Jungle Rules

by Charles W. Henderson

  “Think about that night. The lieutenant got shot, waving at the NVA like a schoolkid on the playground. He slacked off for only a second, but that’s all it takes. Like I said, shit happens when you go slack. He did, and he got shot for it. I don’t blame him for getting killed. I miss the shit out of him. He was about the best I ever saw. But he went slack at the wrong time.

  “Those NVA that you took down, they fucked up, too. They’re dead because they didn’t watch where they were going.

  “The gunfire, shit, sir, that drew every Communist soldier within a five-click arc. They focused on that site and came barreling down your throats. We saw more than fifty alone when they hit RP Tango, remember?

  “These particular North Vietnamese on our asses out there, they had commando training. A lot like our reconnaissance scouts. They know the woods. They’re sharp.

  “When they gave chase to you, right when the lieutenant got shot, you have to believe that they came full bore, throttle down. They wanted to kill whoever got in the firefight with their team. They were hot on your ass when you hit that clearing. What was it, thirty seconds or so after you jumped into the open that they started shooting?”

  McKay sat on the end of his bunk, listening, and nodded. “Yes, I cleared the open area in less than a minute, and they started firing at me when I still had a hundred yards to cover,” the lieutenant agreed.

  “Now let’s do a little supposing, shall we?” Rhodes said.

  “Okay,” McKay nodded.

  “Let’s suppose that you did what Lieutenant Sanchez instructed you to do. You stuck with Doc and Baby Huey, and made the circle around that minefield.

  “Shit, the NVA weren’t about to tramp across their own minefield in the dark. They circled, too. Even with you running across the clearing, they went around it. Whether or not they saw you running across that open ground, they had already begun pursuit of you. They would have caught up with you at about the point that they ran over the top of Baby Huey and Doc.

  “One important thing to consider, though, when you would have gone into hiding with the enemy walking on top of you: What do you suppose Lieutenant Sanchez would have been doing? Holding his wind, too?

  “Hell, man, the lieutenant was gasping for every breath. His wheezing carried half a mile that night. The air still as it was. You laying in the bush with Doc and Baby Huey, with the lieutenant hacking like a foghorn, the NVA would have been down on you like stink on shit.

  “Now, don’t you suppose that when they caught you they would have had blood in their eyes?”

  “It would have been the shits,” McKay agreed, giving himself a look in the full-length mirror fastened to the wall as the three Marines escorted him toward the front door.

  “Those pissed-off NVA would have shot your young ass dead,” Rhodes said, pulling open the screen door for the officer. “They would have killed you, Baby Huey, and Doc here.

  “Sir, you did not cost Lieutenant Sanchez his life. His bad luck and a brain fart cost him. The fact is, sir, you saved Doc’s life, and Baby Huey’s life for sure, and probably saved my life, too, and every man in this platoon.

  “We got out of the shit with every man intact. Not one man wounded. Nobody killed except the lieutenant. That’s damned good, considering where we started.

  “My opinion, sir, you getting a Bronze Star with V is a cheap medal for what you did for us. Lieutenant Sanchez is proud of you, sir. So am I.”

  Thirty minutes later, the bright midday sunlight blinded Tommy McKay as he stepped from the ranks of his fellow officers when the Headquarters Squadron commanding officer bellowed, “Persons to be decorated, front and center!”

  When T. D. McKay stepped forward, and marched toward the empty space between guide-on flags where Lieutenant General Robert E. Cushman Jr. stood waiting, Terry O’ Connor and Jon Kirkwood walked in step with him. When they reached the front-and-center point, they stood at McKay’s left. His award was senior to theirs.

  From the public address system an announcer read the Bronze Star citation that included the phrase “for conspicuous gallantry.” In three brief paragraphs it told the story of Tommy McKay’s heroism.

  Then General Cushman pinned the medal on his shirt, and stepped down to Terry O’ Connor. The announcer then read the citation for his Navy Commendation Medal with Combat V device for gallantry under fire. In three brief paragraphs it told of that night at Fire Support Base Ross, and his running under fire, pulling a machine gun from a destroyed bunker, and employing it against the enemy, repelling them.

  After General Cushman pinned the medal on O’Connor’s shirt he stepped in front of Jon Kirkwood, who also received the Navy Commendation Medal with Combat V device for valor. His citation told of his undaunted leadership and tenacity, holding the line with an M14 while his partner retrieved the machine gun, and how together the lawyers demonstrated uncommon valor and dedication.

  As they saluted, and then returned to their places in the ranks, they saw Major Jack Hembee smiling and clapping in the grandstand, standing next to Goose, King Rat, and Elvis.

  POTTED PALM TREES and Hawaiian music set the tone for the afternoon all-hands reception, luau, and pig roast on the lawn behind the Da Nang Air Base Officers’ Club. A deck of several dozen freshly cut pineapples, shipped the day before from Okinawa and grown on one of the plantations on the northern end of the island, rested in layers atop a shelf of ice.

  For the Marines who spent most of their time sleeping in holes at Con Thien or Fire Support Base Ross, the sight of the ice seemed amazing. Many of them, used to drinking hot beer, when they could get beer at all, did not realize that the precious cold stuff even existed in Vietnam. Nearly to a man, the entire platoon from Third Reconnaissance Battalion systematically slipped past the pineapple-covered counter time and again, and rather than gobbling cold slices of the sweet tropical fruit, they crammed their mouths with ice. Several of the men even got plastic cocktail cups, and rather than filling the multicolored sixteen-ounce containers with free booze, they stuffed them with chipped ice.

  Tommy McKay smiled happily, watching his recon blood brothers delighting themselves with the ice and the cold pineapples, which they soon began to devour by the plateful. Just having them here, knowing they held no grudges, and even applauded him for what he did in combat, made him feel as though half the weight of the world had suddenly lifted from his chest.

  Still, the other half of the world, occupied by Jimmy Sanchez’s mother, sisters, and brothers, remained pressing on his conscience. But now it seemed less troubling to him than it had before Paul Rhodes had talked to him. September still loomed dark for him, though. Time to pack up and go back to Texas, and face his family, and talk to his best pal’s mom about how her son died.

  Watching the recon Marines celebrate the existence of ice in Vietnam, however, made the stocky first lieutenant feel good overall, for the first time in four months. His emotions had gone so low that even during the heavy rocket attacks of January 29 and 30, kicking off the Tet Offensive, he didn’t get excited or at all afraid. When everyone at Marine Aircraft Group Eleven went underground from the massive barrages of 122-millimeter rockets the North Vietnamese launched against them, T. D. McKay remained outside and watched the chaos.

  He even went flying with Lobo when they got news that Hue City had momentarily fallen to the NVA, and the enemy had taken prisoner the Marine lieutenant who commanded the American Forces Vietnam Radio station there in the ancient capital. Stocked with hand grenades and an M60 machine gun, T. D. McKay and Lobo went flying over Hai Van Pass, determined to wreak havoc on the enemy. They got grounded for two days at Phu Bai.

  Thinking of his and Archie Gunn’s stupidity, Tommy McKay chuckled out loud. Paul Rhodes, puffing intellectually on his English briar calabash pipe, enjoying the taste and smell of a fresh pouch of Borkum Riff black cavendish tobacco he had bought that morning at the Da Nang Air Base PX, just after they had landed, stood next to the lieutenant, watching his platoon, and laughed,
too.

  “Lieutenant McKay, congratulations. Good show, chum,” a voice from behind spoke.

  “Oh, thanks,” Tommy McKay said as he turned to see Captain Charlie Heyster with Stanley and Manley Tufts close at his side.

  “Have you met my brother?” Stanley said, introducing Manley to the lieutenant.

  “I saw him at the First Marine Division command post a couple of weeks ago, I think,” McKay said, putting out his hand. “Good to meet you face-to-face, though.”

  “Hell of a party, stud,” Manley Tufts said, shaking hands with the lieutenant and then reaching up to take a close look at the Bronze Star Medal hanging on McKay’s pocket. “I spent three months with a grunt platoon before joining division legal, living in the shit, and I never got more than a letter of commendation from the battalion commander. Then you wingers go out for a day, just tagging along with some grunts, and you get all kinds of decorations.”

  “Shit, man, I’d trade you this medal and my buddy’s life for you a moment in the sun, stud. How’s that?” McKay snapped.

  “Oh, don’t take me wrong, old sport,” Manley Tufts said through his teeth, the words ringing in his ample nasal cavities, “I don’t begrudge you the medal, or those other two theirs. My whole point is that it seems that ten men can do the same jobs and no one notices, but in the right place at the right time a man could pick up a Silver Star or Navy Cross doing the same thing. No offense.”

  Paul Rhodes puffed his smoke and casually eyed the two brothers standing there with their arms held high from their sides, avoiding spoiling the creases in their shirts, and looking like two hot seagulls on a summer day. The silver Scuba head badge and gold jump wings glistening on the staff sergeant’s green utility shirt caught Stanley Tufts’ eye and he put a finger toward them for a touch.

  “Sorry, sir,” Rhodes said, and caught Stanley Tufts’s approaching digit, and stopped it before it made contact. “You can look, but please don’t touch. I hate fingerprints on my shit. I might lose my mind and cut off your hand.”

  Charlie Heyster laughed, looking haughtily at the enlisted Marine fending off his pal Stanley’s envious fingers. Then he looked at McKay.

  “Don’t worry about Stanley, he’s like a greedy little magpie when it comes to shiny objects. Haven’t seen you in court for a while, T. D.,” Heyster said to the lieutenant, fingering the Bronze Star hanging on his shirt, and then glanced at Staff Sergeant Rhodes to see if he had anything smart to say to him.

  “Doing mostly research,” McKay said, “helping Terry O’Connor and Wayne Ebberhardt with their murder case, coming up in two weeks.”

  “Supposedly, they’re talking about shipping this ax-wielding maniac to Okinawa for trial, or maybe even Kaneohe Bay or Pendleton,” Stanley Tufts said, smiling. “The Brothers B have gotten that word directly from the Fleet Marine Force Pacific judge advocate’s shop. The idea of some of you turds getting a trip like that has Dicky Doo going crazy. He’s already talked to Colonel Prunella about reassigning himself as the lead defense counsel.”

  “Lead defense counsel?” McKay said, surprised. “Pretty far-fetched, isn’t it?”

  “He can do it,” Heyster said.

  “You know, Kirkwood’s wife teaches school in Okinawa,” Stanley Tufts said smugly. “Bet he’s already promising his Siamese twin O’Connor extra blow jobs to let him join the defense. With Ebberhardt’s wife flying in and out of here, he could give a shit about stepping aside for Kirkwood.”

  “Ebberhardt’s wife? Where do you pick up this shit?” McKay said.

  “You think he has a gook whore in the ville, spending his off-duty with her?” Heyster said. “Lots of scuttlebutt going on about our man Wayne and some mystery woman.”

  “Where he goes is his business,” McKay said, defending his buddy.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know about his wife, working as a stewardess on the freedom bird,” Heyster said, arching his eyebrows. “Whenever the plane gets grounded, which is almost every week now, our busy bootlegger lieutenant from North Carolina disappears for the overnight. Don’t tell me you don’t know that, either?”

  “I wouldn’t tell you shit if I did know,” McKay said, and looked at Paul Rhodes, who stood there, trying to ignore the insulting cuts by the prosecutor captain.

  “Dicky Doo is gunning to catch them,” Stanley Tufts said, spreading a wide smile and watching McKay’s face as he did it.

  “Catch them at what?” McKay snarled, throwing the glass of ice water he had nursed into the trash can, shattering the tumbler with a loud crash. “They’re married. If she’s working here legally, and he’s on his own time, not out of bounds, then what the hell does Dicky Doo expect to do?”

  “You know Major Dickinson,” Heyster said, smiling, satisfied he had finally uncorked McKay’s anger. “He doesn’t have to have any actual violations to get the guy. He plays by jungle rules, didn’t you hear?”

  “Gentlemen, sorry to break up such fine company and warm conversation, but the staff sergeant and I have some business to attend,” McKay said, taking Rhodes by the arm and leading him away.

  “What business?” Rhodes said, and caught the eyes of Doc Hamilton, Lionel McCoy, and Baby Huey, who now followed him and the lieutenant.

  “I need to get out of here,” McKay said, heading toward the barracks. “I’ve got a couple of canteens of some pretty good homemade whiskey in my locker, if you want a drink. We can come back out here later, once the pig is done.”

  “Hey, Doc,” Rhodes said, looking over his shoulder at his comrades, “maybe you and Sneed ought to grab a few of those pineapples and some beers and bring them, too.”

  “Sounds good, we’ll be right behind you,” Hamilton said, making a quick stop at the pineapple counter, and another at a trash can filled with ice, water, and cans of beer.

  “Sir, what a surprise!” Jon Kirkwood told Major Danger, seeing him and his three enlisted cohorts from LZ Ross standing near the pig turning on the spit. Already, hungry bystanders had snatched small chunks of juicy pork off the loin and hams.

  “I told you I was mentioning you in my dispatches,” Hembee said, laughing, pinching a chunk of golden crisp meat off the pig’s shoulder. “When did you guys find out that you were getting medals?”

  “We had no idea at all, until this morning, when the squadron first sergeant more or less ordered us out on the parade deck and had us walk through the ceremony while the troops rehearsed,” Terry O’Connor told the major, shaking his free hand and looking past his right shoulder where Goose, Rat, and Elvis stood smiling, each holding a cold beer.

  “Glad to see that you guys made the party, too,” O’Connor added, putting out his hand to the trio of enlisted Marines. “Any word on Henry?”

  “He’s recovered some vision in his right eye, but they ended up taking out the left one,” Hembee said. “He’s back home in Knoxville, out of the Corps, of course, but he still keeps in touch. We get a letter from him every week. He said to tell you guys thanks for coming out to the hospital ship and visiting him while he was still here.”

  “Hey, you know us, Marines first,” Kirkwood said, and put his arm around King Rat. “We’re a team, right?”

  “How’s your brain-housing-group these days?” O’Connor asked Rat, holding the rapidly dwindling remains of a six-pack of beer under his arm.

  “Still get some pretty wicked headaches, but at least I didn’t go blind,” Rat said, and glanced at Elvis, who still wore a patch on his injured eye. “A few stitches across the side of my head, and a mangled ear, but that ain’t shit.”

  “Funny how you seemed worse off at the time, and came out best,” O’Connor said, slapping King Rat across the shoulder.

  “Anyone see McKay?” First Lieutenant Wayne Ebberhardt asked, joining the cluster of Marines.

  “Wasn’t he with that bunch from Third Recon?” Kirkwood said, looking at the growing multitude of faces filling the lawn behind the Officers’ Club, eating fresh pineapple and sipping cold beer while a
waiting the roast pig.

  “He had a snootful this morning,” O’Connor said, looking at the crowd, trying to see any of the reconnaissance Marines or navy corpsman who had accompanied him in the barracks earlier. “I see that recon colonel over there with General Cushman and General Anderson, along with Colonel Prunella and Dicky Doo, and I see some of the recon platoon here and there, but I don’t see McKay or the two sergeants and the corpsman, either. If I had to look for him, I think I might try the barracks. Ten to one that motley crew went back to his cube to sample some of your white lightning that he’s got stacked in the bottom of his wall locker. Besides, from what I saw of our boy Tommy, he probably ducked from sight to stay out of trouble. A few belts, and no telling what he might say to our favorite major, and he’d do it in front of all that heavy brass, too.”

  “Probably for the best that he’s not here,” Ebberhardt agreed, looking at the cluster of senior officers glad-handing with the Third Marine Amphibious Force commanding general, Lieutenant General Robert E. Cushman Jr., and the commanding general of the First Marine Aircraft Wing, and Deputy Commander for Air, III MAF, Major General Norman J. Anderson. Among the circle of colonels and two generals, Major Dudley L. Dickinson beamed with excessive animation, and now hastily beckoned Kirkwood, O’Connor, and Ebberhardt to join the conversation of the elite group of officers.

  “Maybe we should have ducked out with McKay to the barracks,” O’Connor said, waving back at Major Dickinson and nodding, acknowledging the summons. “This ought to be good.”

  “What ought to be good?” Kirkwood said, walking toward the group of Marines where Major Dickinson busily licked boots and kissed ass.

  “I want to hear what that son of a bitch has to say about Tommy and us in front of General Cushman and General Anderson,” O’Connor muttered as he walked to the circle, beer in hand. Then he gave Dicky Doo a loud slap between the shoulder blades and asked, “How’s my favorite mojo?”