field ax dangled from its pouch on his utility belt. His thumb popped open the snap that closed the pouch over the ax head, and his fingers lightly lifted the knife-sharp blade from the pouch and found the tool’s short, curved handle.
While Buster Rein sucked happily on his cigarette, satisfied that he had humiliated this uppity coon, and had shown everyone standing around the chow hall’s entrance, watching the exhibition of his white superiority over black power, his courage and his boldness over what he regarded as black rebellion, Celestine Anderson dropped the ax head toward the ground, letting it slide down his palm, along the side of his leg, until his fingers slipped down the grip where they took a firm hold at the end of the handle’s curved hilt.
Then in one long, arching swing, the African-American Marine brought down his field ax onto the top, front, center of the Alabama Marine’s skull, and split it open clear past his eyebrows.
Buster Rein never felt a thing. Then, or ever after.
Chapter 3
RAYMOND THE WEASEL
“IN THE NAME of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen,” the tall, skinny Marine, built like a man wearing stilts, said in a solemn voice, kneeling at the foot of his single-level military bunk, his mantislike arms folded beneath long, tendril fingers reverently interlaced under his chin, his elbows resting on top of a green, wooden footlocker. Seven other similar beds, each flanked by two gray steel wall lockers, alternating to the left and right sides, formed an open cubicle around each pair of beds, with an olive drab storage box at the end of every rack. With a center aisle extending from the front door to the back, the two-bunk billeting spaces lined each side of the all but deserted squad bay that housed First MAW Law’s defense section.
The gangly captain had just finished praying while looking up at a crucifix centered high on the bulkhead at the head of his bed, a few inches above a color photograph of Pope Paul VI, hooked on a nail an inch beneath the cross on the left, and a black-and-white photograph of President John F. Kennedy, draped with black bunting, fastened on the wall to the right of the pope. As he teetered clumsily to his feet, rising like a dizzy stork, while turning away from his bed, he moved his long and bony right forefinger from the center of his forehead to the center of his chest, then to his left shoulder and to his right, blessing himself.
“Spectacles, testicles, wallet, and watch,” Terry O’Connor mumbled with a smirk to Jon Kirkwood. “I swear I knew this guy back in Philly when I was a kid in Catholic school. Just a little bit on the creepy side, if you catch my drift.”
“Oh!” the man gasped, seeing the pair of newly joined lawyers standing at the main entrance to the barracks, holding ajar the inwardly opening, double-wide screen doors so they would not bang shut, waiting respectfully for him to finish his devotionals before invading his sanctum.
“Sorry, Mack,” O’Connor said, letting go of the screen, allowing it to slam against the frame, and then striding forward to where the man stood and thrusting out his right hand. “We just barged through the doors and there you were on your knees, talking to God, so we thought we ought to give you a moment before we imposed our company on you. I’m Terry O’Connor, and this steely-eyed devil here on the port side is my all-around best friend and cohort in sin, Jon Kirkwood.”
“I am totally embarrassed,” the lanky captain said, taking O’Connor’s hand and shaking it, and then grabbing Kirkwood’s, too. “You must think I am some kind of a religious freak.”
“Not at all,” O’Connor said, unconsciously wiping the clammy sweat from the handshake on the seat of his trousers. “You have my utmost respect.”
“Mine, too,” Kirkwood said, pulling his hand from the damp and cold-as-death grip. “Didn’t catch your name, though.”
“I am so sorry,” the ghostly
While Buster Rein sucked happily on his cigarette, satisfied that he had humiliated this uppity coon, and had shown everyone standing around the chow hall’s entrance, watching the exhibition of his white superiority over black power, his courage and his boldness over what he regarded as black rebellion, Celestine Anderson dropped the ax head toward the ground, letting it slide down his palm, along the side of his leg, until his fingers slipped down the grip where they took a firm hold at the end of the handle’s curved hilt.
Then in one long, arching swing, the African-American Marine brought down his field ax onto the top, front, center of the Alabama Marine’s skull, and split it open clear past his eyebrows.
Buster Rein never felt a thing. Then, or ever after.
Chapter 3
RAYMOND THE WEASEL
“IN THE NAME of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen,” the tall, skinny Marine, built like a man wearing stilts, said in a solemn voice, kneeling at the foot of his single-level military bunk, his mantislike arms folded beneath long, tendril fingers reverently interlaced under his chin, his elbows resting on top of a green, wooden footlocker. Seven other similar beds, each flanked by two gray steel wall lockers, alternating to the left and right sides, formed an open cubicle around each pair of beds, with an olive drab storage box at the end of every rack. With a center aisle extending from the front door to the back, the two-bunk billeting spaces lined each side of the all but deserted squad bay that housed First MAW Law’s defense section.
The gangly captain had just finished praying while looking up at a crucifix centered high on the bulkhead at the head of his bed, a few inches above a color photograph of Pope Paul VI, hooked on a nail an inch beneath the cross on the left, and a black-and-white photograph of President John F. Kennedy, draped with black bunting, fastened on the wall to the right of the pope. As he teetered clumsily to his feet, rising like a dizzy stork, while turning away from his bed, he moved his long and bony right forefinger from the center of his forehead to the center of his chest, then to his left shoulder and to his right, blessing himself.
“Spectacles, testicles, wallet, and watch,” Terry O’Connor mumbled with a smirk to Jon Kirkwood. “I swear I knew this guy back in Philly when I was a kid in Catholic school. Just a little bit on the creepy side, if you catch my drift.”
“Oh!” the man gasped, seeing the pair of newly joined lawyers standing at the main entrance to the barracks, holding ajar the inwardly opening, double-wide screen doors so they would not bang shut, waiting respectfully for him to finish his devotionals before invading his sanctum.
“Sorry, Mack,” O’Connor said, letting go of the screen, allowing it to slam against the frame, and then striding forward to where the man stood and thrusting out his right hand. “We just barged through the doors and there you were on your knees, talking to God, so we thought we ought to give you a moment before we imposed our company on you. I’m Terry O’Connor, and this steely-eyed devil here on the port side is my all-around best friend and cohort in sin, Jon Kirkwood.”
“I am totally embarrassed,” the lanky captain said, taking O’Connor’s hand and shaking it, and then grabbing Kirkwood’s, too. “You must think I am some kind of a religious freak.”
“Not at all,” O’Connor said, unconsciously wiping the clammy sweat from the handshake on the seat of his trousers. “You have my utmost respect.”
“Mine, too,” Kirkwood said, pulling his hand from the damp and cold-as-death grip. “Didn’t catch your name, though.”
“I am so sorry,” the ghostly
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