He closed his eyes as he sang to himself, waiting, and his voice carried into the evening and the setting sun as he heard the man and woman from next door leave their room. He opened his eyes to see them, and watched the couple walking, holding hands, meandering across the sand toward the beach and the crashing water, with the lowering afternoon sun beginning to tint the clouds orange.
He thought of Ruth and home, his two boys, and the Yankees, now finishing their last week of spring training in Florida.
“Commander Zimmerman,” a voice called from outside.
“Oh, Frank, in here. Come in, please,” the rabbi answered, and went to the door to greet the lieutenant named Frank Alexander from the Seventh Marine Regiment.
“I saw Captain Fine and Captain Jacobs up at the gedunk,” the lieutenant said. “You want to go up there and grab a hamburger and beer with them?”
“Oh, that sounds good,” the rabbi said, picking up his cap and walking out the door with the Marine. “I thought that Michael and Eric probably went shopping or sightseeing, since I had not yet seen them and the shuttle from the air base came through here an hour ago. I think that they may have arrived with the couple who have the room next door.
“Our two army friends from Chu Lai have a long journey, so I expect that they will arrive late, but hopefully before the Sabbath begins this evening. They will likely get here while we’re at the restaurant. Do you think we ought to wait for them before we eat? You may be too hungry to wait, though.”
“No, Rabbi, I am fine. Let’s wait for them. We can grab a beer first, and then order our food once their bus gets here. It’s due at any minute anyway,” the lieutenant said, glancing at his watch while walking with the chaplain. Casually, the two men strolled to the bar and grill, where a growing crowd of servicemen, and a few women, nearly all of them clad in beachwear, stood in small clusters, drinking beer or cocktails, or sat at the picnic tables beneath the rainbow of parasols as the outdoor lights and the Tiki torches brightened and the evening faded toward darkness.
The two air force captains who had ridden the shuttle with Wayne and Gwen Ebberhardt sat at a picnic table and waved when they saw the rabbi and the Marine. With the pair of air force officers sat an army captain named Raymond Segal, and another named Joel Stein, who waved, too. Their bus had just arrived.
“HONEY! YOU CAN’T go in there,” Gwen Ebberhardt said as her husband ducked around the partition that divided cabana 22B’s front porch and patio from that of cabana 22A’s. “They’ll think you’re trying to steal something.”
“Nobody’s here,” Wayne Ebberhardt answered as he looked through the screen of the open front window of the quarters next to his in the beach-house duplex. “I don’t think they rented it to anyone.”
“How could you come to that conclusion by just looking in the window?” Gwen asked, standing by the low hedge in front of cabana 22A’s small patio, watching Wayne search the interior from outside.
“They have a rollaway bed and three cots stacked by the wall,” he answered, walking away from the window and stepping over the shrubbery. “You know, a bunch of spare stuff. They’re using this room for storage. It probably has plumbing problems or something.”
“Why on earth should you care whether or not anyone lives in that room?” Gwen said, putting her arm around Wayne’s waist and walking with him to their patio.
“First of all, honey,” the lieutenant told his wife, “I like my privacy. Did you see how thin the walls are in this cabana? A layer of plaster over a few laths, and that’s it. Somebody in there could hear everything.”
“You’re such a prude,” Gwen laughed. “You’re afraid someone will hear us fucking? Come on, Wayne, the walls aren’t that thin. And so what if they are. We’re married and I love my husband. If anyone hears us making love, then it’s their problem, certainly not mine. They don’t have to listen, you know.”
Wayne smiled and cocked his eyes to a devilish slant.
“Oh, you want to be bad, don’t you!” Gwen said, and returned the mischievous glance.
“Me want play Tarzan,” the lieutenant said, and beat his chest with his fists. “Tarzan want get naked and hump like monkey in tree with Jane.”
Then Wayne Ebberhardt scooped his wife off her feet and carried her into their cabana, and with his foot, slammed the front door shut.
EARLIER THAT EVENING, while eating their hamburgers and drinking cold beer, the air force captain named Michael Fine had pointed out to his four Jewish brothers and the rabbi the beautiful redhead in the pink bikini bathing suit eating fish and fried potatoes with the man in the red T-shirt and baggy, flower-print surfer shorts.
“They rode the shuttle with us this afternoon,” Captain Fine whispered across the table to his comrades. “He’s a Marine and she’s a stewardess.”
“You know, I bet they’re married,” Rabbi Zimmerman commented. “Look at how they love each other. He’s a very lucky fellow to have his wife here for a weekend.”
The army captain named Ray Segal laughed and looked at the other officers, who smiled and agreed with his skepticism.
“Rabbi, I mean no disrespect, but do you honestly believe what you just said?” Segal said, raising his dark eyebrows at the group’s religious mentor.
“I know what you’re thinking, and given the laws of probability, you’re more likely right than wrong,” Arthur Zimmerman said, looking at the half-eaten hamburger resting on his plate. “I say what I hope is the truth. I want to believe the best about people, not the worst. I think that is important for all of us to try to do.”
“Rabbi, this is Vietnam, don’t forget. A combat zone,” Joel Stein said, echoing his army colleague’s skepticism at the couple. “Eric and Michael rode the shuttle with them, and said that the man is a Marine and the woman an airline stewardess. Those two might be married, but not to each other.”
“I have to agree with Joel and the others, Rabbi,” Marine Lieutenant Frank Alexander said. “After all, that man’s a Marine, and I know Marines, don’t forget. And look how the woman flaunts her nakedness. The bathing suit hardly covers her lower regions, and she might as well take off the top. It hides nothing. Would a faithful married woman dress like that at all? Would a husband allow his wife to dress like that?”
Rabbi Zimmerman shrugged as he picked up the hamburger from his plate and took a large bite.
After several rounds of beer following their hamburgers, the Jewish officers headed down the gravel walkway to their cabana. The couple had long ago left the restaurant patio, and the evening twilight had descended into night. Tiki torches lit the way to their room, and the six men laughed as they stumbled along the path.
Realizing that they had allowed their beer and fellowship to take them well into the time when many people had gone to sleep or had retired to quiet contentment before sleep, they silently made their way into cabana 22A. The six men had seen a dim light from the neighboring room, so they did their best not to disturb the people next door as they prepared their beds, drawing names from the rabbi’s hat to determine who slept where.
Since it was already late, they quietly decided not to have any further Sabbath discussions tonight, but would go to sleep and start fresh in the morning.
In the dark silence all six men soon realized that the purring and groaning sounds they heard from next door did not come from anyone’s slumber. Then the voices spoke.
“Oh, Tarzan!” the female sighed, and moaned. “Oh, oh, please, oh! Tarzan so bad. Bad to Jane. Oh, oh, oh, so bad.”
Then came a bang on the wall, and a thud on the floor.
“Jane, bad girl. Jane need spanking,” the man spoke, and the sound of a hand slapping skin followed.
“Ouch, Wayne! That’s too hard, honey,” the woman said.
“Umgawa!” the man answered, and the sound of a hand slapping skin came again.
“Damn it, Tarzan! Jane not going to play if you spank so hard!” the woman’s voice cried back.
“Okay, okay, ho
ney! Come back, please. I won’t spank you so hard,” the man’s playful voice then pled.
“For Pete sake, Wayne,” the woman’s voice said, “don’t you ever run down? I’ve got to pee anyway.”
Then came a bang and a crash, and the man cried out a nearly flawless imitation of Johnny Weissmuller’s Tarzan jungle yell.
“What was that, Wayne?” the woman’s voice called from the bathroom. “Did Tarzan break something again?”
A few seconds later she cried out, “Oh, Tarzan! Bad boy! Just look what you’ve done. How on earth did you manage to knock the bed flat to the floor?”
“Umgawa,” the man’s voice answered. “Cheetah break bed, blame Tarzan; jump out window.”
Then the man let out another jungle yell, and the woman laughed.
WHEN DAYLIGHT SHONE through the front window, Rabbi Zimmerman still had the pillow over his head. No matter what he tried, he could not cease from hearing the couple’s lovemaking and romping. When the door slammed from the neighboring room, the chaplain opened his eyes and sat up.
“How on earth can those two do that all night and get up so early?” Eric Jacobs said, sitting up from one of the folding cots.
“Love is a wonderful thing,” the rabbi answered, rubbing his aching eyes. “It fills our spirits with energy. It brightens the whole world. If my Ruth were here, we would have already been on the beach this morning.”
“Rabbi,” Joel Stein said, walking to the bathroom, “I believe if your Ruth or my Ellen were here, they would have knocked on those people’s door last night and told them one or two things.”
“Joel, you’re a stick-in-the-mud,” the rabbi said.
BOTH JON KIRKWOOD and Terry O’Connor waited until five minutes past nine Saturday morning before they walked inside Major Dickinson’s office. Michael Carter had arrived fifteen minutes early and sat on the couch with his knee bouncing, glancing at his watch every few seconds as he and Dicky Doo waited for the two captains to come in and sit down.
When the pair finally walked into the room and took their seats, Dudley Dickinson didn’t look up from the papers he read for another ten minutes. Then he glared at the two men for a full thirty seconds before he spoke.
“I saw you standing behind the building ten minutes before nine, gentlemen,” Dickinson spat. “Keep up this disrespect and insubordination, and you’ll catch every duty quota that comes to headquarters squadron.”
“Each of us in the defense section already stands duty three and four times a month, sir,” Kirkwood said, opening a stenographer pad and clicking the point out on his pen, ready to take notes. “I didn’t know that the law center could get tasked with any more extra-duty quotas than we already stand now.”
“I am sure that other work sections will gladly pass along their quotas for us to fill, Captain,” Dickinson answered, “so don’t press the issue. Your fellow defense team members will regret it. Now, what about Ebberhardt and McKay? Anyone see them since yesterday evening when we had our drinks at the bar?”
“They must have slept over someplace else,” Carter offered.
“No one from our section has seen them, sir,” Kirkwood interjected before Michael Carter could say too much.
“They’d better not be out flying with that idiot Captain Gunn,” Dickinson growled. “That man is a menace to anyone’s sanity. Throwing hand grenades from the window of his plane. What if one fell back in the cockpit? My God!”
“I can’t say, sir,” Kirkwood answered before Michael Carter could open his mouth and put his foot in it.
“Well, to business then, gentlemen,” Dickinson said, and then began passing manila folders to the three captains. “You can brief the two wayward lieutenants when you see them, hopefully before Monday, when I want them both standing tall in front of my desk at zero seven hundred.”
Jon Kirkwood flipped open the folder that the mojo had handed to him, and began reading the charge sheet and supporting statements.
“That boy’s a real bad egg,” Dickinson said, watching Kirkwood read. “Sergeant Donald T. Wilson, soon to be private, I would say: calling his platoon commander a coward, in front of the entire platoon and the company commander.”
“He really say all this shit?” Kirkwood said, looking up. Then the captain looked down and read aloud:
“The men don’t like you because you’re an asshole-fucking coward, Lieutenant. I’ll bet that you even squat to pee. You have to because you sure the fuck don’t have any balls. You fucking pussy!”
“I think we met him at Fire Base Ross,” O’Connor laughed.
“He’s from up north, with the light antiaircraft missile battalion,” Kirkwood said, looking at O’Connor. “Definitely a healthy grunt mentality though.”
“Captain Kirkwood,” Major Dickinson said, looking at a list of notes scribbled on a yellow legal pad, “you may want to joke about him, but I would not get too close to this man. When you talk to him it is advisable that you have a guard present with you. Sergeant Wilson remains deeply agitated with anyone who tries to talk to him, and he is especially pissed at officers.”
“I’ll feel him out. See how he acts,” Kirkwood said, discounting what the major had warned because the officers and enlisted men who had talked to Wilson until now represented the prosecution and jailers.
“A bit of background then, Captain,” Dickinson said, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe a week, or ten days ago, Wilson’s lieutenant had sat down on his cot and when he bent over to untie his boots he noticed a can under his cot. He also smelled gasoline. When he looked more closely at the can, he saw that someone had placed a hand grenade in it.
“Of course, this sent the lieutenant flying out of his hooch, and outside he encountered Sergeant Wilson and several of his men, who began laughing.
“The company commander called an explosive ordnance technician to come deal with the booby trap. He had to crawl under the cot and tip the can to one side to see if the grenade was a frag or an illume. It was a frag. Someone had pulled the pin and wrapped the spoon with masking tape, and dropped it in the can of gasoline. Theoretically, the gas would dissolve the glue on the tape and release the spoon. However, due to poor planning on the perpetrator’s part, he got too small of a can, so the spoon still did not release.
“Our EOD guy had to tie a long cotton string to the can and gently drag it outside. Then he had to carry it to the burn barrels. Using the string again, the explosive specialist pulled the can onto its side so that the grenade fell out.
“Gentlemen, when it detonated, it put a definite fear factor into all the officers at that missile battery up on the Hai Van Pass. Both the company and platoon commanders concur that they believe that Sergeant Wilson planted that grenade.
“A few evenings later, someone tossed a live grenade on the tin roof of the officers’ hooch. It clattered down, bounced on the ground, and exploded. Luckily, no one got hurt here either. It did tear a hole in the wall and peppered the hooch with fragments.
“Since then, we have had repeated instances of troops throwing rocks on the tin roof of the officers’ hooch, sending the Marines inside scrambling out. This gives the enlisted men there no end to entertainment.
“We have to make an example of Sergeant Wilson, gentlemen. I hope that you can appreciate why.”
“Sir, we’re the defense attorneys,” O’Connor said, tilting his head to one side and narrowing his eyes. “That sounds like something you need to tell the prosecution.”
“Don’t you worry about the prosecution, Captain,” Dicky Doo snapped back, “Major-Select Heyster will make sure that Sergeant Donald T. Wilson is made a lasting example. You just need to do what is right, too, and make sure that this man gets what he deserves.”
“Sir,” Kirkwood said, cutting off Terry O’Connor’s hot temper, “rest assured we will seek justice for Sergeant Wilson. I can assure you we will strive to ensure that this Marine gets what he deserves.”
Dicky Doo sat back in his swivel chair and scowled.
“No judge will allow Charlie to introduce any of this fragging business as evidence against Sergeant Wilson,” O’Connor said, fidgeting in his chair, unable to keep the voice of his passion for justice in check. “I know that’s what Major-Select Shyster has up his sleeve or you guys wouldn’t—”
“It’s my case, Terry,” Kirkwood interrupted. “I’ll take care of it. We will make sure this Marine gets what he deserves!”
Terry O’Connor clamped his jaws tight and took a deep breath.
“Captain Carter,” Dickinson said, looking at the disheveled lawyer with his knees under his chin, sitting on the couch, “your client, the Magnificent Kilgore, has done it again.”
“Escaped, sir,” Carter said, smiling and blushing.
“Oh, and I know that Captains Kirkwood and O’Connor will have a good laugh with this one, so let me entertain you with another amusing story,” the mojo said.
“Our illustrious Private Thomas Kilgore, incarcerated last November, probably a week before you two arrived here, has flown the coop for the third time. I can’t prove it, but our good Captain Michael Carter, sitting there so dumb and innocent, probably knows much more about Kilgore’s escape than he will ever let on.
“I know you knew he had this planned,” Dicky Doo snapped at Carter.
“Anyway,” the mojo sighed, and again leaned back in his chair, “Thomas Kilgore is a thief. Not just your ordinary, run-of-the-mill petty criminal, but a man who will steal anything not nailed or chained or padlocked. We locked him up for unauthorized absence and grand theft. He stole a truck full of utility uniforms and boots and drove it to Hill 55, and started passing them out to all the Marines there.
Jungle Rules Page 27