Abandoned: MIA in Vietnam (17 page)

CHAPTER 24

“A little over six years,” Byrnes said to the guard, Ngo Ty, who unlocked the bamboo cage. The guard had asked him how long he had been a prisoner after telling Byrnes the date, February 2, 1973. The smile on the North Vietnamese soldier’s face made Byrnes apprehensive. In the past, anything that made an NVA soldier happy usually meant trouble for him. “Why do you ask?” Byrnes’s spoke Vietnamese like a native, a native with a northerner’s accent after six years as prisoner of the North Vietnamese Army in South Vietnam.

“The war is over for you Americans, Con co,” the guard said. “Tet will be a grand celebration this year.”

“What do you mean?” Byrnes asked. Only recently had the beatings stopped. NVA soldiers had poked him with sticks through the cage, thrown burning cigarettes at him, and punched him at every opportunity. Eventually, they had tired of abusing him when they realized he was no threat and could not strike back.

“In the Paris peace discussions, your country has agreed to leave Vietnam to its people,” the guard said. He escorted Byrnes to the small pool in a stream where the NVA allowed him to bathe and wash his clothing once every two weeks. “We will still have to deal with the traitorous southerners, of course.”

“No ceasefire?” Byrnes asked. He had heard similar claims in the past.

“Ceasefire, yes. But we do not have to leave the south. We will re-arm and restock, and finish the unification of Vietnam,” Ngo said.

Byrnes looked at the guard, almost as emaciated as he was. “How long have you been in the south, Ty?”

“Corporal Ty, to you, American,” the soldier responded.

“Sorry, Corporal Ty. How many years have you been a soldier?” Byrnes asked.

“Ten glorious years,” Ngo said, standing taller and throwing out his chest as he walked. Byrnes saw the soldier’s ribs behind the loose-fitting, unbuttoned and open, faded, light-green shirt.

“You have seen a lot of action, then? You believe what the cadre tells you?” Byrnes said. He made conversation, more to pass the time and practice his Vietnamese language skills than to learn anything tactical or strategic.

Ngo sat behind the naked Byrnes on a rock. He put his AK-47 down beside him and constructed a cigarette from the tissue paper and tobacco he had in his shirt pocket. Byrnes washed with a rag. Having no soap, Byrnes used sand from the bottom of the stream to rub off dirt.

Ngo stared into the trees and blew smoke from his nostrils. Byrnes suspected his mind drifted to battles in which he had participated, bunkers in which he had hunkered down, and long marches which he had joined. As Byrnes knew, the strain had been almost more than humans could endure.

Ngo sounded wistful when he spoke. “We soldiers don’t listen to the cadre,” he told Byrnes. “They are old men, deluded men left over from the Viet Minh and the war with France. They no longer fight. We do not respect them. The communists were the only people who would help us escape from French colonial slavery. It was a convenient marriage. When this war is over, the cadre will disappear. Ho Chi Minh himself would disband them after the war ends, if he were still alive. United Vietnam will chart its own future. Not the Chinese or the Soviets.”

“Are there many soldiers who feel this way?” Byrnes asked.

“All the younger men and most of the older ones,” Ngo said. “Everyone except the older communists and their cadre. The generals will take care of the cadre after the war is over.”

Byrnes began to wash his shirt, alternately rinsing in the dirty water and wringing it out after slapping it on a large rock. He pulled the rope belt from the loops of his cotton pants. He had braided the belt from parachute cord a soldier had given him. The parachute had dropped an American magnesium flare during a night battle. The NVA soldiers had found dozens of parachutes the next day.

Byrnes flung the belt onto shore near Ngo. Then he washed his light green faded trousers. Leaving the stream, he hung his clothing on some bushes to dry and squatted in the dry sand near Ngo and the belt. He dripped dry slowly in the sultry heat of the jungle, unable to tell sweat from pond water. The smell of rotting undergrowth filled his nostrils.

Ngo continued. “I left my village when I was eighteen, ten years ago. Five other boys from my village and I joined with a hundred others from the surrounding villages. We had all turned eighteen the year before. There was a great celebration. The whole village turned out to see us march away. The party had been going on for two days when we left. A few of the boys had drunk too much wine. They suffered in the march to the transportation rendezvous area.

“At a larger village we climbed on to four old French lorries. It took two days to get to our training site packed in those lorries, standing the whole time. At our basic training camp, they issued us our uniforms. Along with the hated political indoctrination, we trained for combat for three months, first with wooden weapons, then real weapons. Learning to kill with a shovel, bayonet, grenades, and this AK-47 took a long time. I spent more time digging trenches, foxholes, and tunnels, though. We also spent many days marching, learning to move undetected at night, and to hide from reconnaissance aircraft during the day. All of us who trained together formed a new battalion.

“Our battalion marched south, at night only, of course. It took us three weeks to cross the DMZ. We learned even more on the march. In our first battle, we overran an outpost, only losing a dozen men. We may not have the firepower of the traitors, or the air power of the Americans, but we have an unlimited supply of brave men. We march into battle unafraid. None of us would disappoint our ancestors or our comrades.”

Byrnes saw his own reflection in the turbid pond water. His body had suffered. Over the years he had contracted malaria, had been malnourished to the point of starvation, and possibly suffered from mild cases of beri-beri and scurvy. Except that he was three to five inches taller than the NVA soldiers who guarded him, his build and appearance resembled his captors. He knew he had only a small chance to escape. He waited for the opportunity.

“Time to go, prisoner Con co,” Ngo said. He continued to sit on the rock, blowing smoke at the trees, paying no attention to Byrnes. “Get your pants and shirt.”

Byrnes bent down to pick up his belt. He stepped behind the Vietnamese as if to retrieve his clothing. Looping the belt over the NVA soldier’s head, he wrapped it around the man’s neck and tried to garrote the corporal.

Stunned, Ngo fought back. Byrnes held on to the rope as tightly as he could in his weakened state. Ngo pulled at him and tried to wriggle free, but soon passed out. Byrnes felt the corporal sag in his arms. At the same time something hit Byrnes in the back of his head. He fell to his knees releasing his grip on the belt and Ngo. Curled in a ball, Byrnes received multiple blows to his body from a rifle butt. He covered his face with his arms.

“See to Ngo,” a voice said. Byrnes recognized the tone of the company commander, Major Ly. When the beating stopped, he looked up and saw three men, Ly and two sergeants. The two enlisted men splashed water on Ngo’s face. Groggily, the corporal choked and spit, gradually regaining consciousness. When it became apparent that Ngo would survive, the commander drew his pistol and pointed it at Byrnes. “Dress,” he said. “You men take Corporal Ty back to camp. I will deal with the prisoner.”

After the men had dragged Ngo out of sight and Byrnes had finished dressing, he stood in front of the commander, arms held high. “Now what?” he asked.

“I should shoot you,” Ly said.

Defiantly staring at Ly, Byrnes said, “You should.”

Ly waved the pistol at Byrnes. He said, “Sit. Drop your arms. That would be ironic, since tonight I was going to let you participate in the Tet celebration. Your country is defeated. We expect all prisoners to be exchanged.”

“Will that include me?”

“No longer. You have tried to murder one of my men. You must pay for that crime,” Ly said. “I assume a year or two of hard labor in a work battalion would be appropriate. Don’t you?”

Byrnes shook his head. He said, “My country’s Military Code of Conduct requires that we try to escape,” Byrnes said. “Article III says: ‘If I am captured I will continue to resist by all means available. I will make every effort to escape and aid others to escape. I will accept neither parole nor special favors from the enemy.’”

“My country learned about modern warfare from the Japanese and the French,” Ly said. “The French made us slaves. No one except the communists would help us throw off that yoke. The Japanese thought that to surrender was to disgrace oneself. To them, and to us, prisoners are non-persons – cowards, too afraid to die for their country. They have displeased their ancestors and failed their comrades. Therefore we can use them in any manner we see fit, or dispose of them if they are a burden. The Japanese enslaved us during the war. It took five years to rid ourselves of the Japanese, ten more to dispense with the French. Now we are trying to liberate your American puppets in the south. It has not been easy, almost twenty years, and there is more fighting to come. But we can finally see victory in our future. If you survive, you may see freedom again one day, too.” Ly waved the pistol in the direction of the camp. Byrnes walked, hands by his side, to the camp and the bamboo cage. The beatings resumed.

CHAPTER 25

“Will you stay for dinner?” Wolfe asked Kayla Anne. She parked the Prius in the garage, having picked him up at the airport.

“Is that a subtle way of asking me if I’ll cook your supper?” she asked.

“Yes and no,” Wolfe said. “You are a much better chef than I’ll ever be, but if you want me to rush you back to Flagler, I’ll get fast food somewhere or go to a small restaurant. St. Augustine’s full of restaurants, as you well know.”

“I don’t have a date tonight, and I’ve managed to stay on top of my Psychology assignments. If you promise to get me back to school before class at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow, I suppose I can stick around.” She followed her father through the garage, past the washing machine and dryer in the laundry room and into the great room. “You can bring me up to date on your odyssey. Did you have any luck?”

Wolfe continued through the great room, and dropped his carry-on bag on his unmade bed. He returned to the dining room table and sat down. Pointing to another chair for his daughter to sit in, he absent-mindedly spread the pile of mail and newspapers she had collected for him while he had been away. “Yeah. Kind of,” he said.

The doorbell rang. Wolfe stood. “Wonder who that could be,” he said. Opening the door, he found a short, thin, gray-haired woman of Indian descent about his age standing on the covered porch. “Dr. Wolfe,” she said. “Welcome home. I brought you some cookies.” The woman handed him a Tupperware box full of chocolate chip cookies. “My name and phone number are on a piece of paper inside. Call me when you finish and I’ll come get the container.” She winked seductively at Wolfe.

“Oh, Mrs. –”

“Brooker. Fran Brooker. You can call me Fran.”

“Why, this is very sweet of you, Fran, but I can’t accept –”

“Sure you can, Dad,” Kayla Anne said from behind him. “Hello, Mrs. Brooker, I’m Kayla Anne Wolfe, his daughter. This is awfully kind of you. Would you like to come in for a minute?” Wolfe began shaking his head.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I can’t now. Maybe later,” the woman said. “I have other errands to run. Let me know when you finish the cookies.”

“He will,” Kayla Anne said.

“Thanks,” Wolfe said. He nudged his daughter inside and closed the door behind them. Through the small side window he gave Brooker a quick wave and watched her make her way down the sidewalk.

“Quick. Go close the garage door,” Wolfe said to his daughter.

“I thought you did that already,” she said.

“If I had, I would not be holding a plastic container with cookies in it,” Wolfe said. “Quickly, before anyone else sees that it’s open.”

Kayla Anne walked through the laundry room again, opened the door to the garage, and hit the button that controlled the big door. As it came down, she saw two other women make U-turns in the driveway and walk away from the house.

“What was that all about?” she asked her father when she rejoined him at the table. “It was kind of weird, like the
Night of the Living Dead
. They seemed to be attracted to your house while the garage door was open.”

“I can explain,” Wolfe said. “It started in The Villages, the town between Ocala and Leesburg. It’s another retirement community. It’s huge, though. More than 120,000 people live there, putting it in the top 20 of Florida communities by population count.”

“I’ve heard of it. What started there? Giving cookies to neighbors who have been out of town?”

Wolfe laughed. “Not quite. It turns out that if you are single, widowed, widower, whatever, and you leave your garage door open in The Villages, you are inviting company.
Intimate company
. They have the highest rate of STDs per capita in the state.”

“You’re not single,” Kayla Anne said.

“They haven’t seen your mother in months,” Wolfe said. “I’m sure there are rumors. Old folks love gossip.”

Appalled, Kayla Anne scrunched up her face. “Old people have sex? And STDs? Ugh,” she said.

“Yeah, I know,” Wolfe said. “My tastes run to younger women.” He made as big a leer as possible “Know what I mean? Like your mother, that is.”

Kayla Anne pulled a throw pillow from the couch next to the table and swatted her father on the shoulder with it. “You old goat. I’m going to have to talk with Mom soon.”

Wolfe smiled. “Wish you would. It gets lonely here at times,” he said.

***

The next morning Wolfe woke late. He had not gotten much sleep. After dropping Kayla Anne at her dorm about 10:00 p.m., he had returned home. Not being too tired, he had started sorting his mail. He had not intended to read it, only to recycle the advertisements and junk mail. There were a few bills and two first-class letters. Nothing from his wife. Junior had sent him a postcard from Costa Rica with a picture of a huge iguana on the front. ‘See you soon. Love, Ben,’ his son had written on the back.
You’ll have to practice that handwriting,
Wolfe told his son mentally.
It’s much too legible for you to become a physician, Addison Benjamin Wolfe, Junior.

After mulling over the thought of Ben’s becoming a physician, Wolfe found himself beset by thoughts of his own career. He didn’t necessarily want his son to follow his example, and, if he did, he certainly hoped his son wouldn’t make the same mistakes. Then the list of his mistakes ran through his mind. Unable to sleep, Wolfe decided to scan the newspapers that had accumulated. In one paper, a brief article reported that the police had apprehended the man who had injected potassium into the corpse at Flagler Hospital. Several people had recognized the man from security videos and had contacted the police after the images appeared on the evening news. Excited by that discovery, Wolfe slept fitfully the remainder of the night.

He re-read the article the next morning, which was how he ended up in Gainesville, Florida, looking for some coffee and lunch in the cafeteria of the Malcom Randall VA Medical Center.

After a brief meal and two cups of coffee, Wolfe made his way to the psychiatric unit of the hospital, a sprawling unit that occupied an entire floor. Exiting the elevator, Wolfe found himself in front of a desk manned by a hospital employee. “Good morning,” the young woman said. “How may I help you?”

Knowing doctors received more attention from staff than visitors, Wolfe said. “I’m Dr. Wolfe. I’m here to see Chief Fulton. Ralph Fulton, from Jacksonville.”

The young woman looked at her computer screen and clicked the mouse a few times. “I’m sorry, Dr. Wolfe. Mr. Fulton isn’t scheduled for any consults today. Are you a psychiatrist?”

Wolfe shook his head and smiled. “No. I’m here as a visitor. He and I served in the navy together in Vietnam. He is allowed to have visitors, isn’t he? I called earlier.”

Looking at her monitor again, the woman nodded. “Yes. You can see him in a little while. A St. Johns County sheriff’s deputy is taking a deposition from him at the moment. Please have a seat. I’ll let you know when you may speak with him.”

Wolfe sat in a comfortable chair in the waiting room near a large window. Sunlight filtered into the room through sheer curtains, warming the chair. With a full belly and his lack of sleep, Wolfe’s coffee failed to keep him awake. The next thing he knew, the lady at the desk called to him. “Mr. Wolfe. Mr. Wolfe. You may see Mr. Fulton now.”

“Sorry,” Wolfe said, standing to stretch. “Didn’t sleep well last night.” He saw a green-uniformed deputy and a female court reporter, who towed a roll-around case the size of a carry-on bag, step onto the elevator. Wolfe approached the desk. The woman handed him a plastic clip-on pass.

The door behind her opened slowly. “Through the recreation area. Turn right into the hallway. Third room on the left,” she said, as Wolfe entered the locked unit. The door swung silently closed. An audible click announced the relocking of the heavy steel door.