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Broken Time

by Gerald M. Giroldi

431 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #04-1222; ISBN 1-4120-3395-0; US$32.00, C$36.70, EUR26.50, £18.50

Japan. A clandestine romance suddenly exposed. Wes must again survive Vietnam. While searching for Janie, he is injured in a stock car race. Only Janie's love can save him.

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About the Book Disillusioned and wounded for a third time, Wes Holton, a young marine, is transferred from Vietnam to Japan. Here, he meets and falls in love with Janie, a Navy nurse. But he is enlisted and she is an officer and their love is forbidden. Aided by their friends, Duane and Michiko, they carry on a clandestine romance. When their relationship is exposed, the couple is abruptly separated. Wes is sent back to Vietnam and loses contact with Janie. Surviving 'Nam relatively intact, physically, Wes begins a quest to find Janie. A twist of fate involves him in the sport of stock car racing where he is gravely injured in a racing accident. Only Janie's love can wrest him away from death's grip. Set in the late Sixties, Broken Time contains the colorful language, graphic and explicit scenes so prevalent during those years.

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About the Author Gerald M. Giroldi hails originally from Woodstock, Ontario. He left home at the tender age of sixteen for service in the Canadian Army. Five years later, seeking further action and adventure, he enlisted in the U.S. Marine Corps and married his fiancee, Kathy. Some ten years, two children and a variety of duty assignments later, he returned briefly to Ontario. Necessity soon directed him westward as an "economic refugee," where he is now pleased to call Brooks, Alberta home. Gerald has been employed in the agricultural industry for nearly three decades and writes as a hobby. This is his first novel.

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Excerpts

PROLOGUE

Wes stared through the binoculars; stared so intently that he almost missed the bloody, mangled hand that reached toward him. He ducked at the last second, dropping the glasses onto the rotting jungle floor.

"Goddamnit," he swore. He'd nodded off and the fuckin' dream had come back. Pulse racing, he darted a guilty glance toward the shadowy brush where Staff Sergeant Shore was concealed. He snatched up the binoculars and cleaned them off. No damage. That was good. They belonged to Shore, who'd picked them up in a pawn shop on Okinawa. Shore preferred them over the standard issue and if Wes had screwed them up, Shore wouldn't hesitate to bust his ass. He was peculiar about that kinda shit.

Wes quickly scanned the tiny valley below. Still no activity around the partially concealed hooch on the far side. He glanced at his watch, noticing, with a twinge of conscience, that bubbles were forming under the crystal. The watch had been a gift from Janie. It was his only tangible connection to her. He licked the pencil stub and jotted the time and a couple of ditto marks into a stained, dog-eared notebook lying beside his rifle. Wes dragged his grimy bush hat down across his sweaty, stubble-covered face, and massaged his aching eyeballs with a grubby thumb and forefinger. He blinked a couple of times to make sure his eyes still worked. Replacing his bush hat on the back of his head, he lowered his face onto his forearm, careful not to dislodge the jungle-rot scabs. God damn, it's hot, he thought. He needed a smoke desperately; needed to feel the cooling menthol deep in his lungs. But that was a definite nono out here in Injun Country. Even if he lit up and Victor Charlie didn't nail his butt, it would be a violation of one of Shore's cardinal rules. And Shore would definitely have his balls for bookends.

Wes moved his left hand, almost unconsciously, to rub the dull ache in his left calf. His fingers, brushing against a crusty patch on his trousers, startled him back to reality. "Shit!" he spat. He quietly rolled over and sat up to examine his leg. Four flies buzzed around the patch. The damned leech bite had wept again, sticking his trousers to his leg.

With a few precious drops of water from his canteen, Wes softened the crust. He pulled his trouser leg up exposing a pus covered, dime-sized circle on his calf. The flesh around it had turned an angry red. Grimacing, he squeezed on either side of the circle, sending a yellowish blob of pus sliding down his calf. Wes sensed that Frankie, with his shit-eatin' grin, was watching from the shadows beneath a big, leafy plant, enjoying his discomfort. If anybody could find humor in a miserable situation, it was Frankie. But, lately, even Frankie was losing his sense of humor. He flashed the grinning Puerto Rican an "Up yours, buddy!" look.

Wes winced as he squeezed again. More pus oozed out. Then, clean, red blood. He breathed a sigh of relief. The bite hadn't infected too badly. Using a few more drops of water, he flushed the wound. He rummaged in his jungle first-aid kit, pulled out a corroded looking styptic pencil and moistened the end with a single drop of water. This was the tough part. He took a breath, gritted his teeth, and stuck the pencil into the wound, turning it slowly. The styptic bit like a red-hot poker for a couple of seconds, causing his eyes to tear. It was supposed to prevent further infection. He repeated the treatment, making certain he'd coated the entire wound, then slid his K-Bar from its sheath. He sliced up a reasonably clean bandoleer and fashioned it into a bandage.

Frankie was still grinning as he crawled by to take over the observation. Wes flipped him the finger. When the wound was dressed, he crept deeper into the shadows where Frankie had been sprawled and took a swig of warm water from his canteen. The Halizone had given it an iodine taint. Shore was always raggin' on their asses about carrying, and using, Halizone. He'd told the team that on his first tour, he'd drunk from a fast moving, crystal clear, mountain stream without dosing the water with Halizone. He'd been shittin' blood ever since. Wes swished the water around in his mouth. It tasted like shit but, he reckoned, that was better than a gut full of flukes.

He swallowed the water and grimaced. Vietnam, 1968. What was it the gooks called it? The Year of the Monkey? Should be called the Year of the Leech. Or, better still, he thought, the year my life went down the shitter.

Wes used his bush hat to wipe the sweat from his face again and ran a hand through his shaggy, dark brown hair. He scratched vigorously at his itchy scalp for a few seconds. Time for another haircut. Using his pack as a pillow, he lay back, pulled the hat over his eyes, and tried to get some rest. Tomorrow, he hoped, the operation would be over and they could get the hell outta here. Back to Quang Tri. Hot chow, cold beer, a shower, and definitely, some rack time. Nobody had gotten any real sleep since the chopper had inserted them, what, three days ago?

As his eyes slowly closed Wes wondered, for the hundredth time, had he really fucked up bad enough to get his young ass shipped back to this jungle shit hole?

A vision, with auburn hair and deep green eyes, floated into his mind . . . Janie. Yeah, sweet, soft, sexy Janie. Well, it wasn't entirely her fault, Holton, he thought. You just couldn't keep your pecker in your pants. Had to cross that line.

No, dammit; that wasn't true, either. He really did love her and was positive she loved him, too. But it had been almost six months now and not a goddamned word. Nothing. Oh, Janie, Janie. Where are you? Where did the goddamned Navy send you?. . .

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Catalogue Information

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