by Wolf Wootan
Lt. Manley stopped in front of Sam’s totem pole and examined two circles of leather shoestrings hung on nails sticking out of the pole.
He gasped, “My God, Sergeant! What’s this? Human ears?”
Shit! thought the sergeant. We forgot to get rid of his latest collection of ears! How do I get out of this?
Crown’s “totem pole” was a six-foot length of 4x4 imbedded in the ground with two feathers tied to the top. Notches cut into the edges represented the ears that Crown had collected, because he knew that the sergeants always buried the ears after counting them for the body count report.
Sgt. Collins shuffled his feet in the dust, looked down at his feet, and replied, “Yes, sir.”
“Whose tent is this?!” demanded Lt. Manley.
“Corporal Crown’s, sir.”
“Who else?”
“Just him, sir.”
“The other tents have 3 or 4 men per tent! How does this corporal rate his own tent?” snarled the lieutenant, sensing that this was something he could use his authority to change.
“He’s pretty much a loner, sir.”
“Hah! Where did these ears come from? Do you know it’s against regulations to mutilate corpses? It’s not civilized!” yelled the lieutenant. “Get that corporal out here immediately!”
Collins thought, This whole fucking war is uncivilized, you prick!
“He’s not here right now, sir,” Collins shrugged.
“I thought you told me that this platoon wasn’t in the field right now. Where is this corporal?” roared the lieutenant, becoming more furious by the second.
“The unit’s here, sir. Corporal Crown is up north on a special mission,” replied the sergeant. “I think you should talk to the CO, Major Quinn. He’ll brief you on Corporal Crown.”
“I certainly will! I’ll get this damned mess straightened out! What is a corporal doing going off by himself? And those ears! Is there no discipline here?”
***
Major Curtis Quinn shook Lt. Manley’s hand and waved him to a chair in front of his makeshift desk.
“Welcome aboard, Manley. Sorry I wasn’t here to greet you. I was over at Battalion. I like to brief my new officers in person so they’ll know what to expect.”
“Yes, sir. I had Sgt. Collins give me a short tour, and I would like to say that the general appearance and discipline . . .”
“Shut up, Manley! You have no experience as an officer, no combat experience, and sure as hell no experience here! Your life expectancy as you sit there is nil. If you listen to me for a few minutes, you might last a couple of weeks. If you keep your mouth shut and listen to the combat vets here, you might—just might—survive your tour. I have certain rules I’ll tell you about—read that as orders! Your job here is to follow orders and try to survive, not to change a damned thing! Understood?”
Lt. Manley was taken aback. He couldn’t understand how this unkempt man could be a major in the USMC!
“Yes, sir. But I would like to protest about this Corporal Crown. I . . .”
“Listen, Manley! You’re in charge of 1st Platoon on paper only—until you earn your spurs. Sgt. Collins will advise you on how things are—here in camp, and in the field. Corporal Crown is in 1st Platoon on paper only. Do not—I repeat—do not ever fuck with him! If you feel the urge to talk to him, go ahead, but never give him an order! Do you understand?”
“But . . . he has human body parts hanging on a pole outside his tent! And why is he excused from the discipline of the Corps? He is violating . . .”
“Lieutenant! I gave you a direct order about Crown! Obey it! Now, you have two choices: get out there and do as I told you, or request a transfer back to the States! I’ll approve it. Now, get the hell out of here!”
Manley knew that requesting the transfer would ruin his career and brand him a coward. He went and found his quarters and tried to get settled. He wondered who Corporal Crown was, really. He went in search of Sgt. Collins to find out—if he could. He found out more than he wanted to know.
After filling the lieutenant in on Crown, the sergeant concluded, “So you see, Lieutenant, Crown is a one-man death squad. Corporal is only his pay grade, not his rank. He’s been offered field commissions several times, but has always turned them down. He doesn’t like leading men to their deaths, so he works alone a lot. There’s no better man to watch your flank, though, or take the point on patrol. You have to understand, sir, that this war is like no other. It’s a big political exercise: started by the CIA, and run by the CIA. Crown’s daddy is a big shot in the CIA. Remember that. In this fucking war, we take territory, Charlie takes it back. The only way the brass can measure our progress is by using body counts—ours and theirs. The problem is, Charlie has an endless supply of bodies to contribute, and an infinite patience. We have neither. Anyway, the daily/weekly/monthly body counts are very important. Crazy Horse keeps this platoon—and company—at the top of the achievement list. We leave him the fuck alone!”
“But, the ears . . .”
“Some units—because of the pressure to produce high body counts—have been known to fabricate them, inflate them. Nobody can accuse Crown of fabrication. He doesn’t even collect ears from all his kills—only the convenient ones. And only left ears. Last count, there were over 180 notches on his totem. Try and match that, Lieutenant. The actual count is probably three times that. We get rid of the ears as soon as we can. It appears as if someone fucked up here.”
“I would agree. How many tours has he done?”
“This is the beginning of his third. He won’t stay away.”
“How old is he?”
“Twenty going on forty.”
“Why do you call him ‘Crazy Horse’?” asked the lieutenant.
“See that sign nailed to his totem? ‘A good day to fight; a good day to die’? Crazy Horse, the Indian chief, supposedly said that when he went into battle. So does Crown. And Crown sometimes wears a cowboy hat with feathers stuck in the band, twin six-shooters, and snakeskin cowboy boots. He’s been tagged with the name ‘Apache’ by the VC, even though Crazy Horse was a Sioux. I guess Apaches are the most well-known vicious Indians.”
“He is crazy then?” asked Lt. Manley.
“Not in the clinical sense. He got this way after he saw a village that the VC had ravaged. They had raped all the women, then slaughtered everyone old people, women, children. He decided that they needed punishing. Now they really fear him.”
“And the Corps condones this behavior? And . . .”
“Don’t go there, sir.”
“You’re right. The CO made that clear.”
“All I know is when we take the field, I want Crown on point.”
“OK, Sergeant. The major said you’d teach me how to run this platoon. What do we do next?”
“Have you ever killed anyone?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s high on the list to get under your belt. Maybe tomorrow. We’re going out at 0500. There could be a fire-fight. Now listen up, sir. There’s a lot you need to know.”
Chapter 4
February 1973
South Vietnam
Many rumors came out of the Vietnam War. Some were true, some were not. The real truth will probably never be known about some reported incidents. No hard documentation existed for these, of course. For example, the existence of a U.S. Marine called the “Apache” who cut off his victims’ left ears. That was just one of the oral legends that came out of that war. Nothing was documented to support it.
The incident that got Sam Crown the Medal of Honor was documented by Lt. Manley, but there were several unofficial versions that were not. Lt. Manley’s official account said that Corporal Samuel Crown put his life on the line—and was critically wounded while so doing—saving Lt. Manley’s platoon from being annihilated in an ambush by the Viet Cong. That much was certainly true. The details—undocumented ones—varied depending upon to whom you spoke.
Sam Crown was in a chopper h
eading to base camp—he had been on a solo foray in the north—when the chopper pilot heard over the radio that Lt. Manley’s platoon had taken to the field without Crown, their normal point man. Manley had gotten annoyed when Crown didn’t show up on schedule and ordered his platoon to move out with Corporal Gerard on point. Sgt. Collins advised him to wait for Crown, but Manley was adamant. He wasn’t going to let the arrogant Corporal Crown run his platoon!
When Crown was advised that Manley was already on the march, he asked the pilot to change course and find them. He would join them in the field. When they finally found the platoon, they also found a large group of Viet Cong lying in wait for them.
What happened next was related by the chopper pilot and the sergeant on the starboard machine gun. Corporal Sam Crown never gave a clear statement about the incident. According to the chopper crew, when they discovered the impending ambush, they tried to raise Manley’s platoon on the radio without success. That was when Corporal Crown asked the pilot to put him down about a half mile from the VC group. He told them that he would cause a disturbance that would warn the platoon. That he did.
When Lt. Manley heard the automatic weapons fire, he eased his platoon slowly forward towards the noise. When he went off radio silence, he heard the chopper pilot still trying to raise him. Crazy Crown was in the middle of a fire-fight with 30 or 40 VC and needed help. The chopper was trying to help him with their machine gun, but when they took heavy ground fire, they had to pull away.
At that point, Manley ordered his platoon forward with all haste. When they arrived at the clearing where the fight was underway, they found Corporal Crown on his knees spraying the area with an enemy’s AK-47. Bodies were everywhere. Manley’s platoon finished off the remaining VCs and Manley rushed to Corporal Crown and took the AK-47 from his bloody hands. He had been shot several times.
“Medic!” yelled Lt. Manley. Then to himself, “Crazy son-of-a-bitch!”
Then he whispered, “Thank you.”
***
Sam Crown received his honorable discharge in August 1973 and went home to Capistrano Beach, a Medal of Honor in his duffel. To please his mother—he had disappointed her very much when he had enlisted in the Marines—Sam enrolled at UCI with a Criminal Justice major. He wanted to be a cop someday. It was a way to stay close to guns and to battle evil. That’s all he knew.
***
He got his degree in 1977 and immediately went to the Orange County Sheriff’s Department’s academy. Four years later he was in homicide. His tumultuous law enforcement career ended in 1995 with the shooting of Irene Culvert’s husband. That was when he joined Investigations International (II), a much respected investigations and security firm based in L.A., as a private investigator and bodyguard specialist. In spite of his long years as a cop, they sent him through their standard training course where he learned the company’s policies—and more importantly—he became an expert in advanced surveillance equipment and techniques.
As part of his employment contract, he got II to open a pro bono office in Santa Ana where he could do investigations for the locals at 1940 prices—or in needy cases, free. This office did business as Mickey Malone Investigations. This allowed Sam to be close to Capistrano Beach—where his aging parents lived—several days per month. He wasn’t about to live anywhere except Orange County—never far from “his” beach.
Investigations International did not want to use their widely-known name on the pro bono office since they wanted to maintain their ability to demand top rates in offices bearing their name. This suited Sam just fine. He thought the average person’s image of a P.I. was Bogart in the Maltese Falcon, so he decorated Mickey’s office in blacks, whites, and grays and had photos on the walls from various old P.I. movies. An old coat rack next to the office door sported a tan trench coat and a dark brown fedora. Mickey’s office was never used by Sam or the other detectives who rotated through the office so Pearl Cooper, the office manager, could always say, “He’s out.” In addition to the storage/tech room, there were two other offices in the complex that they used. One was Sam’s, and the other was used by the other rotating detectives. Sam was happiest when he worked in his home county. He was selective in what cases he took, because his goal was to help the poor people—and help punish the bad guys. He was good at that.
Part 2
Becky
“Towering genius disdains a beaten path.
It seeks regions hitherto unexplored.”
Abraham Lincoln, speech, Jan. 27, 1838
Chapter 5
Saturday, August 8, 1998
Irvine, CA
It was 6:05 P.M. and Sam was settled in his Mike’s Plumbing surveillance van, his equipment focused on the building across the street—a rundown apartment building. The large windows on each side of the van’s rear compartment were covered with tinted glass so he could see out, but no one could see in. His high-tech equipment—an expensive digital camera with the best of zoom lenses, a digital Camcorder, and a shotgun mike with a range of 50 yards—were fitted in special ports in the side of the van and in the dome on top. He was waiting for a philandering husband to come out—hopefully with his mistress—so he could gather more evidence for his client, the guy’s wife’s lawyer. The wife wanted to take her husband to the cleaners in a divorce she was planning. Sam normally didn’t take this kind of case, but he found out that the father was abusing the kids—a big no-no to Sam.
Sam didn’t particularly like working for divorce lawyers, but it allowed him to be close to his parents’ beach house more often than when he worked away from Orange County. His specialties were finding people and bodyguard gigs. He was bored, so he was peering out one of the one-way windows, watching the sparse traffic and the few pedestrians in this part of Irvine. A beat-up, 10-year-old white Toyota pulled up to the curb across the street and parked. Sam noticed that the two blonde girls in the car appeared to be young, most surely teens. He watched them as they sat there; the driver was watching the pedestrians and the passenger—the youngest—seemed to be reading something on her lap.
Sam checked his expensive spy toys for the umpteenth time, then decided to get out of the van and stretch his legs. He leaned against a tree planted by the city and took out a piece of gum and popped it into his mouth. He wished it was a stiff scotch as he checked his watch. Two skinheads—Sam guessed them to be in their early twenties—sauntered up to the car. One strolled into the street and began talking with the young girl behind the wheel. Sam did not like the looks of things. But, he figured, the girl could always drive away if she got hassled. Then the driver got out of the car. She wore a very short denim skirt and a tight tank top that showed a lot of cleavage. Her feet were shod in platform shoes.
Shit! Ugly shoes! thought Sam. And she’s going to get in trouble dressing like that! I don’t understand today’s teens.
The girl then followed the two men into an alley next to the apartment building.
Shit! A friggin’ teeny-bopper hooker! That girl still in the car looks 12 or 13! I can’t allow this to happen!
Sam watched until the street was clear of traffic, then dashed across the street toward the alley. As he passed the Toyota, he glanced at the girl in the car. She was still reading. Then Sam heard a scream come from the alley. He rushed to the mouth of the alley and was in time to see one of the men hit the girl in the face with his fist, knocking her violently to the ground. The other man was riffling through the girl’s purse.
The man who had hit the girl yelled, “Bitch!”
Her head hit a discarded brick on the floor of the alley as she fell to the grimy surface.
Sam drew his Smith & Wesson .40 caliber semiautomatic, flicked the safety off, and jacked a cartridge into the firing chamber. The distinctive sound of the metal slide striking home froze the two skinheads. They didn’t like what they saw when they looked up.
Sam said, “Stand very still, assholes! I’m not in a very good mood! I’m really itching to shoot someone!”
He pointed his gun at the other man and snapped, “On the ground, fucker! Face down! Now!”
The man dropped the purse and plopped down on the dirty alley floor, his face in the grit. Sam walked over to the girl and checked for a pulse in her neck. When he didn’t find one, he became more enraged! A senseless murder of a young girl! He whipped out his cell phone and called 911 as he walked toward the man who had killed the girl. The guy was holding his wound and moaning in pain.
“You killed that girl, you son-of-a-bitch!” snarled Sam as he kicked him in the ribs, wanting to inflict as much pain as possible.
“Ow! Hey! Police brutality! I’m gonna sue your ass!” yelled the punk.
“Go ahead, asshole! Sue away! I’m not a cop! I should blow your damned head off!”
He kicked him again, harder.
“I want a lawyer!” moaned the thug this time. “And an ambulance!”
“A lawyer won’t do you any good this time, you prick! I saw you kill that child and I’ll testify to it. You’ll get the needle this time! Murder during a robbery. You two will love Death Row!”
***
An Irvine Police cruiser was there in three minutes, the paramedics four minutes later. Sam knew one of the cops who was first on the scene.
“Well, Sam Crown! Long time no see! What do we have here?” said Officer Charlie Simpson as he shook Sam’s hand.