“Hey GI, you want boom-boom maybe?” piped MacCallum as he jumped heavily into the bunker occupied by Smith, Ferris, and Downs. He was greeted by a flurry of obscene gestures and vulgar suggestions. “Does that mean no?” he asked innocently.
“Eat shit and die, asshole. How are Samson and the other fallen heroes?” asked Downs.
“Doc says they’ll live, but Samson has been flown out to the Iwo Jima so the real doctors can peep out his foot. How else are they gonna get their Navy Achievement Medals?”
“Jesus, Mac, you’re a salty bastard. You been hanging around that boot Downs too much,” said Smith.
“My protégé,” chimed in Downs, “so when will we see those other skates, Mac?”
“Company gunny says they’ll all be back tomorrow. But we’re not due for another patrol until Saturday. So I guess we got tomorrow off.” All the Marines looked at each other, then burst into laughter.
“Shee-it! With that sandbag-happy bastard we got for a first shirt, I’d rather make a patrol, even if I have to volunteer for it,” Ferris said, shaking his head in amazement and contemplating Mac’s optimism. “Man, we haven’t seen a day off since Christ was a corporal, Mac. I’m not even sure they really exist anymore.”
“Yeah, they exist alright,” added Downs, “but only for those with the rank of Staff NCO and above.”
“What exists for Staff NCOs and officers?” asked Griffin, as he appeared in the narrow sandbagged entry to the bunker.
“A day of rest and recreation for us, Sergeant Griffin,” Mac said. “I asked the company gunny what the patrol schedule was and he said the poop at the head shed is first platoon has tomorrow off. Sort of a mini liberty call, Beirut style.”
Griffin shared a conspiratorial grin with Ferris before addressing the group further. “Well, I hate to interrupt your liberty run, Mac, but the first shirt has arranged a little party for us tomorrow. And the last time I checked the chain of command, the first shirt was still in charge of the company, Staff Sergeant Whitney was still in charge of the platoon, and I’m still in charge of first squad. The company gunny will take whoever he needs from first platoon to fill sandbags, but our squad has drawn the listening post for tonight. Corporal Downs, your team is going out. Have them ready by nineteen-thirty tonight. See me about comm gear, flares, and anything else you think you’ll need. We’ll go over the set up a little later.”
Downs acknowledged Griffin with a nod and withdrew from the conversation to think about the night’s assignment. Although initially flattered that Griffin had selected his fireteam for the listening post, he couldn’t be sure it was not due to the fact that Griffin wanted to spare his senior corporals the monotony of a night spent on an LP.
Downs silently considered the wisdom of a listening post. The strategy was to place a four-man fireteam a short distance in front of the company’s night defensive perimeter. The purpose was to provide the company with advance warning of an enemy attack, with the listening post directing supporting arms onto the intruders if possible. Downs judged the reasoning sound, but the assignment itself difficult and possibly extremely dangerous. Although he didn’t really expect any trouble from the villagers, or even the various militias, Downs hated having his fireteam positioned directly in front of their own perimeter. If the company came under attack its outgoing fire would be aimed primarily in his direction.
Forty-five minutes after exiting the company perimeter under the watchful eyes of Griffin, Downs had selected a spot he felt reasonably secure, below the company’s line of fire, and settled the team. He made the required comm check with the company command post and mentally prepared for a long night. Speaking in the lowest possible whisper he leaned toward the other three Marines and said, “Everyone awake until midnight, then Mac and I will take the first two-hour shift. We’ll alternate that way until dawn.” As soon as he had finished he felt foolish. He had gone over the conduct of the watches before leaving the wire, and no further explanation was needed, especially here when the slightest sound could betray their position.
Downs flattened himself against the ground and faced the village some four hundred yards to the east. He noted with approval the actions of the three others. All of them had pressed themselves into the hard-baked earth and sparse knee-high grass. Anyone passing within six feet of them would probably walk past without being aware of their presence.
He turned to his left and nodded slightly to Mac, less than a yard away, sprawled comfortably on the ground, rifle across his forearms. Mac smiled back, but Downs could only make out the whites of his teeth and eyes. The rest of him appeared only as an indistinct dark silhouette, somehow more dense than the shadows forming the background. To Downs’s right sat Ferris, then Smith. Ferris caught his eye and gave a slight thumbs-up motion. Downs acknowledged it with a nod, and had to make an effort not to smile. The other two members of the four-man fireteam were lean, good-natured cousins from Georgia. They had enlisted almost three years before on what the Marine Corps referred to as the “buddy plan,” a recruiting gimmick designed to allow buddies to stick together throughout their first tour of duty.
Downs allowed himself a grin as he contemplated Ferris and Smith. The two of them seemed to accept whatever conditions they found themselves in without complaint. They didn’t question the reasons for the Marine Corps’ involvement, and hence their own, in Lebanon. They simply did what they could to accomplish the task at hand without serious questioning or contemplation.
In both demeanor and looks the cousins were a great deal alike. Each of them was well over six feet tall and more than once on a battalion forced march Downs had envied them their ground-eating stride. No amount of hardship ever outwardly affected the two, and even in the worst of circumstances Downs had listened as they laughed over some shared experience from their childhood in Georgia. Both of them had been Marines longer than Downs, and he had thought this might be a source of resentment when he had been promoted to corporal over them. Instead, both Ferris and Smith had congratulated him, chiding him about being a “boot” corporal at length.
The four remained on an informal first name basis that Downs knew grated Griffin. He and Mac had come through boot camp and Infantry Training Regiment together, and Mac remained his only confidant in the squad. Downs looked again at Mac, noting that Mac was facing away from him, scanning the village for signs of movement, listening for sounds that might mean someone from the village was approaching. With his soft-spoken manner Downs knew that Mac would leave the Marine Corps without ever becoming an NCO. He was a quiet boy who had joined to prove something to himself, and Downs understood that his friend, although proud of being a Marine, would leave upon completing his enlistment.
Downs realized that he knew the members of his fireteam better than boys he had grown up with, or even his own brothers. He knew that if he were to leave this minute and not see them again for years, he would still recognize their silhouettes in the dark, or the rhythm of their steps in a quiet hallway. As the darkness crowded around them, Downs felt the village quiet down for the night. Engine noises from cars gradually ceased, and the murmur of voices died away. The only noise beyond the usual night sounds was the soft click of Mac pressing the transmit button on the radio receiver to make his periodic check with the company.
At 0200 Downs woke Ferris and passed the radio to him. After allowing a few minutes for Ferris and Smith to become fully alert, he began to relax. He felt sleep coming on as Ferris whispered his first comm check. Downs rolled onto his back and gazed at the stars, comforted by the steady breathing of Mac. As he retreated into his own thoughts he remained alert to the sounds and smells around him, but his mind drifted to another place.
He allowed himself only a few minutes each day to think of her, always hating himself for it. He husbanded these moments carefully, his mind playing back scenes of her. He needed the comfort these images provided, resenting himself for being weak and needing her. Lying there on his back, his eyes no longer focused, he saw only her. Every detail of her came back to him, her scent, the clothes she wore, the slightly crooked smile, her frailties, the grace of her movements. The daydream absorbed him and for a few minutes he was a different Downs, unencumbered by the heavy boots, flak jacket, and rifle. His own callousness, discovered at Parris Island, melted away. He no longer felt the need for the ordered existence the Marines so readily provided. She smiled her mysterious smile and he smiled back.
They had spent the summer before he left for the Marine Corps together. He had known her his entire life, and for as far back as either of them could remember they had shared a silent understanding. They had never actually had a first date, they had merely remained together as they grew up, their shared childhood merging slowly into something different. Nothing could have been more natural. She had always been a part of his day, and a part of his thoughts.
Downs blinked as a familiar sound registered vaguely in his brain. Familiar and nonthreatening, but alarmingly loud in the stillness of the night. She disappeared and Lebanon returned with a rush. Downs heard a low chuckle from the direction of Ferris and Smith and concluded that the noise had been that of air rushing into the vacuum of a soda can. Before he could realize his worst suspicions, the unmistakable smell of warm beer reached him. Muttering a low “shit” he glared at the spot in the darkness where he imagined Ferris to be. “I can’t fucking believe you two! Now pour that shit out! Jesus fucking Christ!” he said in a harsh whisper. Ferris smiled into the darkness, took a gigantic swallow of warm beer, and belched. Smith chuckled and Downs swore, “Pour the shit out now!” he said.
“Relax, Steve. It’s just a beer, man,” drawled Ferris.
“I don’t give a flying shit. Pour it out, man. I don’t need this bullshit, and since when do you bring fucking beer on post, you asshole?”
“Christ, Steve, it’s just my lousy ration of beer, man. I ain’t drunk and the Lesbos are all crashed for the night.” Ferris’s voice reached Downs, low and husky, but with a chiding quality that wasn’t lost on him. He knew that he was being tested by the cousins who had more time in the Marine Corps than he did. He also knew that one beer each wouldn’t affect the performance of Ferris or Smith, and both of them considered the whole idea of an LP asinine and useless. To their minds they were simply making the best of a bad situation. Downs restrained a sigh of relief as he heard the remainder of the beer gurgle out of the can and onto the ground. “Thanks, asshole,” he muttered.
“No problem, Corporal Downs,” came the sarcastic reply from Ferris, “although I do hate to waste perfectly good beer.” For the remainder of the night Downs fumed in silence. Although he knew that Ferris had intended no harm he was furious that he had brought beer on post. He was also resentful of being placed in the dilemma of what to do about the whole matter. To do nothing might only encourage the cousins to pull similar stunts in the future. If he chose to report the incident to Sergeant Griffin he was relieved of the responsibility but probably at the cost of harmony within his team. Downs also knew that Ferris and Smith felt a bond of kinship, a fraternal affection formed during long forced marches and shared hardships. He hated to betray that bond by reporting them to Griffin. The easiest thing to do would be to assign them some sort of extra duty, but that couldn’t be done without attracting the attention of Griffin. As dawn broke Downs was still undecided as to just what action to take.
The team made radio contact with Griffin who met them at a predesignated spot in the company wire. As the four filed past, Griffin attempted to catch Downs’s eye and ask how things had gone. “Boring,” was the only reply from Downs, who carefully avoided looking into Griffin’s face. Griffin was quick to catch the unsure tone in Downs’s voice as well as the hasty exchange of glances between Downs and Ferris. As the other three moved off to drop their gear and find a few hours sleep Downs felt Griffin bearing down on him. “What happened out there that I should know about, Corporal Downs?” asked Griffin.
Downs noted the almost conciliatory tone in Griffin’s voice. He hesitated before answering, still unsure of the proper role for himself. “Nothing. The usual boring LP shit,” he answered. Downs moved to the faucets at the front of a five hundred-gallon water bull and began to draw a helmet full of tepid water. He splashed his face from the half-full helmet, feeling a layer of grit and oil dissolve beneath his grimy hands. The water ran down his neck and dribbled into the steamy green T-shirt under his camouflage blouse and flak jacket.
“Look, Downs,” began Griffin, “you’re gonna have to do better than that. Something here is fucked up and I want to know what it is.”
“I can handle this, Sergeant Griffin. Isn’t that the idea behind my promotion to corporal?”
“That’s for me to decide. Now give me the breakdown on what went on out there. If I think it’s better left to you, then fine, you get to handle it. If not, just remember that your team, including you, is part of my squad.”
Downs continued to splash his face, feeling the stubble of beard and the clamminess of his T-shirt. The words came out with a rush, not really a conscious decision, and Downs struggled to retain an emotionless quality to his voice. “Ferris and Smith brought a beer out on post. I heard ’em open it, but I made ’em pour it out. No big deal. You know those two, they just wanted to fuck with the boot corporal. Good ole boy shit.”
“They did what?” asked an incredulous Griffin. Downs bent to cup one hand under the faucet and drank. As the water began to splash into the gritty muck below he shot a smile at Griffin and laughed, “Yeah, guess the boys from Gawgh-ah figured it was Miller time,” said Downs imitating the drawl of the two cousins. “It was just the one beer.”
“I’ll give them fucking Miller time,” said Griffin. “You go find those shit birds and tell them I said come see me. Jesus fucking Christ, Downs, what the hell was going on out there?”
“C’mon, Sergeant Griffin. You know those two. Why don’t you just let me take care of this? No real harm was done. It’s just their way of testing me. You know, boot corporal tryouts. I need to handle this, not you. If you do it they’ll just think it’s because I couldn’t handle it.”
“Bullshit, Downs. Both of them know this is carrying it too far. I oughta go to the platoon sergeant with this. Goddamn it! He’d bust both of them back to private and he’d be right. You just go tell those two to come see me, and you make sure you’re with them. Got that?”
“Yeah, I got it, but I still don’t think it’s the right decision.” Downs slapped his helmet liner into the steel helmet and filled a canteen, debating whether or not to pursue the question further with Griffin, but still not looking at him. He didn’t know Griffin well enough to decide if he was really angry or just doing what he saw as the right thing. Downs turned to go back toward the squad’s tent and find Ferris and Smith, almost colliding with the company first sergeant. A feeling of liquid electricity moved through Downs’s stomach as the first sergeant stood glaring at him, hands on his hips, “Corporal Downs, collect your fireteam and be in my office in five minutes. You can expect to go up on charges, mister.”
Downs returned the contemptuous stare of the first sergeant, not trying to mask his own anger and said evenly, “Aye, aye, First Sergeant.” Without further comment the first sergeant spun on one highly polished boot heel and strode off, his back ramrod straight in a freshly starched set of camouflage utilities. As Griffin nudged past Downs he said under his breath, “Air wing motherfucker.” Downs almost smiled.