Caged Bravery: Vietnam POW-MIA Ultimate Survivor Odyssey Series, #2

By Don Price

Tom MacLaine is surprised when a senior Viet Cong sergeant befriends and helps him get medical care for his wounded arm. Two POWs who are locked in his bamboo cage with him further surprise MacLaine. One is a mad man, and the other has been so maltreated he is near death. MacLaine tries in vain to help both. 
A geriatric judge jails MacLaine's lawyer sister, Elizabeth, for contempt of court. She is the only female in the jail and sexually harassed by male inmates. Her uncle Harley, a fierce biker and brawler, comes to her rescue but cannot secure her release. Elizabeth conceives a clever plan to gain her freedom with the help of her best friend, the judge's daughter. 
Despite being on opposite sides of the world, the lives of Tom and Elizabeth continue to be emotionally entwined in hope, spirit and determination to gain his freedom, too. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Don Price
• Release date: Sep 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507064597

Don Price

Don Price is a retired Marine colonel who served 3 tours in Vietnam earning a Silver Star, 3 Bronze Stars w/V, a Purple Heart, 8 Air Medals, 3 Navy Commendation Medals w/V, and 3 Vietnamese Crosses of Gallantry. He taught English at the Naval Academy, graduated from the National War College, and commanded an infantry battalion on Okinawa. He is the author of The First Marine Captured in Vietnam, a biography of Medal of Honor recipient Donald Gilbert Cook published in 2007 by McFarland. Don lives in the heart of the Wild West, Cochise County, Arizona. His favorite quote comes from LtGen Ulysses S. Grant's dispatch (dated May 11, 1864) to Washington during the Battle of Spotsylvania Court House: "I propose to fight it out on this line, if it takes all summer."

Book preview

The Vietnam POW-MIA Ultimate

Survivor Odyssey Series

Book Two

CAGED BRAVERY

Don Price

Text copyright @ 2015 Donald L Price and Arlene C Olszewski

All Rights Reserved

––––––––

We do not want you to be uninformed, brothers,

about the hardships we suffered

in the province of Asia.

We were under great pressure,

far beyond our ability to endure,

so that we despaired even of life.

Second Corinthians 1:8

Table of Contents

Chapter 2-1 Mine Jail Blues

Chapter 2-2 Marcel Rondeaux

Chapter 2-3 Charlene Belle Bogart

Chapter 2-4 Palm Reading

Chapter 2-5 Rhino and Mace

Chapter 2-6 Major Liberation

Chapter 2-7 Devorah Deron Cohen

Chapter 2-8 Lieutenant Commander Dung-Heap

Chapter 2-9 You Be Free

Chapter 2-10 Hawkeye Six

Chapter 2-11 The Feminine Mystique

Chapter 2-12 Traitor and Collaborator

Chapter 2-13 Three Chisholms

Chapter 2-14 Ambush

Chapter 2-15 Payback by Uncle Harley

Chapter 2-16 Birchmere's Interview

Chapter 2-17 Grandpa Bobcat

Chapter 2-18 Malaria

Chapter 2-19 Blood Oath

Chapter 2-20 Bad News on the Home Front

Chapter 2-21 Prosecutor MacLaine

Chapter 2-22 Python

Chapter 2-23 Antique Silver Hairpin

Chapter 2-24 Gold Beard

Chapter 2-25 Big Chicken Dinner

Epilogue

Prologue

In 1970, Viet Cong guerrillas ambushed and captured Marine Corporal Thomas MacLaine in a South Vietnam mangrove swamp. His team commander, Captain Lance Warfield, was supposedly killed in the same ambush. For certain two team members, Corpsman Simon Proctor and MacLaine, were severely wounded.

MacLaine was in desperate need of medical treatment, and his captors cared for him as best they could while withdrawing from the embattled ambush site. In trying to think of ways to escape, MacLaine wondered if he would survive. Surprisingly, his head captor, Sergeant Luong, befriends him.

Afterward, a Marine captain named Sam Sparkman visited the MacLaine farm in West Virginia, and informed MacLaine's sister and widowed father that he was missing-in-action.

MacLaine's sister, Elizabeth, is a young deputy county prosecutor who pioneers women's and civil rights in Tecumseh County. Elizabeth had an ethical problem with an elderly and long-presiding judge, and she ended up in the county jail for contempt of court. Elizabeth turned to her Uncle Harley, a fierce biker and brawler, to help her get out of jail.

Meanwhile, MacLaine arrived via sampan at a primitive Viet Cong hospital where he was given better care of his wounded arm, and his chances for survival improved.

To deceive his captors, MacLaine pretended to be an illiterate moron, and he successfully duped both the camp commander and a Viet Cong translator into believing him. They had no idea that he was fluent in Vietnamese and understood everything they said.

MacLaine knew he was playing a dangerous game of deception with his captors and would be severely punished if they discovered he could speak their language fluently. Nevertheless, he continued to play the illiterate role.

Chapter 2-1

Mine Jail Blues

A scolding female voice blasted Elizabeth awake.

Mr. Harley MacLaine! Don't you spit no more nasty tobacco juice on my clean cellblock floor! You heathen womanizer, you!

Elizabeth peered through the bars.

Mrs. Maude Langtree stood towering over Harley, her strong hands on her wide hips, and her fragrance of White Shoulders perfume freshening the corridor's fetid air.

Yes ma'am, the chastened Harley answered with respect, looking straight up at the tall, heavy-set black woman.

I do declare my sweet young Miss MacLaine, the matron said, turning away from Harley toward Elizabeth's cell. What in the world are you doing in there, girl?

Elizabeth threw back the coarse jail blanket. Taking a quick nap, Mrs. Langtree. She stood and yawned.

My, my. Mrs. Langtree clucked her tongue. I'm for certain that the good Reverend MacLaine didn't let you out of his big house wearing such reach-me-downs.

Elizabeth had to smile, despite the mess she had got herself into.

You sure ain't got on no cheerleader's uniform. Mrs. Langtree shook her head and clucked her tongue. I don't know what to make of you, missy, because I'm too brown to blush and too old to cry.

Elizabeth laughed.

You musta sneaked out in the middle of the night, Mrs. Langtree said.

I'm a big girl now, ma'am, and I do as I please.

If I rightly recollect, you always done as you well-pleased. Mrs. Langtree unlocked the cell door. Now, come outta there, young lady, and gimme a big hug.

Yes ma'am—you do not have to tell me twice.

Mrs. Langtree embraced Elizabeth as if she were her own wayward daughter.

Lumpkin called me, he did, she whispered into Elizabeth's ear.

Good old Lumpkin, Elizabeth murmured.

I couldn't quite believe it when Lumpkin told me that MacLaine girl is locked up in Judge Bo's Mine Jail.

Here I am ma'am, all by my lonesome.

Mrs. Langtree is neat as a pin and clean as soap, Elizabeth thought. Same as her daughter, Tonya. Yes, indeed, both sweethearts.

Well child, I got on my uniform, jumped on my bike, and come along over here as quick as I could.

Tecumseh County's leading lady of the law was well known for pedaling her ancient Aero-Fast cruiser around town in all kinds of weather.

She placed her large, well-manicured hands on Elizabeth's shoulders, held her out at arm's length, and beamed at her with radiant kindness.

Elizabeth gazed up into the big matron's soft maroon-brown eyes, and Mrs. Langtree said, I thought Lump was ah-joshin' me. She again clucked her tongue. But, here you is in my cell block. Now how we gonna get you out of here in time for church this Sunday?

Speakin' of outta here, Harley said, standing and stretching as graceful as a panther. I'm ah-headin' out for the farm to get your gear, girl.

Oh, wait, Uncle Harley, a favor, pretty please.

Stick a name on it, Miss Elizabeth. Harley rolled easily on the balls of his feet. I'm feelin' just a tad hos-tile, a-gile, and mo-bile tonight.

Elizabeth looked at Mrs. Langtree, who nodded with a knowing smile.

Yes, Uncle Harley is as horny as a two-peckered billy goat. Some things never change. Watch out, Dolly Dugan. He'll give you a good case of cat-scratch fever.

Well, darlin', what you want me to do? he asked.

Make sure Jojo is fed and has fresh water.

You're spoilin' your little dog, gal.

Then take him for a walk in the woods to chase squirrels.

Why don't he walk hisself like the Blueticks do off leash?

My dear uncle, Jojo might get into a ruckus with a raccoon.

Your mutt would be better off if some old coon gave him a lesson about who is who in the briar patch.

No fighting for my baby.

Harley smirked.

Jojo should be in the kennel with the Blueticks, he said.

He's too small to hang out with hounds three times his size.

He's ah dog ain't he?

Yes and Jojo deserves to be in the house because let's face it, Uncle Harley, how many rats have the Blueticks bagged for us?

None, I'll admit that, and Jojo is ah ratter all right.

The best.

But, young lady, if it weren't for the Blueticks, the coons would pillage our garden, tip over our garbage cans, tear down your bird feeder, and climb down our chimney like Santa Claus not to mention carryin' rabies like the plague.

The Blueticks are useful but we don't need a whole pack of them. Elizabeth knew she was lighting her uncle's fire. How many do we have now? I've lost count.

Only six.

That's five too many.

You talk to your daddy about that.

I'm talking to you about Jojo.

Okay, Elizabeth, you just tell me how many old coons Jojo has treed for yours truly.

I acknowledge your rhetorical rejoinder and take your point, Elizabeth answered.

Don't you be talkin' to me like a danged lawyer.

Well, get off Jojo's case then.

Hell bells, he even sleeps in your danged bed with you.

So what?

I told you back when he was a pup, girl, there ain't no such thing as a one-night stand with a dog.

It's my bed.

Once a dog gets in your bed, it's harder than Hades to get him out.

He's my surrogate son.

Surro-what? Harley snorted. I wish somebody would take care of me the way you take care of your pampered pooch.

Doesn't Dolly Dugan take good care of you?

Harley didn't reply, and was obviously resigned to the truth of his niece's deft comeback.

Lamely, he changed the subject.

Anything else I can bring you, darlin'?

The complete tartan pantsuit outfit I wore in court this morning.

To say the pantsuit word aloud sent a sudden shiver across her taut shoulders.

Same big city duds got you in this fix with Judge Bo?

Harley arched his bushy red eyebrows and glanced sideways at Mrs. Langtree.

Same ones, Elizabeth affirmed.

Harley looked down at his battered engineer boots, shaking his head in disgust, his long red ponytail swishing to and fro.

My veneer is rubbin' mighty thin with you, little gal.

I need my tartan right away.

I ain't gonna ask what you think you're doin', he said, staring at her with stark concern. I'd likely get peeved again.

Please don't. Just do as I ask, my sweet honey-do.

I'll bring them in the morning.

Morning? I need them right now.

Darlin', what you think you need and what you gonna get are two different deals for a change. He spoke slowly, enunciating each word as if talking to a dimwit. You're the MacLaine locked up this time. Not me.

For a change, Mrs. Langtree agreed, giving him a hard, dry fisheye.

Remember, little gal, Harley said, I gotta break all this here bad bidness to your daddy and sit with him for a spell.

I know, I know, Elizabeth agreed.

He might want to come visit you this evenin'.

Oh no! Don't let him see me in jail wearing this—

Elizabeth caught her breath.

You put them rags on yourself, Harley scolded, looking her up and down. Nobody forced you to dress up like a Manila hook—

Yes, but—

No buts. Again, he cut her off. Enjoy your night down here with the other cellar dwellers.

Elizabeth watched him ease around on a boot heel and start moseying down the dim tunnel without saying good-bye.

Get off your contrary shyster's high horse, he tossed over his shoulder, if you wanna get along with me.

Bullseye. You've gone and done it this time, she thought. Uncle Harley is throwing darts, and my sweet ambulance chaser's ass is his target.

Don't make me no never mind no how, Harley groused under his whiskey breath.

* * *

Zung bought or ripped off high-ticket items, MacLaine had explained that last night in the bunker. TVs, cigars, stereos, cigarettes, cases of booze, kerosene refrigerators, foot-powered sewing machines, and the latest thing the Vietnamese go apeshit over—little hand-portable electric generators made by Honda. Then he smuggled the contraband up the river on his Vietnamese Navy boats to Saigon.

How did you know about all this? Proctor had asked.

One night about zero-dark-hundred last summer, one of our perimeter guards woke me up. A village bargirl said she needed to talk to me. MacLaine unhooked his Randall combat knife from his equipment harness. "This chick reported some damned nasty merchantmen off a Panamanian-flagged rust bucket, the Bethlehem Provider, were out of it. Drunker than two barrels of shit, they wouldn't pay their bar tab. Hooting with the owls, pissing on each other's legs and otherwise raising hell with the locals, they let it all hang out, man. Teased the village idiot. Made fun of the village dwarf. Even cremated a live chicken."

One of God's most providing creatures?

Yeah, the sadistic simpletons. I woke Captain Warfield up and told the haps. He sent me ahead to check it out most ricky-tick. MacLaine drew his Randall from its oiled-leather sheath. Our main man was to come along after he put in his contact lenses and called Mr. Kelly on their hot line.

He sent you alone?

He's always testing me, so I went along with the chick and found six seamen in a bar we call the Green Latrine, an off-limits garbage dump in the 'Arm Pit' area near the dock. It was a bad scene, man. The room reeked of cigars, grass, burnt chicken feathers, and citronella candles to shoo away the fucking mosquitoes.

The poor chicken, Proctor said, eyes as round as Moon Pies.

One crispy critter that looked like it had been hosed down with a flamethrower.

Not funny, Tom. How in the heck did it all go down?

MacLaine looked at the inscription engraved on the Randall's stainless steel blade near its tang:

T.P. MacLaine USMC 162-42-7600

He said, It seems that one seaman went to the outhouse and found a mangy hen camped out on the one-holer.

MacLaine began sharpening his knife with a small gray whetstone taken from the side pocket on the Randall's sheath.

While she was still zonked out, the old boy whipped out his Zippo and set her tail feathers on fire. She beat feet into the bar, and another seafaring genius tried to douse the flames with a bottle of Mekong Whiskey. It exploded.

Proctor chuckled in his silent, spazzy way.

MacLaine responded with a wry smile and said, I sized up the situation and politely introduced myself. I allowed as how they oughta pay up and go back to their ship. They, of course, laughed their heads off at me.

Where was Warfield?

He hadn't showed yet, and a wiry, long-haired Englishman covered with more tattoos than Queequeg got in my face. He yelled, 'No bloody Scotsman can tell us where to go. In particular, no lowly Yank corporal!'

Intimidating dude.

His buddies thought he was a trip and laughed even harder at me.

Humiliating, huh?

I didn't give a shit. Those assholes were all as blotto as a moonshiner's farts.

Proctor swallowed a laugh.

The Englishman said if they did go back to the ship, they would Shanghai me aboard the Provider.

Was he serious?

Serious as a snakebite, MacLaine said, as he squirted a few drops of oil on his whetstone. He asked me if I'd ever been buggered.

Buggered? Proctor asked.

Roger, buggered.

What's buggered?

You got some learnin' to do, Doc.

I suppose, Proctor said, puzzled.

Forced anal sodomy—as in, you don't have my permission, sir. MacLaine continued to sharpen his Randall's cold-steel blade. I told him no, I'd never had my cookies packed.

I certainly hope not, Mac.

MacLaine chuckled.

Also told the limey prick I'd never smoked dope or incinerated a live hen either.

Are you telling me the truth about the dope?

Never have, never will, man.

Never is a long time, Tom.

Only a lifetime for me.

What'd the Englishman do?

Got pissed to the max. Started rubbing his hands together, saying, 'My, my, a young Scottish virgin bung,' and started toward me.

Oh, wow.

I was outnumbered six to one, but only five of them started closing in around me.

Dung-heap odds.

No shit.

You didn't stand much chance, Proctor said.

Yeah, MacLaine agreed, so I took the offensive.

Once a Marine, always a Marine.

Yeah buddy. I dropped back and punted the Englishman's balls up his asshole. MacLaine smiled. 'Course, they all jumped on me then, except for a little old Filipino dude who ran behind the bar and hid.

Where was Warfield?

Like in the movies, Captain Warfield and his good bud, Lieutenant Kelly, leaped through the door, both laughing at the pandemonium. They were something else—avenging angels among the Devil's drunken disciples.

Far out.

You should have seen them, Doc, the tag team from hell!

Proctor managed a smile and asked, What happened to the Englishman?

Bullfrog Bob let out his corny war cry: 'Hubba, hubba, hubba!' Then he got the limey son of a bitch into a guillotine hold. Choked him until his tongue popped and his lights went out.

Served him right.

Warfield almost killed the toughest one. A mean shaved-head Turk. Big as a water buffalo.

So our officers and gentlemen were brawling in public?

Correction: kicking asses. MacLaine squirted more oil onto his whetstone. They delivered several of the other sorry suckers the uppercut-fists-in-the-gut-upchuck experience, too. No extra cost.

Our captain is one tough dude, Proctor said.

We knew he was an All-American linebacker at Annapolis from an article in the Pacific Stars and Stripes.

That's right! Now I remember him. From a Penn State game.

Up until the Green Latrine scene, we didn't know he was also the heavyweight boxing champ of the Midshipmen Brigade, and his straight right cross held clenched thunder.

Impressive. What else do you know about him?

He was close to the top of his 1966 Naval Academy class.

Smart, then?

Super smart. A Rhodes Scholarship winner. But, his eyesight is worse than yours.

From what?

Studying late at night, I reckon.

Why did he join the Marines? Proctor asked, now raptly curious.

He wanted to be a navy fighter pilot but couldn't pass the eye exam, MacLaine said. So he turned down the scholarship and took a Marine commission to come here.

A sacrifice, indeed, Proctor said. He could be safe and sound, studying in England.

Right you are.

We're blessed to have him leading us.

The Turk was blessed, too, because our captain was in the village.

Why?

Three of our roughest and toughest Vietnamese commandos showed up, packing pieces.

Pieces?

Weapons, hoss. All were carrying their .30-caliber M-2 carbines.

Sounds like the Wild West.

But, with fully automatic weapons capable of firing thirty-round magazines in seconds, instead of six-shooters.

What happened? Proctor asked, on edge.

The commandos heard the ruckus and came by to check out the Green Latrine scene. The meanest one—a real cutthroat—recognized the Turk as the same stiff who humped and then thumped his sister, a bar hostess, the day before. The Turk hadn't paid, and beat her up for complaining about it.

Bad mistake.

"You bet. Naturally, the commando, who is one of the fiercest in the company, wanted to waste the Turk. This commando has a dotted line tattooed around his neck and Sat Cong! on his right forearm."

Dotted line?

Yeah, meaning cut here.

"What does sat cong mean?"

Kill communists.

Your commando better hope he's never captured by the Viet Cong, Proctor said.

Yeah, MacLaine agreed. He knows his tattoos would be his death warrant. The VC would cut his head off along the dotted line. He's also the same dude who collects gold teeth out of the mouths of dead VC.

Proctor shook his head in disbelief.

He also wears a necklace of VC ears.

Human ears?

He slices them off VC corpses. Dries them in the sun. Pierces and strings them onto a leather thong.

Sick!

Yeah. MacLaine grinned again but like a real Dennis the Menace this time. The ears kind of look like dried apricots.

Repulsive, Proctor said with loathing. Are we dealing with primitives here?

The Vietnamese ask themselves the same question about us, MacLaine said.

They think we're the primitives? Proctor asked in astonishment.

You gotta see it from the Vietnamese perspective, MacLaine said. We're the unwelcome, but needed, American barbarians, who protect them from the VC and NVA. They see our nineteen-year-old grunts kill in a heartbeat, and then smoke a joint to celebrate. They see our flyboys drop napalm bombs and defoliate the jungle with Agent Orange. And they see how all of us round-eyed dudes love to drink too much beer and eat big slabs of red meat—barely cooked and oozing blood. They're turned off by this kind of Occidental bullshit, as well as our long noses, hairy chests, and loud mouths in public—not to mention hosing their women.

Yes, but cutting off ears—

No sweat, man, because Captain Warfield put a stop to it.

How?

He pulled our advisory team out of the field until their company commander agreed to court-martial the next man who sliced off an ear.

Good for him.

Our skipper always does what's right. But rumor is as soon as Warfield goes stateside, the slicer is gonna cut the ears off the next VC prisoner the company captures.

While the prisoner is still alive?

Yeah. Make him eat his own ears, raw, one at time.

Savage.

Then he's gonna kill the prisoner and eat his liver.

Barbaric.

Gonna cut the prisoner's balls off and stuff them in the dead man's mouth.

Inhumane.

The Vietnamese are fighting a civil war. The worst kind. Brother against brother. Same as back home in Tecumseh County during our country's Civil War. Yankee blue against Confederate gray.

Did the ear-cutter shoot the Turk? Proctor asked.

Naw, MacLaine answered. I translated for Warfield who sweet-talked him out of squeezing his M-2's trigger. The Turk was lucky the commando respected Warfield enough to listen.

Everyone, Vietnamese and American alike, respects him.

Captain Warfield earns it, MacLaine said. In this case, he persuaded the commandos to escort all six seamen back here to our compound under guard. For their own protection, we locked them up in our ConEx box until next morning.

ConEx?

An acronym for Continental Express.

The big metal shipping container outside with the air holes cut in the sides?

Right, MacLaine confirmed.

What happened in the morning?

Captain Warfield told the seamen they weren't getting out of the box until they paid for everything they owed in town—the dead hen, their bar tab, the busted furniture, the bar hostess's injuries—even her trick pay.

Seems fair to me, Proctor mused.

Warfield is always fair, but the retardo seamen didn't think so.

What did they do?

Bitched, moaned, and swore at us, MacLaine said. Mainly at our captain, who politely asked them to stop cussing and stop taking the Lord's name in vain.

They obey him?

Hell no. Whined they were broke. Claimed Zung owed them money.

Lieutenant Commander Zung?

Yeah, that little bastard. Captain Warfield asked them how come Zung owed them. They wouldn't tell.

Suspicious.

Exactly. Our captain repeated his conditions for their release. If they didn't stop swearing and badmouthing us and pay up, they could rot in the box—without water. Winking at me, he went off for physical training with Mr. Kelly and his SEALs just like he does every morning.

* * *

Mrs. Langtree, Elizabeth said, I need to make a phone call.

Can do, missy. The amply endowed matron put her right arm around Elizabeth's shoulder. Come along down to my little hole-in-the-wall where you can make all the calls you want.

Do we have to go past the men's cellblock?

Yes, but don't you fret none about them bubbas. Mrs. Langtree squeezed Elizabeth's shoulder. They can't get at you. They might hoot and holler some cause of the get-up you got on, but pay them no mind.

Ice cubes seemed to drop into the pit of Elizabeth's stomach.

Rhino the Retardo will see me for sure. He'll yell something horrible because Uncle Harley isn't here. She didn't know if she could handle it.

Can't you take me back upstairs to make the call, ma'am? Elizabeth asked.

Sorry, missy. No calls from upstairs. I can't take you past central booking without a release order or an official call from Judge Bo hisself.

Can't I use the phone on the booking desk?

Afraid not. Judge Bo's order be whoever come down don't go up until he say so. Mrs. Langtree shrugged. Either we go down yonder or you don't make no call.

But I can't walk by all of them, Elizabeth said, taking another glance down the dim tunnel.

Not surprised, she heard a slight quiver in her voice and silently began to upbraid herself: You're sure not the tough Deputy County Prosecutor you thought you were—are you? Afraid of what all those country bumpkins will call you? Dammit! You need to use the damn phone to call for help—but from who?

* * *

He looks strong as steel, Proctor said.

Who? Lieutenant Kelly or Captain Warfield? MacLaine asked.

Both, but Mr. Kelly is not a big man.

Yeah, he's only five-eight or so, but a super-strong hard-bodied dude, MacLaine said. A champion oarsman in college and well-educated to boot.

Impressive fellow.

Yeah, MacLaine agreed. Bullfrog Bob is the only officer in the SEALs with a master's degree from Cambridge University.

In England?

You got it, old chap, MacLaine quipped.

Where's he from?

The City of Brotherly Love.

Philadelphia?

Robert F. Kelly Jr., no less.

A mainline blueblood?

No way, man, MacLaine said. More like a wild Irish liberty risk with a great sense of humor. He calls everybody 'squire' so he won't have to remember their names.

What in the world is he doing in the SEALs? Proctor asked.

The swamp is his second home. MacLaine couldn't resist. He likes to play in the mud and count his rosary beads.

Proctor raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, deep in the Rung Sat, Mr. Kelly makes mud pies and kills beaucoup bad guys."

Proctor shook his head.

Observing his bunkermate's amazement, MacLaine continued.

By the way, Doc, how big a man is doesn't mean jack-shit in combat. Audie Murphy was a hell of a lot smaller than Mr. Kelly, and so are most of the Viet Cong sappers who'll blow your ass away in a nanosecond. My Uncle Harley told me a long time ago not to judge a man's bravery by his height.

An awed Proctor remained mum.

By noon, MacLaine said, that day turned hotter than a Fourth of July picnic in Death Valley.

Those bums must have been thirsty, Proctor offered.

Begging, man, begging for a hit of Adam's natural ale.

Dehydrated?

Hey, they'd been on a three-day bender. Nixed the chow, refused to eat the local cuisine, and their mouths were dry as cinders.

Aside from the respectable Ba Muoi Ba and La Rue brands of Vietnamese beer, Proctor said, I understand the local spirits are bad news.

Worse than any popskull corn liquor my Grandpappy MacLaine ever brewed in his secret-hollow still.

What did they drink?

The worst. Tiger Beer. Troops call it tiger piss. Plus bottle after bottle of home-brewed rice wine fortified with endless shots of Mekong Whiskey.

Cirrhosis city.

Yeah, and they were shitfaced as hillbillies at a rooster fight.

Proctor cackled.

To top it off, we later learned they smoked pot and opium, then dropped speed.

Speed—here?

Yeah, man, Dexedrine pills ripped off from Special Forces survival kits.

Sounds as if they were on a Joplin death-wish trip.

Pushing the late soul-brother Jimi Hendrix's self-destruction button.

A wonder they didn't die.

One of those zoned-out cats almost did.

Which one?

Guess, man, MacLaine countered, smirking like Howdy Doody personified.

I'd say the Englishman because of the chokehold Lieutenant Kelly threw on him.

Naw. Mr. Bullfrog eased off as soon as the homo pansy went limp.

Who, then?

Would you believe the little old Filipino?

No kidding?

Captain Warfield is still a Boy Scout at heart, MacLaine said. About an hour later he ordered me to unlock the box. When I swung open the door, the stench almost knocked me on my ass. A sour mix of piss, shit and puke.

Gross, Proctor said, almost gagging.

We zapped the fire hose in there. They all crawled out, except one.

Which one?

The Filipino. Curled up tight. A tiny dead dormouse in a far corner. Gray, too. Not a nice sight. Or smell.

Fetal position? Proctor asked.

Yeah, and glassy-eyed to boot.

Bad symptoms.

We pulled him out PDQ, MacLaine said. Our old corpsman—the dude you replaced—stuck an IV in his arm.

How about his temperature?

Dumped him in the shower to bring it down. Filled him with all the cold lemonade he could drink.

He survive?

You bet. MacLaine touched his thumb to the Randall's blade. He was one tough little critter, and damned happy to be alive.

Sharp but not sharp enough, he concluded.

Any brain damage? Proctor asked.

Not so you'd notice, MacLaine said. "Out of gratitude, he confided in Warfield. Told our good captain that the other seamen stole a dozen brand-new foot-powered sewing machines off the Bethlehem Provider. The tattooed Englishman, the ringleader, sold them dirt cheap to Commander Zung who gave him only a token down payment in US dollars."

So this is how you learned Zung is in the black market?

You got it, Sherlock, MacLaine said. Ironically, the sewing machines were intended donations to the Catholic Relief Society in Saigon. The Society, in turn, gives the machines to needy refugee families so they can scratch out a livelihood. Turned out the Filipino was a good Catholic and got hopping mad when he found out the machines had ended up on the black market instead.

Did Warfield catch Zung? Proctor asked.

No one caught the rotten little punk, MacLaine answered. His deal was over and done with by then. The sewing machines had been smuggled up the river to Saigon on Zung's boat three days earlier.

Zung sure is lucky, Proctor said.

His luck'll run out one of these muggy Mekong Delta days.

MacLaine glanced up at his Boy Scout calendar and realized he had not yet crossed off the date, November 8, 1970.

Someday, someone might nail his tail to the barn door, Proctor said.

Tomorrow, maybe, MacLaine agreed.

All of a sudden, a stark premonition struck into MacLaine's brain like a coal pick of a warning. Maybe my tail, too, he thought. His palms turned warm and moist. Stop it. Stop forecasting disaster. You're a MacLaine. A Scots-Irish-Welsh-Shawnee survivor. A survivor like the little old Filipino.

What happened to the merchant seamen? Proctor asked.

"Captain Warfield sent them back to the Bethlehem Provider under guard, MacLaine answered. But, only after he sent me out to the ship with a letter to their captain. A huge Swede with tombstones in his irises. Warfield wrote him about the rip-offs from his ship and their village horror show."

Testing you again?

I reckon.

MacLaine touched his thumb to the blade and found it to be sharper—but still not sharp enough.

What did the Swedish captain do?

Turned purple, pounded his fists, and swore so loud his Chinese cabin boy almost fainted.

Proctor tilted his head back, sucking air through his nose, and then cackled.

Then the captain opened his ship's safe, MacLaine said. He took out a heavy black leather sap, a .45-caliber burp gun, and a big wad of foreign bills to pay for the damages.

Sounds as if he knew how to handle the situation, Proctor said.

He did, MacLaine agreed. He also handed me six sets of handcuffs and leg irons.

What for?

Our advisory team had to escort his crewmen back to his ship.

Serious dude.

Serious as a heart attack. MacLaine beamed. By the time I climbed back down his ship's brow, the big Swede was definitely armed and dangerous.

I'll bet the bums didn't want to go back aboard their ship.

No shit. Would you?

MacLaine again tested the edge of his Randall's blade. All right, he concluded, it's almost as sharp as a Shawnee's scalping knife.

No way would I want to go back aboard, Proctor said. Not to face a Swedish monster like him.

He was black rage personified, MacLaine said, nodding and again thumbing his blade. The Swede was a trip. The bums had no choice. Now the blade was almost as sharp as his Uncle Harley's Arkansas Toothpick. Away they shuffled in irons and cuffs under our armed escort.

Serves them right.

Yeah, they were some sick puppies for sure, all suffering from their hangovers from Hell. Mega-migraines. Foul BO. Bad breath. Sour belches. Not to mention miscellaneous contusions from their ass-whippings courtesy of Warfield and Kelly.

What about the Turk? Proctor asked.

Our corpsman wrapped beaucoup medical gauze around the his thick skull because of all the knots Warfield put on his noggin. That old boy looked like he was wearing a big white turban.

Ever see them again?

Never.

Good.

So, Doc, that ended their futile little people-to-people program in Nha Be ville.

* * *

I understand, indeed I do, Mrs. Langtree said. Some gals rather rot in here than walk past them animals.

Hey Lizzie, Rhino bellowed down the tunnel. Trot your sweet little pussy down here, and give us a gander at the red beaver you been hiding under your miniskirt!

Lewd laughter echoed down the tunnel from the gang of male prisoners, both black and white.

Good god! Elizabeth said to herself. I'm trembling. A lost lamb hearing a wolf-pack howl. Despite Mrs. Langtree's protecting arm around me, I'm scared shitless. Come on, get tough. You are a MacLaine! Don't let these creepy cretins intimidate you.

I ain't supposed to do this, Mrs. Langtree said, but you done favors for my Tonya in high school.

I tried to—

Taught her how to play tennis, helped her be the first black cheerleader, got her into the all-white French Club, encouraged her to run for class secretary and all.

Elizabeth nodded, remembering. She did help Tonya, and now maybe Mrs. Langtree would help her?

Miss Elizabeth, you're too much of a lady to walk past them trashy infidels, so why don't you let me make your phone call for you?

Oh, would you, Mrs. Langtree?

Sure will, missy. She smiled at Elizabeth with the tenderness of an experienced midwife. Who'd you be wantin' me to call?

Charlene Bogart.

The grade school teacher?

That's the one.

Judge Bo's orphan child?

Yes ma'am, and my best friend.

The beatific smile faded from Mrs. Langtree's face.

Did you know Miss Charlene gave up her apartment yesterday and moved in with the judge in the big house—him taking sick so much of late?

No, I didn't. Elizabeth wrinkled her brow. Well, I haven't talked to Char since Wednesday morning, and on Thanksgiving I was just too busy preparing for trial.

Rats. This changes everything. In order to reach Charlene, Mrs. Langtree will have to call the judge's house. What if the grouch himself answers? Then what? No, in good conscience, I can't ask Mrs. Langtree to do this. She might get into trouble and jeopardize her meal ticket.

Chapter 2-2

Marcel Rondeaux

"The only decent human being out of that whole crew of losers was the Filipino fellow," Proctor said.

Right, MacLaine agreed. "The little rascal turned out to be the Bethlehem Provider's cook. He baked us a huge angel food cake."

Cool.

Also sent us a case of frozen sirloins, and five gallons of homemade ice cream made with fresh pineapple he bought in Nha Be's village market. We're still eating those steaks on special occasions. The Marine Corps Birthday day after tomorrow, for example.

Nice surprise.

"As I said, most seafaring men are good guys. The Bethlehem Provider's bums were an exception. Warfield labeled them as the ugly ambassadors of ill will."

Proctor hiccupped at the description.

They went apeshit with the US greenbacks Zung paid them for the sewing machines.

Zung ripped them off, too?

Yeah, the little shit didn't pay them all he owed.

No honor among thieves. Proctor pushed his glasses back up. Where does Zung get the green dollars?

The so-called Bank of India.

Indians?

Proctor was puzzled.

Not whoo-whoo Indians from America but the ones from India, man, MacLaine answered. Up in Saigon are some Indian dudes—Hindu families, I think—who sell rare stamps and moldy books as a front on Tu Do Street. They're old hands in the illegal money-exchange business.

Clever.

Over the years, they've laundered French francs, Japanese yen, and now American dollars.

Where does Zung get his piasters to buy the green?

He skims off his sailors' payroll. Takes kickbacks from them for favors, promotions, and choice assignments. Then he uses their piasters to buy dollars from Indian shopkeepers.

Outrageous.

Worse, he keeps dead sailors' names on the morning muster roster and scarfs up all their piasters to boot. Ghost sailors whose widows and children get zip-shit.

Why doesn't the Vietnamese Navy court-martial him?

Zung comes from an old, wealthy and politically powerful family. MacLaine again tested the Randall's blade and found it to be as perfect as a surgeon's scalpel. His well-connected kinfolks and their cronies protect him. How else do you think the ferret-faced fart got his commission?

Happens in America, too.

Reckon so, MacLaine said, but this sniveling chickenshit is far worse than any American officer could ever be. He's got about as much command presence as Barnie Fife.

Zung a bad case, huh? Proctor asked.

I'm afraid so, MacLaine said. He's is a pretentious martinet, a vicious disciplinarian, and a pissant coward with a stone-cold heart. With the Randall now sharpened to his satisfaction, MacLaine nicked his right thumb's knuckle and drew crimson blood. If you ask me—Warfield is the best we have, and Zung is the worst they have.

What are you doing? A bewildered Proctor asked, staring at MacLaine's knuckle.

Another family tradition, MacLaine said. When you sharpen a knife, always draw blood before sheathing it. Chisholm blood if possible. He grinned menacingly at Proctor. Or a virgin corpsman's blood.

Proctor blushed and changed the subject.

By the way, Tom, he said, I've been meaning to ask you what the initials IHTFP mean. I see them scrawled everywhere. On walls, traffic signs, the sides of army supply trucks."

I hate this fucking place, MacLaine said as he replaced his whetstone and the Randall in their respective sheaths. It's the average trooper's sentiment for the would-be Republic of Vietnam. You probably also saw the initials FTA, right?

Yes—fun, travel and adventure.

No—fuck the army. MacLaine rehooked his Randall combat knife to his equipment harness and then glanced at his watch.

Nearly time for lights out, MacLaine said, reaching under his lumpy pillow and pulling out Sandra's letter to read one more time.

Please, dear Lord, let our baby be born as healthy as any MacLaine can be.

MacLaine leaned over, felt around under his cot, and patted Chesty's sleeping head. Then he found his dry-storage ammo can and slid it out. Opening it, he again smelled the lilac perfume from all of Sandra's previous letters, and stored her latest one in postmark sequence with the rest.

Lying back on his cool canvas cot, MacLaine rubbed his eyes.

Then he realized he had an erection as stiff as a tent pole. Wow. I'm so horny I could fuck the crack of dawn.

MacLaine knew the lilac aroma had taken him back to a certain secluded and moonlit beach in Hawaii. Musta been the night we conceived our baby, or maybe later at Fort DeRussy. The R&R facility run by the army right there on Waikiki Beach. Yeah. Maybe the last night there when she finally quit screwing around with her damn deck of seventy-eight Tarot cards, always predicting a bummer future for me back in Vietnam. The night she burned her pungent sickly sweet incense. The night we finally talked straight and contemplated her soothing liquid-filled glass Lava-Lite lamp until almost dawn. The lamp's red lava-like bubbles constantly changed, rising and sinking in the sunshine-yellow glow of the warm oily liquid. The funky lamp she had insisted he buy for her from the head shop in Pearl Harbor.

Frustrated, he threw off his camouflage poncho liner, pulled back the nylon mosquito net, and looked over at Proctor whose eyes were closed tight, but not in sleep. No, in obvious tension.

MacLaine got up and turned off the overhead light. He dropped prone to the deck and began doing one-arm push-ups, his right hand planted flat on the rough planking. When he had pumped out twelve repetitions, his erection dissolved. Strike the tent.

Then he heard several noisy geckos impatiently chirping their mating calls like tiny frogs in the darkness.

When he first arrived in