Jungle Rules

by Charles W. Henderson

  With that comment, Lieutenant Schuller turned toward the recreation yard and shouted, “Listen up! This is the warden! You men who wish to leave the yard, please get out from under the tables and form two lines at the blockhouse doors! You’re free to depart at this time!”

  Bobby Matthews crawled from under the table first, and then stood and looked with a hint of a smile at Brian Pitts and James Harris, who stood twenty yards away from him. The Snowman watched as his and Mau Mau’s silent partner joined more than two hundred other inmates who formed double lines at the blockhouse back door. Then he looked back at the lieutenant and the captain, who continued to explain that even though the Black Stone Rangers had destroyed the brig, it was not as bad a situation as they might imagine. All could be put back in order if they began cooperating. The release of the nonviolent inmates represented a positive step.

  AS THE SKY began to brighten with Saturday morning’s gray dawn, red coals still glowed in dark piles of debris that at one time stood as prisoner hooches but now lay as smoldering ashes. Overhead, fire roared and crackled from the burning roof of the cell block, and then with a sudden crash part of it fell to the floor of the chow hall. The massive collapse blew out a plume of red and orange sparks that drifted across the prison yard and showered the long, double line of inmates that moved past a gauntlet of guards outside the blockhouse back door.

  Michael Carter watched from the window of the prison administration building, where he had kept a vigil, praying most of the night. Every now and then he wandered to the front porch and got a cup of coffee. Once, looking for Wayne Ebberhardt and Terry O’Connor, he climbed the interior stairs to the upper deck and the observation-post and machine-gun positions. The look of the prison from above scared him.

  As the devout Catholic man gazed across the field of horror, seeing the men running for their lives, screaming from the ring of burning hooches and the out-of-control fire that engulfed the chow hall and spread farther and farther onto the cell block roof, he thought of how similar Hell must look to this place. It made him start to recall passages from the “Inferno,” written in The Divine Comedy by the thirteenth-century Florentine poet Dante Alighieri. With the lawyer’s fluence in Latin, and his equal understanding of French and Italian, Carter had read and studied the classic work in its unspoiled, original text.

  Watching the turmoil below him, he recalled Dante’s cantos and imagined how he must have felt descending into the bowels of Satan’s kingdom, led by his unassuming guide, Virgil. The smoke, the rain of sparks, the smell of Hades at his feet sent the pale lawyer’s head to spinning, and he stumbled most of the way as he finally fled down the stairs and ran outside to throw up.

  The gagging and coughing awakened Lance Corporal Dean, who had made himself a bed in the jeep by folding the passenger seat forward and stretching out on the back bench. He asked Captain Carter if he needed some help, but the tall, skinny man only looked at him and shuddered. So Movie Star lay back on his makeshift bed and shut his eyes.

  After standing over the brink of Hell, virtually smelling the brimstone as he watched the anguished souls thrashing about, and then seeing Lance Corporal Dean, and having the vision of the man masturbating in the red light, surrounded by pictures of naked women, Michael Carter felt his body shake in disgust. It sent his stomach into another somersault, and he wretched several dry heaves.

  Then he noticed a water trailer in the parking lot, hooked behind one of the six-by trucks, and the distraught Michael Carter ran to it and pulled open a valve. Cupping his hands under the flow, he splashed the cool liquid over his face, head, and on the back of his neck. Then, holding his hands under the faucet, he gulped a big drink of it.

  Earlier, Carter had tried to listen to Major Hembee talk with Major Dickinson, the chief of staff, the provost marshal, Lieutenant Schuller, and the other three lawyers. He wanted to help, too, but all his mind could see was Dante’s Hell. He needed to pray, so while the officers planned their strategy, Michael Carter spoke to God about the disaster, begging His mercy for all the embroiled souls.

  Now, as he watched out the window and saw the long double line of prisoners formed, and his friend Jon Kirkwood standing by his friend Michael Schuller, and the prisoner who led the riot had finally quit waving his hands in the air, appearing to have settled upon reason, Michael Carter felt better. Perhaps God had heard his frantic prayers and now finally delivered the men to safety.

  “WE AIN’T SHUTTIN’ nothin’ down till we get news cameras in here, showin’ our protest,” Harris said, and then looked back at the crowd of sympathetic faces behind him. “People back home got to see the black man standin’ up for his cause. Discrimination got to stop.”

  “Mister Harris,” Lieutenant Schuller said, “take a look up in the guard towers. Don’t you see the news cameras?”

  Both Pitts and Harris shifted their eyes upward and noticed the long lenses set on tripods. At the distance they stood from the towers, all they could recognize were the big gray optics.

  “How long they been up there?” Pitts asked, now trying to recall what all he had done in the open, just in case someone had snapped a picture of him.

  “The news media got here just after this mess started,” Kirkwood lied. “Hell, you can see the fire from the city. We didn’t have to call them. They came running when they saw smoke.”

  In reality, the III MAF commanding general had ordered his staff to keep all news media away from the brig. He knew that the incident would gather smaller headlines and fewer pictures and television coverage if all that the reporters saw were piles of rubble and no riot.

  The command information officers told journalists that a faulty fuel storage device had caught fire, and burning kerosene spread through the brig. He assured the newsmen that the command had evacuated all prisoners to a makeshift compound they had established nearby, and cheerfully added that no one had suffered any injuries, and the damage was confined to the buildings inside the prison. Because of security concerns with the prisoners in the unusual circumstances, no one except authorized military personnel could enter the area at this time. He faithfully promised photographers and reporters that once the military police had relocated all the prisoners, the media could take pictures of the damage, sometime later in the day or surely by Sunday morning in the worst case.

  Several news photographers and a television crew had tried to drive up Hill 327 despite the commanding general’s orders, but South Vietnamese authorities and U.S. military police turned them back well out of sight of the Freedom Hill brig. The information specialties officer at the roadblock dutifully promised the news crews full access to the story as soon as Marines on the scene gave him the green light. For now, however, because of prisoner security, concern for those men’s rights, as well as the safety of the journalists, the reporters had to keep away.

  “Yo, Ax Man!” Harris yelled over his shoulder, beaming. “We got news cameras up in the towers all night, man. We goin’ to get on Walter Cronkite! Folks back home goin’ to know all about our protest!”

  Then the forty-two disorderly Black Stone Rangers who remained defiant with James Harris began to wave and scream at the cameras.

  “I will give the colonel your demands, and Captain Kirkwood is my witness,” Schuller said, trying to regain the distracted riot leader’s attention.

  “Fuck that! The man got to see those demands,” Harris countered, focusing back on the two officers. “You ain’t got no rank to say what’s what, and that colonel, he just a go-between. General Cushman, he got to deal with this shit.”

  “I assure you,” Kirkwood said, looking at both Pitts and Harris, “General Cushman will have a full appraisal of all that has happened, and will address each of your demands. However, I will tell you realistically that some of them we will not even consider. Such as releasing you, and just letting you disappear out of the country, even though you promise to never show your face in the United States or Vietnam again. That’s impossible.”

  “
Fuck, man, we got to ask,” Harris said and laughed. “Never know, the man might like to see all us shitbirds fly the coop and be shed of us.”

  “I’m sure he’d love to be shed of you, Mister Harris,” Kirkwood said, smiling. “However, you know very well that will not fly. Neither will the demand of no punishment for anyone. You will have to face charges, and you will have to take responsibility for this damage. I guess on the good side, it’s mostly property damage, and a few minor injuries, except for the three guards. You and the others will face charges for assaulting those men.”

  “Fuck you, then,” Harris snapped. “I want out of this motherfucker! I only act in self-defense, man. I ain’t part that other shit, that assault on Iron Balls and Bad John.”

  “You’ll receive your day in court, and all the evidence will be weighed,” Kirkwood said, looking squarely at Harris. “If the guard attacked you, then we will take that into account. As for some of your other demands, I agree with you. We do need to insist that units visit their members in the brig, and that they provide them support, such as new uniforms, health and comfort items, and communications with their families and other members in their units. Also, prisoners should not have to address any enlisted guard as ‘sir.’ I have already voiced concerns of my own in some of these same areas as well, and I can assure you that we will visit with the commanding general about all of these matters, and some others.”

  James Harris smiled and looked at Brian Pitts, and then back at Celestine Anderson, Sam Martin, and Clarence Jones.

  “Yo,” Mau Mau chirped. “We gettin’ someplace now.”

  “What about the hostages you’re holding?” Michael Schuller asked, and looked directly at Brian Pitts. “Where are Gunner Holden, Gunny MacMillan, and the inmates you have taken prisoner with them? More importantly, what are their conditions?”

  “They all just fine!” Harris snapped, and then looked at Brian Pitts, who nodded. “We got them inside. That dude, James Elmore, he joined up with the rangers. He one of us now. Ain’t that right.”

  “I’d like to see Mister Elmore,” Kirkwood said. “His attorney has raised concerns about his safety.”

  “Fuck his attorney!” Celestine Anderson shouted. “Fuck all you motherfuckers.”

  “Yeah,” Harris said, realizing that except for his handful of rangers who remained at his side, the majority of prisoners now made their way through the blockhouse. “We done talkin’. You go see General Cushman and see what he say about what we ask. Then you can come back and maybe we talk about releasin’ them hostages and turnin’ this brig back to you. We let you see Elmore then, too.”

  “Very well,” Schuller said, looking across the now empty recreation yard. “If you men wish to surrender at this time, we can avoid a great deal of trouble. It would go well for you, if you surrendered. At least release the warrant officer and the gunny.”

  “Fuck that shit! I ain’t stupid. We keepin’ those dudes with us for now, so you all don’t try nothin’. We sure the fuck ain’t surrenderin’. So get that shit out your head, I ain’t doin’ nothin’ until you come back here with General Cushman sayin’ that he’s willin’ to make a deal. Do us right,” Harris said, and then turned his back on the officers. He walked toward his gang of Black Stone Rangers and raised his bat in the air, triumphant, while his men shouted in celebration and Jon Kirkwood and Mike Schuller walked quickly back to the blockhouse.

  “WHOA, STICKHORSE!” STAFF Sergeant Abduleses said, catching Kevin Watts by the shirt as he tried to slip past him, just ahead of Randal Carnegie. “This man and that other one there, take them to the side for a little one-on-one.”

  “Fuck this shit,” Watts yelped, and then ducked under the hands of the guards who went for him.

  Seeing Abdul grabbing at his pal Kevin, the Chu Lai Hippie stepped out of the line of men and dashed away from the blockhouse before anyone could put a hand on him.

  “Wait up!” Watts shouted at Carnegie as the two men now beat feet toward the sally port, where their ranger comrades gathered outside and now looked up to see that the entire cell block roof burned out of control.

  Several of the Black Stone Rangers began pulling wooden picnic tables and benches into a circle, turning them on their sides and stacking the material to form a makeshift fortress.

  Donald T. Wilson helped some of the rangers take the table where he had hidden to the growing pile of outdoor furniture. He fell into line behind the crew, as if he, too, would go back and grab another set of benches and table, but he peeled off at the last moment and jogged to the cell block and fell in with another gang. This new gaggle seemed at a loss of what to do next. They mostly looked up at the roof and watched the fire destroy their last shelter. Some of the men took a seat on the ground or lay down, so the sergeant joined them.

  Where he squatted, he could see the sally port and Sergeant Mike Iron-Balls Turner’s metal two-pedestal desk. It stood untouched in the open booth, and Celestine Anderson sat in the swivel chair by it with his feet cocked on top. No one had found the Model 870 Remington twelve-gauge folding-stock shotgun loaded with ought-two man-killers that Iron Balls had hidden in the back of the desk, stuffed between the steel rear panel and the two columns of side drawers.

  “Pull everything out from both sides and the shotgun will fall to the floor. It’s got seven ought-two rounds loaded in it, so if you have to use it, make them count,” Turner had whispered to Sergeant Wilson as they approached the blockhouse when the prisoner led them to freedom and saved Lance Corporal Fletcher’s and Lance Corporal Brookman’s lives. Iron Balls had made a special point of letting the friendly inmate know about the shotgun, because he worried that if the wrong man got his hands on the weapon the blame would eventually fall back in his lap. Lieutenant Colonel Webster and Lieutenant Schuller had specifically forbade guards from carrying any firearms within the interior confines of the brig.

  When the medical corpsmen took away Fletch and Bad John, both Nathan Todd and Mike Turner gave Donald Wilson a hug. Todd tried to remain in the blockhouse, but Colonel Webster ordered him to sick bay with the others.

  “Good luck,” Iron Balls had said, and gave the man another hug and whispered in his ear while he embraced him. “You’re going back in, aren’t you. That’s why I told you about the shotgun. I hope you can get your hands on it before those crazy sons of bitches in there find it. Maybe you won’t have to use it, but it’ll damned sure be good to have if you do need it.”

  In some respects, Don Wilson had wished he didn’t know about the deadly weapon hidden only inches from the most unstable prisoner on the loose. Just knowing that the shotgun lay in the back of the drawers and could easily fall to the floor put his stomach in a full twist.

  Sitting with his head down, resting it on his wrists with his arms wrapped around his knees, the sergeant tried to discreetly look inside the cell block entrance. He had remained behind, after sending out all the nonviolent inmates, so he could retrieve the shotgun and help his fellow sergeant and new friend, Michael Fryer, escape the rangers, along with the deputy warden and the gunny.

  Inside the cell block he could hear shouting, and he raised his head trying to get a better look.

  “How come these motherfuckers ain’t dead?” Celestine Anderson bellowed when he saw Mau Mau Harris and the Snowman bringing Gunner Holden, Gunny MacMillan, Michael Fryer, and James Elmore toward the sally port. “They suppose to get cooked in that cell upstairs!”

  As the group made their way outside the burning building, Brian Pitts looked at Anderson and smiled.

  “So you didn’t send anybody to kill us, huh?” Snowman said, touting the Ax Man. “You lying sack of shit!”

  “Fuck you!” Anderson screamed and charged after Pitts.

  Calmly, in a fluid motion, the Snowman turned toward his assailant, parried off the Ax Man’s roundhouse right swing with his left forearm, thrust his knee into Anderson’s groin, and slammed his right elbow into the attacker’s throat. Pitts held nothing back, and let the f
ull force of his movement carry through with his blows. The counterattack took the man off his feet and sent him to the ground, where he crumpled in a heap, moaning.

  “Damn, bro!” Harris exclaimed and laughed. “I don’t know why I worry about that nigger wasting your lily ass when you the baddest motherfucker I seen lately. Where you learn that shit?”

  “Robbie’s Pool Hall on the south side of Kansas City, bro,” Pitts said, taking James Elmore by the arm and leading him toward the pile of benches and tables. Gunner Holden, Gunny MacMillan, and Sergeant Fryer followed close behind, with Harris now covering their rear with the baseball bat in his hands.

  Once they had escorted their hostages to the picnic table fortress, Mau Mau turned and raised both his empty hand and the fist wrapped around the handle of the bat, waving them over his head.

  “We gonna have court, motherfuckers!” Harris shouted to his congregation, and laughed between each of his announcements. “The gunner and Gunny Mac, they gonna observe. My man, the Snowman, he gonna be judge. The honorable Judge Pitts, presiding! Now, ain’t that the pitts?”

  Mau Mau laughed hard at his little joke and then added, “I’m gonna be the prosecutor, and when the Ax Man catch his breath and swallow his sore balls back down out of his throat, he gonna be the defense lawyer for these two ratbag traitor motherfuckers we got on trial here.”

  When Mau Mau pointed at Michael Fryer and James Elmore, the entire gathering of forty-four Black Stone Rangers, including the Chu Lai Hippie and Kevin Watts, who had returned to ranger ranks from the blockhouse, cheered. Don Wilson stood, too, and raised his fist like the others, but kept his voice quiet.

  ALL OF THE inmates who took advantage of the opportunity to leave the riot and surrender themselves peacefully to the guards at the blockhouse back door now ate a hot breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, apple sauce, orange juice, and coffee. Instead of having more food trucked from the Da Nang Air Base dining facility, Lieutenant Colonel Webster arranged for a detachment from First Force Service Regiment to put together a field kitchen at the temporary prison compound across the road from the brig and cook breakfast there. The light morning breeze carried the smell of the food into the recreation yard and wafted where Mau Mau Harris and his rabble now shouted and jeered behind the haphazard fortress of piled-up picnic tables and wooden benches they had built since they could no longer take shelter inside the burning cell block. The provost marshal theorized that the smell of scrambled eggs, bacon, and coffee on the morning breeze might help to hasten the unruly mob to give up their stand.