by Sean Lynch
“Hell, Sarge, I don’t know. Next thing I know this guy hits Rick in the throat. Rick goes down. I grab the guy, but he wiggles out and knees me in the groin.”
Farrell now knew the origin of Gomez’s sickly pallor. “OK, then what?”
“So I pull out my .45, but before I can plug the fucker he grabs my hand, and whammo, the next thing I know my hand is fucked up, and my gun is on the floor. I bent down to pick it up, and he kneed me in the face.”
“So where is the suspect now? You reported you had him in custody,” Farrell said impatiently.
“I guess Rick wasn’t completely out, because the next thing I hear is a shot. There’s Rick, puking blood, and his gun is smoking. And there’s our man on the ground.”
“Where’s Bryson now?”
Before Gomez could answer, the doctor interjected.
“Sergeant, your man is in the adjacent treatment room. I think you’d better see to him.”
Farrell went next door, where he found Private First Class Rick Bryson lying face down on a bed with his shirt off and clear plastic bags of ice on both sides of his neck. Under his mouth, on the floor, was a drip-pan full of bright, frothy blood.
It was obvious Bryson couldn’t speak. Farrell asked the doctor leaning over Bryson, “How is he, Doc?”
“Not good, but much better than it could have been. His larynx is badly bruised. We think we’ve bled out most of the fluid, and the swelling is down. His lungs aren’t in jeopardy. We’ll know soon if he’ll need a trach.”
“In English, please?”
“Your man has had a lot of damage done to his throat. I won’t know for a while if we’ll have to cut his throat open and do a tracheotomy. I believe we’ll be able to avoid that, and he’ll eventually have a full recovery, but I can’t say for sure. It’s too soon to tell.”
Bryson was in obvious pain. Tears formed in the corners of the young soldier’s eyes as he listened to his injuries discussed so casually.
“Just patch him up, will you?”
“I hope to have him good as new.”
Farrell silently prayed that Bryson wouldn’t suffer permanent disability. He patted the young MP gently on the shoulder.
“You take it easy, Rick, and soak up all this flatbed time. I’m going to work your ass off when you get back. I’m also going to put you in for so many medals you’re going to have to lug them around in a shopping cart.”
Bryson forced a smile. Farrell nodded a goodbye, and headed out to the main lobby. The same shore patrolman who’d greeted him at the entrance was still there.
“OK,” said Farrell curtly. “Where is the son of a bitch?”
The SP led Farrell to a surgical room, and had him don an apron and facemask. He entered the operating room.
He found a surgeon, as well as a group of nurses, huddled around a man laying face down on a surgical table. No one looked up as he entered.
The man on the table was huge, with a thickly muscled torso. The man’s face was obscured, and he wore the deep tan of the field soldier. There were jagged scars running up and down the man’s back, and Farrell could see several of the circular sphincter-scars that only gunshot wounds produced. The man had a crew-cut, and a Marine Corps eagle, globe, and anchor tattooed on one of his massive forearms.
Farrell imagined getting slugged in the throat by one of those beefy arms, and cringed as he remembered the nineteen year-old MP spitting blood in a room down the hall.
“I’m going to have your ass on a platter, motherfucker,” Farrell said between clenched teeth. “You’re never going to see the outside of a prison as long as you live.”
At Farrell’s outburst, the physician and nurses looked up.
“What are you doing in here?” the surgeon asked.
“That man you’re operating on is in my custody,” replied Farrell evenly. “How badly is he hurt?”
“He’s very lucky. He was shot in the buttocks, and the bullet deflected off his hip and exited. Would you care to see?”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
By the time Farrell left surgery and got out of his gown, three of the MPs from his detachment were in the lobby. He issued orders requiring twenty-four hour babysitting of the suspect. Once the suspect was awake, he was to be put in irons, the doctors be damned. And once medically cleared for release, the suspect was to be transported forthwith to the detention facility at the Provost HQ. Farrell assigned two of the MPs this task.
The third MP was to see that MPs Bryson and Gomez were taken care of. He was also ordered to obtain the medical records of the suspect and dispatch them to Farrell’s office immediately. He left strict orders that no one was to talk to the suspect. He then left to catch some much needed rest.
Farrell was not to sleep, however. By the time he returned to his billet, a message was waiting for him to report back to his office to take receipt of the suspect’s 201 file, or military service record. He took a hurried shower, stuffed a fresh pack of Camels into his pocket, and drove back to Provost HQ.
One of the GIs in the office brought Farrell some sandwiches. He unbelted his .45 and sat down at his desk. The clerk came in a moment later and he signed a receipt for the Marine’s personnel file. It was as thick as a phone book.
Lance Corporal Vernon Emil Slocum, United States Marine Corps, was only twenty years old. He’d enlisted in the Marine Corps at age seventeen after being signed in by his father, a farmer from Ogden, Iowa.
There wasn’t much background on Slocum. He’d never graduated high school, and was one of four children. His military record was considerably more detailed.
After boot camp at Parris Island, Slocum was attached to the 1st Battalion, 6th Marine Regiment, already in Vietnam. He was assigned as an M-60 machine-gunner, probably due to his large stature and physical strength. His unit was a Battalion Landing Team in the Da Nang area.
Farrell lit another in an endless stream of cigarettes and labored over the file. Slocum’s service record read like Audie Murphy’s.
In late ’65, and early ’66, Slocum was in the Cam Ranh Bay doing platoon recon. His unit was ambushed by a significantly larger NVA force. Though wounded in the chest and back by rocket fragments, he so effectively suppressed enemy fire that his platoon was able to escape. He did this after both his assistant gunner and team leader had already been killed.
After a brief stay in a field hospital, Slocum was back with his unit, this time with a Purple Heart and Bronze Star.
Then Farrell found an unexplained gap in the records, and Slocum was reassigned to another platoon. Again he distinguished himself in combat, earning the Silver Star for singlehandedly halting a Viet Cong ambush in the Chu Lai Peninsula that would have resulted in a complete rout of the Marine defensive perimeter had it succeeded. More battles, and even more medals, were chronicled in the file.
Farrell was completely engrossed in the documents and lost track of the time. He was jarred back to reality by the desk sergeant’s voice.
“Hey Bob, your baby-killer’s CO is here. He wants to talk to you. He’s in the colonel’s office.”
So Farrell found himself in Edgewater’s office, irritated at the interruption, and curious what Lance Corporal Vernon E Slocum’s company commander would have to say about what his Marine had done.
“What do you mean, ‘eerie’?” asked Edgewater.
“Well sir, I haven’t had a chance to talk to the suspect, but I’ve been going over his 201 file. I’d like to get back to it before I interrogate him.”
Edgewater said nothing in response, looking at the floor and exhaling smoke through his nostrils. It made Farrell nervous. Finally he spoke.
“Bob, you’ve done a good job on this, and I’m proud of you. But I think you should talk to this Marine’s commanding officer. He’s outside in the waiting room. I’ve already had a chance to chat with him.”
“Why didn’t you tell me he was here? You could have saved me a couple of hours of reading.”
“I hav
e my reasons, Sergeant.” He ground out his cigarette and pressed the intercom button on his desk. “Send in the captain, will you?”
The door opened, and a tall Marine came in. He was wearing filthy, sweat-stained fatigues, and looked as if he hadn’t slept in at least as long as Farrell. It was clear he’d come in from the field. Edgewater made the introductions.
Farrell stood and shook a hand thick with the dirt of the jungle. Both sat down.
“I’ve already briefed the captain on the status of the investigation and the charges against his Marine,” Edgewater said. Turning to Bradshaw, Edgewater added, “The industrious sergeant here has been going through Slocum’s 201 file.”
Farrell didn’t like the tone of Edgewater’s voice. There was a hint of something veiled, something that spelled trouble to the young cop.
Bradshaw sighed deeply, and pulled a battered pack of Marlboros from inside his tunic. After he had lit one with an equally battered Zippo, he looked at Farrell through the smoke and said, “Sergeant Farrell, Corporal Slocum is certainly one helluva Marine.”
“There are a lot of gaps in his file, Captain. I was hoping you could fill some of them in.”
The captain sighed heavily again, and Farrell realized the Marine officer was several years younger than him. Bradshaw displayed a weariness not borne solely from lack of sleep.
“Sergeant, Corporal Slocum is without a doubt the most efficient fighting man I’ve ever known. You’ve seen his file; you’ve probably guessed that already.”
Farrell took umbrage. “Sir, he may be a super-trooper, but do you know what he did? Are you aware of what he’s being charged with?”
Bradshaw said nothing for a long minute, staring solemnly at Farrell.
“Sergeant, have you ever been in combat?”
“No, sir, I have not.”
“Then it’s going to be hard for you to get perspective on Corporal Slocum. I’m not sure you would understand.”
Farrell found himself growing angry. “Sir, with all due respect, I’m not sure I care to understand. To you, Slocum is a squared-away Marine. To me, he’s a child-killer. Your troop buttfucked and murdered a four year-old boy and left him hanging like a piñata. When he was questioned about it, he attacked two of my men, severely injuring one, and tried to escape. I don’t give a goddamn about his war heroics, or the Corps, or how rough it was out there in the jungle. He’s a monster. And I’m going to see he gets the death penalty, or spends the rest of his miserable life in Fort Leavenworth.”
Farrell half-expected the Marine captain to lash back. He knew he was out of line, but didn’t care. Edgewater glared at him hotly; he was pushing the limits of insubordination. Instead, the Marine officer shook his head slightly, smoking in silence. After a final drag, Captain Bradshaw put out his butt and looked at Farrell in contempt.
CHAPTER 11
Captain Bradshaw reached in his pocket for another Marlboro. He looked at Farrell coolly, appraising him. After he lit his cigarette he began to speak.
“Slocum came to my Company in November of ’66, as part of a replacement group from Da Nang. We’d been hit hard, and were due some light defensive posturing in the Chu Lai Peninsula as a result. I should have known by how fast we got our replacements we’d be heading straight back to the bush.”
Bradshaw rubbed his unshaven chin. “Slocum was not a popular Marine. He’s a big motherfucker and twice as strong as he looks. He kept to himself, and didn’t get along too well with the guys in his squad. A lot of rumors followed him; real nasty ones.”
“What kind of rumors, Captain?” asked Farrell.
Captain Bradshaw’s face broke into a skeletal grin. “What kind of rumors, Sergeant? Rumors you can’t confirm, or deny, or even dare ask about.”
“Captain, I’m conducting an investigation. I need to know.”
The Marine exhaled smoke. Farrell was grateful the infantry officer was smoking; the odor of unwashed body emanating from him was strong.
“I asked you if you’d been in combat for a reason. When you’ve been out in the bush for a long time, away from the world, things change.”
“Could you be a little more specific?”
“You sure you want to hear this?”
“I asked, didn’t I?” Farrell said.
Bradshaw ground out his cigarette. “OK, cop; you want specifics, I’ll give you specifics.” The tension between the grunt officer and the CID sergeant was palpable. “Shit happens. Is that specific enough for you?”
The Marine’s eyes flashed, and Farrell heard the escalating tone in his voice. He knew he was angering the captain but refused to back off. He needed answers, and as Slocum’s commanding officer Bradshaw was uniquely qualified to provide them. He didn’t want to piss him off too much, however; Bradshaw looked like a man capable of anything.
Bradshaw stood up and walked over to the window. He resumed speaking, his back to Sergeant Farrell and Colonel Edgewater. He appeared to have calmed somewhat, but since Farrell could no longer see his face he couldn’t be sure.
“Sergeant, let me offer you a hypothetical. Let’s pretend you’re a grunt in an infantry company, here in Vietnam. Pretend you’ve been out in the bush for a couple of months. You’re so fucking far away from the civilized world that you don’t remember what it’s like to shit in porcelain or eat from a plate. And for the sake of my hypothetical, we’ll pretend that Vietnamese children approach you with grenades stuffed in their armpits. We’ll pretend snipers shoot at you all day. And we’ll pretend that every once in awhile, as you walk through the bush, one of your buddies steps on a tripwire and gets splattered all over you without warning.”
The captain lit another smoke, his face still turned away.
“All you want to do is go home,” Bradshaw went on, “with both arms, both legs, and both balls. There ain’t no rules; just get home in one piece. Now pretend that some of the guys in your unit, guys you sure as hell wouldn’t choose to have as friends back in the States, are crazy fuckers. You still with me?”
“I’m listening, sir,” Farrell said quietly.
“Outstanding. You realize we’re only talking hypothetically, don’t you?”
“I understand.”
“Good,” Bradshaw said. “I want to make that clear. Pretend some of the troops in your unit are truly psychotic. One hundred percent, dyed in the wool, certifiable, batshit crazy. Whether they were like that before the war, or got that way after being in it a while, is inconsequential isn’t it? Every war has them, right? Guys that like it; dudes that enjoy killing. And not surprisingly, these whack-jobs are often the best soldiers in your unit.”
Bradshaw turned around suddenly to face Farrell, his eyes burning. Farrell sat motionless, afraid to speak.
“Well Sergeant, these troops I’m talking about, hypothetically, of course, aren’t boy scouts. They cut off ears, and slice off dicks, and hang bodies up in the trees as a warning to the enemy. They go into villages like Gia Binh, or Gia Lang, or other godforsaken shithole places, and kill civilians, fuck children, burn hooches, and generally have a merry old time.”
Bradshaw’s voice was gradually rising to a fever pitch, and his eyes were glowing coals of contempt. Farrell was conscious that he’d checked his .45 with the desk sergeant when he came into the compound, and missed its reassuring weight on his hip.
The Marine backed away from Farrell and began to pace around Edgewater’s office, his hands folded behind his back. The colonel sat impassively, taking in the scene as if it were on TV.
“What was I saying, Sergeant?”
“You were telling me about the villages, sir.”
“Ah yes; the villages. Well, Sergeant, in the villages, things happen. Unpleasant things.” Bradshaw’s voice was again the epitome of control. Farrell found the captain’s calm demeanor more disconcerting than his angry one.
“Let’s pretend, still for the sake of our hypothetical scenario, that you’re in a squad with one of these mad motherfuckers. Because they’re
crazy, they aren’t afraid of anything. And they genuinely like their jobs. Maybe one of these weirdoes has even saved your life a few times; maybe a lot of times. Maybe the only reason you’re alive and able to even fucking breathe is because one of these bloodthirsty nutjobs has pulled your ass out of the grease.”
Bradshaw paused to take a drag from his cigarette.
“So there you are, waking up every morning praying to survive another lovely day in the Nam. And when you get to a village and meet some of the friendly citizens of the bountiful country you’re trying to liberate, some of these weirdoes in your squad start having their special brand of fun. Just what are you gonna do?”
“It would present a challenge,” Farrell said.
“Outstanding, Sergeant. You move to the head of the class. Maybe you don’t like what this madman is doing, but you’re too busy trying to stay alive to notice.”
Bradshaw’s voice was starting to rise again. Farrell wasn’t sure the Marine captain wasn’t one of the crazies he was talking about.
“Or maybe,” Bradshaw spat, his voice again at a fever pitch, “there’s an even more compelling reason to look away. Maybe this guy is so crazy he makes the other gung-ho types look like Sunday school teachers. Crazy enough to singlehandedly stand off an ambush and save you and your whole platoon. Crazy enough to carry your wounded ass to safety through two hundred yards of mine-ridden rice paddy under heavy fire. Or crazy enough to cut your throat in your sleep if he gets a hint that you don’t approve of his extracurricular activities.” Bradshaw smiled without mirth. “Hypothetically, of course.” He threw his third cigarette to the floor and ground it out with his heel, staring at Farrell.
When the Marine spoke again, his voice was again quiet.
“You asked me about the rumors that followed Lance Corporal Slocum? You tell me he sexually assaulted and murdered a gook kid in your city? What do you want me to say? That I’m shocked? That I’ve never seen anything like that before? Wake up and smell the napalm, cop. You ain’t in Kansas anymore.”
“Sir,” Farrell asked hesitantly, “are you telling me Slocum has committed this kind of crime before?”
