by C. X. Moreau
Griffin rubbed his hand across his face and waited for Downs to say something. When Downs refused, Griffin continued, “He’s gone, Downs. Plain and simple. And you’re the type of guy that could spend the rest of his life worrying about it. I’m not telling you not to think about Mac. He was a decent guy. But when you think about him, ask yourself something. What if Mac had never been a Marine and had lived another fifty years? Do you think he would have been happy? I bet I can answer that question for you. Mac, and you, or me, would be old men in a rocking chair some place wondering what it would have been like to wear a set of dress blues and be a Marine.
“There’s only one way to find out, Downs. And all of us made that choice. All of us wanted to be a Marine, and be a part of all of this. And deep down, all of us wanted to go to war. It’s sort of the ultimate test, the ultimate step to becoming a real Marine and having the right to be a part of the history of the Marine Corps, isn’t it? Isn’t this what it’s all about? Finding out just what you’re made of? Whether or not you’re as good as all the others that came before you and fought, and made all the legends?”
Griffin hesitated, at a loss for words, then continued, “Mac wanted to be a part of it, Downs. Why else would he become a grunt? He could have been an air winger, or been in supply or some shit, and still called himself a Marine. But it’s not the same, and guys like you and me know the difference. Mac knew the difference, too. That’s why he was here, and that’s part of why he’s dead.”
For a few minutes the two stood in silence on the roof of the building. As the light faded Downs said, “I know you’re right, Sergeant Griffin. I know what you mean about becoming a Marine. I’ll think about what you said. I know Mac respected you.”
“I’m not sure anything is worth losing your life over. I just know I would have spent the rest of my life wondering if I was good enough to be a Marine if I hadn’t at least tried. And no matter how fucked up the system is, I will always be proud of being a Marine. And I’ll have my self-respect.”
Downs nodded his head in agreement in the darkness, “Yeah. Me, too, Sergeant Griffin. I’m not just saying that. I always wanted to be a Marine. I don’t even know why. God knows my family doesn’t understand it.”
“They don’t have to. Only you have to understand it. Or maybe you just have to feel it. I don’t know. It’s the same for me in a lot of ways.” Griffin turned and looked out over the city and shook his head, “Well, I guess I missed chow. I think I’ll go down and see if I can scrounge up a C-rat out of my pack or something.” Griffin hesitated then said, “One other thing, Downs. Slocum was right. What you did today took guts. I appreciate it. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, Sergeant Griffin,” said Downs.
Griffin extended his hand and said, “My name is Dave.”
Downs took his hand and said, “Steve.”
CHAPTER
23
Griffin sat on the edge of his rack in the early morning and buffed his boots. Through the window he heard the sounds of the battalion coming to life, the noise of engines being turned over, and commands being given in the distance. As he sat, pondering his fate before the board of inquiry, the door swung open and Slocum entered. “Hey, boy,” said Slocum enthusiastically, “how goes it this fine morning?”
He smiled and answered, “Okay, Bobby, how was chow?”
“Don’t know. I’m lettin’ you set the example and not eatin’ until all the troops have had their fill.”
“Yeah, right,” said Griffin in an obvious tone of disbelief. “What’s your angle?”
Slocum adopted a pained expression and answered, “Now, Dave, I’m hurt. Here I am doin’ my best to be a good NCO and you practically accuse me of bein’ a liar. Why if I didn’t know you were an ignorant uneducated street urchin from the slums and ghettos of New York I might take offense.”
Griffin smiled and said, “I’d guess you didn’t like what was on the menu except I’ve never seen you miss a meal in four years. No matter what was being served. The lines must be too long. Even for you.”
Slocum shook his head and said, “Naw, it ain’t the lines, it’s the company. I saw the first shirt go in and decided I’d rather wait and eat later.”
“No shit, huh?” said Griffin. “I knew it had to be something serious to keep you away from a hot meal.”
“Well, it ain’t all that serious. I plan on having a breakfast fit for a king after I finish washing up a little.”
“Okay,” said Griffin, “I’ll see you up there. Try not to worry too much in the mean time.”
“No problem Dave.” Slocum smiled as Griffin walked out the door, wandering the building for a few minutes before heading for the room that served as a court. He stood in the tiled passageway waiting for the members of the board to arrive. Company clerks entered and prepared to carry out the day’s tasks without so much as looking at him. Slocum showed up a few minutes before the officers and stood by in silence as they entered in a group, Lieutenant Walters the last in line. “Looks like mother duck and all the little ducklings are in place. What say we go in and get this over with?” quipped Slocum.
Griffin shrugged and said, “We might as well. Good luck, Bobby.”
“Good luck yourself,” said Slocum as the two entered the room and sat in the chairs assigned to them. As the officers shuffled their papers a company clerk approached Slocum and told him to take the seat immediately in front of the officers. Griffin watched as Slocum walked calmly to the center of the room and sat in the lone chair where Downs had sat the day before. The sergeant major resumed his place along the wall, his expression vacant and passive as he calmly observed the others.
Captain Simmons cleared his throat and Slocum straightened in his chair. The captain fixed his gaze and addressed the young Marine, “Sergeant Slocum, how are you this morning?”
“Fine, sir,” answered Slocum.
“Very well, are you ready to proceed?” asked the captain.
“Yes, sir,” said Slocum, “but I’m not too sure what exactly I’m supposed to do, sir.”
Simmons exchanged a glance with Captain Roberts, then returned to Slocum. “Do you mean that you have questions as to why you are here, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir,” drawled Slocum. “I’m not at all sure just exactly what’s going on.”
Simmons sighed and looked at Slocum as he spoke. “I believe you are aware that this is a board of inquiry convened for the purpose of establishing just exactly the course of events on the night in question. Your purpose here is to answer the questions put to you by the board and to assist the board in establishing the facts. I think that has been made amply clear in the past few days. Am I understood, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Slocum as he sat facing the captain, “I understand what your job is, sir. It’s the other stuff I’m not so clear on.”
Griffin made an effort not to wince as the Captain stiffened and prepared to answer. He knew where Slocum was going with his responses and he could guess the reaction of the board.
“Just what other stuff are you referring to, Sergeant Slocum?” asked the captain as Griffin had known he would.
“Why, sir? Why question this particular action, or that particular night? It just doesn’t make any sense to me, sir. Are we going to have a board of inquiry every time we walk a patrol or take enemy fire?”
Simmons stared at Slocum as he answered, “This particular action is in question because of the number of casualties sustained by the attacking force of militia and to determine the reason why the fighting took place.” The captain paused and fixed Slocum with what he hoped was a withering stare. “Have I made myself perfectly clear, Sergeant?”
Griffin knew that Slocum had prepared his strategy carefully and that the captain was responding just as Slocum had expected. He shifted in his chair to get a better look at the captain’s face as Slocum drawled in apparent innocence, “I’m still a little foggy on a couple of things, sir. Am I allowed to ask any more questions or d
o we have to go on, sir?”
“Ask your question, Sergeant,” snapped the captain.
“Sir, am I being court-martialed here, or what?”
“As you well know, this is not a court-martial. It is simply a fact-finding mission.” The captain paused, then finished, “You are not the subject of a court-martial.”
“But could I be, sir? After y’all get done here, that is. Can you decide to court-martial me then, or Sergeant Griffin?”
The captain again looked at his fellow officers sitting beside him at the narrow table. Roberts caught Simmons’s eye and shrugged slightly. “That is a possibility, Sergeant. Although it is not the sole purpose or mission of this board.”
“But it could happen? Right, sir?” persisted Slocum.
“That’s correct, Sergeant,” answered Simmons.
“So based on what I say here you are going to make a decision on whether or not to court-martial me, sir?”
“That is a part of the duty of this board. Now can we get on with the business at hand, Sergeant?” said the captain in an irritated tone.
Slocum raised his hand slightly, reminding Griffin of a schoolboy who isn’t sure of the answer but raises his hand anyway in an indecisive half gesture. The only difference, Griffin knew, was Slocum was playing with the officer. And now Captain Simmons had begun to see where it was going and was trying to deny Slocum the endgame. Griffin had seen his friend do this sort of thing before and he knew that Slocum would pursue his goal with a maddening tenacity.
“Yes, Sergeant?” asked the captain wearily.
“Beggin’ the Captain’s pardon, sir, but I’d like to ask a couple more questions if it’s all right, sir.” Griffin suppressed a smile. He knew Slocum would make frequent use of “sirs” now that he had them in his sights. The captain never had a chance, thought Griffin, Bobby had a plan and he’s had a lot of prior experience at this. The captain’s a fucking boot at this game.
“Go ahead, Sergeant. And then I’d like to get on with it.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Slocum, knowing he had won and beginning to relish his role. “What I’d really like to know sir, and I’m sorry but I couldn’t find anything in the Guidebook for Marines regarding a board of inquiry or I’d have just looked it up myself. But anyway, sir, what I’d like to know is, if y’all do decide to court-martial me or Sergeant Griffin, can you use what we say here against us at our court-martial?”
The officers’ heads came together quickly as they conferred over the answer to Slocum’s question. Griffin was amazed at Slocum’s ability to ask his questions with such an air of disarming inquiry. He noted that Simmons seemed to defer to Captain Roberts before answering. “That’s correct, Sergeant Slocum. What you say here is admissible in any court-martial proceeding.”
Slocum looked at the officers on the board who seemed to be temporarily at a loss, then asked, “Can I be ordered to answer, sir? Even if I don’t want to? Is that the way it works, sir? I’m being ordered to answer your questions even if I don’t want to?”
Simmons hunched his shoulders together tightly and leaned forward as he answered, “No, Sergeant. You cannot be ordered to answer the questions put to you by the board. However, I must tell you that by not answering the board’s questions you are going to be cast in a very unfavorable light. Am I making myself clear to you?”
“I think I’ve got it now, sir,” said Slocum amicably. “What you’re telling me is that anything I say here can be used to convict me at my court-martial, if y’all do decide to court-martial me. And if I don’t answer your questions then you probably will decide to court-martial me because I’m not answering your questions. Is that right, sir?”
“I’ve had just about enough of your attitude, Sergeant Slocum,” said the captain. “I believe you understand clearly what is taking place here and this is merely an attempt on your part to avoid answering the questions of this board. I assure you that I and the other members of the board do not see the humor in this little game. Now I am ready to proceed with the questions we have prepared for you today. Do you intend to cooperate with the board or not, Sergeant?”
Slocum looked at the members of the board for a long moment and answered, “No, sir. I’m not answering. If you want to court-martial me, sir, then you just go ahead and do what you gotta do. But I won’t help you do it. You and the first sergeant will have to do it on your own, sir.”
Slocum sat and faced the board in silence. The room had fallen quiet as he had spoken and Griffin braced himself for the tirade he expected Captain Simmons to deliver. Instead Simmons leaned back in his chair and said, “Fine, Sergeant Slocum. I believe you understand the implications of your refusal to answer the board’s questions. I am going to give you one last opportunity to change your mind, and I assure you it will be your last. Will you answer the questions of this board?”
“No, sir,” said Slocum flatly.
“Very well. You are dismissed for the time being. You are to remain in quarters here at the battalion CP until further notice. You will report to the H&S company gunnery sergeant for your duty assignments as of this afternoon at thirteen-hundred. Am I understood, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Slocum.
“Dismissed,” said the captain, looking down at his paperwork as Slocum executed his dismissal and left the room. Griffin studied Captain Simmons and the other officers as he waited to be called forward. He decided that, with the exception of Captain Roberts, they were all stamped from the same mold. Without exception they had received their commission after completing college and ROTC courses, then the officers candidate school at the Marine Corps Base in Virginia. As he sat looking at the officers Griffin tried to define what it was about the officer corps in general that he mistrusted. Some of them were better infantrymen than others, but they were almost all competent without exception. Most, he was sure, were the sons of middle-class families who, for whatever reasons of their own, had chosen to become Marine officers. Almost to a man they appeared arrogant and haughty to their men and Griffin had been told by friends who were sergeant-instructors at OCS that the arrogance was learned during training.
He had endured their superior attitudes and their patronizing lectures for the past seven years by accepting it as a necessary evil, a part of the system. He had watched as they punished his friends and his troops without remorse for doing the same things they did on liberty but were never questioned about. He had stood silently by as junior lieutenants learned the art of war at the hands of experienced staff NCOs and noncoms. He had seen them commit countless errors in training that would have meant death for them and their charges in warfare.
He had endured it all, he knew, as he sat looking at the officers. All of the condescending, humiliating, degrading lectures that they dispensed as though they were dirtying themselves by addressing him and his peers in the ranks in order to impart their knowledge. And now they don’t even have the balls to court-martial me without this charade first to justify it, he silently thought.
He knew then what he would do. He wasn’t Slocum. He wasn’t going to play cat and mouse with them. It was a matter of principle, a question of his manhood. He had learned the lessons the system had to teach him during long field exercises and in the darkened barracks during quick, brutal beatings given to those who couldn’t or wouldn’t conform for the good of the whole. He had spent the past seven years with his head up and his dignity intact, and as the anger rose in him he realized it was beyond him now to sacrifice it to the group of men who sat before him in judgment.
In his anger Griffin suspected Captain Roberts knew he would answer their questions. Roberts had been with the battalion a long time, almost as long as Griffin himself. He knew most of the NCOs, either personally or by reputation. He would have known Slocum’s reputation as a joker, a good NCO who didn’t take himself or the Marine Corps any more seriously than was required at any given moment.
Slocum could more easily afford to dodge the questions of the board. It
was common knowledge in the battalion he planned on leaving the Marines upon completion of his enlistment. Griffin understood that he was different. He was known as a professional among the officers, a career NCO who had no ambitions beyond rising through ranks as far as his talent would allow.
Even this Griffin had taken a step further. He had reenlisted and instead of taking a tour of duty on an embassy posting, where he might escape the harsh existence of the rifle companies, he had insisted on remaining in the infantry. He was known not only as a career Marine, but a career infantryman. There was a certain degree of respect afforded him because of this. The organization had difficulty finding good NCOs who wished to remain in the infantry. Griffin had never desired anything else and it was well known among the staff NCOs and officers.
He looked directly at Captain Roberts as Simmons began speaking, “Sergeant Griffin, are you prepared to answer the questions of the board?”
Griffin held Roberts’s eye until the older man looked away. “Yes, sir,” he answered, his voice brittle with anger, “I’ll answer your questions, sir.”
“Very well, Sergeant. You understand that the board is not ordering you to answer any questions it might have. That you are answering of you own free will?”
“I understand, Captain,” said Griffin.
“Good. Then we’ll proceed with the questions.” The captain shuffled his papers into a neat stack and cleared his throat. “Sergeant Griffin, I would like to begin on the day in question with your arrival at the position held by the dragon squad. What specifically were your orders, as you understood them that day?”
“To relieve the squad in place and effect their withdrawal from the position. We were also to remove any and all gear that was in place there. Particularly radio gear and other electronics, sir.”