Distant Valor

by C. X. Moreau

  After a few minutes of whispered discussion Captain Roberts looked at Griffin and asked, “Sergeant Griffin, if I understand what you just told the board you decided to administer a lethal dose of morphine to this wounded soldier in order to relieve his suffering. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s about the size of it,” said Griffin.

  Roberts rubbed his chin and again addressed Griffin, “Sergeant Griffin, I feel it is my duty to advise you that you are admitting to a serious offense. You just don’t have the authority to make decisions like that. No Marine, or corpsman, can decide to do what you did. It’s just not allowed, son.” Roberts hesitated, thinking quickly that maybe it wasn’t too late for Griffin if he could stop him from saying anything further about the incident with the wounded man. He was sure that Griffin had done the only thing that he could, and equally sure that Simmons didn’t want to court-martial Griffin or Slocum if it could be avoided without attracting a lot of attention from the higher-ups. “Sergeant Griffin,” he began, “I think it is time for the board to confer for a few minutes. During that time I suggest that you reconsider what you have just told the board.”

  Roberts looked at Simmons who sat in silence at the center of the line of officers. He knew he had preempted Simmons’s next series of questions but he couldn’t sit there and do nothing while Griffin handed them the rope to hang him with. He was sure that Simmons had had no idea that Griffin had administered a lethal dose of morphine to the wounded man. The corpsman had been vague about the dosage and none of the officers had thought to ask in detail how many syringes of morphine were given to the man. The corpsman hadn’t even mentioned that he had been ordered to return to the squad area, or that Griffin had ordered him to leave any morphine behind.

  As the officers rose and filed out of the room Roberts’s mind searched for a way to eliminate the wounded man from the equation. The whole point of the board had been to determine if the two sergeants had provoked a firefight, or deliberately disabled a vehicle in order to delay leaving the position and thereby encourage an attack on the Marine perimeter.

  He just couldn’t understand why Griffin had admitted to giving the man that injection. Obviously Griffin thought that the board already knew. Why else would he admit to doing it? That was the only explanation that made any sense. A scene from his first tour in Vietnam came to him, his own platoon sergeant shooting another Marine at point-blank range as the boy lay gasping for breath through lungs seared by flame. He understood now, but he hadn’t then. Even if the boy had lived long enough to be put aboard a medevac flight he would have died on the flight back to the rear, and he would have suffered terribly in the interim. All the platoon sergeant had done was short-circuit the process and alleviate the boy’s suffering. Thirteen months in Vietnam had taught him that sometimes life was so painful that it wasn’t worth holding onto for another few minutes.

  Roberts silently thanked God that he had never been forced to sit where Griffin now sat. The sergeant had tried to do the right thing, to make the best judgment call he knew how to make. Roberts was sure he would have done almost exactly the same thing had he been in Griffin’s place. The problem now was that Griffin was going to be judged by another set of rules. A set of rules that applied better to the parade ground than the battlefield.

  Roberts shook his head and closed the door behind him, the knob still in his hand as he looked at the others and said, “Why don’t you excuse Captain Simmons and myself for a few minutes.” As the others shrugged and filed out Roberts mumbled “Thanks.” He looked at Simmons across the empty room and let out a long sigh.

  “Jesus!” said Simmons. “Why the fuck didn’t he just keep his mouth shut? If he hadn’t said anything about the fucking rag-head we would just about be through with this bullshit by now. Christ!” said Simmons as he threw his hands into the air and stared out the window, “I can’t believe I got stuck with this fucking board.”

  “All part of being an officer and a gentleman, I guess,” replied Roberts.

  “Yeah, right,” said Simmons angrily. “I get selected to preside over this bullshit board because Alpha’s first sergeant has a hard-on for a couple of sergeants who don’t say ’Aye, aye, first sergeant’ quick enough to suit his taste. What a fucking blow job this has turned out to be.”

  Roberts tried to come up with the solution to Griffin’s problem. He was now certain that Simmons didn’t want to see either Griffin or Slocum court-martialed. Except for the mention of the morphine and the wounded Lebanese he was convinced that the two sergeants would not have been charged. He decided to let Simmons answer the questions, after all he was the senior officer sitting on the board. “Okay, so it’s a blow job. I think we’ve established that over the past few days. So what are we going to do about it? Being leaders of men, I mean?”

  Simmons shot an angry look at Roberts and said, “What do you mean, what are we going to do about it? Their shit is fried now. At least Griffin’s is, with that fucking confession about juicing the Lebanese. I don’t see that we have any choice but to charge him. You got a better suggestion?”

  Roberts hesitated for a minute and said, “Let’s go see the Old Man on this. He’s a fair man and he’s been around a long time. I don’t think he is going to be any too anxious to see one of his sergeants come up on a charge like this. Besides, what do you plan on charging him with? Murder? It’s hardly that. From what he describes the guy was about to cash in his chips, all Griffin did was make it easy for him instead of leaving him there to die. There’s got to be a way around this mess.”

  Simmons shook his head negatively and answered, “I don’t see how you can say that after what you said in the courtroom about him not having the authority to do this. All of the testimony is recorded by the company clerks and I don’t see how they could have missed a word of that. Between the two of us we have practically convicted him already. Besides, the story will be all over the battalion in another half an hour. The first sergeant is sure to get wind of it and then wonder why we’re not charging Griffin with something. I just don’t see how we can get away with not charging him. I guess we won’t have to charge Slocum, he doesn’t seem to have had any role in this part of it.”

  “Look, we can explain it by saying that Griffin misspoke himself. That he thought he was giving the man an injection that would only alleviate his suffering, not be fatal. He’s an infantry sergeant, not a hospital corpsman. How should he know the difference? We’ll adjourn until tomorrow morning and in the meantime I’ll go and speak with Griffin and the Old Man.”

  “There’s still the first sergeant. What are we going to do to pacify him? The bastard will probably have Headquarters Marine Corps fry my ass for dereliction of duty.”

  “He might want to try,” said Roberts, “but that would mean bucking the Old Man, assuming he buys our plan, and no first shirt in his right mind is going to do that to his own colonel. He’d be ruined no matter what the outcome.”

  “I don’t like it,” said Simmons. “Maybe you’re not aware of this, but I’m an attorney. That’s probably why the colonel selected me to head up the board. What Griffin did in the courtroom a few minutes ago has a legal definition. It’s called a spontaneous utterance, and what it amounts to is making a legal confession as far as Sergeant Griffin is concerned. Legally there is just no way to avoid a trial. Questions have to be asked, and Griffin should have a defense counsel before he answers. If he had had one already none of this would have happened in the first place.”

  Simmons thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets, a gesture proscribed for Marines in uniform but a habit from his university days. When he caught Roberts’s eyes again he felt embarrassed at his oversight. He shrugged and said, “Sorry, guess I’m just a slimy civilian at heart. Look, I’d like to help Griffin. God knows I didn’t ask any questions in there that I didn’t have to. I don’t see where Griffin is guilty of anything more than doing his duty and being a compassionate human being.” Simmons hesitated and ran a ha
nd through his hair. “I can understand your wanting to protect them. Neither of them deserves this, especially not Griffin. He’s a good sergeant. But we can’t just walk away from this as though nothing happened in there a few minutes ago. It’s not legal. And it’s not right.”

  Fifteen minutes later the board had been reconvened and Griffin and Slocum stood before it as Captain Simmons addressed the two Marines. “It is the decision of this board, after careful consideration of the testimony given before it, that Sergeant David F. Griffin, USMC, should be held for court-martial. Pending further investigation Said Named Marine will be formally charged and will be immediately appointed with appropriate defense counsel. Said Named Marine is not to remove himself from the confines of the battalion headquarters until such time as he is told he may legally do so. Do you understand this, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered Griffin flatly.

  “Very well. It is the decision of this board that in the matter of Sergeant Robert P. Slocum that Said Named Marine is not bound over for court-martial and should be returned to duties forthwith.”

  “Am I understood, Sergeant Slocum?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Slocum.

  “Very well then. This board is dismissed with the thanks of the commanding officer of the First Battalion, Eighth Marine Regiment. Gentlemen, thank you.” Simmons waited for the four officers to file out of the room then once again regarded the two sergeants before him. “Dismissed!” he said and Griffin and Slocum about-faced and left the room.

  CHAPTER

  24

  The Syrian squinted into the mid-afternoon glare and swept the windshield wipers over the windshield of the small Peugeot for the hundredth time that day. A fine grime of sand mixed with heavy diesel particles firmly adhered to the glass and served as a coarse abrasive that had scratched the windshield in a neat arc circumscribed by the wiper blades.

  He cursed his luck at having found himself behind a convoy of Syrian military vehicles headed for Damascus. A three-hour journey in the cool of the morning had been turned into a full day of misery when he found himself pulling up behind the slow moving line of trucks and various other vehicles. Incredibly, he had been the only other vehicle on the highway, making him the first in line behind the huge Soviet-made truck that was at the end of the convoy. More than once he had attempted to pull into the other lane of the narrow highway and pass the convoy, thus relieving himself of the necessity of breathing air fouled by the exhaust of the truck. Each time he had pulled out of traffic he had been waved back by two of the soldiers riding in the rear of the truck’s open bed. No doubt the bastards were enjoying their game, he grimly thought.

  He had been tempted earlier in the day to just run by them in the car, trusting that the speed of the vehicle would carry him past before they had time to react. He had attempted to sweep the Peugeot around them only once. When he applied the accelerator the little car sputtered and refused to gain speed. After that the soldiers had smiled and patted their weapons. He had settled back for a long ride to Damascus and resigned himself to the fact that he would have to abort the first meeting and rendezvous with his control at a secondary location previously agreed upon.

  He gained the outskirts of the city, pulling onto a smaller road and taking a circuitous route into the heart of Damascus. He parked the Peugeot in a lot behind a government building and walked through one of the crowded markets careful to observe the traffic behind him and see if anyone was following. When he was certain he was alone he went to a small restaurant he knew, discreetly located in an alley behind the fish market, and ordered a meal.

  As he sat waiting for the food and reading the paper that had been brought to him he considered his situation. The delay caused by the convoy was an inconvenience but was actually little more than that. If he chose to meet his control tomorrow at the secondary rendezvous the man would act as though the things he would request were being paid for out of his personal account.

  In reality the man was not so much of a control as a logistics officer whose mission it was to support the Syrian as he operated in the field. To accomplish this he had been given an air-conditioned office in one of the newer districts of Damascus and a staff of officers and senior enlisted men who understood the logistics system of the Syrian military and government. In actuality the man viewed his job as something of a reward for his years of faithful field service. The Syrian was sure that he and his staff operated a very lucrative black market operation with the goods they “removed” from government warehouses under the guise of supplying officers in the field. Very few questions were asked of men in the position of the logistics officer. His Special Branch identification would silence almost anyone who questioned him, and for those individuals not intimidated by his identification, a percentage of the earnings from the sale of the stolen goods would suffice.

  The Syrian continued to read his paper, scanning the busy street for signs of his control officer. Precisely on the hour he saw the man making his way up the crowded street, frequently checking behind himself to ascertain if he was being followed. The Syrian watched with a bemused expression on his face as the man arrived at the appointed spot and checked his watch. Satisfied that he was indeed at the appropriate place and there at the specified hour the man began to pace up and down the sidewalk. The Syrian sighed in disgust. To even the most casual observer it would be apparent that the man was meeting someone. The only saving grace was that this fellow was so old, and so innocent looking, that no one would suspect him of being associated with an intelligence operation. The Syrian knew that anyone passing him on the street would be more likely to assume he was someone’s grandfather, perhaps late for a luncheon with a favored son or daughter.

  He decided then to wait until the man had remained at the rendezvous the specified quarter of an hour and then follow him away from the designated meeting place. This would allow the Syrian to determine if the man had been followed, and if so, by whom.

  At precisely fifteen minutes past the hour the man turned and walked down the street in the direction from which he had arrived. The Syrian settled the bill and was pleased to note that no surveillance team followed the officer away from the area. For now, at least, he could be reasonably certain of the cooperation and support of his superiors, however unwillingly it might be given by some of them.

  The Syrian casually followed the logistics officer down the street and out of the souk. With a few quick steps he was beside the man who continued on his way without noticing the Syrian. He took the man’s elbow in a friendly gesture that attracted no notice from passersby. “Hello,” he smiled. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, my friend.”

  “Hello,” said the man, and the Syrian thought he detected an undercurrent of fear in the man’s voice. “Perhaps we could go somewhere it would be possible to have a quiet conversation?” the man asked.

  He smiled again. “Of course. If you will follow me I think I know just the place.” As he guided the man down the street he quickly ran his hands over the man’s sport coat and located the small automatic pistol in a holster under the arm. He feigned a look of surprise and clucked his tongue, saying, “I’m surprised that you don’t trust me, Mohammed. To think, a pistol?” He shook his head and added, “I should be offended were we not such good friends.”

  The officer quickly regained his composure and answered, “There are thieves about in these areas at night. You would be well advised to carry a pistol yourself, my friend.” The Syrian searched the face of the older man and wondered if there were a not so subtle warning in the man’s response. He was unable to decide if the man was being clever or merely trying to justify his having a weapon. He smiled and asked, “Is there a reason why you think I should have a pistol in Damascus? Other than the thieves?”

  The man shrugged and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “There are always reasons for a man to carry a pistol. Some have better reasons than others, my friend.” The old man hesitated then added, “Perhaps those of us in this bu
siness always have a reason to carry a weapon. You might be wise to do so, especially in these times when the thieves grow more clever.” The Syrian smiled slightly, enjoying the exchange. “Would you mind terribly, Mohammed, if I borrowed your pistol for the time being? I seem to have left mine elsewhere.”

  Mohammed shrugged again and said, “It is as you wish. After all, it is my job to supply you as you ask. And you have so seldom asked for anything that I should feel ashamed not to give what you ask now. Particularly since it is so small an item.” Mohammed turned down a dark narrow street as the Syrian guided him and then removed his holster with its pistol and two magazines. The Syrian nodded toward the street and they resumed walking along the crowded boulevard that was filled with men seeking their various pleasures.

  They continued in silence for a few moments as the Syrian considered his situation. Finally he asked, “Will my current request be a problem for you?”

  Mohammed sighed, “It is not a matter of the request itself being a problem. The materials you have asked for are in Damascus, and they have been packaged as you have asked. There is currently an ample supply of these materials, thanks to our Czechoslovakian comrades. I have arranged for you to take shipment of them at your convenience. All you have to do is give me the address of the destination, or arrange for their transport yourself.”

  “I understand,” said the Syrian. “Perhaps arranging the shipment will be a problem for you. I can do that myself, through other channels. You have done quite enough, my friend. I am grateful to you.”

  Mohammed stared straight ahead, speaking softly. “I think, my friend, that you are not aware of just how grave the situation is in Damascus. Certainly you have been away a long time.”

  “You are suggesting that I return to Damascus?”

  Mohammed shook his head. “No. That would not be wise at this time. But there are certain considerations that you should be aware of. Certain events that may concern you.”