Part 32 (1/2)
Wolf gave Toby Parker's name and Da Nang duty station to Denroe.
”How come you don't have any problems with Parker's being called in?”
Denroe asked.
”He's Air Force. This won't touch him professionally. But in the Army, just being in Special Forces sets an officer up for promotion problems.
A trial like this would have Al's name mentioned once too often. Plus, he's a black man.
There are still some who don't think black men should be officers, much less commanders.”
”Well, then, would you give me the names of some people I can call in as character witnesses for you? Fellow soldiers, maybe some high-ranking officers. Better yet, some highly decorated sergeants that would testify to what a good leader and man of character you are. They would go over pretty good, I think.”
Wolf Lochert looked at Jay Denroe with disdain. ”if I have to call in others to say I'm a good guy, then I belong in jail. Let my record speak for itself.”
”Complicated, very complicated,” Denroe said, and sighed. ”I'll have to tell you, Colonel Lochert, I'm just your basic JAG-appointed defense attorney. You have real problems with all the politicians and the press that are after your a.s.s. There are probably many routes to go, but I don't know if I'm smart enough to figure them out. Any chance you can hire a civilian lawyer?”
”For a military court-martial? Is it legal?”
”Sure.”
Wolf stared off in the distance. ”No. I can't afford one.”
He had a monthly pay allotment made out to the Maryknoll Church for four hundred dollars, almost half his base pay.
”No savings?”
”No.”
”Rich friends?”
”Hah,” Wolf snorted.
”Colonel Lochert, I want you to know I believe you and I will do all I can to get the members of the court to believe you.” The look on Denroe's face matched the conviction in his voice. ”But it is going to be very, very difficult.”
1245 HOURS LOCAL, WEDNESDAY 7 FEBRUARY 1968.
HQ, MACSOG, RUE PASTEUR SAIGON, REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM.
It's always nice to have your lawyer believe you,” Lieutenant Colonel Al Charles said to Wolf Lochert, who sat slumped in a chair next to Charles' desk.
”But that doesn't mean he'll be able to convince the members of the court,” Wolf said, his face a study in dejection.
”I'll tell you, it's one thing to take on an enemy in front of me. For that I'm trained, prepared, certainly experienced.
It's the enemy behind me, like that TV guy, that I can't handle. And the reaction to the film.”
”You did look like something from a Frankenstein movie when you tossed him into that tree,” Charles said.
”Maybe so. But this is a real shooting war, not a movie, and people are going to look terrible and ugly when they do what they do. I think those newsie guys are prying. I feel like someone has been in my mind and taken my private thoughts and put them on a TV screen. They don't make much sense to the viewer and no doubt look ugly as sin.”
”Can't rightly say. Meanwhile, old buddy, I have to remind you that under the court's orders, you may not leave the MACSOG grounds except on official duty.”
”Yeah, yeah, I know,” Wolf rumbled.
”But that doesn't mean you can't have visitors. There is someone here to see you. When she came to the gate about an hour ago, the Nung guard called me for instructions. Said her name was Greta Sturm. She's waiting in the lounge.”
Charles lifted an eyebrow when he saw Won face brighten.
”You got something going?”
Wolf made a puzzled grin. ”Something going? No, just friends.” Wolf had tried to forget how much he had revealed to Greta on the helicopter.
It was, he had told himself, an after-battle reaction; the usual talky reaction as the mind relaxes from the grim occupation of war and survival. But, he knew, he had never been ”talky” before.
”Friends, sure. Just friends,” Al Charles said, a wide grin splitting his mahogany face.
In the lounge, they stood for a moment looking at each other. Greta Sturm wore a blue linen skirt that, quite unintentionally, accentuated her ripe hips and long, muscular thighs. An off-white blouse, sternly b.u.t.toned almost to her neck, did little to downplay her remarkable bosom. She wore her flaxen hair straight and long, and just enough lipstick to show she had a perfect mouth.
Wolf stood still, suddenly very aware of a remarkable contrast. This was not the battle-stained woman, the female soldier he had been so taken with. This was a cool icemaiden. She sensed his hesitation and took his hand.
A had to come, I had to see you,” she began with only a hint of reticence. ”You told me about this unit. It was not difficult to find.” Then she looked directly at him, her gray eyes warm yet firm and resolute. A have thought of you so much, what you did, what you said.
How you carried yourself. You saved my life. This is difficult to say, but ... you not only saved my life, you have changed my life. I am not the same person.” She searched his eyes when he did not answer. ”Do you understand? Do you?” A tinge of unsureness had crept into her voice.
Wolf placed his big hands over hers. ”Over here,” he said, indicating an ancient vinyl sofa in one corner. Two men in tiger suits, laughing over some joke, entered the lounge room, saw the intent look on Wolfs face, and withdrew.
”Yes, I understand,” he said to her, his deep voice almost cracking in his effort to speak with unaccustomed softness.
”I understand, and 1, maybe I feel ... something, too.” He had been so shocked by the charges brought against him that he had been occupied with little else. He forced himself to examine his thoughts. He could not tell her she had in no way changed his life ... at least he didn't think so. He knew she had made an impression, but more as a female soldier competent in combat than as a female that appealed to him.
Females were, well ... sort of fluffy and helpless, and full of soft curves and secrets. All that talk on the helicopter, well, maybe she misunderstood him.
”I'm not sure it's a good thing,” he started, unsure of where he was going, ”that I change your life. Maybe you confuse my saving your life with changing your life. I'm not sure you and I could ... I mean, I have nothing to offer you-”
”I do not want anything,” she cut in. ”I have no right to ask anything of you. I come here only to tell my decision not to return to Germany to become a doctor just yet. I have asked. There are many jobs here for nurses right here in Saigon. This is where I will stay. I said I will wait for you and I will.” She crossed her arms. ”I do not wish to further work with the Maltese Aid Society. It is not realistic to think one can nurse the soldiers of both sides in a war.”
Wolf watched Greta Sturm closely as she talked. Her face was animated, her expressive eyes flashed and widened and narrowed as she spoke. The deep breaths she took as she explained her convictions moved her b.r.e.a.s.t.s in a way that suddenly became the most erotic sight of his life. He became aware of a slight film of perspiration on her upper lip. With an almost audible groan he suddenly realized he had to control an impulsive urge to kiss those lips. What had started as a friendly holding of hands became an electric coupling of an intensity he had never encountered or permitted himself to encounter. He realized he was sweating. He tried to withdraw his hands.
She gripped his hands tighter. She saw what was happening to him and gave him a soft smile. ”You can have the good affection for me. It is permitted, you know.” She gave him a light kiss on the cheek. ”I know your thoughts are on your trial, as they must. I do not wish to be a burden. I want you to know I am here in Saigon for you, and ... I am yours if you want me.” She leaned her head over and drew his hands to her mouth and kissed his strong fingers once and released them. She gave him a slip of paper from a pocket in her skirt. ”Until I take a flat, this is where I now stay, the Astoria Hotel. Come there when you wish.” A final cool kiss on his cheek and she was gone.
0715 HOURS LOCAL, WEDNESDAY 7 FEBRUARY 1968.
OFFICE OF THE WING CommANDER Udorn Royal Air FORCE BASE KINGDOM OF THAILAND.
Colonel Stan Bryce stood behind his large wooden desk, slamming a fist into a palm. On a wall shelf to his left was a twelve-pound cast-iron bulldog from his football days at the University of Georgia. In front of him was a handcarved teak plaque bearing his name, rank, and a large pair of command pilot's wings. Colonel Al Bravord, the Director of Operations for the 8th Tactical Fighter Wing, sat quietly to one side on a red-leather couch, smoking a pipe. Court Bannister stood in front of Bryce's desk in a position best described as a relaxed parade rest. All three men wore flight suits.
Bryce leaned over his desk toward Bannister. There was whiteness around the corners of his mouth. ”You're here to brief me on this night FAC business I've had suddenly pushed down my throat, and the first words out of your mouth are that you want Higgens in your so-called unit.
You must be crazy. I want Higgens out of the Wing. And that backseater of his. I want them both in a hole at Tan Son Nhut where they'll never see the light of day. Or fly an airplane for the rest of their tour.”