Jungle Rules Page 4

  “Today some kind of holiday?” Kirkwood asked, looking at an attractive, middle-aged gentleman with dark hair and an exquisite tan, dressed in white shorts, shoes, and polo shirt. Violently swinging his racquet, alternating forehand and backhand strokes, the fellow relentlessly pounded a tennis ball off a large sheet of plywood wired against the court fence. With each loud whop of the racquet striking the ball, the man let out a deep grunt that echoed off the concrete and the nearby buildings.

  Just outside the high chain-link enclosure where the tanned, middle-aged man in white toiled at trying to blast a hole in the plywood panel with his tennis ball, a much younger man relaxed quietly on a chaise lounge. He, too, sported white athletic shorts but wore no shirt. With black plastic sunglasses resting on the bridge of his deeply tanned nose, hiding his

  eyes, the fellow intently studied the fold-out feature photograph of an issue of Penthouse magazine.

  A few feet from the man lying on the web-mesh reclining chair, an immaculately cleaned and polished jeep sat with a portable radio on its hood, tuned to Da Nang’s American Forces, Vietnam, broadcast station. The comedic toot of a steam calliope playing Henry Mancini’s popular hit “Baby Elephant Walk” drifted from the speakers, adding a tranquil accent to the placid afternoon scene.

  “Oh, that’s just the boss, Lieutenant Colonel Lewis Prunella, there on the tennis court, and his driver, Lance Corporal Dean, adhering to their regular afternoon physical training schedule,” Staff Sergeant Pride said and cracked a wry smile.

  “We should stop and introduce ourselves, then,” Terry O’Connor said, stepping toward where the man reclined on the lounge chair, soaking up sun and now turning the Penthouse centerfold in various directions, examining every detail of the photo.

  “Sirs,” Pride said, and hastily stepped in front of the two captains, “we don’t have a lot of time right now. I can see Major Dickinson watching us from his window. He can get very contentious when you keep him waiting.”

  “Contentious, eh? Guess that means pissed off in legal parlance. Don’t want to piss off the Mojo, Jon, do we?” O’Connor said, looking toward the complex housing the First MAW staff judge advocate’s offices, where he could clearly see the silhouette of the military justice officer standing in a side window. “At least not until he knows us better. Not in the first five minutes, anyway.”

  “You get a good look at that jeep?” Kirkwood said, following behind his pal Terry O’Connor and Staff Sergeant Pride, zagging at an angle across the grass, back to the gravel path and resuming their trek from the BOQ to the legal offices.

  “Yeah,” O’Connor said, “you could eat off the tires. Even the wheel nuts were shiny. Like chrome. Did you catch that?”

  “Whole thing glistens like a diamond in a black goat’s ass. How about that red license plate on the front with the bolt-on chrome letters S-J-A mounted on it,” Kirkwood said. “At first I thought it was General Cushman’s jeep, and the metal letters were three silver stars.”

  “From a distance, the colonel’s jeep can mislead a person, unless you’ve been around here for a while and know it’s just our boss,” Pride said.

  “He play tennis like that every afternoon?” O’Connor said, glancing a last look over his shoulder.

  “Every morning, too,” Pride said. “From about seven to nine he sharpens his game, then works in the office until noon, takes a jog with Lance Corporal Dean for lunch, then at three o’clock he has his afternoon P-T session. Almost daily, unless he has to preside over a trial or attend a staff meeting.”

  “Must be pretty laid back here then,” Kirkwood said, cracking a hopeful smile at the apparent prospect of ample free time.

  “Hardly that, sir,” Pride said. “We stay quite busy. The colonel just keeps out of our way, unless we need his advice or help with something. Major Dickinson makes sure that rarely happens.”

  “So the major really runs the show at First MAW Law,” O’Connor said.

  “Colonel Prunella runs the show,” Pride quickly spoke. “Don’t let his hands-off style mislead you. Lewis Prunella is nobody’s fool, and is quite the gifted defense counsel or prosecutor. Take your pick. He’s worked both sides of trials, and is as sharp as they come.”

  “So, what’s this?” Kirkwood said. “Retirement on active duty?”

  “Some people might say that, more or less, in some respects,” Pride said. “But everyone here likes him, especially at III MAF. The colonel expertly plays the political game, gentlemen, and as a result, he keeps us well fixed. For example, we have six people assigned to us from Marine Wing Headquarters Squadron-1 administrative section, just to do typing. Normally, any other SJA would only get a couple of regular oh-one-five-ones. In fact, during my six-year career I’ve seen JAG sections where we had just one clerk-typist. Talk about getting backed up!

  “Here in Da Nang, though, the colonel gets just about anything he wants. Take his driver, for instance. On loan from Lieutenant General Robert E. Cushman Jr., personally. Pulled directly from the III Marine Amphibious Force command section’s pool of drivers normally reserved for the senior staff. Some of the MAF bird colonels don’t even have personal drivers assigned specifically to them, but Lieutenant Colonel Prunella does.”

  “That’s good to know,” Jon Kirkwood said, appreciating the genuine respect and obvious loyalty that Pride held toward Colonel Prunella.

  “Now, if you ask me, that driver has the choicest job of anyone I’ve seen so far,” O’Connor said, looking back at the tall, tan Marine who now bent over an ice chest and took out two cold sodas. He then turned and handed one of the canned pops to the SJA, who had just walked out the tennis court gate, mopping his face with a white towel and smiling at the man like they were best friends.

  “Lance Corporal James Dean from Malibu, California,” Staff Sergeant Pride said. “The authentic beach boy. All he does is drive Colonel Prunella, and do whatever the boss needs him to get done. Otherwise, between runs, when he’s not polishing his jeep, he lifts weights, or works on his tan while improving his reading skills, as you may have observed.”

  “Yeah, right,” Kirkwood snorted, picking up on the staff sergeant’s subtle sarcasm. “Think he ever gets much past the pictures?”

  “No shit,” O’Connor said, and laughed. “James Dean. That fits, too. As soon as I laid eyes on him, he struck me as a regular Joe Hollywood sort—tall, good-looking, sporting that tan and those Foster Grants. Even has that Troy Donahue sun-bleached hair going for him. The name, James Dean, though, just seems a little too ironic. That’s for real?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s one of the reasons why most people around here call him Movie Star,” Pride said, arching one eyebrow and cracking a wise smile. “That and his background. Supposedly his family has money. That’s why the Malibu address. His dad’s some kind of big-time Hollywood studio executive. So typical of those people, the boy went maverick on the old man and joined the Marine Corps. You know, just to piss off the parents.

  “However, Lance Corporal James ‘Movie Star’ Dean is no great gift, and certainly no loss to Hollywood. I would say that he has the mentality of a plate of noodles and the personality of a department store mannequin. I think they invented the term ‘shallow-minded’ just for him. He will screw up anything more complicated than wiping mud off his jeep or picking up the colonel’s laundry. That’s why nobody hassles Movie Star to do anything except piddly stuff. And that’s not much. Big, good-looking and d-u-m-b, dumb. Colonel Prunella loves him, though. Mostly because he keeps that jeep absolutely spotless and is always right there, handy.”

  “Movie Star, huh?” O’Connor said.

  “Yes, sir, Movie Star,” Pride said, opening the front door to the headquarters and leading the two captains inside.

  “I GET PAID to be the royal asshole here,” Major Dudley L. Dickinson said, casting a patronizing, fake smile at the pair of officers as he stepped from behind his desk while offering his hand for Captains O’Connor and Kirkwood to shake. “I like my wo
rk, too.”

  “So I’ve heard, sir,” O’Connor said, giving the major a one-pump shake and then letting go.

  “Jonathan C. Kirkwood, sir, UCLA Law School class of ’64,” Kirkwood said, giving the major a dutiful, multipump handshake.

  “Very good, Captain,” Dickinson said, and then turned back to O’Connor, who stood staring up at the large, posterboard sign thumb-tacked on the wall adjacent to the major’s desk. On it someone had carefully handwritten in bold, inch-long, black-marker-ink letters a list of a dozen sentences, each beginning with the word “Don’t” written in red marker ink and underlined with black. “You’re Terence B. O’Connor, then.”

  “Yes, sir,” O’Connor said, still reading the sign.

  “The initial B in your name comes from Boyd, your mother’s maiden name,” Dickinson said.

  “Correct again, sir,” O’Connor said, now looking at the major.

  “Let’s see, Columbia University Law School, also class of 1964,” Dickinson said. “Editor of the Columbia Law Review. Very impressive. You passed the New York Bar, and did it on the first try. Not bad at all. Father, a Marine sergeant, World War II, awarded the Navy Cross for valor on Iwo Jima. Don’t be so modest, Captain O’Connor. I have read all about both of you, including the special note from the Federal Bureau of Investigation regarding a minor hiccup with your secret clearance background check, relating to the fact that your fiancée is a Communist.”

  “Girlfriend, sir,” O’Connor said, now looking squarely at the major’s narrowed eyes. “Vibeke Ahlquist is my girlfriend. She’s a very strong-minded liberal, a Social Democrat from Sweden, and a journalism graduate student at Columbia University. She freelances articles and commentaries from time to time for the Daily Worker, a newspaper established by the American Communist Party in 1924, which they publish and distribute in the neighborhood just outside Columbia University. Not on campus. She’s just a stupid student with no real-world experience. Does that make me a Communist?”

  “Apparently not,” Dickinson said, sitting behind his desk and opening O’Connor’s Officer Qualification Record. “They still gave you a secret clearance, in spite of this relationship.”

  “My relationship with Miss Ahlquist is my business in the first place,” O’Connor said, now realizing that he had just allowed Major Dicky Doo to push his one easy button.

  “It’s my business when you are fraternizing with an agent from a socialist country that is sympathetic to the enemy,” Dickinson retorted.

  Jon Kirkwood stepped away from O’Connor and began reading the sign on the wall, knowing that any comment he might add would only muddy the situation.

  “Sir, with all due respect, Sweden is a friendly power to the United States,” O’Connor fumed. “Applying your logic would make Canada our enemy, too.”

  “I didn’t say ‘enemy,’ Captain,” Dickinson said, tossing O’Connor’s OQR on his desk. “Sympathetic. Just like Canada.”

  “Canada is one of America’s closest allies, sir!” O’Connor said. “I cannot believe you would regard them as anything less than a friendly nation.”

  “They allow draft dodgers to run there; they give them refuge and refuse to honor our requests for extradition. That is not the conduct of an ally,” Dickinson huffed.

  “Sweden is a social democracy, much like Canada. They are our friends. Just like us, they fear the Russians. They simply have a long-held tradition of neutrality,” O’Connor said. “My girlfriend, a Swede, writes for a Communist newspaper from time to time, big deal. She’s no Bolshevik!”

  “Captain, I just pointed out that I was aware of the issue,” Dickinson said, now trying to defuse the young lawyer’s tirade.

  “Major, sir, I happen to be a Republican. I cast the first presidential vote of my lifetime for Senator Barry M. Goldwater, for Pete sake!” O’Connor said. “If you look closer at my background check, you will also see notes regarding my stormy and often verbally combative relationship with Miss Ahlquist. All of our conflicts specifically centered on our divergent political perspectives. Although my father is a Marine veteran of World War II and recipient of the Navy Cross, he is today a history professor at the University of Pennsylvania, and a very liberal-thinking Democrat. He nearly always agrees with Vibeke in our political arguments. Does that make him a Communist, too?”

  “Relax, Captain O’Connor,” Dickinson said. “Nobody has called you a Communist.”

  “Agreed, sir,” O’Connor said, taking hold of his temper and now trying to extinguish the flames of his anger.

  “Captain Kirkwood,” Dickinson said, looking at the quiet officer who had taken several steps toward the wall and busily read the posterboard sign attached to it.

  “Yes, sir,” Kirkwood responded, wheeling on his toes and striding quickly back to the major’s desk.

  “I see your wife has gotten herself a job teaching junior high social studies at the Department of Defense School System on Okinawa,” Dickinson said, looking at a yellow note paper-clipped to the manila cover of Kirkwood’s Officer Qualification Record.

  “Correct, sir,” Kirkwood said. “Her father knew some people with the DOD school system, and they made some arrangements for her to work there. Hopefully, occasions will arise where I may have cases that take me to Okinawa, and might afford us the opportunity to be together for a day or two during my thirteen months here in ’Nam. Just a hope, sir. You know.”

  “Any Okinawa junkets are plums that I award to only our stellar performers, Captain,” Dickinson said. “Defense section has yet to show me any stellar performances, so you will have a precedent to set if you hope to get to Okinawa anytime soon.”

  “I think I understand, sir,” Kirkwood said, choosing to keep any potential for argument to himself while trying not to show his stirring emotions and his immediate dislike for the major.

  “Like I said,” Dickinson said, and faked a laugh, “I get paid to be the asshole at this office.”

  “I understand, sir,” Kirkwood repeated.

  “Your father-in-law is quite the man, isn’t he, Captain Kirkwood?” Dickinson said, running his finger down the note and then looking up at the flush-faced captain.

  “Sir?” Kirkwood said carefully.

  “Political power broker in California, Captain,” Dickinson bellowed. “He and Governor Pat Brown are like Frank and Jesse James. They run the California Democrat machine. Bernice Layne Brown, the state’s first lady, is your wife’s godmother. Don’t play so coy with me, Captain, you’re quite well connected.”

  “Sir,” Kirkwood said, “as you obviously know, Governor Ronald Reagan, a Republican, succeeded Edmund G. Brown this very year. So that California Democrat machine does not appear to have as great a head of steam as you might regard. Besides, if I have such clout, what am I doing in Vietnam?”

  “Good question, Captain,” Dickinson said. “I’m all ears.”

  “Sir, I got drafted,” Kirkwood began to explain. “Rather than face two years as a private in the army, I opted to join the Marine Corps.”

  “Right, right, right,” Major Dickinson said, waving his hand as he looked back at the folder, turning off what might develop into a long-winded explanation that he cared nothing to hear. Then the major rocked back on his chair and looked up from his desk at both captains. “Gentlemen, to get along here I ask only that you keep out of trouble, and abide by my rules, posted on yon wall.”

  “Your infamous list of Don’ts,” O’Connor said.

  “Correct, Captain,” Dickinson said in a hot voice, “the infamous Don’ts. Read them, make notes of them, learn to recite them by heart if needed, but above all, abide by them. I’m not here to get you to like me, and I am not your buddy. Ever. Don’t make the mistake of believing something otherwise.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that, sir,” Kirkwood said, now grabbing the opportunity to mouth off before O’Connor took it.

  “Don’t leave our offices without first checking out,” Dickinson said. “Rule number one. Don
’t use the overseas telephone without obtaining a chit from me first. That’s rule number two. Most importantly, don’t ever, and I mean ever, take the colonel’s jeep. Colonel Prunella’s vehicle and his driver are exclusively off-limits to all hands. We have a staff jeep. Use the staff jeep. No exceptions. No excuses. Period!”

  “What if it’s out and we have an emergency?” O’Connor said.

  “Nothing in our profession requires that kind of urgency, Captain,” Dickinson snubbed. “If the staff jeep is out, then call the command taxi service or request a vehicle and driver from the motor pool. However, and another rule: Don’t request a vehicle without getting my authorization first.”

  “How about a do?” O’Connor said smartly. “You have any of those? A do this or a do that?”

  Yes, I have a do for you, Captain O’Connor,” Dickinson said wryly. “Do not piss me off!”

  “Sir, ah, that’s not a do,” Kirkwood said, gesturing with his index finger raised, trying to appear innocent but feeling good with adding his smart, two cents’ worth. “You see, don’t is simply a contraction of do not. That’s another don’t, sir.”

  “You just pissed me off!” Dickinson said, standing from his six-wheeled swivel chair and sending it banging into the government-gray steel credenza behind him. “Smart-ass behavior like that will only buy you beaucoup trouble around here, bub. Given your attitudes, you two clowns ought to fit in very nicely with the rest of the misfits in the defense section.”

  “No serious swimmers, then, I take it, sir, in the defense pool?” O’Connor said, smiling, seeing the major’s anger and reaching for a fresh nerve to grate raw.

  “Not a one, Captain,” Dickinson hissed through his clenched teeth. “Not a one.”

  THE AFTERNOON SUN blazed across the steel matting, concrete, and hard-packed dirt at the infantry base and air facility at Chu Lai. The bustling aviation and ground complex occupied by the U.S. Army’s Twenty-third Infantry “Americal” Division headquarters along with other elements of Task Force Oregon, and Marine Corps aviation and ground units of the First Wing and First Division sat smack in the middle of a stretch of nasty sand hills and hamlets that teamed with Viet Cong, just an hour’s drive south of Da Nang on Highway One. While the South China Sea washed its clear blue tide along Chu Lai’s east-side beaches, hostile rice paddies, canals, and thickly forested hedgerows, broken by a hillock here or a streambed there, stretched north, south, and west from the American forces’ compound. Farther west, the dangerous lands that the grunts had come to call Indian country, places such as Happy Valley, Dodge City, and Charlie Ridge, lay in the mountains and steep terrain that overlooked the Chu Lai rice flats. Closer by, equally enemy rich haunts such as the Riviera and Que Son Hills loomed just outside Chu Lai’s fences.