Stationed on board a large amphibious ship, I didn’t get ashore too often while on operational deployments. My job was on board the ship – on the bridge, in the Combat Information Center, or other places from which sailors fight battles. There were a couple of exceptions.
USS Guam (LPH 9) was well into her second deployment to Lebanon in early 1984. I had been on board Guam when she delivered a Marine Amphibious Ready Group ashore in Beirut in 1982, with the mission of keeping peace between warring factions. We had stayed for many months as an offshore command and control facility (the current term would be “sea-base”). In effect, we drove the ship slowly around a navigational box off the coast of Beirut, Lebanon, and flew helicopters between the ship, the Beirut Airport where the Marines were, other ships in the Eastern Mediterranean, and nearby shore facilities. It was weeks of boredom made tolerable only by the dazzling view of the Shouf Mountains in the distance and the occasional bursts of life-and-death “excitement.”
One of my jobs as a Navy Lieutenant in the Communications Department was to take care of the communication security materials, the ‘codes’ that enabled us to talk on the radio without anyone else being able to understand. For security purposes, each month the shipment of materials had to be hand-delivered to users afloat and ashore.
One month in early spring the time came to deliver new materials to the Marines at Beirut Airport. The fighting had subsided, in fact was in a lull. There had been few bombings, fewer sniper attacks, and no real action to speak of for well over a month. We were glad of that, but at the same time beginning to get a little bored. Stir-crazy. Were we still needed in Lebanon? Were we ever going to get any liberty ports during this half-year deployment?
Normally we had a member of the Marine Detachment ashore fly out to the ship to pick up the communication materials, but this was my chance. I suggested to my boss that this time I should deliver the materials ashore myself. To my surprise, he agreed.
It was early morning, sunny and warm in the Eastern Med. I pulled on my flak jacket and flight helmet, grasped the satchel full of communication codes firmly, and walked rapidly across the flight deck from the ‘island’ of the ship to the green Marine CH-46 Sea Knight helicopter turning on the deck of USS Guam. After a deployment and a half of looking at that shoreline from the sea, I was finally going to set foot in Lebanon. The flight deck crew signaled, the helo blades rotated faster and louder, throbbing so powerfully that we felt more than heard their rhythmic pulsation. The helicopter lifted itself off the deck, tilted to one side and was suddenly a hundred feet over the ocean waves.
The first maneuver was a steep turn toward the shore. We raced landward. The ship grew smaller by the second.
I had been on helicopters before, and I immediately noticed a difference. This time the acceleration was more urgent, the turns were more deliberate, than I had experienced. With speed and resolve, the pilot brought us in low over the waves. We raced toward the beach… that strand of white between sea and land… it used to seem so far away when I had stared at it longingly week after week, month after month, from a safe shipboard distance of two to four miles. Now that same beach was drawing closer so quickly that I barely had time to take in the whole scene… I remember it in bits and pieces… waves, glistening sun, helo shadow pacing us, snow-capped mountains, whitecaps, sand.
Suddenly, we were over land. The pilot brought the helicopter sharply up in altitude so we didn’t collide with any structures near the shore. He directed the helo toward a cluster of tall buildings that seemed to be racing toward us at great speed. Then we were among them, 8 and 12 and 15 stories tall… and as I looked toward the rooftops I was looking up.
The next 30 to 60 seconds was the most thrilling ride of my life – better than any roller coaster. As a safety precaution, the helicopters flying into Beirut Airport practiced evasive maneuvers, even when there was no present indication of danger. We flew up to rooftop height, dropped back down, flew literally between six and eight and ten story abandoned apartment buildings, turned to port around a blind corner... When we emerged without warning over the landing zone our airspeed suddenly fell to zero and we dropped to the ground so fast that I really didn’t have time for my stomach to catch up until we were on solid ground. Rotors continued to turn as I grabbed my bag of security material, stood, and took a moment to regain my equilibrium. I checked my flak jacket, secured my helmet, and watched as sailors and Marines debarked ahead of me. One by one they went, in rapid succession, following the direction of a Marine who slapped each one on the shoulder in turn and shouted “GO!”
Suddenly he was hitting my shoulder. “GO!” I jumped to the ground and ran, head-down, across the landing zone to the small building off to one side where I checked through with the LZ manifest coordinator.
Still a little dizzy, I caught my breath and got my bearings. I could see some snowcapped mountains in the distance between buildings off to the right. The beach, then, was to the left. (Sailors like to keep track of that.)
From the chief on duty I got directions to the Communications Center, and set out.
Once away from the intensity of the helo ops, the pace of operations slowed dramatically. In fact, it was fairly relaxed. Well, relaxed for a combat zone, anyway.
I found the Comm Center with no trouble. The entrance to the fortified earth-covered facility was a dark opening between heavy timbers, where I found a reinforced steel door in the shadows. Via intercom I identified myself and was “buzzed in. Quickly I effected the exchange for which I had come ashore. I did have a nice conversation with the Comm staff, whom I’d only know by radio to that point, but it was short. They were busy, and I was more interested in getting back outside those steel bulkheads. Part of the appeal of this trip ashore was to get away from all the steel bulkheads and decks for a while. And to enjoy a short respite from the intense regimentation of shipboard life, to have even a few hours with nothing to do and no one in a position to task me… I had some hours before my return flight, and I intended to enjoy them.
It was a pleasure and an adventure to walk on solid ground again. When a sailor comes ashore after months at sea, he experiences a strange sensation. In spite of all evidence it seems, inexplicably, like the land is moving. This creates a tendency for sailors fresh off the ship to fall down, which amuses landlubbers to no end. Especially Marines. So I took care and, with a bit of concentration, did not stumble.
It was a gorgeous day, beautiful by any measure but especially so to one who hadn’t stood on solid ground, or seen a real plant, or remembered the smell of the sun on stone, for months. The sun gleamed brilliantly above snowy peaks in the east. I squinted and felt the warmth on my face. The sound of the surf was there if I listened carefully, far off to the west. A gentle breeze wafted scents of hot sand and grass. The sounds of the city were there, distant in the north and east.
After all those months smelling steel and paint, fuel and electronics, fresh air. After all those months hearing ship engines and helo rotors and radio transmissions, peace and quiet, and far-off sounds of ordinary human activity. After all those months of job and watchstanding and unrelenting schedules, a morning off. Really, it was too much to absorb. I really enjoyed trying.
A wide vacant field appeared before me, sandy with clumps of grass and tiny colorful wildflowers. With time on my hands and no worries in the world, I found no reason not to wander there… looking at flowers, feeling the calm, breathing deeply, experiencing the good life…
It may be that memory has played a trick on me as I think back on this from the distance of years, but if it’s not literally true, it ought to be. In my memory, I was humming the theme from “The Sound of Music” as I stood there in the sunlight, in the wide open space, unobstructed view of the Shouf Mountains to the east.
The strange sounds registered first on a subconscious level. I didn’t actually hear, or maybe just didn’t realize that I was hearing, anything. But I began to feel an incongruous uneasiness. At some point I became aware of the strange, tiny little sounds around me. I realized suddenly they had been there in the background, for several seconds at least. I stopped and listened for the next one… There it was! What was it? I could see only flowers. Was this some kind of strange Lebanese insect pinging in the grass? There was another one, on the other side. I turned. Then a particularly loud one went “Ping” at the base of a wall bordering the field. I was a little amused, and totally mystified.
At that point that a Marine in full battle gear came running from beyond a building to the southwest. What the heck? Was something about to happen? I realized he was running toward ME!
Ten or fifteen meters away he paused. “Follow me, Sir!” He waved me for me to follow and took off running to the northwest. It was phrased respectfully, but there was no doubt that it was an order. Though he was a Corporal and I was a Lieutenant, I instinctively knew that I had to do what he was telling me.
Thank God some part of my mind understood the most important thing that morning, something I will now share with you. It is this: Regardless of rank, in spite of confusion, no matter about questions or opinions or preferences or any other irrelevant nonsense, when a Marine gives an order, Follow It!
I followed the Corporal’s order, then I followed the Corporal. We ran to a small wooden structure build into the ground. Quickly down some stairs, we stopped in a small room with narrow openings near the low ceiling. The walls were of large timbers. There were bunks, tables, and a lot of Marines who had arrived ahead of us. Peering through the openings at eye level to us and ground level to the world outside, I had a view of our surroundings. This included the field where I’d been standing.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“This is a bunker, Sir,” the Marine responded.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“That was sniper fire, Sir,” the Marine responded.
“Oh.”
What more was there to say?
After what seemed a long time, the ‘all-clear’ signal was given, and we came up out of the bunker. The place was still beautiful. It was no longer innocent as it had been before. But it was more than ever a place of life, a place where I learned to feel life in a whole new way. Once more, sincerely but without sentimentality, I thanked the Marine who had come to get me. We went our separate ways.
I still had some time, which I did enjoy. I walked the compound carefully, listening for ‘pings,’ with one eye always toward the unseen snipers up there in the Shouf. I met some other junior officers from my ship and we talked about the irony. How remarkable that the snipers decided to start shooting again on the day we happened to be ashore.
In early evening the time came for my return flight to the ship, and I made my way to the LZ. I checked in, watched the erratic inbound flight path and sudden landing of the helo, and stood ready to board. I heard the direction to go, waved a greeting to several shipmates who would be on the next flight, then ducked, ran, and climbed on board the helicopter.
Almost without warning we were off, ascending upwards past empty apartments with broken balconies, swinging hard around the corners as if we were hugging a curb, flying high then low through the man-made canyons. Suddenly we emerged into the slanting orange sunlight, raced fast across the beach toward the sun setting over the sea, outbound over the waves in the evening light. Before we knew it we were safely back on the flight deck of USS Guam.
I later learned that my flight from the Beirut Airport to the ship was the last one of the day. Apparently, about the time my helo took off, the sniping resumed… with a few random shells thrown in for good measure. Flight ops were cancelled immediately, and those shipmates I’d left at the LZ were destined to wait for a return trip until the next morning. I was a little envious at first, that they were experiencing more of Beirut than I had. But upon reflection I decided that I’d probably had the most intense experience of them all. And besides, I was just happy to be alive and well.
To the best of my knowledge, no sailors or Marines died in Beirut that day. But that is largely because of a young Marine who did not hesitate to put himself at risk for a few critical seconds to get a well-intentioned but oblivious Navy officer into a bunker.
I do not remember the name of that Corporal. I wish I did. It may have been routine for him, but it was not for me. Sometimes I wonder if he ever thinks about the fact that he saved my life. Because of him, I have lived another three decades, so far. Without him, no good thing that has happened in my life since 1983 would’ve been possible.
There was a time when I gave Marines a hard time, like a lot of sailors do. I don’t do that anymore. This is one member of the US Navy who has nothing but respect for Marines.
Semper Fi, shipmate. And Thank You.
