A Fight for Honor: The Charles Kerkman Story

By Michael Ireland

It was and remains - the largest public/private contract ever entered into in Michigan. More than $35 million in taxpayers money was awarded to UPSCO, a company developed to build innovative tug-barge vessels as part of a unique rails-to-sails transportation system that promised to revolutionize and transform the U.S./Michigan trucking and shipping industry in the early 1980s.
Within seven years, however, two top company officials would be sentenced to prison; the company - and the hundreds of jobs it provided - lay in ruins; political careers were destroyed; and Michigan residents saw millions of their tax dollars disappear in an instant.
But now, more than two-and-a-half decades later, federal court records, company documents, secret FBI/U.S. Postal Service Investigation reports and U.S. Attorney records reveal a reality that is hard to believe:
Michigans largest financial investment flop in history never had to happen;
one of the nations most farsighted and talented entrepreneurs never had to see the inside of a prison cell;
and the level of FBI, prosecutorial and judicial misconduct, sparked by overreaching federal investigative agencies and greedy union and private shipbuilding company owners, rose to a level that is still hard to believe even in these cynical times.

A Fight For Honor: The Charles Kerkman Story is an inside look at one of the nations most outrageous and egregious political and law-enforcement cases told through the life and experiences of Charles Kerkman, the man who lived the governmental nightmare that haunts him to this day.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479717439

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

It was a cool, spring day in 1966 and a light mist fell on the grounds of the U.S. Merchant Marine Academy in Kings Point, New York, when the news began to spread around the campus like wildfire.

Like all institutions of higher learning rumors often ran rampant, shared among friends over a cold, foamy beer in a darkened bar with the jukebox belting out some tune from whatever popular British group was rushing up the Top 100, or in the mess hall while naval wannabes stuffed their portholes with the day’s steaming mash of just-barely edible grub.

It would take a day or two for the official announcement to be made if it was true that the academy’s graduating class of 1967 would be officially rushed out early because of the government’s dire need of merchant mariners to man old, U.S. Martime Administration-owned vessels filled with munitions, store goods, sandbags and just about any other item in deep demand by the troops battling in Vietnam.

If the scuttlebutt leaked from the superintendent’s office panned out, the cadet/midshipmen would be sent into service in February 1967 and no one would be tossing their cap in the air in the warm sunshine at the graduation ceremony that all had been looking forward to that following year in June.

The information didn’t surprise or bother Charles Kerkman as he strode down the long, linoleum hallway of his dormitory—John Paul Jones Hall. In fact, the ruggedly handsome, 23-year-old engineering student thought it pretty cool that he’d be out on his first assignment sooner than expected.

Later that evening, Kerkman walked along Crowninshield Pier with his best friend and roommate Fred Boswell, an Alabaman who was also going to be a 3rd Assistant Engineer, a Watch Engineer with an Ensign rank in the U.S. Navy—just like his pal—when their graduation day finally rolled around.

Boswell had a deep southern twang when he spoke and when excited or angry would often let loose with a barrage of cuss words that would make any sailor proud and caused Kerkman to explode in fits of laughter at his friend’s colorful and descriptive profanications.

You think it’s true about the early fucking graduation to get us to ‘Nam’ even faster? asked Boswell.

No reason to think that it’s not, replied Kerkman. Everything they’ve been telling us here about how tough our guys are having it over there and President Johnson’s escalating the troop numbers means they need even more supplies than they’ve been getting in the past. Sure in hell the only ones bringing the stuff in is the Merchant Marines. I think we’re heading to ‘Nam faster than you think, Fred.

It went unsaid, but Kerkman had his own private plan to request to go on active duty status with the U.S. Navy when he graduated—early or not—and he hoped he’d get his second look at Southeast Asia from the deck of a carrier, destroyer or Swift Boat instead of a U.S. Martime Administration cargo ship. He had first traveled to Saigon in 1965 as part of a training run during his second year at the Merchant Marine Academy. Either way, he knew his path was leading him back to the bowels of South Vietnam.

Boswell nodded, deep in thought about what it all meant and how it might affect his future. He was as excited as Kerkman to begin his adventure and the thought they’d get out of the classroom and into action quicker didn’t displease him.

Two days later the official communiqué came down from the top that the rumor was indeed fact and every student’s plans thus changed, a new, energized buzz rolling through the campus as excitement, and some trepidation, began to take hold.

While he hadn’t initially expected it, the announcement made sense to Kerkman who knew that the government was already busy taking a significant number of Victory-class ships out of mothballs at the old naval reserve fleet boneyard up in Bremerton, Washington, to get them ready for use by the privately held Merchant Marine shipping lines. Those companies had contractual obligations with the U.S. Government Services Administration to run supply ships to any ports of call where the military needed them. And where they were needed most these days, he knew, was Vietnam.

As the months passed, the days of onboard and classroom lessons filled the waking hours, but all seemed to run together in a blur of lectures, tests, studying and the occasional beers with his pal, Boswell. After a long day of checking specs on mechanical systems for propulsion and ensuring everything was working efficiently on the academy’s training ship and in the classroom facilities—including boilers, gears, propellers and the control system—the two were often exhausted.

There was one exciting bright spot, however, throughout the days and nights of maritime monotony for the studious Kerkman. He had met a pretty, 24-year-old, blue-eyed girl named Mary LeStrange and the two became almost inseparable during the warm summer evenings and Kings Point weekends when they could finally take a break from cracking the books. It was still early in the game, but the smitten engineering student thought she just might be the one.

As the winter snows of late ’66 and early ’67 began carpeting Kings Point and the blustery winds whipped across Long Island Sound sending chills through even the most stalwart students, Kerkman and Boswell wrapped up their accelerated studies and on their new graduation date—February 10, 1967—saluted their superiors and accepted their diplomas and paperwork packages that would reveal where their first assignment would take them.

After going through the ceremonial drill and shaking the many hands of friends who after that day would be taking assignments around the country, the pair headed back to their dorm room—called cells—in Jones Hall.

Sitting on their bunks in an almost stripped-down, small cubicle of a room—neither man had much in the way of worldly goods so packing up wasn’t a major undertaking—they tore open their assignment envelopes and read their prospective employer’s name.

It looks like we’ve both got an American Mail Line ship, said Boswell, glancing at his friend’s paperwork. The men knew the company was Seattle-based, but the ship they were being assigned to was being outfitted in Eureka, California and then would be run to Port Chicago in Sacramento so the vessel could be sheathed out in order to carry Napalm bombs. The pair would have to go meet their ship before it left Eureka which couldn’t depart until the new engineers were onboard.

Reading further, they saw their first cargo vessel was one of the larger Merchant Marines’ Victory ships in play, the 8,500-horsepower steamship SS Navajo Victory, one of the several Victory ships run by American Mail Line at that time.

But Kerkman had other ideas. He hadn’t changed his mind about starting his career with the U.S. Navy as a line officer and he had put in for active duty with the academy’s military liaison. Jumping off his bunk, he put back on his warm Navy Pea Coat, slipped out the door and hustled over to the Naval Science Offices located in O’Hara Hall.

The Navy immediately popped his balloon.

Nope, sorry Kerkman, said the U.S. Navy commander handling his request. Your Merchant Marine Academy class graduated early because there’s a critical national shortage of men to run the supply ships overseas. You’re needed there.

Disappointed, the newly minted marine engineer made his way back to his dorm. He had been dreaming of joining the military from his earliest days of the academy’s indoctrination, through Plebe Year, through Sea Year and even up to the ceremonial Ring Dance signifying the end of one’s second-class year.

Son of a bitch, they wouldn’t sign me up, groused Kerkman as he slid out of his coat and let it drop to the floor in a heap. He took a cold Pabst Blue Ribbon offered by Boswell, who stored the favored beverage in a secret cooler hidden behind a panel in his wardrobe closet. I don’t mind sailing in the Merchant Marine, but I really thought the Navy would take me.

Boswell felt sorry for his buddy and looked grimly down at the cold brew in his hand.

You know what this means, don’t you pal? he asked with a southern tinge of feigned resignation to his voice.

Kerkman smiled and in unison the pair yelled, Road Trip.

Disappointment was quickly forgotten as the two marine engineers began planning for their sojourn to California and the exciting new life that awaited them.

Two things we have to do on our way out to California, said Kerkman, taking a long swig of his beer. We’re gonna jump on Route 66 and see the sights and then pitstop in Phoenix to see how Vogel’s doing and then get ourselves to San Francisco to check out the hottest action in 50 states. Carol Doda is waiting for us, Fred, and I don’t want to disappoint the lady!

Vogel Gettier was a former classmate at the academy who had lived down the hall and was a hell of a lot fun to pal around with. Like a modern-day Fagin, he could miraculously conjure up cases of beer, wine, the best looking women on campus, pizzas and snacks at a moment’s notice and throw the wickedest parties, usually at the local pizza joint called Maurice’s.

He had also turned them on to a great way to travel around the country in summer and on breaks using someone else’s dime.

Since cadet/midshipmen didn’t often have a lot of cash to play around with—at least Kerkman, Boswell and Gettier never seemed to be very flush—an ad in a farming magazine that Vogel liked to read caught his eye one day.

Seems there were some New York taxicab companies that would sell their used vehicles to farmers out west who liked to buy the famous Checker cabs and use them as ranch cars for getting around their spreads. Those particular cars were hot items for the farmers as they were tough, durable and, with a little maintenance, could last a long time out on the prairies. They could also travel farther and faster than a horse and it cost a hell of a lot less to feed it. The farmers loved ’em.

The beauty of all this was the taxi companies and farmers needed people to drive the cabs from Brooklyn, Queens or whatever New York City borough housed them, and deliver them to the farm owner. The quid pro quo was the farmer would pay for the gas, and the volunteer driver—usually a college student like Gettier—could notch a free ride to wherever he had to go and have their way back paid as well. Great way to see the country on the cheap.

Snagging one of the New York cab deals that required a delivery to Phoenix (Gettier’s hometown) over the academy’s Christmas break in 1965, the good-natured midshipman offered to share his good fortune with Kerkman and Boswell.

But I’m heading to Wisconsin for the break, said Kerkman. Don’t really want to go all the way to Phoenix.

Boswell piped in, And I’m going home to see the family, but first I’m planning on stopping over in St. Louis to visit Cassandra, an old girlfriend.

That’s all right, said Gettier. I can drop you guys off on my way out west. We can party along the way.

Kerkman and Boswell both jumped at the offer.

No better trip than a free trip, quipped Kerkman.

When classes finished for the week, the trio packed their bags, threw them into the Checker taxicab that was sparking hoots and hollers from fellow students as they passed by, and headed off.

The trip was fun and uneventful, the first segment to Chicago concluded in about 16 hours. Arriving at his destination, Kerkman jumped from the car and grabbed his suitcase from the trunk, waving after his friends who left him in a shower of gravel as they peeled away, a honking horn their final goodbye.

The next stop in St. Louis took the remaining pair past the famous arch and then to the home of Cassandra, whom Boswell wanted to visit. On arrival, he hopped out and received the same hasty farewell as did his roommate earlier that day in the Windy City.

Both Kerkman and Boswell had made other arrangements to get themselves back to Kings Point after the holidays, so after plenty of family time, good food and a few new presents, they made their way back to the wintry, post-Christmas climes of New York.

When classes started up again, Kerkman and Boswell didn’t see Gettier, but figured he had taken his time returning and they’d hook up with him later. After another couple of days went by with no sign of their friend, Kerkman decided to call Gettier’s home.

Their missing friend’s mother answered on the third ring. He immediately could hear the pain in her voice.

Charles, Vogel was in a very bad car accident on his way home and he’s in the hospital. The doctors say he’s paralyzed and aren’t holding out much hope for him to walk again. He’ll be coming back to live with his father and me when they release him from the hospital.

The news was like a hard blow to Kerkman’s gut. When Boswell came back from classes that night, he shared the news with his friend.

Jesus Christ, I can’t believe it. He was great when he dropped me off. And now this, said Boswell.

What a fucking way to end up, shared Kerkman, picturing in his mind a tangled heap of metal that once was the Checker cab that had carried them all home that day.

While neither roommate said it, both knew they were each silently saying a prayer of thanks that it hadn’t been them as well.

Now, over a year later, Kerkman and Boswell wanted to see their still-convalescing friend before they embarked to San Francisco and their new life.

Kerkman’s mind turned once again to the voluptuous picture of the famous stripper Carol Doda he had etched in his thoughts and said, And then it’s off to ‘Frisco to see my gal!

Carol Doda was born on August 29, 1937 in Solano County, California, and her family soon moved to San Francisco. When her parents divorced when she was 3, Doda’s life became one of struggle and hardship as her mother tried to find odd jobs to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads.

School never did excite the pretty blonde-haired bombshell, and she dropped out of school after turning 13 and became a cocktail waitress a year later, lying about her age on the application.

It was in 1964 when Doda made international news.

Working at San Francisco’s infamous Condor Club located at the corner of Broadway and Columbus in the North Beach section of San Francisco on June 19, 1964, when Doda was approximately 26 years old, the Condor’s publicist, Big Davy Rosenberg, gave her a monokini (topless swimsuit). She performed topless that night, the first noted entertainer of the era to do so. The act was an instant success.

She captured worldwide attention again by enhancing her bust from size 34 to 44 through 44 silicon injections at a cost of $1,500. Her breasts became widely known as Doda’s twin 44s.

Surprising to some, Doda attended the San Francisco Art Institute while working at night as a waitress and then later as a lounge entertainer (stripper) at the Condor Club. Her striptease act began with a grand piano lowered through a hole in the ceiling by hydraulic motors. Doda would be atop the piano dancing.

To the delight of her many male admirers, she go-go danced the Swim to a rock-and-roll combo headed by band leader Bobby Freeman as the piano settled on the stage. From the waist up Doda emulated aquatic movements like the Australian Crawl. She also did the Twist, the Frug and the Watusi.

For her topless and waterless Swim dance, Doda wore the bottom half of a black bikini and a net top which ended where a bathing suit generally began. She performed 12 shows nightly so that management could keep crowds moving in and out of the Condor after those customers duly spent their hard-earned dough on drinks and tips for their favorite dancer. There was never any doubt about where the world-renowned entertainer performed: a large lit sign in front of the club featured a giant cartoon caricature of her.

Two months after she started dancing at the Condor, the rest of San Francisco’s Broadway went topless, followed soon after by entertainers across America. Doda became an American cultural icon of the 1960s.

The Republican National Convention was held in San Francisco during the summer of 1964 and many of the delegates took cars, cabs, trolleys and rented buses just to come see Carol Doda.

Kerkman knew where his first stop was going to be when he hit the rolling streets of San Francisco. It didn’t take much to convince Boswell to join him in his plans.

Cross-country transportation wasn’t going to be a problem. During summer leave in 1966, Kerkman obtained a loan from the U.S. Merchant Marine Academy’s Alumni Association to buy a new 1966, two-top, Nassau-blue Corvette. It was fast and just made for a great run across Route 66 and a new beginning.

After cleaning out their dorm room, strolling proudly for the last time down the P-way and out into the cold, crisp February morning, the two academy roommates squeezed their duffle bags into a small foot locker strapped on to a luggage rack atop the sports car’s tiny trunk. They saluted their remaining friends who were also busy loading up their belongings in nearby cars.

The sunlight glinting off their brand new academy rings added just the right touch to the moment.

Here we come, Carol, laughed Kerkman, as he gunned the high-power engine and sped West.

CHAPTER 2

The Corvette hummed along the highway with its two care-free passengers, stopping only long enough to grab a bite to eat or shack up at a cheap motel at night before waking early and hitting the road once more.

It was nighttime just outside of St. Louis as Boswell deftly maneuvered the sweet machine around the always slower moving traffic, his mind turned back to found memories of an old girlfriend he knew still lived in the city.

Dark brown hair, sparkling green eyes and a willingness to explore all the carnal pleasures that a younger—and less experienced—Boswell could dream up from his many long nights perusing his limited, but beloved supply of oft-used, dog-eared Playboy magazines were the thoughts that coursed through the young Ensign’s mind as he suddenly jerked the wheel and flew around the curve of an off-ramp.

A sleepy Kerkman was jolted out of his own tired thoughts as he felt the sudden change in direction.

What the hell are you doing? snapped Kerkman. We got plenty of gas.

I want to make pitstop for a bit and look up an old girlfriend of mine who lives near here, said the smiling driver. She was quite the honey and I want to stop by and say hello.

Kerkman wiped the last remnants of sleep from his eyes and shot his partner a withering look.

Say hello my ass, snapped Kerkman. More like you’ve got a piece of tail on the brain and you’re hoping to get a little before we move on.

Boswell smiled, launching into his own favorite version of the pair’s traveling song.

We need to get our kicks on Route 66, sang Boswell, whacking his friend on the shoulder with his free right hand while quickly accelerating to beat the next red light.

And I suppose you want me to stick around and make small talk with her parents while you take this old high-school squeeze out behind the hay bales, is that right?

Glancing at his pal with a half-assed grin, Boswell responded, Nah. She’s got her own place now. So if she’s home, you can take the car and get lost for awhile. I shouldn’t be that long.

Shit, I’ll just park down the street ’cuz knowing you even if she lets you in her pants I know it won’t be long, laughed Kerkman.

A few minutes later the car screeched to a stop and Boswell hopped out. Kerkman opened his door, walked around the Corvette and slid into the driver’s seat.

I don’t care how long it takes you to wet your whistle, it’s still your turn to drive, he yelled to the back of the sauntering seaman.

Kerkman tuned in a new radio station to a song he liked and then flipped the lever to recline his seat. He closed his eyes to resume his nap, secure in the thought that Boswell would be lucky to even make it through the front door without popping his proverbial cork.

A half-hour later, Boswell was back behind the wheel minus the grin he left with and laying a patch of rubber as he jammed the clutch into second gear, speeding back to the highway. He didn’t say anything and Kerkman decided not to ask. Traffic was light as Boswell once again pointed the car west on Route 66.

It wasn’t but a couple miles up the road that the flickering red lights caught Boswell’s eye in the rear-view mirror.

God damn it, he yelled, once again stirring his friend out of his semi-conscious state. I think I’ve just been nailed.

Kerkman looked over his left shoulder and saw the black-and-white cop car shooting up behind them. You better hope he’s a Navy man, he snorted. Or else you saved some sorry line of bullshit that you didn’t have time to use on your old girlfriend.

Walking up to the Corvette, the cop nervously glanced through the side window at the two naval officers, relaxing a little as he checked over the clean-cut pair. He motioned for Boswell to roll down his window.

Where are you going? he asked brusquely, taking the offered driver’s license without having to ask for it.

Boswell was in no mood for the usual pre-ticket horseshit he was sure was coming his way.

We’re heading to San Francisco to start our jobs with the Merchant Marine, he replied, hoping that the fact they were naval men and not some hippy, long-haired freaks might just let them slip by with a warning.

The officer’s next words dashed that hope.

You were doing 110, Mister Boswell. Were you aware of that?

Tired and pissed off, Boswell snapped back, Just give me the ticket. I won’t be needing a driver’s license for awhile anyway.

Kerkman stifled a chuckle.

Follow me Mister Boswell. We have to go see the judge.

After the cop returned to his car, Kerkman couldn’t help but shoot his partner a jab between guffaws. At least he’s being polite before he fucks you!

As he rolled back up his window, Boswell snipped, Shut the fuck up, Kerkman. I don’t want to hear a word." Kerkman erupted in laughter again.

Forty-five minutes later the two travelers emerged from the local courthouse and the Justice of the Peace’s office, one of them lighter in the wallet from the large fine and surrendered driver’s license.

Kerkman couldn’t resist ribbing his friend. That’s a damn shame Fred. Thought you had that judge in the palm of your hand with your ‘We’re off to serve our country’ line.

Boswell dug in his coat pocket and pulled out the car keys, tossing them to the laughing hyena. That’s real funny, Charles. Hope it’s just as funny when you realize that you now have to drive the rest of the way to California!

The reminder quickly sobered up Kerkman. You asshole, Boswell, he shot back as he pulled away. You owe me big time for this.

The rest of the trip across the country was uneventful, with both enjoying the road signs designating the passing tourist traps and homespun Americana that could be found all along Route 66, including Meamec Caverns where the legendary Jesse James reputedly once hid out from a sheriff’s posse, and Cadillac Ranch where some eccentric millionaire named Stanley Marsh III half-buried 10 of the expensive vehicles on an angle to impress some gal.

Both men agreed they needed to stop in Phoenix to see their old pal Gettier. It was a sad visit, but seemed to raise the spirits of their friend who promised them as they left that he hoped to be walking when they met up again.

Both Kerkman and Boswell had caught the emotion-filled look and slight, negative nod of his mother standing behind her son’s bed and realized it was unlikely the former classmate would ever walk out into the sunshine on his own again. They left him with words of encouragement.

A couple hours later driving along the almost unending, dull western landscape with an occasional tumbleweed rolling by them, Kerkman knew immediately something was wrong.

Shifting up, he heard the gritty grinding noise that told him a quick visit to a repair garage was in order.

It took only few minutes for the mechanic to tell them the bad news. Your clutch is shot, you burned it out. Has to be replaced. The good news is it’s still under warranty so it won’t cost you anything but time.

Kerkman nodded. We just need to be in California pretty soon. So if you can replace it fast, we’d appreciate it.

The grime-covered garage man grumbled something unintelligible as he walked away and, two hours later after a burger-and-fries lunch at a local diner, the pair were off again.

The energizing sights and sounds of San Francisco brought Kerkman and Boswell to life as they rode through the glistening city, mesmerized at seeing Alcatraz jutting up out of the San Francisco Bay and the continually flashing lights beckoning one into the countless bars peppered along almost every street.

But Kerkman had only one destination in mind.

Ole Big Tits is waiting for us, he said with a smile, checking his map for the location of the infamous Condor Club. It wasn’t hard to spot once they got to the right street. A giant advertising sign featuring a picture of the well-endowed Carol Doda greeted them.

Finding a parking space in front of the building, the sailors scrambled into the club blazoned with multi-colored lights and, like kids in a candy shop, spent the next several hours reveling in the bounty of stiffly priced drinks and a set of famous, dancing 44s that made the long trip seem well worth the effort.

That was God damn amazing, shouted Kerkman, trying to be heard over the raucous din made by the crowd of mostly young and middle-aged men, many of them still gawking at the wooden stage in hopes Doda would soon be making a repeat performance.

Boswell took a swig of beer and mopped his wet forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. The crush of bodies in the joint made it hot in the Condor and the delectably oversized Doda had managed to turn the heat up even more.

Outstanding performance, he yelled back, laughing and holding his hands as if trying to gauge just the right size of the massive mammaries that had just been paraded before him.

Leaving the Condor Club in the wee hours after satiating their various thirsts for libations and prurient delights, Kerkman and Boswell managed to stumble back to the car.

Turning the key and hearing the familiar roar as the engine jumped to life, Kerkman pushed down on the clutch pedal and tried to slide it into gear. The sound was all too familiar.

Son of a bitch, the damn clutch is gone again, snapped an immediately pissed-off Kerkman.

Without a word, Boswell got out and pulled his duffel bag of clothes out of the foot locker that his partner had already popped open. He slung it over his shoulder.

Kerkman followed and the pair were soon hoofing it to a nearby hotel. Boswell couldn’t help a parting shot: Damn nice ’Vette you got there, pal. One terrific and reliable piece of machinery.

Kerkman replied, Well, it got us here. But say your good byes to her now.

The next morning, flipping through the Yellow Pages, Kerkman saw an ad for the Bill Bloom Chevrolet dealership.

A surprised receptionist took the call.

This is Charles Kerkman. I own a ’66 Corvette and I just drove it here from New York. It’s blown another clutch on me and right now it’s sitting outside the Condor Club, it’s unlocked, the keys are in the ashtray, and I want you to come and get it. Let me know how much you’ll give me for it as I’m shipping out soon.

He left the telephone number where he was staying and hung up. Laying his head back on his bed pillow, Kerkman’s thoughts weren’t on his cantankerous car.

Tomorrow he’d get his first look at his assigned ship. He closed his eyes and started picturing all the adventures that lay before him across the vast Pacific and into the bowels of Vietnam. It was an exciting dream.

CHAPTER 3

The ship glistened with its sheen of morning dew reflecting off the California sun and the two men reveled in the anticipated voyages they would make with her.

Seeing the 20-year-old-plus vessel tied up at the Eureka Marine dock made it real for both men that their lives would be inextricably linked with it for the next year or so.

You two with the Navajo crew? asked a dockworker, pulling up to the pair on a forklift carrying grey, unmarked crates filled with the food supplies that would be their meals on their journey across the Pacific.

Yeah, Kerkman and Boswell, two of the engineers, responded Kerkman. She about ready to go?

The dockworker took off his cap and wiped his brow. It was mid-morning but the day already promised to be a hot one.

Gonna take another day. We have to sheath out all the holds with wood so there won’t be any metal-on-metal when you take on your load of bombs so you naval boys don’t blow yourself to kingdom come. I’m guessing she’ll be ready to ship out tomorrow in the afternoon for Sacramento and then on to Port Chicago.

When the diesel-fed forklift roared off, Boswell rubbed his hands together and wiggled his bushy eyebrows.

Got an idea you’re going to love, he told his partner. We’ve got a day to play so how about us getting a car and heading to Reno to make our fortune? We’ll get a couple of our crew to join us. We’ll be back in plenty of time to take our ship upriver.

Not a big gambler, Kerkman had never stepped foot inside a casino before so the idea intrigued him.

I’m game, he finally said, walking off with Boswell who excitedly shared his tales of past gambling successes at the dice tables.

Stopping in at the American Mail Line’s purser’s office—located on the SS Navajo Victory ship—to check in and draw a $200 early pay advance to finance the Reno excursion, the pair was met with some unexpected news.

The ship’s purser—a short, bald-headed, half-shaven pencil pusher—sat behind his desk and gave the men only a cursory once-

over before pulling out his personnel book and grabbing a pen from a holder adorned with pictures of half-naked go-go dancers.

Names, he growled, without so much as a hello.

Kerkman and Boswell reporting for duty.

Finding their names on his list and seeing they were both engineers, the clerk checked off the boxes next to them and reached down into one of two boxes positioned next do his desk and pulled out two small books and tossed them to the men.

These are your article books. You’ll be on the SS Navajo Victory so you have to join the MEBA union, pay the dues and and follow their rules, said the purser in a voice set to automatic. He’d repeated that speech several times a day every time a new crew member strolled into the office.

What the hell is MEBA? asked a puzzled Boswell.

The purser looked up in practiced disdain.

It stands for the Marine Engineers’ Beneficial Association and it’s the union you have to belong to or you don’t get on our ships. Sit down over there, read the books and sign up or head on back to Tit Town or wherever it is you came from.

Kerkman knew that American Mail Line—like most private merchant marine companies—were under contract with the U.S. Maritime Administration to operate their vessels as military supply ships in time of war. The deal was pretty sweet as the companies were subsidized by the government, but one of the requirements was that anyone hired to work on these now-military-assigned ships fell under the same union rules and regs as those workers on their civilian ships.

That meant pay scales, overtime and any other union-contract mandated perks rolled over to the merchant marine engineers as well. Kerkman was careful and meticulous when it came to reading any contract he was being asked to sign, so he sat down and read the union contract cover to cover until he understood it thoroughly.

Base salary would be approximately $2,000 per month during the voyage and they’d get paid $12 per hour for any overtime work. Additionally, any crew member who worked on a vessel with ammunition aboard received a 10% bonus; another 100% bonus was paid if the ship crossed into any designated war zone. Their watch would be four hours on and eight hours off duty which was pretty standard. His eyebrows raised when he read the manning requirements for an 8,500-horsepower-class ship—such as the Navajo—where each vessel had to have a chief engineer, a first assistant engineer, a second assistant engineer, two third assistant watch engineers and two third assistant day workers.

Shit, the Coast Guard only requires four engineers per ship, whispered Kerkman, who knew the Navajo would only have four engineers on board the men’s maiden voyage.

But according to the contract, that meant American Mail Line had to split the pay for the other three vacant engineering positions with him, Boswell and the two others assigned to the Navajo which was going to sail short-handed, a common occurrence during the Vietnam War.

He quickly did the math. Not a bad deal. They could easily make a few extra thousand each just by doing some routine work like welding—Kerkman was a fairly good welder—and other maintenance chores during their down time, like repairing hatch covers, deck houses, replacing rusted-out railings and ladders. Since the ship had no televisions, only a reel-to-reel movie projector to watch grainy movies on, that left a lot of time for extra duty to earn overtime pay. And since being on a ship was like being in prison with nowhere to go, the engineers could count on a fat pay day when they returned stateside to collect their cash.

Old maritime law required sailors to be paid in cash—not checks—when their service was completed and even multi-million-

dollar shipping companies in the 1960s continued to abide by the practice.

Then Kerkman got to the part that caused more than just a little angst.

The cost to join the union was an astronomical $1,000, an amount he didn’t possess.

You see this, Bos? Kerkman asked, showing the required amount to his pal. Where the hell am I going to get that kind of dough? He could picture his first merchant marine service going down the drain.

Not wanting to, but with no choice, he got up and walked back over to the purser’s desk.

Explaining the monetary problem, the purser barely glanced up from his paperwork.

Unbeknownst to Kerkman, he wasn’t the first and certainly wouldn’t be the last seaman to raise the query with the company man.

There’s a Household Finance Corporation (HFC) just up the street. They’ll take care of you.

Kerkman mumbled his thanks and headed to the loan company. After an hour of filling out the loan paperwork, he was cut a check to pay for his entry into MEBA.

Walking back into the Navajo purser’s office, Boswell asked him, Did they give it to you?

Kerkman nodded. Sure, in exchange for plenty of interest. What a racket!

Next he applied—and was approved—for the $200 pay advance he needed for the Reno excursion. Kerkman pocketed his money and off the two went to scare up a couple other future Navajo sailors for the trip.

The newly minted marine engineers quickly rounded up a couple of their fellow crewmen and the foursome made their way to a car rental shop just down the road and soon were winding their way out of the city and into the desert for the 218 mile sojourn.

Along the way, Kerkman spotted a farm stand loaded with multi-colored fruits and vegetables.

Pull over here for a second, he yelled to the driver. "This will just take a second.

Jumping from the car, Kerkman picked out the fullest box of fresh California olives he could find, tossed some coins to the pretty farmer’s daughter working the stand, and rejoined his friends. He stored his prized fruit on the rear-window shelf knowing he’d have something good to munch on the trip back.

The drive was fairly uneventful through Sacramento and into the Sierra Nevada foothills and over the Donner Pass and its namesake lake, sparking the requisite cannibal jokes from the boisterous travelers.

Descending the steep terrain on the east side of the Sierra into the Reno area emptying into the Great Basin Desert after the three-hour-plus ride, the sight of the gambling mecca’s buildings popping up with their promise of untold riches if the right lucky streak could realized brought a pump of adrenalin for the soon-to-be shipmates.

We’re here, yelled Boswell. It’s time to make those dice dance!

Parking along the main strip and hauling themselves from the rental, the group walked into Harrah’s, one of the more bustling casinos.

While the three of the men rushed over to the crap’s tables, the novice Kerkman found an empty seat in front of a middle-aged, but attractive Blackjack dealer.

Pulling a couple of twenties from his pocket wad of cash, he threw the bills down on the green velvet.

Good luck, sir, said the smiling dealer, pushing a small stack of chips back to Kerkman.

It took only a few hands for the dealer to know that Kerkman was no card shark. She took pity on him.

You really shouldn’t play this game, you know, she whispered across the table, low enough to prevent the pit boss from hearing her.

Kerkman looked up in surprise. Why do you say that?

Because after every hand I have to wipe your sweat off the cards, she said softly. Anybody who likes money as much as you appear to should not be playing this game.

Taking only a moment to let her advice seep in, Kerkman picked up his chips and thanked his unlikely advisor. He knew she was right. For the next 44 years, he never gambled at a casino again.

On the trip back to Sacramento, Kerkman kept popping his stash of tasty olives, one after the other, into his mouth. He rolled down his window to spit out the pits and after 15 minutes or more of hearing the continual pfffft, pfffft, pfffft from the spitting seaman, the sound became too much for his fellow riders.

For the love of God, Kerkman, quit spitting out those damn pits. You’re driving me nuts, yelled one of the men. The others joined in vocal agreement.

The ride back seemed a bit longer than when they came. Kerkman decided it wasn’t really his pit-spitting that bothered them most; it was their lighter wallets.

The next day the Navajo churned up the Sacramento River with the new crew checking out the ship from stem to stern, from engines to gauges, making sure everything was in good working order.

When they arrived at Port Chicago, a small town on the southern banks of Suisun Bay in Contra Costa County, the shipped docked at the Naval Munitions Depot and took on a load of napalm bombs destined to eventually be dropped over the Vietnam countryside.

Port Chicago had gained notoriety on July 17, 1944 during World War II when a huge explosion rocked the entire town, causing tons of hot metal and unexploded bombs to rain down upon the residents and the sparse businesses that rimmed the naval yard.

Hope we don’t make the news again this time, chirped Boswell, as he and Kerkman watched the pallets of deadly 500-pound bombs being loaded into the holds.

Neither man was especially worried at that moment as the real threat to life and limb would come later when the explosive component of the bombs—the detonators—would be barged out to the ship once they made their way back down the river to the Los Angeles harbor. At that point the Navy’s highly trained munitions experts would deposit them ever so carefully in their Conex-like containers at the stern of the ship away from the torpedo-shaped napalm containers stacked safely in the wood-sheathed holds below.

A few days later when the ship arrived at Los Angeles for their rendezvous with the detonator cargo, the team of newbie engineers sucked in a collective breath as they watched the transfer of explosive equipment.

We keep the detonators on deck at the stern so we can shove them off quickly into the drink if we run into any problems and so they don’t set off the napalm turning you into a bright ball of fireworks, snorted a salty deck hand who arrived to help with the delivery.

Loaded up, the steam-powered ship sailed west to make its delivery to the waiting soldiers in Vietnam.

Everything went smoothly until about half-way across the Pacific the Navajo’s boilers unexpectedly salted up, shutting down the vessel.

Sorry captain, said Watch Engineer Kerkman, explaining to the skipper what had happened. This floating rust bucket is over 20 years old and there was no way to predict that this would happen. We’ll need to retube each of the boilers before we’re up and running again.

The captain radioed for a tug which arrived and set lines to the powerless, explosive-laden ship, dragging it into Pearl Harbor for the needed repairs.

Well off schedule, the Navajo finally got under way again with its rebuilt boilers and made its way to Vung Tao, a small port city at the base of the Saigon River that served as home to the Australian army and American support units. It also was a popular spot for in-country R & R for exhausted U.S. combat troops.

Upon arriving at Vung Tao, a temporary holding port for all U.S. ships waiting for berths to discharge their cargo or to be cleared to move further north into Vietnam—Kerkman came up top and was surprised to see 30 to 40 other ships peppered throughout the port.

Jesus, it’s like fucking Grand Central Station here, Kerkman quipped to an equally surprised Boswell.

After waiting three days, the Navajo was finally cleared to continue on its voyage to Tan Son Nhut, an ammo depot farther up the Saigon River, to discharge its load of napalm in the smaller anchorage zone.

Once the ship was emptied of its munitions cargo, the crew helped reload it with scores of heavily damaged vehicles, a routine operation for merchant marine ships.

On the way back to the U.S., the Navajo churned to Okinawa where the military had a repair facility. It didn’t take the tired crew long to unload the broken vehicles and get under way again, looking forward to being on friendly home soil once again.

Arriving at the Port of Seattle, the Navajo crew cleared immigration and customs. The port agent for American Mail Lines then arrived with his briefcase filled with cash to pay the men, turning the money over to the ship’s purser.

Time to collect our millions, said Boswell, slapping Kerkman on the back as they made their way off the Navajo to collect their pay.

That’s when the trouble began.

After signing and turning in his worksheets which included a not insignificant amount of overtime hours worked throughout the long voyage, Kerkman waited as the purser pulled the money from a safe, put it in an envelope and handed it to him.

Not leaving until he counted his pay, Kerkman flipped through the bills and found the envelope short.

Hey, wait a minute. I’m missing some money here,

The purser pointed to a man sitting at a nearby desk. Go talk to him. He’s your union agent.

Kerkman went over and sat down, explaining the pay problem.

No, you’re good, the union rep said. We changed our agreement while you were at sea. We voted that the extra pay that you and the others were supposed to get for not having the required number of engineers on board was going to be put into the MEBA Political Action Committee Fund.

Wait a minute, no, no, no, responded Kerkman, starting to get angry. The agreement is what it was when I signed on. You can’t change a fucking agreement midstream without telling someone. Now next time we go out and you want to change the deal, that’s a different story, but you don’t do it without me knowing it. We both agreed to the original deal. A contract is a contract.

Kerkman, a man of integrity who always stood by his word, expected nothing less from those he dealt with. And he was smart enough to know a fucking when he saw one.

I don’t make the rules, pal, I just follow them. So should you.

Not in this fucking lifetime. This isn’t the end of it, said a red-faced Kerkman.

And it wasn’t.

Kerkman hired a lawyer and went to war. It would take a few more days to settle, and he made no friends within the union hierarchy, but he finally got the entire amount of money due him.

It was just wrong and I couldn’t let it slide, Kerkman told his shipmates over a beer the night he received the news the union had capitulated. I kept my side of the bargain and they sure as hell were going to keep theirs. If you can’t be a man of your word, you’re nothing.

The incident left a bad taste in his mouth and he never forgot it. It was a memory he would recall years later when similar issues of integrity confronted him.

He wasn’t surprised either when he went to sign a new contract with American Mail Line and the documents stated there would be no further division of salaries involving the less-than-required number of engineers on board as the money would be going to the MEBA Political Action Committee Fund.

Despite the legal battle and bad blood, he was glad he’d taken a stand.

CHAPTER 4

Still steaming over the union rip-off attempt, Kerkman decided not to let it interfere with his future employment. He knew at least one—if not more—trips to Vietnam was in his future, but he wouldn’t be going back on the SS Navajo Victory ship. Both the Navajo and a similar ship, the SS Red Oak Victory, were being permanently laid up after the recent trans-Pacific crossing and their crews were being shifted to other vessels.

While awaiting his next assignment, Kerkman took the time to travel across the country to Long Island, New York, where he wed his long-time sweetheart, Mary LeStrange, on October 21, 1967.

The honeymoon was tied into the trip back to Seattle and Kerkman’s next assignment. Mary owned a new Cadillac and the pair were soon winging their way through the states, visting such cities as Miami, New Orleans, Houston, Phoenix, San Diego, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, San Franciso, Portland and then finally back to Seattle.

Mary quickly got a job as an elementary school teacher while her new husband made ready for his next voyage to Vietnam.

You’re transferring over to the SS American Mail, one of our best steamships, said the purser, the same man who had sent Kerkman off on his earlier adventure. His departure date was given as Dec. 11, 1967. Different cargo this time. Report in at 0800 tomorrow.

Grabbing his paperwork, the engineer hurried out to meet up with Boswell and some of the others he would be crewing with on the return voyage.

Meeting at the restaurant at the top of the Seattle Space Needle, the men ordered their drinks. A few minutes later, Boswell dropped his bomb.

I thought you should know, Charles, that I’ve decided not to take another ride to Vietnam, he said. I’ve got a Honda motorcycle that’s going to take me to Long Beach and from there I’m going to catch a ship to Hawaii where I’ve got a lady waiting for me. I’m looking forward to living the life of a beach bum!

Kerkman was disappointed, but not surprised. Boswell was a typical seaman with a girl in almost every port. He’d miss his friend, but wished him well.

Word had already gotten around that Kerkman and his new shipmates wouldn’t be hauling any napalm bombs this time, but general stores, including some CONEX boxes full of small-arms ammunition and some other commercial cargo as well.

The most important items being sent back over, he’d been told, were sandbags, several CONEX containers filled to the brim with them.

I hear those sandbags are a Priority 1 item, a fellow engineer told Kerkman over lunch one day. One of the LTs that just came back from Saigon told me the brass is howling for more of them, especially the Rangers up and down the river. Said they really need them bad up in Kai Son.

Kerkman nodded. I’m hearing the same thing. Once we load up here in Bremerton, we’re back off to the jungle. They’ll get their sandbags.

One of the ship’s cooks who’d joined the engineers for a meal prepared by somebody else for a change, chipped in. Word is General Westmoreland is raising hell over there that a lot of our shit isn’t ending up where it should. Not just sandbags, but a lot of other stuff as well. Black market must be running on overtime, I’m guessing.

We’ll make sure our cargo gets over there, but whatever happens once it’s off our decks we’ve got no control over, responded the fellow engineer.

Kerkman was only half listening, his thoughts beyond the planned initial stop in Vietnam. Once we drop off our load, the next Port of Call is Singapore. We should have a good time there if we have a long enough layover.

The grunts from around the table told him they were all in agreement.

A few days later, the loading at Bremerton went smoothly and the trip back across the Pacific was uneventful save for a few bad nights of weather.

Nothing much had changed in Vung Tao when the SS American Mail chugged into the port early on January 28, 1968. The crew noticed several ships already at anchor apparently awaiting their official clearance to start up the Saigon River.

Shit, wonder how long this is going to take? snapped a tired seaman.

The captain overheard. Won’t take long at all. We have priority clearance to move these sandbags up north. Once we get customs/immigration clearance, we’re on our way.

The captain proved good to his word. A couple hours later his crew gave a shout to their unhappy counterparts still anchored and waiting to unload their cargo. The envious sailors watched the SS American Mail slip on by, wondering why they had been given an expedited green light when they had arrived in port days before.

A contingent of marines on board sprang to life once they set sail. The engineers watched as the men took turns lugging sandbags forward, placing them around machine guns positioned on both sides of the ship. The Vietcong loved nothing better than to hide in the heavy foliage along the river and take potshots at the passing ships. More than one American serviceman had gone home in a body bag as a result. The sandbags would provide the needed protection for the gunners, should the need arise.

It didn’t. The trip into the Port of Saigon produced nothing more than a few oversized mosquitoes the men had to deal with. Arriving on time, the crew soon secured its mooring lines and began the usual ritual in preparation of unloading its cargo.

A short time later, a rough-looking group of veteran Rangers pulled up alongside the dock in a convoy of trucks.

A few of its passengers jumped out and headed up the gangway while the remaining soldiers shouted back and forth with the crew who would soon be moving the CONEX boxes filled with sandbags onto the camouflaged vehicles destined for Kai Son.

Shooting the shit while the unloading got underway, the ship engineers and the soldiers shared some war stories as they leaned over the rail watching the action below. Several took the time to light up a smoke. There was plenty of time to shoot the bull. The containers of sandbags were stored in the lower ’tween decks and other cargo had to be moved out before they could get to it. The longshoremen, as usual, were also taking their sweet-ass time as well. Some things never changed. The talk soon turned toward one of the military’s biggest headaches.

God damn VC aren’t our only problem, grumbled one Ranger, scratching his week-old stubble. Sons of bitches are stealing a lot of our supplies. Stuff is ending up on the black market before we see any of it.

What the hell are they talking about? Kerkman thought to himself.

He listened as the seasoned soldiers told story after story of vehicles, radios, machine parts, foodstuff and more being swiped from the convoys somewhere between the docks and the in-country locales they were being shipped to. Philco-Ford, Motorola, Morrison-Knudsen, Bechtel and others were only some of the contractors that were losing sizeable portions of their shipments.

And it soon became clear to Kerkman and his shipmates that the Rangers believed that some of the contractors and any number of fucking, thieving U.S. Army personnel were behind the thefts.

You telling me we’re risking our asses to get this shit to you guys and some of it is ending up in the hands of the VC? asked a stunned Kerkman. He was 25 years old and never thought of himself as naïve, but this was his first introduction into how it all worked in the God-forsaken scum hole of Vietnam.

Not just the VC, replied a weary, but visibly angry lieutenant. I can take you to any number of back-ass villages within a 10-click radius of here and you’ll find some of these good old American products in their grass huts. Pretty fucked up system if you ask me. And nobody on our side seems to be doing a hell of a lot about it.

Another soldier piped in. And that includes weapons as well. Hell, I don’t mind these slant-eyed pricks getting some of our M-16s, though. They’ll kill more of themselves with them than us.

His fellow Rangers chuckled in response, drawing curious looks from the sailors.

What’s wrong with the M-16s? asked one of the crew.

I’ll tell you what’s wrong with them, they’re mother fucking pieces of shit, cracked another seasoned vet. We get in a firefight and the damn things jam if even a little bit of dirt gets in them. And heaven help you if one of your rounds is a little out of shape ’cuz you ain’t shooting nothing out of it if that happens. Doesn’t happen all the time, but enough to make it a big problem over here. We keep telling the brass about it, but no one gives a damn. Someone’s making a shit load of money back home on that contract and probably passing a good share of it off to some Congressman who could give a rat’s ass about the problems we got back here. Same old story, just a different war.

Kerkman had heard enough. Disgusted, he turned and headed for the bowels of the ship to check on his engine-room equipment. He was pissed off to learn about the disappearing cargo with little or no accountability. He was even more angry to learn about the faulty weaponry, if the Rangers were being straight with them. How would the American public, let alone the mothers and fathers of these soldiers, react if they knew what was really going on over here?

Reaching the engine room, he grabbed a bucket of tools and began disassembling and repairing a defective evaporator, trying to push the thoughts from his head.

For the next few days, the unloading took place. While the longshoremen handled that end of the job, many of the ship’s crew had immediately left the vessel when it pulled into port to enjoy some of the Vietnamese pleasures that awaited any soldier or seaman with a willing libido and a wad of cash. Some got so wrapped up in their often drunken carnal pursuits that they sometimes came dangerously close to going AWOL when their ships were ready to sail.

Kerkman always volunteered to stay onboard and assume the duties of in-port engineer. He liked to have a good time like everyone else, but his memory never let him forget when he was a cadet/midshipman in June 1965 on a training run to Saigon. He had remained on board to finish up some work while his roommate, Cadet/Midshipman Mike Hughes, along with the ship’s chief mate, the chief engineer and seaman had headed into the city for some great food and good times. They had ended up at the My Canh floating restaurant. By nothing more than coincidence, the VC had decided to bomb the eatery that evening, killing 48 people, including the seaman.

He explained it to another engineer one day when he turned down an offer to join him and some other shipmates for an evening out when they arrived once again in Vietnam years later.

The way I look at it, Kerkman had said, while I’m being paid to work this ship I don’t have any damn business going out to whorehouses or going out getting drunk.

The other men laughed, but certainly didn’t share their friend’s philosophy as they headed off for a night of long-anticipated extracurricular activity.

In the early morning hours of January 31, 1968, Kerkman was only one of a handful of men working on the American Mail as it sat docked at the Port of Saigon. Most of his shipmates were out on shore leave. He had volunteered to stay and do the port engineering which included keeping the vacuum up on the main condenser as the ship had to be kept hot and ready to go at a moment’s notice since they were discharging cargo in a hostile environment. That was the standard operating procedure for all its American Mail Line ships.

Kerkman didn’t mind. He liked the peace and quiet of