Crown's Law (3 page)

In August, the two had another big argument
about it, and Sam jumped in his sports car and roared off. Two days
later he called his mother and told her that he had fucked up
royally. He had gotten drunk, stayed that way for 24 hours, then
had enlisted in the Marine Corps. He was in San Diego.

Helena called her husband John—after much
hassle getting connected to him—to see if he could pull some
strings and get Sam out of this mess!

John told her, “He made his bed, let him lie
in it! Stop mollycoddling the boy! Let him grow up!”

Sam Crown was in Vietnam before the end of
the year. Helena was mortified!

***

When Sam first arrived in Vietnam, he found
himself daydreaming about how different his life could have been if
he had made other choices. At first, he wished he had been born
earlier—he figured he would have made a perfect hippie in the 60s:
play guitar, wear beads, drive an old van with peace symbols
painted on it, partake of lots of free love, smoke dope. That being
a pipe dream, he focused on a version of the good life he could
have had by letting his mother pay his way through college: play
guitar, screw a lot of coeds, smoke dope, surf, some studying. No
beads or painted van, though. Just his Porsche.

After surviving his first fire fight,
Sam forgot about daydreams and what could have been and began
focusing on the present

and
staying alive.

***

Sam didn’t clearly formulate his theory of
concentric realities until he found himself immersed in the
insanity that was Vietnam. The theory, as he conceived it, was that
the world was made up of concentric realities and you had to
recognize and accept the reality that you found yourself in or life
would become confusing and unbearable. It was better to accept your
situation, no matter how miserable, do the very best you could, and
then maybe later move on to another reality—some circle outside
your own.

He had unconsciously begun forming the theory
when he was in boot camp. A stupid, impulsive decision had put him
there. If you considered boot camp as one of his reality
circles—his reality at the time—then drew another circle around
that, then the outer circle was the reality space where the guys
who went to college—or Canada—lived. Perhaps even the protestors.
An even larger circle contained people living ordinary lives—people
who didn’t give a shit about the war in Vietnam. Then a larger
circle contained politicians playing their international games, and
so on.

The circle Sam was in in Vietnam was one he
knew he couldn’t leave until his hitch was up—or he was dead. There
were other circles, however, within the Vietnam circle. One was
populated with those who were biding their time, trying to stay
alive until they could go home. Another was inhabited by those who
really fought the enemy with fervor. Sam ultimately became a
hardcore member of the latter.

Chapter
2

September 1972

South Vietnam

Sam heard the shots and the screams off to
his left. He knew there was a small village there, and he had
planned to skirt it. Now his plans changed. He crept silently
through the heavy jungle until he was able to peek into a clearing.
The bodies of four old men were stacked in the middle of the
clearing, their bodies riddled with gun shots, blood everywhere.
There were three women huddled against a hut—one old and wrinkled,
two young. They were each holding onto a child. Sam guessed two of
the children’s ages at 2 or 3 years old, and the older one maybe 9
or 10.

There were four Vietnamese Regulars there,
armed with AK-47 automatic weapons. Sam was too late to save the
old men, so he just watched. It had rained earlier that day, and
the smell of the damp foliage mixed with the sharp odor of cordite
and blood was sharp to the nostrils. He wondered if there were more
soldiers nearby. He knew he should just move on to his objective
and leave these people to their fate.

The two toddlers were crying, making quite a
racket. The older child was trembling, cowering behind her mother
now. As Sam started to disappear back into the jungle, one of the
soldiers approached the old woman, snatched the toddler from her
arms, and tossed it several feet. While the child screamed in
agony, the soldier yanked the old woman up and dragged her to the
pile of bodies and threw her down on it. Another soldier gave her a
burst from his AK-47. They all laughed—more like cackling than
laughter.

Sam hesitated. Soldier Number One jerked one
of the young women to her feet and ripped her tattered clothes from
her body. All four soldiers were laughing with glee as they awaited
the onset of the raping—often the prelude to annihilation.

Sam could take no more. He would have to risk
stopping this. He clicked the safety off on his M-16 and unhooked
the leather thongs on his two Colt .45 six-shooters. Two of the
soldiers were a few feet away from the women and children,
providing Sam a clean shot at them without endangering the
innocents. He cut the two soldiers in half with his M-16, leaned it
against a tree, and stepped into the clearing, a cocked revolver in
each hand. The soldier holding the naked woman spun around, putting
her frail form between his body and Sam. The other soldier raised
his rifle as Sam shot him in the chest with the pistol in his left
hand. He was flung backwards to the ground by the momentum of the
.45 slug.

Sam flicked his attention to the sole
remaining man and his naked shield. The young woman was screaming
hysterically. Only the right side of the soldier’s face was
available as a target. It was enough.

Sam shot him in the right eye with the gun in
his right hand. The naked woman scooted into the hut. Sam stopped
and listened, searching for any sound that would indicate others
were rushing to the village, but the wailing toddlers made it
difficult. The crying children were huddled around the other young
woman.

Sam dragged the four dead soldiers by their
feet and lined them up next to the pile of bodies. He methodically
cut their throats and severed their left ears, stringing each ear
on a leather thong. The woman watched closely, but was not
frightened by the man with the grease-painted face, dark aviator
glasses hiding his eyes. She sent the children into the hut and
approached Sam.

She said in broken English, “Thank you. You
save us. You come with me. To hut. I make happy.”

She was a pretty woman, probably 20 years
old, and the thought of screwing her caused a contraction in Sam’s
loins. She was offering herself to him. He couldn’t allow himself
such pleasure now, however.

He replied in his pigeon Vietnamese, “Thank
you, but no. I would be no better than them.”

He pointed to the four soldiers lined up on
the ground.

He continued, “Go! Take the children and
leave this place. Save the children! Others will be here soon, and
I must go.”

“Thank you, again! Go with God!” said the
woman fervently in Vietnamese.

While he reloaded his weapons, Sam
thought,
God? If there is one, He must be
laughing his head off watching us use the free will he bestowed
upon us to create our own Hell!

The naked girl—now wrapped in a sheet—crept
out of the hut as Sam disappeared into the damp jungle, his killing
day barely begun.

The clothed woman said, “We were just saved
by the Apache. He really exists!”

***

Four hours later, Sam found Corporal
O’Reilly. His head adorned the top of a stake at the end of the
path that entered Da An village from the south. A warning to any
American who might approach the village that way. Sam moved to the
east, and settled in to watch the Viet Cong guerrillas who occupied
the village at the moment. As he waited for dark, he determined
that there were 14 of them. O’Reilly’s headless body lay a few feet
away from the stake that bore his head. Sam controlled his rage by
visualizing what he would do later—after dark.

***

The next morning, a platoon of Vietnamese
Regulars entering the village was greeted by 14 grisly heads on as
many stakes. Their left ears had been sliced off.

Corporal O’Reilly’s head and body were no
longer there.

At the same time that morning, back in Base
Camp Able, Staff Sergeant Spencer said, “I hear Crazy Crown went in
and brought out O’Reilly’s body.”

Lt. Mack answered, “You heard right. He took
a body bag in with him. O’Reilly had been beheaded, but he stuffed
both pieces in the body bag and called for a pickup 2 clicks from
Phan Rang. He must have carried that dead weight quite a
distance!”

“Ears?” queried the sergeant.

“The scuttlebutt is 18 new ones.”

“Shit! I’ll make sure to get rid of them. I
don‘t want them on that damned totem pole!”

“OK. Morning recon chopper reported seeing 14
heads on stakes at Da An. How do you suppose that happened?” mused
the lieutenant.

“How does he do it? But where’d the other 4
ears come from?”

“Go ask him.”

“No, sir! I’ve got enough troubles with
Charlie. No need stirring things up here!”

“Well, enter the body counts and see that you
get rid of the ears.”

“Yes, sir.”

September 1972

South Vietnam

Gunnery Sergeant Burt Collins—a grizzled
two-tour veteran—was giving Lt. Ralph Manley a tour of Charlie
Company’s area. Lt. Manley had just arrived for his first tour. He
had recently been commissioned and had no experience in combat. His
first impression was how primitive the living quarters were. And
how shabby the men were. He was used to the spit and polish of Camp
Pendleton.

Sergeant Collins hated breaking in new
officers. The last one had lasted less than a month. He certainly
didn’t like this one who carped about the facilities and how the
men were dressed. He was really apprehensive as they approached the
last tent. Crazy Crown’s tent.

Lt. Manley stopped in front of Sam’s totem
pole and examined two circles of leather shoestrings hung on nails
sticking out of the pole.

He gasped, “My God, Sergeant! What’s this?
Human ears?”

Shit!
thought
the sergeant.
We forgot to get rid of his
latest collection of ears! How do I get out of this?

Crown’s “totem pole” was a six-foot length of
4x4 imbedded in the ground with two feathers tied to the top.
Notches cut into the edges represented the ears that Crown had
collected, because he knew that the sergeants always buried the
ears after counting them for the body count report.

Sgt. Collins shuffled his feet in the dust,
looked down at his feet, and replied, “Yes, sir.”

“Whose tent is this?!” demanded Lt.
Manley.

“Corporal Crown’s, sir.”

“Who else?”

“Just him, sir.”

“The other tents have 3 or 4 men per tent!
How does this corporal rate his own tent?” snarled the lieutenant,
sensing that this was something he could use his authority to
change.

“He’s pretty much a loner, sir.”

“Hah! Where did these ears come from? Do you
know it’s against regulations to mutilate corpses? It’s not
civilized!” yelled the lieutenant. “Get that corporal out here
immediately!”

Collins thought,
This whole fucking war is uncivilized, you prick!

“He’s not here right now, sir,” Collins
shrugged.

“I thought you told me that this platoon
wasn’t in the field right now. Where is this corporal?” roared the
lieutenant, becoming more furious by the second.

“The unit’s here, sir. Corporal Crown is up
north on a special mission,” replied the sergeant. “I think you
should talk to the CO, Major Quinn. He’ll brief you on Corporal
Crown.”

“I certainly will! I’ll get this damned mess
straightened out! What is a corporal doing going off by himself?
And those ears! Is there no discipline here?”

***

Major Curtis Quinn shook Lt. Manley’s hand
and waved him to a chair in front of his makeshift desk.

“Welcome aboard, Manley. Sorry I wasn’t here
to greet you. I was over at Battalion. I like to brief my new
officers in person so they’ll know what to expect.”

“Yes, sir. I had Sgt. Collins give me a short
tour, and I would like to say that the general appearance and
discipline . . .”

“Shut up, Manley! You have no experience as
an officer, no combat experience, and sure as hell no experience
here! Your life expectancy as you sit there is nil. If you listen
to me for a few minutes, you might last a couple of weeks. If you
keep your mouth shut and listen to the combat vets here, you
might—just might—survive your tour. I have certain rules I’ll tell
you about—read that as orders! Your job here is to follow orders
and try to survive, not to change a damned thing! Understood?”

Lt. Manley was taken aback. He couldn’t
understand how this unkempt man could be a major in the USMC!

“Yes, sir. But I would like to protest about
this Corporal Crown. I . . .”

“Listen, Manley! You’re in charge of 1st
Platoon on paper only—until you earn your spurs. Sgt. Collins will
advise you on how things are—here in camp, and in the field.
Corporal Crown is in 1st Platoon on paper only. Do not—I repeat—do
not ever fuck with him! If you feel the urge to talk to him, go
ahead, but never give him an order! Do you understand?”

“But . . . he has human body parts hanging on
a pole outside his tent! And why is he excused from the discipline
of the Corps? He is violating . . .”

“Lieutenant! I gave you a direct order about
Crown! Obey it! Now, you have two choices: get out there and do as
I told you, or request a transfer back to the States! I’ll approve
it. Now, get the hell out of here!”