1965, July 29, Thursday. San Francisco
n Thursday, July 29, 1965, Bell Houston was in San Fran-O cisco (14 hours behind Vietnam time). She’d been there since the previous Tuesday, rehearsing for a concert on Friday evening that would feature a cello solo. As with other orchestras Bell had worked with in the last two years, the San Francisco musicians and crew had grown accustomed to, and appreciative of, her calm dis-position and undemanding manner, uncharacteristic of the talented musicians with whom they often worked.
The absence of tantrums or outbursts over the past three days made it even more puzzling when, at 5:07 PM, at the same instant Casey Peterson registered his first inward concern over the legitimacy of his orders, Bell stopped playing in the middle of her long solo piece. She sat frozen with her left hand on the fingerboard and her right hand holding the bow in contact with the strings. Her mouth was agape, her eyes open wide and staring far away, envisioning another thread, this one about to snap. Dozens of pairs of eyes watched her, waiting for whatever came next, not sure what to expect.
When, after thirty seconds, Bell had not moved, first violin rose and walked to Bell, bent down and whispered, “Bell? What’s wrong Bell?” but Bell flinched and fairly leaped out of her chair at the first 173
syllable, committing a near sacrilegious act in the process, as both cello and bow clattered to the floor. Everyone on stage gasped audibly as they recognized in that act the seriousness of whatever troubled Bell.
“No, don’t go,” Bell whispered, as she stared past first violin, at something no one else could see. Louder, she said, “Please don’t go,” and louder, “Don’t go Don’t go Don’t go,” as she brushed past first violin and ran off-stage right, only to come running back, confused, unsure how to go where she needed to go. Muttering, “Stop stop stop,” over and over, as eager hands reached out to calm her, she struggled free and ran off-stage left, through halls and corridors, with a dozen musicians and assistants running in her wake and calling her name. Emerging from the corridor maze and into the lobby, Bell stopped, looked up and drew in a long, ragged gasp, at the same instant Casey fired up the engine of the Bird Dog spotter plane on the other side of the world. Bell’s pursuers gathered around her and then she was off again, tears streaking her face, crying out the words, “Too late too late too late,” repeatedly as she burst through the lobby doors and onto the plaza, heading for the busy street beyond, again drawing her entourage with her.
Her followers were almost too late recognizing Bell was running toward a busy street she likely didn’t see. Two men caught up.
The first grabbed her shoulder and spun her around, slowed her down, and the second wrapped his arms around her and held her as the rest of the entourage gathered around.
Individuals in the group began shouting questions at Bell:
“Who shouldn’t go, Bell?” “Shouldn’t go where, Bell?” “Don’t go where, Bell?” The questions only confused her more, and she put her hands over her ears and screamed, “QUANG TRI!” That surprised her entourage, and she used the distraction to break free and lunge toward the street again, just as a cab slid to a stop at the curb.
The cabbie had noticed the commotion at the curb and thought there might be a fare in it for him. He had pulled to the curb and popped open the rear door just as Bell broke free of the group. Confronted with the taxi in her path, Bell became hysterical, crying aloud, “Too 174
late don’t go don’t go don’t go…” Instead of getting into the cab, she stood on the rocker panel and looked across the roof as she reached, stretching her right arm as far as she could, as if she were trying to grasp something only she could see.
The sounds she made now were an anguished series of the word, “No,” long and drawn out. Her feet found higher purchase, up onto the cab’s seat, and again she reached across the roof and held her hand out to touch something that simply wasn’t there. She tried to climb onto the roof itself to reach further, as if the cab roof had become a conduit to the place she needed to be, sounding the same sad, “Noooooooooooooo,” until, finally, it ended.
Feet still on the cab seat, Bell stood up straight, looked east across the city, and as Casey’s plane spiraled down to the jungle below it, she sang the word NO, starting out loud and strong but diminishing. As the last volume of air escaped from her lungs, she collapsed there on the street, next to the cab, her stunned audience of musicians looking on in disbelief.
There were shouts, “is she alive,” “check her pulse,” “weak,”
“Christ, get her in the cab,” “hospital,” “we’ll ride along,” “driver go.”
On the other side of the world, in the seconds before his small aircraft crashed into the jungle, Casey Peterson’s subconscious mind recalled for him something it had buried after the Dallas shooting, the thing he should have told Kennedy: the reason the voice entity might have chosen Casey to save Kennedy. It chose someone destined to die anyway, Casey realized. Then he heard the voice he’d heard in Dallas. It sounded as it did the very first time he heard it, when it told him to turn, before it began sounding like his own voice. It spoke only one word this time, “NO,” long and drawn out, a wail of despair that conveyed to Casey an anguished feeling of failure, a plea for forgiveness, a sense of unbearable loss, and paralyzing sorrow.
When Colonel Jacob J. Brewster completed this assignment, 175
he’d have a tad over thirty years in the Army, and he planned to get out. He had visions of his retirement years, golden and sunny. He wanted only to make it through the next five months here in Quang Tri Province with no major screw-ups to mar his record. That was the main reason he’d been pretty much ignoring most of the goings-on in his camp. In earlier commands he’d never encountered drugs, soldiers who used them, or soldiers who sold them. He didn’t understand this new counter-culture in the ranks, but he understood this war differed from all the others he’d been involved in, and this marijuana stuff seemed to be a fact of life here. A serious move against usage could take all or most of his time; it could incarcerate half of his fighting force, undermine his unit contribution to the mission, weaken his authority over those below him, and be perceived as failure to those above. In addition, it would change the dynamic with which he eased into retirement.
That’s why the colonel was madder now than he’d ever been in his life. He’d liked that Peterson kid, damn it! Maybe a little too naïve, but a fine officer, a good man. He’d have made CW2 before the colonel retired, if he had anything to say about it. Now…
It was near noon. He’d been told it was an accident, and the spotter might have taken fire from VC snipers. That’s how they had treated it, until the colonel’s clerk mentioned something. He had asked Sandy to share a drink with him, to toast Peterson and Holling. He’d never done that before, but damn, he’d liked that kid!
After they’d drained their glasses, Sandy said, “Sir, if you can say, I jus wondered what was in the satchel?”
“What satchel?”
“The one Captain Hardson ordered Peterson to deliver to Da Nang, Sir.”
“Why the hell is Hardson ordering my fliers anywhere?”
“He said the orders came from you, Sir.”
That was a lie. Sandy knew Hardson’s orders smelled fishy, and he wanted to give the colonel every excuse he could to investigate it.
“WHAT?”
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Sandy flinched at that. A little more reaction than he’d been expecting, but satisfying all the same.
“Tell me everything you know, son.”
“Sir, I was on my way to chow. Had to pass behind Peterson’s tent, heard the captain shout, ‘Peterson.’ Don’t know why, but I stopped, so I could hear. Cap told Peterson to get his gear and get in the air now. Time sensitive communication had to be in Da Nang now. Orders from Brewster, he said. He waited while Peterson got his gear. Then they left. Didn’t hear anything about Holling, Sir.”
The colonel paced now. He was not happy. He picked up a half-smoked cigar from the ashtray and relit it. When he had it going, he turned to his clerk and said, “Find Captain Hardson. Tell him to get here in my office as fast as his smart-ass little legs can carry him.”
Sandy said he would do just that, and he did, except for the legs part. While Sandy was gone, Brewster had a short talk with the two MPs stationed in front of his office. It took six minutes for Sandy to find the captain and follow him back to the colonel’s office. As Sandy took his seat in the outer office, Hardson knocked on the colonel’s door, and jumped back about a foot when the now red-faced colonel ripped open his door with Hardson’s fist still poised for the second knock, and barked, “GET IN HERE!”
Hardson hustled into the office, stopped a few feet in front of the colonel’s desk, turned toward him and snapped a salute. “Sir, Captain Hardson reporting as ord—”
“SHUT UP! AND PUT YOUR HAND DOWN!”
Hardson put his hand down, but stayed at attention, staring straight ahead. Smoking cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth, the colonel paced a few times back and forth, three feet in front of Hardson. Then he stopped in front of Hardson, took the cigar out of his mouth and spoke, his voice soft and low now. “I will ask you this just once. Don’t even think about lying to me. Get ready now. Here it comes.”
It was near ninety degrees, and humid. Both men perspired.
Brewster stood with his face just inches from Hardson’s. Hardson could smell the colonel’s cigar breath and his aftershave. “Captain 177
Hardson, why did you order one of my fliers into the air this morning?”
“Sir, I… I..”
“STOP. Just hold it right there. I can see you tryin’ to think up an answer. My guess, you didn’t think I knew about that. You didn’t have a lie prepared because you didn’t think you’d need one. So right now, you just empty your little mind of everything but the truth. Just take a deep breath now, and answer my question.”
“Sir, it… I was just doing a favor… for a friend, Sir.”
“GOOD! That’s what I’m talkin’ bout. Now, tell me his name.”
Sweating more now than the temperature alone would explain,
“Sir, it was… Sergeant, Um, Sergeant… Sergeant Walker, Sir.”
“WALKER? The biggest DOPE DEALER ON BASE?” As the captain shrank in size, the colonel began pacing again. “JESUS H
CHRIST HARDSON! WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINK-
ING?”
“Sir, I just figured he’d try to scare ‘em a little. I didn’t think…”
“SCARE ‘EM? Now why would Walker’s bunch want to scare Peterson and Holling?”
“Well, Sir, they were kind of bothering Walker. You know, for selling the stuff. I um, I think Peterson might have threatened Walker, you know, to turn him in to the IG. Walker, he had to do something, couldn’t let Peterson run to the Inspector General.”
“No, Hardson, couldn’t let that happen. So, you just let Walker blow up two of the best God damn soldiers I had on the base!”
“NO Sir! When he asked me to help, Walker said he was just gonna scare ‘em. He wouldn’t a, a, blo… done that Sir.”
There was a knock on the door. The colonel opened it and conferred with an MP, who handed over a small cardboard box. Brewster dismissed the MP and showed the open box to Hardson.
“From your locker, Hardson. Five thousand dollars.”
“Ah, card game last night Sir. I had a good night.”
“Last night, huh? That’s good Hardson; I hoped you’d say something like that. That’s real good for you. That recent, all those guys who lost money to you should have real good memories.”
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Brewster grabbed a tablet and pencil and slammed them down on the corner of his desk. “Write their names down.”
Hardson only stood there. He looked at the pad, then back at the colonel. He looked like he was out of excuses.
Brewster started pacing again. He was still plenty steamed, but he was thinking, too. Thinking of his own plans, his own record. If he put his mind to it, he thought he could deal with Walker and his bunch for drug dealing without taking much flak. He should have done it a long time ago. He doubted he could convict Hardson for drugs, however. He knew Hardson. He was way too smart to have left himself vulnerable to association with drug dealing. No, if he went after Hardson, it would have to be for murder. Guilt would be difficult to prove. The military lawyer assigned to him would be just as aggressive in his defense as would a civilian one. Hardson might still be convicted, but lots of other stuff could come out, and Brewster’s sterling record would become smudged.
Then there was the matter of Peterson and Holling. Nothing Brewster did now would do them any good. He could get Walker sent to prison for several years, stripped of rank and dishonorably discharged, on the dealing charges alone. However, Brewster had no desire to have, on his record, a prosecution of one soldier under his command for killing another under his command. It wasn’t the way he wanted to go out, and it wouldn’t do Peterson and Holling any good. He made his decision.
“CORPORAL!”
Sandy quickly opened the door. “Sir?”
“Want two MPs in here.”
When the MPs had entered, the colonel said, “The captain is under arrest. Keep him here. Corporal, the captain has expressed a desire for an immediate transfer to the Air Force base in Thule, Greenland. Fill out the paperwork and have him sign. Oh,” he added, handing over the box taken from Hardson’s locker, “friends of Peterson and Holling took up a collection for them. Have the money in this box converted to money orders and sent to both families.”
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Brewster and the corporal left the office. In the outer office, Brewster looked at the fine group of MPs Sandy had assembled, per his orders. He counted eight. He told them what he wanted.
In the hours that followed, MPs arrested Walker and his four closest cohorts. They began searching their belongings while questioning the cohorts, separately. They made it clear the first to give up the location of cash and drug stashes would receive a free ride home and a general discharge: a step down from an honorable discharge, but a gift, given the circumstances. The other three would receive thirty days in the brig and a bad conduct discharge, stripped of rank and no veteran’s benefits. Sandy suggested, just to be fair, they use a stopwatch to record the time it took for each of the four to accept the offer. Less than five seconds separated first and last place.
They offered Billy Walker no deals. They found one hundred thirty-three pounds of marijuana and hash, along with 66,000 dollars in cash, in padlocked lockers. They found keys fitting the padlocks on Walker and four of his associates. They offered the three stopwatch losers the general discharge for testifying against Walker, and they quickly accepted. The court-martial also heard testimony from eleven servicemen regarding intimidation and ex-tortion perpetrated by Walker.
Walker got nine years in a military prison in the States. “Far less than he deserved,” his lawyer thought. He didn’t say it aloud, however. He didn’t want to give the bastard a basis for retrial.
Captain Hardson was indeed transferred to Greenland, which isn’t green at all, but white, being it is mostly covered by permanent ice. Not what one would call a dream assignment. Hardson left on the same day Brewster ordered Sandy to prepare the paperwork. He spoke to no one, went from Brewster’s office to the transport Jeep.
He would, several times, attempt to transfer out of Greenland, but would always be denied. Eleven years later he would reach the twenty-year point in his service to his country. He would retire then, and finally be allowed to leave Greenland.
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