Abandoned: MIA in Vietnam

by Bill Yancey

  “Still no date from Arlington National Cemetery?” Wolfe asked. He glanced at the white-haired gentleman. Someone had tucked the right sleeve of the man’s coat into his right armpit after folding it. Two large safety pins kept it neatly pressed to his side.

  “They say in late August. Yasuko calls every day. She suspects the calendar varies with the number of boys coming back from Syria through Dover, Delaware. They promised a firm date by the end of next week.” Kimura turned to the man standing next to her. “I want you to meet Mr. Roh So-dong. I told you about him earlier over the phone. He works in the Korean embassy.”

  The man with one arm bowed slightly toward Wolfe. He held his left hand out. Wolfe shook it with his left hand. “Mr. So-dong,” Wolfe said. “A pleasure to meet you. Oh, I’m sorry, that’s your first name isn’t it? I forgot that the Koreans, like the Vietnamese, place their surname first. Mr. Roh, correct?.”

  Roh shook Wolfe’s hand. “Correct. James told me much about you, Dr. Wolfe. Tammy has praised you, also,” Roh said, surprising Wolfe.

  “Mr. Roh was in Vietnam with Jim,” Kimura said. “He told us about their time together. After reading about my mother’s death in the Washington Post obituaries, he contacted us. He spent a long time on the telephone with Colonel Rhodes, too. The colonel couldn’t make it today.”

  “You knew Jimmy in Vietnam?” Wolfe asked, surprised. “As a POW? With Rhodes?”

  “Not with Colonel Rhodes,” Roh said.

  Kimura interrupted. “You two have a lot to talk about,” she said. “I have to see to the guests. Please excuse me. Talk with me before you go, please.” She patted both men’s shoulders and left them together. Wolfe saw tears in her eyes.

  In the spacious front yard, Roh and Wolfe wandered in silence between guests until they arrived at a sparsely populated, small Japanese rock garden to the left of the house, between the front entrance and the basement garages. Once out of earshot of the others, Wolfe said, “You work in the South Korean embassy?”

  Roh nodded. “I’m the ROK, that is Republic of Korea, Civilian Intelligence Attaché.”

  “And you read obituaries as part of your job?”

  “I read every word of the Washington Post, the New York Times, and the Wall Street Journal, every day they are published,” Roh said, laughing. “You’d be surprised what you can learn about the military in this country by reading obituaries. Admiral J.T. Byrnes, Jr., was a hero in the war against Japan. An ace, in fact. When I saw the name of Mrs. Byrnes’s predeceased, I knew I had found James’s family.”

  Wolfe nodded. He asked, “How did you meet Jimmy?”

  Roh told Wolfe about the NVA capturing him, forcing him to be a conscripted porter, the ARVN freeing them, the shock of the surrender of Saigon, and their attempted escape from the city two days later. “Obviously he survived the B-52 strike,” Wolfe said.

  “And a lot more,” Roh said. “The patrol boats towed our sampan to land. Including Mr. Dang, the machinegun fire from the patrol craft killed three people. The NVA separated the men from the women and children. We never saw the women again, but it’s safe to say they lost all their possessions. The NVA probably sent them to a New Economic Zone for punishment. Hundreds of thousands of South Vietnamese died in the NEZs and re-education camps, starved or beaten to death, or executed. I guess they could have ended up in the new collective farms in the south, but the collectives were a failure. Even the northerners admitted to that eventually.”

  “And you and Jimmy? How did you lose your arm?” Wolfe asked.

  “The NVA considered young, healthy men without papers to have been in the military, ARVN. They treated all ex-military to re-education – hard labor, starvation, and communist propaganda. They initially thought James and I were Vietnamese. After they learned our real identities – it took a long time for them to believe us – they also sent us to a re-education camp in the north. Older men, obviously wealthy exploiters of the masses, suffered worse fates.

  “Immediately after we reached shore and in front of their families and us, the NVA executed some men from the boat. They thought we were lowly crewman, or, at worst, smugglers. Since we were healthy, they tied us together and packed us onto captured American army trucks or Russian Molotova army trucks and shipped us north. We held on to the sides of the trucks and each other to keep from being bounced out of the vehicles. NVA tanks had destroyed the roads as they moved south for the invasion of South Vietnam. Tied together at the wrists, fifty men stood in the back of a truck, exposed to the elements, unfed, for three days until we reached the first re-education camp.”

  “First camp?”

  Roh nodded. He said, “Do you mind if I smoke? Nicotine calms my nerves. It’s not easy re-living these memories. They moved us frequently, to discourage escapes.”

  “Of course,” Wolfe said. He watched as the one-armed Korean pulled a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket with his left hand, shook the pack until a cigarette popped up, stuck it in his mouth, replaced the pack, and lit the cigarette with a Zippo lighter.

  Roh showed the lighter to Wolfe. On one side, Wolfe saw the insignia of a Korean infantry battalion; on the other the map of South Vietnam. “A gift from my battalion when I returned to Korea in 1979.”

  “That’s a long time to have been in Vietnam,” Wolfe said. Smoke from Roh’s cigarette wafted upward in the warm summer afternoon breeze.

  “I was lucky to leave alive. For four years they alternately starved us or forced us to do hard labor. I suppose we were in six or seven labor camps. They moved us around to keep us confused about our location. All that time we received communist indoctrination as well. They released some prisoners after six months. Many more died of malnutrition, or beatings and executions. Some, I’m sure, are still held captive. We harvested rice from paddies, planted potatoes, constructed buildings, paved roads, chopped wood, whatever, until the Vietnamese invaded Cambodia to throw out the Khmer Rouge.”

  “Did they make you carry ammunition for that war, too?”

  “Worse. The Chinese communists thought the Vietnamese acted under the direction of the Soviets and were trying to expand their influence in Southeast Asia. The Chinese invaded northern Vietnam and occupied part of it for several months. When the Chinese declared victory, they pulled out in March, 1979, leaving behind large mine fields.”

  Wolfe had already figured out how Roh lost his arm. “You guys had to disarm the mines?”

  Roh nodded. “I made a mistake with one. James was nearby. He put a tourniquet on the stump. The Vietnamese thought I was going to die. They had minimal medical facilities. Rather than waste time and medicine on me, they contacted the Korean Embassy and turned me over to them. The embassy doctor had to amputate what remained of my arm in order to remove an infection and save my life. I survived. Obviously.”

  “What about Jimmy?”

  “The last I saw him, he was headed back to the minefield to disarm more mines. I think about him every day. I tried for years to get my government to ask the Soviet government to coerce the Vietnamese to release him. To no avail. Even your government seemed less than interested.”

  “Yeah,” Wolfe said. “I believe I know why. I had an unintentional meeting with the CIA. They are in no hurry to rescue MIAs. Did you tell his sisters about Jimmy?”

  “They were delighted to hear he had not been killed by the B-52s, but devastated to think he could still be a prisoner,” Roh said.

  “Do you think he could still be alive? That’s a pretty harsh environment. He was born in late 1946. He’ll be seventy years-old later this year if he is still with us,” Wolfe said.

  Roh shook his head. He said, “James didn’t have many friends among the Vietnamese. Of all the prisoners, he had the most to gain by pretending to believe the Marxist-Leninist nonsense they spouted in the re-education courses. He never did. I saw no signs that he ever would give them the satisfaction of even thinking that he had changed his allegiance. I have to believe he is dead by now.”

&nbs
p; CHAPTER 42

  “This man!” the Vietnamese officer in the starched, neatly pressed, green uniform yelled. He pointed at Byrnes, asleep on the straw mat laid over a wooden pallet.

  Two beefy guards dragged Byrnes to his feet before he had awakened completely. One slapped the back of his head. “Stand upright. Look the major in the eyes,” he said. A dog barked in the distance.

  Byrnes opened his eyes wider, trying to see the officer in the dim light of the prison barracks, a hot, corrugated metal building with only dim, dirty skylights for light and ventilation. Scores of other prisoners lay scattered on pallets and the dirt floor around him. Most feigned sleep, not wanting to participate in the harassment of their comrade.

  “He claims to be an American, yet he speaks fluent Vietnamese with a northerner’s accent,” the officer said. “Is that correct?”

  “Yes, Major Binh,” the second guard said, pulling Byrnes more upright by his shirt. “What should we do with him? He has spent months in isolation and years in indoctrination. Still he defies us.”

  “Put him in my car. I want him interrogated in Hanoi,” Vong Binh said. He paused, sniffed the air and made a disagreeable face. “No. Wait. I don’t want to ride with this smelly scoundrel in my car. Find him some clean clothes. Make him take a shower before putting them on. Do you have soap and shampoo?”

  “Yes, Major,” a guard said. He pushed Byrnes from behind toward the cinderblock outbuilding that housed the latrines and a single shower that served 250 prisoners. “Move it, Con co.” The barking increased when the men stepped between the buildings into the dirt prison yard surrounded by concertina wire, machinegun towers, and guard patrols.

  “Have him ready to go in thirty minutes,” Vong said. “I will be in the camp commander’s office collecting his papers.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  About forty-five minutes later, Byrnes found himself in a large, black Russian made Zil automobile. The guards had handcuffed his hands in front of him. A chain connected the handcuffs to a pair of leg irons around his ankles. He sat in the spacious rear seat of the vehicle with Major Binh. Two more people could have fit comfortably between them in the large car. The major appeared familiar in some way, but Byrnes could not place where or when they may have met. Certainly, I would have remembered the scar that runs from the man’s chin to his right ear, he thought.

  Vong remained silent for the entire four-hour drive to Hanoi from Lang Son and the re-education camp near the Vietnam-China border. Near the end of the trip, the Zil crossed a bridge over a large river. Within the city, Byrnes became aware of hundreds of scooters, small motorcycles, and bicycles on the streets. There were few automobiles visible. “That was the Red River,” Vong said, speaking for the first time, “the ancestral home of our people, if you remember your history from school. You saw the sign, I’m sure.”

  “I don’t read Vietnamese very well,” Byrnes said.

  Vong ignored Byrnes’s response. He said, “And you may remember seeing pictures of the presidential palace.” Vong pointed to a yellow building that Byrnes thought would have looked more at home in Paris, or at least in Europe. “A French architect designed it. I believe it’s called Italian Renaissance architecture.”

  There were few multi-story buildings in the city, the majority being single-level with orange tile roofs. The few tall buildings stood out, giants among the pygmies. The Zil stopped in front of one, a soaring, gray stone, severe-looking, functional building. “This is the Ministry of Defense, and is where I work, Prisoner Byrnes. Your hands, please.”

  Byrnes held his hands in front of him. The major unlocked the chain that ran to the ankle cuffs, and then unlocked them. The chain and leg irons fell to the backseat floor of the vehicle. He left the wrist cuffs on Byrnes. “You are in the middle of Hanoi, Prisoner Byrnes. There is a small chance you could run away from me, but you would have difficulty escaping from the city, especially with the handcuffs on. Do you understand?”

  Byrnes said, “I’m enjoying my day away from the minefield, Major. I am in no hurry to return. It’s nice to rest for a while, too. Why am I here?”

  “Insolent prisoner!” Vong said. He slapped Byrnes’s face. The door behind Byrnes opened, held open by the driver, who reached in and pulled Byrnes out of the vehicle by his collar. The man made a fist and reared back to punch Byrnes.

  “No!” Vong said. “I suspect he understands he should remain compliant now. True, Prisoner Byrnes?” Byrnes nodded. “Good. Driver, you are dismissed. Someone else will return this prisoner to Lang Son this afternoon or tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Major,” the driver said, closing the back door. He walked around the black car and opened the front door. He spoke before climbing into the vehicle, “Major?”

  “Yes, Corporal?”

  “I doubt we will meet again, sir. Enjoy your retirement. It’s been a pleasure being your driver for the last five years.”

  “Thank you, Corporal Bui. You have been a most helpful assistant. Have a long and happy career, soldier,” Vong said.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Vong and Byrnes stood outside the building. They watched the Zil recede in the distance, returning to the military motor pool. “Moron,” Vong said.

  “Insults, now,” Byrnes said. “May I know why I am here, Major?”

  Vong laughed. “I meant the driver, not you, Con co. Corporal Nguyen Bui is an idiot. The slap to your face was for his benefit. I apologize,” he said. “You don’t recognize me, Con co? After all we meant to one another? You got me beat up in the south for letting a prisoner carry my AK-47, while I carried Thien Vu. The man who lost his leg.”

  Byrnes stared in disbelief. Uncertain, he said, “Binh. “Vong Binh, my friend.” Byrnes’s disbelief became incredulity when Vong unlocked Byrnes’s handcuffs, removed them, and slipped them into his uniform coat pocket. He then shook Byrnes’s hand.

  “Why did you do that?” Byrnes asked.

  “We are no longer at war, regardless of what my country thinks. I want you to come to my office,” Vong said. “Your new papers are there. We wouldn’t let prisoners walk around the Ministry of Defense, would we?”

  “I don’t understand,” Byrnes said.

  “You will. From now on, if anyone asks your name, it is Vong Sang. You are my brother. One year younger than I. You have been a guard in the re-education camps since the end of the war, and you, too, are now retiring,” Vong said. “Understand?”

  “You have a brother?” Byrnes asked.

  “Missing and presumed dead by my family since the battle for Quang Tri Province in 1972, ten years ago. Your military called it the Easter Offensive. It was the first province liberated in the south,” Vong said.

  “What if your brother returns?”

  “He won’t. Ten years is a long time. We lost a half million soldiers in the war against the United States. More than half of them are buried in unmarked graves, or are missing in action. Unfortunately for us, fortunately for you, the records kept by my government are far from complete,” Vong said. He opened the heavy metal door that led into the building.

  “Won’t they miss me in camp?”

  In a low, flat tone, Vong said, “I have already sent word to your camp commander that you will be executed for crimes against the state.”

  Stunned, Byrnes followed Vong into the building and up four flights of stairs. They passed two young women in bright green uniform pantsuits, who chatted among themselves after acknowledging the major. Vong nodded silently toward them and kept walking. “No elevator,” Vong said. “We won’t have them until the power grid is restored. No one likes being trapped in an elevator when the power goes out.” He chuckled. They encountered no one else in the hallways or on the stairs.

  In his office, Vong handed Byrnes a set of clothing, including new underwear and new sandals. “We’ll see about a haircut and shave when we get home,” he said, as Byrnes changed. No sooner had Byrnes buttoned his white shirt and Vong had placed his prisoner’s garb in a bag t
han there was a knock at Vong’s door.

  “Enter,” Vong said. He stood upright and saluted when he saw Colonel Vu enter. “Good afternoon, Colonel.”

  “At ease, Major,” Colonel Vu said. “Or should I say Mister Binh?” Seeing Byrnes, he added. “I’m sorry, Binh, I didn’t realize you had a guest. I just wanted to wish you well in your retirement. You have been a fine asset to our operations group.”

  Vong held his left hand out toward Byrnes. “Colonel Vu, this is my younger brother, Sang, one of the heroes of Quang Tri. He came from our village to accompany me home. He is also retiring. Until a month ago he was a guard at one of the re-education camps.”

  Byrnes made a slight bow toward Colonel Thuy Vu. The colonel took a step toward Byrnes. He made a slight bow and held his hand out to Byrnes. Byrnes made a quick glance at Vong, who nodded his head. Apprehensively, Byrnes shook the officer’s hand. “The State, the People’s Army, and the Party thank you for your sacrifices, Sang,” Thuy said. He then shook Vong Binh’s hand. “Your ancestors must be particularly proud of your family, Binh. Have a safe journey home. Think of this old soldier occasionally.”

  “Yes, sir,” Vong said. Thuy left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  After he had been gone several minutes, Vong said, “Not bad, brother Sang. On the way home, we’ll have time on the train and bus to teach you some greetings customs.”

  Byrnes smiled, “You mean other than the one where you are slapped or punched in the face on meeting?

  Vong laughed. “No longer, little brother. No longer.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Standing on the manicured front lawn of the Byrnes’s home, among a hundred people he didn’t know, Wolfe thought about slipping out of the post-wake social party. He decided to say good-bye to Tammy Kimura first. In search of her, he found her sister, Yasuko Barnes, instead. “I’m going to leave, Mrs. Barnes,” he said. “First, I’d like to say good-bye to Tammy. Do you know where I can find her?”