Necessary Evils

By Randel Quadros

This novel is a mystery about a former army officer’s quest to find out who set him up to be a patsy and framed him in a court-martial proceeding in which he was kicked out of the army and his career destroyed. Follow Ronald Whitaker as he turns over every stone to prove his innocence and find out who ruined his life with lies. Find out what happens to him and if he finally gets justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Randel Quadros
• Release date: Mar 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9780984048021

Randel Quadros

Randel Quadros is a practicing attorney in Citrus Heights, California. He also holds a B.S. in Forestry and a M.S. in counseling. He is a Vietnam War veteran, having served as a first lieutenant in the U.S. Army in Vietnam in 1970. An American history buff, he has had a keen interest in World War II, Vietnam, the Korean War, and the period of time from the early 1800s to the late 1800s. He lives with his wife, Kim, and their two dogs in Citrus Heights, California. He has two adult children both of whom are married and he has four grandchildren. He enjoys the outdoors, relic hunting, fishing, and traveling through the western states in his RV visiting historical sites and national parks. Necessary Evils was inspired by Randy’s experience as a soldier in Vietnam, his twenty-four years of practicing law, his earlier work in the criminal justice system, and his affinity for mysteries and puzzle solving. This is his debut novel. Recently, Necessary Evils was accepted as a nomintaiton for the 2012 Global Ebook Awards in the fiction/mystery category.

Book preview

NECESSARY EVILS

Randel J. Quadros

* * * * * *

Copyright 2011 by Randel J. Quadros

Smashwords Edition

R & K Publications

6600 Sweet Gum Court

Citrus Heights, CA 95610

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-0-9840480-2-1

Cover by Kimberly Martin

Edited by Dennis Billuni

Digital edition by: GoPublished

www.gopublished.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

About the Author

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to express my gratitude to the many people that saw me through this book; to all those who provided support, discussed issues about the story with me, read, wrote, offered comments, allowed me to quote their remarks, and assisted in the editing, proofreading, and design of this book.

In particular, I express a very special thanks to my wife, Kim, for her patience throughout the time it took to complete this project, for her understanding of how much this book meant to me, for her care of me during the countless hours of writing and researching this book, and most importantly, for loving me through it all.

I also would like to thank my mother, Violet, for her support, interest, and encouragement throughout the weeks, months, and years of researching, writing, and re-writing this book.

For the many times we discussed the story, the plot, and the characters of the book, for her thoughts and suggestions regarding these matters, and for her time spent reading the rough draft of the manuscript, I am extremely grateful to my friend and former coworker, Cathy Murphy.

Similarly, I would like to express my deepest gratitude to another good friend and former coworker, Bonnie Lally. Her support and encouragement of this undertaking have been much appreciated, and providing me with the names of her friends and associates with publishing and writing expertise was indispensable to the successful completion of the book.

Finally, to all of those whose names I have failed to mention and have helped me and contributed to the development of the book, I beg your forgiveness. To name and thank everyone who worked on the book or who offered their thoughts and ideas would require enough pages to fill a phone book.

* * * * * *

CHAPTER ONE

Covered in leaves and dirt, lying motionless under a thick blanket of jungle vegetation, twenty-three-year-old Second Lieutenant, Ronald Whitaker hid from North Vietnamese Army soldiers. With bayonets affixed to AK-47s, the soldiers hunted for him by poking and prodding the bushes and vines, tightening the cordon around him. The lieutenant’s hopes were fading fast as images of being shot, bayoneted, or rotting in a North Vietnamese prison flashed through his mind.

Then, as if by fate, the NVA soldiers were unexpectedly called away, giving the young officer the chance to sneak out of his leafy den and slip away. After running a hundred meters or so, however, he almost passed out and had to stop. He was weak and dizzy from the loss of blood from his head wound.

Needing to stem the bleeding, he slid his ammo bandoleer off over his head and shoulder and discarded the ten magazines of .223 caliber ammunition in it. With his jungle knife, he cut the bandoleer length- wise into three long strips and wove two of the strips into a large square bandage. After cleaning the wound with water out of his canteen, he tied the improvised bandage over the wound with the third strip cut from the bandoleer. In short order, the bleeding slowed to a dribble.

While resting a little more before he set out again, it occurred to Ron that he dropped his rucksack farther up the hill when the shooting started earlier in the day. It contained C-rations for about a week, two full canteens of water, a first aid kit, a rain poncho, and other assorted articles that could mean the difference between life and death. He decided to hike over the area where he left it and look for it.

After sweating like a horse from tromping through the jungle for forty-five minutes on a hot afternoon, Ron stumbled up to the area where he thought he dropped his pack. After a short rest, he circled the area and then walked back and forth through the area in twenty-yard swathes as he searched. But after an hour and a half of looking and coming up empty, he gave up. The jungle was too much alike and was too dense. He could have walked within five feet of the pack and not seen it.

Discouraged, he sat down and considered his next move. The time was 1740, and in a couple of hours it would be dark. He could try to make it back to the river and wait for a rescue attempt or he could try to find one of the platoons in his company. But the earliest a rescue would come was the next morning. If the troops came today it would be dark by the time they arrived, making the mission too dangerous for all involved.

But the chances of finding one of the other platoons from his company were worse than those of being rescued. The platoons wouldn’t know Ron was trying to find them and wouldn’t wait in one location while he searched. Trying to find a platoon in the jungle was hard enough when it sat in one place, but if it was moving it would be like trying to find a needle that was moving in a haystack.

Ron’s other alternative was to hike through the mountains to a U.S. base. The closest U.S. base he knew about was Firebase Bastogne, about twenty-five kilometers south. To get there would take about a week, but without a map, food, a firearm, and several canteens of water, he would likely never make it. And even if he had them, getting past the NVA would be impossible.

Ron pulled out his canteen and took a small sip of water as he mulled over his options. While screwing back on the cap of the can- teen the faint sounds of danger caught his attention. Instantly, he stood as still as a statue and listened closely. Then he heard something that made his heart jump out of his chest. Mixed in with the bird calls and the monkey chatters he heard the voices of NVA soldiers. They weren’t far away, just down the hill from him.

Not running or panicking, he moved quickly and quietly into the jungle behind him. To keep from being captured or killed he only had to stay ahead of the soldiers and not give away his position until nightfall. After dark they couldn’t follow him in the jungle, and he could get away.

Keeping just ahead of the voices, Ron kept moving up the hill. He reached the ridgeline shortly before nightfall and stopped to rest. He listened for the soldiers’ voices, but heard nothing. It had been awhile since he last heard the voices, and he thought he might have lost them, but wasn’t sure.

With the North Vietnamese soldiers between Ron and the river, and probably not far behind him, getting back to the river to be picked up by the rescue troops the next day was out of the question. To attempt it would be suicide. Now his only option was to hike south through the mountains and try to reach Firebase Bastogne.

First, however, Ron needed to put more distance between him and the NVA behind him. He didn’t know where they were, but he knew they were out there somewhere and were looking for him. Ron wasn’t about to be surprised or caught napping in the off chance the North Vietnamese soldiers kept searching for him that night. They had already surprised him with their persistence to capture him, and he wouldn’t let them surprise him again.

Grabbing the five-foot-long tree branch he picked up earlier in the day, he started down the backside of the hill in the dark. Holding it out in front of him like a sensor, he poked, prodded, and crashed through the snarled darkness down the hill. If they were going to find him in the dark, they would have to work for it.

After descending about two hundred meters, he had to stop. Exhausted and physically thrashed, he collapsed against a tree. He was badly in need of rest. The next day he would set out for Firebase Bastogne, which would be the most difficult and treacherous endeavor he had ever faced. His odds of making it were stacked heavily against him, but he had no choice other than to try.

* * * * * *

Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats and fasten your seat- belts. We’ll be landing in Sacramento in about twenty minutes, the pilot announced over the plane’s intercom. Dozing next to the window near the back of the plane was Ron Whitaker, Second Lieutenant, United States Army. He caught enough of the announcement to comprehend it and gazed out the window through droopy eyes. Fifteen thousand feet below lay a patchwork of farmlands shimmering in the morning sunlight. A warm broad grin creased his face. He hadn’t been home in four years, and the fields were a sign that he was only a few hours away.

Home was Redding, California, a small town on the northern edge of the Sacramento Valley. It was a small rural town by California standards, inhabited by approximately sixteen thousand people, most of whom were ranchers, farmers, or lumber company workers. Although I-5 passed right by the town, Redding wasn’t a destination for most people. It was more of a place they cruised past on their way somewhere else.

A standout high school football and baseball player, Ron Whitaker had been a local sports legend and was offered football scholarships to several major colleges. He passed them up, however, to attend West Point. From the time he was ten years old, he had dreamed of nothing but graduating from the United States Military Academy and having a career in the army.

Ron’s dream came true in May 1969 when he graduated from West Point. In the ensuing months he underwent infantry officer and paratrooper training at Fort Benning, Georgia. After completing the training, he received his orders to leave for Vietnam on November 1, 1969. Before he shipped out, however, he was on his way home for thirty days leave.

The jetliner banked left and began a slow descent. Within half an hour, the plane floated out of the cool October skies and settled gently onto the Sacramento Airport’s runway. An hour later, Ron was on a Greyhound Bus cruising north to Redding on I-5.

The ride, however, was surprisingly bittersweet. Watching the farm and ranchlands pass by as the bus rolled north reminded Ron of the good times traveling through the area for football and baseballs games in his high school days. Fond memories of hunting ducks, geese, and pheasants with his father and friends as a teenager beset him. As he rode north, he realized he would likely never see most of those friends again, which was saddening. Those times were now in the past, however, and Ron would likely never see most of those friends again. His army career would make it almost impossible.

About mid-afternoon the bus decelerated quickly and jerked, drawing Ron’s attention. Through the front window of the bus he saw a freeway sign with an arrow pointing to an off-ramp for East Cypress Avenue, the southernmost turnoff into Redding. Ron’s face lit up with a huge grin. He was finally home.

Swinging off the freeway onto East Cypress Avenue west, the Greyhound crossed the Sacramento River over the Cypress Avenue Bridge, turned north on Pine Street, and motored the remaining six blocks to the bus station.

Ron stood up in the aisle and walked to the front of the bus as soon as it rolled into the parking lot. He was the first passenger out of the bus when it stopped. Hesitating briefly in the parking lot, Ron threw his head back and sucked in a long soothing breath of Redding’s fresh, cool air. After the hot sticky air at Fort Benning, he had almost forgotten what it was like to breathe fresh air.

Soon, Ron was looking out the windows in the back seat of a Yellow Cab driving east back across the Sacramento River. The cab stopped three miles later in front of a shake-shingled ranch-style house just east of Redding. The mailbox next to the driveway bore a wooden plaque with shiny metal letters spelling out, M & M Whitaker.

Ron hoisted his duffel bag out of the cab, paid the cabbie, and momentarily watched the old yellow beast head back to Redding, then turned and looked at the house. It was older now and looked smaller. The Pyracantha bushes weren’t trimmed like they used to be, there were brown spots on the lawn that didn’t used to be there, and the house could have used some touch-up painting here and there, but otherwise the place looked pretty good.

As expected, no one was home. Ron’s parents were at work and wouldn’t be home until after five. Around the back of the house Ron found the spare key under the same old blue and white Oriental flowerpot where it had always had been hidden and let himself in.

Little in the house had changed. Modestly furnished with everything in place, the home was immaculately clean. It was the home of a working-class couple who had been children of the Great Depression and World War II. It was the home of a husband and wife who had never lived high on the hog and had worked hard for everything they had; the home of a man and woman who were proud of their country and wanted their son to have a better life than they had.

Ron’s old bedroom was exactly as he had left it four years earlier. The walls were plastered with West Point pennants, and still stuck to the ceiling over his bed were the high school football schedules for the Enterprise Hornets championship years. Ron’s Remington and Browning twelve-gauge shotguns were still in the wooden gun rack he’d made in high school wood shop, and atop the dresser next to the closet were two bronze footballs awarded to Ron as the Hornets’ Most Valuable Player in 1964 and 1965. He fondly ran his hand over them. Plopping his duffel bag on the end of the bed, he took off his dress greens and threw on a pair of sweatpants and an Army T-shirt. It felt good to get out of the army’s monkey suit.

In the kitchen, he rummaged through the refrigerator and came up with some salami, cheese, and bread for a sandwich. After grabbing a coke, he headed into the family room to eat. Not long after eating, Ron’s eyelids grew heavy and soon he was asleep on the couch.

* * * * * *

Ronny, Ronny, a loving voice called out in the midst of Ron’s slumber. He groggily opened his eyes and found his mother leaning over him wearing a big smile.

Ronny, when did you get in? Mary Whitaker excitedly asked. We didn’t know you were arriving today!

Looking at his mother through blurry eyes and hesitating long enough to let his brain cells connect, Ron mumbled, Hi, Mom. What time is it?

It’s five-thirty. When did you get in?

Ron sat up, stretched, and let his head clear for a moment. After a sigh and a hard yawn, he answered, About three-thirty or so. Man, I slept hard!

Dad will be here soon. We’re so excited you’re home for a while,

Mary said, plopping down in the chair next to the couch. We’ve been telling everyone you’d be visiting for a few weeks before shipping out to Vietnam. They’re all looking forward to seeing you.

Fine, Mom, but if it’s okay I’d like to rest up at home for a while before seeing anyone, Ron said.

Sure, Ronny, we understand. It’s your leave. Spend it the way you want. I just want you to know a lot of people are proud of you and are anxious to see you.

The sound of the front door opening and closing resonated through the house.

That’s your dad. Bill, Bill, Ron’s home! He got in a couple of hours ago!

An instant later, Bill Whitaker turned the corner from the dining room into the family room. A stocky man about six feet tall with short gray hair, he wore a dark green California Fish and Game uniform. Ron, we didn’t expect you today! How are you doing, son? he said with a huge smile on his face.

Ron stood up and shook his father’s hand. Fine, Dad, just fine. It’s great to be home.

Bill stepped back, cocked his head to the side and scanned Ron for a moment. You look like you’ve lost some weight. How much do you weigh?

About 185 or 190, said Ron.

How tall are you again? Six-two, almost six-three.

Wow, that’s about twenty or thirty pounds short, isn’t it?

Yeah, but I’ll put it back on. Twenty weeks of infantry training and four weeks of parachute training at Fort Benning have a way of taking weight off guys, Ron said with a grin.

Your mother’s cooking will take care of that, Bill said. So, does Redding look any different after being gone four years?

Hard to say because I just got here, but from what I’ve seen it looks about the same, replied Ron.

When you get out and about you’ll find it has changed quite a bit in the last few years, Bill grumbled. We’ve got God-damn war protestors up here now. Can you believe it? War protestors in Redding! I’d like to get my buddies at the armory together and run the bastards out of town. The lazy, rotten, long-haired sons of bitches don’t appreciate how great our country is."

You’re kidding? War protestors in Redding? It’s always been such a conservative blue collar town. I can’t imagine that kind of stuff going on up here.

Bill shook his head in disgust. Your mom and I don’t even talk to some of our old friends anymore. Some of ’em have turned against the war too. They blame the military for the war and picket the National Guard Armory sometimes. We’ve got no use for sons of bitches like that.

That kind of stuff doesn’t happen at West Point. The commandant won’t permit it, said Ron. The only war protestors I’ve ever seen were on television.

You may want to be careful when you wear your uniform around here, said Bill. The damn hippies might harass you simply for being a soldier.

No problem there, Dad. It’ll feel good to be out of the uniform for a while, Ron said with a chuckle.

After dinner that night Ron and his folks stayed up into the wee hours of the morning talking and looking at old family photographs. There were photographs of Ron playing football and baseball since he was twelve, photographs of family vacations and hunting and fishing trips. The most recent photographs were those of Ron’s graduation from West Point and of him playing football on the Army football team.

Ron spent the remainder of the week lounging around the house in his sweats and catnapping. He didn’t go anywhere. In the mornings, he slept in, read the newspaper, and sipped coffee in the peace and quiet of the house. In the evenings, he stayed up late and watched the Johnny Carson Show. It had been four years since he last enjoyed such simple pleasures.

The following week Ron’s energy level returned and he decided to visit one of his oldest and best friend, Terry Roberts, who was a police officer with the Redding Police Department. He and Ron had known each other since they were ten and had gone through grammar school and high school together. They played baseball and football and had hunted and fished more times than Ron could remember.

Unlike many young men of the time, Terry hadn’t needed to worry about being drafted because he failed the draft board’s physical examination. The doctors concluded that his left shoulder, which he had separated playing sports years earlier, was too unstable for military service.

But what the draft board’s doctors didn’t know was that Terry had been entertaining friends for years by popping the shoulder out of joint at will, and it didn’t hurt when he did it. Nonetheless, fifteen minutes after he walked into the examination room he strolled back out wearing a gigantic smile and carrying a form signed by the medical doctor classifying him 4-F.

Ron knew Terry worked the graveyard shift and got off duty at seven o’clock in the morning, so he drove over to his house, stationed himself on Terry’s porch, and waited. Soon a red Ford pickup pulled into the driveway and a tall slender figure in a police uniform stepped out. The man started walking toward the front door, and noticed someone sitting in one of the folding chairs as he stepped up on the porch.

At first, Terry looked at Ron with the cold hard stare of a man finding a stranger sitting on his living room couch. A heartbeat later, however, a giant smile crossed his face and he laughed. Jesus Christ! When the hell did you blow into town?

About a week ago, Ron said, standing up. I thought I’d drop by and see if you were still alive.

Ron and Terry shook hands and embraced, slapping each other on the back. Ron followed Terry inside and noticed that the interior of the house was quintessential Terry. Two .45-caliber collector’s pistols hung on the wall in box frames, and photographs of President John F. Kennedy were on almost every wall along with more photos of Terry’s hunting and fishing trips, some of which included Ron. Mounted deer heads, trout, and salmon also hung on the walls.

In a corner of the living room stood an ornately hand-carved wooden bar and matching stools. Rounding out the remainder of the furniture were a leather couch and a modern recliner upholstered in bright red velvet fabric.

Terry and Ron sat down and relaxed, each clutching a cold Budweiser. Drinking beer that early in the morning wasn’t a normal habit for either of them, but the occasion seemed to call for it. Besides, as Terry pointed out, it wasn’t early morning for him. Since he just got off work it made it early evening.

So, do I need to call you ‘Lieutenant Whitaker’ or ‘sir’ now that you’ve graduated from West Point? Terry quipped.

‘General’ will do if you don’t mind, Ron replied with a chuckle.

Whoa! You West Point boys don’t lack for confidence, do you?

Nope. That has never been a problem for us.

Terry chuckled. Okay, I just wanted to be sure I wasn’t imagining anything.

The conversation turned to an accounting of old high school classmates, their whereabouts, and what they were doing. As Ron soon learned, few classmates still lived in Redding. Two former teammates, Mike Cameron and Jim Buckner, had left town for college. Mike was starting law school at Stanford, but Jim had quit college, joined the U.S. Navy, and was on a ship somewhere off the coast of Vietnam.

Two other buddies, Jim and Tom Pennington, identical twins both of whom graduated from U.C. Berkeley, had joined a commune in eastern Oregon and took up the hippie lifestyle.

Julie Thomas, Ron’s old high school girlfriend, got married about a year and a half earlier and moved to Colorado with her new husband. The story was pretty much the same for most of their old classmates. They’d either got hooked on drugs, been married and moved away, or left town for college or to get a job. Not only had Redding changed a lot in the last four years, so had everyone’s lives.

Terry went into the kitchen and came back with two more Buds. He pitched one to Ron, sat down, and popped open another one for himself.

Hey, I’ve got a surprise for you, Terry said with a silly grin on his face. I’m getting married.

Ron’s eyes turned the size of basketballs. He was stunned. Terry had never been much of a ladies’ man. Even though he was tall and nice-looking, he hadn’t had much success at long-term relationships with women. The ladies usually found him a little too independent, too adventurous, and too untamable.

Terry wasn’t the type of guy to dote on women or treat them special. If a woman wanted to do what Terry was doing and was willing to do it his way, fine. But if not, Terry would do it without her. Hence, it generally wasn’t too long after beginning a new relationship that Terry would hear the girl say something like, Let’s just be friends.

All the same, working the graveyard shift brought him to the hospital’s emergency room on a fairly regular basis, where about a year earlier he met a pretty young nurse named, Linda Dutra. They started dating and in September were engaged.

I’m shocked! I’m astonished! babbled Ron. I almost just shit my pants. I never would have guessed you’d be getting married, not for a long time at least. Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad for you and every- thing. It’s...it’s just so damn unexpected. Well, uh...congratulations, I guess. I’m sure she’s a wonderful girl and you’re a lucky guy. Of course, I’m a little worried for her.

Terry laughed. She is a great lady, Ron. I can’t figure out what she sees in me, but she wants to get married and I’m not waiting to see if she changes her mind. I’ll never find another girl as good as she is.

Ron smiled and nodded.

Launching into what turned out to be a filibuster, Terry recounted every place he and Linda ever went, why they went there, what they did there, what they ate and what they drank, how much it cost, the clothes they wore, and so on and so forth, ad infinitum. The details and thoroughness of the account would have impressed even the most zealous of CIA investigators.

Ron tried his best to pretend he was interested in every word, but after about fifteen minutes his interest rapidly began to fade. Terry’s lips were moving, but Ron wasn’t hearing the words being spoken. It was as if an invisible soundproof wall had dropped between them.

Finally, it occurred to Ron that the reason Terry was jabbering away was because he didn’t have anything else to talk about with him. After reminiscing a while and talking about old friends, they had nothing to share. Over the years the two men had drifted apart leaving them with different interests, friends, and futures. Now, the only thing they shared was nostalgia about the past.

The emptiness in Ron’s eyes was soon apparent. Terry had no doubt he was completely bored with his tales about his fiancé and her family. Miffed, he abruptly stopped talking and walked into the kitchen. Ron thought he was getting a couple more beers, but a moment later Terry returned and said, Sorry man, I’ve got to break up the party. I just remembered that I have some plumbing repairs to do on Linda’s bathroom before I go to work today. I need to hit the sack so I won’t be falling asleep on the job tonight. Maybe we can get together again before you leave.

Don’t worry about it, man. I understand you’re a busy man and have a lot of responsibilities, said Ron as he stood up. Yeah, we can get together before I leave. Maybe you can come by my Mom and Dad’s house sometime in the next week or two.

Sure, sure. That shouldn’t be a problem. We’ll get together in a week or so, said Terry.

Ron and Terry shook hands, but as they did so neither of them looked into the other’s eyes. Their handshake was listless and insincere. Though unstated, Ron and Terry parted ways knowing they wouldn’t see each other again before Ron left for Vietnam--and maybe never again at all.

* * * * * *

Ron and his father had fly-fished together since Ron was in grade school, and both were unabashedly addicted to it. For them, fly-fishing was a much more adventurous and cerebral endeavor than bait or lure fishing. It was man against fish pure and simple—mano a mano. A fly fisherman stalked his prey and through skill and cunning presented an imitation fly in such a way that fish would strike it believing it to be real flies or insects being washed down the river.

Although Ron wasn’t much of a religious man, fly-fishing gave his life a spiritual dimension. Witnessing Mother Nature’s handy work in the great outdoors had convinced him that life had an order to it that had existed long before man’s footprints appeared on earth. Life was more than merely a series of random or coincidental acts.

Bill and Ron hadn’t fly-fished together in almost five years. So when Bill took a few days off work to take Ron fly-fishing, Ron was ecstatic. Better yet, they went to one of their favorite old spots on the McCloud River, about an hour’s drive north of Redding on I-5.

Perfect fall weather and river conditions greeted them when they arrived; the days were sunny and mild, the river water was as clear as gin in a bottle, and the stream currents gentle. Ron and his father spent three days wading up and down the upper McCloud River, whipping their long willowy fly rods back and forth delivering whiskery, multicolored imitation flies into the currents hoping to entice Redband or German Brown trout into striking them.

At night they sat around the blazing campfire under a sky full of stars talking and reminiscing about the world, life in general and fly-fishing issues such as insect hatches, fly sizes, and casting techniques.

But like all good things, the time on the McCloud River came to an end, and Ron and Bill returned to Redding. They didn’t catch any keepers, but it really didn’t matter. Spending time with each other camping and fishing at one of their favorite spots was so wonderful they barely noticed the lack of fish.

* * * * * *

One afternoon around the end of Ron’s third week in Redding, he sat alone inside the quiet of the house staring out the front window at nothing in particular. It was a cold and dreary day. Gray clouds hung low screening out even the tiniest slivers of blue sky and sunshine. Only the faint roar of the neighbor’s power mower made any sound.

Deep in thought, Ron gazed at the gray skies. The day to depart for Vietnam was drawing near, but he wanted to leave much sooner. Actually, he wanted to leave immediately.

Other than his parents, he had no reason to stay in Redding any longer. As a matter of fact, Redding had even become one of the reasons to leave early. It no longer felt like Ron’s hometown. Too many things had changed since he left, and he couldn’t turn the clock back. His relationship with Terry was the epitomization of it all.

The tension and stress of waiting for Ron’s inevitable departure to Vietnam were also taking a toll