“HI, GUYS!” MICHAEL Carter called to Jon Kirkwood and Terry O’Connor as he strolled inside the Da Nang Officers’ Club. “I guess I missed them, darn it.”
“Missed who, stick man?” O’Connor said, looking at their colleague, who now perched himself on a bar stool next to them. “You talking about Wayne Ebberhardt and that red bombshell who came in here and picked him up? In the end, I think he picked her up.”
“Yeah,” Kirkwood said, peeling the label off his beer bottle. “The way Wayne just got up and decided to leave, and she hooked right on him. He did the picking. She was trolling, but he landed the fish.”
“What are you talking about?” Carter said, getting the bartender’s attention and ordering a sloe gin fizz.
“Ebberhardt, fuck nuts,” O’Connor said, taking a pull off his beer. “He left here with this gorgeous, red-haired stewardess from the freedom bird not five minutes ago. She was hot to trot, wanting a bad boy to go play with her, and she snatched up Wayne like a Seventh Avenue pro.”
“It’s arguable who did the snatching,” Kirkwood added, “but she was definitely hot to trot. Had her skirt way up past her thighs and her boobs just jumping out.”
Michael Carter laughed and snorted, and then sucked sloe gin fizz up the red swizzle stick straw jutting from his highball glass.
“I shouldn’t tell you then,” he said, honking as he laughed. “This is too good. Telling you would spoil it.”
“Spill it, ass wipe,” O’Connor growled, and spun Michael Carter on his bar stool toward him, still snickering.
“That was Gwen, stupid,” Carter said, and laughed more.
“I know it was Gwen,” Kirkwood answered. “She introduced herself to us.”
“She tell you her last name?” Carter teased.
“Yeah, Crook something,” O’Connor said, and then began to smile, realizing he had fallen prey to a rich joke.
“Crookshank, Gwendolyn Crookshank,” Kirkwood added, and then smiled, too. “Come to think of it, that’s an awfully stupid name.”
“Oh, that’s too funny,” Carter said, hacking as he laughed. “Gwen Ebberhardt! You guys were had. She came by the barracks looking for Wayne, picked up some of his stuff for the weekend, and I told her that he was over here with you two.”
“Fucking Ebberhardt,” O’Connor said and laughed. “Damn, he’s got a fox of a wife, though.”
Jon Kirkwood felt in his back pocket and pulled out the letter from Katie. He smelled the paper, still faintly scented with the Chanel Number Five she had sprinkled on the stationery. Her favorite perfume. The same fragrance that Gwen Ebberhardt wore.
Another flash of daylight drew the three lawyers’ attention back to the alcove that led to the front door. Silhouetted by the glow from the jukebox and the cigarette machine, they saw Dicky Doo’s unmistakable semiportly frame topped by his salt-and-pepper flattop head. He stood there for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, and then strolled to the bar, smiling like he had encountered old friends.
“I should have figured that you three hogs would not stray far from the well,” Major Dickinson said, laughing at his own condescending humor. “Stanley, Charlie, and the Brothers B have gone to PT, but I see you fellows have more sensible business here at the bar.”
“Talking defense strategy, Major,” O’Connor said, sliding his beer mug across the counter to the barkeep for a refill. Jon Kirkwood still toyed with the label on his half-drank bottle of beer, and paid no attention to the mojo.
“And a cocktail to relax after a trying day,” Michael Carter added, holding up his nearly empty sloe gin fizz sloshing in the bottom of a glassful of pink ice cubes.
“Looks like you’re ready for another Shirley Temple there, sweetie,” Dickinson said, looking at Carter smiling pink teeth at him.
“You offering to buy, sir?” Carter asked, pushing his glass to the bartender.
“You’re not my idea of a date, but I think I’ll spring for a round all around,” Dicky Doo said, motioning for beers for himself, O’Connor, and Kirkwood. “And give the lady whatever pink shit that she’s drinking today,” he added, pointing at Michael Carter.
“What’s the special occasion?” O’Connor said, taking his fresh mug of draft beer and pushing another bottle of Olympia to Jon Kirkwood, who sat silent on his stool and stuffed his wife’s letter back in his pocket.
“Stanley and I fly to Okinawa on Tuesday morning,” Dickinson said, and then looked directly at Kirkwood.
“Oh, really?” Jon said and forced a smile. “Business or pleasure?”
“A bit of both, I’m afraid,” Dickinson answered, taking a sip from a fresh mug of Budweiser draft.
“That’s too bad, sir,” O’Connor offered. “Damned but they’re always fucking up a good business trip with pleasure, aren’t they.”
Dicky Doo laughed.
“I guess I had that coming,” he said and smiled. “After nearly nine months here, I have to admit some reluctance at enjoying myself for a week while you chaps hold down the fort.”
“First R and R then, sir?” Kirkwood asked, finishing his earlier bottle of beer and then sliding it across the bar. “I heard that everyone rates it after four months. What happened?”
“Just never had time, you know, work, work, work,” Dicky Doo said, drinking his beer.
“So our man Stanley will carry your bags for this business and pleasure trip,” O’Connor said, reaching for a bowl of peanuts that the bartender had just filled and slid in front of the men.
“He and Charlie flipped for it, and Stanley won the toss,” Dickinson said, taking a handful of peanuts and popping one in his mouth.
“Why weren’t we included in the coin toss, sir?” Kirkwood then blurted.
“Well, this is the Fleet Marine Force Pacific legal conference, and I am representing the wing’s defense side of the house,” Dickinson said in an almost taunting voice to Kirkwood. “The only competition for the other representative slot logically had to go to the prosecution team. I’m afraid we can afford to send only two people. Sorry, Jon, I know how you want to see your wife.”
“Stick it up your ass, sir,” Kirkwood said, and then walked away from the bar toward the restroom, not waiting for a reply.
“Did you hear that?” Dickinson fumed, and looked at Michael Carter and Terry O’Connor.
“Hear what, sir?” Carter said, smiling his pink teeth.
O’Connor smiled, too, and shrugged.
“Look here,” Dickinson then scowled, “that’s insubordination and disrespect.”
“Sorry, sir, I missed it,” O’Connor said, drinking his beer. “Did Jon say something insubordinate? That’s awfully out of character for him. Now, me? I wouldn’t be surprised at anything I said.”
“Where’re the other two trolls from the defense section?” Dickinson snapped, shifting the conversation’s subject to an area where he held better control.
“Trolls, sir?” O’Connor asked and then laughed. “No one has ever called me a troll that I can recall. I guess I need to grow out my hair and take up residence under the Han River Bridge.”
“Keep it up, and you’ll have to stand tall before the colonel,” Dickinson cautioned the smart-aleck captain.
“Sir, if you want Lieutenant McKay and Lieutenant Ebberhardt, I think they’ve gone already,” O’Connor said, and relaxed back on his bar stool.
“Where, Captain?” Dickinson said, relaxing on his bar stool, too.
“You know those two, they’re always busy prowling around every weekend that they don’t pull duty,” O’Connor said, and then patted Jon Kirkwood on his shoulder as he came back to his seat. “Jon, Mike, and me, well, as you said, sir, you can always count on us hogs not straying too far from the well.”
“I wanted to hold a meeting in my office at zero seven hundred tomorrow,” Dicky Doo said, and then smiled a mean grin at the three captains. “The lieutenants skated again, but I know you’ll be there. In my office at seven, gentlemen.”
/> “Sir, can’t it wait until Monday?” Carter said, trying to take up for his team and fulfill his role as senior defense section officer.
“No, Miss Carter, it cannot,” Dickinson snapped back, “I have many things to attend on Monday, since I catch the freedom bird first thing Tuesday morning. We have to have our weekly conference Saturday morning, if that’s okay with you, Captain.”
“I guess the only saving grace of having a seven-o’clock meeting is knowing that you have to get to the office early on Saturday morning, too, sir,” Kirkwood said, and turned up his bottle of Olympia.
Dickinson sat and thought a moment and then looked at Kirkwood. “Okay, Jon,” Dicky Doo said, “how about nine o’clock? I’ll cut you a little slack.”
“Seven, nine, it’s okay, sir, whenever,” Kirkwood replied.
“Nine o’clock, gentlemen,” Dickinson said, and stood to leave. Then he looked back and laughed. “I nearly forgot to pass along the good news.”
“I could use a bit of good news, sir. What is it?” Carter bubbled, and sucked on the swizzle stick straw of his sloe gin fizz.
“Couple of things, and I know that they will make all three of you happy,” Dickinson said, smiling. “Promotion board published the selections for major today. Charlie Heyster made the list. He’ll pin on his oak leaves within six months.”
“Well, hell, sir,” O’Connor chirped, “why isn’t he here buying us beer?”
“You’ll have ample opportunity to congratulate him, gentlemen,” Dickinson said, nearly laughing. “He has agreed to extend in country another three months beyond the end of his regular tour, along with me.”
“You extended too, sir?” Kirkwood asked.
“I had to,” Dickinson said, offering a serious frown. “Colonel Prunella rotates home after the thirtieth of June. So he’s out of here on the first freedom bird in July. As of today, Headquarters Marine Corps has not designated a replacement for him. Therefore, beginning July first, I will assume interim duties as staff judge advocate, until the new colonel arrives, mid-September at the earliest. Major-select Heyster will move up to my old job as military justice officer and deputy staff judge advocate. This plan also assures continuity of our office until most of us rotate in November and December.”
“That’s wonderful news, sir,” O’Connor said, and then looked at Kirkwood and crossed his eyes. Jon Kirkwood laughed, seeing the face his buddy made, and then looked at Dicky Doo.
“You know, sir,” Kirkwood said, still smiling, “I’m happy for you both. I am sure your family, and Major-select Heyster’s are thrilled to no end at hearing this news.”
“Nine o’clock, tomorrow, my office, gentlemen,” Dickinson said as he left the bar, and then stopped halfway across the dance floor. “Oh, Kirkwood. Anything you want me to pass along to your wife while I am at Okinawa, just let me know.”
“Thanks, sir. I’ll think it over,” Jon Kirkwood said, holding up his beer toward the major, mocking a toast, and extending his middle finger from the bottle.
A ROTUND, GRAY-BEARDED, retired master chief who had survived Pearl Harbor, piloted a Higgins boat at Iwo Jima, and landed Marines at Inchon smiled at Gwen Ebberhardt when she walked through the double glass doors that led into the lobby at the China Beach special services recreational area cabana check-in lobby and fast-food grill.
The stone-faced building that served as the beach headquarters, Laundromat, general store, gift shop, and café opened onto an earth-filled, concrete, and stone-fronted deck elevated above the sand and surrounded by a circular walkway. Colorful parasols shading picnic tables scattered across the patio and storefront that overlooked the broad stretch of sand and surf on the north side of the peninsula that jutted into the South China Sea like an outstretched arm reaching east from Da Nang.
A stone’s throw west and slightly inland from the American forces R and R resort, Charlie Med bustled with saving lives of wounded from central I Corps’ battlefields. Another kilometer south, on the opposite side of the strip of land, trees, and rocks, the Marble Mountain air facility rumbled day and night with hundreds of helicopters racing support to Marines scattered from Phu Bai to Chu Lai. East from the recreation area, near the tip of the peninsula, beneath the shadow of Monkey Mountain, U.S. Navy swift boats sailed to and from their mooring stations morning and night while merchant freighters and navy replenishment vessels landed thousands of tons of new equipment, supplies, and munitions on the half-dozen long concrete docks that stretched into the sea from the China Beach logistics wharf and cargo terminal.
“Hi, I’m Gwen Ebberhardt. I called from Da Nang this morning, and reserved a beach house for the weekend,” the redheaded flight attendant said to the grizzled old sailor who stood behind the counter wearing a sky blue tank top shirt and blue, green, yellow, and white flower-covered Bermuda shorts. The skin on his barrel chest and thick, gray-hair-covered arms spoke of the sun. The green ink of his many tattoos lay nearly hidden beneath the dark-tanned color of his skin.
“Got ya right here, ma’am,” the shaggy, silver-haired chief said, shoving a white registration card in front of her to fill out and sign. “Cabana 22B. Just back up that path, into those trees and the first duplex on the left. Your front window looks right out at the beach, just like you wanted.”
“Oh, thanks so much,” Gwen Ebberhardt said, and pointed to the smiling lieutenant standing behind her. “This is my husband, Lieutenant Wayne Ebberhardt.”
“Glad to meet you, sir,” the chief said, and put out his meaty paw for a shake. “I hope you enjoy your weekend with the pretty missus. You’re a lucky fella getting to have your wife visit like this. Mostly we just get singles. Once in a while a contractor or embassy employee gets out here with his lady, but not many military folks. Yes, sir, you’re a lucky one.”
“I truly appreciate it, sir,” Ebberhardt said, smiling while he filled out and signed the registration card.
“Oh, don’t call me ‘sir,’ ” the chief laughed, “I work for a living. Name’s Master Chief Clinton Sparks, U.S. Navy, retired. Call me Chief or Sparky. Whichever suits your tongue best, sir.”
“Well, Chief, I like the name Sparky,” Ebberhardt said, picking up Gwen’s flight bag and throwing the strap over his shoulder.
“You folks need anything, just hoist that little hailing flag by your front door and I’ll send a houseboy running to your service,” Chief Sparks said.
EARLIER THAT AFTERNOON, Rabbi Arthur Zimmerman had rented cabana 22A at the China Beach special services recreational area. When he heard the footsteps outside he thought it might be some of the five Jewish officers, two army captains, two air force captains, and a Marine lieutenant who had made plans to devote their weekend R and R together as a religious retreat, and use the time for personal meditation, prayer, and religious discussions with the navy chaplain.
However, when he heard the voices of the man and the woman in the room next door, the rabbi returned his attention to the Book of Tehillim (Psalms). Even as a boy, growing up in the Bronx, he had memorized many of its verses, and learned to sing the songs in the old Hebrew language, which made them even more beautiful to hear. The words that David had originally used when he sang them first gave their meaning a special significance for the rabbi.
As he read he sang to himself, waiting for the other officers to arrive. His voice carried out the open window and disappeared into the sounds of the crashing surf and the wind.
Now completing his second consecutive year in Vietnam as a lieutenant commander in the navy chaplain corps, Rabbi Zimmerman had heard God’s voice speak to his heart three years ago, when President Lyndon Johnson ordered ground forces ashore at Da Nang. Until then he had shepherded a small congregation near the botanical gardens and Fordham University, just a few minutes by subway from Yankee Stadium, where outside his life in the synagogue he had devoted himself to raising his two sons as faithful Bronx Bomber fans, just like him.
Troubled after hearing the news of the Marines’ landing at Da Na
ng’s Red Beach in March 1965, he found himself unable to concentrate. Even with his sons, Ishmael and Ruben, at his side, cheering their beloved Yankees, Arthur Zimmerman’s mind left the game and listened to his heart as it ached for the boys who left home and went to war in that place that most people then still called Indochina. Finally he told his wife, Ruth, that he had to go over to that place, too. There were good Jewish boys who needed a rabbi near them, to help them pray, to reassure them that God remained with them, especially in battle.
Assigned to Marines, he found himself praying a lot not only with the Jewish members of the Corps, but also with Baptists and Catholics and Presbyterians and Methodists, and one night he even prayed with a Muslim lad, just nineteen years old, who died as they spoke to Allah. As the boy faded, Arthur Zimmerman had recited Psalm 121 with the Christian brothers of the dying Marine from Los Angeles, whose mother and father had immigrated to California from Casa Blanca, Morocco, and named their son, born in Van Nuys in August 1948, Muhammad.
“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help,” the rabbi began reciting.
A Baptist boy from Oklahoma followed his opening phrase, saying with a trembling voice, “My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.”
“He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth thee will not slumber,” the rabbi continued. “Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.
“The Lord is thy keeper: the Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand.
“The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night.
“The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: He shall preserve thy soul.
“The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth, and even for evermore.”
Rabbi Zimmerman wiped tears from his eyes as he remembered that night, nearly a year ago. Sitting on the wicker-bottom, ladder-back chair by the small dining table near the window, he sang a song that David had first played as a simple shepherd, long before he became king of Israel, a song that rejoiced over God’s personal care. “O Lord thou hast searched me, and known me. Thou knowest my downsitting and mine uprising, thou understandest my thought afar off.”
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