Distant Valor

by C. X. Moreau

  The boy lifted his gaze from the floor, if only for a moment, and the Syrian continued, “Even the mightiest army can be defeated, Walid. The difficult thing is to find their weakness, and all armies have weaknesses. It is an inherent characteristic, but one must look for it, and one must be wise as well as courageous. Simple courage is not enough.” The Syrian was pleased to see the boy cross to the window and slump into a chair.

  After some moments of silence, Walid asked, “But what now? The Marines have beaten us. We cannot hope to drive them from the hill.”

  The Syrian waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “And what of this hill? Suppose that we had driven them from it last night? What then? They would send another group of Marines and they would occupy a different hill. And then would we fight them again? For what, yet another hill? And all of these hills would be in Lebanon, would they not?”

  The boy nodded, seeming to agree with the older man. “Our task is to drive them from Lebanon. Return the country to its people.” The Syrian paused, then continued, “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes, of course,” answered Walid.

  The Syrian leaned back in his chair and rested one foot on the open drawer of his desk. “I have been a soldier a long time, Walid. And I have seen many nights like the one you and your friends witnessed last night.”

  “What do you mean?” asked the boy, staring contemptuously at the Syrian’s business suit and expensive Italian loafers.

  The Syrian noted the boy’s glance, correctly guessing what he was thinking. “I have seen battles with the Israelis, most of which we lost because we foolishly challenged a stronger army.”

  The Syrian repressed a smile as the boy looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to explain. He removed a battered photograph from his wallet showing a younger version of himself standing before a burning Israeli tank.

  “The Golan,” he said, “during the seventy-three war.” He paused, “Do you remember it?”

  The boy shook his head. “No,” he said softly, “but I have heard of it. Your army won a great victory.”

  The Syrian again fought the urge to laugh, then said quietly, “No, Walid. My army suffered a humiliating defeat. But we tell ourselves it was a victory because, for a day, we fought well.” He noted the boy’s puzzled expression, then continued, “I was in charge of a section of tanks. We advanced rapidly the first day, taking and even passing our objectives. That first evening we found ourselves on high ground, in a virtually impregnable position. We had advanced quickly, isolating and destroying numerous Israeli vehicles and tanks. We had advanced so rapidly that we outdistanced our supply convoys. That night we watched the Syrian Air Force battle the Israelis for the sky, and when we slept we thought we would wake victorious the next morning.”

  “And did you not?” asked Walid.

  The Syrian shook his head slowly, smiling at the boy’s childlike questioning. “No, we did not. The next morning we woke to the sound of advancing Israeli armor.”

  “But you held the better position, the heights,” protested the boy.

  “It made little difference to the Israeli pilots who destroyed our air force the night before. They rapidly set about destroying our tanks, including the ones I commanded.” The Syrian said nothing for a moment, remembering the sounds of his command being destroyed as the Israeli aircraft thundered in on their strafing runs. “Do you know, Walid, that I walked back to Syria from the Golan?” The boy looked at him with a quizzical expression, as he continued, speaking in a quiet voice, “It was quite a feat, really. I moved only in the dark, always wary that I might be killed by patrols from either side. I eventually made my way to the remnants of a supply unit that ferried me back to Damascus.”

  “And what became of you then?” asked Walid.

  The Syrian thought for a moment before answering, “I was given a medal,” he said, a smile again overtaking his features. “A medal, although all my tanks had been destroyed, and most of my men killed or captured. It seems that by holding our position we had held open a corridor allowing other units to retreat back to Syria.”

  “You were a hero,” said the boy. “The Israelis had the advantage.”

  “I was no hero, Walid. My tanks were without fuel, we had no choice but to stand.”

  The boy shook his head, saying in anguish, “Why do you tell me this? So that I will know that what seems an Arab victory is not?”

  “No, Walid. I tell you this for two reasons. The first is that you should learn that we lost because we attacked the Israelis on terms favorable to them. We allowed them to fight on grounds that favored their strengths. Although we initially won, their superior weapons, the tanks and aircraft, were invariably to make the difference between victory and defeat for us.”

  “And the other reason?” asked Walid.

  “So you will realize that even the most vigilant enemy is vulnerable at certain times, and in certain circumstances, even if only for a short time. Learn to avoid their strengths, and to attack their weaknesses and you will begin to sense what it takes to be the victor, instead of the vanquished.”

  “I cannot learn these things in one night, after seeing my friends die. I am not you.”

  “I do not ask that you learn them in one night. No man can pretend to gain the wisdom of a lifetime in a single night,” said the Syrian, sensing his moment was at hand.

  “What then,” asked the boy, obviously confused, the despair evident in his voice. “What should I do?”

  The Syrian said nothing. He glanced at the boy, knowing that he was nearly distraught. “You must listen to my counsel, Walid,” he said in a soft voice. “You must avoid more foolish adventures against an enemy you cannot defeat by conventional methods. Otherwise you will have no hope of victory.” The Syrian paused, knowing that he had won. “Are we agreed on this?” he asked.

  Walid shook his head. “Yes,” he said, his voice full of resignation.

  The Syrian regarded him with silent amusement. It might have been worse my young friend, he thought, I might have permitted you to accompany Ahmud. He rose and crossed to the window. Touching Walid lightly on the shoulder he said, “Come, we have work to do if we are to avenge the deaths of our brothers.”

  Without hesitation Walid followed him out of the room, down the stairs, and into the courtyard. The Syrian smiled, thinking that he had at last found the proper man to lead the Brotherhood.

  CHAPTER

  16

  Griffin nudged Slocum with his shoulder and said, “There it is, home sweet home.” Slocum gave a nod to Griffin but didn’t say anything as the trucks carrying both squads approached the checkpoint in front of the battalion headquarters. The guard waved them through after a couple of words with the driver and the massive trucks swung into the entrance and stopped in front of the four-story structure that housed the headquarters and service company. Marines on the top of the building leaned over the concrete guardrail and watched the squads as they got off the trucks and formed up in a ragged line. News of the firefight the previous night had spread rapidly through the battalion and now Marines who were acquainted with the various members of Griffin’s and Slocum’s squads began to approach and ask questions about the fighting. Already the story had taken on a life of its own and Griffin knew the facts would soon be lost as each Marine remembered and told his own version of the events. Griffin noted with a sense of dread that the battalion operations officer was standing in the lobby of the headquarters building, a scowl on his face. He looked at Slocum, who followed his gaze and shrugged, then said, “What did you expect, pretty girls and firecrackers?”

  “Well, let’s just say as little as possible about all this for now. No sense giving these guys a chance to fuck with us if we don’t have to. I imagine they’ll have all sorts of questions anyway without us giving them anything more to think about.”

  “Fine with me. Just remember, you’re the one who came up with that bullshit story about a vehicle being down,” said Slocum casually.

&n
bsp; Griffin looked at Slocum, then gave a wry smile. “Yeah, no shit. Let’s get out of here before they figure out they want to talk to us.” He shook Slocum’s hand and gave the order for the squad to form up and make ready to march back to the platoon area. Griffin debated the wisdom of delaying the squad’s departure by a couple of hours so as to allow the squad a chance to get a hot meal at the battalion chow hall, but then decided against it. The longer they hung around the battalion the more people they would talk to and sooner or later it would come out that he had hit the local militia leader and forced the whole confrontation. He dreaded the thought of trying to explain that to one of the battalion officers.

  Griffin ordered the squad to move out and they began the journey back to their bunkers on the line. The squad skirted the north end of the runway before turning south and paralleling the runway for about one kilometer. Upon arrival at the company position, there were loud catcalls by the other Marines who were aware of the firefight of the previous evening. Griffin dismissed the squad and they headed for their respective bunkers to change into clean uniforms and get something to eat. Although he would have liked to have slept for at least a couple of hours he made for the platoon sergeant’s bunker. Whitney was standing in front of the bunker, no hint of his disposition betrayed by his manner or expression. Griffin walked toward him and nodded. “Hello, Staff Sergeant Whitney. How goes it?” To his relief the staff sergeant smiled and said, “Welcome back, boy. Come on in and let’s have a talk.” The two men stepped down into the bunker and the staff sergeant indicated that Griffin should sit on one of the cots. “Can I get you something to drink, Sergeant Griffin?”

  “No thanks,” said Griffin with a smile.

  The older man sat across from Griffin and rubbed his face with his hands. “Okay, Sergeant Griffin. Now tell me what happened out there. And don’t give me any bullshit. This has yours and Slocum’s signature all over it. Just tell me what happened and why. We’ll worry about the details later.”

  Griffin quickly relayed the basics of the night’s events, including his fight with the militia leader and his plan to delay leaving the area in order to force a confrontation on his own terms. The staff sergeant listened quietly, nodding occasionally but not making any real comment. When Griffin finished he took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. “Well, we’re probably gonna have some problems over all this. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “I figured as much. Anything so far?” asked Griffin.

  “Well, our first sergeant has already been down here asking questions. I imagine he’ll want to talk to you as soon as he gets back this afternoon. He’s gone out on ship for some reason. My suggestion is for you to have some answers ready for him. My personal advice is for you to say as little as possible, and to avoid giving any details if at all possible.”

  Griffin took a deep breath, slowly releasing it and feeling extremely tired as he did. “I didn’t have any choice, Staff Sergeant. That’s the bottom line. Maybe we could have avoided a fight, but as long as we fought from the house we had all the advantages. Shit, we didn’t even have anybody hurt.”

  “You were lucky, boy. I haven’t seen that house, but judging from what you’ve told me you are just plain lucky nobody got hurt. If somebody had, you could just about kiss your sergeant’s stripes good-bye. As it is they are going to raise one hell of a shit storm. You may still be looking at some sort of court-martial for insubordination or disobedience of a direct order if they are able to get the real story from some of the troops.”

  “I told ’em to keep their mouths shut about the incident at the gate, and none of ’em know the real deal about the vehicle being down. They think we really did delay leaving because we needed time to work on that truck. Besides, they are more afraid of me than they are of the Zeros at headquarters.”

  “What about the truck driver? And Slocum’s squad? Are you sure nobody will say anything if the officers start coming around asking questions?”

  “I guess I really can’t be sure, Staff Sergeant. But it was a chance I had to take.”

  Griffin looked at the staff sergeant who nodded his head affirmatively. “Yeah, Sergeant Griffin, I understand, but I’m not the one you have to convince,” he said.

  Griffin smiled and said, “No shit.”

  The staff sergeant crossed to the doorway of the crowded bunker and stood looking across the company area to the battalion headquarters building that loomed in the distance. “It wasn’t always like this. Used to be they expected us to be full of piss and vinegar. Shit, I can remember when I joined we used to go out into town every Friday night and leave bail money with the sergeant of the guard. Everybody just assumed we would go into town, get drunk, and tear some place apart until the police and the shore patrol got there. Then the officer of the day and the sergeant of the guard would come and get us after we slept it off in jail for a few hours. Nobody ever lost a stripe over having a good time on liberty.” The staff sergeant passed a hand through the stubble of hair that covered the top of his head then turned toward Griffin and said, “Times have changed, Sergeant Griffin. Nowadays all they worry about is how we are going to look in the press, or what some pansy-ass congressman is going to say. A good combat record used to mean something when you got your ass in a sling. I’m not so sure it does anymore.”

  As he walked back into the bunker and sat on the rack opposite Griffin he chuckled softly to himself. “If you can’t answer the questions they are going to ask you are going to be facing a familiar situation as far as I can see.”

  “What’s that?” asked Griffin.

  “Well, Sergeant Griffin, you are going to find yourself having been shot at and missed, and shit at and hit, as they used to say when I was a young Marine,” said the staff sergeant with a wink.

  Griffin attempted to laugh at the staff sergeant’s humor, but found his throat going dry. He dreaded the thought of being questioned by the battalion officers. He knew that it would be a simple matter for them to determine that the vehicle had not really had mechanical trouble, and once that was done it could only be a matter of time for him and Slocum. “So you think they are going to come after us?” he asked the staff sergeant.

  “Yeah, boy, I do. Let me tell you why. If we had a good first shirt, and a strong sergeant major, I don’t think you would have any problem. But that just isn’t the way it is. The sergeant major is new to the battalion, just been with us for this deployment, no more than a few months. He doesn’t know you or me, or anybody else to speak of. The only people he can really associate with, being the battalion sergeant major, are the company first sergeants. The rest of us he has to get to know from our performance and what he hears and sees around the battalion.” The staff sergeant glanced at Griffin, who was leaning forward, listening intently. “See, the only reason the sergeant major has heard your name in the past few weeks is because of the first shirt making a circus out of Downs’s fireteam having that damn beer out on post. Now the first shirt is going to see him about this firefight last night and make it sound as if you and your squad are just a bunch of independent shit birds that do as you please. The next thing is the CO is going to ask the sergeant major what the hell happened out there. Now, the sergeant major may or may not tell him what the first shirt passed to him. You following all this?”

  “Yeah, and it sure isn’t looking too good. I should have broken the first sergeant’s nose as well as that fucking Arab’s,” said Griffin.

  “Yeah. I know how you feel, Sergeant Griffin. I guess I should tell you that a few years ago I got into a fight out in town with a gunnery sergeant and I wound up losing a stripe and doing a little brig time.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me, Staff Sergeant. Shit happens all the time.”

  The staff sergeant smiled broadly at Griffin and added, “Well it might surprise you to know that that particular gunnery sergeant was promoted and is now our company first sergeant.”

  Griffin looked the staff sergeant in the eye and said, “You’re
shitting me. Right?”

  The staff sergeant laughed and shook his head. “No, I sure as hell am not. Wish I was though. It would probably go a long way toward solving this whole mess.” He rubbed his chin and added, “Sorry, boy.”

  The two men sat in good-natured silence for a few minutes. Griffin liked the staff sergeant. He was a good Marine and a good platoon sergeant. He was a veteran of the Vietnam War and was well liked and respected by his troops and peers. Everything about him said “Old Corps,” from his slight disrespect for junior officers to his cavalier approach to garrison life with its myriad of rules and regulations.

  The story about the staff sergeant’s experiences in Vietnam were legend in the regiment. He was one of the last of the old-timers who had won their stripes in Vietnam and since not been promoted to the higher ranks, which would have removed them from direct daily contact with the grunts that formed the backbone of the Corps. Griffin and the others had seen the rows of ribbons on his dress uniforms at inspection and also the scars that ran the length of his back. Although Griffin had never heard first hand the story of how they were earned, the Navy Cross and Purple Heart with its small stars pinned on each side spoke for themselves. There had been speculation as to why he had not been promoted to the rank of gunnery sergeant, and now Griffin knew the answer. He let out a long sigh and said, “Well, fuck me. What a kick in the ass this has turned out to be.”

  “Well it isn’t the end of the world. What’s the worst they can do? Take some pay and maybe a stripe. You’ll get it back. You’re a good Marine, Sergeant Griffin. And unless I miss my guess you did what you believed was the right thing. And more important, you didn’t lose any of your people.” The staff sergeant paused, then spoke again before Griffin could say anything, “Look, son, what else could you have done? If you and Sergeant Slocum really believed that they were going to ambush you on the way down that hill then you didn’t have any choice. When push comes to shove you’re responsible for the Marines in your squad, not the first sergeant or some shavetail lieutenant at battalion operations.”