by Bill Yancey
“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.”
CHAPTER 34
Lt. Roh So-dong of the South Korean army gave his fellow ex-POW, Byrnes, a short course in using the AK-47. They had picked up four of the weapons while running to the ARVN li
nes, along with arms full of magazines for the assault rifles. “This is about the same difficulty to use as an M-16,” Lt. Roh said. “It’s not as accurate, but it packs a more substantial punch. And it doesn’t jam, even filled with dirt or water. It’s a peasant’s weapon.”
“I’d be happier with my old M-1,” Byrnes said. Seeing the NVA approaching, he added, “Here they come.” He had read in military history at Annapolis about the swarms of Chinese soldiers that had engulfed the American troops in Korea. Now he knew how his ex-girlfriend’s father and his Marines at Chosin Reservoir had felt. He could see wave after wave of NVA spilling from the jungle into the firing lanes the ARVN had cleared.
“Aim low,” Lt. Roh said. “Keep it on single shot. Automatic wastes ammunition.” .50 caliber machineguns behind Byrnes cut loose on the enemy. Mortars shells landed among them. Then artillery shells rained down from the heavens. Still, they pressed on, almost closing with the ARVN troops before being beaten back, or dying in their tracks.
“That was close,” Byrnes said, surveying the destruction. Hundreds of dead littered the field in front of him. As a high school student, he had taken a field trip to Gettysburg and had been told about the Confederate soldiers attacking the Federal troops in wave after wave, knowing they would likely die in the charges. How strong had their beliefs been? In their country? In their God? In an afterlife? he wondered. Not to fear charging up those hills. And these men. For communism?
Puff the Magic Dragon, A South Vietnamese C-119 gunship circled the field of battle when the second attack started. Byrnes heard a loud ripping sound, similar to the tearing of a stiff canvas. Dirt flew in front of him, a round from the mini-gun on the aircraft slammed into every square yard of the contested field. A wave of dying North Vietnamese fell.
“Why do they do this?” Byrnes asked Lt. Roh during a short pause. “Don’t they know they’re going to die? Is their country worth this massacre?”
“They aren’t doing it for their country,” Roh said. “They are doing it for their comrades and ancestors, and to prove they aren’t afraid. The same as us. Are you afraid?”
“Afraid they might make me a POW again,” Byrnes said. “I think I’d rather die.”
“There’s your answer,” Roh said. “Sergeant Doan, they’re massing for a third attack. Looks like we’re outnumbered about ten to one.”
Sgt. Doan laughed. “Then we have them right where we want them, Lieutenant,” he said. “Don’t waste your ammo, though. The artillery unit backing us up is running out of shells. We’re already out of mortar rounds. I expect we will need all the ammunition we have left to get back to Saigon. All right, ladies. One NVA per bullet.”
The third wave faltered fifty yards from the defensive position of the ARVN. “Cease fire,” Corporal Ha yelled, as soon as the charge had broken. “Save your ammunition.” The artillery had fallen silent before the NVA charge had stalled.
“Okay,” Sgt. Doan said. “Capt. Vinh says Can Tho has fallen to the communists. Our next line of defense will be the outskirts of Saigon. Let’s get to the Landing Zone and evacuate. Everyone saddle up. Bring the wounded. Leave the dead.”
No helicopters showed up at the LZ. They were visible in the air overhead. Byrnes saw dozens of Chinooks and Hueys flying below the gathering rain clouds. They all seemed headed east. What could be going on east of us? he wondered. The thirty-mile retreat to Saigon from Long An took the remnants of the ARVN battalion all night, a ten-hour march. Most of the severely wounded died during the withdrawal. The living laid them on the side of the trail, covered the bodies with their dark green ponchos, and kept moving. The NVA followed the ARVN at a discreet distance, in no hurry to close on the South Vietnamese soldiers. The NVA bided their time, having had their noses bloodied by the stiff resistance put up by what remained of the battalion.
Expecting government troops to challenge them on entering central Saigon, they found instead complete chaos. No one paid attention to them. No police or reservist troops manned the checkpoint on the bridge where Highway 10 crossed a tributary to the Saigon River. Dark smoke billowed into the sky from small fires in the suburbs. People milled about the streets, evidently in shock.
As the last officer alive in the battalion, Capt. Vinh called to Corporal Ha, who had taken over the field radio from a wounded radioman. About 10:30 a.m. he said, “What do you hear on the radio?”
Ha stood in the street, tears streaming from his eyes. Byrnes watched as the corporal handed the radio to the captain. “It’s over,” he said. “The government has capitulated. Acting President Duong Van Minh has agreed to an unconditional surrender. He has ordered all ARVN combatants to lay down their weapons. He says he has surrendered to prevent a massacre of civilians and the wholesale destruction of Saigon. NVA tanks have already entered northern Saigon. The enemy controls Tan Son Nhut airbase. One tank is sitting in the US Embassy compound. The Americans have all gone, flown to a massive fleet east of Saigon.”
“Not quite all of us,” Byrnes said quietly, realizing then where the choppers had been headed. As he watched, the word of the defeat spread quickly and quietly through the ranks of hundreds of men surrounding him in the street. Without a sound the soldiers began to disperse, leaving behind weapons, uniforms, even their boots. Within an hour, Byrnes stood alone with Lt. Roh on the deserted bridge. Civilians walking around in a daze ignored the weapons and uniforms. They apparently understood that to be caught with some of the soldiers’ possessions by the North Vietnamese would be tantamount to treason and probably earn a death sentence.
A jeep-like machine drove past Byrnes and Roh. Seated in the back of the vehicle, a woman in the uniform of an NVA soldier held a tattered flag. On the flag were two horizontal bars, the upper one pink, and the other a faded blue. A large gold star filled the middle of the flag: the NVA battle flag.
“Now what?” Byrnes asked Roh.
“I don’t know about you,” Roh said, “but I could use a beer. I’ve been too long a captive of the NVA. I need some good food and a drink. With luck it will take them days to weeks to organize the capture of Saigon. Maybe by then we will be gone.”
The idea of a good meal and a Coke appealed to Byrnes. “I can’t drink alcohol,” he said. “Do you know some good restaurants?”
“I was stationed in Saigon prior to being assigned to Ninh Hoa,” Roh said. “My apartment wasn’t far from the US Embassy. With luck, there will be some empty apartments. We can take showers. If the occupants left in a hurry, we might find some real clothing. There is a restaurant, the Viet-My, Vietnamese-American, not far from the apartment. May I treat you to a meal if the café is still open for business?”
“I’d like that,” Byrnes said. He unloaded and checked the chamber of his AK-47, heaved the magazine into the water below them, and dropped the assault rifle on the bridge pavement. Roh did the same with his M-16.
CHAPTER 35
Wolfe’s cell phone rang while he drove along I-4 headed north toward St. Augustine from Aikens’s dealership after spending the night in Orlando. Brain-washed to believe that even-numbered interstates ran east and west, he always marveled how he ended up north of Orlando on I-4. Checking the cars around him, he pulled off the interstate at the next exit and coasted to a stop at the side of the road. Pulling out the cell phone, he noted the low battery charge. Then he checked his messages and found that Jimmy Byrnes’s sister, Tamiko Kimura, had left a brief message asking him to call as soon as he received the voice mail.
Pushing a button to return the call automatically, Wolfe looked in his rearview mirror and watched as a black sedan pulled off the exit and onto the dirt shoulder about a hundred yards behind him. Weird, he thought. What are the odds two drivers would do this at the same time?
“Tammy? It’s Addy. You called?” he said when Kimura answered. Before she could reply, he added, “Sorry I didn’t answer right away. I was driving. I pulled off the road. Don’t like to drive and talk at the same time. What’s up?”
“I apol
ogize for interrupting your trip,” she said.
“No problem. I was visiting with one of the men you pointed me to, Peter Aikens. Nice guy. Owns a Ford dealership in Orlando. But that’s not why you called. Tell me what you need.”
Kimura exhaled audibly, and then said, “I have some bad news. My mother died early Monday morning. I thought you should know since you were so kind to her.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Tammy,” Wolfe said. “Another stroke?”
“We don’t know. The hospital had transferred her to a rehab facility about a week ago. She was doing well. Yaz spent most of the day with her Sunday. When the nurses went to check on her after breakfast, she was gone.” Wolfe heard Kimura sniff, catching a tear.
“I am truly sorry, Tammy,” Wolfe said. “You have my condolences. I’ll pack and catch the next flight to Washington. When will the services take place?”
“You don’t have to catch the next flight, Addy,” Kimura said. “She’s going to be buried with my father in Arlington. There’s a seven or eight week backlog there. When I know the exact date, I’ll let you know. Has Mr. Roh contacted you?”
“Who?”
“A Mr. Roh. He’s Korean. Works at the Korean Embassy. He called this morning after seeing my mother’s obituary in the Washington Post. It mentioned that Jim and my father had predeceased her. He called to see if J.T. III was the same man he had known in Vietnam. He was in the Korean infantry during Vietnam and also a POW. I gave him your name and telephone number.”
“Oh, okay. No, I haven’t heard from him. Is there anything I can do for you or Yasuko?” Wolfe asked.
“I don’t believe so. If I think of something, I’ll let you know,” Kimura said. “Thank you for the offer. Good-bye.”
“Bye,” Wolfe said. He turned off the cell phone. Again noting the very low battery level on the phone, he plugged it into the car to recharge it. Taking the tri-folded piece of paper and pen he always kept in his shirt pocket, he wrote a reminder to buy a sympathy card for the sisters. Looking at his rearview mirror, he saw that the black sedan had not moved.