“Shit, Steve, I knew the Rock Man wouldn’t do us in. Me and Jimmy been in the company since before he was. Anyway, he knew we was just havin’ a little fun out there.” Downs shot an exasperated glance at Smith, who continued to shovel sand into the mouth of the bag being held open by Ferris. “Yeah, ol’ Captain Ward was gonna let us go with just the loss of pay if it wasn’t for the first shirt. He’s the one seen to it we got all this extra duty. Rock Man knows we can’t spend any money out here anyway. Shit, Jimmy, you remember the first shirt’s face? He was so mad he almost spit on the Rock Man!”
At this both cousins chuckled and Ferris screwed his face into a grimace and imitated the first sergeant, “Captain, I insist these men be given extra duty at my discretion!” Ferris and Smith burst into uncontrolled laughter and Downs tried not to smile before adding, “He did look just a bit disappointed, didn’t he?” All three of them again laughed and Downs wondered silently at the ability of the other two to find humor in an incident he could only view as humiliating.
They returned to filling the bag as Mac ambled up, smiling broadly. “You boys sure are one happy-extra-duty-sandbag-filling work party. I’d like to help, but I’m not sure the first sergeant would appreciate my efforts.”
“Aw, c’mon on over and lend a hand, Mac,” drawled Ferris. “We’re all just one big happy family. First sergeant knows that.”
Ferris grinned at Smith, who winked and added, “Yeah, ain’t there something on our Band of Brothers cards about always rendering assistance to fellow Marines? I bet the first shirt would understand. Hell, he might even help us himself if ol’ Corporal Downs was to explain it to him that way. You know, us being a Band of Brothers and all.”
“Yeah, I just bet he would,” answered Downs as he took the canteen proffered by Mac, passing the other to Smith. As he drank, Downs thought about the Band of Brothers card jokingly referred to by Smith. The card listed a code of honor for all Marines, printed on a small yellow wallet size card and emblazoned back and front with the Marine Corps emblem. The cards, and slogan, had suddenly appeared around the division when Downs was a private, undoubtedly the brainchild of some public affairs officer. Both had been heartily embraced by the division commander, an old Marine risen from the ranks who sought some means of closing the gap between his young troops and his too often arrogant officers. He had quickly issued an order making the card a uniform item, requiring individual Marines to carry it on their person at all times. The first sergeant was fond of stopping Marines in the company and ordering them to produce their cards. He had even gone so far as to have the company clerks laminate one card for every man in the unit, thus assuring the cards unmarred survival in the wallets of the Marines. Downs snorted and mumbled to himself, “Sort of like a Marine Corps Ten Commandments.”
“What’s that, Steve?” asked Mac.
“I was just saying those Band of Brothers cards are just like a Marine Corps version of the Ten Commandments.”
“Oh. I guess so,” smiled Mac, not really knowing if Downs was being sarcastic. “Anyway, I came over to tell you there is a company formation at sixteen-hundred this afternoon. And the first shirt, or Moses if you prefer, has specifically requested your presence.”
“I’d be delighted, Mac,” said Downs. “You tell him I said that.” Mac shook his head and said, “Formation in fifteen minutes. I wouldn’t be late if I was you guys. Some people might not understand, you know?” He ambled off in the direction of the company area where men were beginning to form ranks.
As Mac took his place in the formation, he nodded to Sergeant Griffin. Griffin watched the dirty men shuffle into formation, wary looks on their faces. A gritty layer of red dust covered them from head to foot. Their camouflage uniforms showed worn spots from the constant friction of body armor and various pieces of web gear. The once-new flak jackets were faded from exposure to the summer sun and stained by the sweat from countless patrols. Scuffed and torn boots augmented the wrinkled, hand-washed uniforms. Only the weapons of the Marines carried a semblance of newness. Rifles and machine guns appeared black and well-oiled, a menacing extension of each man’s arm.
As every man not then on duty slowly found his proper place in the ranks, Griffin listened to the idle remarks and comments. He had known most of these boys since their arrival in the company. Formations were usually preceded by a good deal of friendly banter between individuals and platoons. Now the Marines appeared unusually quiet, almost sullen. As Griffin stood in ranks, Staff Sergeant Whitney approached and nodded to him. Griffin nodded his hello without speaking, noting Whitney’s squared away appearance. Griffin silently studied Whitney, noting his rugged features, and the slightly worn look of his uniform. Griffin almost smiled as he realized the staff sergeant deliberately hinted at disaffection by his appearance. Griffin knew that Whitney was squared away, and that he just as deliberately did things that drew the ire of the company first sergeant.
The staff sergeant turned to Griffin and said quietly, “I suppose we can expect a sermon from on high this afternoon.”
“This is going to get ugly, that’s for sure,” said Griffin.
“Yep,” said Whitney. “No time to be one of the little people. Any idea why the first sergeant had the beer and soda stacked up like that?” asked Whitney. “I don’t mind it warm, Sergeant Griffin, but I don’t see any reason to put it out in the sun and cook it,” he said amicably.
“I don’t know. No fucking telling, but it ain’t a good sign,” said Griffin, shifting his gaze to the large canvas covered rectangle in front of the formation. Working parties had spent half the morning moving the cases of beer and soda from the sandbagged tent that served as a makeshift enlisted club for the company to their present location. Marine Corps policy was to issue one beer or soda per day per man to troops in combat zones. At the “suggestion” of the company first sergeant the Marines had agreed to pay fifty cents per beer or soda. The idea being to use the cash raised to purchase beer and soda locally and thereby ensure a plentiful supply for the whole company. The idea had worked so well that it had been emulated by the other rifle companies as well as the headquarters units. Much to the chagrin of individual Marines, a limit of two beers per man per day had been instituted. The practice of saving beer had quickly been adopted, often resulting in weekend hooch parties in the bunkers of various squads.
Although this practice didn’t escape the attention of the platoon sergeants, they realized the frustration and boredom that was rampant among their troops. Five months of unending heat and monotonous patrolling had begun to have its effect. For the duration of their deployment in Beirut the Marines had had no diversions other than each other’s company and the nightly firefights between various armies and militia in the surrounding hills. Although a few men had been selected for liberty runs to Greece or Turkey, the numbers were so small as to be barely noticeable. The inevitable result had been the flaring of tempers and the occasional fistfight. The most vicious of these were often among the closest friends. All the older NCOs feared a lowering of morale and were willing to overlook the hooch parties, trusting the corporals and sergeants not to let them get out of hand. As far as Griffin knew, none of them had. The logical assumption was that the first shirt was going to make some sort of example of Downs, Smith, and Ferris.
Griffin wondered what angle the first sergeant would take with the company as he assumed a loose position of parade rest at the head of first squad. He casually studied the first sergeant who stood with one polished boot resting on the stack of beer and soda. Griffin noted the immaculately pressed camouflage, fresh haircut, and shiny boots. As he took in the polished holster slung across the first sergeant’s chest Sam Browne-fashion Griffin had to repress a smirk. It was common knowledge in the battalion that the first sergeant had come from an air wing unit. Well, thought Griffin, not good, but not necessarily bad in and of itself. Only this first sergeant had something to prove. He had arrived an unknown quantity, and proven himself an inadequate troop handler. Not the air wing’s fault, mused Griffin, the man is just an ass. Small, petty, and mean in every sense of the word. Now he’s in charge of a company, he’s got all the junior officers buffaloed into believing his way is the only way, and the staff NCOs have no choice but to go along with the program. The Rock Man will set him straight, but the company will have to pay a little bit first, he reasoned.
Griffin watched through narrowed eyes as the first sergeant drew himself up in front of the formation, hands on his hips, gazing not at them but through them. Arrogant bastard, thought Griffin, they see you for what you are, not what you want to be, and you loathe them for it. Well, these boys have had about enough of your bullshit mister, so don’t push too hard. As if to confirm his thoughts Griffin heard one or two suppressed chuckles and the unmistakable sound of someone breaking wind. He exchanged a quick glance with Whitney, who seemed to be having a hard time controlling his own urge to laugh.
The first sergeant was livid. He called the formation to attention and the harsh note of the “AH-TEN-HUT” was made shrill by the outrage in his voice. “Fine girls. You think this shit is funny do you? Fine. As of this moment all liberty is secured. There will be no more drinking in the enlisted club for sergeants, corporals, or non-rates. All men not on duty will be assigned to working parties. I will personally supervise these working parties gentlemen, and you will work. Any man I find who is not on duty or on a working party will be brought up on charges for dereliction of duty. There will be no more gambling or card playing of any sort. No Marine will be in his rack or hooch during duty hours. I have been too soft on this fucking company for too long. Just because you have been ashore in Beirut for a few months and heard a few shots fired you little shits think you have the right to be salty.”
The first sergeant glared at the formation of Marines who stared back in sullen silence. “Bullshit!” he screamed. “Certain officers and staff NCOs in this battalion think it is their duty to tell you what a fine job you have been doing, what good Marines you have been. How well you have handled a difficult and dangerous assignment. Well, I am here to tell you girls the truth. I was in the Marine Corps when they were in high school. That’s right, while they were fucking Suzy back home in the backseat of Daddy’s car I was fighting a real war. In Vietnam. And let me tell you little ladies something else, the VC would have eaten your lunch. You’re lucky the only potential enemy you have is these fucked-up rag-heads. Otherwise half of you would be dead by now. You fuckers think this is all some sort of joke. You think you run this company, that you are this company. Wrong fucking answer, ladies! I run this company and I am this company! From this moment on I am going to tighten your collective shit up. A fireteam from first platoon actually had a little party the other night. That’s right. They just brought a six-pack with them out on an LP and made a party of it. Well, that won’t happen again. Not in my company, am I understood?”
Without waiting for any sort of acknowledgment the first sergeant tore at the oily tarp that covered the stacked cases of beer and soda. As it fell to the ground Griffin noted three axes lying on top of the cases. The first sergeant picked up an ax and swung viciously at the cans of beer, as if by attacking them he could defeat his own inadequacies. After a furious flurry of swings the first sergeant turned to face the formation again. The front of his uniform was covered by beer, and Griffin noted the spittle at the corners of his mouth as he screamed for the company clerks to come forward and finish the job. While the clerks demolished the stacked cases the first sergeant stood over them, ordering them not to leave a single can intact. He continued to glare at the formation, which remained locked in a rigid position of attention.
The last cans were smashed as Captain Rock and two of the lieutenants arrived from a briefing at battalion. As the jeep rolled to a stop the three of them got out.
Griffin noted a slight break in the rhythm of Captain Ward’s stride as he marched past the formation on the way to his tent. Although Ward had not so much as looked at the formation Griffin knew he had been taken by surprise. So now the uneasy truce between the company commander and the first sergeant would be broken. And Griffin, Downs, and the remainder of Alpha Company would be caught in the middle.
As dusk turned to nightfall, Downs sat on a pile of sandbags in front of the bunker that he, Mac, Smith, and Ferris had labored most of the day to reinforce. He sat with his back to the company and watched the last rays of a setting sun play against the dark green of the Lebanese mountains, which rose dramatically before him some five kilometers to the east. As the sun reflected in the windows of the houses tucked against the mountains, and the dark began to settle upon him like a protective mantle, Downs allowed the pent-up tension and anger to fall away. Each word spoken by the first sergeant had hit him like a hammer blow. He had felt humiliated, deliberately and maliciously humiliated, during the length of the first sergeant’s tirade. Downs was able to concentrate on the scene before him only briefly. Always his mind brought him back to the first sergeant. He longed for the darkness to close around him, as if it were a physical barrier that would separate him from the company. Then he would think. He would decide what his reaction to the first sergeant should be.
Downs’s mind raced ahead to her. A pang of emotion struck him at the mere thought of her. At least she hadn’t witnessed this day and his humiliation. He struggled to push her from his thoughts. He wanted to clear his mind of the first sergeant and Lebanon before he thought of her. Downs knew he needed the quiet and the solitude to recover his dignity. Then he would think of her and somehow things would seem better. He fingered his watch and wondered what time of day it was back home, what she would be doing right now. He wondered if she ever did the same and the thought that she had forgotten him crept into his mind and he felt a familiar tightening in his throat.
His hand slipped into his cargo pocket and he touched her last letter. Before he could pull it out and read it in the fading light he heard the familiar footsteps of Mac. From the far side of the bunker he heard him ask, “Steve?”
“Yeah,” he answered.
“How goes it, man?” said Mac.
“It goes, Mac, it goes,” he said.
“Fucked-up day, man,” Mac said, lowering himself to the ground next to Downs. Mac stared at the sandbag between his feet without looking at his friend. Downs continued to stare ahead, as if transfixed by some unseen drama on a faraway stage. Mac gathered loose pebbles into a pile and followed Downs’s gaze toward the mountains. “Steve?” he began.
“Let’s just sit for awhile, Mac. Okay? You know, man. No talking. Just enjoy the scene.” He silently replaced her letter in his pocket. “God, this place can be so beautiful at times.” As the details of the city before them faded into the darkness, lights from houses began to shine, emulating the smaller, purer light of the stars that now appeared above the ridgeline. Soon the mountains dissolved into dark, formless shapes, sprinkled with light from the houses. The sounds of the Marines in the company came to them, softened by the twilight. They could make out the occasional word, but the voices were just an indistinct murmur. In the distance they could hear a tank or amtrac turn its engine over, and the metallic clinking of the treads was audible to them as the huge machine moved out of earshot.
Downs let out a long sigh as his friend strained to see him through the darkness. “You know, Steve, this place is beautiful. I never saw mountains like this before I came here. I wonder why these people have to fight all the time?”
“Maybe they fight because it is so beautiful. Who knows why anyone fights anyone else?” said Downs. “Maybe they want something somebody else has.” As Downs spoke a long burst of machine-gun fire floated across the mountainside in front of them. The red tracers bunched together before striking their target and splintering off in a hundred directions. From somewhere down the Marine line Downs and Mac heard laughter and faint applause.
“Time for the evening show, man,” said Mac. As if on cue an answering burst of tracer made its way across the mountain in the opposite direction. Faintly, the heavy thumping of the gun’s report came to them, and was joined by the pop of small arms fire. A dozen glowing lights rose over the ridgeline in front of the Marines, then sputtered out.
“Rockets,” mumbled Mac. Almost instantly a dozen explosions appeared as ugly yellow flashes of flame against the mountainside, each briefly illuminating the area it struck. As the reports rolled down the hillside the small arms fire steadily increased, as did the cheering and catcalls of the young Marines. From the southern end of the airport came the heavy rumbling of tanks and armored personnel carriers. “Sound as if the LAF is going to join the fight,” said Mac.
“Well, I’m not so sure, they usually stay clear of this stuff,” remarked Downs. He had been aware of movement in the Lebanese Army encampment south of the Marine position, but had discounted their active participation in any conflict. Now he could make out the shouting of the Arab soldiers, and though the words were indistinct and foreign, Downs had been a Marine long enough to recognize commands given in any language. He climbed to the roof of the bunker, hoping the added few inches of height would enable him to see what was taking place in the LAF camp.
Griffin approached from Downs’s rear, and seeing the corporal standing atop the bunker he said, “Why don’t you just paint a fuckin’ bull’s-eye on the back of that flak jacket, Corporal Downs?”
“Yeah, right, Sergeant Griffin. I will tomorrow. What’s up with our friends in the LAF?” Downs stepped off the roof of the bunker and turned toward Griffin, his face flushed with embarrassment at having foolishly exposed himself to enemy fire in front of the big sergeant.
“Nobody’s sure, but word has it that they have a company of Rangers in some little village up on the ridgeline that has been cut off for a couple of days and is about to be overrun. The going theory is that these guys down at the Khaldeh camp are going up in force to get them out.”
“No shit, huh?” asked Downs. “Think they can pull it off?”
Griffin cast a quick glance in the direction of the Lebanese. “Well, that’s anybody’s guess, there isn’t any way to tell if they’re even really serious about trying, is there?” As the two spoke the far end of the airport was brilliantly illuminated by the spotlight from an LAF tank. The light swung wildly about the lower reaches of the hillside as the Lebanese column inched out of its camp. Young Marines along the length of the line began to shout their encouragement, holding their weapons aloft and signaling to the Lebanese soldiers, most of whom appeared somewhat sheepish to Downs.
“There they go,” said Mac. The column made its way up the hillside, the Marines marking its progress by the searchlight of the point tank, and the occasional fire from nervous gunners. Houses that lay along the road chosen by the tank commander extinguished their lights long before the first vehicles had them in view.
Down shook his head and swore, “Jesus, I hope they have enough sense to put infantry out in front of those tanks.”
“I don’t think so,” said Griffin, “the whole column is moving too fast. Maybe they know the area and it’s friendly, or maybe they just think the other guys will take a look at the column and decide to back down.”
“You mean discretion being the better part of valor?” asked Downs smiling.
“Yeah, Downs, you fucking professor. That’s what I meant,” said Griffin, shaking his head and laughing to himself.
“We’ll see shortly I guess,” Downs laughed back.
Mac glanced toward the sea, and noting the two warships maneuvering closer to shore he said to no one in particular, “What do you suppose they want?”
Griffin and Downs both looked to see the ships turn in unison and parallel the Lebanese coast barely two thousand yards from the beach. Before either of them could speak the ship in the lead began firing from its forward gun mount. Seconds later the second ship also began firing, the sound of the shells arcing through the air clearly audible to the Marines ashore.
For a few moments none of the Marines spoke, then the sound of the Marines yelling their encouragement could be heard. Bored by days of endless patrolling and ceaseless watches stood at all hours, the Marines welcomed any relief from their routine. Griffin shook his head and said, “Well, this is just about the dumbest thing the navy could have done.”
“Why is that, Sergeant Griffin?” asked Mac. “We can’t just stand by and let those guys from the LAF take it in the shorts, not when we’ve got all this firepower.”
“Why not, MacCallum? Who the hell are we anyway? These people been killing each other for a long time before we got here. What’s a few more either way matter to us?”
Downs faced the big sergeant then said, “We came here for a reason, Sergeant Griffin.”
Before he could finish Griffin cut him off, “No, Downs. Not for this. Don’t you see? Now we’re taking sides. Once the navy shells targets for the LAF or anybody else we’ve chosen a side. And whether or not we like it we’re going to be a part of this. You don’t have to be a genius to understand how a fight works. Jesus, any idiot on the street in New York can tell you to stay out of someone else’s fight. We’ve got nothing to gain here and everything to lose.”
“I don’t think we came ashore just to sit and watch,” said Downs. “There has to be more to it than that.”
“Well, Downs,” said Griffin as he turned to go. “You can bet the guys on the receiving end of those shells think there’s more to it than that now.” Griffin shook his head in obvious disgust. “We’re not bystanders anymore. You can mark my words on that.”