Chapter 21
JAILHOUSE JUSTICE
“YO, MOTHERFUCKERS!” BRIAN Pitts bellowed as he
stepped from the stairwell, and threw Kevin Watts down the hallway
toward the sally port where Ax Man and Mau Mau had James Elmore
hanging from the bars overhead the gateway. They had tied his feet
and hands with mattress ticking ripped from beds the inmates had
torn apart, and suspended him to the entrance’s upper frame with
the heavy blue-and-white-striped fabric.
Celestine Anderson hissed and showed his teeth
behind curled lips when he saw the worthless body of Kevin Watts
slide along the concrete floor after the Snowman had slung him down
and sent him skidding.
Frank Holden and Ted MacMillan crouched behind
Michael Fryer in the stairwell, staying in the darkest shadows to
keep out of sight. The three Marines hoped that Brian Pitts could
distract the mob so they could slip out via the sally port. With
James Elmore now trussed by his heels like a pig awaiting the
knife, screaming and sobbing, the deputy warden and watch commander
as well as Fryer quickly realized that they had no realistic chance
of escaping through that door right now.
Heavy smoke billowed down the stairwell, leaving
the two hostage brig supervisors and their compatriot fighting back
the urge to cough, which would draw attention to their presence.
Trying to filter the air, the men slipped their noses and mouths
under the necks of their T-shirts. The
trio knew that unless something dramatic happened soon, they would
have to step into the crowd.
“Kill my ass, will you! Burn me in my bed, that
right, motherfucker?” Pitts yelled at Celestine Anderson, and then
charged full force at the Ax Man.
“Ho!” Mau Mau Harris shouted, and jumped between
the Snowman and Anderson, wrapping his arms around Brian Pitts and
pushing him backward, away from Ax Man, who now laughed and
beckoned the aggressor, taunting him and waving his hands while he
danced like Muhammad Ali.
“Come get it, cracker-ass motherfucker!” Anderson
jeered, glancing over his shoulders at Clarence Jones and Samuel
Martin, who also began to shout their own dares at Brian
Pitts.
“He sent that rat maggot upstairs to lock me in my
cell!” Pitts said, pointing to the floor where Kevin Watts still
lay. “Ax Man told him to let me burn to death with Fryer and the
gunny and Gunner Holden. He was running up there to lock my fucking
door, but I got out before he made it to control, the
motherfucker!”
“Ax Man, you tell Watts to do that shit?” Harris
asked, still embracing Pitts and looking at his enraged ranger
lieutenant. “You know I told you the Snowman is my main man. Take
him down, you take me down, too.”
“No, man, I ain’t told that shitbird nothing,”
Anderson said, and then glared at Watts on the floor. “That lyin’
sack of shit! If I want to kill a motherfucker, I’d done it myself.
You know that about me, bro.”
Seeing that he had no allies, Kevin Watts scrambled
on his hands and knees to the sally port, and then jumped to his
feet and fled outside.
James Harris and Brian Pitts ran after the
departing slimeball, boxing James Elmore’s head like a punching bag
as each man shoved his way past the dangling prisoner. When Harris
stepped off the concrete porch, following Watts with his eyes,
watching as the creep scrambled under a table next to his buddy,
the Chu Lai Hippie, Mau Mau noticed three men starting down the
sidewalk from the blockhouse. Pitts saw them, too, and fell in step
behind the ranger leader.
Mau Mau watched as one of the three men ran from
the other two at about the midpoint in the recreation yard. He
quickly recognized the burly shape of the third person’s body when
he ducked under a picnic table. It was Donald T. Wilson.
“Stupid motherfucker,” Harris said, watching Wilson
as he talked to inmates and then dashed to the next picnic table.
“Fuck him.”
“Looks like Lieutenant Schuller and probably that
lawyer, Kirkwood,” Brian Pitts said, walking behind Mau Mau Harris.
Celestine Anderson, Sam Martin, and Clarence Jones now followed on
their heels, and then the mass of other Black Stone Rangers flowed
out of the sally port behind those three inmates.
As Michael Fryer made his way to the door, he
climbed up the sidebars to the gateway and began pulling at the
mattress ticking that held James Elmore by his feet.
“Here’s my pocketknife,” Chief Warrant Officer
Frank Holden said, handing the blade to the sergeant.
One swipe and Fryer had the prisoner’s feet cut
free, and the wriggling, terrified man fell into the arms of Gunny
MacMillan.
“Here you go,” Michael Fryer said to the gunner as
he handed him back his knife and then climbed off the bars.
The deputy warden quickly cut the bonds off the
prisoner’s wrists, but then grabbed a handful of the man’s T-shirt
and held tight, so he didn’t try to flee through the crowd and draw
the mob’s attention to them. Gunny MacMillan casually slipped
through the sally port behind the distracted prisoners as the last
of them jammed behind their leaders in the recreation yard. Then he
took a good look outside.
“No way we’re going to get through that
cluster-fuck right now,” he said over his shoulder to Fryer and
Holden. “You see anyone down at the library?”
“Looks empty. It might be a good place to take
cover,” the warrant officer said, and then coughed. “Lots of smoke,
though, building up here. I can see lots of fire down at the end of
the passageway, in the chow hall, so that exit’s blocked. Looks
like they piled all the tables in the middle of the dining area and
then touched them off.”
“We go in the library, there’s no way out. I think
we’re better off waiting out here, near the door, where we can get
away from the fire,” Fryer said, trying to appraise their options.
“No way they’re going to let this dirtbag that they just had strung
up simply walk through that crowd. I bet that you two guys can get
out, though, if you just step through that door and start walking.
I don’t think they’ll do anything out there in the open. Not with
all that brass and the whole guard company up in the blockhouse and
on the fences watching them. That’s your best chance to escape,
right now.”
“I can’t do it, Sergeant Fryer,” Chief Warrant
Officer Holden answered after thinking about what the sergeant said
to him. “Ted, you take a run for it. I have to stay here. They’ll
kill this man. I can’t let that happen.”
“Gunner, we’re better off sticking together, all
four of us,” MacMillan said, looking out the sally port at the
unruly mob. “Let’s fall back near the library door and wait. They
may forget about us.”
“Not likely when they notice Elmore not hanging
where they left him,” Holden said and smiled. “They’ll eventually
come looking, but maybe whatever has their attention right now will
buy enough time so that the guard company can storm these assholes.
I don’t understand why they haven’t done it before now. Maybe
because of the darkness, but now it’s starting to get light.”
“They’ve got two important hostages, sir,” Michael
Fryer reminded the deputy warden. “If I’m the commander of the
reaction force, I’m going to be reluctant to storm the place until
I know where you and the gunny are, and that you’re okay. I think
if you two will make a run for it, then the guard company may go
ahead and shut down this riot. Just my opinion, sir.”
“Gunner,” Gunnery Sergeant MacMillan said, looking
out the sally port and seeing the silhouettes of two men
approaching and noticing glints of silver flashing off their
collars, “here comes the distraction: Two officers approaching. I
think it’s Lieutenant Schuller and a taller guy with him. Looks
like they’ve finally come to powwow with Harris and his
boys.”
Frank Holden looked out the door, too.
“That’s the lieutenant, all right,” he said, and if
I’m not mistaken, the other guy’s Captain Jon Kirkwood. Just like
Harris asked. Looks like our side decided to take advantage of the
invitation so they can run recon before assaulting. If we can hold
out a little while longer, until the good guys attack, we’ll have
it made.”
NINE MEN CROWDED under the last of the picnic tables that Donald T. Wilson had to visit. While Lieutenant Schuller and Captain Kirkwood listened to Mau Mau Harris’s and his Black Stone Rangers’ demands, the pretrial confined sergeant had agreed to gather as many peaceable inmates he could find and lead them to the blockhouse while the two officers held their parley. Talking to this final group, in the poor light he did not recognize Kevin Watts and Randal Carnegie, who slouched with their heads down.
“Obviously you’re not part of the cause of this
disaster, or you’d be over there with those fucked-up individuals,”
Wilson said to the group. “If you want to get out of this mess, get
some chow and a place to sleep, then follow those two officers when
they start back to the blockhouse, unless they instruct you
otherwise. That’s Lieutenant Schuller, and a lawyer named Captain
Kirkwood. They’re arranging for Harris and his gang to allow you to
leave with no trouble.”
“You think it’s cool?” Robert Matthews said,
crouching close to Wilson. “The guards won’t open fire on us, will
they? I mean, what if they think we’re going after the warden and
that captain?”
“Don’t sweat it, we’re cool. I was with the
lieutenant when he gave Staff Sergeant Abduleses the instructions.
No shooting,” Wilson said, and put his hand on the smaller Marine’s
shoulder. “Lots of guys out here, like you and me, want no part of
this shit.”
“That’s me, Jack,” Bobby said and smiled. “I’m
probably lookin’ at six-six and a kick for desertion, but that’s
all. I can do six months standing on my head, but these guys
rioting, they’re looking at a couple of years, aren’t they?”
“I don’t know, but I bet a couple of years is
probably the minimum,” Wilson said, looking out from under the
table and watching Mau Mau Harris waving his hands with excitement
as he talked. He could hear the echo of his voice but couldn’t
quite make out what he said.
“Look here, motherfucker! I’m the man, now. So
listen the fuck up,” Harris ranted, and pointed at Mike Schuller as
he spoke. “You goin’ to do what I say, or we start stringing up
hostages. You dig?”
“Settle down, Mister Harris,” Kirkwood interrupted.
“Things are not nearly as bad as you might believe. So far you and
your men have killed no one, and that’s good. However, we do have
three guards hospitalized, and that’s not so good. We’ll know more
about their conditions later this morning, but they’re alive and
we’re optimistic. Releasing them so that they could get medical
attention put you in good stead with the powers that be. You’ve
killed no inmates, have you?”
“Fuck no, man,” Harris snapped. “We all bros in
here. We tight. We together. This a protest, man. We ain’t
intendin’ to kill nobody. Not unless you make it happen. Anybody
die, it’s your fault, not mine.”
“Some of the men out here in the recreation yard,
they may want to go ahead and move out, get a little chow and some
rest at the temporary quarters we’ve established across the road,”
Schuller said. “It would look good for you if you at least allowed
those prisoners who wish to leave, to do so.”
“Ain’t nobody but you keepin’ any man inside this
brig,” Harris said, and looked over his shoulder at Brian Pitts,
who nodded his approval of Mau Mau’s assertion. “I seen Wilson come
out the door with you, and then jump off in the rec yard. He
probably got all the chickenshits told what to do by now anyway.
Like I said, they free to go, they want to.”
With that comment, Lieutenant Schuller turned
toward the recreation yard and shouted, “Listen up! This is the
warden! You men who wish to leave the yard, please get out from
under the tables and form two lines at the blockhouse doors! You’re
free to depart at this time!”
Bobby Matthews crawled from under the table first,
and then stood and looked with a hint of a smile at Brian Pitts and
James Harris, who stood twenty yards away from him. The Snowman
watched as his and Mau Mau’s silent partner joined more than two
hundred other inmates who formed double lines at the blockhouse
back door. Then he looked back at the lieutenant and the captain,
who continued to explain that even though the Black Stone Rangers
had destroyed the brig, it was not as bad a situation as they might
imagine. All could be put back in order if they began cooperating.
The release of the nonviolent inmates represented a positive
step.
AS THE SKY began to brighten with Saturday morning’s gray dawn, red coals still glowed in dark piles of debris that at one time stood as prisoner hooches but now lay as smoldering ashes. Overhead, fire roared and crackled from the burning roof of the cell block, and then with a sudden crash part of it fell to the floor of the chow hall. The massive collapse blew out a plume of red and orange sparks that drifted across the prison yard and showered the long, double line of inmates that moved past a gauntlet of guards outside the blockhouse back door.
Michael Carter watched from the window of the
prison administration building, where he had kept a vigil, praying
most of the night. Every now and then he wandered to the front
porch and got a cup of coffee. Once, looking for Wayne Ebberhardt
and Terry O’Connor, he climbed the interior stairs to the upper
deck and the observation-post and machine-gun positions. The look
of the prison from above scared him.
As the devout Catholic man gazed across the field
of horror, seeing the men running for their lives, screaming from
the ring of burning hooches and the out-of-control fire that
engulfed the chow hall and spread farther and farther onto the cell
block roof, he thought of how similar Hell must look to this place.
It made him start to recall passages from the “Inferno,” written in
The Divine Comedy by the thirteenth-century Florentine poet
Dante Alighieri. With the lawyer’s fluence in Latin, and his equal
understanding of French and Italian, Carter had read and studied
the classic work in its unspoiled, original text.
Watching the turmoil below him, he recalled Dante’s
cantos and imagined how he must have felt descending into the
bowels of Satan’s kingdom, led by his unassuming guide, Virgil. The
smoke, the rain of sparks, the smell of Hades at his feet sent the
pale lawyer’s head to spinning, and he stumbled most of the way as
he finally fled down the stairs and ran outside to throw up.
The gagging and coughing awakened Lance Corporal
Dean, who had made himself a bed in the jeep by folding the
passenger seat forward and stretching out on the back bench. He
asked Captain Carter if he needed some help, but the tall, skinny
man only looked at him and shuddered. So Movie Star lay back on his
makeshift bed and shut his eyes.
After standing over the brink of Hell, virtually
smelling the brimstone as he watched the anguished souls thrashing
about, and then seeing Lance Corporal Dean, and having the vision
of the man masturbating in the red light, surrounded by pictures of
naked women, Michael Carter felt his body shake in disgust. It sent
his stomach into another somersault, and he wretched several dry
heaves.
Then he noticed a water trailer in the parking lot,
hooked behind one of the six-by trucks, and the distraught Michael
Carter ran to it and pulled open a valve. Cupping his hands under
the flow, he splashed the cool liquid over his face, head, and on
the back of his neck. Then, holding his hands under the faucet, he
gulped a big drink of it.
Earlier, Carter had tried to listen to Major Hembee
talk with Major Dickinson, the chief of staff, the provost marshal,
Lieutenant Schuller, and the other three lawyers. He wanted to
help, too, but all his mind could see was Dante’s Hell. He needed
to pray, so while the officers planned their strategy, Michael
Carter spoke to God about the disaster, begging His mercy for all
the embroiled souls.
Now, as he watched out the window and saw the long
double line of prisoners formed, and his friend Jon Kirkwood
standing by his friend Michael Schuller, and the prisoner who led
the riot had finally quit waving his hands in the air, appearing to
have settled upon reason, Michael Carter felt better. Perhaps God
had heard his frantic prayers and now finally delivered the men to
safety.
“WE AIN’T SHUTTIN’ nothin’ down till we get news cameras in here, showin’ our protest,” Harris said, and then looked back at the crowd of sympathetic faces behind him. “People back home got to see the black man standin’ up for his cause. Discrimination got to stop.”
“Mister Harris,” Lieutenant Schuller said, “take a
look up in the guard towers. Don’t you see the news cameras?”
Both Pitts and Harris shifted their eyes upward and
noticed the long lenses set on tripods. At the distance they stood
from the towers, all they could recognize were the big gray
optics.
“How long they been up there?” Pitts asked, now
trying to recall what all he had done in the open, just in case
someone had snapped a picture of him.
“The news media got here just after this mess
started,” Kirkwood lied. “Hell, you can see the fire from the city.
We didn’t have to call them. They came running when they saw
smoke.”
In reality, the III MAF commanding general had
ordered his staff to keep all news media away from the brig. He
knew that the incident would gather smaller headlines and fewer
pictures and television coverage if all that the reporters saw were
piles of rubble and no riot.
The command information officers told journalists
that a faulty fuel storage device had caught fire, and burning
kerosene spread through the brig. He assured the newsmen that the
command had evacuated all prisoners to a makeshift compound they
had established nearby, and cheerfully added that no one had
suffered any injuries, and the damage was confined to the buildings
inside the prison. Because of security concerns with the prisoners
in the unusual circumstances, no one except authorized military
personnel could enter the area at this time. He faithfully promised
photographers and reporters that once the military police had
relocated all the prisoners, the media could take pictures of the
damage, sometime later in the day or surely by Sunday morning in
the worst case.
Several news photographers and a television crew
had tried to drive up Hill 327 despite the commanding general’s
orders, but South Vietnamese authorities and U.S. military police
turned them back well out of sight of the Freedom Hill brig. The
information specialties officer at the roadblock dutifully promised
the news crews full access to the story as soon as Marines on the
scene gave him the green light. For now, however, because of
prisoner security, concern for those men’s rights, as well as the
safety of the journalists, the reporters had to keep away.
“Yo, Ax Man!” Harris yelled over his shoulder,
beaming. “We got news cameras up in the towers all night, man. We
goin’ to get on Walter Cronkite! Folks back home goin’ to know all
about our protest!”
Then the forty-two disorderly Black Stone Rangers
who remained defiant with James Harris began to wave and scream at
the cameras.
“I will give the colonel your demands, and Captain
Kirkwood is my witness,” Schuller said, trying to regain the
distracted riot leader’s attention.
“Fuck that! The man got to see those demands,”
Harris countered, focusing back on the two officers. “You ain’t got
no rank to say what’s what, and that colonel, he just a go-between.
General Cushman, he got to deal with this shit.”
“I assure you,” Kirkwood said, looking at both
Pitts and Harris, “General Cushman will have a full appraisal of
all that has happened, and will address each of your demands.
However, I will tell you realistically that some of them we will
not even consider. Such as releasing you, and just letting you
disappear out of the country, even though you promise to never show
your face in the United States or Vietnam again. That’s
impossible.”
“Fuck, man, we got to ask,” Harris said and
laughed. “Never know, the man might like to see all us shitbirds
fly the coop and be shed of us.”
“I’m sure he’d love to be shed of you, Mister
Harris,” Kirkwood said, smiling. “However, you know very well that
will not fly. Neither will the demand of no punishment for anyone.
You will have to face charges, and you will have to take
responsibility for this damage. I guess on the good side, it’s
mostly property damage, and a few minor injuries, except for the
three guards. You and the others will face charges for assaulting
those men.”
“Fuck you, then,” Harris snapped. “I want out of
this motherfucker! I only act in self-defense, man. I ain’t part
that other shit, that assault on Iron Balls and Bad John.”
“You’ll receive your day in court, and all the
evidence will be weighed,” Kirkwood said, looking squarely at
Harris. “If the guard attacked you, then we will take that into
account. As for some of your other demands, I agree with you. We do
need to insist that units visit their members in the brig, and that
they provide them support, such as new uniforms, health and comfort
items, and communications with their families and other members in
their units. Also, prisoners should not have to address any
enlisted guard as ‘sir.’ I have already voiced concerns of my own
in some of these same areas as well, and I can assure you that we
will visit with the commanding general about all of these matters,
and some others.”
James Harris smiled and looked at Brian Pitts, and
then back at Celestine Anderson, Sam Martin, and Clarence
Jones.
“Yo,” Mau Mau chirped. “We gettin’ someplace
now.”
“What about the hostages you’re holding?” Michael
Schuller asked, and looked directly at Brian Pitts. “Where are
Gunner Holden, Gunny MacMillan, and the inmates you have taken
prisoner with them? More importantly, what are their
conditions?”
“They all just fine!” Harris snapped, and then
looked at Brian Pitts, who nodded. “We got them inside. That dude,
James Elmore, he joined up with the rangers. He one of us now.
Ain’t that right.”
“I’d like to see Mister Elmore,” Kirkwood said.
“His attorney has raised concerns about his safety.”
“Fuck his attorney!” Celestine Anderson shouted.
“Fuck all you motherfuckers.”
“Yeah,” Harris said, realizing that except for his
handful of rangers who remained at his side, the majority of
prisoners now made their way through the blockhouse. “We done
talkin’. You go see General Cushman and see what he say about what
we ask. Then you can come back and maybe we talk about releasin’
them hostages and turnin’ this brig back to you. We let you see
Elmore then, too.”
“Very well,” Schuller said, looking across the now
empty recreation yard. “If you men wish to surrender at this time,
we can avoid a great deal of trouble. It would go well for you, if
you surrendered. At least release the warrant officer and the
gunny.”
“Fuck that shit! I ain’t stupid. We keepin’ those
dudes with us for now, so you all don’t try nothin’. We sure the
fuck ain’t surrenderin’. So get that shit out your head, I ain’t
doin’ nothin’ until you come back here with General Cushman sayin’
that he’s willin’ to make a deal. Do us right,” Harris said, and
then turned his back on the officers. He walked toward his gang of
Black Stone Rangers and raised his bat in the air, triumphant,
while his men shouted in celebration and Jon Kirkwood and Mike
Schuller walked quickly back to the blockhouse.
“WHOA, STICKHORSE!” STAFF Sergeant Abduleses said, catching Kevin Watts by the shirt as he tried to slip past him, just ahead of Randal Carnegie. “This man and that other one there, take them to the side for a little one-on-one.”
“Fuck this shit,” Watts yelped, and then ducked
under the hands of the guards who went for him.
Seeing Abdul grabbing at his pal Kevin, the Chu Lai
Hippie stepped out of the line of men and dashed away from the
blockhouse before anyone could put a hand on him.
“Wait up!” Watts shouted at Carnegie as the two men
now beat feet toward the sally port, where their ranger comrades
gathered outside and now looked up to see that the entire cell
block roof burned out of control.
Several of the Black Stone Rangers began pulling
wooden picnic tables and benches into a circle, turning them on
their sides and stacking the material to form a makeshift
fortress.
Donald T. Wilson helped some of the rangers take
the table where he had hidden to the growing pile of outdoor
furniture. He fell into line behind the crew, as if he, too, would
go back and grab another set of benches and table, but he peeled
off at the last moment and jogged to the cell block and fell in
with another gang. This new gaggle seemed at a loss of what to do
next. They mostly looked up at the roof and watched the fire
destroy their last shelter. Some of the men took a seat on the
ground or lay down, so the sergeant joined them.
Where he squatted, he could see the sally port and
Sergeant Mike Iron-Balls Turner’s metal two-pedestal desk. It stood
untouched in the open booth, and Celestine Anderson sat in the
swivel chair by it with his feet cocked on top. No one had found
the Model 870 Remington twelve-gauge folding-stock shotgun loaded
with ought-two man-killers that Iron Balls had hidden in the back
of the desk, stuffed between the steel rear panel and the two
columns of side drawers.
“Pull everything out from both sides and the
shotgun will fall to the floor. It’s got seven ought-two rounds
loaded in it, so if you have to use it, make them count,” Turner
had whispered to Sergeant Wilson as they approached the blockhouse
when the prisoner led them to freedom and saved Lance Corporal
Fletcher’s and Lance Corporal Brookman’s lives. Iron Balls had made
a special point of letting the friendly inmate know about the
shotgun, because he worried that if the wrong man got his hands on
the weapon the blame would eventually fall back in his lap.
Lieutenant Colonel Webster and Lieutenant Schuller had specifically
forbade guards from carrying any firearms within the interior
confines of the brig.
When the medical corpsmen took away Fletch and Bad
John, both Nathan Todd and Mike Turner gave Donald Wilson a hug.
Todd tried to remain in the blockhouse, but Colonel Webster ordered
him to sick bay with the others.
“Good luck,” Iron Balls had said, and gave the man
another hug and whispered in his ear while he embraced him. “You’re
going back in, aren’t you. That’s why I told you about the shotgun.
I hope you can get your hands on it before those crazy sons of
bitches in there find it. Maybe you won’t have to use it, but it’ll
damned sure be good to have if you do need it.”
In some respects, Don Wilson had wished he didn’t
know about the deadly weapon hidden only inches from the most
unstable prisoner on the loose. Just knowing that the shotgun lay
in the back of the drawers and could easily fall to the floor put
his stomach in a full twist.
Sitting with his head down, resting it on his
wrists with his arms wrapped around his knees, the sergeant tried
to discreetly look inside the cell block entrance. He had remained
behind, after sending out all the nonviolent inmates, so he could
retrieve the shotgun and help his fellow sergeant and new friend,
Michael Fryer, escape the rangers, along with the deputy warden and
the gunny.
Inside the cell block he could hear shouting, and
he raised his head trying to get a better look.
“How come these motherfuckers ain’t dead?”
Celestine Anderson bellowed when he saw Mau Mau Harris and the
Snowman bringing Gunner Holden, Gunny MacMillan, Michael Fryer, and
James Elmore toward the sally port. “They suppose to get cooked in
that cell upstairs!”
As the group made their way outside the burning
building, Brian Pitts looked at Anderson and smiled.
“So you didn’t send anybody to kill us, huh?”
Snowman said, touting the Ax Man. “You lying sack of shit!”
“Fuck you!” Anderson screamed and charged after
Pitts.
Calmly, in a fluid motion, the Snowman turned
toward his assailant, parried off the Ax Man’s roundhouse right
swing with his left forearm, thrust his knee into Anderson’s groin,
and slammed his right elbow into the attacker’s throat. Pitts held
nothing back, and let the full force of his movement carry through
with his blows. The counterattack took the man off his feet and
sent him to the ground, where he crumpled in a heap, moaning.
“Damn, bro!” Harris exclaimed and laughed. “I don’t
know why I worry about that nigger wasting your lily ass when you
the baddest motherfucker I seen lately. Where you learn that
shit?”
“Robbie’s Pool Hall on the south side of Kansas
City, bro,” Pitts said, taking James Elmore by the arm and leading
him toward the pile of benches and tables. Gunner Holden, Gunny
MacMillan, and Sergeant Fryer followed close behind, with Harris
now covering their rear with the baseball bat in his hands.
Once they had escorted their hostages to the picnic
table fortress, Mau Mau turned and raised both his empty hand and
the fist wrapped around the handle of the bat, waving them over his
head.
“We gonna have court, motherfuckers!” Harris
shouted to his congregation, and laughed between each of his
announcements. “The gunner and Gunny Mac, they gonna observe. My
man, the Snowman, he gonna be judge. The honorable Judge Pitts,
presiding! Now, ain’t that the pitts?”
Mau Mau laughed hard at his little joke and then
added, “I’m gonna be the prosecutor, and when the Ax Man catch his
breath and swallow his sore balls back down out of his throat, he
gonna be the defense lawyer for these two ratbag traitor
motherfuckers we got on trial here.”
When Mau Mau pointed at Michael Fryer and James
Elmore, the entire gathering of forty-four Black Stone Rangers,
including the Chu Lai Hippie and Kevin Watts, who had returned to
ranger ranks from the blockhouse, cheered. Don Wilson stood, too,
and raised his fist like the others, but kept his voice
quiet.
ALL OF THE inmates who took advantage of the opportunity to leave the riot and surrender themselves peacefully to the guards at the blockhouse back door now ate a hot breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, apple sauce, orange juice, and coffee. Instead of having more food trucked from the Da Nang Air Base dining facility, Lieutenant Colonel Webster arranged for a detachment from First Force Service Regiment to put together a field kitchen at the temporary prison compound across the road from the brig and cook breakfast there. The light morning breeze carried the smell of the food into the recreation yard and wafted where Mau Mau Harris and his rabble now shouted and jeered behind the haphazard fortress of piled-up picnic tables and wooden benches they had built since they could no longer take shelter inside the burning cell block. The provost marshal theorized that the smell of scrambled eggs, bacon, and coffee on the morning breeze might help to hasten the unruly mob to give up their stand.
Staff Sergeant Orlando Abduleses had just sat down
with his plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, and had put a
metal spoon in his cup of coffee when he saw a GMC M880 pickup
truck with the canvas top taken off the wooden ribs above its cargo
bed and what looked like twenty or thirty lumpy duffel bags piled
in it.
“Special Services has finally come through!”
Lieutenant Colonel Webster said, sitting across the folding table
from Abdul and several other prison guards.
“What’s in the bags, sir?” Abduleses asked, while
shoving a piece of toast in his mouth, followed by a spoonful of
eggs.
“All the baseball and softball gear that wing and
division had in Da Nang,” Webster said, smiling.
“We going to play baseball?” Abdul said with a
laugh, and looked at the other guards eating at the table with him
and the provost marshal.
“Bats,” Webster said, and winked at Abduleses. “I
got the idea watching that asshole Harris swaggering around with
the one that Gunny MacMillan kept in control. Along with bases,
balls, and mitts, each of those bags from Special Services has half
a dozen bats inside.”
Abdul the Butcher smiled at his cohorts as Major
Jack Hembee came to the table and pointed at the truckload of
baseball gear. “I see that the chief of staff worked his magic, and
it looks like they brought every sack of equipment in the barn,”
the major said with a big grin. “My alpha has one of our reinforced
rifle platoons headed over here now. Between your guard company and
my guys, we should be able to field at least a hundred
batters.”
“We count about fifty bad guys left inside, so with
a two-to-one edge, I think that those inmates who might consider
resisting will think again when each of them sees two Marines
apiece with baseball bats in their hands,” Webster said, smiling
confidently.
“BEFORE WE HANG this guilty motherfucker!” James Harris shouted, laughing toward his jury that included Samuel Martin, Clarence Jones, Kevin Watts, and the Chu Lai Hippie along with eight other Black Stone Rangers, handpicked by the Ax Man and Mau Mau together. “We got to have ourselves a fair trial decided by this lyin’ dog’s peers. Now, you jurors that we selected, you the most lyin’ dogs we know!”
All the rangers gathered with their backs toward
the burning cell block and laughed at Mau Mau Harris’s comedic
routine. Then Celestine Anderson stood up and kicked over the bench
where he sat next to James Elmore, tumbling the hapless bum to the
ground.
“First of all, Mau Mau, I ain’t no good at this
defense lawyer bullshit, mainly because I not only want to kill
this motherfucker, but that one, too,” Ax Man said, and pointed at
Michael Fryer. “Why don’t you let me be prosecutor, and you defend
these two shitbags.”
“Okay, motherfucker, if that make you happy, then
you prosecute and I’ll defend,” Harris crowed, strutting to the
overturned defense bench where James Elmore sat in the dirt,
crying.
Brian Pitts had taken a seat on a picnic table he
had set upright as the judge’s platform. He had a yard-long,
two-inch-by-four-inch-thick table leg that someone had broken from
one of the piled-up picnic sets, and rapped it across the wooden
planks where he sat, calling the court to order.
“How does your client plead?” he asked Harris and
laughed, waiting for the ridiculous answer he knew he would get
from Mau Mau.
“Before I plead this motherfucker guilty as
charged, we need to tell the court what this waste of breath done
to deserve havin’ his head cut off!” Harris proclaimed, and then
laughed at Elmore. “This stupid piece of shit ratted out everybody
he ever knew. He stole money from your honor, and got his self
busted! To wit!”
Harris laughed at himself, reciting the legal
jargon.
“To wit, motherfucker!” Mau Mau said again, and
laughed. “Tryin’ to get his slimy ass off the hook with
C-I-fucking-D, he ratted out his main man and his only living
friend, namely me, and his honor, the Snowman.”
“Guilty as charged then!” Pitts said, rapping the
table leg, and then looking at Celestine Anderson, who glared at
Mau Mau Harris. “Does the prosecution have anything to add before
we decide what sentence our man Elmore should receive from this
court?”
“Wait one motherfucking minute, motherfuckers!”
Anderson roared, leaping from his bench, where he sat alone, and
walking to the center of the court arena. “What the fuck I suppose
to do? The fucking defense done prosecuted and convicted the
motherfucker!”
“You win, motherfucker!” Pitts said with a laugh,
and then rapped his table-leg gavel. “How about you tell the court
how we need to deal with this piece of shit sitting over
there.”
“That’ll work,” Ax Man said and then looked at
James Elmore, who sat in a pathetic slouch, sobbing, his
piss-soiled pants wet again and his gold tooth dripping slobber.
“How about we tie the motherfucker on one of these tables and throw
his ass in the fire!”
A roar of approval came from the gallery of rangers
who edged closer in a tightening semicircle around the freshly
condemned prisoner, the upcoming defendant, and two so-called
observers.
“I wanted to see him wearing a stool-pigeon necktie
myself,” Brian Pitts suggested, and looked at Mau Mau Harris.
“What the fuck’s that?” Anderson asked, getting the
Snowman’s attention back on him.
“Cut the motherfucker’s throat and pull his tongue
out the hole!” Harris called to Anderson. “You ain’t never heard of
doin’ that shit before? I thought you’s a tough dude from Houston,
man.”
“I ain’t never seen a dude get his throat cut and
his tongue pulled out,” Anderson said, looking back at Harris. “We
do that and then tie the motherfucker to the table and burn his
ass.”
“I vote for that!” Harris cheered, and looked at
his client, who now fell off the bench, passing out from the
terror.
“Bury the motherfucker alive!” Randal Carnegie
shouted from the group of rangers who made up the jury. “That’s a
whole lot worse than anything. Think about layin’ underground and
bein’ alive and you can’t move or see or nothin’. Then you start
runnin’ out of air. It takes hours to die like that!”
“I want to cut this motherfucker’s throat and burn
his ass,” Harris screamed, and then grabbed James Elmore off the
ground.
Seeing the attack on the pathetic and nearly
helpless man, Michael Fryer leaped to his feet and tackled Mau Mau
Harris. Celestine Anderson immediately jumped into the fray, while
Sam Martin ran to the “judge’s” bench, yanked the two-by-four from
Brian Pitts’s hands, and clubbed Michael Fryer from behind.
“This guilty motherfucker gonna get his throat cut
and burned, too!” Anderson said, giving the injured prisoner a hard
kick in the ribs.
“You won’t kill anyone with me here!” Chief Warrant
Officer Frank Holden screamed and then ran to where Michael Fryer
and James Elmore both lay. Gunnery Sergeant Ted MacMillan leaped to
his feet, too, and now stood over the deputy warden, ready to
fight.
Suddenly from behind the crowd two gunshots echoed
across the prison yard, one in close succession after the
other.
“Nobody killing anybody except maybe me wasting the
first son of a bitch that lays hands on any of those men!” Sergeant
Donald T. Wilson shouted, holding the 870 Remington shotgun with
its barrel now leveled at the crowd of Black Stone Rangers.
While the prisoners held their kangaroo court,
Wilson had slowly moved behind, man after man, until he came even
with the sally port. Then he eased his way to the gate, crawled
under the desk, and pulled open the drawers. Just as Iron Balls
Turner had told him, the shotgun fell to the floor.
“I’ve got five more rounds in this ally-sweeper.
Anybody want a taste of ought-two lead, just make a move,” Wilson
yelled, walking toward the group, which parted for him like Moses
dividing the Red Sea. “Gunny, you and the gunner grab up those two
Marines and let’s head to the blockhouse.”
STAFF SERGEANT ABDULESES had taken his station in the observation tower, preparing for the assault on the prisoners that Major Hembee and Lieutenant Schuller would lead as soon as Lieutenant Colonel Webster had given them the go-ahead to execute the assault.
“Who fired those shots?!” the provost marshal
immediately screamed on the field telephone in the lower level of
the blockhouse, where he sat with the chief of staff and Dudley
Dickinson.
“Shot came from the yard, sir!” Abduleses answered,
holding the telephone receiver between his shoulder and his ear and
looking at the scene below in the recreation area with his
binoculars.
“Who is shooting?” Webster asked, panic in his
voice.
“Prisoner Wilson has a shotgun, sir,” Abduleses
answered, watching the rangers part ways for the group of hostages
the sergeant now led toward the blockhouse. “I have no idea how he
got his hands on the weapon, but he’s got the gunner and Gunny
MacMillan carrying two prisoners toward the blockhouse, and he’s
guarding their rear.”
“What about Harris and that bunch?” Webster asked,
now starting to smile.
“They’re just standing behind that pile of tables,
watching Wilson point that shotgun at them,” Abduleses said and
laughed.
“Let’s take the sons of bitches down then!” Webster
growled and smiled at the chief of staff as he set the telephone
receiver back in its pouch.
In seconds, more than a hundred helmeted Marines
wearing flak jackets and wielding baseball bats poured through the
back door of the blockhouse and quickly formed an assault line
facing the mob of rioters, who now crouched behind their wall of
picnic tables. Jack Hembee blew a single blast on his police
whistle, and the reaction force and brig guard company let out a
loud growl and began rapping the ends of their bats on the
ground.
“You men behind that wall, step out with your hands
on top of your heads!” Mike Schuller shouted through a bullhorn.
“Those who remain behind that wall will face these Marines and
their bats!”
Brian Pitts stepped out first, then came Mau Mau
Harris, Sam Martin, and Clarence Jones. After seeing no place else
to run, Kevin Watts followed, too, and so did Randal Carnegie.
Gradually, more and more of the now defunct Black Stone Ranger
rebellion surrendered. Finally, Celestine Anderson, the last man
out, walked to the center of the recreation yard.
A FINE RAIN fell across Da Nang and Freedom Hill on Sunday morning. It cooled the smoldering ashes of the burned hooches and the now fire-gutted cell block. The guard company still used the blockhouse for their administrative offices and the prison sick bay, overseeing the temporary compound across the road, now encircled by several high rolls of concertina wire and German tape.
They really didn’t need to put up the fence, since
all the inmates contained in the makeshift brig posed little threat
of violence or escape. They all had short times to do and wanted no
trouble.
On another slope of Freedom Hill, the military
police had trained and housed a company of working dogs. Mostly
German shepherds, but a few Labrador retrievers and a couple of
Belgian shepherds filled the ranks of canines used by the American
military to run down spider holes and ferret out Viet Cong soldiers
hiding there, or to find bombs or to now sniff out dope stashes in
the barracks and at the airport in the inbound and outbound
baggage.
With all the usable jail facilities now destroyed,
Lieutenant Colonel Webster found it somehow poetic that he put the
high-risk inmates and the nearly fifty former Black Stone Rangers
in the working dogs’ kennels. He had the military canines
temporarily housed in hooches with their handlers. While the secure
dog facility offered metal-covered, chain-link pens with
uncomfortably cramped quarters for the inmates, Major Dudley L.
Dickinson assured the provost marshal that nothing in the Manual
for Courts-Martial, Staff Judge Advocate Manual, or the Uniform
Code of Military Justice prohibited him from keeping these
prisoners there.
Brian Pitts had the kennel next to Celestine
Anderson, so the two men spent the rainy Sunday either glaring at
each other or watching the water drip off the corrugated steel roof
that slanted over their heads. The brig guards put Kevin Watts and
Randal Carnegie in a run together, which the two men didn’t mind at
all.
“Hey, that’s cool, the Hippie had said, crawling
through the three-foot-high door that led inside the roomy, plywood
doghouse and lying down on a thin mattress spread over the concrete
floor. Kevin Watts sat outside, under the tin roof fastened over
the chain-link dog run, watching the rain drip into growing puddles
that surrounded the kennel’s cement slab floor.
Mau Mau Harris drew a solitary cell next to Sam
Martin on one side, and Clarence Jones on the other. Mau Mau lay on
his stomach, gazing out the kennel, watching the raindrops splash
in the puddles.