Jungle Rules (36 page)

“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.

“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

“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.”