Jungle Rules

by Charles W. Henderson

  “And you guys go flying with that maniac?” O’Connor said, tilting his head toward Lobo, who now headed their way, still holding the go-go girl on his shoulders while guzzling beer.

  “Lobo’s a damned good pilot,” Ebberhardt said, shaking hands with Kirkwood. “Glad to meet you, Captain Kirkwood. And you, too, Captain O’Connor.

  “As the man said, I’m Wayne Ebberhardt, born and bred in Boone, North Carolina. Home of the world’s best moonshine whiskey. If you’re real good, ole Tommy McKay and I might let you sample our little secret stash of homemade lightning that we have bottled up for most any special occasion. Some guys we know with the amtrac battalion have a nifty little still set up. Even has a copper boiler and condenser coils. I gave those boys a few pointers on preparing the corn mash, along with an old family recipe, and they went to work and made a pretty fair-sized batch before they ran out of corn. It tastes a lot like Jack Daniels, only better.”

  “You two are on the defense team, right?” McKay said and smiled. “Otherwise I would swear that Wayne’s a liar.”

  “We moved in today,” O’Connor said, drinking down the last of his beer. “Already met Mike Carter, and now with you two that makes up our whole section, doesn’t it?”

  “You guys, me and Wayne, and our lead attorney, His Holiness, Father Michael Carter, Esquire,” McKay said, taking out a beer from a six-pack that he carried and handing it to O’Connor. “That’s it. We’re the defense that never rests.”

  “However, Major Taylor does lend us moral support, and will moonlight a little homework and legal research for us when we can use a helping hand,” Ebberhardt offered, handing Kirkwood a fresh beer from the six-pack he had under his arm. “He’s our secret sixth man, if you want to count him, too. It pisses Dicky Doo the fuck off, though, to have him doing any legal work. The lifer prosecutors hate Buck because he betrayed the juristic cause to fly jets. However, the Right Honorable Major Monahan S. Taylor, after graduating Yale Law, passed both the New York and Massachusetts bars, and is a member in good standing of those fine fraternities. So fuck those tight assholes if they don’t like a jet jockey helping us with some case preparation.”

  “Speaking of preparing a case,” Taylor said, handing Kirkwood the opener and looking at Lobo, now smiling with the rim of a cocktail glass firmly held in his teeth, “time for Archie Gunn to say good night. His alcohol consumption gauge just hit too much. When he starts to eat glass to impress everyone, it’s time to put him back in the cage.”

  “He doesn’t have to do that to impress me. He did that at hello,” O’Connor said, cringing and offering a hopeful smile at Lobo, who then bit off half the side of the highball tumbler and started chewing.

  “Archie, time to hit the rack,” Taylor said in a commanding voice, seeing Lobo crunch the broken glass. “You want to spit that crap in this napkin?”

  “That’s okay, Buck,” Lobo slurred, the go-go girl still sitting atop his shoulders. “I’ll go spit it in that shit can by the bar.”

  “Good, and while you’re at it, leave the girl there, too. She may be tired of playing horsey,” Taylor said.

  “She’s going to the barracks with me,” Lobo said with a broad grin, showing a mouthful of red teeth and blood trickling from his lips where the broken glass had cut him.

  “I bet that Yamaguchi Ritter might not want you to do that with his go-go girl,” Taylor suggested.

  “I’ll ask him if I can fuck her,” Lobo said, still grinning and bleeding. “If he says no, I’ll put her down.”

  “Good man,” Taylor said, and shook his head as McKay, Ebberhardt, O’Connor, and Kirkwood watched the hulking giant amble to the bar, spit the broken glass in the trash can, and then walk to the stage, where he began talking to the Japanese-born country-western singer, who immediately began shaking an emphatic no at a pleading Lobo, his out-of-shape, straw cowboy hat nearly bobbing off his head.

  “Gentlemen, having a good time this evening?” Michael Carter chirped as he approached the small group of friends. He held a red-colored drink that had a wad of maraschino cherries and some lime slices floating on top of a berg of shaved ice.

  “What’s that, a cherry limeade?” O’Connor asked, eyeing the drink.

  “Sort of my own concoction of one, yes,” Carter said. “With a healthy double shot of gin.”

  “Bet that’d be good with a hamburger and french fries,” McKay said. “I know that cherry-lime drink would be a big hit at the Tastee-Freez back in Dumas.”

  “Where have you been hiding all evening, Mike?” Kirkwood asked, sipping his beer.

  “Before the party, I had to catch up on some paperwork back at the office, wrapping up today’s disaster, and I ran into Major Dickinson. He gave me a heads up on assignments for you two,” Carter answered.

  “We’re not even checked in,” O’Connor said, making a basketball toss at a trash barrel with his empty beer can and missing. “We’re supposed to have five days.”

  “You can check in, but Major Dickinson expects you to get started on these cases while you’re at it,” Carter said, sipping from the top of the gin-spiked limeade. “Staff Sergeant Pride will take care of most of the check-in for you anyway. He’ll get your pay records and OQRs to headquarters and service squadron first thing Monday morning. You’ll have to see medical, dental, and the chaplain on your own, but the rest he can get handled.”

  Carter then furrowed his pale brow and deepened his voice to sound authoritarian. “First of all, Captain O’Connor, you will be defending a Private First Class Celestine Anderson, a radioman with Marine Wing Support Group 17. He was taken into custody at Chu Lai this evening after planting his field ax in the head of another Marine private who was apparently touting Private Anderson outside the mess hall.”

  “We talking about a battery or a murder?” O’Connor said.

  “Murder,” Carter said. “Major Dickinson has assigned Charlie Heyster to prosecute for murder in the first degree, along with a raft of mindless misconduct charges so that the man will be sure to serve a good deal of brig time after they hang him. Your client is a black Marine; the victim was, of course, white. Racism will be at issue.”

  “Oh, I imagine Dicky Doo is delighted,” O’Connor said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “A lawyer fresh off the boat, no real practical experience, and suddenly I am the defense attorney on a murder-one rap. I am sure we have a whole host of eyewitnesses to this crime, too.”

  “About a hundred fifty or so Marines saw the entire spectacle, all of them crowded outside the main dining facility just moments before it opened for early evening chow,” Carter said.

  “Fucking great,” O’Connor said. “My client has a hundred fifty witnesses see him kill a guy.”

  “Captain Kirkwood,” Carter said, “your case is also at Chu Lai. Your client is Lance Corporal Nathan L. Todd, an American Indian who I believe is a native of the Cheyenne nation in Colorado. Lance Corporal Todd is accused of homosexual conduct and sexual assault on a fellow Marine. Apparently Lance Corporal Todd tried to suck the dick of a black Marine who was sleeping in the rack above the accused. Todd protests his innocence, claiming that he never got near the man and that the whole thing is a lie.”

  “At least its not murder,” Kirkwood said, smiling.

  “Gentlemen, good evening,” Major Dudley Dickinson said, joining the slowly growing cluster of Marines. “You give them the good news, Captain Carter?”

  “Yes, sir, Major Dickinson,” Carter said, stepping back to allow the Mojo to shoulder his way into the ongoing conversation.

  “What do you think, gents?” Dickinson said.

  “Welcome to First MAW Law?” O’Connor offered, taking a fresh beer from T. D. McKay.

  The crack drew a few smirks, and Dickinson faked a good chuckle.

  “I have the paperwork in my office,” the assistant staff judge advocate and military justice officer said. “Both of these ass wipes are in custody, locked tight in the Chu Lai cage. Not a real brig. A couple of
steel container boxes with windows cut in the sides and bars welded across the openings. A tad bit hot at midday.”

  “Sounds a little on the harsh side, Major,” Kirkwood said. “These cages conform to code?”

  “Code?” Dickinson laughed. “What code? We’re just fine with how we handle these dirt bags we clear out of here. You two gentlemen need to focus more on getting these two knuckleheads processed and in the brig, and quit worrying about where they cool their heels tonight.”

  “Processed, sir?” Kirkwood said, raising his eyebrows.

  “Adjudicated. How’s that, Captain?” Dickinson said, and sucked down a gulp of beer.

  “How about tried, sir?” O’Connor said, clenching his teeth. “We adjudicate a property settlement. People are brought to trial by courts-martial, last time I checked. Innocent until proven guilty, and treated as such.”

  “Get off your fucking soapbox, Captain. You sound like Missus Carter there, pleading for the huddled masses,” Dickinson snarled, locking his eyes on O’Connor’s. “Most of these lamebrains we process through our system joined the Marine Corps to avoid jail in the first place. It’s just a matter of time before they fuck up here, too, and we toss them in the brig, where they belonged from the get-go. Don’t be such a bleeding heart. It doesn’t become you.”

  Terry O’Connor held his rapidly heating stare at the major’s eyes, started to speak, but then said nothing.

  “What time, sir?” Kirkwood said, seizing the opportunity to head off his best friend from finally letting his temper boil past his quickly eroding self-control and saying something regrettable.

  “Time?” Dickinson said, slurping his beer.

  “Yes, sir,” Kirkwood replied. “You said you had the paperwork on our two clients, and I just wanted to know what time to be in your office to formally get assigned the cases and receive the paperwork from you. We do have to plan a defense.”

  “Tomorrow morning. Zero seven hundred, sharp, Captains,” Dickinson said, finishing his beer. “Captain Carter, why don’t you get me a refill when you freshen up that Shirley Temple you’re nursing.”

  Carter nodded to the Mojo, took his empty can, and headed to the bar, thankful for the excuse to depart his presence.

  “You two better get this straight on these cases, and all others, for that matter,” Dickinson said, pressing his thin lips back, showing his tightly clenched teeth. “Don’t fuck around with me. I want this shit off our docket and these people processed and in the brig without any holdups. If they’ll plead guilty, let them do it. Go straight to sentencing. The cocksucker is easy, anyway. The ax murderer may take a few more steps, given the mandatory procedures, but I want them both out of my hair, fast.”

  “We’ll do our best, sir,” Kirkwood said, and flashed a hard look at O’Connor to keep his mouth shut. “Terry and I will excuse ourselves now. No sleep for a couple of days, and we’re both a little edgy and not clear-headed.”

  “Understood, Captain,” Dickinson said, and offered his best disingenuous smile at O’Connor. “Get some rest, boys. I’ll see you in the morning at seven sharp. The daily logistics chopper to Chu Lai launches at nine, should you want to see your clients and perhaps get them moved to the Freedom Hill brig for pretrial confinement.”

  Kirkwood and O’Connor quickly turned on their heels and hurried toward their quarters, following the gravel path that led past the tennis courts where Lieutenant Colonel Prunella had volleyed his ball off the plywood backstop earlier that day. The batteries of mercury vapor lamps posted at each corner of the concrete square created an island of light in the surrounding darkness. Ahead they could see the single yellow bulb hanging in the receptacle beneath the white and green metal reflector suspended above the squad bay door on the old two-story French barracks where they now lived.

  “Hey, before you guys disappear, can I get a favor?” T. D. McKay said, running to Kirkwood and O’Connor after they had walked well outside earshot of Major Dickinson and the others.

  “Depends,” O’Connor said, both captains stopping in the light from the tennis court. “If I don’t catch the clap or go to jail for it, I might consider it.”

  McKay laughed.

  “No, just cover for me if Dicky Doo goes snooping this weekend,” McKay said. “Just because its Saturday doesn’t stop him when he wants something.”

  “We just learned that lesson,” Kirkwood said. “I wanted to lay in the rack and read tomorrow morning. Now Terry and I have to stand tall for Dicky Doo at zero-seven, and then catch a chopper to Chu Lai at nine.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right,” McKay said. “Sorry, guys. I can hit up Mike Carter. He’s usually good for a cover story.”

  “What’s going on tomorrow that you’ve got to have the alibi?” O’Connor said, his curiosity hard at work.

  “I’ve got a pal in the grunts, First Lieutenant Jimmy Sanchez,” McKay said, hanging his thumbs in his belt. “The two of us graduated Texas together. We both got our B.A.’s in history. He wants to teach; I went into law school. To make a long story short, Sanchez has a platoon with Third Reconnaissance Battalion, based up by Dong Ha. They run regular patrols along the length of Highway Nine, clear out past the Rock Pile, snooping and pooping, calling in air and arty, that sort of thing. Lots of fun and games. He lets me tag along with his guys.”

  “Sounds a little risky to me,” Kirkwood said. “You get into the shit, and Dicky Doo will want your head. Patrolling with the grunts is one of the Don’ts near the top of his list.”

  “What the fuck is he going to do about it?” McKay asked. “Shave my head and send me to the grunts in Vietnam? I’m sick of his shit anyway. In a way, I hope he does nail my ass, and fire me off to the grunts. That’s where I want to go anyway.”

  “That or hunting VC with Lobo, I hear,” O’Connor said with a smile.

  McKay laughed and shook his head.

  “You guys know all my dirty little secrets,” he said. “Wayne Ebberhardt is nearly as bad as I am, but I think a ton smarter. He doesn’t get caught playing hooky with Archie. But if Lobo offers to drag you hunting with him, then take him up on it. What a trip! He’s flying that plane, tossing grenades out the windows, you’re in the back with a rifle, or that M60 chopping away. Treetops whipping under your feet. Many times we land and he’s got branches stuck in the landing gear. Lobo loves to fly that plane with one hand and shoot the blooper out his window with the other. That’s his big kick. Blowing up shit.”

  “So you’re headed to Dong Ha in the morning?” Kirkwood said.

  “Before daylight,” McKay answered, walking away from the duo. “Archie’s flying me up there, so I am crashing at his shack tonight. I’ll be back sometime Monday or Tuesday.”

  “Stay safe, my friend,” O’Connor said.

  McKay trotted from the island of light where O’Connor and Kirkwood stood, and headed up the road to the line of hooches where Archie Gunn and the other animals of the observation squadron dwelled. The two exhausted and now half drunk Marine lawyers crunched their way along the gravel path that led to the double doorway of their barracks, and the two racks awaiting them inside for a few hours’ sleep before they started work in the morning.

  “Fuck it, Jon,” O’Connor said, stripping down to his T-shirt and skivvy shorts. “I am a whipped puppy. You know, the only sleep we’ve had is the couple of hours shut-eye we caught on the Freedom Bird.”

  “That seems days ago, but you know, it was only this morning,” Kirkwood said, draping his uniform over his wall locker door and tossing his socks inside a white laundry bag that he now tied back to the rail on the foot of his rack. “I dread tomorrow. Right off the top of the deck we’re dealt a cocksucker and a murderer.”

  “Accused cocksucker and murderer, Jon,” O’Connor muttered, throwing his blanket to one side and pulling the bunk’s white cotton sheet across his lower legs.

  “ONE OF THOSE poor bastards swallowed a chainsaw,” First Lieutenant Michael Schuller whispered to Buck Taylor, who stood ne
arest to him. Wayne Ebberhardt, Michael Carter, Stanley Tufts, Charlie Heyster, and the Brothers B clustered close behind as the gaggle of late drinkers stood in the yellow light outside the defense section’s barracks door.

  Schuller, a newly assigned III MAF brig officer, had come to the party late, and missed meeting Kirkwood and O’Connor, so the officers who had remained until after midnight to close down the shindig decided to take care of that social oversight, and at the same time have a laugh at the two new lawyers’ expense.

  During some of their excursions with the infantry, playing hooky from legal duties, Wayne Ebberhardt and T. D. McKay had gotten to know Mike Schuller when he led a platoon of grunts from the Seventh Marine Regiment assigned to Fire Support Base Ross, west of Chu Lai. Schuller had devoted himself to his Marines. Any time one of them took a bullet or died in action, it devastated the lieutenant.

  At the University of Vermont, where Schuller had initially entered the Marine Corps Platoon Leader Course, he had come to question the validity of the political reasons for American involvement in the Vietnam War. He had started to drop out of the course, and not enter the Marine Corps, but his adviser had appealed to him to reconsider.

  Despite his misgivings about the war, Schuller showed himself as a vibrant and promising leader, intelligent, dogged, and fearless. He held fast to a strong set of principles and valued honor and integrity above all else, traits the Marine Corps reveres.

  “My father, back home in Vermont, taught me that mankind can strip you of all that you may have, except for this one thing,” Schuller had told T. D. McKay one night at Fire Base Ross, relaxing in his hooch after a day-long patrol that had netted them little but sore feet and salt rings on their uniforms. “Men can take all that you own, or ever will own. They can take your wealth, your family, your freedom, and even your life. Nearly everything that is yours in this world, men can rob from you, save for one thing. One thing in this stinking life. In this whole world, for that matter. And it’s the most precious thing you have, too. My friend, that’s your honor. No one can take that away. To lose it, you have to give it up yourself.”