Reckon they’ll have him out in a few minutes more, Corporal Downs,” said the staff sergeant. “Damn shame. He was a fine boy.”
Downs nodded silently. The past seven days had been a nightmare of digging for survivors interrupted only by mortar attacks and sniping from an unseen enemy. The grim reality of the attack had emerged as they continued to pull bodies from the rubble night and day for a full week. Now nerves were frayed and tempers routinely flared at the smallest provocation.
A rifle company had been air-lifted over from Camp Lejeune along with a replacement H&S company and the battalion had resumed normal operations within hours of the attack. The new H&S company had assumed tactical control of the rifle companies and dug itself in along the western runway.
Downs and the squad had remained in place at the BLT compound in order to provide perimeter security and to assist in the rescue effort. For the initial forty-eight hours they had worked around the clock, dividing their time between digging and standing watch on the line. After the last survivor was pulled from the rubble, and the death of Griffin, the squad had grown dispirited. With each man pulled from the destroyed BLT building they had withdrawn further into themselves. By week’s end they were a group of individuals operating on sheer nerve, no longer responding to anything with real emotion.
As the motor on the crane throttled up and lifted the last piece of concrete off, Downs caught a glimpse of Griffin. He silently signaled Samson, Smith, and Ferris to follow him down into the crater. The four worked in silence to put the body into the green plastic bag, then carried Griffin to the lip of the huge hole. As they gained the summit a Lebanese rescue worker reached out to take one of the handles from Downs and assist him up. Downs angrily shoved the man’s hand away and clambered out of the rubble.
The rest of the squad stood by in silence as the staff sergeant nodded in the direction of the morgue and said, “Take him over to the tent, Corporal Downs. I’ll be along in a minute or two to see after his personal effects.” Downs and the others proceeded across the compound and laid the body bag outside the tent that had served as a morgue for the dead.
All four edged away from the bag before Downs began, “Come on, Samson. Let’s go in the tent and get a toe tag from one of these guys. We can fill it out while we wait for Staff Sergeant Whitney.” Samson followed Downs toward the dark interior of the huge tent. As they stepped inside they both paused in the entry to allow their eyes time to adjust to the dim interior.
Objects inside the tent slowly came into view and Samson and Downs could make out the rows of bodies, some not yet covered by ponchos. Downs also took in the first sergeant, his back to them, bent over a dead Marine collecting the man’s personal effects. He motioned to Samson to be quiet and the two edged farther into the tent along one of the canvas walls.
They watched as the first sergeant removed the man’s wallet and letters from a cargo pocket in his utilities, then rifled through its contents. With a feeling of rising disgust Downs looked on in silence as the first sergeant removed the money from the wallet and added it to a large roll he extracted from his own trouser pocket.
A glance passed between Downs and Samson before the bigger Marine removed his rifle from his shoulder and said, “You’ve had it, motherfucker. I’ll goddamn do you myself. Not even a fucking grave digger steals from the dead.” Downs glared at the man in silence as Samson leveled the muzzle of his rifle at the first sergeant.
The first sergeant spun on one heel to face his accuser as Samson snapped the bolt forward on his rifle, chambering a round. “Who the fuck do you think you are, mister?” hissed the first sergeant. “How dare you enter my tent without asking permission! Get the fuck out. Now!”
“Fuck you, asshole,” said Samson, the rifle menacingly coming to point at the first sergeant. “I’ll go to Leavenworth the rest of my life, but you ain’t gonna walk away from this. Besides, Downs saw you take the money. He can be my witness. We’ll just say you rushed us with your pistol. I saw the size of that roll. When they find that on your fuckin’ corpse they’ll know damn well what you been up to. You got more there than a first shirt pulls down in a year.”
Downs watched as the first sergeant began to rise and move toward the far wall. “Okay, son. Now let’s all just calm down. Put that rifle away and I’ll forget this happened. It’s been a tough week for all of us. All of our nerves are frayed.” The first sergeant smiled somewhat hesitantly, and Downs realized that he had never before seen the man smile. “Come on, Corporal Downs,” he continued, “you must know that the lance corporal is making a mistake. You may not like me but you know I wouldn’t steal from a fellow Marine. Especially a dead man. No matter what you think of me you must know I wouldn’t do that. Right, son?”
Downs crossed his arms across his chest and said, “I know what I saw. But why don’t you go ahead and give me your explanation. I’d sure as hell be curious to hear it.” Without losing eye contact with the man, Downs added, “If he even looks like he’s going for that pistol, or if you hear anybody coming Samson, just fuckin’ grease the piece of shit. He doesn’t deserve to live. Besides, I bet if we look at the paper for these guys’ personal effects not one of them will have more than twenty bucks listed to his name.”
Downs saw a hunted look pass across the first sergeant’s eyes and knew he was right. The first sergeant shifted his gaze from Downs to Samson. Downs knew the man was trying to figure the odds. Attempting to gauge whether or not Samson would pull the trigger. “Oh, he’ll do it First Sergeant,” said Downs. “And nobody will question it much after the fact. Wouldn’t it just embarrass the shit out of the Marine Corps to have to admit that one of its lance corporals shot a senior staff NCO that he caught stealin’ from the dead in Beirut.”
Downs laughed cynically, “I can see it now in the after action report. First Sergeant Schmucatelly was killed by the accidental discharge of another’s Marine’s weapon. That would save everybody a lot of embarrassment.”
“Fine with me, Steve. I say we do the fucker right here and now.” Something in Samson’s tone let Downs know that he was deadly serious. From the periphery of his vision Downs was aware of Samson’s rifle tracking the first sergeant as he moved closer to the far wall of the tent. “Far enough, motherfucker,” said Samson, “you don’t need to get any closer to that hatch. And don’t worry, First Shirt. I got no problem with shooting you in your back if you try and make a break for it.”
Downs looked on in silence as the first sergeant swallowed hard and began, “Look now, guys. It’s not like I was really stealin’ from these Marines. I was gonna take the money and see that it got back to their families. You boys don’t know how long things like that can be tied up in the red tape once we hit the States. It could take months for those families to see any of their money if I just sit back and allow it to go through channels. I was just trying to take a few shortcuts for the sake of the families. That’s all. You must realize that I wouldn’t steal from these dead men.”
Samson gave a short laugh and tightened his grip on the trigger. “You must think we’re the two stupidest sons of bitches in the Marine Corps if we’re gonna buy that load of crap,” he said.
“Yeah, First Shirt. Maybe you better try again. Make us believers in the fucking Band of Brothers you’re always preaching about. Go ahead,” taunted Downs. “We got a few minutes to hear you out.”
The first sergeant wiped his brow and straightened up to his full height. “Okay, boys. So I was fuckin’ up and you caught me at it. What’s the harm? These guys don’t need any money where they’re going. I got a wife and three kids back at Lejeune. You two got no idea what that does to a man’s resources. I have to scrimp and save for every nickel. All I was trying to do was pick up a few extra bucks without hurting anybody. None of these men is even married. So mom and pop back home won’t get Johnny’s last paycheck to blow on beer and pretzels. They got thirty-five thousand coming from Uncle Sam anyway for a death gratuity. They’ll never miss a few bucks the kid had in his pocket to play poker with on Saturday night.”
Downs and Samson stood impassively while the first sergeant continued, “Look guys, it’s not like I’m not willing to cut you two in on it. Now you guys been out on the line and you’re tired and so maybe you’re not thinking as clear as you normally would. You shoot me, Samson, and the best you can hope for is leniency from the court-martial board. Probably both of you will do a pretty long stint in the brig. What good is that going to do for anybody here?”
The first sergeant looked from one Marine to the other, then continued, “What I’m proposing is that we all benefit from this. I’ve got quite a bit of cash here and I’m willing to split it equally between the three of us. We’ll all go home winners in a few weeks and nobody is the wiser. And nobody gets hurt. Not really. The families got more money coming than they’ll be able to spend. Think about it guys. Is it worth it to shoot me over something like this and ruin the rest of your lives because you don’t like me?”
The first sergeant opened his palms and displayed a large roll of bills. “It’s just business boys. We don’t have to like one another to do business, do we? Besides, what Marine likes his first shirt? Come on, guys, you must know they pay me to be a prick. That’s part of running the company. It’s the system, it’s the way things work in the Corps. You guys been Marines long enough to know that.”
Downs looked at the first sergeant in disgust. “So how are we going to split Sergeant Griffin’s money, First Shirt?” he asked. Before the man could answer Downs said, “Do the motherfucker, Samson.”
Samson smiled and slowly brought the M-16 to his shoulder as the first sergeant attempted to back away from the rifle muzzle. Before the weapon could complete its travel to his shoulder Staff Sergeant Whitney entered and said, “Put that rifle down, Samson. I’ve heard enough of this shit to make me sick for the rest of my life.”
Without taking his eyes from the first sergeant Samson said, “No way, Staff Sergeant Whitney, I’m gonna waste this motherfucker. I can’t stand the sight of him any longer. If I don’t do it he’ll just beat the rap.”
The staff sergeant took in the look on the big Marine’s face and his grip on the rifle. He noted that neither Samson nor Downs had shifted their gaze from the first sergeant when he had entered and spoken. “It’s over Samson. If you shoot him now it’s just murder, plain and simple. He’s no Marine, son. He’ll go to the brig, then they’ll drum him out short of his retirement like they never knew him. Don’t ruin the rest of your life over this. He’s not worth it, boy.”
The staff sergeant continued to study Samson, looking for some sign on the boy’s face that he was making a decision. As he watched him the staff sergeant knew that Samson’s decision was made. He intended to kill the first sergeant. “Don’t do it, Samson. Don’t, son. Nothing is worth this. Do you think any of those men on the deck there would expect you to go to the brig for the next ten years to set this right?” The staff sergeant waited for an answer, but the big Marine gave no indication that he had heard.
The staff sergeant glanced at Downs who continued to glare at the First Sergeant with his arms folded across his chest like a judge. “Help me out, Corporal Downs,” he said.
Downs shook his head slowly from side to side, his eyes never leaving the first sergeant. “I can’t, Staff Sergeant,” he said. “This is beyond me.”
The staff sergeant again turned to Samson. “It won’t do any good, son. If you shoot him he’ll die but you’ll end up in the brig. Samson, nothing is worth ten years in Portsmouth Naval Prison. It won’t bring them back to life,” said the staff sergeant, gesturing to indicate the dead men. “And worst of all a year from now your sacrifice will be forgotten by a battalion that’s made up of new men from other units.”
The staff sergeant took a hesitant step toward Samson. “Come on, son. Give me the rifle and we’ll walk away from this. I’ll make sure the bastard gets what he deserves. Nobody is going to doubt all three of us.”
Samson tightened his grip on the rifle and edged away from the staff sergeant. “Get back, Staff Sergeant. I know what you’re thinking. It ain’t over yet.” Samson shifted his attention to the first sergeant. “Drop that forty-five, First Shirt. And I’d really like it if you try something smart after you clear that holster. It’d give me an excuse.” The three Marines stood as the first sergeant gingerly pulled the pistol from its leather holster and lowered it to the floor of the big tent. “Now step away from it,” said Samson.
After the first sergeant had backed away from the weapon the staff sergeant again asked, “Give me the rifle, Samson. It’s over, son. It has to end here.”
“It ain’t over till Corporal Downs says it’s over,” answered the big Marine, the rifle leveled at the first sergeant’s chest.
“Corporal Downs?” asked the staff sergeant.
Downs hesitated, then said, “Let’s go, Samson.”