P. O. W.

by Donald E. Zlotnik

  The small convoy of vehicles drove over to the runway and pulled up next to a parked CV-2 Caribou that was waiting to take off, its engines running and its tailgate dropped, ready to load up. General Seacourt led the way onto the aircraft and took a seat up near the cockpit. One of the crew offered the general a cup of coffee and the senior officer accepted, but he made sure that all of the men were offered something to drink before he took a sip from his Styrofoam cup.

  Woods kept looking over at Arnason for some answers, but the team sergeant knew as little as David did. They settled back in the comfortable seats for the short ride to Da Nang. David looked out of the side window and could see Highway 1 winding through the green and brown hills below them. He had just made the long trip by road and was returning with a general on board. Woods wondered if this had something to do with Shaw’s black-marketing and Simpson’s drug-dealing. He twisted his mouth in thought and then shrugged his shoulders. He was clean.

  Sergeant Arnason was also puzzled. He looked at the faces of the men the general had asked for by name: Lee San Ko, Kirkpatrick, Lieutenant Reed, and Woods. Including himself, four out of the five men had been on patrols together at A Shau.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Run! Run!

  Master Sergeant McDonald lay on the sand dune between two of the perimeter’s fighting bunkers and listened to the sound of the South China Sea on the other side of the barbed wire. He had scooped up a pile of sand for a backrest and looked back over the wire with his legs stretched out in front of him. A cool breeze blew in across the water, but the sand was still warm from the afternoon sun and felt good against his back.

  Thoughts, thousands and thousands of thoughts, filled his mind and covered the whole spectrum of human emotion. They moved at the speed of light down the electrical paths of his brain and connected with thoughts that he thought had been lost. Once they were joined, they created a montage of his life that wasn’t in any chronological order. He thought about Project Cherry and then the Recondo School. He had been happy at the school and should have stayed there. No one in Vietnam would have held it against him to have stayed at the school. All he would have needed to say was that his wounds still hurt, and they would have understood. Deep, deep inside of him, where no one went but him, he felt the fear. He saw the POWs tied down on the planks and the blood soaking into the weathered wood. He could not bear to see Spencer Barnett like that, with the white cartilage of his vocal cords exposed to insects.

  The soft vibrations of someone walking on the sand nearby brought McDonald back to the beach. He listened and could hear the sand spraying from the tips of the person’s boots when the leather and rubber impacted with the loose grains. He would have to show whomever was coming how to walk on dry sand.

  “Sergeant McDonald?” The voice was a whisper.

  “Over here, Woods,” McDonald kept watching the dark water roll against the beach. A white line indicated where the high-water mark was. He had been shocked to see Woods and the team from the First Cavalry arrive at CCN and was even more shocked when he heard that they would be a part of the team, including the lieutenant. They would all come under his command. It wasn’t often that officers were placed under the operational control of enlisted men, but CCN did what needed to be done to get the mission accomplished, and everyone knew that Master Sergeant McDonald was the foremost expert of prisoner snatches in Vietnam. They knew that… but he didn’t feel it.

  “I got my stuff put up and thought you might enjoy some company out here.” Woods sat down uninvited next to the sergeant. “I want to thank you for letting me stay on…. It means a lot to me.”

  “I know what you’re saying, but I almost agreed with Lieutenant Nappa and Sergeant Cooper from RT Viper….You’re too emotionally involved and are dangerous because of it. We can’t make any mistakes! None!”

  “I promise, Sarge…. You tell… I do!” Woods held his hands up with his palms directed at the resting NCO. “I’m the one who left Spence back there and I’ve got to be a part of the team that gets him out….”

  “That part is understood…. No one questions your motivation, but you’ve got to remember that our going back in there is putting a lot of lives on the line… and there could be more POWs if we fuck up.” McDonald didn’t like his own choice of words, but it was true.

  “I just came out here to tell you that you can count on me. I won’t let you down, Sergeant!”

  “Hell, Woods… I knew that back in Recondo School!” McDonald’s white teeth shone in the moonlight. “Now get your ass back to the hooch and get some sleep…. It’s going to be a very long day tomorrow and the next day.”

  “OK, Sarge…” Woods started back toward the hooch.

  “Woods.”

  He stopped walking. “Yeah, Sarge?”

  “Heel first when you’re walking on sand… Toe first sends a spray out that can be heard by a deaf NVA whore!”

  “Right, Sarge!” Woods paused and readjusted the way he was walking. “Are you coming?”

  “No… If I’m needed, I’ll be out here.” McDonald slipped back into his thoughts almost instantly.

  The telephone was ringing. He opened his eyes, but everything was still pitch black. He slowly oriented himself in the motel room and rolled over on the bed with his arm extended, fumbling for the receiver. It fell down and hit the carpeted floor. He could hear a voice saying hello and reached for the sound.

  “Sergeant McDonald speaking.” He whispered the words.

  The voice of a North Carolina state trooper echoed in his ear. He was being told that his wife and teenage son had been killed in a head-on collision by a drunk driver. McDonald could hear the young trooper’s voice echoing in his mind; not a single word of the conversation had been lost over the years.

  The hardest thing he had ever done in his life was going to the mountain city morgue to identify his wife and son’s bodies. They had his wife in a small refrigerated container at one end of the morgue and his thirteen-year-old son far away at the other end. He asked if they would move the boy’s body and place it in the same cell as his mother’s. The coroner’s assistant refused, until McDonald convinced him that it would save all of them a lot of trouble if he would reconsider his decision. The coroner was called and a compromise was made, where they moved the small boy’s body to the container next to his mother’s.

  McDonald felt the cool sea breeze against his cheeks. The sensation was amplified by the tears covering his cheeks. How he had loved them! They were the perfect military family and had even appeared as a family on the cover of Army Times. She had had the whole front page framed and had hung it on the wall of their living room. She would point to the picture when they had a fight or if their son was acting up and remind them that they were a perfect military family.

  McDonald let his tears flow; it was the only way to put out the emotional fire that was burning in his heart.

  She had never complained, no matter how bad things got, and living on a corporal’s pay had been tough. He had worked nights as a bartender at the Officers’ Club, and she had worked as a cook in the kitchen. He would catch her staring at him through the swinging doors that separated the kitchen from the main dining room and she would just smile. Their son was a love child, conceived in love and loved every second of his life by both of them. McDonald couldn’t think of a single incident or time when he didn’t see a smile on his son’s face when the boy first saw him. He might have been gone only five minutes, but when he reappeared his son smiled a greeting. He had been a love child, and even though McDonald was only a sergeant in the military pecking order, as far as his son was concerned he was a five-star general about to be promoted.

  Yes, he loved them, even though they were dead. The problem now was that Spencer Barnett looked exactly like his son; the same eyes, hair, body build, even the same shy smile.

  The special POW recovery team had been training at CCN Headquarters for two weeks and had meshed into an excellent fighting force. The First Cavalry
recon men and the CCN RT Viper team blended perfectly with only one minor problem, and that was to be expected. Lieutenant Reed didn’t like the idea of coming under the operational control of a noncommissioned officer. Lieutenant Nappa from RT Viper had worked under a CCN sergeant when he had first come in-country and was training for his team, so he couldn’t have cared less. Nappa knew McDonald’s excellent reputation, and he also knew that most Special Forces sergeants were qualified to be officers and many of them had taken direct commissions. He had no problem with McDonald’s leading the rescue team.

  The team was composed of eight Americans and three Bru tribesmen who would act as scouts and interpreters. All of them carried CAR-15 submachine guns with thirty-round magazines that supplied a lot of firepower in highly concentrated bursts. They were issued Browning 9mm pistols that held a fourteen-round magazine as sidearms and specially designed survival knives. Each officer carried a Pen double-E camera, and every man had a transponder taped to his web gear on one harness and a flashing strobe light taped to the opposite side. The team was designed for fighting; they carried only ammunition and grenades. If they became separated and had to escape and evade the enemy, they would have to get their food from the jungle using the compact survival packs on their pistol belts.

  McDonald walked down the line of gear laid out on the isolation-hooch floor. He inspected each piece of equipment to ensure that it worked.

  “Cooper, I think we had better carry two bolt cutters, just in case….” McDonald tested the cutter as he talked.

  “I agree; they might have them all chained up, and two would make things faster.”

  “There is probably a South Vietnamese POW camp nearby…. The NVA usually keep the Americans and South Vietnamese separate and chain the ARVN soldiers to posts.”

  McDonald paused in front of Kirkpatrick’s gear and looked directly into the eyes of the soldier from New York. “You sure you feel you can make it?”

  “The doctors said that I was as good as new. Besides… I owe them for killing my buddy Brown.”

  Woods listened. Brown and Kirkpatrick had both been with him on the recon patrol that buried the new secret seismic-intrusion detectors. Kirkpatrick had been wounded and Brown killed in the NVA ambush. The two black New Yorkers had been inseparable and had been working with Sergeant Shaw black-marketeering supplies. Kirkpatrick had changed after Brown’s death. He was now the perfect recon man: all business.

  Woods watched the Special Forces men during the inspection. Sergeant Cooper was about his own age and had gone through the extensive Green Beret training, graduating with honors. The lieutenant was different from line unit officers in that he would talk to enlisted men and not down to them. That seemed to be a leadership trait with most Special Forces officers and was probably based on the extremely high caliber of NCOs found on their teams.

  McDonald finished checking the last man’s gear and turned at the end of the row of equipment to face back down the line. “Looks good. We insert the day after tomorrow. I want you to leave your gear here in the isolation hooch. Tonight is your last free night, and then we’ll all be restricted to this building for our final briefings and orders.” McDonald pointed at Woods and Cooper. “You two come with me. We’ve got to drive over to Twenty-fourth Headquarters and pick up some maps.”

  Woods and Cooper followed their team sergeant to the exit, and each one of them took a CAR-15 out of the weapons rack next to the door and a thirty-round magazine out of the ammo box on the floor. The weapons were there for exactly that purpose—to be used as loaners. Once a team’s weapons had been inspected for a patrol, they stayed in the building. Perfection was the key to success, and every one of the team’s weapons had been inspected by the CCN armorer and cleaned thoroughly before being reassembled. Any doubtful part had been replaced with a new one and then tested.

  Cooper drove the black jeep and McDonald rode shotgun. Woods sat on the jump seat with his CAR-15 across his legs. The traffic was heavy once they pulled out onto Highway 1, heading north to the large American headquarters complex. A long convoy of five-ton flatbed trucks lined the road carrying ammunition to units in the southern part of the Corps. Most of the really heavy traffic was heading south on the road, but that would change in a couple of hours when the trucks from the fire support bases took to the roads after the engineer mine-sweeping details had finished.

  Woods watched a herd of water buffalo wallowing in the thick rice-paddy mud. The herd boy stood on the side of the road holding a long, flexible stick. He called out for a cigarette as they passed, and Woods pulled three Kools out of his pack and threw them on the side of the highway. The boy ran smiling after them.

  James walked through the front doors of the Corps operations complex carrying a briefcase in one hand. He wore a pistol belt and a .45-caliber pistol at his side. The military police guard just inside the doors looked up from his desk and smiled a greeting at the black “captain.”

  “Morning, sir.” The MP thought the captain was a bit young-looking, but in Vietnam, officer promotions were so rapid anything was possible. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, soldier. Direct me to the plans section, please.” James flexed his jaws.

  “Down the hall to the left and then make another left. It’ll be the first double doors on your left.” The MP pointed with his gloved finger.

  “Left, left, and left. I should be able to remember that set of directions. Thank you.” James started walking through the gate.

  “Sir, I’ll need some identification.” The MP looked at the captain’s briefcase. “And I’ll have to check your case.”

  “I am in a hurry, soldier….” James laid his briefcase on the small table that had been provided for that purpose and opened the latches. He lifted the cover, and a red cover sheet flashed into view that had SECRET printed on it.

  The MP glanced at the papers and looked back at the captain. “Thank you, sir.”

  James closed the briefcase and started leaving.

  “Sir… I need to see some identification.” The MP’s voice was losing its patience.

  James reached into his rear pocket and produced his wallet. He flipped it open and laid it on the table in front of the MP. A green-and-white military ID card with James’s photograph was displayed behind a plastic cover.

  The MP lifted the wallet and looked at the card. “You’ve got to get your ID updated; it says that you’re a lieutenant.”

  James smiled. “I just got promoted… ahead of my peers.”

  “Thank you, sir!” The MP handed James back his wallet and let him pass.

  James walked down the hall, thinking how dumb whites were. They would believe anything, absolutely anything. He watched the signs above the doors as he passed and tried memorizing them for future visits to the headquarters complex. He had been to the First Marine Division Headquarters before and had no problem getting past the black guard on duty there. The Marine had been very impressed meeting a black captain. James smiled. Maybe next time he would be a major, or maybe a lieutenant colonel.

  A large stained sign was nailed above the double doors with PLANS burned into the wood. A cardboard sign on each side of the doors warned that only authorized entry was allowed. James didn’t hesitate and walked through the swinging door.

  The large room was a beehive of activity. Maps covered all of the walls, and officers and senior NCOs from all of the XXIV Corps units were busy making overlays from the Corps battle plans. James looked for the map that depicted the junction of Laos, South Vietnam, and North Vietnam. He saw the map on the wall and started walking toward it when another captain reached up and grabbed him by the arm.

  “Where in the fuck do you think you’re going, stud?”

  James twisted away and glared at the heavyset officer. “To trace an overlay… cunt!”

  “You can’t just fucking walk in here and make overlays!” The officer had been up all night and was very tired and angry. He had missed breakfast.

  “What would you l
ike for me to do?” James was getting nervous.

  “Sign the fucking logbook!” The captain pointed to the open ledger. “You fucking field jocks think you can just fucking ignore procedures!”

  James picked up the pen that was attached by a string to the book and signed his name: Martin Luther King, Jr.

  The other captain turned the ledger around and read what James had written. “Funny… real fucking funny!”

  “Hey, man… can’t you take a joke?” James picked up the pen again and wrote the name that was on his ID card: Ben Arnold.

  The captain smiled when he read the name. “I’d use Martin Luther King too if my name was Benedict Arnold.”

  “Ben Arnold… Ben! Do you want to see my ID card?” James glared at his cover peer.

  The captain thought for a second before answering. “No… but there’s something about you that I don’t like….”

  James felt his heart beat faster.

  “Go on and make your overlays!” The staff captain nodded in the direction of the battle maps. “I’ve been up all night posting that shit, so it’s the latest stuff going!”

  “Thank you, sir.” James walked over to the I Corps Vietnam map and smiled. A new Marine and Army combined operation had been posted in blue grease pencil. He pushed his fatigue cap to the back of his head and taped the transparent paper over the battle plans. James took a half-hour copying the data and unit locations. He wished that he could also get a copy of the operations orders, but that would be risking too much.

  A Marine lieutenant colonel watched James work. There was something about the way the Army captain carried himself that bothered him. He knew that a lot of blacks had been pushed through the Army OCS programs and through ROTC because of the aggressive equal-opportunity programs, but they must have really been hurting when they commissioned him. The man’s whole attitude reeked of street punk, not officer. The lieutenant colonel looked at James’s cap riding on the back of his head over a sprouting Afro hairdo.