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 do 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.”
“And your orders as far as engaging the locals?”
“I was instructed to obey and adhere to the Rules of Engagement at all times during the operation and not to draw attention to my unit or operations, sir.”
“And do you feel you accomplished that task, Sergeant?” asked Simmons.
“Yes, sir. I do.”
“Very good, Sergeant Griffin,” said Simmons. “Now I would like to move on a bit. When you arrived at the position, at what point did you become aware that one of the vehicles was down due to mechanical failure?”
Griffin paused, trying to remember at what point Slocum had told him of the down six-by. “Maybe fifteen minutes after we were in the area, sir. Approximately.”
“And who informed you of this?”
“Sergeant Slocum did, sir. As the senior NCO present and the effective six, sir.”
“And did you personally inspect the down vehicle, Sergeant?”
“No, sir. I did not,” answered Griffin.
“Why not, Sergeant? Didn’t it occur to you to at least have a look at it?”
“It probably did, sir. But at the time I had just arrived with my squad and my primary concern was with the integrity of the defensive perimeter and the overall defensibility of the position. A down vehicle is secondary under those considerations, sir.”
Simmons hesitated, Griffin’s tone was respectful if a bit angry. He understood that the big sergeant had just been doing his job, but his own job was to determine exactly what had taken place on that hill. The Old Man was breathing down his neck over the whole incident and Slocum’s refusal to answer questions wasn’t going to make things any easier when he gave his daily report in the colonel’s quarters. “That’s correct, Sergeant Griffin,” he said, regretting it as soon as he said it. Griffin was known as probably the best sergeant in the battalion. The last thing he wanted to do here was appear to be condescending toward him on a tactical matter. For a moment he silently wished that Griffin had elected to keep his mouth shut like Slocum. Maybe then the whole thing would just die on the vine. He might even get a night’s rest without tossing until three in the morning wondering if he were doing the right thing or just playing a patsy to the Alpha Company first sergeant. “Let’s continue, Sergeant. At what point were you approached by the local militia leader? Assuming that’s what he was.”
“Sometime that morning, sir. I’m not exactly sure when, fairly early.”
“I see,” said Simmons as the other members of the board leaned forward intent on the next series of questions. “And what took place between you and that militia leader?”
“He ordered us off of his hill, sir. He said something about it belonging to the people of Lebanon and the Marines being imperialist. And that he was here to get us off the hill even if he had to kill all of us.”
“And what was your response, Sergeant Griffin?”
Griffin looked at the young captain as he thought what his answer should be. After only a moment’s hesitation he decided that it just didn’t matter any longer, it was finished. He was sick and tired of the game and he wanted no part of it. He wanted to be done with it and on with the court-martial if that was what they had in mind. “I told him to fuck off, sir.”
Simmons looked again at the young sergeant. He resisted the urge to warn Griffin against showing a lack of respect, fearing the man would just get angry and refuse to answer any further questions. He paused for a few moments struggling to think of his next question, searching for the words that would elicit the answer he wanted. Finally he looked at Griffin and asked, “Sergeant Griffin, why don’t you just tell the board what happened and why. Maybe that will save us all a lot of time and effort.”
Griffin drew a deep breath and began, “Sir, the Arab came up the road to our position and demanded that we get off the hill. He stated that we were violating Lebanese law or some other thing like that. When I said we wouldn’t leave he got smart with me and started sayin’ a bunch of crap about how he would knock us off the hill. I refused to abandon my position and told him to get the hell off my hill, sir.”
“Is that when you hit him, Sergeant?” asked Lieutenant Walters.
Griffin cast a wary glance at the lieutenant and said, “No, sir. I hit him when he spit on me and said he spit on the Marine Corps and everything it stood for. Including our colors that were flying from the roof of the building at the time.” Griffin looked at the members of the board who seemed somewhat surprised at this latest revelation. Before continuing he looked directly at Captain Roberts again and said, “I hit him, sir. A few times I guess. And I disarmed him and his friend. I took their weapons and told them to get the hell off my hill and that the Marine Corps would be there as long as they wanted the damn hill. Nobody but me struck him, sir. I don’t know if he was a Lebanese officer or what, but I was the one who hit him, and nobody else.” Griffin paused and looked again at the officers on the board. None of them seemed the least bit sympathetic toward him or Slocum. He wondered in silence if they had anything in mind other than his court-martial. After a few moments’ hesitation he continued, “If you’re looking for somebody to punish for striking an officer, or anything else that happened up there, then I am the NCO responsible. I was in charge from the moment I arrived at the position and everything that was done was done with my approval or at my direction, sir. Sergeant Slocum modified the defensive positions at my orders and his squad was under my command during the fighting.”
Roberts held up a hand to stop Griffin and said, “Sergeant Griffin, the express purpose of this board is not to find someone responsible in order to court-martial that individual. As you and the others have been told we are trying to establish exactly what happened that day and why. We are particularly interested in why fighting took place and who initiated it, but we don’t have any preconceived notion that you or any other Marine in this battalion is at fault or guilty of a violation of the Rules of Engagement. Am I making myself clear, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Griffin dutifully.
“Good. Then maybe we can proceed. Captain Simmons,” said Roberts, nodding toward the other officer.
“Very well, Sergeant. So you struck this Lebanese individual. With your fists I presume?”
Griffin nodded, “Yes, sir. With my fists.”
“How many times, Sergeant? And to what effect?”
“Maybe four or five times, sir. And I knocked him down. After he went down I removed his weapons and the weapons of the other individual. I didn’t hit the other guy, sir. He just surrendered his weapon without a fight,” said Griffin, the contempt evident in his voice.
“Did you hit either individual with anything other than your fists?”
“No, sir.”
“Why exactly did you feel compelled to strike the first individual, Sergeant Griffin? I’m still not completely clear on that issue,” said Simmons.
Griffin sat for a moment, stunned that the captain was dwelling on this point, then asked, “Sir?”
“Why did you hit this individual, Sergeant? The question is plain enough, I believe.”
Griffin looked at Roberts as if expecting an explanation. When Roberts again looked away he returned to face Captain Simmons and answered, “I hit him, sir, because he was in front of my squad, in a position to scout out our defenses, and he made a threat to me and to my Marines. And because he insulted the Marine Corps, sir.”
“And then you proceeded to disarm him and the other man with him? Without any further provocation?”
Griffin looked at the captain and struggled to control his anger. He must be an idiot, thought Griffin, as he dutifully answered, “Yes, sir.”
“This may all seem a bit inane to you, Sergeant, but I feel it is my duty to remind you that we are in a foreign country. We are not at war with its government, nor with any of the factions that face our lines or positions. And we have very specific rules defining the limits of our mission and authority while here. Am I making this clear for you, Sergeant Griffin?” asked Simmons.
“Yes, sir,” answered Griffin. “But with all due respect, sir. My first duty is to ensure the safety of my Marines and the completion of the mission. Any actions I took that day, or any other day, sir, were to complete the mission as I understood it.”
Simmons nodded, then continued, “Why don’t you explain to us how a firefight was initiated that day?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Griffin, not quite sure how he was going to proceed. He hesitated then continued, “A little after twenty-one-hundred Corporal Downs reported movement coming up the access road past his position. I had his fireteam at the rear of the building where they were in a position to see whatever came up that road. About twenty minutes after he reported movement we came under small arms fire. Initially the enemy force engaged the little gatehouse just in front of our position with small arms. Some spillover fire went through our position.”
“Did any of your Marines return fire at that point, Sergeant?” asked Simmons.
“No, sir,” said Griffin. “I had ordered them not to fire in the event of an attack unless I specifically ordered them to fire, or they felt they had to fire to defend themselves or our position.” The captain nodded and Griffin continued, “Anyway, sir, they figured out that nobody was posted in the gatehouse and hit the front gate with small arms a few minutes after their attack started. We didn’t return fire at that point until I was positive that they were trying to breach the gate itself.”
“How did you determine that they were attempting to breach the gate, Sergeant?”
“I had rigged illumination flares in the area earlier that day and when we heard that gate rattling and our wire rattling we knew they had to be close. I ordered the illumination fired. Several of them were caught in the open and we took them under fire at that point, sir.”
“Very well, Sergeant. Was that the first outgoing fire from your position?”
“Yes, sir. To the best of my knowledge.”
“I see. You may proceed, Sergeant Griffin.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Griffin. “We took a series of rounds from small arms and an RPG. All fired from the area of the gate and gatehouse. We returned fire and continued to illuminate the area and bring under fire any targets we could identify. We continued to press the attack without abandoning our defensive positions and inflicted casualties on the attacking force. We did not sustain any casualties and the enemy broke off and attempted to retreat down the hill along his route of advance. At that point Corporal Downs’s fireteam brought them under fire on my orders.”
“Were they retreating at that point, Sergeant Griffin?”
“They were falling back, sir. Off my position.”
“If they were no longer aggressively attacking your position then why did you order Corporal Downs to fire on them? It seems to me this is a clear violation of the Rules of Engagement and disobedience of a direct order.” Simmons stared at Griffin, waiting for his answer.
“I was holding an isolated position with only a reinforced squad, sir. I had just been attacked in force by an enemy unit of unknown size and capabilities, and I had a fireteam in position to inflict casualties on them as they withdrew. I took the opportunity to do just that, sir. With all due respect, sir, I was in no position to worry about hurting the feelings of the Lebanese government or anybody else. They had clearly made an attempt to overrun my position. For all I knew they were falling back to reorganize or bring up heavy weapons. In that position, sir, I did what I judged to be the tactically correct thing.”
“Very well, Sergeant Griffin. Did you at any time radio the battalion and ask for permission to engage enemy targets?”
“No, sir. I did not,” answered Griffin grimly, his face set in a mask of anger.
“Any reason why you didn’t do that, Sergeant Griffin? It would appear from your own explanation of events that you had sufficient time to do so.”
“I saw no reason to ask for permission to engage enemy targets, sir. They initiated the fire. We returned it according to the Rules of Engagement. My radioman made a contact report to battalion when comm was working and we requested supporting arms. Battalion had the required information in a timely fashion, sir. I am not required to get the CO’s permission to return fire in defense of my position. Contact was inevitable, sir.”
“I see,” said Simmons. He knew from the testimony of others and the battalion’s unit diary that Griffin had indeed made his contact report as required. He also knew that, due to the relatively low ground where the battalion CP was located, radio contact was frequently lost with units distant from the headquarters. Still, he was bothered by the apparent orchestration of the day’s events. It had all been too neat, it somehow seemed to have been prepackaged by the Marines involved. Almost as if they had gone out looking for a fight and found one with the neighborhood toughs.
He wasn’t ready to accept the first sergeant’s explanation that Griffin was a renegade NCO who was just looking for an excuse to fire up the locals. He knew Griffin’s reputation, and he had asked the Alpha company commander about him. All the reports had been favorable. He had looked at Griffin’s personnel record and it too had been impressive. He had received meritorious promotion to corporal and sergeant, as well as letters of commendation and consistently high ratings for proficiency and conduct. He had been in the expected scrapes with the civilian police at Lejeune, and another fight on base that had resulted in an article fifteen, but nothing particularly detrimental.
Griffin was the sort of sergeant that any platoon commander was grateful to have in his unit. He was confident, capable, and aggressive. He had an impressive military appearance and Simmons liked the way he answered the board’s questions. His own company commander had praised him as a dependable, hard-charging NCO.
Still, something was nagging at him. Slocum’s failure to answer the board’s questions was an issue, but Griffin didn’t appear intimidated by the board. If he was guilty of some planned disobedience of orders then he certainly wasn’t showing it.
Simmons decided that the real issue would be whether or not Griffin or Slocum, or both of them, had orchestrated the attack on the hill. Even that seemed to be reaching. After all, how could they bait the locals into making an attack? Possibly by Griffin beating the militia leader with his fists, but even that was making the assumption that the man he had struck was the militia leader. And the Lebanese, or whoever he was, had come up to their position and ordered them off the hill. No one could expect an NCO like Griffin to abandon his position under those conditions.
He began again, “Sergeant Griffin, I would like to move on now, to the morning after the firefight. What I would like to know is what type of resistance you encountered as you moved your men off the hill and back to the battalion. Just give it to us in your own words if you will, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir,” said Griffin. “We came off the hill at approximately oh-eight-hundred on the orders of the battalion operations officer. We didn’t encounter any resistance, sir. I did order the point fireteam leader to detonate a series of claymores as they egressed the position in order to clear any ambushes that might have been set on the withdrawal route.”
“Very good, Sergeant. I am aware from previous statements given to this board by members of your squad and the dragon squad that you and Corporal Downs and the corpsman attached to your squad located one individual near the gate who was wounded, presumably in the attack the night before. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir. That’s correct,” answered Griffin.
“And it is also my understanding that you and the corpsman administered first aid to this man. Is that correct?”
“I administered the morphine, sir,” said Griffin, anticipating the next question. “Not the Doc. And I ordered him back to the squad position while it was done.” Griffin swallowed hard and told himself to look Simmons in the eye. The hard questions were coming, he knew.
Simmons cocked an eyebrow at Griffin and asked, “You administered the morphine, Sergeant Griffin? Personally?”
“Yes, sir. I did,” came the reply.
“Why you, Sergeant Griffin? Was there some reason the corpsman attached to your squad couldn’t do it?”
“No, sir. I ordered the corpsman forward to check out the wounded man and give me a report on his condition. Only the point fireteam was in front of us and I ordered the Doc back to the compound because I didn’t want to expose him unnecessarily to an enemy ambush. He was the only corpsman on the hill and I didn’t want to risk losing him to treat an enemy soldier, sir.”
“I see,” said Simmons. “What was the corpsman’s evaluation of the wounded man?”
“That he was past help, sir. He had multiple wounds from shrapnel to his abdomen. His intestines were literally spilling out of his uniform. The corpsman treated him and administered one stick of morphine to ease the pain. The Doc advised me at that time that moving the man, even to medevac him, would probably kill him due to hemorrhage.”
“Did you attempt to call for a medevac bird, Sergeant Griffin?”
“No, sir. I did not,” said Griffin as the members of the board noted his answer.
“Exactly what action did you take at that point, Sergeant?” asked Simmons.
Griffin knew that Simmons had him. If he refused to answer the question they would simply ask the Doc what had transpired at that point. Griffin assumed that they already had, and that the point of the current line of questions was simply to formalize his own admission. He stared at Captain Simmons and said flatly, “I determined the amount of morphine necessary to put the guy out of his misery, sir. I ordered the Doc to leave me a couple of sticks of it and clear the area. I then asked the wounded guy if he wanted it and he signaled that he understood it was enough to kill him. After that, sir, I administered the stuff to him myself.”
A murmur of voices rose behind Griffin as the Marines in the room talked among themselves about this latest revelation. Griffin had practically admitted to murder. No matter how humane his reasoning, the officers would see it from another perspective. All the Marines stood in silence as the officers hurriedly conferred among themselves.
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 hand 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.