What she had done was build them a fallback position if they had to abandon the humvees — a fallback position he knew that, if used, admitted they wouldn’t be leaving the wadi. The efforts reminded him of an old Western movie where the settlers ring their wagons to fight off the Indians; only they were the settlers, and he didn’t see a happy ending to this story. There was no calvary to charge over the horizon at the last minute and still no contact with Base Butler.
The rest of the night had passed uneventfully, except the nightlong vigilance gave everyone a chance to count the small campfires of the Tauregs above them and build their own conclusions and anxieties. Professor Walthers said they burned dried camel and goat dung to make the strong tea the Tauregs enjoyed. Sometimes there was more information than you needed from this man who’d pass for Colonel Sanders if he had a white suit to go with that beard.
The thought of fried chicken made his stomach growl.
The small fires flickered along the top edge of the wadi cliff and down along the broad path that lead to the bottom, several hundred yards away from their camp. Stapler believed there were more campfires than needed and said so. The Air Force fighter jocks had estimated the size of the force opposing them at around a hundred. If the campfires were any indication, then there were more than that number surrounding them. The Algerians were confident.
Stapler knew. Why else would they feel safe enough to light campfires? They lit the campfires to confuse and frighten us. Well, goddammit, it worked.
Stapler knew what the others probably suspected but refused to admit. The only way out of the wadi was to kill enough of their attackers that the remainder fled — kill them completely, utterly, and without regard to the moral platitudes. If they didn’t, then they would be the ones killed. Nathan Bedford Forest, that fine old Southern general from the Civil War said it best: “War is fighting and fighting is killing.” In the fog of battle and the fiction of combat, individual soldiers — Marines — never stop to review the rules of war as they fight. No, they fight to survive and to keep faith with their comrades fighting alongside them. Whatever happened here in the wadi during this approaching day would never be reviewed by those black-robed assholes in the Hague like they did the NATO forces who bombed Kosovo back in the late 1990s.
“Abercombie, that as deep a hole as you can dig?” Stapler asked the young, sandy-haired Marine from San Diego.
The Marine stood up, pushed his shovel into the sand in front of him, and reached under his helmet to scratch his head. The new Marine Corps tattoo on his shoulder, gotten just before they left Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, showed in the faint false dawn. “Gee, Gunny, It’s up to my waist now. If they overrun, I want to be able to get out of the hole, not be buried in it.”
Stapler nodded once, quickly. “Okay, Abercombie. Just wanted to make sure you knew what you were doing.”
“Sure, Gunnery Sergeant, I know what I am doing, but I don’t think those people up there know what they are doing. Do you think they know there’re eleven Marines down here, including Cowboy? Ain’t gonna be a fair fight; a hundred of them and eleven of us. In a way, I kinda feel sorry for them.” The Marine grinned. “Yeah, Gunny, I kinda feel sorry for them.” Abercombie picked up his shovel and, with lip-biting concentration, continued arranging his foxhole and the rocks above it into some sort of personal sense of order.
After watching a few seconds, Stapler sighed and said, “Well, don’t feel too sorry for them, and pull down those sleeves before the sun rises. Protect your skin, Abercombie.”
“Sure thing, Gunnery Sergeant.” He squatted back down in his desert foxhole as Stapler moved off. “Gunny, protect yours, too!” he said.
Stapler grinned. “Oh, I intend to, Abercombie.”
The false light of approaching dawn filtered into the darkness of the wadi. The dark outline of the top of the cliffs separated from the night skies. The stars twinkled out one by one as the sun neared the horizon. Stapler suspected the first attack would be around dawn. If not, then it meant they intended to wait them out. Let the sun do the work for them. It’s what he would do. Why risk lives when a little patience could do the job for you?
Gonzales and a couple of the riggers had unloaded the camels and the humvees last night. The supplies had been stuck with those unarmed behind the boulders at the rear of the camp. The water was buried near the boulders.
Awry bullets could hit the plastic containers, draining their sparse water supply and making their untenable position more untenable, if such a thing could be. If he were going to die. he’d would prefer not to die thirsty.
Private Cowboy Joe-Boy Henry had been doctored the best that they could do with the limited first aid kits they had. Abercombie had recovered the corpsman’s first aid kit before the Tauregs liberated it from the dead at the rig site. The Marines sometimes reminded Stapler of the French Foreign Legion, though he would have been hard pressed to explain. Sometimes those joining the Marines did so to escape something back home, something in their past they wanted to expunge. Of course, the Marine Corps never offered opportunities to change names or earn citizenship like the Legionnaires, but some still had secrets they kept to themselves.
One such secret surfaced With the wounding of Private Henry. Funny how nicknames have little relevance when someone is dying. Private Eric Sterling was a dropout of Virginia Institute of Medicine. Six months into me dica school and he hung it up! He had a bachelor’s degree: he could have gone to Officer Candidate School, if he had applied. The older private had never said a word about his medical training, nothing about his degree. In fact, when the man joined the platoon four months ago following boot camp, Stapler had interviewed the heavyset, dark haired man from Newnan, Georgia. The interview had gone like a trip to the dentist; any information Stapler wanted, he had to pull out of the quiet Marine. There was a story somewhere in why Sterling left the medical field so near to becoming a doctor and joined the Marines. Stapler’s curiosity would be satisfied, but he knew it would be long after they got out of this fix — if they got out of it.
Whatever the reason, it was probably not a nice one, which piqued his curiosity even more.
Sterling did what he could. He pulled the sides of the wound together, put in a few stitches to close the opening, and sprinkled antibiotic powders over it. He even gave the moaning, crying Henry — who muttered
“Momma” over an dover, until the man slid into unconsciousness — two shots: one for the pain and one for the infection. The bullet still lay somewhere in Cowboy’s left side. Sterling said from the way the blood ran, he believed the bullet missed the major veins and arteries. However, that was speculation, according to Sterling and, besides, he had no way of knowing how much internal damage the bullet had done to the insides of the thin Texan.
What Stapler was sure of was that Henry had lost a lot of blood. He knew because his cam mie shirt was soaked with it. He could have squeezed the shirt like a dishrag, and blood would have run out of it. The drying shirt lay across one of the two huge boulders behind him. Streaks, where Henry’s blood had seeped out of the shirt, ran down the red sides of the boulder. Stapler had little choice but to wear the shirt later. The other choice was to remained exposed to the Saharan sun and watch his tender, lily-white skin bake and burst until every bit of him looked like his hands. He picked it up. Even in the cool Saharan night, the shirt had dried. Where the blood had soaked it. the fabric bent between his fingers. Ah, to hell with it, he thought, and he braced his M-16 against the rock and put the shirt on. Hell of a time to be thinking of hygiene.
“Morning, Gunny,” Lieutenant Nolan said, approaching from behind the boulders.
Where have you been all night, LT? he asked himself, already knowing the answer.
Stapler acknowledged the greeting without saluting and turned toward the perimeter. Nolan fell in step with him.
“Miss. Forester is very scared, you know, Gunny,” Lieutenant Nolan said softly. “I know you haven’t hit it off with her, but she
is probably the youngest person we have in the convoy. I tried to reassure her everything would be all right. If you get a chance—”
“If she gets much more scared, you may not be able to walk,” Stapler interrupted. He spat to the side, pulled the last pack of Algerian cigarettes from his pocket, and cupped his hand to hide the flame as he lit one. The flame wouldn’t show with the sun about to crest the ridge. Christ, give me strength.
The lieutenant stared at Stapler, his looks questioning Stapler’s remarks.
Stapler shook his head. “It isn’t her who should be scared, LT.”
“Who then?”
He took a puff and blew the smoke away from the young officer. “It’s those goddamn Tauregs if they capture her. I think there is a Geneva Convention war crimes thing about civilians like her. We aren’t allowed to give them up voluntarily, and the enemy has to keep them.”
Stapler saw the LT open his mouth to speak. “Besides, LT, Catsup is the youngest. She just turned twenty last month. Miss. Sheila Anne Forester of Boston, Mass, is twenty.”
“It’s Philadelphia, Gunny, and she is two.”
Stapler leaned over the boulder where Private Henry lay on a blanket among the noncombatants. “How is he?” he asked Mary Coblen, one of the women riggers. He had discovered a lot about the two partners during this journey.
Most of it while Mary’s friend was suffering sunstroke.
Mary and her partner Dorothy — call me Dot, please — Meyran were from a small town in Ohio near Akron. Some place called Compact. Dot had been a teacher at a junior high school when word circulated among the parents about them. With the loss of her job looming in the near future, the two opted for elsewhere.
He never truly understood how the two came to work for Loffland Brothers in Algeria, Nevertheless, he had an appreciation for what Mary told him. Stapler spent as little time as possible in his hometown of Concord, North Carolina. Three days were about the maximum he could handle before cabin fever set in. Small towns roll the sidewalks up at nine every night — some places even earlier than Concord. If you didn’t have a job, weren’t involved in some sort of church function, or didn’t live close to your family, then you were one isolated son of a bitch. He took a deep drag on the fag, wondering what their situation would be if they survived until nightfall.
“Hi, Gunny, ” Mary and Dot replied almost simultaneously.
Dot looked at Mary and smiled.
“He’s still unconscious. Gunnery Sergeant,” Mary continued, patting Dot on the hand. “Dot gave him a few drops of water a couple of minutes ago. We don’t know if any made it down; some ran out of the corner of his mouth.”
He turned to Private Eric Sterling. Sterling leaned against the larger boulder to the right, the M-16 cradled in his lap. The Marine was cleaning his weapon with a torn off piece of green T-shirt. “Sterling?”
“He’s still unconscious, Gunny,” the Marine replied without stopping his cleaning or looking up at Stapler. He glanced at his watch. “Been out for about six hours now, but his breathing is steady and his pulse seems normal.”
Stapler waited for the ex-intern cum Marine to continue, and when he didn’t, he asked, “Well, Sterling, would you like to tell me what that means?”
Sterling looked up. In the growing light of day, Stapler saw the twinkle of moisture in the eyes of the Marine.
Sterling stuck his hand up and gave Stapler a thumbs down. The hand shook slightly before Sterling lowered it.
“That’s what it means, Gunny, unless we get him proper medical attention, and I don’t see us getting it out here, do you?” the private replied, his tone shaken and slightly belligerent.
Sterling tossed the piece of cloth aside. “Gunny, what in the hell are we doing here?” He rammed in the magazine, pushed it once toward the front until a click told him it was seated.
“Sterling, you know the answer to that as well as I do, and I don’t have the time to reply.” What in the hell were they doing out here? They weren’t supposed to be here.
They were supposed to be back on board the USS Kearsarge by now, relieving the Marines occupying Algiers. Shit, Sterling, I don’t know the answer any more than you do. It is times like these you wish you could turn the clock back.
Professor Walthers slid out of the nearby shadows.
“Gunnery Sergeant, maybe it would help if I went up there and talked to them? I do know a little about the Tau regs. Maybe I can convince them we are leaving their country. I can appeal to Islamic principles.”
“And what principles are those, Professor? They’ve already shot one of my men.” Unperturbed, Walthers continued, “Islamic precept says that when a visitor shows up at your abode, you are obligated to give him three days of hospitality and make sure he has provisions to continue his journey before he departs.”
Stapler tugged his left earlobe. “You think they believe we are visitors here?”
Professor Walthers ran his hand through his gray beard as he thought about the answer. “I don’t know, Gunny, but it may be worth a try.” “Professor,” Stapler said angrily. He ran his hand under his helmet and over his short, graying hair. “I’ll tell you this, sir, if the opportunity presents itself and we are still alive, then you can have your chance to try the ‘ come in peace’ routine with them. If you think they are going to buy it, you are living in an idealistic world, Professor.
This is the real world out there.” Stapler’s voice rose, causing others to look. He stopped, took a last drag on the cigarette, and stomped it out. “And that real world wants to kill us.”
The Professor’s mouth moved, but no reply emerged.
The LT stared at Stapler. There was no reason to go nuts on the professor. He took a couple of deep breaths. Keep calm. The Marines depended on him.
Stapler reached out and touched the elderly gentleman on the shoulder. “Sorry, Professor,” he said, shaking his head. He exhaled a deep sigh. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper, sir. I know you mean well, but let’s face it; they attacked us first and, since then, we have sent a lot of their kinfolk and friends onward and upward to Allah. We both have a blood debt that has yet to be fully collected. I don’t know much about how folks here in the Sahara react toward that, but where I come from, North Carolina, we wouldn’t believe a word you said.” “Jeff, are we going to get out of here?” Sheila asked, stepping carefully from behind the boulder, one hand on the gigantic rock to keep her balance in the sand. The sun and sand had taken its toll on the young woman’s natural beauty. Her hair hung disarrayed in strings matted to the side of her head. The petulant lips that so captivated men when they first saw her were covered with blisters, and the dirt from her face, washed off at the oasis, once again caked her cheeks.
Lieutenant Nolan smiled. Stapler’s stomach growled.
He wondered if Sterling had a shot hidden in that medical kit for stopping raging hormones.
“Of course we are, Sheila. You are protected by the finest the Marine Corps has to provide. Right, Gunny?”
“I’m protected by the only Marines provided,” she mumbled.
“Don’t worry, Hon … Miss. Forester, I am always within shouting distance and will personally keep an eye on you.”
Gag! Stapler rolled his eyes. He was going to throw up if this thicker-than-honey shit lasted much longer. “Sterling, keep an eye on Private Henry. You stay here; protect the noncombatants. We are going to be concentrating on keeping them out. If any get through, you take them under fire. Understand?”
Sterling nodded. “Sure, Gunny.”
“Just don’t shoot any of us. I’ll send an armed rigger back here to keep you company. If they get through the perimeter, there’s nothing to stop them except you until we can fall back here.”
“Thanks, Gunny. I work good under pressure,” Sterling replied unconvincingly.
“Good luck. And try not to shoot us while you’re shooting them.” Stapler turned and continued his round.
“Good luck to you,” Sterling mumbled.
Private Cathy “Catsup” Kellogg’s foxhole was next.
The young woman Marine had dug one six feet long in the sand and rocky clay. The uncovered rocks and those that surrounded her hole had been neatly stacked around the front of the pit. The hole was deep enough for her small frame. The two riggers — one on each side — were digging away the back so they could lie down behind the makeshift wall in front.
“Gunny, how is Cowboy?” she asked as soon as she saw Stapler approaching.
“Not too good, Catsup, but Sterling is doing all he can.” Done all he could is what Sterling had done and, Sorry, young lady, I don’t think Cowboy is going to be with us much longer. What a hell of a place to discover young love, he thought. But gunnery sergeants were paid to be positive. Let’s not complicate her thoughts about Cowboy Joe-Boy right now. Not this close to combat. Not before a hundred pissed-off Tauregs rode down on them like some apparition out of Lawrence of Arabia. A week ago, he didn’t even know what a Taureg was. He wished it had stayed that way.
“Kellogg, make every shot count.”
She patted three grenades at the bottom of the foxhole.
“Ain’t they gonna be surprised when we begin playing baseball with these things, Gunny.”
“Wait until I give the signal before throwing them, Kellogg, and make sure they go farther than the one you threw six feet at Lejeune.”
“She will, Gunny,” Bearcat Jordan said from the left side of her. “And we’ll make them eat lead.”
“Sorry, Mr. Jordan, I didn’t recognize you.”
Bearcat pulled the loose shirt away from his body.
“Story of my life, Gunny. I finally lose this potbelly, and look where we’re at. Not much of a chance to impress the women of Denver with it,” he said, laughing. He stopped digging, wiped the sweat from his forehead and leaned on the shovel as he talked with Stapler.
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