“Shit, man, I’d trade you this medal and my buddy’s life for you a moment in the sun, stud. How’s that?” McKay snapped.
“Oh, don’t take me wrong, old sport,” Manley Tufts said through his teeth, the words ringing in his ample nasal cavities, “I don’t begrudge you the medal, or those other two theirs. My whole point is that it seems that ten men can do the same jobs and no one notices, but in the right place at the right time a man could pick up a Silver Star or Navy Cross doing the same thing. No offense.”
Paul Rhodes puffed his smoke and casually eyed the two brothers standing there with their arms held high from their sides, avoiding spoiling the creases in their shirts, and looking like two hot seagulls on a summer day. The silver Scuba head badge and gold jump wings glistening on the staff sergeant’s green utility shirt caught Stanley Tufts’ eye and he put a finger toward them for a touch.
“Sorry, sir,” Rhodes said, and caught Stanley Tufts’s approaching digit, and stopped it before it made contact. “You can look, but please don’t touch. I hate fingerprints on my shit. I might lose my mind and cut off your hand.”
Charlie Heyster laughed, looking haughtily at the enlisted Marine fending off his pal Stanley’s envious fingers. Then he looked at McKay.
“Don’t worry about Stanley, he’s like a greedy little magpie when it comes to shiny objects. Haven’t seen you in court for a while, T. D.,” Heyster said to the lieutenant, fingering the Bronze Star hanging on his shirt, and then glanced at Staff Sergeant Rhodes to see if he had anything smart to say to him.
“Doing mostly research,” McKay said, “helping Terry O’Connor and Wayne Ebberhardt with their murder case, coming up in two weeks.”
“Supposedly, they’re talking about shipping this ax-wielding maniac to Okinawa for trial, or maybe even Kaneohe Bay or Pendleton,” Stanley Tufts said, smiling. “The Brothers B have gotten that word directly from the Fleet Marine Force Pacific judge advocate’s shop. The idea of some of you turds getting a trip like that has Dicky Doo going crazy. He’s already talked to Colonel Prunella about reassigning himself as the lead defense counsel.”
“Lead defense counsel?” McKay said, surprised. “Pretty far-fetched, isn’t it?”
“He can do it,” Heyster said.
“You know, Kirkwood’s wife teaches school in Okinawa,” Stanley Tufts said smugly. “Bet he’s already promising his Siamese twin O’Connor extra blow jobs to let him join the defense. With Ebberhardt’s wife flying in and out of here, he could give a shit about stepping aside for Kirkwood.”
“Ebberhardt’s wife? Where do you pick up this shit?” McKay said.
“You think he has a gook whore in the ville, spending his off-duty with her?” Heyster said. “Lots of scuttlebutt going on about our man Wayne and some mystery woman.”
“Where he goes is his business,” McKay said, defending his buddy.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know about his wife, working as a stewardess on the freedom bird,” Heyster said, arching his eyebrows. “Whenever the plane gets grounded, which is almost every week now, our busy bootlegger lieutenant from North Carolina disappears for the overnight. Don’t tell me you don’t know that, either?”
“I wouldn’t tell you shit if I did know,” McKay said, and looked at Paul Rhodes, who stood there, trying to ignore the insulting cuts by the prosecutor captain.
“Dicky Doo is gunning to catch them,” Stanley Tufts said, spreading a wide smile and watching McKay’s face as he did it.
“Catch them at what?” McKay snarled, throwing the glass of ice water he had nursed into the trash can, shattering the tumbler with a loud crash. “They’re married. If she’s working here legally, and he’s on his own time, not out of bounds, then what the hell does Dicky Doo expect to do?”
“You know Major Dickinson,” Heyster said, smiling, satisfied he had finally uncorked McKay’s anger. “He doesn’t have to have any actual violations to get the guy. He plays by jungle rules, didn’t you hear?”
“Gentlemen, sorry to break up such fine company and warm conversation, but the staff sergeant and I have some business to attend,” McKay said, taking Rhodes by the arm and leading him away.
“What business?” Rhodes said, and caught the eyes of Doc Hamilton, Lionel McCoy, and Baby Huey, who now followed him and the lieutenant.
“I need to get out of here,” McKay said, heading toward the barracks. “I’ve got a couple of canteens of some pretty good homemade whiskey in my locker, if you want a drink. We can come back out here later, once the pig is done.”
“Hey, Doc,” Rhodes said, looking over his shoulder at his comrades, “maybe you and Sneed ought to grab a few of those pineapples and some beers and bring them, too.”
“Sounds good, we’ll be right behind you,” Hamilton said, making a quick stop at the pineapple counter, and another at a trash can filled with ice, water, and cans of beer.
“Sir, what a surprise!” Jon Kirkwood told Major Danger, seeing him and his three enlisted cohorts from LZ Ross standing near the pig turning on the spit. Already, hungry bystanders had snatched small chunks of juicy pork off the loin and hams.
“I told you I was mentioning you in my dispatches,” Hembee said, laughing, pinching a chunk of golden crisp meat off the pig’s shoulder. “When did you guys find out that you were getting medals?”
“We had no idea at all, until this morning, when the squadron first sergeant more or less ordered us out on the parade deck and had us walk through the ceremony while the troops rehearsed,” Terry O’Connor told the major, shaking his free hand and looking past his right shoulder where Goose, Rat, and Elvis stood smiling, each holding a cold beer.
“Glad to see that you guys made the party, too,” O’Connor added, putting out his hand to the trio of enlisted Marines. “Any word on Henry?”
“He’s recovered some vision in his right eye, but they ended up taking out the left one,” Hembee said. “He’s back home in Knoxville, out of the Corps, of course, but he still keeps in touch. We get a letter from him every week. He said to tell you guys thanks for coming out to the hospital ship and visiting him while he was still here.”
“Hey, you know us, Marines first,” Kirkwood said, and put his arm around King Rat. “We’re a team, right?”
“How’s your brain-housing-group these days?” O’Connor asked Rat, holding the rapidly dwindling remains of a six-pack of beer under his arm.
“Still get some pretty wicked headaches, but at least I didn’t go blind,” Rat said, and glanced at Elvis, who still wore a patch on his injured eye. “A few stitches across the side of my head, and a mangled ear, but that ain’t shit.”
“Funny how you seemed worse off at the time, and came out best,” O’Connor said, slapping King Rat across the shoulder.
“Anyone see McKay?” First Lieutenant Wayne Ebberhardt asked, joining the cluster of Marines.
“Wasn’t he with that bunch from Third Recon?” Kirkwood said, looking at the growing multitude of faces filling the lawn behind the Officers’ Club, eating fresh pineapple and sipping cold beer while awaiting the roast pig.
“He had a snootful this morning,” O’Connor said, looking at the crowd, trying to see any of the reconnaissance Marines or navy corpsman who had accompanied him in the barracks earlier. “I see that recon colonel over there with General Cushman and General Anderson, along with Colonel Prunella and Dicky Doo, and I see some of the recon platoon here and there, but I don’t see McKay or the two sergeants and the corpsman, either. If I had to look for him, I think I might try the barracks. Ten to one that motley crew went back to his cube to sample some of your white lightning that he’s got stacked in the bottom of his wall locker. Besides, from what I saw of our boy Tommy, he probably ducked from sight to stay out of trouble. A few belts, and no telling what he might say to our favorite major, and he’d do it in front of all that heavy brass, too.”
“Probably for the best that he’s not here,” Ebberhardt agreed, looking at the cluster of senior officers glad-handing with the Third Marine Amphibious Force commanding general, Lieutenant General Robert E. Cushman Jr., and the commanding general of the First Marine Aircraft Wing, and Deputy Commander for Air, III MAF, Major General Norman J. Anderson. Among the circle of colonels and two generals, Major Dudley L. Dickinson beamed with excessive animation, and now hastily beckoned Kirkwood, O’Connor, and Ebberhardt to join the conversation of the elite group of officers.
“Maybe we should have ducked out with McKay to the barracks,” O’Connor said, waving back at Major Dickinson and nodding, acknowledging the summons. “This ought to be good.”
“What ought to be good?” Kirkwood said, walking toward the group of Marines where Major Dickinson busily licked boots and kissed ass.
“I want to hear what that son of a bitch has to say about Tommy and us in front of General Cushman and General Anderson,” O’Connor muttered as he walked to the circle, beer in hand. Then he gave Dicky Doo a loud slap between the shoulder blades and asked, “How’s my favorite mojo?”
“Terry, my boy,” Dickinson heartily bellowed, clapped O’Connor across the back, and then pulled Kirkwood into the circle by his arm. “Great here. How are my favorite two defense lawyers?”
“Where’s Lieutenant McKay?” Lieutenant Colonel Prunella asked happily.
“I think he’s having a few private drinks with some of the boys from that reconnaissance platoon,” Kirkwood said, and then looked at the two commanding generals. “General Cushman, General Anderson, gentlemen, I have to say, honestly, I am overwhelmed. I know I can speak for Terry when I say that today’s ceremony will be a high point in both our lives. I know that Lieutenant McKay is equally honored at your presence here today.”
The big-shouldered, square-jawed three-star general who commanded all Marines in Vietnam, offered the two captains a wide smile and put out his hand to them. “I enjoyed reading in the report from Seventh Marines how you two fellows gave up your helicopter for their wounded, and then when the enemy attacked, you pitched in the fight out on the perimeter. I know officers who you couldn’t blast out of the bunker with a stick of dynamite.”
“Marines first, sir,” O’Connor offered, and put his arm over the shoulders of Major Dickinson.
“Damned right,” Major Dickinson said, putting on a proud-faced show. “As I told both you and General Anderson, I am encouraged to see initiative like some of my attorneys have shown, getting out in the bush when they can, eating grub with our men on the front lines.”
Lieutenant Colonel Prunella sipped his beer and tried to hide any appearance of incredulity that might creep across his face, hearing his deputy lie so boldly, and in front of him, too.
“Well, Major Dickinson,” the staff judge advocate then said, looking cooly at the military justice officer, “I take it then, based on these expressions of yours, that little bit of paperwork sitting on my desk that I have thankfully neglected to forward to headquarters squadron for processing needs to come back to you?”
Dicky Doo flushed red. Terry O’Connor and Jon Kirkwood did their best to hide grins that wanted to burst out in laughter. Wayne Ebberhardt, who stood on the fringe of the circle, did begin laughing, and quickly walked away.
“Oh, sir,” Dickinson stammered, blinking and smiling at the two general officers who smiled back, oblivious to the meaning of Prunella’s comment. “Oh, that. Yes, it’s just some routine garbage, and it’s already been overtaken by events. Just toss it in the can, sir. You know how things get sometimes, so busy and all. It’s just some meaningless forms, already replaced, and there are no problems. No problems at all with it, sir.”
Both generals now looked more confused, but resisted asking any questions that delved into matters best handled well below their pay grades.
Prunella smiled at Kirkwood and O’Connor and then turned to the generals. “Gentlemen, let me escort you to our table. I think that pig ought to be roasted by now pretty close to perfection,” the lieutenant colonel said, leading the two commanders, followed in trace by a gaggle of colonels. Several steps away he glanced back at the major and two captains and smiled again.
“Don’t you fucking laugh at me. Don’t you dare!” Major Dickinson hissed between his clenched teeth, and smiled and waved back at Lieutenant Colonel Prunella. Then he snapped his face toward the two captains and seethed, “Go ahead and gloat at my humiliation today, gentlemen. I know you will. All I can say right now is, wear those medals proudly. My turn will come. You’re going to fucking pay. Believe me, you’re going to pay. Both of you, McKay, Ebberhardt, and that idiot Carter, just stand the fuck by. I may have had to tear up McKay’s charge sheet, but it doesn’t mean that the shitbird’s gotten away with anything. I’ll still have his ass, and yours too. Your latest stunt, O’Connor, taking the colonel’s jeep, usurping my authority, I have some special plans for you. Enjoy the day, gentlemen. Have fun at your luau. Drink up! Because payback is coming, and it is a motherfucker.”
Dickinson hurled his half-full beer at a trash barrel three steps from him and missed. Michael Carter, who had skulked nearby, watching the show, dutifully picked up the can and dropped it in the waste bin. The major shook his head at the gangly captain’s pitiful gesture and walked away, stopping momentarily at the bar, where he picked up a six-pack of beer, and then tromped, heavy-footed, toward his office.
Buck Taylor and Archie Gunn stepped quickly past the array of flower-festooned tables draped with white and red cloths set beneath a line of general-purpose tents with the sides rolled up, rigged as awnings for the party. Wayne Ebberhardt chased close behind them, all three of the men laughing.
“I see the asshole left your little shindig,” Taylor said, popping open a beer and handing it to Kirkwood, and then giving one to O’Connor.
“I guess Ebberhardt already filled you in,” Kirkwood said, taking a gulp from the can.
“Wayne, you left too soon,” O’Connor added, guzzling several swallows of beer. “The funniest part came when the colonel left us alone with the son of a bitch. Oh, and Wayne, he included your name in his tirade, too. Consider yourself mentioned in dispatches.”