The flickering yellow glow cast from her gold butane lighter as she lit a cigarette illuminated her pretty face while she looked toward the bar and the trio of officers drinking beer there. She smiled at the men as their eyes met hers, and casually she slipped off her jacket and draped it over her arm. Then she looped the carrying straps of a large, blue canvas flight bag and her black leather purse back over her shoulder as she cut across the lounge area and dance floor. When she walked close to her small audience, she set down her luggage, opened the top two buttons of her white blouse, and fanned the exposed skin of her throat, upper chest, and bulging cleavage. The smell of the woman’s perfume, enhanced by the glow of her perspiration, filled the rush of air that her presence stirred.

When the voluptuous female eased herself next to Wayne Ebberhardt, he gulped several swallows of Budweiser draft from his drippy mug. Then he began gathering his change from the round of beers he had bought for himself, Terry O’Connor, and Jon Kirkwood. Shoving two quarters toward the bartender for a tip, he began stuffing the rest of the money in his pocket.

“Where are you going in such a hurry, sailor? I hope that I’m not scaring you away,” the tall redhead said, blowing a mouthful of cigarette smoke at the first lieutenant’s face as he fumbled with the few coins left that he hurriedly gathered from the countertop. Brushing her ample breasts against the young lawyer’s arm as she slid atop the bar stool next to him, she crossed her legs, causing her tight, short-fitting, flight attendant uniform skirt to ride high on her legs. The hem rose well past the tops of her stockings, and exposed the white garter-belt snaps holding her nylons taut.

To get a better view, Jon Kirkwood and Terry O’Connor both took two steps back from the bar. They stood on the side of their fellow Marine lawyer opposite from the woman, and now the two heroes looked wide-eyed at the sexy vision dressed in Flying Tiger Airlines blue, taking in the full view of her long and shapely body and her fully exposed legs. She smiled warmly at the awestruck pair of onlookers, took another pull from the cigarette she held delicately between her fingers, and then looked back at Wayne Ebberhardt.

“Oh, sorry, ma’am, I just stopped for a beer and was on my way out to grab a bite,” the lieutenant said with a distinct nervous quiver in his voice.

The airline stewardess shrugged and smiled at the Marine, and let the smoke flow from her mouth, riding on a gentle breeze that she blew with a seductive pucker toward Lieutenant Ebberhardt’s face.

The two captains stood speechless, looking at the woman’s perfect and beautifully long legs, at her large, upwardly lifted breasts that peeked from beneath her partially opened white blouse, and at her gorgeous milk-white face framed by pageboy-cut, dark red hair, and accented by her sparkling blue eyes. Then Kirkwood and O’Connor drilled their stares at the shrinking lieutenant, who hurriedly gulped the last of his beer from its mug, and slid the dripping glass across the bar and tried to stand.

Jon Kirkwood immediately caught Wayne Ebberhardt on the shoulder, pushed him back atop the stool, and motioned to the bartender to bring another round of beers for the men, and a martini cocktail for the lady.

“Oh, he’s not that hungry, ma’am,” O’Connor said, beaming his up-curled, Irish eyes and dimpled smile at the woman, and then glaring at Ebberhardt with wild amazement for his attempt to leave such an inviting opportunity.

“I’ll be right back,” Ebberhardt said defensively, trying again to stand, but being held in place by Jon Kirkwood’s locked-down grip over his shoulder. “I just wanted to get something quick and easy.”

The red-haired beauty smiled at all three Marines and then looked at Ebberhardt squarely in his eyes.

“I’m not at all that quick, I have to admit,” she said, broadening her smile and letting a wisp of cigarette smoke drift from her lips, “but for you, cutie-pie, I could be very easy.”

Terry O’Connor choked on his beer and bent over, coughing.

Wayne Ebberhardt’s face flushed, but not nearly the shade of deep crimson that Jon Kirkwood’s complexion turned.

“Terrence Boyd O’Connor, ma’am, at your service,” O’Connor quickly spoke, putting out his hand for the lady to shake.

“Gwendolyn Crookshank,” the redhead replied, and took the captain’s hand with both of hers and held it, “but call me Gwen.”

“Wayne Ebberhardt, ma’am,” the lieutenant then followed, and took her hands from O’Connor. “The speechless gentleman next to Captain O’Connor is a fellow attorney and defense team colleague of ours, Captain Jonathan C. Kirkwood.”

“Lawyers three. Defense team colleagues. Indeed. Well, it seems I have fallen in with some bad company, haven’t I,” the flight attendant said, letting her mellow voice flow with her cigarette smoke.

“We’re the world’s worst,” O’Connor bubbled. “We’re the bad boys of First MAW Law. Just ask our mojo if you don’t believe us.”

“Captain O’Connor,” the woman said, smiling warmly at the cheery officer, “I have a feeling that you’re a very bad boy indeed.”

Jon Kirkwood said nothing. The smell of the attractive stewardess’s perfume had gotten him to thinking more about his wife, Katherine Layne Kirkwood, whose latest letter he carried in his back pocket and had just finished reading when Terry O’Connor had dragged him to the Officers’ Club to meet with Wayne Ebberhardt for a beer and a relaxed talk about Tuesday’s opening arguments in the Anderson trial: more of a formality now that the presiding judge had thrown out the charge of first-degree murder, ruling that the prosecution failed to show any evidence of premeditation. Their client had openly confessed to killing Buster Rein, backed by a hundred eyewitnesses, so a conviction of second-degree murder seemed automatic. The only arguments now involved length of sentence based on the mitigating circumstances.

The fragrance of Chanel Number Five took Kirkwood’s mind to thoughts of Okinawa, where Katie patiently waited for Jon to get a chance to catch an R & R hop on a ninety-six-hour pass. They had hoped that a trial or legal conference also might get him there, but Dicky Doo had vowed to never let it happen.

In the Anderson case, Dickinson had expressly forbade Kirkwood from assisting O’Connor and Ebberhardt, should the trial move from Da Nang. When it looked like it might convene at Camp Courtney, Okinawa, Dicky Doo began making overtures of taking charge. Based on some advice from the Brothers B, the major had even prepared to formally ask in writing that Lieutenant Colonel Prunella grant him direct cognizance of Anderson’s defense. His letter had stated a plethora of phony rationale.

Lucky for him that Staff Sergeant Pride read the mojo’s letter first, and then tactfully cut him off from certain embarrassment, just in the nick of time, showing Dickinson the backup file copy of a week-old message from the staff judge advocate in charge of Fleet Marine Force Pacific legal affairs directing that the court-martial remain in Da Nang, as a matter of convenience and economy for the many witnesses and the command. Someone had pulled the original message from the daily read-board, circulated each morning among all the law center’s officers, before Dicky Doo had a chance to see it. Apparently ripped it off as the board passed from Lieutenant Colonel Prunella’s desk to the major’s. With this revelation, which eliminated hope of anyone on his shit list going to Okinawa, Dickinson laid Anderson’s defense back in O’Connor’s and Ebberhardt’s laps and gave Kirkwood the green light to help them.

Even though he knew he had no hope of getting on the team if it went to Okinawa, Kirkwood still felt hurt by the major’s meanness by depriving him simply out of spite. With each week that passed while his wife waited only a three-hour plane ride away, and no hope of getting a ninety-six-hour pass, R and R, or any kind of official business trip to Okinawa, Jon Kirkwood’s resentment toward the mojo major grew bitter.

“Cat got your tongue, cowboy?” the redhead said, putting her fingertip with its dark-red-painted nail under Kirkwood’s chin.

The captain responded by holding up his left hand and showing the woman the gold ring on his finger.

She smiled, and then kissed him on his cheek.

“Wayne,” she said, looking at the lieutenant, “your little friend here: I don’t think he’s a bad boy at all.”

“They’re both really pretty good boys, Gwen,” Ebberhardt answered.

“But you, Wayne,” the woman said, “you are bad. Aren’t you?”

“Oh he’s bad, all right,” O’Connor said, and slapped Ebberhardt on the back. “He’s shy, but a very bad boy.”

“Indeed?” the stewardess said and smiled, dashing out her cigarette and sipping the martini.

“Ma’am, don’t believe anything he says,” Ebberhardt retorted, and stood from the bar.

“So you’re going to leave anyway,” the pretty woman sighed, sucking an olive from her cocktail off its toothpick skewer. “I’m a little hungry, too. Mind if I tag along?”

“Anything special in mind?” Ebberhardt said, picking up his cap and then shouldering her purse and flight bag.

“Oh, I rented the cutest little duplex cabana at China Beach, for the weekend. Do you like seafood? We can have dinner there,” the redhead said to the lieutenant, and then smiled at Kirkwood and O’Connor as Wayne Ebberhardt helped her on with her blue uniform jacket.

“Ta-ta, boys,” she cooed as they walked away.

“Holy Mother Mary and Joseph!” O’Connor said, looking at Jon Kirkwood as Wayne Ebberhardt and the beautiful red-haired flight attendant left. “He’s headed to China Beach with that fox.”

“Hope he gets back before Tuesday,” Kirkwood said, turning toward the bar and drinking his beer.

“Oh, something that just popped in my head. Heaven knows where I heard it,” she said, laughing, and then looked at the lieutenant with her eyes twinkling. “Now, if you know what’s good for you, bub, you’ll shut up and kiss your wife like the man I married!”

While she spoke, she grabbed the lieutenant by both of his shoulders and then kissed him hard as the van pulled from the curb and sped down the road, heading to other stops for passengers riding to China Beach for the weekend.

“I’ve got until 6:00 AM Tuesday,” Gwen Ebberhardt then told her husband. “You have that trial that starts then, too, so we can have Saturday and Sunday on the beach. My crew is at the hotel by the American consulate, and you can stay there with me Monday night, after you do your office boy thing all day. Oh, by the way, I saw that strange captain again. You know, the tall one with the wild blond hair and bad breath?”

“Michael Carter,” the lieutenant said, lighting two cigarettes and handing one to his wife.

“Yes, that’s the one,” she answered, drawing in a breath full of smoke. “He helped me pack a few of your things, you know, some of your underwear and socks, your bathing suit, toiletries, and other stuff for the weekend. I’ve got it here in my crew bag.”

“He’s a nice guy, just eccentric,” Ebberhardt commented.

“He also told me that you were in the club with your little friends, so I thought I would have a go at you,” Gwen said and laughed. “Thanks so much for acting sweet and not letting on. I had such fun!”

“I don’t think I had to do much acting,” Ebberhardt said, smiling at his wife. “You had me honestly stuttering and blushing.”

“Oh, poo, Wayne,” Gwen laughed as the small bus pulled to the curb and the side door slid open for more passengers, “you’re always so bad. Putting on that little lost choir boy act. I know you better than that, my bad little boy. Don’t forget, I know just how bad you like to be. You bad, bad little boy.”

As she spoke, she rolled on top of her husband’s lap, bringing her face close to his, and passionately kissed her captive Marine just as two air force captains dressed in drab green flight suits and blue garrison caps climbed aboard the China Beach shuttle. They gawked while stumbling to their seats, and then one of the men offered Wayne Ebberhardt a thumbs-up when the lieutenant finally raised his head for air.

“Missed who, stick man?” O’Connor said, looking at their colleague, who now perched himself on a bar stool next to them. “You talking about Wayne Ebberhardt and that red bombshell who came in here and picked him up? In the end, I think he picked her up.”

“Yeah,” Kirkwood said, peeling the label off his beer bottle. “The way Wayne just got up and decided to leave, and she hooked right on him. He did the picking. She was trolling, but he landed the fish.”

“What are you talking about?” Carter said, getting the bartender’s attention and ordering a sloe gin fizz.

“Ebberhardt, fuck nuts,” O’Connor said, taking a pull off his beer. “He left here with this gorgeous, red-haired stewardess from the freedom bird not five minutes ago. She was hot to trot, wanting a bad boy to go play with her, and she snatched up Wayne like a Seventh Avenue pro.”

“It’s arguable who did the snatching,” Kirkwood added, “but she was definitely hot to trot. Had her skirt way up past her thighs and her boobs just jumping out.”

Michael Carter laughed and snorted, and then sucked sloe gin fizz up the red swizzle stick straw jutting from his highball glass.

“I shouldn’t tell you then,” he said, honking as he laughed. “This is too good. Telling you would spoil it.”

“Spill it, ass wipe,” O’Connor growled, and spun Michael Carter on his bar stool toward him, still snickering.

“That was Gwen, stupid,” Carter said, and laughed more.

“I know it was Gwen,” Kirkwood answered. “She introduced herself to us.”

“She tell you her last name?” Carter teased.

“Yeah, Crook something,” O’Connor said, and then began to smile, realizing he had fallen prey to a rich joke.

“Crookshank, Gwendolyn Crookshank,” Kirkwood added, and then smiled, too. “Come to think of it, that’s an awfully stupid name.”

“Oh, that’s too funny,” Carter said, hacking as he laughed. “Gwen Ebberhardt! You guys were had. She came by the barracks looking for Wayne, picked up some of his stuff for the weekend, and I told her that he was over here with you two.”

“Fucking Ebberhardt,” O’Connor said and laughed. “Damn, he’s got a fox of a wife, though.”

Jon Kirkwood felt in his back pocket and pulled out the letter from Katie. He smelled the paper, still faintly scented with the Chanel Number Five she had sprinkled on the stationery. Her favorite perfume. The same fragrance that Gwen Ebberhardt wore.

Another flash of daylight drew the three lawyers’ attention back to the alcove that led to the front door. Silhouetted by the glow from the jukebox and the cigarette machine, they saw Dicky Doo’s unmistakable semiportly frame topped by his salt-and-pepper flattop head. He stood there for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, and then strolled to the bar, smiling like he had encountered old friends.

“I should have figured that you three hogs would not stray far from the well,” Major Dickinson said, laughing at his own condescending humor. “Stanley, Charlie, and the Brothers B have gone to PT, but I see you fellows have more sensible business here at the bar.”

“Talking defense strategy, Major,” O’Connor said, sliding his beer mug across the counter to the barkeep for a refill. Jon Kirkwood still toyed with the label on his half-drank bottle of beer, and paid no attention to the mojo.

“And a cocktail to relax after a trying day,” Michael Carter added, holding up his nearly empty sloe gin fizz sloshing in the bottom of a glassful of pink ice cubes.

“Looks like you’re ready for another Shirley Temple there, sweetie,” Dickinson said, looking at Carter smiling pink teeth at him.

“You offering to buy, sir?” Carter asked, pushing his glass to the bartender.

“You’re not my idea of a date, but I think I’ll spring for a round all around,” Dicky Doo said, motioning for beers for himself, O’Connor, and Kirkwood. “And give the lady whatever pink shit that she’s drinking today,” he added, pointing at Michael Carter.

“What’s the special occasion?” O’Connor said, taking his fresh mug of draft beer and pushing another bottle of Olympia to Jon Kirkwood, who sat silent on his stool and stuffed his wife’s letter back in his pocket.

“Stanley and I fly to Okinawa on Tuesday morning,” Dickinson said, and then looked directly at Kirkwood.

“Oh, really?” Jon said and forced a smile. “Business or pleasure?”

“A bit of both, I’m afraid,” Dickinson answered, taking a sip from a fresh mug of Budweiser draft.

“That’s too bad, sir,” O’Connor offered. “Damned but they’re always fucking up a good business trip with pleasure, aren’t they.”

Dicky Doo laughed.

“I guess I had that coming,” he said and smiled. “After nearly nine months here, I have to admit some reluctance at enjoying myself for a week while you chaps hold down the fort.”

“First R and R then, sir?” Kirkwood asked, finishing his earlier bottle of beer and then sliding it across the bar. “I heard that everyone rates it after four months. What happened?”

“Just never had time, you know, work, work, work,” Dicky Doo said, drinking his beer.

“So our man Stanley will carry your bags for this business and pleasure trip,” O’Connor said, reaching for a bowl of peanuts that the bartender had just filled and slid in front of the men.

“He and Charlie flipped for it, and Stanley won the toss,” Dickinson said, taking a handful of peanuts and popping one in his mouth.

“Why weren’t we included in the coin toss, sir?” Kirkwood then blurted.

“Well, this is the Fleet Marine Force Pacific legal conference, and I am representing the wing’s defense side of the house,” Dickinson said in an almost taunting voice to Kirkwood. “The only competition for the other representative slot logically had to go to the prosecution team. I’m afraid we can afford to send only two people. Sorry, Jon, I know how you want to see your wife.”

“Stick it up your ass, sir,” Kirkwood said, and then walked away from the bar toward the restroom, not waiting for a reply.

“Did you hear that?” Dickinson fumed, and looked at Michael Carter and Terry O’Connor.

“Hear what, sir?” Carter said, smiling his pink teeth.

O’Connor smiled, too, and shrugged.

“Look here,” Dickinson then scowled, “that’s insubordination and disrespect.”

“Sorry, sir, I missed it,” O’Connor said, drinking his beer. “Did Jon say something insubordinate? That’s awfully out of character for him. Now, me? I wouldn’t be surprised at anything I said.”

“Where’re the other two trolls from the defense section?” Dickinson snapped, shifting the conversation’s subject to an area where he held better control.

“Trolls, sir?” O’Connor asked and then laughed. “No one has ever called me a troll that I can recall. I guess I need to grow out my hair and take up residence under the Han River Bridge.”

“Keep it up, and you’ll have to stand tall before the colonel,” Dickinson cautioned the smart-aleck captain.

“Sir, if you want Lieutenant McKay and Lieutenant Ebberhardt, I think they’ve gone already,” O’Connor said, and relaxed back on his bar stool.

“Where, Captain?” Dickinson said, relaxing on his bar stool, too.

“You know those two, they’re always busy prowling around every weekend that they don’t pull duty,” O’Connor said, and then patted Jon Kirkwood on his shoulder as he came back to his seat. “Jon, Mike, and me, well, as you said, sir, you can always count on us hogs not straying too far from the well.”

“I wanted to hold a meeting in my office at zero seven hundred tomorrow,” Dicky Doo said, and then smiled a mean grin at the three captains. “The lieutenants skated again, but I know you’ll be there. In my office at seven, gentlemen.”

“Sir, can’t it wait until Monday?” Carter said, trying to take up for his team and fulfill his role as senior defense section officer.

“No, Miss Carter, it cannot,” Dickinson snapped back, “I have many things to attend on Monday, since I catch the freedom bird first thing Tuesday morning. We have to have our weekly conference Saturday morning, if that’s okay with you, Captain.”

“I guess the only saving grace of having a seven-o’clock meeting is knowing that you have to get to the office early on Saturday morning, too, sir,” Kirkwood said, and turned up his bottle of Olympia.

Dickinson sat and thought a moment and then looked at Kirkwood. “Okay, Jon,” Dicky Doo said, “how about nine o’clock? I’ll cut you a little slack.”

“Seven, nine, it’s okay, sir, whenever,” Kirkwood replied.

“Nine o’clock, gentlemen,” Dickinson said, and stood to leave. Then he looked back and laughed. “I nearly forgot to pass along the good news.”

“I could use a bit of good news, sir. What is it?” Carter bubbled, and sucked on the swizzle stick straw of his sloe gin fizz.

“Couple of things, and I know that they will make all three of you happy,” Dickinson said, smiling. “Promotion board published the selections for major today. Charlie Heyster made the list. He’ll pin on his oak leaves within six months.”

“Well, hell, sir,” O’Connor chirped, “why isn’t he here buying us beer?”

“You’ll have ample opportunity to congratulate him, gentlemen,” Dickinson said, nearly laughing. “He has agreed to extend in country another three months beyond the end of his regular tour, along with me.”

“You extended too, sir?” Kirkwood asked.

“I had to,” Dickinson said, offering a serious frown. “Colonel Prunella rotates home after the thirtieth of June. So he’s out of here on the first freedom bird in July. As of today, Headquarters Marine Corps has not designated a replacement for him. Therefore, beginning July first, I will assume interim duties as staff judge advocate, until the new colonel arrives, mid-September at the earliest. Major-select Heyster will move up to my old job as military justice officer and deputy staff judge advocate. This plan also assures continuity of our office until most of us rotate in November and December.”

“That’s wonderful news, sir,” O’Connor said, and then looked at Kirkwood and crossed his eyes. Jon Kirkwood laughed, seeing the face his buddy made, and then looked at Dicky Doo.

“You know, sir,” Kirkwood said, still smiling, “I’m happy for you both. I am sure your family, and Major-select Heyster’s are thrilled to no end at hearing this news.”

“Nine o’clock, tomorrow, my office, gentlemen,” Dickinson said as he left the bar, and then stopped halfway across the dance floor. “Oh, Kirkwood. Anything you want me to pass along to your wife while I am at Okinawa, just let me know.”

“Thanks, sir. I’ll think it over,” Jon Kirkwood said, holding up his beer toward the major, mocking a toast, and extending his middle finger from the bottle.

The stone-faced building that served as the beach headquarters, Laundromat, general store, gift shop, and café opened onto an earth-filled, concrete, and stone-fronted deck elevated above the sand and surrounded by a circular walkway. Colorful parasols shading picnic tables scattered across the patio and storefront that overlooked the broad stretch of sand and surf on the north side of the peninsula that jutted into the South China Sea like an outstretched arm reaching east from Da Nang.

A stone’s throw west and slightly inland from the American forces R and R resort, Charlie Med bustled with saving lives of wounded from central I Corps’ battlefields. Another kilometer south, on the opposite side of the strip of land, trees, and rocks, the Marble Mountain air facility rumbled day and night with hundreds of helicopters racing support to Marines scattered from Phu Bai to Chu Lai. East from the recreation area, near the tip of the peninsula, beneath the shadow of Monkey Mountain, U.S. Navy swift boats sailed to and from their mooring stations morning and night while merchant freighters and navy replenishment vessels landed thousands of tons of new equipment, supplies, and munitions on the half-dozen long concrete docks that stretched into the sea from the China Beach logistics wharf and cargo terminal.

“Hi, I’m Gwen Ebberhardt. I called from Da Nang this morning, and reserved a beach house for the weekend,” the redheaded flight attendant said to the grizzled old sailor who stood behind the counter wearing a sky blue tank top shirt and blue, green, yellow, and white flower-covered Bermuda shorts. The skin on his barrel chest and thick, gray-hair-covered arms spoke of the sun. The green ink of his many tattoos lay nearly hidden beneath the dark-tanned color of his skin.

“Got ya right here, ma’am,” the shaggy, silver-haired chief said, shoving a white registration card in front of her to fill out and sign. “Cabana 22B. Just back up that path, into those trees and the first duplex on the left. Your front window looks right out at the beach, just like you wanted.”

“Oh, thanks so much,” Gwen Ebberhardt said, and pointed to the smiling lieutenant standing behind her. “This is my husband, Lieutenant Wayne Ebberhardt.”

“Glad to meet you, sir,” the chief said, and put out his meaty paw for a shake. “I hope you enjoy your weekend with the pretty missus. You’re a lucky fella getting to have your wife visit like this. Mostly we just get singles. Once in a while a contractor or embassy employee gets out here with his lady, but not many military folks. Yes, sir, you’re a lucky one.”

“I truly appreciate it, sir,” Ebberhardt said, smiling while he filled out and signed the registration card.

“Oh, don’t call me ‘sir,’ ” the chief laughed, “I work for a living. Name’s Master Chief Clinton Sparks, U.S. Navy, retired. Call me Chief or Sparky. Whichever suits your tongue best, sir.”

“Well, Chief, I like the name Sparky,” Ebberhardt said, picking up Gwen’s flight bag and throwing the strap over his shoulder.

“You folks need anything, just hoist that little hailing flag by your front door and I’ll send a houseboy running to your service,” Chief Sparks said.

However, when he heard the voices of the man and the woman in the room next door, the rabbi returned his attention to the Book of Tehillim (Psalms). Even as a boy, growing up in the Bronx, he had memorized many of its verses, and learned to sing the songs in the old Hebrew language, which made them even more beautiful to hear. The words that David had originally used when he sang them first gave their meaning a special significance for the rabbi.

As he read he sang to himself, waiting for the other officers to arrive. His voice carried out the open window and disappeared into the sounds of the crashing surf and the wind.

Now completing his second consecutive year in Vietnam as a lieutenant commander in the navy chaplain corps, Rabbi Zimmerman had heard God’s voice speak to his heart three years ago, when President Lyndon Johnson ordered ground forces ashore at Da Nang. Until then he had shepherded a small congregation near the botanical gardens and Fordham University, just a few minutes by subway from Yankee Stadium, where outside his life in the synagogue he had devoted himself to raising his two sons as faithful Bronx Bomber fans, just like him.

Troubled after hearing the news of the Marines’ landing at Da Nang’s Red Beach in March 1965, he found himself unable to concentrate. Even with his sons, Ishmael and Ruben, at his side, cheering their beloved Yankees, Arthur Zimmerman’s mind left the game and listened to his heart as it ached for the boys who left home and went to war in that place that most people then still called Indochina. Finally he told his wife, Ruth, that he had to go over to that place, too. There were good Jewish boys who needed a rabbi near them, to help them pray, to reassure them that God remained with them, especially in battle.

Assigned to Marines, he found himself praying a lot not only with the Jewish members of the Corps, but also with Baptists and Catholics and Presbyterians and Methodists, and one night he even prayed with a Muslim lad, just nineteen years old, who died as they spoke to Allah. As the boy faded, Arthur Zimmerman had recited Psalm 121 with the Christian brothers of the dying Marine from Los Angeles, whose mother and father had immigrated to California from Casa Blanca, Morocco, and named their son, born in Van Nuys in August 1948, Muhammad.

“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help,” the rabbi began reciting.

A Baptist boy from Oklahoma followed his opening phrase, saying with a trembling voice, “My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.”

“He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth thee will not slumber,” the rabbi continued. “Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.

Rabbi Zimmerman wiped tears from his eyes as he remembered that night, nearly a year ago. Sitting on the wicker-bottom, ladder-back chair by the small dining table near the window, he sang a song that David had first played as a simple shepherd, long before he became king of Israel, a song that rejoiced over God’s personal care. “O Lord thou hast searched me, and known me. Thou knowest my downsitting and mine uprising, thou understandest my thought afar off.”

He closed his eyes as he sang to himself, waiting, and his voice carried into the evening and the setting sun as he heard the man and woman from next door leave their room. He opened his eyes to see them, and watched the couple walking, holding hands, meandering across the sand toward the beach and the crashing water, with the lowering afternoon sun beginning to tint the clouds orange.

He thought of Ruth and home, his two boys, and the Yankees, now finishing their last week of spring training in Florida.

“Commander Zimmerman,” a voice called from outside.

“Oh, Frank, in here. Come in, please,” the rabbi answered, and went to the door to greet the lieutenant named Frank Alexander from the Seventh Marine Regiment.

“I saw Captain Fine and Captain Jacobs up at the gedunk,” the lieutenant said. “You want to go up there and grab a hamburger and beer with them?”

“Oh, that sounds good,” the rabbi said, picking up his cap and walking out the door with the Marine. “I thought that Michael and Eric probably went shopping or sightseeing, since I had not yet seen them and the shuttle from the air base came through here an hour ago. I think that they may have arrived with the couple who have the room next door.

“Our two army friends from Chu Lai have a long journey, so I expect that they will arrive late, but hopefully before the Sabbath begins this evening. They will likely get here while we’re at the restaurant. Do you think we ought to wait for them before we eat? You may be too hungry to wait, though.”

“No, Rabbi, I am fine. Let’s wait for them. We can grab a beer first, and then order our food once their bus gets here. It’s due at any minute anyway,” the lieutenant said, glancing at his watch while walking with the chaplain. Casually, the two men strolled to the bar and grill, where a growing crowd of servicemen, and a few women, nearly all of them clad in beachwear, stood in small clusters, drinking beer or cocktails, or sat at the picnic tables beneath the rainbow of parasols as the outdoor lights and the Tiki torches brightened and the evening faded toward darkness.

The two air force captains who had ridden the shuttle with Wayne and Gwen Ebberhardt sat at a picnic table and waved when they saw the rabbi and the Marine. With the pair of air force officers sat an army captain named Raymond Segal, and another named Joel Stein, who waved, too. Their bus had just arrived.

“Nobody’s here,” Wayne Ebberhardt answered as he looked through the screen of the open front window of the quarters next to his in the beach-house duplex. “I don’t think they rented it to anyone.”

“How could you come to that conclusion by just looking in the window?” Gwen asked, standing by the low hedge in front of cabana 22A’s small patio, watching Wayne search the interior from outside.

“They have a rollaway bed and three cots stacked by the wall,” he answered, walking away from the window and stepping over the shrubbery. “You know, a bunch of spare stuff. They’re using this room for storage. It probably has plumbing problems or something.”

“Why on earth should you care whether or not anyone lives in that room?” Gwen said, putting her arm around Wayne’s waist and walking with him to their patio.

“First of all, honey,” the lieutenant told his wife, “I like my privacy. Did you see how thin the walls are in this cabana? A layer of plaster over a few laths, and that’s it. Somebody in there could hear everything.”

“You’re such a prude,” Gwen laughed. “You’re afraid someone will hear us fucking? Come on, Wayne, the walls aren’t that thin. And so what if they are. We’re married and I love my husband. If anyone hears us making love, then it’s their problem, certainly not mine. They don’t have to listen, you know.”

Wayne smiled and cocked his eyes to a devilish slant.

“Oh, you want to be bad, don’t you!” Gwen said, and returned the mischievous glance.

“Me want play Tarzan,” the lieutenant said, and beat his chest with his fists. “Tarzan want get naked and hump like monkey in tree with Jane.”

Then Wayne Ebberhardt scooped his wife off her feet and carried her into their cabana, and with his foot, slammed the front door shut.

“They rode the shuttle with us this afternoon,” Captain Fine whispered across the table to his comrades. “He’s a Marine and she’s a stewardess.”

“You know, I bet they’re married,” Rabbi Zimmerman commented. “Look at how they love each other. He’s a very lucky fellow to have his wife here for a weekend.”

The army captain named Ray Segal laughed and looked at the other officers, who smiled and agreed with his skepticism.

“Rabbi, I mean no disrespect, but do you honestly believe what you just said?” Segal said, raising his dark eyebrows at the group’s religious mentor.

“I know what you’re thinking, and given the laws of probability, you’re more likely right than wrong,” Arthur Zimmerman said, looking at the half-eaten hamburger resting on his plate. “I say what I hope is the truth. I want to believe the best about people, not the worst. I think that is important for all of us to try to do.”

“Rabbi, this is Vietnam, don’t forget. A combat zone,” Joel Stein said, echoing his army colleague’s skepticism at the couple. “Eric and Michael rode the shuttle with them, and said that the man is a Marine and the woman an airline stewardess. Those two might be married, but not to each other.”

“I have to agree with Joel and the others, Rabbi,” Marine Lieutenant Frank Alexander said. “After all, that man’s a Marine, and I know Marines, don’t forget. And look how the woman flaunts her nakedness. The bathing suit hardly covers her lower regions, and she might as well take off the top. It hides nothing. Would a faithful married woman dress like that at all? Would a husband allow his wife to dress like that?”

Rabbi Zimmerman shrugged as he picked up the hamburger from his plate and took a large bite.

After several rounds of beer following their hamburgers, the Jewish officers headed down the gravel walkway to their cabana. The couple had long ago left the restaurant patio, and the evening twilight had descended into night. Tiki torches lit the way to their room, and the six men laughed as they stumbled along the path.

Realizing that they had allowed their beer and fellowship to take them well into the time when many people had gone to sleep or had retired to quiet contentment before sleep, they silently made their way into cabana 22A. The six men had seen a dim light from the neighboring room, so they did their best not to disturb the people next door as they prepared their beds, drawing names from the rabbi’s hat to determine who slept where.

Since it was already late, they quietly decided not to have any further Sabbath discussions tonight, but would go to sleep and start fresh in the morning.

In the dark silence all six men soon realized that the purring and groaning sounds they heard from next door did not come from anyone’s slumber. Then the voices spoke.

“Oh, Tarzan!” the female sighed, and moaned. “Oh, oh, please, oh! Tarzan so bad. Bad to Jane. Oh, oh, oh, so bad.”

Then came a bang on the wall, and a thud on the floor.

“Jane, bad girl. Jane need spanking,” the man spoke, and the sound of a hand slapping skin followed.

“Ouch, Wayne! That’s too hard, honey,” the woman said.

“Umgawa!” the man answered, and the sound of a hand slapping skin came again.

“Damn it, Tarzan! Jane not going to play if you spank so hard!” the woman’s voice cried back.

“Okay, okay, honey! Come back, please. I won’t spank you so hard,” the man’s playful voice then pled.

“For Pete sake, Wayne,” the woman’s voice said, “don’t you ever run down? I’ve got to pee anyway.”

Then came a bang and a crash, and the man cried out a nearly flawless imitation of Johnny Weissmuller’s Tarzan jungle yell.

“What was that, Wayne?” the woman’s voice called from the bathroom. “Did Tarzan break something again?”

A few seconds later she cried out, “Oh, Tarzan! Bad boy! Just look what you’ve done. How on earth did you manage to knock the bed flat to the floor?”

“Umgawa,” the man’s voice answered. “Cheetah break bed, blame Tarzan; jump out window.”

Then the man let out another jungle yell, and the woman laughed.

“How on earth can those two do that all night and get up so early?” Eric Jacobs said, sitting up from one of the folding cots.

“Love is a wonderful thing,” the rabbi answered, rubbing his aching eyes. “It fills our spirits with energy. It brightens the whole world. If my Ruth were here, we would have already been on the beach this morning.”

“Rabbi,” Joel Stein said, walking to the bathroom, “I believe if your Ruth or my Ellen were here, they would have knocked on those people’s door last night and told them one or two things.”

“Joel, you’re a stick-in-the-mud,” the rabbi said.

When the pair finally walked into the room and took their seats, Dudley Dickinson didn’t look up from the papers he read for another ten minutes. Then he glared at the two men for a full thirty seconds before he spoke.

“I saw you standing behind the building ten minutes before nine, gentlemen,” Dickinson spat. “Keep up this disrespect and insubordination, and you’ll catch every duty quota that comes to headquarters squadron.”

“Each of us in the defense section already stands duty three and four times a month, sir,” Kirkwood said, opening a stenographer pad and clicking the point out on his pen, ready to take notes. “I didn’t know that the law center could get tasked with any more extra-duty quotas than we already stand now.”

“I am sure that other work sections will gladly pass along their quotas for us to fill, Captain,” Dickinson answered, “so don’t press the issue. Your fellow defense team members will regret it. Now, what about Ebberhardt and McKay? Anyone see them since yesterday evening when we had our drinks at the bar?”

“They must have slept over someplace else,” Carter offered.

“No one from our section has seen them, sir,” Kirkwood interjected before Michael Carter could say too much.

“They’d better not be out flying with that idiot Captain Gunn,” Dickinson growled. “That man is a menace to anyone’s sanity. Throwing hand grenades from the window of his plane. What if one fell back in the cockpit? My God!”

“I can’t say, sir,” Kirkwood answered before Michael Carter could open his mouth and put his foot in it.

“Well, to business then, gentlemen,” Dickinson said, and then began passing manila folders to the three captains. “You can brief the two wayward lieutenants when you see them, hopefully before Monday, when I want them both standing tall in front of my desk at zero seven hundred.”

Jon Kirkwood flipped open the folder that the mojo had handed to him, and began reading the charge sheet and supporting statements.

“That boy’s a real bad egg,” Dickinson said, watching Kirkwood read. “Sergeant Donald T. Wilson, soon to be private, I would say: calling his platoon commander a coward, in front of the entire platoon and the company commander.”

“He really say all this shit?” Kirkwood said, looking up. Then the captain looked down and read aloud:

“The men don’t like you because you’re an asshole-fucking coward, Lieutenant. I’ll bet that you even squat to pee. You have to because you sure the fuck don’t have any balls. You fucking pussy!”

“I think we met him at Fire Base Ross,” O’Connor laughed.

“He’s from up north, with the light antiaircraft missile battalion,” Kirkwood said, looking at O’Connor. “Definitely a healthy grunt mentality though.”

“Captain Kirkwood,” Major Dickinson said, looking at a list of notes scribbled on a yellow legal pad, “you may want to joke about him, but I would not get too close to this man. When you talk to him it is advisable that you have a guard present with you. Sergeant Wilson remains deeply agitated with anyone who tries to talk to him, and he is especially pissed at officers.”

“I’ll feel him out. See how he acts,” Kirkwood said, discounting what the major had warned because the officers and enlisted men who had talked to Wilson until now represented the prosecution and jailers.

“A bit of background then, Captain,” Dickinson said, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe a week, or ten days ago, Wilson’s lieutenant had sat down on his cot and when he bent over to untie his boots he noticed a can under his cot. He also smelled gasoline. When he looked more closely at the can, he saw that someone had placed a hand grenade in it.

“Of course, this sent the lieutenant flying out of his hooch, and outside he encountered Sergeant Wilson and several of his men, who began laughing.

“The company commander called an explosive ordnance technician to come deal with the booby trap. He had to crawl under the cot and tip the can to one side to see if the grenade was a frag or an illume. It was a frag. Someone had pulled the pin and wrapped the spoon with masking tape, and dropped it in the can of gasoline. Theoretically, the gas would dissolve the glue on the tape and release the spoon. However, due to poor planning on the perpetrator’s part, he got too small of a can, so the spoon still did not release.

“Our EOD guy had to tie a long cotton string to the can and gently drag it outside. Then he had to carry it to the burn barrels. Using the string again, the explosive specialist pulled the can onto its side so that the grenade fell out.

“Gentlemen, when it detonated, it put a definite fear factor into all the officers at that missile battery up on the Hai Van Pass. Both the company and platoon commanders concur that they believe that Sergeant Wilson planted that grenade.

“A few evenings later, someone tossed a live grenade on the tin roof of the officers’ hooch. It clattered down, bounced on the ground, and exploded. Luckily, no one got hurt here either. It did tear a hole in the wall and peppered the hooch with fragments.

“Since then, we have had repeated instances of troops throwing rocks on the tin roof of the officers’ hooch, sending the Marines inside scrambling out. This gives the enlisted men there no end to entertainment.

“We have to make an example of Sergeant Wilson, gentlemen. I hope that you can appreciate why.”

“Sir, we’re the defense attorneys,” O’Connor said, tilting his head to one side and narrowing his eyes. “That sounds like something you need to tell the prosecution.”

“Don’t you worry about the prosecution, Captain,” Dicky Doo snapped back, “Major-Select Heyster will make sure that Sergeant Donald T. Wilson is made a lasting example. You just need to do what is right, too, and make sure that this man gets what he deserves.”

“Sir,” Kirkwood said, cutting off Terry O’Connor’s hot temper, “rest assured we will seek justice for Sergeant Wilson. I can assure you we will strive to ensure that this Marine gets what he deserves.”

Dicky Doo sat back in his swivel chair and scowled.

“No judge will allow Charlie to introduce any of this fragging business as evidence against Sergeant Wilson,” O’Connor said, fidgeting in his chair, unable to keep the voice of his passion for justice in check. “I know that’s what Major-Select Shyster has up his sleeve or you guys wouldn’t—”

“It’s my case, Terry,” Kirkwood interrupted. “I’ll take care of it. We will make sure this Marine gets what he deserves!”

Terry O’Connor clamped his jaws tight and took a deep breath.

“Captain Carter,” Dickinson said, looking at the disheveled lawyer with his knees under his chin, sitting on the couch, “your client, the Magnificent Kilgore, has done it again.”

“Escaped, sir,” Carter said, smiling and blushing.

“Oh, and I know that Captains Kirkwood and O’Connor will have a good laugh with this one, so let me entertain you with another amusing story,” the mojo said.

“Our illustrious Private Thomas Kilgore, incarcerated last November, probably a week before you two arrived here, has flown the coop for the third time. I can’t prove it, but our good Captain Michael Carter, sitting there so dumb and innocent, probably knows much more about Kilgore’s escape than he will ever let on.

“I know you knew he had this planned,” Dicky Doo snapped at Carter.

“Anyway,” the mojo sighed, and again leaned back in his chair, “Thomas Kilgore is a thief. Not just your ordinary, run-of-the-mill petty criminal, but a man who will steal anything not nailed or chained or padlocked. We locked him up for unauthorized absence and grand theft. He stole a truck full of utility uniforms and boots and drove it to Hill 55, and started passing them out to all the Marines there.

“This mental-midget friend of yours, First Lieutenant Michael Schuller, the duty brig officer at the time of the escape, decided that Private Kilgore deserved to go outside the wire on a working party. The chasers no sooner had unloaded the prisoners to start work than the Magnificent Kilgore made like a rabbit straight into this Vietnamese village.

Two MPs responded to the chaser’s radio call and pursued Kilgore into the village. When they parked their jeep to search the back of a hooch, Kilgore slipped around the other side and stole the damned jeep.

“So he’s gone again!”

Jon Kirkwood started to laugh, and fought back the urge, but then broke down. Seeing their pal crumble, Terry O’Connor and Michael Carter both let go, too.

“Gentlemen!” Dicky Doo said, at first trying to rein in his lawyers, but then he started to laugh, too. “Oh, shit. You’re right. It is funny.”

“Can you see those MPs? Kilgore waving good-bye to them as he heads to town?” Carter said, laughing hysterically now.

“One more item and we’ll call it a day,” Dickinson said, wiping his eyes. “Carter, you have the con on this case. One Corporal James Gillette, spelled like the razor blades, shot a hooker a week ago Wednesday night. He’s assigned to the information services office, along with two other corporals we charged with him, although Gillette pulled the trigger. The specifications include assault with a deadly weapon, battery, attempted murder.

“Lieutenant McKay has already met with the two accomplices, and they have agreed to plea out for lesser charges, settling for restriction, a fine, and reduction to lance corporal. We’ll take this lad Gillette to trial next Wednesday, after I get back from Okinawa.

“It’s open and shut. We have statements from the two lance corporals, and the statement from the hooker, who is fully recovering and is already back on the street.”

“Must not have been that bad then,” O’Connor said.

“Naw, the bullet just grazed her ear, took off a piece of it,” Dickinson said and laughed. “The corporal was lucky he was a lousy shot. However, the illustrious Major Tran Van Toan, one of the local constabulary’s hard-head district chiefs, demanded that we prosecute this lad for clipping the girl’s ear. So we gotta do it.”

Dickinson stood behind his desk and crossed his arms.

“Any questions, comments, or concerns?” he asked.

“See you Monday, then, sir,” Kirkwood said, grabbing his notebook and hat, and then headed out the door. Terry O’Connor and Michael Carter fell in step behind him.

“We’ll make sure to get the word to the lieutenants, sir,” Carter called over his shoulder as the trio left.

Terry O’Connor slugged the thoughtless captain on the arm when they got past Dicky Doo’s door.

Rabbi Zimmerman waved when he saw Wayne Ebberhardt, and the lieutenant waved back. The chaplain and five officers sat in a circle on the patio, discussing ethics while the rabbi guided them with passages he read from the Torah.

Seeing the chaplain with a tallith draped over his shoulders and all six officers wearing yarmulkes on their heads stopped Lieutenant Ebberhardt for a moment. Then the rabbi motioned for him to come close and talk.

“Don’t worry, sir, you’re not interrupting a thing,” Zimmerman said, smiling as he stood and then put out his hand. “I am Lieutenant Commander Arthur Zimmerman, one of the many navy chaplains assigned to you Marines here in I Corps.”

“Wayne Ebberhardt, sir,” the lieutenant said. “I’m a lawyer with the First Marine Aircraft Wing. That’s my wife, Gwen, down at the beach. She’s with Flying Tigers.”

“Wonderful!” Zimmerman said, and then smiled a quick look of great satisfaction at the five men who had also risen to their feet, and uncomfortably smiled back. “You and your wife. What a lucky man you are. I saw my wife one year ago, when I took leave. Oh, if I could see her and my two sons now. If they could see this beautiful beach.”

“I feel embarrassed that I interrupted your worship,” Wayne Ebberhardt said, still feeling that he had intruded on something private and sacred.

“No, no, don’t feel that way, please,” Arthur Zimmerman said. “We celebrate the Sabbath with prayer, of course, but also with friendship, lively discussions, and love of our families. You disturbed nothing. Please join us if you wish. We were talking about ethics and divine will. The battlefield, you well know, puts our ethics and our faith to a great test.”

“I would love to join you, believe me. The discussion sounds fascinating,” Ebberhardt said, and then turned toward the beach and pointed. “However, the time that my wife and I have together is very precious to us. I hope you understand.”

“Think nothing about it!” the chaplain said, waving his hand as he spoke. “In your shoes, I would be there on that blanket with my Ruth right now.”

The chaplain looked back at the five men still standing and saying nothing.

“Well, at least let me introduce my friends here,” the rabbi said, stepping to one side and laying his hand back in a sweeping gesture. “Starting from the left, I would like you to meet Captain Joel Stein and Captain Raymond Segal, both from the army’s Americal Division at Chu Lai. Then we have your fellow Marine First Lieutenant Frank Alexander from the Seventh Marines based on Hill 55, southwest of Da Nang. From your own Da Nang Air Base, please meet Captain Michael Fine and Captain Eric Jacobs, both from the U.S. Air Force.”

As the rabbi introduced each man, Wayne Ebberhardt shook his hand.

“Well, it is good to meet all of you,” the lawyer said, and began to walk toward the patio of cabana 22B. “I do need to get back with my wife, though.”

“Oh, sure, please don’t let us keep you,” the rabbi answered.

Then as Wayne Ebberhardt stepped through the low hedge that fronted his cabana’s patio, he looked back at the group. One question had troubled him from the moment he saw the six men sitting next door. He had to ask.

“You guys checked in this morning, right?” Ebberhardt queried, hoping for a yes answer.

Rabbi Zimmerman lowered his face and shook his head while the lieutenant and all but one captain just gave Wayne Ebberhardt a wide-eyed, blank look.

“Umgawa, Tarzan,” Joel Stein said and spread a wide grin across his face. “We checked in yesterday.”