SNAFU: Wolves at the Door

They all reached for their flak vests and checked the flashlights. Peering at the lens, Simmons saw that his was red.

Simmons strapped on his helmet, then reached around and grasped the M-16 pistol grip. He thumbed the selector switch, confirming it was on safety. From countless exercises beginning on Parris Island, Simmons knew his rifle must be pointed down until he stepped from the transport.

“The first two fire teams will set up outside the ramp,” Watson instructed. “The second two will alight and set the perimeter. Then the first two will head for cover.”

“Understood, Staff Sergeant!”

“The ramp is coming down,” Watson said. “Ooh-rah!”

“Ooh-rah!” they all yelled. “Let’s kill!”

Simmons could feel the intensity in his own yelling, his adrenalin pumping. As the ramp lowered, Watson hollered: “Welcome to Beirut! Now, move!”

* * *

As the second marine down the ramp, Simmons swung his rifle into place and dropped to a knee at the rear of the Amtrack. Collison and Harmon rushed out of the transport and took up positions nearby.

As the last marines out set the perimeter, Simmons glanced around and saw machine gun fire emanating from a distant hillside. Muzzle flashes lit up the night. There was a pile of rubble about twenty paces from him, and he waited for the fifty cal to rattle away then ran hunched over toward the heap of debris with PFC Wells in tow.

Simmons slammed his back into the jutting blocks of broken concrete, the flak vest absorbing most of the impact. As other marines joined him, Simmons peered over the top of the mound. Gunfire erupted from the distant hill again. The enemy fire didn’t seem directed at them. The PLO might not even know the marines had hit the ground.

A few marines had their moonbeams out, red lights bobbing as a fire team flanked to the right. The flashlights would be noticeable to anyone watching, but minimal fire came their way.  “Anderson,” Simmons yelled. “I’ll take my team left. You head up the middle with yours.”

Anderson grinned. “Roger that, Lance Corporal.” Anderson led, and the central fire team hustled after him, weaving through massive heaps of crumbled buildings. Simmons took his team to the left, crawling along open ground until they got to protective cover.

Glancing toward the hillside, Simmons realized they were closer to the city than he’d expected. Vacant buildings lingered in the backdrop of the battlefield.

Simmons further marked the enemy position by the hunter’s moon. It cast beams of light through the abandoned dwellings, illuminating the combat zone.

Rifle fire erupted from the hillside. Numerous rounds ricocheted off the broken concrete. “Get down!” Simmons yelled to his team. The shooting was erratic. Panic fire. It was mainly directed towards Anderson’s team, but Simmons ordered his squad to take cover in case of stray bullets.

When the shooting settled, he peeked around a collapsed concrete stanchion considering the scene. Only the Amtrack’s turret gun had returned PLO fire. The French were taking the rules of engagement to an extreme, if they were even out there in the vestiges of the embattled city.

Simmons strained his eyes to discern if anyone else was on the battlefield. No sign of entrenched allies. In fact, the enemy fire was so sporadic it didn’t appear to be honed in on any one location.

Scanning the heaps of rubble, he tried to spot marines closing on the Palestinian position. He expected his comrades to flank the enemy hill from the right, and plainly saw the red glow of moonbeams bobbing along.

Then he noticed movement down the middle. Despite Watson’s instructions, a couple of marines had forgotten to change their flashlight lens covers over to red. Simmons clearly saw the yellow glow of two moonbeams from Anderson’s fire team. They were huddled close together, likely hunkering down from the last barrage of machine gun fire.

After cutting back toward the center, and moving his fire team closer to the enemy position, Simmons and his troopers held up behind a mass of debris at least fifteen-feet tall, providing enough cover to get a bearing on the other teams.

After the fifty cal had settled down, there was a lull in the firefight. The night turned silent. Had the PLO just given up? The marines would have to abort the foot patrol if the enemy was no longer engaging but Simmons wanted to be sure that was the case before they withdrew. The Palestinians could merely be getting a better bearing on Multinational Force positions.

“You guys hunker down here,” Simmons said to PFC Wells. “I’ll worm forward and get a better handle on what’s going on.”

Wells nodded his understanding.

“Don’t get lax and let someone flank you. They could advance from that position.”

“We’ll move around to get a better visual,” Wells replied.

Simmons smacked Wells on the helmet and then stepped to the edge of the heap. There was a line of broken blocks running for about fifty yards, followed by a couple more mounds. He ran hunched toward the halfway point.