The Birth of a Beirut Bastard

DiFranco glared at that yellow truck, crawling down the road like death on wheels, like the kind of bad omen you don’t shake off. It wasn’t even past five in the goddamn morning, and already he was on edge, sweating his balls off at Post Six. Beirut. Fucking Beirut. What kind of sick joke was this? The air stank of rot, the city reeked of hopelessness, and now, here comes this truck. His stomach twisted, just like every other goddamn day in this shithole, perched on the edge of another war nobody gave a shit about.

The truck circled the lot real slow like it had all the time in the world to size them up. It made a full round, then rolled off toward the airport like it was on some joyride. But DiFranco wasn’t fooled. He knew that feeling—the kind of dread that sinks into your bones. Beirut had a way of teaching you that. Nothing, nothing in this place felt right.

An hour later, it came back. And this time, the fucker behind the wheel wasn’t out for a cruise. DiFranco could feel it, deep down. That same goddamn truck, now gunning straight for the lobby. He clutched his rifle so tight his knuckles turned white. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, already knowing the next move. The truck barreled through the wire like it was slicing butter like it was meant to.

Sergeant Russell was there, standing like a dumbass near the entrance, probably daydreaming about his eggs and bacon. He spotted the truck too late, his face twisting into panic as he screamed, “Hit the fucking deck!” But it was pointless. Yelling doesn’t stop bombs. The explosion ripped through the building like a fucking hurricane, a wave of fire and death that left nothing in its wake.

Russell was tossed like a goddamn doll, flung into the street, bleeding and dazed. The building? Gone. Not just damaged, not just hurt—fucking gone. Vaporized. Concrete, flesh, bone—all mashed together into a bloody stew. DiFranco hit the ground hard, his body rattling from the blast, even from where he was. The air was thick with dust, the kind that clogs your throat, your lungs, the kind that hangs in the air when you’re close to hell.

And it was a Sunday. It was supposed to be an easy day, a fucking lazy day. By noon, they’d planned a damn barbecue. Yeah, a good ol’ American barbecue. Burgers, hot dogs, beer. Pretending for a second that life wasn’t shit. But no, not in Beirut. Beirut didn’t do days off.

Doc had left early that morning, heading out for one of his bullshit runs. The mission? Trade some smokes for beer with the Brits. Real high-stakes shit, right? But it was Doc’s life—always thinking about the next drink, next laugh like it would keep the fucking bombs at bay.

“Get back quick, Doc,” Gunny had joked. If he’d known what was coming, he would’ve said goodbye. He should have fucking said goodbye.

Doc walked that dirty, baking-hot road toward the British camp like he was on autopilot, cigarettes stuffed in his bag. It wasn’t his first time dealing with the Brits, swapping smokes for booze, trying to stay sane in a place where sanity had been torched long ago. The Brits greeted him like always, a smirk here, a handshake there, their camp calm in a way that felt somehow wrong.

It hit like a fucking freight train. The ground didn’t tremble; it erupted. Doc turned toward the U.S. compound and saw the plume of dust rising like Beirut’s dirty middle finger. The top of the Marine building—gone. Just fucking gone.

His stomach flipped. His mind blanked. “No… no, no, no, no, fuck!” he screamed, his voice tearing through the hot air. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

McNeil, the British medic, grabbed him hard. “Snap out of it, Yank! Get to the hospital—we need you there.”

Doc wanted to run back to the wreckage, dig through the rubble with his bare hands, find the faces he knew, the bodies of men he laughed with, sweated with. But McNeil was right. He wasn’t just a Marine, not some grunt. He was the Corpsman. He saved lives. If there was anything left to save, it would be in the hospital.

Minutes later, the French barracks got hit. Another truck. Another fucking bomb. Fifty-eight French paratroopers were wiped out, just like that. Beirut had turned into a goddamn death trap. Hezbollah, Islamic Jihad—same shit, different name. Just a bunch of cowards hiding behind religion to blow up buildings and take lives.

By the time Doc got back to what was left of the Marine compound, it was chaos. Marines were ripping through the rubble with their hands, their fingers bloodied and raw, pulling out pieces of what used to be their friends. The smell of burning flesh clung to everything, searing itself into his brain.

Doc didn’t sleep for days. Couldn’t. Every time he shut his eyes, he saw that fucking yellow truck, the bearded asshole behind the wheel, grinning like the fucker knew he was about to become a goddamn martyr. Like he was proud to take 241 men with him. Marines, his brothers—people he shared meals with, people who fought and bled next to him. And that bastard’s smile? It stuck with him. Like it was burned into his eyelids, never letting him forget.