Jungle Rules

by Charles W. Henderson

  “This mental-midget friend of yours, First Lieutenant Michael Schuller, the duty brig officer at the time of the escape, decided that Private Kilgore deserved to go outside the wire on a working party. The chasers no sooner had unloaded the prisoners to start work than the Magnificent Kilgore made like a rabbit straight into this Vietnamese village.

  Two MPs responded to the chaser’s radio call and pursued Kilgore into the village. When they parked their jeep to search the back of a hooch, Kilgore slipped around the other side and stole the damned jeep.

  “So he’s gone again!”

  Jon Kirkwood started to laugh, and fought back the urge, but then broke down. Seeing their pal crumble, Terry O’Connor and Michael Carter both let go, too.

  “Gentlemen!” Dicky Doo said, at first trying to rein in his lawyers, but then he started to laugh, too. “Oh, shit. You’re right. It is funny.”

  “Can you see those MPs? Kilgore waving good-bye to them as he heads to town?” Carter said, laughing hysterically now.

  “One more item and we’ll call it a day,” Dickinson said, wiping his eyes. “Carter, you have the con on this case. One Corporal James Gillette, spelled like the razor blades, shot a hooker a week ago Wednesday night. He’s assigned to the information services office, along with two other corporals we charged with him, although Gillette pulled the trigger. The specifications include assault with a deadly weapon, battery, attempted murder.

  “Lieutenant McKay has already met with the two accomplices, and they have agreed to plea out for lesser charges, settling for restriction, a fine, and reduction to lance corporal. We’ll take this lad Gillette to trial next Wednesday, after I get back from Okinawa.

  “It’s open and shut. We have statements from the two lance corporals, and the statement from the hooker, who is fully recovering and is already back on the street.”

  “Must not have been that bad then,” O’Connor said.

  “Naw, the bullet just grazed her ear, took off a piece of it,” Dickinson said and laughed. “The corporal was lucky he was a lousy shot. However, the illustrious Major Tran Van Toan, one of the local constabulary’s hard-head district chiefs, demanded that we prosecute this lad for clipping the girl’s ear. So we gotta do it.”

  Dickinson stood behind his desk and crossed his arms.

  “Any questions, comments, or concerns?” he asked.

  “See you Monday, then, sir,” Kirkwood said, grabbing his notebook and hat, and then headed out the door. Terry O’Connor and Michael Carter fell in step behind him.

  “We’ll make sure to get the word to the lieutenants, sir,” Carter called over his shoulder as the trio left.

  Terry O’Connor slugged the thoughtless captain on the arm when they got past Dicky Doo’s door.

  SHORTLY AFTER TEN o’clock Saturday morning, Wayne Ebberhardt trudged up the sandy slope from the beach to the cabana that he and Gwen had rented. While she lay facedown on a blanket with her bikini top unfastened and pulled off her shoulders, her husband went to get a bucket of ice, some sandwiches, chips, and a six-pack of Cokes. He stopped by their room to use the toilet on his way to the gedunk.

  Rabbi Zimmerman waved when he saw Wayne Ebberhardt, and the lieutenant waved back. The chaplain and five officers sat in a circle on the patio, discussing ethics while the rabbi guided them with passages he read from the Torah.

  Seeing the chaplain with a tallith draped over his shoulders and all six officers wearing yarmulkes on their heads stopped Lieutenant Ebberhardt for a moment. Then the rabbi motioned for him to come close and talk.

  “Don’t worry, sir, you’re not interrupting a thing,” Zimmerman said, smiling as he stood and then put out his hand. “I am Lieutenant Commander Arthur Zimmerman, one of the many navy chaplains assigned to you Marines here in I Corps.”

  “Wayne Ebberhardt, sir,” the lieutenant said. “I’m a lawyer with the First Marine Aircraft Wing. That’s my wife, Gwen, down at the beach. She’s with Flying Tigers.”

  “Wonderful!” Zimmerman said, and then smiled a quick look of great satisfaction at the five men who had also risen to their feet, and uncomfortably smiled back. “You and your wife. What a lucky man you are. I saw my wife one year ago, when I took leave. Oh, if I could see her and my two sons now. If they could see this beautiful beach.”

  “I feel embarrassed that I interrupted your worship,” Wayne Ebberhardt said, still feeling that he had intruded on something private and sacred.

  “No, no, don’t feel that way, please,” Arthur Zimmerman said. “We celebrate the Sabbath with prayer, of course, but also with friendship, lively discussions, and love of our families. You disturbed nothing. Please join us if you wish. We were talking about ethics and divine will. The battlefield, you well know, puts our ethics and our faith to a great test.”

  “I would love to join you, believe me. The discussion sounds fascinating,” Ebberhardt said, and then turned toward the beach and pointed. “However, the time that my wife and I have together is very precious to us. I hope you understand.”

  “Think nothing about it!” the chaplain said, waving his hand as he spoke. “In your shoes, I would be there on that blanket with my Ruth right now.”

  The chaplain looked back at the five men still standing and saying nothing.

  “Well, at least let me introduce my friends here,” the rabbi said, stepping to one side and laying his hand back in a sweeping gesture. “Starting from the left, I would like you to meet Captain Joel Stein and Captain Raymond Segal, both from the army’s Americal Division at Chu Lai. Then we have your fellow Marine First Lieutenant Frank Alexander from the Seventh Marines based on Hill 55, southwest of Da Nang. From your own Da Nang Air Base, please meet Captain Michael Fine and Captain Eric Jacobs, both from the U.S. Air Force.”

  As the rabbi introduced each man, Wayne Ebberhardt shook his hand.

  “Well, it is good to meet all of you,” the lawyer said, and began to walk toward the patio of cabana 22B. “I do need to get back with my wife, though.”

  “Oh, sure, please don’t let us keep you,” the rabbi answered.

  Then as Wayne Ebberhardt stepped through the low hedge that fronted his cabana’s patio, he looked back at the group. One question had troubled him from the moment he saw the six men sitting next door. He had to ask.

  “You guys checked in this morning, right?” Ebberhardt queried, hoping for a yes answer.

  Rabbi Zimmerman lowered his face and shook his head while the lieutenant and all but one captain just gave Wayne Ebberhardt a wide-eyed, blank look.

  “Umgawa, Tarzan,” Joel Stein said and spread a wide grin across his face. “We checked in yesterday.”

  Chapter 10

  THE SETUP

  “WHEN I GET back from the brig, want to have lunch?” Jon Kirkwood asked Terry O’Connor as he put on his starched utility cover and headed toward the barracks doors.

  “I may not get back that soon,” O’Connor answered, leaning back and looking around his wall locker door to see his buddy. “I finally got hold of that staff sergeant. You remember, with the Huey? Toby Dixon.”

  “Yeah, nice guy,” Kirkwood said, stopping at the door. “Was he worried about the rifles and headsets? Bet he wondered if we just ripped him off.”

  “He wasn’t too worried since they have shit fall out of the helicopters all the time, and he was never signed out with the rifles in the first place,” O’Connor said and smirked. “He admitted that was how he came across the two M14s; in the confusion of the moment somebody left them behind. Dixon said that hauling people scrambling to just get out of a hot LZ alive, piling in whatever gear that got dropped by others during their hasty departures, the choppers end up with lots of extra stuff, believe it or not. I guess the battalions just mark it up to lost in action.”

  “Yeah, and write up the poor schmuck who dropped his weapon, unless he got seriously wounded or killed,” Kirkwood added. “The brig’s full of guys who couldn’t shit a helmet, flak jacket or, heaven forbid, a rifle whe
n the first sergeant held inspection.”

  “Hey, you know, that’s the Marine Corps,” O’Connor chuckled, shaking his head, shouldering the two rifles. “Hell, the guys who lost these peashooters probably already did six months in the can for it.”

  “What’s the deal with lunch, though? It’s only ten-thirty,” Kirkwood said, looking at his watch.

  “Yeah, I know,” O’Connor said, joining his partner at the door, “but Staff Sergeant Dixon’s squadron moved from the base, here, over to Marble Mountain. I’m catching a chopper there now. Don’t you want to come? You can see your renegade sergeant this afternoon or tomorrow. What the hell’s the rush?”

  “I know,” Kirkwood said, walking out the door with O’Connor, “but I can’t stop thinking about how this sergeant must feel, getting interrogated for three days in the brig, and not having anyone on his side. You know Charlie Heyster has given him the shits by now. No telling what the son of a bitch told the kid. Probably sat there pretending to defend him while the guy got the third degree by Dicky Doo himself, no doubt. No, the sooner I talk to Sergeant Donald T. Wilson, the better.”

  “You sure the fuck aren’t going to let that mojo SOB get that fragging bullshit introduced as evidence,” O’Connor snarled. “One part of me stands fully shocked and amazed, but deep in my heart I know that’s what Dicky Doo will push. Look, we’re talking about a matter of simple disrespect: an offense they should have handled with office hours, for crying out loud. Article fifteen, nonjudicial punishment by the man’s company commander, maybe boot it up to the missile battery commanding officer. They’ve got this case already elevated to special court-martial status, and I’ll bet they’d love to pretend it’s murder and boot it on up to a general court-martial if they can. Don’t count that out.”

  “That’s why I’ve got to get to the brig and dig into Sergeant Wilson’s skull,” Kirkwood said. “This stinks of railroading. I’ll bet you next month’s pay they did their dead level best to try to pin a charge of attempted murder on this guy but just had no evidence. We’ve definitely got a fight on our hands. I only hope that this kid will open up and talk to me. Otherwise he’s dead meat.”

  “Hopefully, Wayne and I can get the Celestine Anderson trial put to bed this week,” O’Connor said, walking with Kirkwood to the staff jeep. “Then I can pitch in with you on this one. I’ve got a head of steam worked up for this Sergeant Wilson. I’d love to have the combination to the lock for the inside of his head. Bet that would be an eye-opener.”

  “I’ll keep you posted on what develops,” Kirkwood said, getting into the jeep. “What time you think you’ll be back? Maybe we can catch evening chow.”

  “Sure, probably three or four o’clock,” O’Connor said, getting in the jeep’s passenger seat. “Give me a lift to the flight line, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yeah, no sweat,” Kirkwood said, backing the vehicle into the street and heading down the roadway to the apron, where rows of helicopters sat. “You just going there and back?”

  “I might swing over to China Beach and try to grab lunch with Wayne and his wife,” O’Connor said, and flashed a toothy grin at Kirkwood. “Might get a good look at how she trims out in beachwear, if you know what I mean.”

  “You’re a degenerate, you know that?” Kirkwood scoffed. “She’s a man’s wife, for Pete’s sake. You’d look up her dress if she uncrossed her legs, wouldn’t you.”

  “Damned right I would,” O’Connor hooted. “Nothing wrong with a little sightseeing.”

  “I’m going to tell Wayne you’re lusting after his wife, you perverted sack of shit,” Kirkwood huffed with a halfhearted laugh.

  “That’s right, me and every hard dick between here and wherever her freedom bird lands,” O’Connor smirked, blowing off his pal’s idle threat. “Wayne had to learn to live with that fact of life long ago, my friend. You recall what they did to us in the O Club, don’t forget. He seems pretty comfortable with it, if you ask me.”

  “You’ve got a point,” Kirkwood said, pulling the jeep to a stop in front of a Quonset hut where several Marines in helicopter flight gear milled around. “Just don’t get any bright ideas about leering at Katie that way when we get home.”

  Terry O’Connor jumped out of the jeep, grabbed the two rifles and pairs of headsets, and jogged toward the hut.

  “Your wife is a fox, Jon,” he shouted back, looking over his shoulder and jeering. “I have wet dreams about her.”

  SITTING IN THE door of the Huey, Terry O’Connor could see Toby Dixon standing on the tarmac outside the ready room door as the chopper set down at the Marble Mountain air facility. Another man, dressed in a green flight suit, stood next to the staff sergeant, and waved when Dixon raised his hand to signal the captain.

  “How’s it going, sir?” Dixon said, greeting O’Connor on the flight line. “I wanted to catch you before you went inside with those rifles. So we didn’t get asked questions.”

  “Sure, whatever you like,” O’Connor said. “Where do you want to put them?”

  “Right over here,” Dixon said, walking down the asphalt apron past a row of UH1H Hueys and several AH1J Cobra helicopter gunships. “We’ll stick them back in the cargo box on my plane.”

  “Terry O’Connor,” the captain said, putting out his hand to Dixon’s friend, who had a rank insignia with three inverted chevrons under an eagle pinned on the leather name patch of his flight suit, and “HN1 Doc Adams” stamped below it in gold lettering.

  “Sorry about that, sir,” Dixon said, pointing to the man. “That’s my home boy, Bobby Adams. We call him Doc. Of course, we call all corpsmen Doc.”

  “Doc Adams, just like on TV, you know, Gunsmoke,” O’Connor said, shaking the hospital corpsman’s hand. “You get any Matt Dillon, Chester, or Festus jokes?”

  “No, sir,” Bobby Adams answered, shrugging. “I think you’re the first to ever make that observation. Besides, I thought that was Doc Holliday. You know, Dodge City and all.”

  “He was Wyatt Earp’s partner,” O’Connor said, walking to the side of Dixon’s helicopter and handing the crew chief the headsets and rifles. “Doc Adams was on with Matt Dillon and Miss Kitty.”

  “My grandmother always watched Gunsmoke,” Dixon said, shutting the lid on the helicopter’s cargo box. “I was like ten years old when I saw it with her. That was when Chester was still on the show. We always thought it was Doc Holliday.”

  “Now they got Festus, and that new kid that’s the gunsmith, Newly what’s his name,” O’Connor said.

  “So, where you headed now, sir?” Dixon asked, walking back toward the ready room.

  “Thought I might catch a shuttle to China Beach and have lunch with a buddy and his wife,” the captain answered.

  “Going to be about forty-five minutes or so wait,” Dixon said, looking at his wristwatch. “Want to grab some coffee with Bobby and me?”

  “Hey, thanks,” O’Connor said, looking at his watch, too, and following the two men inside the crew lounge where a silver, two-gallon coffee urn sat with its black-handled spigot hanging over the edge of the table, enabling a person to fill one of the oversized mugs from the stack of glassware that sat by the big pot.

  “Where’re you guys from?” O’Connor said, taking a seat on one of the brown vinyl-covered lounge chairs ringed around a coffee table.

  “Me and Toby grew up together in Artesia, New Mexico,” Bobby Adams said, sitting in a chair across from the captain.

  “Yes, sir, we went through grade school, junior high, and high school together,” Dixon said, sitting next to the navy corpsman. “We played football, basketball, and baseball. Won state championship in football our senior year, 1965. I played halfback on the offense, and Bobby played end on defense. We was good.”

  Then the staff sergeant pushed up the sleeve of his flight suit, exposing the dark brown skin of his forearm for the captain to see.

  “Sir, take a look at this bulldog I got tattooed here. That’s not a Marine Corps bulldog, that’
s an Artesia bulldog.”

  “You guys graduated in 1965 and you’re a staff sergeant and Bobby’s a first-class petty officer?” O’Connor said, quickly calculating their time in service. “That’s quite impressive, both of you making E6 in about half the time it normally takes a person.”

  “People come from where we do,” Dixon said, looking at his hometown pal. “We’re raised that way. Put out one hundred and ten percent. Our coach back home, he’d take off our heads if we didn’t. Coach, he even had these Vince Lombardi signs all over the locker room. Winning is the only thing. Operating on Lombardi time, ten minutes early. All that stuff. So we learned only one way to do anything. That’s nothing less than our best. Rank just kinda happens for us both. I guess natural, given where we come from, and how we were raised.”

  Bobby Adams smiled and added, “Also, our occupations have a lot more opportunity for advancement. Aviation and medicine, both high demand and you can’t be a rock.”

  “Still impressive, Doc,” O’Connor said, and took a sip from his coffee. “Me, I graduated high school in Philadelphia in 1958. Born and raised there. I was too small to play football. I love the game, though.”

  “You live where we grew up,” Adams said, smiling, “even you would have played football. If a guy didn’t at least go out for football, he had to put on a dress and pick up pom-poms.”

  “Hey, look at me,” the captain said, standing and turning around. “Five-foot-ten if I stretch. I’m all of what, a hundred fifty-six pounds, dripping wet with my stomach full. Not your standard state football champion material. Back in high school, I couldn’t get my weight beyond a hundred thirty-five pounds.”

  “Philadelphia’s probably a lot different than Artesia, too,” Dixon added. “We had a hundred fifty, maybe two hundred students in our class. Hell, the whole high school wasn’t more than five or six hundred kids total. Where you grew up, you most likely had six hundred in your class.”

  “We had eight hundred fifty graduates in my senior class,” O’Connor said, nodding at the two men. “That’s after half the population dropped out when they turned fifteen. Big, inner-city school. Predominantly black. Tough as hell, too.”