He adjusted the white summer cover until it came low over his blue eyes, then turned and went to face Commander Bonson.
He left the barracks and headed toward the captain’s office, where he was to be picked up. The XO wandered by and he snapped off a quick salute.
“Fenn, is that the uniform of the day?”
“For what I have to do, sir, yes, sir.”
“Fenn— Never mind. Go ahead.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Two NCOs, including Case, watched him go. By the time he reached Troop Walk, by some strange vibration in the air, everyone knew he was in his full dress blues. The men, in their modifieds, watched him with suspicion, maybe a little hostility, but above all, curiosity. The uniform, of course, was not the uniform of the day, and for a Marine to strut out in so flagrant a gesture of rebellion was extremely odd; he could have been naked and caused less of a ruckus.
Donny strode down Troop Walk, aware of the growing number of eyes upon him. He had a fleeting impression of men running to catch a glimpse of him going; even, across the way, when he passed by Center House, the base’s BOQ, a couple of off-duty first lieutenants came out onto the porch in Bermudas and T’s to watch him pass by.
He turned into the parking lot, where a tan government Ford, with a squid driving, waited by the steps; he then turned left, climbed and walked across the porch and into the first sergeant’s office, which led to Captain Dogwood’s office. The first sergeant, holding a cup of coffee with Semper Fi emblazoned on the porcelain, nodded at him, as orderlies and clerks scurried to make way.
“They’re waiting on you, Fenn.”
“Yes, First Sergeant,” said Donny.
He stepped into the office.
Captain Dogwood sat behind his desk, and Bonson and Weber, in their summer khakis, sat across from him.
“Sir, Corporal Fenn, reporting as ordered, sir,” Donny said.
“Ah, very good, Fenn,” said Dogwood. “Did you misunderstand the uniform of the day? I—”
“Sir, no, sir!” Donny said. “Sir, permission to speak, sir?”
Another moment of silence.
“Fenn,” said the captain, “I’d consider carefully before—”
“Let him speak,” said Bonson, eyeing Donny without love.
Donny turned to face the man fully.
“Sir, the corporal wishes to state categorically that he will not testify against a fellow Marine on charges of which he has no personal knowledge. He will not perjure himself; he will not take part in any proceedings involving the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Sir!”
“Fenn, what are you pulling?” asked Weber. “We had an agreement.”
“Sir, we never had an agreement. You gave me orders to investigate, which I did, against my better instincts and in contravention to every moral belief I have. I did my duty. My investigation was negative. Sir, that is all I have to say, sir!”
“Fenn,” said Bonson, fixing him with a mean glare, “you have no idea what forces you’re playing with and what can happen to you. This is no game; this is the serious business of defending the security of our nation.”
“Sir, I have fought for our nation and I have bled for our nation. No man who hasn’t has the right to tell me about defending our nation, whatever his rank, sir! Finally, sir, may I sincerely say, sir, you are an asshole and a creep and you haven’t done one thing for the United States of America, and if you want to meet me out back, let’s go. Bring Weber. I’ll kick his ass too!”
“Fenn!” said Dogwood.
“All right, Captain Dogwood,” said Bonson. “I see this is the kind of Marine you have here at Eighth and I. I’m very disappointed. This reflects on you, Captain, and my report will so state. Fenn, if I were you, I’d start packing. Don’t forget your jungle boots.”
He turned and walked out.
“That was stupid, Fenn,” said Weber.
“Fuck you, Weber, you ass-kissing creep.”
Weber swallowed and turned to Dogwood.
“Restrict him to quarters. His orders will be cut by four.”
Then he turned and walked out.
Dogwood went to the phone and talked in an intimate voice with someone. Then he hung up.
“Sit down, Fenn,” said Dogwood, turning back to Donny. “Do you smoke?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, I do.” Shaking a little, he lit up a Marlboro and went to the door.
“Welch, get in here!”
Welch scurried in.
“Yes, sir.”
“You have until four, Welch, to get liberty papers cut for Corporal Fenn; get ’em back here for my signature. Seventy-two hours. If you have to run over to personnel at Henderson Hall, you take my car and driver. Don’t stop for traffic. Do you understand?”
“Uh, well, sir, I, it’s highly irregular, I’m not—”
“You heard me, Welch,” said the captain. “Now get going.”
He turned back to Donny.
“Okay, Fenn, I can’t save you from Vietnam, but I can get you some time off before you have to go if I can get your orders cut before Bonson’s paperwork catches up with you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You go change into civvies now. You be ready to take off as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir. I— Thank you, sir.”
“Oh, just a moment. Yes, here she is.”
A woman walked into the room, pleasant, in her late twenties. Donny recognized her from the picture on the desk as Dogwood’s wife.
“Here, Mort,” she said, handing an envelope over. She turned to Donny. “You must be very foolish, young man. Or very brave.”
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
“Fenn, here. It’s six hundred dollars, cash. It’s all we had in our quarters. It’ll take you and your girlfriend someplace for a few days.”
“Sir, I—”
“No, no, go ahead, son. Take it. Enjoy yourself. Pay it back when you can. And when you get to the ’Nam, keep your ass down. That shithole isn’t worth another Marine. Not a single one. Now go. Go, go, son. And good luck.”
PART II
SNIPER TEAM SIERRA-BRAVO-FOUR
CHAPTER NINE
The rain fell in torrents in I Corps. It was the end of the rainy season and no rainier season is rainier than the one in the Republic of South Vietnam. Da Nang, the capital of this dying empire, was wet, but some further hundred klicks out, wetter still, lay the fortified fire base a few of the Marines left in the Land of Bad Things called Dodge City, a ramshackle slum of sandbags, 105mm howitzers, S-shops, bunkers, barbed wire and filthy, open four-holers. It was the tail end of a lost war and nobody wanted to get wasted before the orders were cut that got these sad boys home.
But there were Marines even beyond Dodge City, out in Indian Country. There, in a tangle of scrub trees near the top of a hill identified on maps only by its height in meters — Hill 519—two of them cowered in the downpour, watching the drops accumulate on the rims of their boonie caps, gather and finally drop off, while the rain beat a cold tattoo against the ponchos that covered both of them and their gear.
One of them dreamed of home. It was Lance Corporal Donny Fenn, and he was getting very short. In May, his four-year enlistment was up; he was home free. He knew his DEROS by heart, as did every man in the ’Nam, the ones who first came in 1965, the ones who were still there: Date of Estimated Return from Overseas Service. Donny’s was 07 May 1972. He was a two-tour guy, with a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star, and though he no longer believed in the war, he did believe, passionately, that he was going to make it. He had to.