Jungle Rules (38 page)

“So your ole man’s a peacenik, huh,” Dixon said and laughed. “So’s my mama, except she loves Bobby Kennedy. My dad, he got killed driving an asphalt truck when I was in junior high, so my mama raised me, put me through high school, my brother now, too, and she’s just like your daddy, can’t stand Johnson or Humphrey. Man, I’d like to see those two start talking.”

“I got something to top that,” O’Connor said, taking a sip of his coffee and looking at the two men. “I got a Swedish girlfriend the FBI investigated when I got my commission and they did the background check on me. She’s a corker, and puts my dad to shame with his social conscience. Vibeke, that’s her name, Vibeke Ahlquist, she used to keep me in trouble with the crap she wrote, getting it published in the
Daily Worker
newspaper
,
a propaganda rag that the Communists distribute there at Columbia University. Still, I get clipped because of her. She preaches against the war, and I get blamed for it. I’m a fucking Republican, damn it!”

The two enlisted men laughed with the captain.

“I checked in, and got the third degree from the military justice officer, right off the bat,” O’Connor added. “Dicky fucking Doo and his don’ts, the motherfucker. He’s got a poster put up in his office with his long list of don’ts written on it. Don’t do this and don’t do that. Now you want to talk about the exact opposite end of the spectrum from where your mother, my dad, and Vibeke sit, just take a look at Major Dudley L. Dickinson.”

“Shit, sir, the woods are full of assholes like that around here,” Dixon offered. “We’re top-heavy with radical fanatical lifers with concrete for brains. Then, I guess to balance out things, we got guys like you, my skipper, Captain Oliver, and some other pretty good officers with hearts and brains. Like ol’ Major Danger over at LZ Ross. Now, there’s a good guy.

“By the way, sir, he told us about you and the other captain getting medals for valor over at Ross when we dumped your asses there last fall.”

“Yeah, the medals surprised Captain Kirkwood and me both,” O’Connor said and laughed. “Just another Cracker Jack prize, though. Navy Commendation medals get passed out for keeping the files straight these days.”

“Big difference between the admin medal, that Cracker Jack prize, and what you got, sir,” Adams interrupted, sitting up and giving the captain a serious frown. “Check that ribbon and see if it doesn’t have that little bronze V stuck in the middle. That’s the important part. Bronze Star gets passed out for showing up for meals on time if you’re in the army these days, but that little V on the ribbon separates the wheat from the chaff.”

“Right on, sir,” Dixon added, “that little V says you earned the medal committing heroic action while under fire against a hostile enemy. Major Hembee, he told us all about you and your buddy holding the line that night. You two being officers but manning that fighting hole like a couple of snuffies. That’s shit-hot, sir. Major Danger, he’s proud of you guys. Best lawyers he ever saw in a fight, that’s what he told Captain Oliver and me just the other day.”

“Another thing, sir, and I’ll shut up about it,” Bobby Adams said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. “To have a grunt battalion operations officer write up a couple of straphangers and horse-holders for medals makes what you got even more significant. That battalion has an allotment of awards to issue to its Marines. The squadrons and so forth do, too. Guys like us, you know, detached support folks, straphangers, we don’t fit into the equation most times when they go to passing out the medals. Sir, for you two guys to pick up Navy Com’s with V’s from a grunt battalion, and you’re just visiting, tells me that you did something pretty special.”

“I think Major Hembee is just a fair-minded officer and did what he felt was right,” O’Connor said, feeling humbled at the two enlisted men’s praise.

“Oh, he’s one of the best, sir,” Dixon said, nodding in agreement.

“You should have seen ol’ Dicky Doo, though, when Jon and I got awarded those medals,” the captain said, leaning back in his chair and laughing. “Talk about one pissed-off mojo. He hates Captain Kirkwood and me. Hell, he hates anybody who defends enlisted Marines, for that matter.”

“Lots of them do, sir,” Dixon added.

“Oh, but not like Dicky Doo,” O’Connor said, shaking his head. “I have heard him say that we should just lock in the brig everyone who gets written up. They’re all guilty of something, he will say. No such thing as an innocent enlisted man.”

“So how do you handle living with that guy?” Adams asked.

“We try to get in our licks when we can,” O’Connor replied. “My buddy, Captain Kirkwood, for instance, he sneaks in Dicky Doo’s office when the major leaves the building, and he loosens the bolts on the office furniture, so that it rocks around and crap. Drives the major crazy. Best of all, every time he loosens up the furniture, Jon takes another screw out of Dicky Doo’s swivel chair and throws it away. Pretty soon, Major Dickinson will sit down and that chair will fall apart right out from under him. I only hope that I’m there to get a look at him when his seat collapses under his chubby little ass.”

“Why not slip a dose of phosphate of soda into his coffeepot?” Adams asked, and laughed after thinking about it a second. “Stuff will give him the screaming shits. Big time! The more he drinks the worse it gets.”

“What is that again?” O’Connor asked, and picked up a notepad off the coffee table and pulled a pen from Staff Sergeant Dixon’s sleeve pocket to write down the name of the chemical.

“Sodium phosphate,” Doc Adams said. “It comes in a variety of forms. Even pills. We have a yellowish granulated powder that we mix with a couple of liters of water, and have a patient drink it to lavage, or in other words, wash out his bowels before we do surgery or anything else that involves the colon, or lower intestines. The compound supposedly irritates the lining of the bowels so that the colon shuts down absorption. Any water the person consumes then goes straight down the pipe. There is one form of this stuff that is really wicked and combines sodium phosphate with polyethylene glycol and some other electrolyte salts. A dose of that stuff and your guy drinks a quart or two of liquids, he will start shitting diarrhea like a fire hose. The more water he has in his system, the more he squirts. He can hardly control it, either. As you can imagine, a guy will get massive gas, too, if he’s got any food in his stomach. In short, it will leave him helpless as a puppy.”

Terry O’Connor slid out of his chair, laughing.

“Oh, shit, that is perfect,” he said to the corpsman. “I wish I could get my hands on some of it. I’d dump it in his private coffee mess as soon as our duty admin clerk turned on the pot first thing Monday morning.”

“No sweat, sir,” Adams said, helping O’Connor off the floor. “We’re heading by Charlie Med when the shuttle gets here. Tag along and I’ll get you a specimen cup full of it. More than enough to give him a rip-roaring case of everlasting squirts. Him and a couple of other people, if you use the whole cupful. A little bit of the stuff goes a long way.”

 
“WAKE UP, SLICK, your lawyer’s here,” the stocky, bald staff sergeant shouted as he rapped Donald T. Wilson’s cage door with the heel of his boot.

The sergeant sat up from the plywood bunk with no mattress, and kneaded his eyes with his knuckles. After yawning and rubbing his face, he looked at Jon Kirkwood. Then he lay back down on the plank for a bed and rolled his back toward the cell door.

“Fuck you, go away,” Wilson grumbled.

“Sergeant, that’s exactly how you got in here,” Kirkwood said, standing at the jail door with the staff sergeant next to his side, his arms folded and scowling.

“See, Skipper,” the jailer said, “this bum’s not worth your breath. Don’t waste your energy, sir. He’s not talking.”

“Sergeant Wilson,” the captain called again, “my name is Captain Kirkwood. I am a defense lawyer. I want to help you. I think I can, if you’ll talk to me.”

Wilson lay motionless on the bunk, and said nothing.

“Staff Sergeant, will you open his door and let me inside?” Kirkwood asked the jailer.

“Sir, I’m not sure if that’s a good idea, given this man’s attitude,” the staff sergeant said, frowning at the captain.

“I’ve dealt with prisoners, Staff Sergeant,” Kirkwood said, putting his hand on the cage door. “Unlock it and take a walk. I need to talk to my client privately.”

“Sir, I’m not too sure about letting you in there, and I’m supposed to stay close to you while you interrogate the prisoner,” the staff sergeant said.

Kirkwood wheeled at the brig NCO and looked down at the stocky man who stood three inches shorter than the captain’s six-foot height.

“First, I am not interrogating anyone,” the lawyer snarled at the jailer. “This is my client. He has a right to see me, his attorney, in private. You may not observe me, nor may you listen to our conversation, Staff Sergeant. That is the law. If anyone ordered you to eavesdrop on the interviews, conversations, or any other interactions I have with my client, I want to know who issued such unlawful orders to you. Now open this fucking door!”

“Sir, your boss did,” the staff sergeant said, pulling the handle that released the lock on the cell.

“Lieutenant Colonel Prunella?” Kirkwood asked, swinging the door open.

“No, sir,” the staff sergeant replied, closing the door behind the lawyer. “That major and the captain that was with him a few days ago.”

“They interviewed my client without giving him the benefit of legal representation?” Kirkwood asked, frowning.

“Sir, they were both lawyers,” the jailer said, pulling down the latch, closing the lock. “I just keep the prisoners, sir. You officers make the rules. They told me when you came here that I should stick right by you for your safety, and report to the captain anything the prisoner told you.”

“That didn’t seem out of place to you, Staff Sergeant?” Kirkwood said, hissing through his clenched teeth.

“Sir, like I said, you officers make the rules,” the staff sergeant answered, walking away.

“Staff Sergeant, one more thing,” Kirkwood called to the NCO as he stepped from the cell. “Did you hear what my client told the major and the captain?”

“Sure,” the staff sergeant said and laughed. “Your client told them to fuck themselves. Several times.”

“You’re my lawyer?” Donald Wilson said, rolling onto his back and then looking at Kirkwood, who still stood by the cell door.

“Yes, I am,” Kirkwood said, looking at the Marine lying on the bare wood in the darkness of the cell.

“You really give a shit what they do to me?” Wilson said, sitting up, rubbing his hands over the burred stubble of hair covering his head.

“Sergeant Wilson, I care a great deal,” Kirkwood said, walking to the bunk. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Sure, go ahead, have a seat,” Wilson said, leaning back against the wall. “You smoke?”

“No, I don’t, Sergeant,” Kirkwood said, sitting on the wooden bed next to his client.

“Just my luck,” the sergeant said, rubbing his face with his hands. “I guess I quit smoking, too. No cigarettes for nearly a week now.”

“I thought they brought you in here on Wednesday,” Kirkwood said, raising his eyebrows.

“Last Sunday, sir,” Wilson said, shaking his head. “I got pissed off and called the lieutenant a pussy on Sunday morning. That night, I got that door slammed shut on me here, and I haven’t been out of it since. I shit and piss in that bucket, and sit on the floor to eat my chow. What little of it I get. C rations on a paper plate and a cup of water.”

“You’re not marched to chow with the other prisoners?” Kirkwood said, taking out a notebook from the cargo pocket on his utility trousers and clicking out the point on the black pen that he took from his shirt pocket.

“No, sir,” the sergeant said. “I ain’t been out that cell door since I got here on Sunday afternoon.”

“Who have you talked to about what happened?” Kirkwood asked, jotting notes on the pad.

“I ain’t said shit to anybody,” the sergeant said, and then smiled.

“Not a word to anyone?” Kirkwood asked, and smiled back at the Marine.

“I only told them to go fuck themselves,” the sergeant said, still smiling.

“Well, that’s not too good,” Kirkwood said, writing in the notebook. “Remember, you must still operate under the rules and discipline of the armed forces. Therefore, when you tell an officer to go fuck himself, that is a violation of disrespect to an officer. I think it would be best if next time any of them try to talk to you that you respectfully decline their invitation. Just say, ‘No, sir, upon advice of my counsel, I prefer to only talk to you with my attorney present.’ ”

“It’s too late, sir, I’m fucked. What difference does it make now?” Wilson muttered, resting his elbows on his knees and hanging his head.

“You’re charged with one violation of the UCMJ, from what I have read on the charge sheet,” Kirkwood said. “Disrespect. Nothing else. We do not want to add to it, not even at this late date.”

“Okay, sir,” Sergeant Wilson said, sitting up.

“I think they have you in here because they believe you planted that grenade under your platoon commander’s bunk,” Kirkwood said, looking up from his notebook.

“Fuck an A!” Wilson shouted, and jumped to his feet and stomped to the cage door, where he clutched his fingers through the crosshatched steel. “I know all about that fragging bullshit, sir. I don’t know who’s trying to kill the lieutenant, or the other officers, but it sure as shit isn’t me.

“I can’t blame who the fuck is trying to frag that sniveling little coward, though. He’s got six of our guys killed, him running any time the enemy opens fire on us during our security patrols. Shit, the little pussy falls apart under fire. A platoon’s got to have a leader with balls. That way the platoon holds tight. Shit, Lieutenant March goes to pieces, hiding and crying when we get bushwhacked, and it’s all I can do to hold the platoon together and get us out alive.