“Chào,” he said.
She didn’t respond.
“Who are you?” he asked.
She remained quiet as she lit a lamp and pushed him into a reclining position to remove his bandages. Whatever she used to probe his wounds hurt like hell, but he never felt like she wanted to harm him.
He muffled his groans with the blanket as the instrument dug into his wounds, then the woman poured a hot, oily liquid over the injuries. She applied fresh bandages, and when finished, she tapped on the ceiling. She held up her bag and the pot they had given Stinson for elimination. Hands reached in to remove her. More food and water plus the emptied clay pot were dropped as he lay back on the dirt floor, bandaged, but weak. The deliveries became a daily routine.
As he ate one day, Stinson tried to determine how long he’d been in the hole, but couldn’t. He did know that even with the attention he got, he would go crazy if he didn’t get out soon.
He wondered whether Turner was making it, if Glover had ever smiled, if Fletcher had ever looked out for anybody but himself, and if Casper was serving as a stabilizing force. Had he taught them enough to survive?
What was all this fighting about that young men like his were continually offered as sacrifices? After all the killing, torture, and maiming, would the world actually become a better place?
And Stinson wondered how much each of the men would change, because they would change. Some would succumb to the horrors and fight the battles over and over, seeking the solace of drugs and alcohol to dim the memories. Some would carry on, hoping the nightmares would fade in time. But each would change, and each would move on, carrying his own personal snake.
Time passed, and Stinson sank deeper into the hole in his mind, becoming giddy for no reason, then crying. He had to muffle the high-pitched laugh that came when he least expected it, followed by a sense of abandonment, then indifference, then anxiety.
Although he looked forward to their visits, no one ever spoke when they came, which added to his isolation. A slow panic would set in as soon as they left, leaving him alone with his thoughts. With no one to affirm or deny the validity of what he was thinking, Stinson began questioning his own understanding of reality.
Thoughts of his wife, Darlene, and their son, Jerome, played across his brain. He struggled to recall the best memories of when they were together to maintain some semblance of sanity.
“You remind me of a friend I used to have,” Stinson had said when they first met.
“Why?” Darlene Jackson asked.
“You don’t believe in backing down.”
“And you do?” she said, throwing a hook that hit the basketball rim before falling out of bounds.
“This is our fourth game, and you haven’t won yet.”
“It doesn’t mean I can’t.”
Stinson had smiled. He had come to the Forest Hills basketball court to practice when he thought no one else would be there, but she was, shooting jumpers, foul shots, and driving to the basket.
They had nodded to each other as she continued to practice. Curious, because he had never seen a girl with her talent, Stinson stood and watched. Her game was so smooth, with spins and turns befitting a ballerina, that her striking looks were secondary. She had the sharp, angular features of a model without the daintiness.
“You going to play or just spectate?”
Her questions snapped him out of his trance. “One-on-one?” Stinson asked, surprised she would ask.
“Anybody else here?”
“All right. What’s your name?”
“Darlene. Yours?”
“Willie.”
“She tossed him the ball. “Alright, Willie. Take it out.”
Stinson was good at sports, not girls, so although he was very comfortable playing one-on-one, he felt awkward playing Darlene. Stinson caught the ball and launched a jump shot that circled the rim before rolling out; she dribbled past the foul line, faked him with a cross-over dribble and sunk a twenty-footer. Stinson smiled. It was on.
“Where’d you learn to play?” Stinson asked after the fifth game.
“My dad, and I played for Shaw High. Where’d you play?”
“I didn’t. Just playground.”
“Really?”
“What’s that mean?” Stinson asked.
“With your game, the only reason I can think of why you didn’t play organized ball is because you don’t like authority. I know a few people like that. Are you one of them?”
Stinson’s face flushed. “So you think you got me pegged?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you need to work on your game and quit trying to be a psychiatrist.”
Without saying a word, Darlene jumped up, picked up her ball, and left the court.
Two months after he’d met her, Darlene remained on his mind. He’d almost given up on ever seeing her again when one afternoon he casually glanced at a bus across the street that had stopped at the 79th Street and Euclid Avenue intersection. Stinson’s eyes brightened in recognition of the passenger with close-cropped hair and chocolate skin. He couldn’t see her face, but he knew.
He ran to catch the bus, even though it was going opposite the direction he was headed, and almost got hit by a car. The bus pulled off, leaving a puffing Stinson behind. Disheartened, thinking it might have been his final chance of ever seeing her again, he began the ten-block walk toward the warehouse where he worked.
A tap on his shoulder while he waited at a stoplight four blocks later caused Stinson to jump.
“You lookin’ for me?”
“Where’d…?” he asked as he unclenched his fist.
“Someone lied. They told me you were fast,” Darlene said, her hands on her hips.
“I…”
“Well?”
Stinson scratched the side of his head. She’d asked about him? “I–It’s great to see you, r–really great.”
She giggled at his awkwardness.
Stinson stuffed his hands in his front pockets. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”
“You probably shouldn’t have. You dogged me out on the basketball court, and then you dogged me out verbally. There’s only so much doggin’ a woman will take,” she said, her hand, head, and shoulders moving with each word.
“Yeah. I’m sorry. It was rude. But you do know you injured me, right?” he said as he showed her a scar on his hand.
“That little scratch?” she said, laughing. “A real man wouldn’t even mention it.”
“Oh, wow.”
Darlene sniggered. “I’m just playing.” Then she punched him in the chest. “I want a rematch, though, man. I ain’t playin’ about that.”
A year and a half later they married. She made him wait that long before they had sex, but he didn’t mind. He made up for it every night after as the two coupled with twice the intensity of any of their basketball games, exclaiming in wonderment at the searing sensations they’d caused within each other.
She gave birth to Jerome nine months later. And two years afterward, he joined the Army. Stinson bit his lip when it came to him that the Army had probably sent Darlene an MIA notice. He hoped she was handling the news well. She should have. She was tough. I’ll be home soon, honey. Hold on.
Stinson tried counting the days by the visits he received. Since they came once a day, it would be close to a month and a half he’d been cooped up. As soon as he was able to stand, he pushed at the ceiling and peered out, only to be greeted by more darkness.
The next day he did the same. Even though it was daytime, he could see little because of the brush surrounding the hole. He continued to peek to determine whether it was day or night, but after a few quick glances, he decided not to push his luck. The next time he opened the hole would be when he left.
Days passed, and Stinson could stand for longer periods. Eventually, his strength grew where he was able to test his leg more strenuously by doing abbreviated squats. He stretched as best he could until he could
do limited exercises with only moderate pain.
When he felt he was finally able to move out, he waited until dark, then gathered his weapons and wrapped the food and the full canteen he had saved for his journey. Stinson wrote the Vietnamese word for thank you, “cảm ơn,” on the dirt floor, pushed the cover up, pulled himself out, and knelt on the ground to get his bearings.
His sense of smell and sight were enhanced from weeks of deprivation. Everything seemed so lush and loud. The bird and animal sounds pulsated through the jungle. It was as if he had stepped into another world—a world he hadn’t expected to still be a part of.
He tested his leg to make sure it was able to hold his weight when he walked. He took a few tentative steps. The soft dirt under his boots gave him some comfort as he moved forward. Stinson cut a branch from a tree to carve a cane, looked at the big dipper to get his bearings, and began his journey southeast.
Chapter 67
A
ugust 21, 1969
The serenity Stinson first experienced under fire remained as he limped along a stream flowing southeast, hoping it would lead to a larger body of water and eventually to an army base.
It was necessary he travel at night and sleep during the day because his wounds would not allow him to move fast enough to escape anyone who might chase him. He carried an AK-47, a .45 pistol, a bandolier, three magazines of ammo, a poncho, a knife, food for four days, and a walking stick.
How far was base camp? Stinson thought back to the chopper ride. They had been in the air about ten minutes, which meant they would have traveled about twenty to twenty-five miles plus the approximately twenty miles they’d traveled on foot. And according to Ramsey’s map he had since lost, northwest.
At night, Stinson listened carefully to the sounds of the jungle—the chirping of the birds, the hooting of the monkeys, and the thousand other noises that reverberated through the denseness. There was a rhythm to them that signified a certain order. What Stinson listened for even more carefully, though, was a break in the rhythm—some indication there might be others beside the jungle’s normal habitants. Since his presence caused a disruption in their sounds, anyone or anything else would, too.
Occasionally, Stinson would massage his leg, encouraging it to stay strong. If his calculations were right, and at his pace, it was possible he would need to travel for at least five days. And although the leg was an impediment, he ignored it, placing the pain from it in a compartment in the back of his mind.
It worried him that he’d heard no sounds of battle, no big guns, no aircraft, nothing. Maybe there was a lull. Or maybe he was too far away for the sounds of war to reach him.
What worried him most was whether his men had made it back. To see his boys again was more than enough incentive to make it. Their survival would be his greatest accomplishment.
During the day, Stinson found high ground, used the poncho as a shelter, and attempted to sleep against a tree. But he was only able to obtain a quick doze before he would hear something that would wake him.
During the early evening of the second day, after abandoning the stream for higher ground, he spotted a ridge like the one he and his men had been on. His stomach sank at first, thinking he had somehow traveled in circles, but when he looked back, he was relieved to see distant landmarks, like the clump of tall Banyan trees and a valley he had crossed two hours earlier. The ridge would be his new landmark.
By the fourth day, he had run out of food. He tried to remember what he’d been taught about what he could eat—or more importantly, what he shouldn’t eat. Palms, figs, bamboo shoots and some insects were okay, Stinson remembered hearing that in one of the classes. So that’s what it will be, he thought. No use taking a chance on something that would make his journey any worse than it already was.
Those thoughts were on his mind when a small clink caused Stinson’s heart to sink. It was a sound only a human with a weapon would make. He turned slowly, trying to pinpoint the location when he felt the nudge of something metal in his back.
“Dau hang!”
He knew the words. He’d spoken them himself to a guerilla he’d found hiding in a burned-out pagoda on a sweep outside Ho Bo Woods. There were three VC. They took everything, including his boots. The three talked among themselves and laughed at something one of them said while pushing him to walk ahead, giggling as he limped.
It was twenty minutes later when he heard the faint boom of howitzers. They sounded distant, but his emotions were jangled by the faint reports. Here he was on or near friendly territory, but unable to make it home.
A sharp pain in his leg caused Stinson to stumble as they approached a muddy clearing carved out of the jungle where sunlight barely penetrated the branches and vines draped around and above the open space.
There was no barbed wire, guard towers, or searchlights. The only building Stinson saw was a thatched hut. And the only object in the clearing was a large vase filled with water.
The smell, though, was the smell of death, an undeniable stench only a human in the last days of his life would emit. Stinson grimaced as he entered the compound looking for another American.
It was when his captors nudged Stinson to a bamboo cage hidden by the trees that he realized he would have to get out of there as quickly as possible. Seven soldiers lay on filthy blankets on a dirt floor wearing tattered clothes. Not one of them looked like they weighed more than a hundred pounds. Four lay with their eyes closed.
One hardly breathed. Pus oozed from one eye, and blood smeared his pants at the crotch. Another of the sleeping captives moaned continuously, one arm wrapped in a dirty bandage, his pants soiled by his own excrement. The three sitting up stared blankly at him as he found a space in a corner.
None of his captors spoke English, but their short staccato demands were apparent: Stay there until they said otherwise.
Four of the captives were Marines. One was a pilot, and two were Army, he was told by Ferris Grant, one of the Marines, and the only one who seemed lucid enough to communicate. But with his swollen throat, he was hard to understand.
“How long have you been here?” Stinson asked.
Grant held up two fingers. “Scott and Callahan, about a year, and Christian, two. Those three,” Grant rasped, glancing at the captives who appeared to be one step from dying. “I can’t tell you. There used to be fifteen more of us, but they moved some north, I think, three months ago. We’ll probably be moved, too.”
Stinson surveyed his surroundings as he listened to Grant give him the lowdown.
“Don’t talk to Christian,” Grant whispered, motioning to the pilot sitting in the opposite corner. “Whatever you tell him, he’ll tell them.”
“Which of the Vietnamese speak English?” Stinson asked, glancing at Christian staring at the sky.
“That person’s not here. He comes once a month to give instructions. He’s the one who makes us talk.”
“Makes us talk?” Stinson asked.
“Torture. And you will talk,” Grant said, nodding. “We all do eventually, but it’s what you say,” he said conspiratorially, “that counts.”
Stinson looked at Grant for more information.
“Tell them anything but the truth.”
Stinson ran his hands through his hair. “Okay.” It was even clearer what he needed to do.
It took Stinson a few days to understand his captor’s routine. Each day in the morning, the Americans were given water with some kind of gruel. They were allowed to move around the compound for a few hours while being watched by at least two guards. Then they were herded back to their bamboo enclosure.
At mid-morning, one guard would take whoever was able to walk out to pick edible roots. There were one or two at most who made it. Although still feigning excruciating pain as he walked, Stinson volunteered.
“We need to start planning our escape,” Stinson whispered to Grant.
Grant said nothing for a while. He finally looked at Stinson, inhaled, then exhaled, his eyes dr
ooping and his voice was so low Stinson could hardly hear him. “I’d barely make it twenty yards. And you don’t look like you’d make it much farther.”
Stinson looked at Grant. “But I will, in time.”
The second week, Robert Garson, one of the three, and the worst off, died. The VC hauled his body to the middle of the camp, rolled him onto Stinson’s poncho and dragged him into the jungle.
Stinson felt his leg getting stronger, but not as sturdy as he needed it to be. He exercised and massaged it impatiently each day whenever the guards weren’t around.
At the end of the third week, one of the VC caught Grant stealing food. Other than yelling at Grant, no one punished him, which Stinson thought was strange.
The fourth week, the English-speaking Viet Cong appeared. His khakis were pressed, and his boots shone. He stood tall and spoke in crisp, commanding words that had the guards scurrying to fulfill his commands. A yellow chevron with a red background on his sleeve indicated he was a lower-level officer.
Stinson braced himself mentally when the officer and two of his underlings approached. The officer looked at Stinson and then Grant, his eyes gleaming like a hyena eyeing a wounded prey. Grant whined softly. Suddenly, another of the officer’s men ran up to him speaking rapidly. The officer hurried to a jeep and sped away from the compound.
The same day they pulled Grant from the hut. He screamed, “No, no, please, I’m sorry,” as the guards beat him into silence with a bamboo pole. The silence lasted less than five minutes followed by an eerie wail that seemed to go on forever. Stinson shivered as the howling turned into horrifying screams that intensified, interspersed with “Oh, God!” before there was silence again. Grant did not return.
The first time Stinson felt well enough to attempt an escape was five weeks after his capture. But, Ortega Rivera, another of the soldiers in poor health, died. All the captors went on alert as if they anticipated some kind of an uprising.
A Long Way Back Page 22