Jungle Rules

by Charles W. Henderson

  Nearly an hour had passed before James Harris ever slowed his fast jog to a more comfortable shuffle. The sense that Huong may pursue him only moments away left his anxiety level high.

  Finally the Chicago native stopped to catch his breath, and took several short chugs from a flat, round canteen of water that he had filled from the farm’s well and had thrown across his shoulder after he found it in the tool shack that morning. As he left the house, he had sneaked into the shed to retrieve a bolo knife with a foot-long inwardly curved blade that he had spotted several days earlier. When he had first examined the razor-sharp weapon, he considered that with one deft whack he could lob off James Elmore’s head with it. So as he departed that morning, he grabbed the canteen along with the knife and slipped it through his belt opposite the .45-caliber Colt pistol he had hanging on his other hip.

  While in the shed, Harris had noticed a dusty, oil-stained, olive green tarpaulin covering what he had thought were only machine parts and other junk belonging to a dilapidated mechanical rice thrasher that sat next to the pile. At first he started not to look under the canvas, but then he thought that Huong’s Viet Cong relatives who lived there might have hidden some worthwhile weaponry there, too. As he folded back the cover he found a grit-caked gallon can of thirty-weight motor oil and a large wooden box filled with greasy parts to the thrashing machine. Next to them, however, he also discovered two dusty cases of sixty-millimeter mortar rounds and a wooden box with half a dozen dirt-covered fragmentation hand grenades nestled on a heap of corroded .30-caliber rifle rounds, their dingy brass casings turned green with age. Mau Mau had smiled as he grabbed one of the fist-size green bomblets and dropped it in the cargo pocket on the right leg of his utility trousers.

  “Why you always on my ass?” Harris whispered to the dog as he knelt on the narrow trail that he followed south toward Chu Lai, and poured water in his cupped hand for the mutt to drink. Turd lapped the liquid with great thirst, and then shook a shower of slobber onto Mau Mau’s face.

  “Damn, you dumb motherfucker,” the deserter said, wiping the splatter off his brow and cheeks with his upper sleeve and shoulder. “That’s some nasty shit, Turd.”

  Screwing the lid back on the canteen, James Harris let it drop again to the rear part of his hip, where it rode suspended by its green webbed-canvas shoulder strap. Then he gave the bolo knife a tug to make sure it still held tight beneath his belt, patted the hand grenade in his cargo pocket, and set off jogging again as the new day’s gray light began to show color and expose form where moments earlier shadows and blackness had surrounded him. Ahead, he could now see a greater distance of the trail he followed.

  While he ran, he tried not to think of the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese patrols that haunted this stretch of countryside north of Chu Lai. Would they shoot a lone American deserter and his dog should he cross the kill zone of their ambush? Why waste all that on one man and a mutt? He considered the logic and pressed onward, gambling his safety on his Chicago street instincts and Turd’s innate sense of avoiding danger.

  “FOR THE RECORD, please state your name,” Terry O’Connor said, standing behind the lectern between the defense and prosecution tables in the courtroom.

  “Lance Corporal Wendell Carter,” the witness recited, speaking with a clear voice, just as the defense lawyer had instructed him to do.

  “I see that you have recently been promoted from private first class to lance corporal. Congratulations,” O’Connor said, smiling at his leadoff witness.

  “Yes, sir, thank you,” Carter answered, and beamed a smile, too. “My squadron CO pinned it on me the day before yesterday.”

  “How long have you been on legal hold, Lance Corporal Carter?” O’Connor asked, stepping from behind the lectern to allow a barrier-free discourse of conversation to develop between him and the star defense witness.

  “Three months now, sir,” Carter answered, and frowned.

  “You miss your family, too, don’t you?” O’Connor asked.

  “Oh, sir, I miss them real bad,” Carter said, shaking his head. “My mama, she pray for me every day, and just about everyone else I know in Houston, too. They all wanting me home.”

  “So these three months on legal hold have taken their toll,” O’Connor said, shaking his head, too.

  “I want to go home, sir, but I keep my attitude squared away. You know, I do what I got to do,” Carter said, and nodded at the captain to put emphasis to his words.

  “It’s easy to let go and have your attitude slide downhill at times like this, isn’t it,” O’Connor said, nodding, too.

  “Well, sir, my mama taught me to do my best, always, and let the good Lord sort out the difficulties,” Carter said and smiled.

  “You got yourself promoted, even on legal hold,” O’Connor said, and walked back to the defense table and picked up his notepad, glancing at the top page. “Says here that your proficiency and conduct marks are 4.7 and 4.9 out of a possible 5.0, so you’re a pretty good Marine.”

  “Sir, I pride myself at being a good Marine,” Carter said, puffing out his chest.

  “I think if the prosecution wanted to investigate your record they would only find exemplary conduct, would they not?” O’Connor said, laying his legal pad back on the table. Then he walked back to the witness stand and put his hands on the rail surrounding the plywood platform.

  “How many security patrols have you gone on during your tour?” O’Connor asked, and turned toward the jury as he spoke.

  “More than I care to count, sir,” Carter answered, his eyes following the captain as he now stepped so that the witness’s face looked at the six men seated in the side gallery deciding the case.

  “One a month?” O’Connor asked, crossing his arms.

  “No, sir, more like five, sometimes six a month,” Carter answered.

  “These patrols last how long?” O’Connor asked, holding the witness’s face toward the jury.

  “Mostly overnight, but sometimes we get tagged with patrols that stay out for a week,” Carter said.

  “You stand fire watch and guard duty, too?” O’Connor asked, now leaning his hand on the rail that surrounded the jury box.

  “Yes, sir, that and perimeter watch, too,” Carter said, nodding at the captain.

  “Oh, yes, that, too,” O’Connor said, glancing back at the jury.

  “You’re a skilled radio repairman as well as a communicator, are you not?” the captain then asked.

  “Yes, sir, me and PFC Anderson, we work together in the same shop over at Group Seventeen,” Carter answered.

  “Well, if you’re on guard duty, fire watch, perimeter watch, and half a dozen security patrols a month, when do you work on radios?” O’Connor asked, and looked at the jury.

  “I don’t get to do a whole lot of radio work, sir,” Carter said, shaking his head.

  “Do the white Marines pull the extra duty that you do?” O’Connor asked, crossing his arms and frowning at the witness.

  “Sir, I don’t worry about what the white Marines do. That’s how a guy ends up with a bad attitude,” Carter said, and shook his head. “It’s tough enough just pulling the tour and getting home. I don’t need to get my head all messed up thinking about what the other Marines get.”

  “Your mama taught you that, too?” O’Connor asked, and smiled.

  “Yes, sir, she did, as a matter of fact,” Carter said, and held his head up. “We live pretty poor. Just about everybody got lots more than we got. Times be I didn’t have shoes. Never had them in summer anyway. Save them for school. Then they be too little for my big old feet, so I take out the laces and try to get a few more miles out of them. Anyhow, my mama taught all us kids not to look at what other folks got, but thank God and my Lord Jesus that we got what we do. We had food, and we had a house. Not much more, but we did get by.”

  “How well do you know the defendant, Private First Class Celestine Anderson?” O’Connor asked, walking toward the defense table where his client sat bou
nd by chains.

  “He my pea,” Carter said, looking at his buddy.

  “Pea?” O’Connor asked and shrugged.

  “Like peas in a pod, you know what folks say,” Carter said, trying to explain the colloquial term. “We close. Always do stuff together, live in the same hooch, come from the same hometown and all.”

  “Buddies,” O’Connor offered.

  “Yes, sir,” Carter nodded.

  “So you know the defendant as well as anyone could know him?” O’Connor asked, walking behind Anderson and putting his hands on Celestine’s shoulders.

  “He’s my brother,” Carter said and sighed.

  “Not by blood but by friendship,” O’Connor said, offering clarification.

  “In the larger sense we have the same blood,” Carter said, nodding his head. “Our African blood. Our slave blood. So we have a term we call each other, Blood. For that reason.”

  “Right,” O’Connor said, walking from behind the defense table and approaching the witness stand as he spoke. “Pride in your heritage. Your common roots.”

  “The struggle of our people to overcome oppression,” Carter followed.

  “Do you feel oppressed?” O’Connor asked, and looked at the jury, focusing on the black staff sergeant seated on the end.

  “You can’t be black and not feel oppressed,” Carter said, and looked at the staff sergeant, too, who nodded back at the witness. Then Carter looked at the captain. “Sir, we fight a war here to save these South Vietnamese people from oppression by the Communists, yet we brothers fighting in this war have to deal with oppression from our own country. You read the newspapers. You know what’s going on back home.”

  “Yes, I do, Lance Corporal Carter,” O’Connor said, and looked at Charlie Heyster, who had his head down, writing furiously on his yellow legal pad.

  “How often did PFC Anderson stand the same duties you described earlier to us?” the captain then asked, walking back toward the jury so they could see Carter’s face as he answered the question.

  “I don’t think he ever get off duty,” Carter said, and laughed. “He stood more than me or any of the other black Marines in our unit.”

  “Why did he stand more duty?” O’Connor asked.

  “Objection!” Heyster spat, kicking his chair back as he jumped to his feet. “Your Honor, he is asking the witness to speculate.”

  “Your Honor, I will rephrase my question,” O’Connor said before the judge could overrule him.

  “Lance Corporal Carter, did your work section assign duty in an even distribution among all Marines?” O’Connor asked.

  “No, sir,” Carter said, and looked at Charlie Heyster, “the gunny and I think the captain, too, they assign duty as punishment. A guy mouth off, he get shit detail for a week. Stuff like that.”

  “Did Private Anderson have a problem mouthing off?” O’Connor asked, walking back toward the defense table.

  “No problem at all,” Carter said, and laughed. “Celestine, he mouth off just about anytime he want. He never had a problem mouthing off. Controlling his mouth, well, sir, he did have a problem there.”

  “As a result, he got every duty quota that came through the door,” O’Connor said, looking at the jury.

  “Objection, your honor, speculation,” Heyster said, slamming his hand on the table where he sat.

  “The witness can have firsthand knowledge of why Anderson was assigned duties, so I will allow it. As long as he testifies to what he has witnessed firsthand, then it is not speculation,” the judge said in his ruling. Then he took off his glasses and looked at Captain Heyster. “Could you please come here, Captain? I have a question.”

  Charlie Heyster scowled at Terry O’Connor and walked to the judge’s bench, where he joined the defense lawyer in a private conversation with Colonel Richard Swanson.

  “I’ve had enough of your surly attitude this morning, Captain Heyster. When you voice an objection, a clearly spoken word not shouted will suffice. We happen to be in the same room, and my hearing is excellent,” Swanson whispered to the prosecutor. “What’s going on with you?”

  “Sir, I apologize,” Heyster said, and then curled his lips at Terry O’Connor. “The defense informed me yesterday that he would lead off with Private Anderson’s testimony, and I had prepared for his appearance this morning. The defense counsel’s trickery has left me somewhat unprepared for the current witness.”

  “So you’re pissed off at the defense?” Swanson said, looking at Terry O’Connor, who fought to keep a smile off his face.

  “Deceitful trickery!” Heyster hissed.

  The judge looked at the papers on his desk, and then back at Heyster.

  “According to the witness list that the defense has provided, Lance Corporal Carter’s name appears with two other witnesses before Private Anderson. Captain, you had ample notice. If you based your preparations on the order that the defense presents its witnesses, I think you should revisit your methodology,” the judge said, chiding the prosecutor.

  “Sir, he told me yesterday that Private Anderson would lead off this morning,” Heyster pled, now leaning toward the judge for help.

  “As far as I know, Private Anderson may or may not testify,” Swanson said, and looked at O’Connor.

  “Sir,” the defense lawyer said, “I apologize for misleading Captain Heyster. He spoke to me after you adjourned yesterday’s session, and said some unkind remarks, using very brutal language. I have to admit that I responded in anger to his challenge against my client and what he would do to him once he got on the stand. I do apologize, sir.”

  “Gentlemen,” the judge said, frowning at both captains, “as difficult as this may seem for you to understand, this is no game. We have no prize for the winner, no points or pennant to award. We only have losers if you let your petty, personal differences interfere with the justice we must strive to achieve in this man’s trial. Captain Heyster, I know your reputation, so don’t act so innocently violated. Captain O’Connor, I admonish you for lying to the prosecution, even in an unofficial manner through casual conversation. From here forward, you both will conduct yourselves with civility in my court. You will present your cases in a professional manner, respectful of all parties present. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Heyster said, and turned his eyes downward.

  “Sorry, Charlie,” O’Connor said, and offered his hand for the prosecutor to shake. After a hesitation and a cool glance from the judge, Heyster accepted the defense lawyer’s gesture and then returned to his seat.

  Terry O’Connor walked back to the jury and then looked at Wendell Carter.

  “Private Anderson stood the majority of duty because he vocalized his frustrations?” the lawyer asked the witness.

  “Yes, sir, to put it one way, he did,” Carter answered.

  “Put it your way then,” O’Connor said, shrugging.

  “Celestine he mouthed off at the gunny every time a brother caught shit,” Carter said, and looked at Anderson. “Most times it was none of his business, but he’d make it his business because most times a brother caught shit was because of his blackness.”

  “Your Honor,” Captain Heyster said, standing from his seat, “the witness is speculating as to the reason why a brother caught shit, specifically because of his blackness. It’s clearly his opinion, and not a statement of what he witnessed.”

  “Captain, I disagree and will allow the question and answer to stand,” the judge said, leaning forward and looking at the prosecutor. “The witness is testifying as to his perception of what occurred. Our truths are based on what we perceive to be true. Granted, the gunny’s motivations for dealing the extra duty to black Marines may have been different from what the witness perceived, but his own perceptions are what constitute the witness’s reality. What the witness represents as honest beliefs commonly held among himself and his peers as to his gunny’s motivations behind assigning the extra duty to black Marines are relevant.”

  During the objec
tion and ruling, Terry O’Connor had returned to the defense table and scanned his notes. Then he walked back to where Wendell Carter sat.

  “Lance Corporal Carter, did you at any time believe that Celestine Anderson intended to kill Harold Rein?” the defense attorney asked, and stepped toward the jury box.

  “No, sir,” the witness responded, following the captain with his eyes.

  “The prosecution would like us to believe that you knew that Private Anderson meant to kill Private Rein, thereby using your actions to imply a sense of premeditation on the part of the defendant. They have presented several witnesses who say that you tried to stop Private Anderson from killing Private Rein. Why did you step in front of Private Anderson then, if you did not believe that he intended to kill Private Rein?” O’Connor asked, leaning against the jury box rail, waiting for another objection from Major-Select Heyster, this time for leading the witness with his question, but no objection came. Charlie the shyster busily scribbled notes on his legal pad and let the question stand.

  “Those boys, Buster Rein, Laddie Cross, and the other two white Marines, they was trying to pick a fight with us,” Lance Corporal Carter said, glancing at each juror’s face. “I knew Celestine’s temper, and he would not back off a fight if somebody threw down on him. I figure that Buster going to walk up and sock Celestine in the nose, and that start a big fight. So I try to get Celestine to just ignore those boys. I step in front of him, so I can turn him around. Stop it from being a fight. I never dream he kill that boy.”

  “What did Private Rein and the others do to try to start the fight?”

  O’Connor then asked, still leaning against the rail that surrounded the jury box.

  “They be calling us niggers, and porch monkeys, and coons, and stuff like that,” Carter responded, still looking at the defense lawyer and the jury. “They say they ain’t afraid of black power, and that when Buster Rein put that cigarette in his teeth and walk at us hollering, ‘Any you niggers got a light?’ ”

  “What is your attitude about racial epithets and such slurs as they were using?” O’Connor asked, walking toward the witness stand.