodies, careful not to step in any dried blood. He keyed the handset and spoke, “Sergeant Griffin.”

  “Go Downs.”

  “We got some more bodies down here. Maybe a dozen. None of them are moving, they’re all KIA. Over.”

  “Roger, Downs. I copy. How far are you from being to the bottom of the hill? Over?”

  “Not far. Fifty meters maybe.”

  “Roger. When you can see the road, stop. I’m coming down with the main body. You copy?”

  “Roger,” answered Downs, “Over.”

  CHAPTER

  15

  The Syrian leaned back in his chair and
studied the boy before him. He noted that Walid’s hands shook, his uniform was filthy, and he had not lifted his gaze from the floor since entering the room. The attack last night upon the American position had been a traumatic and stunning defeat for the militia. The only surprise for the Syrian was that they had stayed on the hill after their first futile attempt upon the gate.

  The American commander had played it perfectly. He had drawn Ahmud into an attack that could not possibly succeed and crippled his force. The Syrian wondered if the Americans had even suffered any casualties. The attack had cost him the loss of Farouck, his best sergeant. The explosives technician could be replaced; he was merely a mechanic. Finding someone suitable to replace Farouck would be more difficult. For the time being, and probably until his mission in Beirut was completed, he would have to see to the details personally. An annoyance, but nothing that would even remotely jeopardize the mission.

  He watched the boy through narrowed eyes. He guessed him to be not more than twenty-two or twenty-three years old. No real experience to speak of, certainly nothing that would have prepared him for last night. The boy was practically in shock. He and a few of the lucky others had been selected the night before to help the Syrian crew the mortars. They had worked hard, hauling ammunition, digging gun emplacements, sandbagging the tubes in place, and firing relentlessly as the Syrian adjusted the elevation and charges. All of it had been futile. He had not been so careless as to actually fire on the militia, but none of the hundred or so rounds they had fired had done more than cause the occasional worried glance among the Marines.

  “So, Walid. It seems we have suffered a setback,” offered the Syrian. “The Brotherhood has lost many and has gained little.”

  Walid nodded, then mumbled a barely audible reply, “We have lost much and gained nothing.”

  The Syrian paused, nodding in agreement, then said, “The Americans are not to be taken lightly in matters of arms. The Marines are noted for their prowess.” He waited for a reply and when it became apparent that the boy meant to say nothing he continued, “We are not strong enough, you and I, to take them by force. We must find other ways to defeat them.”