Abandoned: MIA in Vietnam (21 page)

CHAPTER 32

Byrnes and three other prisoner-porters sweated in the humid, hot dense jungle near the Mekong River delta. They had followed a North Vietnamese Army soldier along a barely visible trail to the position held by five battalions of NVA. Although he knew hundreds, if not thousands, of men surrounded him, Byrnes had great difficulty spotting them. Camouflaged, from foxholes, from trenches, and from tunnels men called to one another. “First company ready. Third squad ready. Pass the ammunition boxes.”

A hand gripped Byrnes’s ankle, almost pulling his foot out of his sandal made from the tread of a used tire. Startled, Byrnes looked down. The hand elongated into an arm. An NVA soldier stood in the shadows of a cave carved into the side of a deep trench. “Pass the ammunition boxes,” he said again.

Byrnes knelt and lowered his box to the soldier. The other porters handed their boxes to Byrnes, who passed them on to the soldier, who passed them to invisible men, hidden deeper inside the dark cave. “Is that all of it?” the soldier asked.

Byrnes looked behind him. The three prisoners nodded. “That’s all there is,” Byrnes said.

“Okay. Go back north and get some more, in case this battle lasts longer than we think it will.” The man laughed at his own joke and then spoke to the prisoners’ guard. “We will be attacking the enemy’s position shortly. I suggest you get as far away from here as possible, or drop into that shallow trench behind you until the assault is finished. The enemy has mortars and artillery. We know they are running short of ammunition, but you don’t want to be in the open if they use them.”

Silently, the private in charge of the porter detail motioned them with his AK-47. Holding the rifle horizontally he herded the men into the smaller slit trench. When standing, the top of the trench came to the porters’ waists. The men sat with backs to the muddy wall, heads below ground level. The NVA private sat on a log a short distance from the trench. He pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket. Lighting the cigarette, he inhaled. The scream of a mortar shell falling to earth interrupted his smoke break. “Phao kich!
Incoming
!” many men yelled at the same time. Followed by, “Enemy soldiers!”

A whistling sound grew louder, seemingly sucking in air. The guard stood, intent on jumping into the trench. The whistling ended with a loud crack, as if lightning had struck nearby. The first mortar shell exploded at the guard’s feet. The man disappeared. A twisted rifle barrel fell into the trench, followed by a whiff of tobacco smoke and a spray of blood. “Into the cave,” Byrnes told the three others, although he was not entirely certain they understood Vietnamese. Hoping the law of averages and the overhead jungle canopy would keep another mortar round from landing in the same spot, Byrnes scrambled out of the shallow trench. He slid on his abdomen across the slimy trail, and fell into the deep trench where the soldier who had taken the ammunition had been. The three other porters followed him.

After a minute, Byrnes’s pupils adjusted to the darkness. The cave was a portal to an underground network of tunnels. As far as Byrnes could see in the darkness, the first tunnel was empty. He heard voices ahead and slowly crept forward until he came to a lashed bamboo ladder. Above him a gun crew manned a heavy machinegun. Unaware of his presence, they talked to one another. The hammering of the machinegun drowned most of their conversation. “Here they come.” “Hundreds of them.” “Thousands.” “On the left.” “Grenade!”  Then,
Whomp!
Smoke wafted into the tunnel. Byrnes smelled cordite. The concussion of an exploding grenade digging into the mud and spraying shrapnel into the gun crew knocked Byrnes to the mud floor. He heard the men above him: “I’m hit!” “Can’t reload.” “My leg!”

After a short while Byrnes heard only silence from the machinegun position. He crept forward again. Hearing nothing, he slowly climbed the ladder and found himself within a fortified gun position. The NVA had surrounded the gun pit with logs and mud packed between tree stumps. One gunner had lost a leg and apparently bled to death. A second had shrapnel wounds in his chest and head. He no longer breathed either.

The third gunner struggled to load the machinegun with only his left arm, the other ended at the elbow. Obviously weak from blood loss, he kept trying to pull the bolt handle and re-feed the metal belt of bullets into the weapon. Byrnes could tell the barrel of the weapon no longer functioned. He grabbed the soldier by his belt and dragged him to the ladder. Slinging the man’s right arm stump over his shoulders, Byrnes carried him into the tunnel.

Once underground, the porters hauled the gunner deeper into the tunnel, away from the gun pit. Byrnes ripped off the soldier’s shirt, tore it in long pieces, and used strips of the cloth to tourniquet the shattered arm. The tourniquet covered a tattoo on the soldier’s inner arm. Byrnes had seen the same sentiment written on many of the younger NVA soldiers. It was one of the few Vietnamese phrases he could read:
Born in the North to Die in the South
. “We can’t quit now,” the soldier said. “The enemy is…is overrunning our position. Go! Fire the machinegun. Go quickly.”

“The gun is broken,” Byrnes said. “It can’t be fixed.”

“Then get our rifles. In the back. In our quarters,” the soldier said, pointing to the dark tunnel. “Hurry.” None of the prisoners moved. “I have let my men down,” the soldier spoke softly, voice fading with his strength. “I have shamed my ancestors and my village. So close to victory. After seven years of combat. So close. You see my uncle? He’s standing there.”

The men all turned their heads and looked where the soldier pointed. There may have been someone in the tunnel. It was too dark to tell. Byrnes assumed the man hallucinated. “It’s all right,” he said, placing his hand on the man’s forehead. “We’ll get you some medical attention. Hang on.” At the same time, the soldier’s eyes stopped moving. His vision seemed to focus on the ceiling, pupils dilating. He sighed once and stopped breathing.

“Dau hang!
Surrender
!” a voice shouted at the cave entrance. “Dau hang!” another voice screamed from the gun pit.

“Don’t shoot!” one of the prisoners yelled in Vietnamese. “We are hostages of the North Vietnamese, forced to deliver ammunition. We are not armed.”

“Come out slowly. Hands where I can see them,” the voice said. “How many of you are there?”

The prisoner continued the conversation. “Three dead NVA gunners. Four prisoners.” Slowly, the men made their way toward the voices with their hands elevated, palms outward in front of them. As soon as they entered the trench, a squad of ARVN troops pulled them to the ground level one at a time.

“Anyone alive in there?” a sergeant with an M-16 in his right hand and an AK-47 in his left asked the prisoners. The camouflaged cloth name strip on his fatigue read Doan.

“We were only as far into the tunnels as the gun position,” the first prisoner said. “The tunnels go on after that but I don’t know how far. They may connect with other positions.”

“Corporal Ha,” the sergeant said, “take some C-4 and collapse that tunnel as far back as you are comfortable going.” The corporal pulled off his backpack and extracted a handful of C-4, along with what Byrnes assumed were a timer and wires to connect the two together. He disappeared into the tunnel. “And who are you four?”

Using excellent Vietnamese, the Korean spoke first. “Lieutenant Roh So-dong, South Korea, 9th Division, 29th Regiment. Captured during Operation Hong Kil Dong near Tuy Hoa. Home Base Ninh Hoa.”

“Welcome back, Lieutenant,” the sergeant said. He tossed the Korean the AK-47 he held in his left hand. “You may need this. You’ll find ammunition on some of the bodies we left behind.”

“Thank you,” the lieutenant said.

“And who are you men?” the sergeant asked.

“Hai Quang,” the second man said. “Textile merchant from Saigon. I was kidnapped – ”

“Can you use a rifle or an assault weapon?” the sergeant interrupted.

“No.” Hai said.

“Next?”

The third porter said, “Thao Linh. Air force mechanic. Corporal. Kidnapped while on leave. I have used an M-16 in the past.”

The sergeant tossed his M-16 at Thao. He said, “Don’t lose it. I want it back when we return to Saigon.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“And you?” the sergeant pointed to Byrnes, as the corporal backed from the cave and climbed out of the deep trench.

“Four minutes,” Corporal Ha said.

“Never mind,” the sergeant told Byrnes. “I’ll give you a chance to answer when we get back to our lines. Corporal, lead these men to our trenches. Pick up weapons you need and ammunition you see on the way. I’ll find Captain Vinh. I expect the NVA will be making a counterattack shortly. Don’t waste time.”

CHAPTER 33

Wolfe sat at a desk in the showroom of Aikens Ford, surrounded by dividers, half wood, half glass, that separated him from other cubicles and ten or twelve beautiful new Ford automobiles. Through large plate glass windows in the front of the building he could see acres of similar vehicles, some new, some used. Colorful banners flapped in the warm Orlando breeze. A salesman walked by with a young couple, “The new Mustangs are outrageously beautiful,” he said. Wolfe watched as the trio opened the driver’s door to a red convertible version of the pony car.

“Dr. Wolfe?” a voice said.

Wolfe turned in the chair and found a muscular man about his age with gray hair and matching mustache. The man extended his right hand toward Wolfe. Rising, Wolfe shook it. “Mr. Aikens?”

“You can call me Pete. Peter Cottontail was my childhood nickname,” Aikens said. “Come on back to my office. Care for some coffee?”

“No thanks. Barely finished this cup. Had one of your donuts, too. Can you make money giving away food?”

Aikens chuckled. “Have to match or beat our competition,” he said. “It’s part of the cost of doing business, like advertising.” Limping slightly, he led Wolfe down a long hallway to a plush office. After they entered he pointed at a leather chair for Wolfe. Aikens circled his desk and fell into a taller leather seat, spinning it so he faced Wolfe.

“Nice office,” Wolfe said, scanning the plush carpet, solid wood paneling, and autographed pictures of celebrities in front of their automobiles.

“It’s incredible being close enough to Daytona that I can meet a lot of personalities at the race track,” Aikens said. He pointed an index finger directly over his head to an autographed picture of him shaking hands with Donald Trump, in front of a yellow Mustang wearing asymmetrical wide black racing stripes. “Sold him that Shelby for his daughter.”

“Beautiful car,” Wolfe said.

“Yeah, but you didn’t come here to talk about cars,” Aikens said. “I know you drove at least two hours to get here, and in a Prius, too. Sure I can’t sell you a more comfortable vehicle while you are in Orlando?” Aikens laughed good-naturedly.

“Can’t afford it,” Wolfe said. “The M.D. after my name does not stand for
mucho dinero
, if you know what I mean.”

“Okay. That’s settled. I have some time before we have a sales meeting. What can I tell you about J.T. Byrnes?”

“Well,” Wolfe began, “as I told you on the telephone, his sister gave me your telephone number. She thought the two of you were good friends. Apparently you and other classmates spent time at his house in the summer between plebe and youngster years.”

Aikens nodded. He leaned back in his chair and put both hands behind his head. He crossed his ankles on the corner of his desk and stared in Wolfe’s direction. He tried to recall his relationship with Byrnes from fifty years before. “We were more rivals than good friends, I guess,” he started, playing a video in his mind of the two young men interacting.

“Rivals concerning what?” Wolfe asked.

“It started with 150 pound football. Do you know about that?”

“An Ivy League light weight football conference.” Wolfe said. “Yeah, his sister, Tammy, lent me Jimmy’s Annapolis yearbook.”

“Jimmy? Oh, yeah, James T. We always called him J.T. at Annapolis, when we didn’t call him something less socially acceptable, like Cato. That was the name of the Pink Panther’s Asian sidekick. We also called him other names when we were mad at him: Gook, Slope, Charlie.”

“Why would you have been mad at him?” Wolfe asked, having also been on the wrong end of Byrnes’s intellectual barbs at times.

“The guy was too perfect. He made good grades. Hell, academically I think he was first in our class when he dropped out. I know he was in the top ten. But mainly it was football for me. He played my position, cornerback. So, I ended up playing third string,” Aikens said. “And there was Emily, too.”

“Emily Rose? His girlfriend from high school?”

“Yeah. She damn near got me killed,” Aikens said.

“How’s that?” Wolfe asked.

“We met at J.T.’s house. Several of us stopped in Alexandria on our way from Annapolis to Norfolk to catch a ride to our summer cruise ship. The navy had a plane going to Puget Sound from Norfolk Naval Air Station. We had just finished plebe year. After being locked up in Mother B for a year, that’s Bancroft Hall by the way, all women looked good to us. Especially Emily. And she was a flirt. Anyway, after he quit school, they broke up. I had been unable to get her out of my mind for six months, so I called her. To console her, I said. You know how that goes.”

“You started dating?” Wolfe asked.

“Yeah. Hadn’t been for her search for
a real man
, I wouldn’t have signed on with the marines,” Aikens said. Almost forgetting Wolfe’s presence, he continued, gaze fixed on the wall above Wolfe’s head. “One year after graduation, I had finished all the combat infantry training at Quantico and found myself in Vietnam as a platoon leader in Da Nang. Daily, we went on patrol outside the perimeter. Charlie knew we were coming. Headquarters hadn’t gotten smart enough to let us decide when and where or how to vary the patrols, yet. They wanted the same areas cleared every day, so the gooks couldn’t get close enough to rocket the base or to interfere with flight operations. Consequently, the VC knew where we were going and frequently set traps for us. We got damn good at spotting the ambushes before we fell into them, but they cost us some lives. And we didn’t find them all.

“About a month before I was to be rotated to Saigon – at the time, we did six months in the field and six months at a desk – I led a patrol into Indian Country. The guy in front of me stepped on a land mine. Cost him two legs, and me one.” Aikens made a fist and rapped his knuckles on his left leg at the thigh. The hollow sound echoed in the room. “Our government was pretty good at making promises: to the Vietnamese, to our troops, to our countrymen, and to others. But they stuck us out in the field of battle with so many restrictions on how to fight back, it seemed like they abandoned us.”

“I’m sorry,” Wolfe said.

Aikens dropped his feet to the floor and again sat facing Wolfe. “Not your fault. If I hadn’t broken up with Emily my second-class year and thought that my being a marine might get her back, it wouldn’t have happened. Worse things have happened to guys over women.” He chuckled. “She ended up marrying a guy she knew from high school, a peacenik demonstrator, no less. Bet that killed her dad.”

“Can you tell me more about the 150 pound football?” Wolfe asked.

“A little, I guess,” Aikens said, looking at his Rolex. “I’ve got some time. Most of the guys who played one-fifty were offensive or defensive backs in high school. So, it’s a fast game. Problem is everyone wants to continue being a back when they get to Annapolis. Someone has to play the line. And there was only one cornerback position, because Annapolis used a rover cornerback who switched sides of the field. You know what a 4-3-4 defense is?”

“Yeah,” Wolfe said. “I played rover in high school.”

Aikens nodded. “As plebes, we couldn’t play with the varsity against other schools. Back then the NCAA didn’t allow lowly freshman to play any varsity sports at any college. There were no frosh 150 pound teams to play against, either. So we ended up being the blocking dummies for the varsity. We played the roll of the upcoming opponents each week. Didn’t take the coaches long to figure out who was really good, who could make weight every week, and who was smart.”

Wolfe nodded knowingly. “Jimmy.”

“Yeah. I was his back-up as a plebe. Played some middle guard. Ballooned to 175 pounds on the youngster cruise, too. Had a hell of a time making weight youngster year. That year J.T. started. I played third string behind a firstie, first class midshipman, who liked J.T. even less for taking his position.”

“I told you over the phone that Jimmy was a POW in South Vietnam, right?” Wolfe said.

“Yeah. That’s a shame. The gooks committed all sorts of atrocities. We found guys with their private parts stuffed in their mouths, beheaded, skinned, burned alive, buried in ant piles, and worse. It wasn’t pretty. Some of those people were true war criminals,” Aikens said, and paused. “Had some of our own war criminals, too, I guess. Lt. William Calley at My Lai comes to mind.”

“Jimmy seems to have survived at least three years, according to Colonel Rhodes,” Wolfe said.

“If there were a guy who could exist under those conditions, J.T. would be the one. He was a resourceful guy. I’ll give you an example. We rented a car in Charleston, S.C. to return to Annapolis after the summer cruise. The air force landed us in Charleston. Anyway, on the way north, we got stuck in traffic behind two ladies whose fan belt had broken. They were on a bridge on I-95, blocking half a lane with an overheated engine. When we pulled past them, J.T. pulled over to see if we could help them.

“He talked one of the women into pulling off her nylon pantyhose. He cut one of the pant legs off. Using it in place of the fan belt, he tied the nylon around the flywheel, generator, and water pump. It worked. We followed them to the nearest gas station, where they got a real fan belt.”

“How did he know to try that?” Wolfe asked.

“I asked him the same thing,” Aikens said. “He told me his dad always had a subscription to
Mechanix Illustrated
, but seldom read it. Apparently, Captain Byrnes was out of town a lot. J.T. used to read the magazine religiously, cover to cover, and he rarely forgot the tips he picked up.”

Wolfe smiled and said, “Jimmy made a light bulb puller for the hangar deck. It was a thirty-foot pole with a set of wires and springs on one end that could squeeze a light bulb on the ceiling of the hangar deck. It saved us from having to move aircraft and drive a forklift around to change the burnt out bulbs. Now I know where he got the idea.”

Aikens continued, “He was solid. Hit like a mountain. He was stoic. He was smart. If I were a POW, I’d want him there to help me, too.” Again Aikens looked at his watch. He said, “I’ve got to go. If you can wait an hour or so, it would be my pleasure to take you to dinner after this sales meeting. You can tell me about J.T. as a petty officer. Bet that was a trip.”