“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.”

“Yeah, and write up the poor schmuck who dropped his weapon, unless he got seriously wounded or killed,” Kirkwood added. “The brig’s full of guys who couldn’t shit a helmet, flak jacket or, heaven forbid, a rifle when the first sergeant held inspection.”

“Hey, you know, that’s the Marine Corps,” O’Connor chuckled, shaking his head, shouldering the two rifles. “Hell, the guys who lost these peashooters probably already did six months in the can for it.”

“What’s the deal with lunch, though? It’s only ten-thirty,” Kirkwood said, looking at his watch.

“Yeah, I know,” O’Connor said, joining his partner at the door, “but Staff Sergeant Dixon’s squadron moved from the base, here, over to Marble Mountain. I’m catching a chopper there now. Don’t you want to come? You can see your renegade sergeant this afternoon or tomorrow. What the hell’s the rush?”

“I know,” Kirkwood said, walking out the door with O’Connor, “but I can’t stop thinking about how this sergeant must feel, getting interrogated for three days in the brig, and not having anyone on his side. You know Charlie Heyster has given him the shits by now. No telling what the son of a bitch told the kid. Probably sat there pretending to defend him while the guy got the third degree by Dicky Doo himself, no doubt. No, the sooner I talk to Sergeant Donald T. Wilson, the better.”

“You sure the fuck aren’t going to let that mojo SOB get that fragging bullshit introduced as evidence,” O’Connor snarled. “One part of me stands fully shocked and amazed, but deep in my heart I know that’s what Dicky Doo will push. Look, we’re talking about a matter of simple disrespect: an offense they should have handled with office hours, for crying out loud. Article fifteen, nonjudicial punishment by the man’s company commander, maybe boot it up to the missile battery commanding officer. They’ve got this case already elevated to special court-martial status, and I’ll bet they’d love to pretend it’s murder and boot it on up to a general court-martial if they can. Don’t count that out.”

“That’s why I’ve got to get to the brig and dig into Sergeant Wilson’s skull,” Kirkwood said. “This stinks of railroading. I’ll bet you next month’s pay they did their dead level best to try to pin a charge of attempted murder on this guy but just had no evidence. We’ve definitely got a fight on our hands. I only hope that this kid will open up and talk to me. Otherwise he’s dead meat.”

“Hopefully, Wayne and I can get the Celestine Anderson trial put to bed this week,” O’Connor said, walking with Kirkwood to the staff jeep. “Then I can pitch in with you on this one. I’ve got a head of steam worked up for this Sergeant Wilson. I’d love to have the combination to the lock for the inside of his head. Bet that would be an eye-opener.”

“I’ll keep you posted on what develops,” Kirkwood said, getting into the jeep. “What time you think you’ll be back? Maybe we can catch evening chow.”

“Sure, probably three or four o’clock,” O’Connor said, getting in the jeep’s passenger seat. “Give me a lift to the flight line, if you don’t mind.”

“Yeah, no sweat,” Kirkwood said, backing the vehicle into the street and heading down the roadway to the apron, where rows of helicopters sat. “You just going there and back?”

“I might swing over to China Beach and try to grab lunch with Wayne and his wife,” O’Connor said, and flashed a toothy grin at Kirkwood. “Might get a good look at how she trims out in beachwear, if you know what I mean.”

“You’re a degenerate, you know that?” Kirkwood scoffed. “She’s a man’s wife, for Pete’s sake. You’d look up her dress if she uncrossed her legs, wouldn’t you.”

“Damned right I would,” O’Connor hooted. “Nothing wrong with a little sightseeing.”

“I’m going to tell Wayne you’re lusting after his wife, you perverted sack of shit,” Kirkwood huffed with a halfhearted laugh.

“That’s right, me and every hard dick between here and wherever her freedom bird lands,” O’Connor smirked, blowing off his pal’s idle threat. “Wayne had to learn to live with that fact of life long ago, my friend. You recall what they did to us in the O Club, don’t forget. He seems pretty comfortable with it, if you ask me.”

“You’ve got a point,” Kirkwood said, pulling the jeep to a stop in front of a Quonset hut where several Marines in helicopter flight gear milled around. “Just don’t get any bright ideas about leering at Katie that way when we get home.”

Terry O’Connor jumped out of the jeep, grabbed the two rifles and pairs of headsets, and jogged toward the hut.

“Your wife is a fox, Jon,” he shouted back, looking over his shoulder and jeering. “I have wet dreams about her.”

“How’s it going, sir?” Dixon said, greeting O’Connor on the flight line. “I wanted to catch you before you went inside with those rifles. So we didn’t get asked questions.”

“Sure, whatever you like,” O’Connor said. “Where do you want to put them?”

“Right over here,” Dixon said, walking down the asphalt apron past a row of UH1H Hueys and several AH1J Cobra helicopter gunships. “We’ll stick them back in the cargo box on my plane.”

“Terry O’Connor,” the captain said, putting out his hand to Dixon’s friend, who had a rank insignia with three inverted chevrons under an eagle pinned on the leather name patch of his flight suit, and “HN1 Doc Adams” stamped below it in gold lettering.

“Sorry about that, sir,” Dixon said, pointing to the man. “That’s my home boy, Bobby Adams. We call him Doc. Of course, we call all corpsmen Doc.”

“Doc Adams, just like on TV, you know, Gunsmoke,” O’Connor said, shaking the hospital corpsman’s hand. “You get any Matt Dillon, Chester, or Festus jokes?”

“No, sir,” Bobby Adams answered, shrugging. “I think you’re the first to ever make that observation. Besides, I thought that was Doc Holliday. You know, Dodge City and all.”

“He was Wyatt Earp’s partner,” O’Connor said, walking to the side of Dixon’s helicopter and handing the crew chief the headsets and rifles. “Doc Adams was on with Matt Dillon and Miss Kitty.”

“My grandmother always watched Gunsmoke,” Dixon said, shutting the lid on the helicopter’s cargo box. “I was like ten years old when I saw it with her. That was when Chester was still on the show. We always thought it was Doc Holliday.”

“Now they got Festus, and that new kid that’s the gunsmith, Newly what’s his name,” O’Connor said.

“So, where you headed now, sir?” Dixon asked, walking back toward the ready room.

“Thought I might catch a shuttle to China Beach and have lunch with a buddy and his wife,” the captain answered.

“Going to be about forty-five minutes or so wait,” Dixon said, looking at his wristwatch. “Want to grab some coffee with Bobby and me?”

“Hey, thanks,” O’Connor said, looking at his watch, too, and following the two men inside the crew lounge where a silver, two-gallon coffee urn sat with its black-handled spigot hanging over the edge of the table, enabling a person to fill one of the oversized mugs from the stack of glassware that sat by the big pot.

“Where’re you guys from?” O’Connor said, taking a seat on one of the brown vinyl-covered lounge chairs ringed around a coffee table.

“Me and Toby grew up together in Artesia, New Mexico,” Bobby Adams said, sitting in a chair across from the captain.

“Yes, sir, we went through grade school, junior high, and high school together,” Dixon said, sitting next to the navy corpsman. “We played football, basketball, and baseball. Won state championship in football our senior year, 1965. I played halfback on the offense, and Bobby played end on defense. We was good.”

Then the staff sergeant pushed up the sleeve of his flight suit, exposing the dark brown skin of his forearm for the captain to see.

“Sir, take a look at this bulldog I got tattooed here. That’s not a Marine Corps bulldog, that’s an Artesia bulldog.”

“You guys graduated in 1965 and you’re a staff sergeant and Bobby’s a first-class petty officer?” O’Connor said, quickly calculating their time in service. “That’s quite impressive, both of you making E6 in about half the time it normally takes a person.”

“People come from where we do,” Dixon said, looking at his hometown pal. “We’re raised that way. Put out one hundred and ten percent. Our coach back home, he’d take off our heads if we didn’t. Coach, he even had these Vince Lombardi signs all over the locker room. Winning is the only thing. Operating on Lombardi time, ten minutes early. All that stuff. So we learned only one way to do anything. That’s nothing less than our best. Rank just kinda happens for us both. I guess natural, given where we come from, and how we were raised.”

Bobby Adams smiled and added, “Also, our occupations have a lot more opportunity for advancement. Aviation and medicine, both high demand and you can’t be a rock.”

“Still impressive, Doc,” O’Connor said, and took a sip from his coffee. “Me, I graduated high school in Philadelphia in 1958. Born and raised there. I was too small to play football. I love the game, though.”

“You live where we grew up,” Adams said, smiling, “even you would have played football. If a guy didn’t at least go out for football, he had to put on a dress and pick up pom-poms.”

“Hey, look at me,” the captain said, standing and turning around. “Five-foot-ten if I stretch. I’m all of what, a hundred fifty-six pounds, dripping wet with my stomach full. Not your standard state football champion material. Back in high school, I couldn’t get my weight beyond a hundred thirty-five pounds.”

“Philadelphia’s probably a lot different than Artesia, too,” Dixon added. “We had a hundred fifty, maybe two hundred students in our class. Hell, the whole high school wasn’t more than five or six hundred kids total. Where you grew up, you most likely had six hundred in your class.”

“We had eight hundred fifty graduates in my senior class,” O’Connor said, nodding at the two men. “That’s after half the population dropped out when they turned fifteen. Big, inner-city school. Predominantly black. Tough as hell, too.”

“So, your old man a steelworker or coal miner?” Dixon asked and smiled.

“You’re thinking of western Pennsylvania and places like Pittsburgh,” O’Connor said, putting his feet on the coffee table when he saw the two enlisted men do it. “My dad is a college professor. Teaches history at the University of Pennsylvania. I joined the Marines to please him, one of the reasons. He fought on Iwo Jima, and I admired him for it, so I thought he’d like me joining the Marine Corps, too. I got a rude awakening when I told him what I had done.”

“Why’s that, sir?” Bobby Adams said, raising his eyebrows.

“He’s dead set against this war, right from the get-go,” O’Connor said and shrugged. “He never really talked about it with me, nothing serious, just mixed with all the other political garbage he’d spew while reading the newspaper. I should have figured it out, though, when he pushed me to enroll at Columbia University in New York rather than Pennsylvania. I just assumed that he considered Columbia Law School top drawer. Me and my blinders, I can’t see the forest for the trees. So I graduated college in ’62, law school in ’64, and then joined the Marines.

“Columbia, as you may know, is to the East Coast liberal community what the University of California at Berkeley is to the West Coast left wing.

“I knew my dad was an old school Democrat, and I took his comments about the war to be simply that of a history professor. I never really understood the depth of his passion against this war until I came home and surprised him with my contract and orders to OCS, TBS, and Naval Justice School at Bridgeport, Connecticut, after I finished law school.”

“Shit, sir, being a lawyer beats hell out of being a private in the army, which is what you would have gotten had you hung out for the draft to get you,” Bobby Adams commented, and took a sip of his coffee.

“Absolutely right, but my dad would have rather seen me drafted in the army, or better yet, ducked out to Canada,” O’Connor said, and laughed. “You should have seen him when I voted for Barry Goldwater that same year, on top of joining the Marines, and then told him about that, too. The little rusty-headed Irishman was on his toes and in my face, screaming how I betrayed everything he had ever taught me to believe. He’s a couple of inches shorter than me and has a firecracker temper, if you can picture it. I thought his head would explode. Me in the Marine Corps, and then voting for Goldwater. He blew his gaskets.

“He’s pissed off at President Johnson, says he won’t vote for Humphrey either, since he’s Johnson’s man and probably crooked. He doesn’t trust Bobby Kennedy, and sure as hell won’t vote for Nixon or any Republican, for that matter. So now he’s preaching Eugene McCarthy since he came out against the war with that book of his, Limits of Power, which lambastes Johnson’s foreign policy and the war. McCarthy damned near beat Johnson in the New Hampshire primary with forty-two percent of the vote, probably the biggest reason Johnson decided to bow out of the race, but still I don’t think Clean Gene’s got a prayer, despite his victory over Bobby Kennedy in the Oregon primary. At any rate, my dad told me if I voted for anybody other than his man McCarthy, I should consider moving to Arizona, where Republican lawyers are welcome.”

“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.”

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.

“Sir, isn’t there a law or something about cowards under fire?”

“Cowardice in the face of the enemy,” Kirkwood said, jotting notes. “A serious charge, especially against an officer.”

“I want to burn that little queer bastard, then,” Wilson said, turning from the cell door, streaks from tears glistening on his dark tan cheeks.

“So you called him a coward in front of the company commander, I gather, reading from your charge sheet,” Kirkwood said, taking the paper from the manila folder he carried.

“What they wrote down on that charge sheet,” Wilson grumbled, “I said every word, and meant it. They got that part right.”

“You’re guilty of that charge then?” Kirkwood asked, looking up at the sergeant.

“Yes, I am,” Wilson replied, looking down at the lawyer, “if it’s wrong to be disrespectful of a certified coward.”

“What about all this grenade business?” Kirkwood asked, turning a page in his notepad.

“I guess I know as much as anyone,” Wilson said, coming back to the bunk and sitting down. “Sir, I never rolled any grenade off the roof of the officers’ hooch. I never put one under the lieutenant’s rack either. I never even threw a rock on the roof. Anytime I saw a troop picking up anything to throw up there, I chewed his ass. I don’t go for that kind of crap. I’m a good Marine.”

Jon Kirkwood sat for a moment and then let out a deep breath. Then he stood up. Sergeant Wilson followed him to his feet.

“Thank you for talking with me,” he said to the sergeant, and put out his hand.

The sergeant took it and then hugged the captain. When he stepped back, tears rolled down the man’s face.

“Sir, I am a good Marine,” Wilson repeated. “I love the Corps. I love my men. That’s why I got so pissed off when we started losing people, getting boys wounded, because our platoon leader runs from any fight.”

“To be honest with you, Sergeant Wilson,” Kirkwood said, tucking the notebook in the pocket on the leg of his trousers, “I don’t know how much of this cowardice business we will be able to use for defense. The judge may prohibit us from saying anything unless the lieutenant is charged.

“I do promise you one thing, though, I will do everything in my power to see that none of this fragging business is brought into the court either. If they open that door, then we may use that same shallow reasoning to introduce the cowardice as evidence, too.”

“Hey, guys,” he said as he drew near the sock-clad crew seated around a picnic table on the gedunk patio, drinking beer.

“What’s up, Skipper?” one of the men answered, and stood, putting out his hand. “First Lieutenant Frank Alexander, Seventh Marines.”

“Captain Terry O’Connor, First MAW Law,” O’Connor said, shaking hands with the fellow Marine.

The older gentleman who sat with a slight stoop in his shoulders wagged his finger at the lawyer.

“Your friend has the cabana next to ours,” Rabbi Zimmerman said, then stood and put out his hand. “Lieutenant Commander Arthur Zimmerman, chaplains’ corps.”

“Glad to know you, chaplain,” O’Connor said. “As a matter of fact, I’m looking for my friend Wayne Ebberhardt and his pretty wife, Gwen.”

“Oy vey!” the rabbi exclaimed, slapping his hands on the sides of his cheeks and rolling his eyes. “Such a beautiful woman indeed! This lieutenant friend of yours, such a lucky man.”

“Yeah, that’s right, Captain,” Joel Stein said, laughing. “Tarzan and Jane, they’re just down there by the beach on that big red blanket. Tarzan and Jane, that is.”

“Joel!” the rabbi snapped, scolding the mischievous officer and then turning back to O’Connor. “Please forget this Tarzan and Jane business. It will only embarrass your friend and his wife. I beg of you, Captain.”

“Oh, I’ll forget all about it, chaplain,” O’Connor said, a twinkle flashing in his eyes as he lied. “I won’t embarrass them. Relax.”

“Thank you,” the rabbi said, shaking his head. “We overheard some things from their room last night that left a lasting impression with all of us, and I would not want your friend to feel mortified any more about it than he already is.”

“Rabbi,” Eric Jacobs said, smiling at the other officers and the chaplain, “I think that Captain O’Connor understands perfectly well now.”

“I do, chaplain,” O’Connor said, fighting back his urge to laugh. “You said they were on the beach, right?”

“Yes, just down there. See? On the red blanket,” Joel Stein said, pointing and grinning, noticing the sly sparkle in the Marine captain’s eyes.

“Excuse me?” the lieutenant said, laying the book in his lap and looking up to see his colleague standing above him. “What the fuck are you talking about, Terry? What are you doing here, anyway?”

“I returned those two M14 rifles that Jon and I had stashed in our wall lockers since last fall, and because the helicopter crew had moved to Marble Mountain and I landed in your neighborhood, I caught the shuttle over here to see if you guys wanted to grab a late lunch,” O’Connor answered and took a deep breath.

“There’s a chimpanzee where?” Gwen Ebberhardt said, rolling onto her back and as she sat up, scooping her unfastened pink bikini top under her breasts, clutching it in place with her hand and forearm. Wayne reached behind her and latched the clasp, allowing his wife to release her grip.

“Oh, yes, that must be Cheetah,” O’Connor said, and laughed. “They say that Tarzan and Jane have come here for the weekend, you know.”

Wayne Ebberhardt shut his eyes and fell backward, holding his head and moaning.

“Oh, fuck, that’s all I need,” he groaned, pulling off his sunglasses and looking up at the smiling captain. “Why don’t we call AFVN and have them broadcast it to all the American forces serving in Vietnam. How the fuck did you? Oh, never mind.”

“Yeah, I met your next-door neighbors and asked directions,” O’Connor said, still laughing.

“I know it’s a waste of breath to ask you, but could you please keep it to yourself?” the lieutenant begged.

“You kidding me?” the captain chirped. “Now, as your lawyer, once you told me all the steamy details, the attorney-client privilege would then prevent me from disclosing any specifics of our conversation to anyone you did not approve.”

“Oh, come on, you guys, it’s no big deal, we’re married. You’re acting like schoolboys at a peephole to the girls’ locker room,” Gwen said, standing up from the blanket and brushing sand off her legs. As she bent over, Terry O’Connor widened his eyes, exaggerating his facial expressions as he leered at her jiggling breasts and then at the four rows of pink fringe sewn across the back of the bathing suit, dancing across the seat of her bikini bottoms.

“Don’t fuck with me like that, Terry,” Wayne Ebberhardt said, standing from the blanket, too, and dusting the sand off his legs. “I’m not some pervert who gets his kicks watching other guys groping my wife. I have my limits, you know.”

“Captain O’Connor,” Gwen said, shaking her finger at him, “you need to know that Wayne likes to get naked, jump on the bed, and beat his chest like Tarzan. In fact, the bed is still flat on the floor from his romping last night. Now, you can imagine the pictures to fill in the blanks, I’m not telling you those parts. But you have the general idea. The six Jewish gentlemen had apparently rented the duplex apartment next to ours for their weekend religious retreat, and Wayne thought it was empty, so he felt free to play Tarzan with all the sound effects. There, you have it. No more questions. Let’s go get something to eat. I’m starved.”

Then, without waiting for a response from either man, Gwen Ebberhardt started up the slope of sand toward the gedunk and cascade of rainbow-colored parasols.

“You see! Do you see?” Rabbi Zimmerman said, wringing his hands and walking from the picnic table where he and his colleagues sat. The chaplain hurried through the sand to intercept the woman who stomped toward him.

“I am so sorry, I asked him to not say anything,” the rabbi pled to Gwen Ebberhardt as she approached.

“Chaplain, forget about it,” the redhead snapped, and walked straight past the anxious clergyman.

When she came abreast of the table where the five others sat, snickering, and Joel Stein laughed out loud, she turned at them and put her hands on her hips.

“You little boys need your butts warmed up,” she snapped at the men. “Didn’t your mothers teach you any manners at all? You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”

Then she stomped inside the gedunk, where she met the burly old chief named Sparky standing by the double glass doors.

“Those men bothering you, ma’am?” he growled.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said with a smile. “You see that Marine captain there, with my husband?”

“Yes ma’am,” Sparky said, unfolding his thick arms and putting his fists on his hips, glaring through the glass as Terry O’Connor, Dixie cup in hand, smiled his way past the six Jewish officers and headed toward the gedunk entrance, with Wayne Ebberhardt struggling close at his heels, carrying the red blanket, a canvas bag filled with Gwen’s odds and ends, his book, and the portable radio.

“He’s buying us lunch,” the stewardess said, smiling. “I want you to bring out the most expensive setting of food and drink that you can dream up, plus all the trimmings. If you have French wine, serve that, too. In fact, he’s going to buy drinks all round, even for those six guys at that table.”

“You sure, ma’am?” the chief said, raising his bushy white eyebrows.

“Terry, you’re picking up the tab, aren’t you?” Gwen said as the captain came through the doorway.

“Sure, my pleasure,” the captain answered, and gave a thumbs up to the chief.

“You got it, hotshot,” Sparky said, and then disappeared to the kitchen, where he began barking orders in Vietnamese.

“What’s in the Dixie cup, Captain O’Connor?” Gwen asked as she slid in the booth, followed by her husband, and as Terry O’Connor sat down across the table from them. “To be honest with you, it looks like you’re wandering around with a urine specimen in your hand. You are okay, aren’t you?”

Wayne Ebberhardt laughed, and looked at the lawyer captain sliding the white and blue paper cup back and forth between his hands on the marbleized gray and white Formica tabletop.

“Don’t even try to get into a cutting-remarks contest with Gwen,” he said, then glancing at his wife as she lit a cigarette. “You won’t win.”

“I’m fine, Gwen, thanks for asking,” Terry said, and smiled a sly look at them both. “Revenge. That’s what’s in the cup. Revenge.”

“It’s for Major Dickinson, I gather by the way you’re smiling,” Wayne said, raising his eyebrows and looking at the container with blue floral trim printed on the outside of it near the top. “What is it, some kind of itching powder or laxative?”

“Very perceptive,” O’Connor answered, and released the rubber band off the paper lid, uncovering the cup, full to the brim with a granulated substance that looked like pale yellow sugar.

“That’s not cyanide or some other kind of poison, I hope,” the lieutenant said, looking at the powder.

“No, nothing harmful. At least not fatal,” the captain said, taking the slip of notepaper from his pocket and reading what he had written on it. “A compound of electrolytic salts, polyethylene glycol, but primarily sodium phosphate. The doctors at Charlie Med use it to clear a patient’s bowels before they do abdominal surgery. They give him this and half a gallon of water, and his shit chute gets washed squeaky clean.”

“Oh, crap, I hope you’re not planning to spike the hail and farewell punch with that stuff, are you?” Wayne said, rolling his eyes and then shutting them as he shook his head.

Terry O’Connor stopped and tapped his temple with his index finger, frowned, and then looked back at Wayne Ebberhardt.

“Not a bad idea,” he said, arching his eyebrows nonchalantly. “We could take out Dicky Doo and all the prosecution assholes in one fell swoop. But no. All of this is for our favorite mojo, in his private coffee mess.”

“You know, Colonel Prunella drinks out of that pot, too,” the lieutenant reminded the captain.

“I know, but like I said, it’s not fatal,” O’Connor said with a shrug. “If the colonel happens to drink a cup, well, as the great white father Westmoreland says down at the MAC-V five-o’clock follies, sending the B52s out dropping their arc-light tonnage on the Ho Chi Minh Trail, taking out a village full of mama-sans here, and baby-sans there, we have to accept some negligible collateral damage in order to accomplish the greater mission.”

“What if someone sees you dumping that crap in the major’s coffeepot?” Wayne said, looking at his wife and shaking his head. “Terry, personally, as much as I would love to see Dicky Doo shitting his pants, I think it’s a bad idea. They could put you in jail for something like that, seriously. Colonel Prunella, as nice a guy as he is, would turn the lock, too.”

“Not if you guard Dicky Doo’s door while I do it,” O’Connor said, still smiling.

“No way,” Ebberhardt answered, shaking his head and shutting his eyes. “Besides, in order for you to even attempt it, you have to get in the office at about six o’clock Monday morning, right after the duty makes coffee for the general mess and the one in Dickinson’s office. I won’t be around. The first shuttle Monday leaves here at seven. I had planned on slipping in the back door about eight-thirty or nine.”

“Oh, you’ll be there, pal,” the captain said, tilting his head to one side as he smiled, and then rolling his eyes and batting his lashes.

“I will?” the lieutenant said, unconsciously blinking back.

“Yes, because Dicky Doo and Stanley Tufts take the freedom bird to Okinawa on Tuesday,” O’Connor began. “News flash. Dot, dot, dot. They’re representing us at the Fleet Marine Force Pacific law conference.”

“Why am I not surprised, but that’s Tuesday, and so what about it? We’re talking Monday morning’s coffee,” Ebberhardt said, and then looked at O’Connor shaking his head. “I’m sure he rubbed it in good for Jon Kirkwood, too, his wife being in Okinawa and all, didn’t he.”

“Yes, he did,” O’Connor purred, and then smiled at the lieutenant, “but Dicky Doo also expressed his regrets at missing you and Tommy Touchdown at the O Club yesterday evening, too. He came in, right after you and this redheaded babe in the showy stewardess outfit left. Oh, and by the way, Gwen, that was a stunning performance at the bar. Sizzling. It’s a movie scene that I know I’ll be replaying in my mind for many nights while I lie in my rack and dream about you.”

“What about Dicky Doo, asshole?” Wayne said, snapping his fingers at Terry O’Connor raising his eyebrows and blinking his eyes at Gwen, who blew a big cloud of smoke back in the captain’s face.

“Oh, he came to the club to tell all of us trolls in the defense section, and he did call us trolls, by the way,” O’Connor said, leaning back in the booth, “that we had a meeting in his office this morning at zero seven, bright and early. Jon said something about it being nice that he had to get up with the chickens, too, on Saturday, along with the rest of us, and so Dickinson changed it to nine o’clock this morning. By the way, he missed you and T. D. there, too.”

“Shit, that’s got him nosing even deeper in my private affairs now,” the lieutenant said, taking his wife’s hand on the tabletop. “He’s been snooping around my shit a lot lately. I figure he suspects that I have something going on out in the ville.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure of that, based on a conversation that McKay had with the Tufts brothers and Charlie Heyster a couple of weeks ago,” O’Connor said, and then slapped himself on the cheeks. “Oh, yes, I didn’t tell you the good news, too. Dicky Doo said it was good news, so it must be. Anyway, Charlie the Shyster got selected for major. Furthermore, when the colonel leaves the first of July, Dicky Doo takes over as the SJA, and Major-Select Shyster will fill his old billet as mojo until the new boss gets here, like in mid-September.”

“Oh, that’s dandy, I’ve got Dicky Doo to contend with until I rotate, the middle of September,” Ebberhardt said, bowing his head as he spoke.

“Think of Jon and me, ass wipe,” O’Connor said. “Dicky Doo extended through November. We rotate in December, if we’re lucky.”

“See, Daddy, not everything’s all bad,” Gwen cooed in her husband’s ear, and kissed his neck.

Then Wayne looked across the table at the captain, still showing a Cheshire cat smile.

“What?” the lieutenant snapped, frustrated at his colleague’s game.

“You never heard why I know you will be in the office early Monday morning to guard the door while I doctor Dicky Doo’s coffee mess,” O’Connor said, bobbing his eyebrows up and down like Groucho Marx.

“What!” Wayne Ebberhardt spat at the captain.

“The mojo got pissed because you and Tommy-poo missed the meeting this morning,” O’Connor said and shrugged. “So he wants you and T. D. in his office Monday morning, standing tall at zero seven hundred. Sorry to ruin your holiday, pal.”

“Ah, fuck,” the lieutenant sighed and hung his head.

“Wayne, we can’t get there by then!” Gwen whined. Then she frowned and looked at the two officers. “That means we have to leave tomorrow afternoon, doesn’t it.”

“Afraid so, honey,” the lieutenant said, putting his arm around his wife and hugging her head to his shoulder.

“Don’t fucking do that,” Gwen snapped, pulling away from her husband. “I’m not a poor baby girl. I’m a pissed-off redheaded woman right now.”

“I know, honey, I’m sorry,” Wayne said, and again tried to hug his wife, but she shot her elbow into his chest, leaving him momentarily stunned and gasping for breath.

Terry O’Connor sank in his seat and felt glad that he had not popped off with a me-too-honey wisecrack. Clearly the woman’s temper had boiled to a dangerous point. He rightly considered that she might break his nose with an ashtray if he said anything.

“We’ll just have to check out tomorrow afternoon, instead of Monday morning,” she sighed, and tears trickled from her eyes. “I hate this war, I hate my job, and I hate having to sneak! Oh, God, September cannot come soon enough. I can quit this Flying Tiger nightmare with the filching hands and smart-ass remarks, from the pilots to the damned ground crew, and go back to my old job at Delta, and you can get out of the damned Marine Corps and be a lawyer in Atlanta, like we planned.”

She fought back her tears, and lit a fresh cigarette as she snuffed out one.

“You okay, ma’am?” the scruffy navy chief in Bermuda shorts said, walking to the table with a platter stacked with several big lobsters, and a large bowl filled with boiled jumbo prawns.

“I think I got a hundred bucks in my wallet, Chief,” O’Connor said, looking at the service trolley loaded with side dishes that a waiter wheeled behind his American boss.

“Let’s see, with the French wine and the drinks for the guys outside, that comes to eighty-seven dollars and ninety cents, Chief Sparks said, and then winked at Gwen Ebberhardt, who now began to laugh.

“Here’s five twenties,” O’Connor said, handing the chief the hundred dollars. Then he looked inside his wallet. “Wait a minute, there’s a five and three ones in here, too.”

“That’s okay, Skipper,” the chief said, and grinned, “I’ll just take what’s left from the hundred for our tips.”

“I fucking got you back, you smart-ass,” Gwen said, laughing at Terry O’Connor.

“I concede victory to you, Missus Ebberhardt,” the captain said, and put out his hand for her to shake, which she took and ceremoniously shook.

Then the redhead reached across the table and snatched the Dixie cup full of supercharged laxative.

“Wait!” O’Connor said, grabbing her hand.

“I want it, Captain,” she hissed, and then pulled her hand and the cup away from his grip. “I have a right to get even with him, putting up with all this nonsense of having to avoid his catching me visiting my husband, and now he’s ruined my weekend, too. Besides, I have a foolproof way to pull it off. You two idiots would just get caught Monday, dumping this in his coffee. You think you’re slick, but you’re just an accident waiting to happen. Both of you. Anyway, I’m good at this sort of thing. Subterfuge is my middle name.”

“Your mother named you subterfuge?” Terry O’Connor said, his eyes sparkling.

“Yes, she did,” Gwen said, holding her head up, dashing out her cigarette, and lighting a fresh one. Then she looked at her husband and at the captain. “Major Dickinson and Stan the Man take my flight Tuesday morning, right?”

Both men nodded yes and smiled.

“What’s the worst that can happen to me if I got caught putting this in his drinks?” she asked and looked at Wayne.

“I don’t know, get fired I guess,” the lieutenant said.

“Dicky Doo would sue the airline, too,” O’Connor offered.

“They deserve it,” Gwen said, and shrugged. “Besides, who said I would get caught? You two, on the other hand, would definitely get nabbed. He’ll figure out his coffee got sabotaged, blame the enlisted guys, who will then put two and two together and let your little secret slip out, if he doesn’t catch you red-handed dumping that shit in the pot in the first place.

“On the other hand, I can put this on my serving cart, and when I fix his coffee, juice, and whatever else he wants to drink, I can simply spoon it in as I pour. He’s sitting down and can’t see what I’m doing, since I’ll park the cart behind his shoulder when I serve him. It will be perfect.”

“Sounds like a plan,” O’Connor said, breaking a claw off a lobster and pulling out a hunk of meat. “You know what Dicky Doo looks like?”

“I’ve seen him a couple of times when I went walking past the law center looking for Wayne. I think I can pick him out of a crowd,” Gwen said, smiling at her husband and taking a boiled prawn from the bowl and dipping it in cocktail sauce. “Besides, I can look on the passenger manifest and locate him by his seat assignment.”

“Just look for the potbellied major with three chins and a black and white flattop haircut,” Wayne Ebberhardt said and laughed.

“Yeah, Gwen,” O’Connor chuckled, pulling lobster meat from the claw, “he’ll be with this sawed-off captain walking with his arms out like a seagull on a hot day.”

“How could I miss them then?” Gwen said, and laughed with the two Marines as they ate.

“Hey, Sparky,” Wayne Ebberhardt called to the chief, “why don’t you tell those guys out there sucking on their beer bottles to come inside and enjoy the air conditioning and help us with all this food.”

“Where’s Stanley?” O’Connor said to his partner. “I’ve got a little plan up my sleeve that fell in my lap by accident while reading Time magazine on the shuttle this afternoon. It’s perfect.”

“Hey, don’t fuck things up, Terry,” Kirkwood warned. “You start saying shit to Stanley and he’ll figure out you’re tied into this prank and tip the whole thing off.”

“No, no, no,” O’Connor said, shaking his head as he spoke. “I’ll be cool with it. Very subtle.”

“Like a grenade down the shitter,” Kirkwood followed. “Okay, there he is, sitting with his brother and no less than Charlie Heyster.”

“That makes it even better,” O’Connor said, grabbing his beer from the bar. “Come on, you can help.”

“I don’t know about this,” Kirkwood said, picking up his bottle of Olympia and following his buddy to the table where the three prosecutors sat.

“Congratulations, Charlie,” O’Connor said, putting out his hand for the new major-select.

“Thanks, Captain O’Connor,” Heyster said, feeling the power of his newly realized, soon-to-be field-grade status, and already separating himself socially from the company-grade scum.

“Oh, you’re quite welcome, Major-Select Heyster, sir,” O’Connor said, and pulled out a chair and sat with the trio while Jon Kirkwood remained standing and silent.

“Say, Stanley, I hear you’re flying to Okinawa on Tuesday with the mojo,” O’Connor said, taking a pull off his mug of beer.

“Yeah, and what’s it to you, wiseguy?” Tufts snorted, sipping from the top of a glass of ice, scotch, and water.

“Hey, nothing I guess,” O’Connor said, shrugging. “I just wanted to pass on a little good scoop to you, that’s all. If you don’t care to hear it, I’ll go back to the bar.”

“That’s okay. What scoop?” Stanley Tufts said, his curiosity always at a peak when teased with the right question.

“I had to chop over to Marble Mountain today, to take back those rifles that Jon and I ended up with when we got stuck out at Fire Base Ross last November,” O’Connor began, and leaned back in his chair, sipping his beer. “Once I got done, I had to take the shuttle back to base, so I had some time to kill. Anyway, I picked up a copy of Time magazine that somebody had left over at the chopper ready room, and took it with me to read. You know, the long ride and all. So I open up the magazine and low and behold they’ve got this article on flight fatigue and how to beat it. I thought of you, since you and the mojo are flying out on Tuesday. I got the magazine in the hooch, if you want to read it.”

“No, I don’t have time, but thanks,” Stanley said, and sipped his scotch. “Anything good that I could use?”

“Oh, sure, lots of tips,” O’Connor said, and then looked at Kirkwood and smiled. “Best thing you and the major can do before you fly Tuesday morning is to drink lots and lots of water Monday night. You know, at high altitude there is no moisture in the air. You dry out really bad on a plane, so lots of water in your system before you fly keeps you fresh. Like a rose. Take it out of the water, it wilts. People work the same way.”

“Sure, that makes sense,” Stanley said, looking seriously at O’Connor. “How much water should I drink, did it say?”

“Yeah,” O’Connor said, and shrugged. “They gave it in liters. Two liters the night before, and a couple more liters an hour or so before the flight, if you can handle that much water. Sounds like a lot to me.”

“Two liters?” Stanley said and wrinkled his brow. “That’s like half a gallon or so, right?”

“Yeah, about that,” Charlie Heyster said, taking out a briar pipe and lighting it.

Jon Kirkwood motioned with his head and eyebrows at Terry O’Connor to look at the pretentious man assuming the mantle of a field-grade Marine. Both defense lawyers smiled.

“So I drink half a gallon of water the night before I fly, and then another half a gallon that morning, too?” Stanley said, shaking his head. “Sounds like a hell of a lot of water.”

“Ah, you know these magazines,” O’Connor said, shrugging and drinking his beer. “I bet if you just drank all you could hold, that would be plenty. Hell, any is better than nothing, you know.”

“I could make sure that the major and I drink plenty on the plane, too,” Stanley said, smiling.

“You sure could, Stanley. You sure could,” O’Connor said, and grinned at Kirkwood, who rolled his eyes and walked away from the table.