At this point, one of the other Marines jumped over the wall to join him. He only made it halfway across the street before collapsing, at which point the first Marine turned and grabbed him by the back of his protective vest and dragged him back over to the others. The announcer said that he told everybody to stay where they were, and that nobody else needed to die but him. He ran back to the car, picked the woman up and began running back towards the strongpoint as the last Marine was laying down covering fire. The running Marine was immediately fired on again, and an explosion like an RPG round hitting the ground just missed him.
This crazy bastard dumped the blonde off and then ran back into the hail of bullets a third time and ran back to the other Marine. They both fired some more, and then stood to run back. The second Marine was hit, and the first Marine grabbed him and threw him over his shoulder. He wasn’t moving fast, but he was moving, and he got about halfway when another explosion behind him knocked them both to the ground. Still, the Marine managed to get back up and finish carrying his partner to safety before collapsing. The scene ended at that point, with the voiceover explaining they were rescued by more Marines. I had a very bad feeling that I was going to be calling a mother very soon to thank her for her son’s ultimate sacrifice.
At the end of the broadcast, I went into my study and called the Commandant of the Marine Corps, General Jim Jones. “General, I just wanted to tell you that I was watching the evening news and saw some footage of some of your boys. I don’t know if you’ve seen it, but it was quite amazing.”
“Thank you, Mister President. Yes, I have seen some of the footage, sir. These kids are really great kids.”
“How bad are the casualties, General? From what I saw, I can’t believe that there aren’t some serious casualties.”
“Actually they are very light. We have no KIAs, at least not yet, and only a few wounded.”
“I find that very hard to believe after what I just saw.”
“Understood, Mister President. I will speak to you about this soon.”
“Thank you, General. I will let you go. I appreciate what they did, so let them know,” I told him.
Afterwards I went back to the living room, and told Marilyn that I had thanked the Commandant of the Marine Corps, and told him that the Marines were almost as tough as paratroopers. She laughed loudly at me and told me she’d tell Charlie about that when he got home.
Wednesday morning, the 8:00 staff meeting was interrupted. There was a knock on the door and a secretary tuck her head in. “Mister President, the Commandant of the Marine Corps is here and would like a few minutes with you.”
He must have brought over the butcher’s bill for Monrovia. “Let’s fit him in right after the meeting.”
The door closed, but less than a minute later there was another knock and it opened again. “Mister President, the Commandant really needs to see you.”
I shrugged to the others and stood up. Out in the hallway was General Jones, accompanied by a naval officer, a captain, who looked Asian-American. “General, I really didn’t expect you to get me those casualty figures this morning. It could have waited, or you could have sent a message.”
“Uh, sir, that’s really why I’m here… Jesus, I don’t know how to do this…”
“General, what’s the matter?”
“Mister President, Monday evening, your son, Lance Corporal Charles Robert Buckman, was wounded in action in Monrovia.”
Chapter 154: A Summer Cruise
Things swirled around for a second and I slumped against the wall. The general and the captain grabbed my shoulders, but I didn’t faint or collapse. This was my worst nightmare, that Charlie would get killed in the service. Marilyn might have tolerated me in the service, and even allowed Charlie to go in, but this was going to just kill her. She would never forgive me.
“How… how did it happen?”
The captain answered, “Mister President! Mister President! He’s not dead, he was wounded. He’s not dead!”
I focused on him. “Who are you?”
“I’m Captain Hmong. I’m a doctor over at Bethesda. I talked to the doctors on the Fort McHenry. Your son was wounded, but he’ll be all right. He’s not dead! He was wounded. He’ll be all right!”
I looked around and found that the hallway was filled with people staring at me. John McCain and Condoleezza Rice were scurrying around the corner. I was maneuvered back into the Oval Office and towards an armchair, with my morning staff shuffling out of the way. John and Condi came in also.
I looked at the Commandant and the doctor again. “He’s not dead? He’s wounded?”
“Yes, sir. He’ll be fine. I’ve talked to the ship,” repeated Doctor Hmong.
“What happened? He wasn’t even supposed to get off the ship!”
General Jones sighed. “There was a breakdown in communications, sir. The Marines knew, but not the embassy.”
“What?” That made no sense to me.
“They needed everybody, sir. Every time a helo came back on board carrying refugees, it would load up with Marines and take them back into Monrovia. Sir, there are a million people in Monrovia, and we only had 400 Marines. Your son was in one of the last units sent in, and he was only supposed to be security at the American embassy. Instead, the Ambassador decided they needed to set up a collection point elsewhere and diverted the helo at the last minute,” he explained.
“Jesus Christ!” I exclaimed. “So, what happened to him?”
“Sir, did you see the film of the rescue of the nurses? It was playing on television last night.”
“I watched the NBC news. There was a segment with footage of some guys running across a street and getting shot at. One of them kept running back and forth before he died. He was covered with blood. I couldn’t believe they showed that,” I said.
“He didn’t die! That was your son! He was the one who kept running back and forth pulling people out!”
“No, I watched that, he couldn’t… no way that kid made it!” I protested.
The doctor answered, “He was all shot up, but it’s mostly shrapnel and flesh wounds. He lost a lot of blood but he’s back on the ship. He’ll make it. He’ll be fine.”
The Commandant added, “His CO put him up for the Navy Cross.”
“The Navy Cross?” In the Marines, the only medal higher than the Navy Cross is the Medal of Honor.
“Yes, sir.” He shrugged. “Realistically, he doesn’t quite rate the Navy Cross, so it will be downgraded to a Silver Star, which is what he actually deserves. You were in the service, sir, so you know how the game gets played.”
I did, too. In order to get your people the recognition they deserve, you generally have to overrate them, so they look good compared to some desk warrior whose only combat injury involved a loose staple and some paper cuts. The same occurred at promotion time, when a scruffy but great combat leader had to go up against some picture perfect PowerPoint commando.
As it was, the Silver Star was rated higher than my own Bronze Star, and could only be earned in combat. The worst thing was that I realized that the higher up the medal rates, the more likely you earn it posthumously. To get the Navy Cross he would have probably had to die…
Suddenly my stomach lurched. I stumbled into my adjoining bathroom and just made it to the toilet before breakfast came up. I heaved until I was empty, and only then noticed that I had been followed by the doctor. He helped me to my feet, and I washed my face at the sink. I felt every day of my 100 years at that moment. A hollow man stared back from sunken eyes in the mirror. “It’s just nerves, Mister President. You’ll be fine. Your son will be fine. We can probably get him on the phone.”