Rules of Engagement: Stories of War and Love

By M.M. Rumberg

These are stories of war and love to excite you and entertain you. Some stories take place in Vietnam, while others touch on World War II and the Middle East. Some deal with the unintended consequences of war. But regardless of where the action takes place, the consequences are the same.

Follow an adventure in the war-torn Mideast when an Israeli takes a day off to go fishing.

Monitor a teenager sheltering in the underground presidential command bunker as nuclear war breaks out.

Feel the anguish of a mother who wants her dishonorably discharged son to be buried with honors in Arlington National Cemetery.

See how a young lieutenant deals with his choices when the base is attacked and he suddenly finds himself in command of a .50 caliber machine gun.

Realize the grim decision of a soldier who is captured and tortured and years later meets up with his antagonist who still wants to kill him.

And imagine the surprise of a wife who discovers that her no-good husband played a key role in the recent Iranian negotiations.

Those stories and moreeach one designed to enlighten and, above all, entertain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 24, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543445244

M.M. Rumberg

Mort is a retired U.S. Air Force Officer who served as a Rescue and Survival technician teaching escape and evasion and survival techniques to aircrew members. He survived a tour of duty in Vietnam and barely survived two tours in the Pentagon as a computer systems action officer. He was also an information technology consultant and a manager with a large international health care insurance company. He earned a Doctorate in Education and has been an adjunct professor of computer sciences for several universities and community colleges in the Washington, DC, area. Mort was a volunteer with the Alexandria, Virginia, Police Department and the Animal Welfare League of Alexandria. His novel, CodeName: Snake, The Evil We Kill, won a national award and several of his short stories have won national recognition. Now residing in California, he is busy working on several new novels and many short stories. Visit the author’s website: mmrumberg.com

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Copyright © 2017 by M.M. RUMBERG.

Library of Congress Control Number:                2017912969

ISBN:                   Hardcover                  978-1-5434-4522-0

                             Softcover                    978-1-5434-4523-7

                             eBook                         978-1-5434-4524-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 08/24/2017

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

A Gift From Trinh

Call Sign

Click

Gone Fishing

Witchcraft

Nha’s Choice

Radiation Day

Tango in Saigon

The Burial

The Fog of War

The Note

To Return A Gift

Two Of A Kind

Whatcha Doing, Lloyd?

Rope Bridge

Cry For Happy

Time Bomb

The Gift

Bo Jutsu

The Secret Negotiator

About The Author

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

With many thanks to my knowledgeable friends who have endured my creative ideas and my writing, and graciously provided exceptional commentary to make each story better. Gratitude unsurpassed to MaryLou Anderson, Westley Turner, Eva Wise, Suzanne Shephard, and Ron Smith.

And to my wife, Susan, my deepest thanks for recognizing, and putting up with my passion.

M.M. Rumberg

A GIFT FROM TRINH

I awoke about one o’clock in the afternoon. My head felt like a squashed, rotting pumpkin and my mouth tasted like one. It took me several seconds to realize where I was—in some playgirl’s crib. It was a crappy little place with only a bed and end table, but enough for its intended purpose. The one window was so dirty I couldn’t see through it. I hoped that I’d had a good time last night and that I still had some cash left. I looked down and realized I was naked and searched for my pants. Hell, I couldn’t even remember if I’d been wearing my uniform or my civvies.

The bed was a wrinkled mess, the sheets were gray with various colored stains, and the pillowcase was a dirty brown. Who knew what the stains were? Good thing I was drunk when I landed here. God, I hoped the girl looked better than I felt.

A small, dirty mirror on the wall showed I looked near death, or maybe had already died and been dug up. I needed to get back to the compound and take a shower. I vaguely remembered celebrating the Vietnamese New Year. What the hell did they call it? Some stupid word like tits or tat. They celebrated New Year at a strange time—the end of January. Something about it being a lunar new year. What the hell did they do? Howl at the moon? Stupid gooks.

I’d been in-country for three months and hated the place. It was hot, humid, stinky, and the people were ugly and filthy. This was one shitty hole. What the hell was there to celebrate? They spelled the place Hue, but pronounced it way. It’s a crazy language with really strange people.

I found my shorts, pants and polo shirt under the bed along with my shoes and socks hiding among the large dust balls. My wallet, ID, and cash were gone. Damn. Sgt. Benchley would be all over my ass. I marveled that they missed the Vietnamese dong in my front pocket, about $15. I tried to recall who I slept with, but finally gave up. I just hoped she only gave me a relatively easy disease for our medic, Doc Hoffman, to cure. The Vietnamese bar girls could produce some doozy bugs that seemed to defy Western medicine.

I left the room on unsteady legs. The stench in the long, dark hallway from years of hundreds of sweaty bodies, along with the smell of urine, assaulted me. A window at the far end, long in need of washing, signaled that exit stairs might be near. They were. The outside sunlight was blinding, like a thousand flash bulbs going off at once, and hurt my bloodshot eyes. My watch said one forty-five. I was surprised she hadn’t taken it. Hot, muggy air wrapped itself around me. My tongue felt like sandpaper.

I stumbled along the street, hoping I was going in the right direction, trying not to bump into too many people. Most cursed and avoided me, probably because I was drunk or they hated Americans. Who gives a damn? Most of the landmarks were unknown to me, but every now and then I recognized something and it gave me hope that I’d eventually find my way back to the compound.

Boy, was I hung over. Everything hurt. My hair, my tongue, my teeth, my fingernails. My stomach gurgled. Surely I had died and was in hell. I saw a bar and went in and had a cold Ba-Me-Ba beer. It made me feel a little better. I left some dong on the counter and went to the filthy restroom. It stank of urine but I managed to leave at least a quart behind. I splashed cool, brackish water on my face from the lone faucet, but there were no paper towels—or any other kind. That’s okay. It was probably cleaner that way. My face would be dry in about thirty seconds anyway from the ceaseless heat of this crazy country. I finished the beer and walked back out into the bright sun.

About ten steps later, a shot smashed into the stone face of the building next to me. People screamed and scattered. It took me a second or two to realize the bastards were shooting at me. I ran into an alley and kept on running. I cut through the alley and down another street, heading, I hoped, in the general direction of the U.S. compound.

Two more shots, one so close I heard it buzz past my ear. I ducked behind a building, breathing heavily. Damn VC were everywhere and I was unarmed. My adrenaline was flowing and the pain I felt earlier was now gone. I made my way down the alley, ducking into doorways and behind stone outcroppings. Several more shots chased me, one finally catching the upper part of my right arm. Just a flesh wound, but it hurt like hell. Blood spilled from it. I scrunched down behind a wall and tried to tie my handkerchief around it but wasn’t having much luck when I heard pssst, from a doorway. A Vietnamese woman motioned to me. I took a chance and ran over. She pulled me into the doorway, out of the line of fire.

You hurt? she said.

Yeah. Great observation. Blood ran down my arm and dripped onto the doorjamb.

Me fix.

I was all for that. She shrugged out of a kid’s lime green backpack with a pink flower on it. She wore the typical Vietnamese pajama clothes, black satin bottoms and white top. A conical straw hat hung on her back.

Maybe something here for you. She rummaged through the pack but only came up with a couple of rags that had seen better days. She wrapped the cleanest one around my arm and it slowed the bleeding. I vaguely wondered what I’d catch from the rag.

Thank you.

She nodded. It be good for short time.

I smiled. Short time meant something else to me. She returned the smile. She wasn’t bad looking, but I reconsidered after a few seconds of staring at her. She was downright ugly, even if otherwise a nice person. Her teeth were brown and very high cheekbones emphasized the deep shadows of her gaunt, hollowed eyes. Her black hair was stringy, without the shine the Viet bargirls usually had. She was thin as a rail, and her clothes were quite dirty. Well, we both could probably use a bath. But she smiled a lot and that made up for some of the ugliness.

What’s your name?

My name Trinh Lan. What name you?

Stanley Alexander.

She stumbled over the pronunciation.

Just say Stan.

Stan. She repeated it several times.

Thank you, Trinh Lan, for helping me.

You for welcome, Stan. I say right?

I smiled, which triggered a smile on her part. You say right. I wish you a happy New Year. For the life of me I couldn’t think of the name of the Vietnamese New Year and saying Happy tits, just didn’t sound right.

She looked at me and smiled. It be good New Year. Thank you.

The shooting aimed in my direction seemed to have stopped, although I heard sounds of firefights in the background.

You come, she said. We ventured out and ran down the alley, Trinh leading the way, and ducked into a pharmacy.

Need medicine you, she said.

I couldn’t agree more. When we rushed in, the pharmacist took one look at us and tried to push us out of his store. No open! he shouted. No open! Go home!

But in this country power seems to be everything and Trinh had some good power—firepower. She pulled a .38 from her waistband and waved it at the pharmacist. He blanched and nodded. Trinh pointed to my wound and said something in Vietnamese. He moved quickly, gathering gauze, antibacterial cream, and an Ace bandage. Between the two of them, they did a pretty good job on my arm. It hurt, and movement was limited, but I was satisfied with the temporary repair. At least the filthy rag was gone.

I thanked the pharmacist several times, even left some dong to pay for the supplies. Trinh was special, and I was very grateful for her care. I put my hand on her face and gently caressed her greasy cheek. Thank you, Trinh Lan. You are very kind.

She smiled again, showing her brown teeth. I noticed a few were missing and boy, did she have bad breath. I thought it too bad she was so ugly, she was really a nice person.

We heard more shooting outside so I decided to stay put—at least for a little while. My watch said almost three o’clock. A few more hours until dark. There was a lull in the shooting and explosions, so the pharmacist cautiously went outside and quickly pulled down the metal security shields that protected the windows and door. Once back inside and obviously very scared, he pleaded with us to get out. You go. Di-di. He made motions with his hands for us to get out.

Trinh, bless her heart, yelled at him to shut up. After several harsh words in Vietnamese, probably reminding him that she was the one with the gun, the pharmacist sighed, accepting that his choices were limited. She gave the orders and he followed. We went to the rear of the store where the pharmacist maintained his small living quarters—a cot, small dresser, and a one burner electric stove. A water purifier sat on the dresser next to the electric stove. A tiny sink was mounted on the wall and next to it, a curtain. Behind the curtain was a pail and a roll of toilet paper. Each of us, in turn, made use of the pail. He emptied it later into the trough that ran through the alley. Just poured it out. No wonder the whole country smelled so bad.

Trinh and I sat on the floor on a collapsed cardboard box, our backs against the wall. The pharmacist locked the back door and sat on his cot staring at us, then shrugged and made tea. After relaxing with a cup of awful tasting brown tea, I watched him cook a pot of rice and chopped vegetables. My stomach gurgled and my arm throbbed. The air was stifling.

An air conditioner was mounted in the room’s one window. I pointed to it.

Not work, he said. No can fix. And that was it for conversation. I dozed, but woke every ten minutes or so. The other two seemed to sleep soundly for long stretches, especially the pharmacist, who snored like a wailing banshee.

Originally, I considered waiting until dark before leaving, but the more I thought of it, the more I realized the compound guards might not recognize me even with their bright lights. They’d be on edge during the night. Early morning would be better. The night was pitch black and I heard sporadic explosions and lots of shooting. Around midnight I heard footsteps outside and faint whispering. People were in the alley. I held my breath and watched in the dim moonlight that filtered into the room as the doorknob turned. Locked, so the men moved on. Yes, early morning was a much better idea. Obviously, the VC controlled the night.

Trinh told me the American compound was only two blocks away but it may as well have been on the other side of the world. If the shooters were still there, my ass would be in a sling. I’d be out in the open when I got there. Still, I had to try.

Finally, it was almost five AM and time for me to go. The sky was getting light. I splashed water on my face, had a swig of cold brown tea, and cautiously peered out the door. It looked quiet, no one out yet. I nodded to the pharmacist