I looked at Gearheardt, who shrugged. “I would imagine that someone has found out our plan and has decided to kill us.”
“We don’t even have a damn plan! What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’ve found it’s best to always assume the worst and then just go with it.” Gearheardt was incredibly exasperating when he was sober.
At 1300 hours, full of chicken chow mein, the two of us stood outside the stateroom of the ship’s captain. Gearheardt started to knock on the bulkhead but I stopped his arm. “Listen, pal,” I hissed in his ear, “none of your wiseass stuff. Maybe this isn’t even about Barbonella. Let me do the talking unless they ask you a direct question. Got it?”
“Be my guest.” He rapped three times on the bulkhead.
“Enter.” A deep voice from behind the door.
Gearheardt stepped through the door and came to attention. I fell in beside him.
“Almost Captain Gearheardt reporting as ordered, sir.” The asshole, I thought.
“Almost Captain Armstrong,” I said, not very loud.
“At ease, gentlemen,” the ship’s skipper, Captain Rex Sand, said. “You men know your CO and XO, of course. This gentleman is Commander Flynn, my intelligence officer, and that gentleman,” he nodded toward a stern lieutenant commander sitting to the side of the room, “is my assistant something or other.”
Captain Sand was a stocky ex-Academy man. He had a gray crewcut and bushy eyebrows, which were still half-black, drawing your attention to them. The other two naval officers could be described best as nondescript. Neither wore lipstick as Gearheardt always claimed they did. The cabin was spartan by any standards except how the rest of the men on the ship lived. A built-in bunk, desk, chair, trashcan, and just about everything else in the room were gray. Like the ship. Over the shoulder of the captain I could see a bookshelf containing tomes on everything from driving a ship to painting an airplane. I thought I saw a copy of Panties on Priests, but when the captain swiveled around to face us, his shoulders blocked my view. I decided that I’d better tune in to what was going on.
“Gents,” the captain began with a pleasant, friendly tone, “best place to start is at the beginning. What the hell are you two up to?”
Before I could formulate a reply, Gearheardt spoke up. “Sir, I’m afraid that’s classified. Almost Captain Armstrong and I have no orders and can’t tell you about them. The only part that we can tell you is that we’re almost captains and we’re on your side, sir.”
The silence in the room hurt my teeth after a while. Our five superior officers were inhaling air and exhaling hate and noxious gases. Gearheardt had left me no wiggle room with his answer.
At the count of fifty—I was counting to myself to take my mind off Leavenworth—the captain quit staring at us and looked at our squadron CO. “Is this more of that Marine Corps bullshit, Colonel? I’m so tired of that damned attitude I could puke.”
Our Skipper shrugged and held his palms up. “Captain, I don’t know a thing more than you do. The scuttlebutt we got was that these two were asked by the highest authorities to stop the war. The Barbonella plan, according to my sources. The Marine Corps has a man stationed permanently in the shitter at the White House and this is the info he passed on.”
“In the shitter?”
“We’ve had a man taking a piss since 1962. No one goes up to a guy at the urinal and starts a conversation. So, he just stands there holding his dick and listening to the staff drift in and out, talking.” He smiled. “This is all highly confidential of course.”
“You mean this Barbonella plan that we—”
“No, the shitter detail. We’re about to bust an Air Force guy that’s been taking a crap for about two years now. We think he may be a plant. The Marine Corps has the exclusive rights to the White House plumbing. The son of a bitch in that stall better be constipated or he’s in a world of hurt.” In answer to the six heads turned toward him the colonel went on. “I just got off of the White House guard detail. Great duty. My replacement keeps me informed.”
During the small talk among the senior officers about past cream assignments, Gearheardt whispered to me, “Let’s just blow out of here.”
Captain Sand leaned back in his chair. “But bottom line, do you expect me to believe that two green lieutenants have been given a mission by the White House to end the war in Vietnam? Does that make any sense to anybody?” The captain shook his head. He looked back at us and tried to assemble his most stern look. It worked pretty well.
“One last time, Almost Captains—whatever the hell that’s all about—what’s this Barbonella mission? Because if it’s really about ending the war, you can goddam just forget it. We’ve geared up for this thing and gone to one hell of a lot of trouble. I, for one, could use a little combat time”—the Marines gave a quiet “Hear, hear,”—“and I don’t mind telling you that I won’t take lightly to a couple of jarheads shortening my career path. I suggest you men go on over with the rest of us and do some fighting. None of this pussyfooting around with Barbonella plans or anything. You read me?”
I was going to heartily agree, when Gearheardt spoke up. “We don’t know what you’re talking about, Captain. So of course we can’t agree. If I did have orders I know that one of them would be to kill whoever had unauthorized information about anything called Barbonella. I am assuming, sir; that is not the case here.” It dawned on me that my friend had been in the CIA since he was eleven years old.
The captain was on his feet, little pearls of spit forming at the corners of his mouth. He leaned over his desks bracing himself on his fists. “Listen up, Almost Captain Gearheardt. I don’t care if your orders are to cut off your dick and call yourself Nancy. If you try to stop this war, I’ll personally have the skin off your ass for a lampshade. Do I make myself clear?”
I gave Gearheardt no time for the snappy response I could see he wanted to make. He was enjoying this. “We understand perfectly, sir. I think there’s probably been a mistake. We want this war every bit as much as you do. Will that be all, sir?”
“Get out of my sight!”
Gearheardt started to reply, and I grabbed him and shoved him outside, closing the door behind us. He smiled like we had found a whore’s purse.
“Can you believe that?” he said. “Those bastards are scared to death of us. We really do have a mission that comes from the top. They don’t know shit or they wouldn’t have called us up here. We’re golden, Jack. We’re golden.”
My problem is I always want to believe the best. As we strolled back to the zoo, I figured, what the hell, we’re golden. It would occur to me later that there was a leak. Someone knew about Barbonella, certainly more than I knew, and wasn’t happy about it.
8 • Asia Ahoy
First stop for the carrier was Japan. For refueling and, I can only assume, to get the Skipper laid. Lots of decisions are made this way in the service. It’s worked okay so far.
Fatass was the first one to spot Japan on the horizon. We had been at sea for eleven days. A couple of those days were spent cruising around practicing helicopter operations, and I suspect one or more of them got scheduled because Bearhead had shorted out the ship’s navigation system, flooding the electronics rooms by redirecting the urinal drains. The zoo was more stable at night after that, too.
Fatass was on the forecastle of the ship when we sailed into Tokyo Bay. He had been out there all night after making the mistake of suggesting the boys in the zoo sing some whaling songs to pass the time after evening chow. We locked him out, and he got the privilege of alerting us to the green, silent country as the fog lifted in the early morning. I went out on deck as we passed a colossal stone Buddha nestled in misty pines, facing the sea lane with the patience of the ages. I recall shuddering a bit as I gazed at it, thinking, inexplicably, that we might not be prepared for Asia. Most of the zoo, fifteen or twenty pilots, stood at the railing, their khaki uniforms crisp, shirt sleeves and trouser legs snapping in the breeze over the bow
, staring at the shore. The solemn silence told me that the quarter-century link to our Marine heritage was sobering. U.S. Marines in Tokyo Bay. Our fathers and uncles would not have believed it.
Nor did Butler. “It’s a trap!” he screamed, scaring the hell out of all of us at the rail. “We’re all going to die!” He emptied his .38 at the receding Buddha. I saw tiny sparks fly as the bullets struck the stone. It didn’t seem like the thing to do, but no one moved to stop him.
“THIS IS THE CAPTAIN. STOP FIRING. REPEAT. STOP FIRING.” The ubiquitous speakers of God boomed “Now hear this! The individual or individuals firing weapons at the Japanese property report to the bridge at once! Repeat. Report to the bridge at once!”
Butler looked confused. “What did he say?” he asked Fatass. “My ears are ringing.” He fumbled new rounds into his pistol.
“He said the Navy doesn’t think you can hit the eyes.”
Which is how Butler became the first U.S. Marine to be keelhauled on a U.S. naval vessel in almost two hundred years. We could have stopped it, but most of the guys had never seen a keelhauling, and few liked Butler. He had the not terribly endearing habit when he was drinking of pissing wherever he happened to be, not taking into account where you happened to be. It wasn’t technically a keelhauling, anyway. We just helped some swabbies tie a rope around him so he could be dragged behind the carrier through Tokyo Bay.
Before we docked, actually at Yokosuka not Tokyo, I grabbed Gearheardt and shoved him against the bulkhead in a quiet passageway. “We need to talk,” I said. He tried to spin away. “I mean, right now.”
Gearheardt smoothed the front of his shirt and straightened his wings. “I know what you’re going to say. But I don’t think there’s a problem. If the Skipper or the boat driver knew anything more than just a rumor, they’d have our asses on the end of that rope with Butler.” He laughed thinly.
I stood eye to eye with him. I couldn’t see any fear, but he broke first. “Let’s go get ready to go ashore,” he said, twisting away.
I grabbed his shirt again. “Look at this.” Pulling a folded piece of paper out of my breast pocket I stuck it in front of his face.
WE KNOW WHAT YOU BASTARDS ARE UP TO. FORGET BARBONELLA OR DIE. PLEASE PASS THIS ON TO GEARHEARDT, THE SQUADRON’S COPY MACHINE IS DOWN
Gearheardt took the paper and wadded it up after reading it. He tossed it over his shoulder.
“This is a joke, Jack. You don’t think they could have copied the thing by hand if they’d wanted to? I think you’re overreacting to the meeting in the boat driver’s room. They have a vague idea that we are up to something, and if they find out what it is they’re going to kill us. I think that’s all this means.”
I could never tell with Gearheardt. But we were closer than any brothers. We’d been together since flight school.
“That’s my point, you prick! We are up to something! And they are finding out! I didn’t join the Marine Corps to be killed by my own squadron-mates for Chrissakes!”
Gearheardt was calm, probably because he already knew I was one of his squadron-mates and I wanted to kill him.
“Jack, remember that Brigadier Bittersly said—”
“Gearheardt, you jerk, we made Brigadier Bittersly up in a bar in Huntington Beach. Don’t quote that crap to me now.”
“Jack, I just think that sometimes we are called to do more than just follow the orders of the Marine Corps. Sure, we could just go over and have a good war and come back home. But this, this is a chance to change the course of history. This is a chance to be famous. Besides, the commander in chief has ordered us to Hanoi. Are you suggesting that we ignore that?”
Not one hundred percent sure just exactly what I was suggesting, I hesitated. Gearheardt put his arm around my shoulders and started us moving down the passageway. When we rounded the corner, we almost ran into Peters. He stood in the passageway, his arms outstretched, hands against the bulkheads, blocking our path.
“What are the Bobbsey Twins up to?” he asked. “I’m getting a little worried about you two. You’re not goin’ Navy on me, are you?”
“Get lost, Peters,” I said. I outranked him, though only by date of rank at this point, and for some reason I thought his show was all bravado. The only guy he ever punched out was Buder. And Butler liked it and never punched him back.
Gearheardt had a slightly different reaction. “Bearhead is taking your wife’s letters into the shitter with him, Peters.” He pushed by and continued down the passageway.
I turned to follow Gearheardt. When I caught him my anger was gone. I felt fearful, let down.
“You know, Gearheardt,” I said as we walked toward the zoo, “I had really been looking forward to this war. Now you’re ruining it. Some cockeyed orders from the President. Threatening letters. Peters obviously suspects something.”
Gearheardt shrugged.
I continued, “I have to admit that you threw him off. He won’t remember what he was suspicious of for a long time, knowing how his mind works.”
“Your paranoia is showing, Jack.”
“Gearheardt, people are threatening to kill us right and left. That can hardly be called paranoia.”
“You’re the one with all the education, Jack. If you say it’s not paranoia, I’ll believe you. Whatever it is, I think it’s wise for us to be on our toes. You need to be more careful.”
“I need to be more careful? Gearheardt, you drive me goddam crazy. If I remember correctly, you somehow got us into this situation—the boat driver and the Skipper and the XO warning us and threatening letters from our squadron-mates, who by now think we’re homosexuals. This is not a good start to this war.”
We were at the zoo. Inside, a scene of hellish frenzy replaced the normal trash-strewn landscape as the occupants prepared to go ashore for Cinderella liberty—everyone back on the boat by midnight. Gearheardt was asked by several lieutenants to join their shore party as he made his way to his bunk and footlocker. These small gestures began to convince me that perhaps the entire squadron was not aware of Barbonella. Maybe I was getting paranoid. I began to feel a bit better but still wanted to place a phone call to the White House when we got ashore. If there was any chance that we were going to get killed by our side, I at least wanted to hear about Barbonella from the President himself. Gearheardt agreed. He also suggested that we check in with his superiors at the CIA.
“What? The CIA? What in the hell do they have to do with Barbonella? I thought you said this wasn’t an agency deal.” Gearheardt and I were alone in the zoo. When the first liberty call came over God’s speakers, the zoo emptied like the time the Navy pukes announced ‘nickel beer and free pussy on the flight deck’ over the speakers when we were first aboard and didn’t know that they were screwing with us.
“I had to at least inform them, Jack. They’re the ones that got me out of that orphanage, and I do owe my second primary allegiance to them. And don’t forget that you’re a part of the agency, too.”
“So what did they say?” I ignored the comment about my alleged agency affiliation.
Gearheardt sniffed at the armpit of a civilian shirt and began to put it on. “They didn’t like it very much. Thought the whole Barbonella thing was idiocy and ordered me to stop it.”
“They what?” I rose up from my footlocker, where I was rummaging for a polo shirt.
“Oh, not us, they think that we’re Narsworthy and Dexter. They want us to stop Gearheardt and Armstrong.”
“That’s us too, you jerk. How did I ever let you talk me into this ‘two person’ crap? Who does the President think we are?” I felt myself going crazy and thought it was just as well.
“He thinks we’re Gearheardt and Armstrong primarily.” Gearheardt pulled on his prized elephant-hide cowboy boots, tucked his slacks into them, and stood up. “We’re just going to have to kill Narsworthy and Dexter. Or at least let the agency think they’re dead.”
“How do we do that?” Going along with this wasn’t nearly as exasperating
as arguing logic with Gearheardt.
“You’ll think of something, Jack. In a pinch, you always do. That’s why you need me. To get you into pinches.” He waited while I slipped on a civilian shirt, and then we proceeded to the quarterdeck to check out for liberty in Yokosuka. It was early morning and our plan was to visit the U.S. consulate, call the White House, and by noon be discovering and exploring the sights, smells, and sounds of Japanese bars. Then if we had any time left we would see a bit of the Japanese countryside. Observing the Marines gathered near the gangway, jostling each other for position, I felt somewhat uneasy at the thought of unleashing this horde on the unsuspecting populace of Yokosuka. Even if these people were the direct descendents of the guys who sucker-punched Pearl Harbor, it seemed pretty cruel to turn loose hundreds of Marines into their midst. When I voiced a bit of this sentiment to Gearheardt while we waited our turn, he pointed out that the area immediately surrounding the docks of most ports in the world didn’t usually house the virtuous and saintly. After a final speech over God’s speakers about respecting the Japanese people and their customs, the men began to stream ashore and were swallowed up by the pimps, prostitutes, touts, louts, crooks, charlatans, madams, thieves, and others who made up the welcoming committee.
Gearheardt and I shouldered our way through the crowd. At the main gate we jumped into the back seat of a small taxi and Gearheardt screamed at the driver, “TAKE US TO THE AMERICAN CONSULATE.”
Luckily the driver, a bespeckled, pockfaced Japanese with a shaved head, spoke almost perfect English. “Hey, fuck you consulate. No have here fucking Tokyo. Want pussy. One thousand yen. No have local beer, make sick. Fucking good American beer buy from chiefs. Five hundred yen. We go pussy now.” He popped the clutch and shot away from the curb.
Gearheardt, who constantly amazed me with his grace and flair in handling unexpected situations, got the driver’s attention by taking off his shoe and smashing it against his right temple.
Nam-A-Rama Page 10
