Shack Rat: A Novel of Vietnam

By Stanley A. Nelms

Military policeman Doug Hansons quest for redemption for an act of cowardice in Berlin takes him from the cold political struggle of a divided Germany to the heat of conflict in Vietnam. From the Berlin Wall to the Tet Offensive his courage is tested again and again as he is torn between the passion of Kim, a beautiful Vietnamese bargirl, and his sense of honor and duty. Day by day his struggle for salvation ebbs as the intensity of his passion for Kim increases.

But he is not Kims only admirer. Ba, an undercover VC operative also smitten by her charms, plots revenge against the hated Americans whom have defiled the flowering youth of their nation.

In every war there is a story of love and passion as cultures collide and the destiny of lovers is controlled not by strength of their desires, but by the fortunes of war. So it is with Shack Rat, a unique story of Vietnam.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 1, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469731094

Stanley A. Nelms

Stan Nelms served as a military policeman in Berlin and South Vietnam. He is a graduate of Washington University in St. Louis. He is married and resides in Wildwood, Missouri. Shack Rat is his first novel.

Book preview

Chapter One

Incoming! Incoming! The booming voice of Sergeant Roper bounced off the sheet metal walls of the hooch like a base drum in a shower.

Doug Hanson shot up in his bunk, his mind frantically trying to separate reality from the stupor of sleep. He turned toward the dim light of the open doorway and saw the rotund outline of the sergeant darting from bed to bed, shaking each bunk—jolting the men from their sleep. This is not a dream, Doug thought. This is real. This is Vietnam!

Get your asses moving! We’re being hit! Roper yelled, the beam of his flashlight accentuating each word.

Corporal Hanson vaulted from his bunk, his bare feet recoiling at the shock of the cold wooden floor. Hurriedly, he pushed his legs through snugly tailored jungle fatigues and sat on the floor to put on his boots. He could find only one. Oh shit! he mumbled to himself. He felt the floor around him. His temples throbbed; his hands trembled—his body reacting to a fear he tried to deny. He had known this fear once before and panicked. This time, he prayed he would be strong. He willed his body to stop shaking, but his body would not forsake the fear. At least it’s dark, he consoled himself, his fear would be known only to him.

Beyond the walls, a hand cranked siren warbled, cleared its throat, and began to wail a belated warning to the men of Camp Holloway. Its scream pierced the clear crisp air of the Central Highlands sending a message of anxiety tingling through the body of the young corporal groping in the blackness for his boot. The din of jostled bunks and clanging wall lockers began to subside as the dwindling band of helmeted, tee shirt clad soldiers rushed to the door. Hanson was flustered. He still hadn’t found his boot. He was torn between making a one-boot dash to the bunker, or staying to continue the search.

The thought of being labeled One Boot Hanson by his fellow MPs was not Doug’s idea of making a good impression with his new comrades. But if he stayed, he risked injury from the enemy’s mortar fire. Even worse if he survived, would be the wrath of Sergeant Roper.

Get the lead out! Let’s move it Troopees. Get your asses in the bunker. Roper screamed, as he made his way to Doug’s end of the hooch.

Troopees was an endearment the sergeant called members of his platoon.

Doug had been given the low-down on Roper by Corporal James B. Johnson. JB, as Johnson liked to be called, and the sergeant had arrived together in Vietnam six months earlier in January 1967. JB told Doug that although Roper was regular army, he was the only noncom in the company who knew what he was doing in Nam. He had seen action in Korea, and he understood priorities when serving in a combat zone. Priorities such as taking care of your Troopees and minimizing the bullshit. According to JB, there was plenty of bullshit at the 405th, even for a military police company.

Doug, on his stomach, feeling in the darkness beneath his bunk, sensed the presence of the sergeant standing behind him.

What the hell you doing under there soldier? The sergeant asked, his voice thick with contempt.

The young corporal winced at the words. Roper thought he was cowering under his bed. Hanson gathered all the force and dignity he could muster from beneath a bunk and shot back at the sergeant. I’m looking for my boot. His voice cracked betraying his bravado. Damn it he thought. He was scared, but he wasn’t hiding under his bed like some frightened child.

Here’s your boot. Roper said, shining his light behind the prostrate soldier—his loathsome tone still present. Don’t worry about tying it.

Doug pulled on his boot and stood, ready to run to the exit.

Get your flak jacket, the impatient, now maternal voice called him back.

Doug ran to his locker and lifted the heavy vest from the hook on the door. He put it on and began fumbling with the snaps. The sergeant grabbed the corporal’s helmet from atop the locker and stuffed it on the nervous soldier’s head.

The siren whined to a halt. Silence descended on the hooch. Only Doug and the sergeant remained inside. Now, in the stillness, the sound of the enemy’s mortar tube could be heard.

Whump!

A muffled explosion reported beyond the walls of the hooch from the direction of the helicopter airstrip. Roper grabbed the young corporal by the shoulder and pushed him into a crouch.

Keep your head below the sandbags Troopee or you’ll lose it. We’ve got to get the hell out of here before you get the both of us killed. Except for the four-foot high double wall of sandbags along the exterior of the building, the hooch would offer little protection.

The stooped pair moved forward down the center aisle, past disheveled bunks and open wall lockers, Roper making sure the corporal stayed below the level of protection.

Whump!

Instantly, a cracking sound as if lightning had struck the building. Shrapnel pierced the frail wall above the pair’s heads and slammed into the lockers. The corporal and the paunchy sergeant flattened themselves on the wooden floor and began crawling to the exit. The slender Hanson slithered effortlessly like a green garden snake. The big-stomached Roper moved at the pace of the giant tortoise of the Galapagos Island, his folded arms propelling him with the same methodical stroke used by the ancient reptile.

At the doorway, the two squatted opposite each other. Hanson peered into the darkness at the mass of the bunker a distant thirty yards away. Sarge, don’t you think we’d be safer here? As long as we stayed below the sandbags?

Roper, still panting from his tortoise crawl, took a deep breath. Listen Corporal, a round could come right through the roof of this tin shack. We’ve got to get some sand over us. When you hear the next explosion, I want you to make a run for the bunker. I’m going to make a dash for the command center to see what’s going on. Now get your Troopee ass ready to go.

Whump!

Explosion!

Hanson burst out of the hooch, sprinting for his life. He felt as if he were running in slow motion. The impact of each foot registered in his mind, his flak jacket rose and fell with each stride, his helmet bobbled on his head and had to be held. All the while he strained to hear the next round.

Whump!

Hanson dove for the bunker’s entrance. The round exploded harmlessly on the runway. He stood up in the mouth of the bunker and brushed the dirt from his uniform. The blond hair at his forehead was caked with mud. The smell of damp earth filled his nostrils. He stepped inside crouching his six-foot frame to accommodate the five-foot ceiling. The beam of a flashlight splashed across his face destroying his night vision.

Well, if it isn’t Corporal Hanson. So nice of you to join us.

Doug recognized the New York accent of JB. He was grinning. JB was always grinning. Not the wide mouth grin where you show your teeth, but a quiet grin; with lips together and just one corner of the mouth upturned. A wiseacre grin. A rebellious grin. A grin that says I can take anything you can dish out, and then spit it back in your face grin.

Hanson had known JB for only a few days, but he had grown fond of the arrogant New Yorker from the big city slums. They first met at breakfast the morning he arrived in Pleiku. The New Yorker, in his duty uniform, stood in the chow line. His hair was unmilitarily long. He wore his pistol slung low on his hip; the holster tied to his thigh with a piece of rawhide. A peace emblem hanging with his dog tags was clearly visible through the open neck of his jungle fatigue blouse.

Doug nudged an MP sitting next to him at the table and asked how it was that the man in the chow line was able to get away with the obvious infractions to military dress.

The man told him JB was the informal leader of the town patrol squad. He was tolerated because he was the best MP in the company. Whenever there was trouble they dispatched JB, he said. If they needed someone to bang a few heads and restore order—they called for JB. He was the company’s intimidator. Its enforcer.

Later that evening JB introduced himself to Doug. He told the new corporal he made it a point to brief all newcomers to the 405th—to enlighten them on what was expected of them. Not what the army, or what the 405th expected, but what he and his fellow MPs expected of him.

JB’s code of conduct was simple: MPs don’t snitch on other MPs, and when there’s trouble, no MP ever stands alone. He is always backed up by his fellow MPs.

If JB was fervent in his support of his comrades, he was vehement in his aversion to the army in general. He made sure Doug and everyone else knew he was a draftee and proud of it.

Doug carefully picked his way through the bunker to a spot beside JB. The brash New Yorker scooted along the sandbagged wall to make room for the latecomer.

Hanson, I can’t believe you gave up duty in Berlin for this. JB said, speaking more to the other men in the bunker than to the new MP directly.

Doug was embarrassed. Nobody, but nobody volunteers for Vietnam. How was he going to explain his reasons, and how in the hell did JB find out he volunteered? I didn’t want to miss all this excitement. He answered awkwardly, directing his reply to the bunker audience.

By the way, JB asked, letting him off the hook, what took you so long to get to the bunker? Charlie doesn’t hand out invitations.

Doug started to tell of his episode with the missing boot, but his pride dictated a slight change. I couldn’t find all my gear, he said instead. Sergeant Roper helped me locate it with his flashlight. Then, as we were leaving, the rounds started coming in. The Sarge pulled me down just before one landed next to the hooch. It sprayed shrapnel right over our heads. If it wasn’t for the Sarge, there’d be one less corporal in the 405th.

That Roper is okay. JB said. He wasn’t grinning.

Did you say the hooch was hit? A voice filled with awe, asked from the other side of the bunker.

Not a direct hit. Hanson replied, feeling buoyed by his new status as a near miss. It didn’t do much damage.

This fucking war is getting too close. A man volunteered from the darkness, the profundity of his statement hanging in the bunker like stale cigarette smoke.

After a deferential pause, Doug spoke again. His tone was cautious, respectful of the mood. How long have these attacks been going on? He asked, to no one in particular.

The men deferred in silence to JB. "The last couple of months they’ve been hitting us at least once a week. Camp Holloway is one of the VC’s prime targets. Rumor has it, the NVA and the VC are going to make a big push here in the Central Highlands. This helicopter base is the only deterrent keeping Charlie out of Pleiku. That is—the helicopters and J. B.

Johnson of course." He was grinning again. A chuckle murmured through the bunker.

Nothing more was said. It was a time to rest. A time to salvage some of the precious sleep that had been interrupted. Doug settled back against the damp bunker wall, stretching his legs luxuriously before him. The men around him feigned sleep, except for those who smoked; their faces glowing red with each drag on their cigarette.

Doug was too excited to sleep. This is why he had come to Vietnam: to experience war, to share in the danger, to test himself. It was a motive known only to him. This war was his destiny. Fate had brought him to Pleiku, and it would be Pleiku where he would regain his self-respect. The self-respect he had lost in Berlin...

Chapter Two

Doug’s journey to Pleiku had begun as soon as he graduated from high school. It was 1965 and the war in Vietnam was just beginning to heat up. In February of that year a sapper attack on Camp Holloway resulted in the deaths of eight Americans and led to the first sustained air strikes against North Vietnam by U. S. forces.

He had followed the progress of the war closely. He was determined to be a part of it. He was raised on the glories of combat through television and the movies. His father and uncles intrigued him with stories of World War II and Korea. The lure of war and Vietnam increased its hold on him with each nightly newscast. The strange names and the exotic culture made him more determined than ever to make Vietnam his war.

When he told his parents he had joined the Army, they were distraught, fearful their son would be sent to Southeast Asia. Doug assured them the chances of him being sent to Vietnam were remote, knowing in his heart he was lying. To his dismay and his parent’s joy, after completing his advanced training as a military policeman, he was sent to Berlin.

He was disappointed. But, if he had had a second choice, Berlin would have been it. It was a city rich in history. He recalled that day in August of 1961 when the East Germans began erecting the infamous wall. He remembered the visit to the city by John F. Kennedy and his inspiring Ich ben Ein Berliner speech.

Now he was there: patrolling the wall, standing guard at checkpoint charlie, and cruising the bars along Kufurstendamm Strasse. Before long, he forgot about the hot spot on the other side of the globe. Vietnam had become just another headline in the Stars & Stripes. He had resigned himself to spending the rest of his enlistment enjoying the warm beer and even warmer frauleins. He would still be there if he had never been sent to Steinstucken.

Steinstucken duty was to be shunned like KP on a payday weekend. It was a small farming community on the outskirts of Berlin, separated from the city by a few miles of East German territory. It was completely isolated inside the communist city—an island of freedom.

Since it was part of the Western sector controlled by the Americans, it was necessary for a detachment of MPs be stationed there at all times; to show the flag and demonstrate to the Russians and East Germans our resolve in supporting our Allies and the Four-Power Agreement that partitioned the city after World War II.

The detachment consisted of one noncom and two enlisted men flown in by helicopter to avoid incidents with the border guards. The MPs would stay for three days, bringing with them their own food and supplies. There were no bars, no restaurants, and no young people.

The villagers stayed behind closed doors and drawn shades, away from the prying eyes of the East German border guards that ringed their community.

Duty requirements were minimal. Every hour, a radio check had to be made to headquarters. This directive was rigidly enforced by the NcO, inasmuch as a lapse in communication would be a signal the detachment had encountered a problem.

The only other requirement called for a patrol of the perimeter every four hours during the day. This order was left to the enforcement of the NCO. The noncom on Doug’s mission let it be known he didn’t want any hassles during this stay, and any patrolling of the perimeter would be done without him. Since there were no officers, or anyone else who could report them, and the only way in was by helicopter, the patrols were performed more out of boredom than for reasons of duty.

At dusk on the second day, Doug prepared to take another trip around the town. The other MPs were playing cards and drinking the last of the whiskey they had smuggled in. Doug picked up his forty-five caliber grease gun and his camera and headed for the door. I’m going to make one last try to get a picture of the guards before it gets too dark.

The sergeant waved him on without looking up from his cards.

Doug had been trying to get a picture of the East German border guards, or Vopos, as they were called ever since he arrived. The guards were alarmed at the sight of a camera. Pointing one at them was tantamount to pointing a rifle. They would scurry for cover. It was rumored there was a secret West Berlin organization of citizens who recorded the faces of the Vopos and kept a file on them for future prosecution. Rumor or not, the guards took no chances.

From the air the village resembled a prison compound. The East Germans had strung barbed wire fencing around the small community. Every hundred yards a watchtower was erected allowing them fire control over every square foot of the common border. A death strip sixty feet wide of carefully packed earth, devoid of vegetation, ran parallel to the fence-line. The strip was mined except for a narrow runway patrolled by dogs.

The only break in the barricade was at a checkpoint where a road led out of the village to West Berlin. This exit point was controlled by the Vopos and all citizens of Steinstücken were stopped and searched before they entered the Eastern Zone.

Because of their special status as West Berliners they were allowed to move back and forth between the free zones. When the young people of the village reached their age of independence, they made it a one way trip. The elders stayed. This was the only home they knew. They were retired farmers, and expected to die on the land they had tilled in their youth.

Doug began his patrol at the helicopter pad outside the MPs residence. He chuckled to himself at the absurdity of three MPs protecting the village from invasion. He knew, as the Russians and East Germans knew—the only real deterrent was the will of the United States to defend its allies, even for a few square miles of farmland. Yet, the symbolism of patrolling with a real weapon and live ammunition was, nonetheless, an ego trip. This was as close to combat he thought he would ever get.

Doug walked along the fenceline and began to play his game with the Vopos who followed his every step through their binoculars. He would stop and point his camera at the guards and watch them shuffle back into the shadows of the tower. His camera was useless at that distance, still the Vopos were fearful. The game also called for Doug to pick up the Vopos’ spent flare casings that landed in the western zone and toss them back over the fence with dramatic indignation.

The Vopos part in the game was to train their machine guns on him and chamber a round. It was a game each side enjoyed playing. A diversion from the boredom of guard duty endured by soldiers all over the world. But the game had its limits. Each side knew that any incident involving them would result in a confrontation between the two super powers.

Doug continued the patrol. Continued the game. When he neared the checkpoint, he slid his 35mm camera behind his back, hopeful of catching the sentries by surprise. The checkpoint was always manned by three guards, they were responsible for inspecting the vehicles as they left the village. Considering the amount of traffic, one guard would have been sufficient, but the East Germans needed guards to watch the guards.

The sentries at the road would provide Doug with his best opportunity for a picture. They would be just fifteen yards away. The only obstruction, a pole that was raised and lowered to control traffic. He looked down the narrow dirt road to the eastern side. There was a lone soldier standing outside the guard shack. Doug looked inside the hut. He could see the tops of the heads of the two other soldiers bent forward in concentration, as if they too were playing cards or chess.

Doug slowly shifted his camera around to the front of his body, then raised it quickly to shoot the lone subject in the middle of the road. He focused, surprised to see the image had remained in his viewfinder. He snapped the shutter and advanced the film. When he focused again, he saw the soldier had stepped over the pole and taken a tentative step toward him.

Doug lowered his camera. The soldier pointed to his own chest and then to Doug. The man took another calculated step and then looked back over his shoulder at his comrades still in the hut.

Doug turned around, expecting, hoping to see the sergeant and the other MP—someone, anyone who could tell him what to do. The town was a tomb. He was alone. He looked down the fenceline at the nearest tower, no sign of movement. He turned again to the soldier. He was closer. Doug could make out the features of the Vopos’ face. He was young, younger than him. Again the man made the gesture and took another step.

He’s defecting! The thought struck a chord of fear in the MP. A fear unknown to him. He unconsciously took a step backward his eyes fixed on the soldier. The man was pleading with his face. Pleading for Doug to give him a signal. Just a wave of the hand and he would be on the Western side. He would be free.

Doug looked about—there was no cover, no place to hide. The man would get the both of them killed. Get back! He said in a whisper, waving the man back up the road.

The youth was stunned, unbelieving.

Nein. Get back. Doug yelled louder.

This time the men in the shack heard him. They ran outside, their automatic rifles pointed at their comrade. The young soldier fell to his knees, his arms outstretched toward the MP. The Vopos grabbed him and dragged him back behind the barricade. The soldier was shouting, crying—Amerika, Amerika.

Doug looked about the town. The tower guards had been the only other witnesses. He felt conspicuous, vulnerable. He wanted to hide the shame he felt. He hurried along the path that would take him back to the house. He passed the towers without looking up. He felt the eyes of the guards looking down on him, in him. They had seen the man in him. A man that was a stranger to Doug. The real man. The real Doug.

When he entered the house the MPs were still playing cards, unaware of the events at the checkpoint.

Did you get the picture? The sergeant asked without interest.

Yeah Sarge, I got the picture. I... Doug stopped. He started to tell of the incident, but he couldn’t. I got.got a picture of the guards at the checkpoint, he said sheepishly—embarrassed at his spinelessness.

That’s good Hanson. Now if the old man wants to know if we were making our patrols, we’ll have proof. The two MPs laughed.

Doug laughed weakly with them and walked to his bunk. He slid his gear beneath his cot and picked up a magazine. He laid back and began turning the pages slowly. The pictures were unseen, the words unread. He stared beyond the book at the ceiling and replayed the events at the road over and over in his mind.

He tried to rationalize his actions: the man could have got the both of them killed; it would have caused an international incident, the man was the enemy. How many men had he prevented from escaping?

But he couldn’t lie to the stranger in him. He knew why he acted as he did. He was a coward, and his cowardice had cost another man his freedom. His courage had been tried and it failed. He was given a man’s test, and now he was less than a man. There was only one way to redeem his manhood, Doug thought. Only one place where he could regain his self-respect. Vietnam. He would volunteer for Vietnam...

Chapter Three

The thunder from a returning helicopter shattered the quiet in the bunker. No rounds had fallen in an hour. The choppers had ended their search for the mortar site.

Doug stretched his legs and shifted his weight to ease a cramp caused by the dampness. The excitement and the period of introspection had rekindled in him the determination to get assigned to the highway platoon. Only highway duty could provide him with the opportunity for combat, and only in combat would he be able to regain his self-respect.

He had learned of highway duty when he was at battalion headquarters in Qui Nhon awaiting transportation to Pleiku. There, he met two MPs who were rotating home from Company B. When he told them he was headed for their old outfit, they were eager to fill him in on details of the company. They had been assigned to the highway platoon and told him of the firefights and deaths they had witnessed. They told of the deprivation—days without a hot meal or a shower as they led convoys along Highways Fourteen and Nineteen, the lifelines of the Central Highlands.

It was their job to provide reconnaissance ahead of the convoy and alert it to any signs of ambush. Their forward position made them vulnerable to mines and surprise attacks. The two of them had seen plenty of combat in their twelve months in

Vietnam. They told Doug that if he were smart he would try to get assigned to the town patrol section, where the greatest danger would come from drunken GIs instead of the NVA. Instead of spending hours on rutted roads that jiggled the spleen and caked the face with the red dust of the Highlands, he would be going from bar to bar tasting the beer and the local women.

Although they encouraged Doug to seek the less hazardous duty, their words could not mask their pride at being combat proven. Doug assured them his mother hadn’t raised any fools, and he thanked them for the tip. Silently, he pledged to volunteer for the highway platoon as soon as he checked into the company.

Roper stuck his head inside the bunker and gave the all clear. Like zombies, the MPs filed slowly out of the bunker into the light of the early morning dawn, carrying their flak jackets and helmets low to their sides. Doug entered the hooch thinking how lucky he was not to have been assigned any duty yet. He could still catch a couple of hour’s sleep if he skipped breakfast. He walked down the aisle through laser shafts of sunlight where shrapnel had pierced the walls.

At his bunk, a sweet familiar odor puzzled him. He scanned his memory until he conjured the vision of a white-haired barber in a surgical tunic; his hands moving mechanically over a skinny boy’s head, thin steel blades snipping swiftly, sending feathery wisps of hair to a black and white tiled floor. Doug could smell the roses, the lilacs from the shelf behind the barber’s chair. It was crowded with bottles of Vitalis, Old Spice, and—Aqua Velva!

Aqua Velva?Doug opened his locker and saw the shattered bottle of his after-shave. A mortar fragment had hit it, spilling its contents on to the sleeves of his uniforms.

He cleaned the mess as best he could with a towel and hung his shirts along the wall to dry. He sat on his bunk and removed his boots, carefully placing them beside his locker, making note of their location. He stretched out on his bunk. He was on the edge of sleep when he heard that voice again.

What the hell you doing in that rack Troopee? You got duty this morning.

Doug stared at the sergeant, focusing hard to keep his eyes open. Roper was clean-shaven, crisp looking in his uniform, a clipboard tucked into the crook of his arm, a practiced scowl upon his face.

You got thirty minutes to get dressed and ready for guard-mount. You’ll be working with Corporal Johnson—he knows Pleiku better than the gooks themselves.

The words jolted Doug awake. But Sarge, I volunteered for highway duty. I...

Listen up Hanson. I’m going to tell you once, and that’s it. You’ll work where the 405th needs you. You had town patrol in Berlin, and we need that type of experience here. Now I don’t want to hear anymore bullshit about highway duty. Is that understood, Corporal? Roper said, with condescending emphasis on corporal.

Yes Sergeant! Doug snapped back, emphasizing the rank. He clinched his jaws refraining from saying something he would regret. He knew Roper was not the most reasonable man on matters of discipline. He was of the Old Army, where orders were to be obeyed without question. He would take his case to Captain Walker, Doug thought, as he glared back at the sergeant.

Roper waited for the young corporal to say more. He was ready to let into him, but Doug said nothing. When the sergeant saw he had won the showdown, he smiled and walked away, handing out the rest of the duty assignments.

Doug watched as Roper stopped by JB’s bunk and pulled the New Yorker aside. He couldn’t hear what was said, but from the sidelong glances he was getting from the two, he was sure the sergeant was telling JB to keep an eye on the new man.

Chapter Four

When Roper told him he had duty, Doug quickly touched up his newly issued jungle boots with a damp cotton ball, bringing to the surface the glass-like shine he had developed during idle hours in Saigon. He put on his spare belt with the polished brass buckle he had kept wrapped in a towel in his locker and lined up with the rest of the MPs on the parking lot.

The new MP looked down the row of men beside him; their brushed boots and dull brass paled next to his. The other MPs stared repeatedly at his boots. JB, who was next to him took one look at the gleaming footwear and shook his head in a pitiful expression. So much for spit and polish, Doug thought.

Sergeant Hines, the shift’s patrol supervisor, called the men to attention. He began his inspection, checking each man’s appearance and examining their weapon. When he reached Doug, he paused and stepped back. So you’re the new man from Berlin?

Yes Sergeant. I’ve been here three days.

Well Corporal, it’s a pleasure to see someone who takes pride in their uniform and knows what proper military appearance is. The sergeant’s words were directed to the other MPs.

Thank you Sergeant. Doug answered meekly, feeling the stares of the other men.

JB faked a cough of disapproval at the disgusting display of military courtesy and spit-shined boots. Sergeant Hines, whose soft-spoken demeanor was more fitting an accountant’s than an MP’s, glowered at JB’s reproof.

The fleshy faced sergeant put the men at ease and began reading the instructions for the day. It has come to our attention once again, that some MPs have been observed drinking while on duty and playing grab-ass with the momasans. He turned to face JB. I will not tolerate this on my shift.

JB grinned back at him.

Another thing, Hines continued, the old man wants us to start enforcing the 1800 hour curfew. This goes for off-duty MPs as well. He looked to JB again, who responded with a wide-eyed who me? expression. One final word. Sergeant Roper will be on the desk. He asked me to emphasize the importance of staying in radio contact. The radio is to be monitored at all times. Is that clear? The sergeant looked at the patrols