Fatal Romance: A True Story of Obsession and Murder Page 6

  Jeremy was aware that admission to Officer Candidate School was limited, and reserved only for those who could meet the Marine Corps’ demanding criteria. In Birmingham, he was asked to prove himself worthy of entrance by consenting to a rigorous fitness test, as well as a test of his academic aptitude. By all accounts, he had been preparing for this examination since his early teens, beginning with his rigid body-building regimen, and maintenance of his impeccable grades throughout his academic career.

  Jeremy, who returned to using the name Jerry during his time in the Marines, was selected for Officer Candidate School (OCS), and as a Private First Class, on December 2, 1965, at the age of twenty-three, he reported for his first day at what members of the Corps refer to as “boot camp for officers.”

  From the moment he signed on with the Command, he learned what would be expected of a Marine. Upon enlisting in Birmingham, recruiters advised him to show up for his first day of OCS in top physical condition and gave him a handout to take home that was designed to prepare him for what he would encounter during his ten weeks at OCS. The booklet reviewed the importance of physical endurance, especially upper body strength and stamina, and explained that he would be tasked with such rigorous drills as rope climbing, obstacle courses, and individual and group runs of varying lengths, conditioning hikes and stamina-oriented courses. The leaflet also explained that male candidates would be expected to run three miles in less than twenty-eight minutes, and do a minimum of fifty sit-ups in under two minutes.

  While the polite, energetic boy from Sheffield, Alabama had always maintained good physical health, including his stint as a lifeguard, none of his prior athletic undertakings had prepared him for the rigorous training he was about to brave.

  * * *

  Dressed in what the Marine Corps insists is “appropriate civilian attire”—a collared shirt, impeccably pressed slacks, and belt—Jerry Akers reported to the six-thousand-acre campus of the United States Marine Corps at Quantico, Virginia, for his first day of Officer Candidate School. With its nineteen buildings, and twenty-five miles of trails, it was considered one of the top military training facilities in the world.

  When he enlisted in Birmingham, Jerry had been advised that the school’s mission was “to train, evaluate, and screen officer candidates to ensure that they possess the moral, intellectual, and physical qualities for commissioning and the leadership potential to serve successfully as company grade officers in the Fleet Marine Force.” But it was not until he began his training that he fully understood the meaning of those words.

  With temperatures hovering around the thirty-degree mark, the slender, five-foot, seven-inch Alabama native clutched the small sack of necessities that he had been ordered to bring with him, and made his way across the parking lot to the area marked for check-in. From the minute he announced his name to the Marine in charge of the administrative process, he was indoctrinated into the service. Right from the start, he learned that there were only two ways of doing things, the wrong way, and the Marine way.

  As a member of the 40th Officer Candidate Class, he would sign a contract upon completion of the ten-week course of study that obligated him to the Marine Corps for three full years. With his cap yanked tightly over his eyes, hiding the regulation crew cut he had just received, his well-toned muscles concealed beneath a newly assigned uniform, Jerry followed his fellow candidates as they fell into formation on the sprawling lawn outside the school’s red-brick barracks. That moment marked the beginning of seventy days of shouting, slapping, shoving, and kicking, and of physical training so rigorous it reduced grown men to tears.

  Even before he enlisted in the Corps, Jerry was aware that the Marines was like no other branch of the service, and he was now finding out that Officer Candidate School was like no other training program in the military. Right from the start, his Commanding Officers made it clear that the mission they were undertaking—training their candidates to be Marine officers—was the most demanding mission of the Corps. And it was for that reason that he would endure at OCS a training program that was more challenging than any other in the military services. Its approach was fundamentally different from that of Recruit Training where the objective is to train candidates to obey, react, and follow under the stress of combat. While Recruit Training at Paris Island and San Diego was reputed to be the most physically demanding program of its kind, OCS had the added psychological dimension, making it mentally taxing on Officer Candidate hopefuls.

  The goal of OCS, Jerry was about to discover, was to turn out a lieutenant who exhibited the potential to think and to lead under the stress of combat. For Jerry, that difference translated into a basic indoctrination so rigorous that it was designed to “wash out” those individuals not physically or mentally capable of handling extreme amounts of pressure. Historically, the program had a fairly decent “wash out” rate. But Jerry was about to discover that with the Vietnam War escalating overseas, and the intention of the training now focused on readying officer candidates for actual combat, the already challenging program had been stepped up to an even more intense pace.

  One of the first lessons he learned was that he’d better make sure that he was always “squared away,” the Marine term for neat. To his commanding officers, that meant trousers without creases, shoes that are polished, ties that are not too long and with a knot that is neat, belts that are clipped, brass that is shined, hair that is closely cropped. Sideburns and body odor would not be tolerated. According to the Marine way of thinking, neatness is a sign of order and discipline, while sloppiness is a sign of laziness, and there is no tolerance for a lazy officer in the Corps.

  The next lesson on the agenda was punctuality. It didn’t take long for Jerry to understand that when Reveille sounded at 5:00 a.m., he had exactly thirty minutes—and not a second more—to get dressed, make his rack (the Marine term for bed), brush his teeth, shave, and clean his squad bay (the Marine term for sleeping quarters). And there were no exceptions. He quickly learned that no matter how late he returned from combat-training exercises the night before, or how badly his body hurt, he’d better be up, neat, and ready to go when the Commander stepped into his squad bay the following morning. Jerry slept alongside his fellow officer candidates in a sprawling barracks lined with two rows of bunk beds and a common latrine. He was to report to breakfast promptly at 5:30 a.m., and had little time to gobble down his morning meal before setting out for a day of training so vigorous it made his bones ache.

  Jerry’s indoctrination included extreme amounts of physical training, coupled with comprehensive classroom instruction. By the end of the ten weeks, he would be well on his way to becoming a trained leader, ready to direct his men in combat, and not afraid to risk his life for the good of his country. He endured grueling hours learning about basic first aid and weapons systems, and suffered through unending quizzes on the history of the Marine Corps. The idea, he was repeatedly told, was to establish for the officer candidate a basic background in the military way of life, and to provide an understanding of how the military integrates its different tactical strategies. Jerry would learn how to dress and how to march like a Marine.

  From early morning until well into the wee hours of the night, his endurance was put to the test, with classes in camouflage, cover and concealment, night combat, and movement courses that consisted of eight different techniques for negotiating obstacles in the field. He learned about the chain of command, about the synchronization between the different branches of service, and about weapons, marksmanship, and the ideology of different weapons systems. And while a good deal of his youth had been spent around guns, his training was now geared toward the use of these weapons in face-to-face combat. He spent hours crawling through mud, climbing up ropes, and hiking until he thought he would drop. There were countless marathon runs, and forced marches in which officer candidates were tasked with carrying gear that weighed in excess of forty pounds for miles. His physical courage, will power, and determination were teste
d on a daily basis, and in the end, he emerged victorious. On April 1, 1966, he was indoctrinated into the Marines and commissioned Second Lieutenant; a proud moment for the young man from Sheffield, Alabama, whose perfect marksmanship had earned him a weapons score of “A.”

  Nearly two months later, on May 26, 1966, Jerry Akers completed Officer Candidate School at Quantico. By his side was Ron G. Brown, the friend he had made during his ten weeks of training. The men celebrated their admission into the United States Marine Corps with a day-long graduation ceremony that began with a parade in which all the candidates marched in their camouflage utility greens to the beat of a military band. The highlight of the day was a formal afternoon ceremony attended by friends and family members to which the newly commissioned Marine officers wore for the first time the dressy Service Alpha uniform of a green wool jacket and slacks.

  Two days later, on May 28, Jerry began The Basic School (TBS) at Quantico where he continued his indoctrination for another twenty-one weeks. This time, he was greeted with the respect due a Marine Corps officer. Instead of waking before sunrise and training until well after dark, Jerry and the other officers of TBS enjoyed a less strenuous schedule, rising at 7 a.m. and training through 5 p.m. Their accommodations were less spartan. They moved out of their barracks and into officers’ quarters in which four men shared a room and had a semi-private lavatory. Their course of instruction also changed from basic Marine indoctrination to learning about combat tactics.

  His training now focused specifically on his grade of command, which, he learned, would be the platoon commander’s level. He was being schooled on how to be a leader, and his training was aimed at preparing him and his fellow Marines to direct a company of thirty to forty men into combat. He learned specific tactical strategies, and spent time in the field, honing and practicing the skills he was learning. Life as a Marine officer was a perfect fit for Jerry Akers. He thrived on military life and its principles and on his successful development into a man with a title. His self-image had changed and he felt less wary, more confident. He believed in the military and the opportunity for a stronger voice in the community. As the course moved into its final weeks, he grew increasingly aware that his opportunity to serve his country in the war escalating in Southeast Asia was only days away.

  October 26, 1966, marked the end of Second Lt. Jerry Akers’ formal school training. He was now a Basic Infantry Officer, his bill of description, platoon leader. With his new military rank, Jerry traveled home to Sheffield one last time to spend the holidays with his family before returning to headquarters to receive his orders. In January of 1967, at the age of twenty-four, a bolder, more self-assured Jerry Akers reported to the Fleet Marine Force to receive his assignment. His thirty-one weeks of training had bolstered his ego, and elevated him to a level of self-assurance that he never believed possible.

  Akers was flown to the Marine Air Base in St. Louis, Missouri, where he boarded a plane for Vietnam. For the next seven months, he would be a platoon leader, attached to Company L, Third Battalion, Fourth Marines, Third Marine Division. Jerry was proud to wear the Marine uniform and to be a member of the illustrious and colorful Fourth Marines.

  On January 12, 1967, Second Lieutenant Jerry Ray Akers arrived in Southeast Asia. Like hundreds of other Marines, he was flown into Da Nang aboard a commercial jet. Trans World Airlines was landing 707s there every six to eight hours, the aircraft filled to capacity with Marine replacements.

  Raw Marines like Dennis “Dawg” Thun, who would later join Lima Company and fight alongside Lt. Jerry Akers’ platoon, were astonished when they descended the steps of the commercial jet and viewed a base much like Camp Pendleton, the one he had just left behind in California. From television and newspapers they had read, “Dawg” and the others half-expected to face enemy gunfire the second they opened the plane’s doors.

  The base at Da Nang was not at all the dank jungle that Dawg had anticipated. In fact, it was the size of a small town, and, in addition to the airstrip that was big enough to accommodate military aircraft, it included countless metal Quonset huts, supply depots, movie theaters, and clubs for commissioned and non-commissioned officers. New arrivals spent their first day on the base and received their orders the next morning. Dawg, a Marine grunt fresh from boot camp, swallowed hard when he was given orders to be on the airfield at 1400 hours to board a flight to join his battalion in Dong Ha, just five miles from the Demilitarized Zone—and some of the most intense fighting in Vietnam. Dawg knew from talk around the base that being that far north placed him in extreme danger.

  The following morning, when he went out to meet the C130 that would take him to his detail in the North, he was hit with a reality so frightening that he felt a shiver throughout his entire being. The young Marine from Chicago watched as military personnel unloaded fifty body bags containing the latest casualties and placed them onto the tarmac.

  With the scene etched in his memory, the trained mortar man boarded the prop plane, and to the roar of its four engines, fastened his seatbelt for the short flight up the coast. He watched from the window as the aircraft touched down at Dong Ha. Leaving the plane, he observed that the rear base for the Third Marine Division was nothing like the one he had just left to the south. There were no Quonset huts, just tents for the men, and military transports and helicopters that ferried the Marines into and out of the base around the clock.

  Dawg and the other replacements were directed to an area where they would draw their gear. As he eyed the heaps of equipment, he observed that the canteens and flak jackets had all been used before, and many were riddled with bullet holes and stained with blood. Poking through the piles, he rummaged about until he found two canteens and a flak jacket that looked in decent enough shape to wear. He drew two magazines for his rifle, but making his way back to the staging area, a chilling thought invaded his mind: “I’m not going to a good place.”

  Jerry Akers was already in Dong Ha when Dawg landed there. But it would be several months before the men’s paths would cross and they would be involved in a vicious attack by the enemy that would give Dawg a glimpse of just how intense Jeremy’s reaction could be when he believed he had been crossed. After collecting his gear, Dawg and the other Marine replacements boarded a military transport truck and headed inland to Camp Carroll.

  The trip took the men west from a relatively flat coastal area of sand dunes, hedgerows, and scrub brush into a mountainous jungle. The Marine artillery base at Cam Lo had been named for Captain James J. Carroll, who was killed by friendly fire during the October 5, 1966, assault on Hill 484. Army bulldozers had been used to level the terrain and clear some ground for heavy artillery equipment. Dawg observed battle-hardened Marines, many of them with jungle rot, a fungus that causes uncontrollable itching, as the truck braked to a stop at the camp.

  Jerry, who had arrived “in country” several weeks before, would later be called to defend the base.

  CHAPTER SIX

  As a platoon leader at Dong Ha, Jerry was in command of three squads, each one comprised of twelve Marines. He and the leaders of the three other platoons that made up Lima Company would follow the orders of the Company Commander. Located on the coast of the China Sea, Dong Ha was the rear base for the Third Marine Division. The small, muddy Marine camp in the northern part of South Vietnam had a short, 800-foot landing strip, and was located just south of the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ). It was the middle of monsoon season when Jerry landed in Vietnam.

  As a second lieutenant, he shared a 10 by 20–foot tent with fellow officers—three platoon leaders and three platoon sergeants—and slept in a sleeping bag on an Army cot that was draped with mosquito netting. In the field, he dozed on the ground alongside his men, often in holes they had dug for themselves. Their light-weight jungle uniforms provided little protection from the torrential downpours and cold, moonless nights.

  Jerry and members of his platoon spent only a few days at the base camp before they were ordered into combat on Janua
ry 16, 1967, as part of Operation Prairie, a search-and-clear mission that was underway in the Quang Tri Province. The maneuver ended on January 31, 1967, and Jerry and his platoon were immediately reassigned to Operation Prairie II.

  Three weeks later, Akers was leading his men on a search-and-clear mission through the brush northwest of Cam Lo, in the Quang Tri Province, when a North Vietnamese Army (NVA) battalion launched a fierce predawn attack with mortars, hand grenades, and automatic weapons. Jerry and his platoon came under intense fire from the NVA but the second lieutenant held his ground. Braving the vicious assault, he organized his men and directed such blistering fire on the advancing enemy that they were forced to break contact and withdraw. Later that day, the enemy attacked again, and Jerry’s platoon sergeant and corpsman were both wounded by enemy fire. Jerry, too, was hit in the leg. Seeing that his men were hurt and in exposed positions, Jerry advanced through enemy fire, carried them to safety, and administered first aid. As the firefight continued, Jerry encouraged his men and assisted the wounded. He refused to be evacuated, and stayed with his unit for two days until reinforcements finally arrived. He exhibited such bravery that he was awarded the Marines’ third highest honor, the Silver Star for Valor.

  After receiving treatment for his injury, Jerry returned to the base at Dong Ha. One afternoon, when he got back to his tent, he was introduced to a new roommate, Tom Downes. The first lieutenant had been in Vietnam for almost a year, and was nearing the end of his tour when he was transferred to Lima Company and assigned to act as executive officer of the Company and its four platoon leaders. The two quickly became friends, but Jerry never let on that he had just recently received the Silver Star. Tom only heard about it through others in the camp.