“He probably disappeared inside Dogpatch at that point,” mused Condley, remembering the thicket of tin-roofed shacks near the First Marine Division headquarters where hundreds of errant Marines once hid. “That’s where they ended up when they fell in love.”

“Really?” said Muir, amazed at Condley’s instant certainty. “If it was that logical, and if they believed he was in this Dogpatch, why didn’t they just go in and get him?”

“Picture an inner-city neighborhood where everybody is carrying an M-16, Professor. Would you want to be the one to go in there and get him? War is hell, but intramural firefights are definitely a bitch. The MPs tried to sweep through Dogpatch every now and then, but there were a few hundred guys in there with weapons who knew they were heading for jail and then a bad paper discharge if they were caught. Not to mention that they’d be leaving their honeys behind, probably forever. The shacks were packed close together and the alleyways were about five feet wide. I was in Da Nang once when the generals tried to send the MPs in. It sounded like the battle for Hue City for about an hour, then the MPs called it a day. Can you blame them? Those were trained soldiers and Marines in there. They may have gone AWOL, but they did know how to fight.”

Muir stroked his full beard. “The generals knew where they were, and they just let them stay?”

“If they came out they could be grabbed. But how’d you like to write the letter to the family of a Marine killed fighting the great battle of Dogpatch?” Condley grinned ironically, composing it in his head. “Dear Mrs. Evans. I regret to inform you that your son died in a valiant effort to capture a group of soldiers and fellow Marines who left their posts and were shacked up with their girlfriends in a ghetto inside the city of Da Nang.”

“All right, I take your point.” Muir shrugged, returning to his pages. “So here it is. Final entry, classified as a deserter on 5 August, 1968.” He looked up again. “Another question, Brandon?”

“You mean, do I have one?”

“No, I do.” Muir seemed slightly puzzled. “Weren’t Marines sent to Viet Nam for thirteen-month tours? How can he still be there in May, 1968, when his tour should have ended in April?”

“Ah, but brig time doesn’t count on your tour, Professor. If it did, half of the malingerers in Viet Nam would have figured out a way to get themselves locked up until the clock ran out and they could be sent home. Think about it. What’s a few months’ jail time compared to living in the mud, drinking wormy water, and getting your ass shot off?”