by Mike Jenne
“What did you do?” demanded Ourecky, slapping his hand on the table. “What happened?”
“Here’s what happened to Carson,” said Bao Trung. As he recounted the details of that fateful night, Bao Trung was transported back in his thoughts:
After he finished writing the name on the wall of Carson’s cell, Bao Trung jammed the shard of dried clay in his pocket. As he admired his handiwork in the flickering light of the candle, he heard thunder in the distance, and saw a faint flash of lightning through the cell’s small window.
As he groggily struggled to button the unfamiliar uniform, Carson looked back over his right shoulder, obviously curious about was Bao Trung was doing. “Who is that?” he asked.
“I ordered you to face the door,” snapped Bao Trung, dumping the contents of the rubberized bundle onto the coarse concrete floor. As he rummaged through the items, he added, “Can you not follow instructions?”
Bao Trung neatly folded Carson’s threadbare blanket and placed it at the head of the straw mat. He did the same with his prisoner uniform, placing the carefully folded bundle atop the blanket. Then he took some other items from the bag and arranged them beside the maroon and gray striped uniform.
He then helped Carson finish dressing. The American pilot had shed so much weight in the past few weeks that his trousers would not stay up, so Bao Trung used a strand of baling twine to hitch them around his narrow waist.
Finally, he squatted down, stuck the black canvas Bata boots on Carson’s feet and laced them up. He quickly crammed the remainder of the items back into the waterproof sack. He checked his watch; it was nearly midnight. He blew out the candle and stuck it in his pocket. He drew in a deep breath, thought of his wife and son, and then resolved himself to do what had to be done. It was time to go.
The sky grew darker as clouds obscured the moon. Drizzling rain pelted the dusty ground as they left the cell. Whispering, Bao Trung directed Carson to wait in the shadows as he slipped the lock back on the door hasp. Less than an hour ago, he had completed his final walk-through inspection of the guard posts, so the oncoming shift of guards had just come on duty and the outgoing shift had already returned to their barracks or left the camp.
Except for a two-man patrol that circulated through the area where the Vietnamese prisoners were housed, no one should be wandering about in the camp. So long as the debilitated prisoners were locked in their cells, the camp’s security was rather lax. It was a habitual discrepancy that Bao Trung intended to correct, provided that he survived this night.
The unexpected shower was fortuitous; the rainfall would blot out their tracks. Moreover, the lazy night shift guards would be less prone to emerge from overhead cover. Consequently, slipping Carson away from the camp was a simple matter of walking about a hundred meters to the sector that contained the guards’ barracks. Beyond that, there was a “secret” break in the fence behind the barracks that the guards occasionally used to sneak off the camp. Besides, with Carson dressed as he was, he looked like an NVA soldier in the darkness.
In mere minutes, the two men had squeezed through the narrow gap in the barbed wire, and were outside the compound, trudging along a narrow dirt track used mostly by farmers. Although he cajoled Carson to move faster, he was compelled to adjust his pace to match the American’s pained shuffle. After all, besides being terribly ill with malaria, Carson hadn’t walked for any significant distance since arriving at the camp and was also clad in stiff new boots.
As they walked, Bao Trung reviewed his plan. He knew of a Buddhist monastery located twelve kilometers west of here. The secretive monks who resided there practiced the ancient traditions; they did not ascribe to the newer and politically correct version of Buddhism officially sanctioned by the central government. Although their religious customs were not condoned, the central government did not overtly interfere with the monks, provided that they kept to themselves within the confines of their monastery. They were tolerated so long as they did not become a nuisance like the monks in the South who doused their bodies with gasoline and immolated themselves in protest of discrimination.
Bao Trung intended to use the monastery as a temporary way station for Carson, until he could devise some scheme to spirit the American pilot out of the country. He stuck his hand in his pocket and hefted the pouch of gold coins. If nothing else, despite their contrary beliefs, the monks were practical men; one or two of the Americans’ coins would go a long way towards underwriting the operating expenses of their monastery.
In exchange for the gold, all Bao Trung desired was that the monks take care of Carson and keep their silence until he was able to return. That might take weeks or even months, but Carson would be safe there, much safer than if he fell into the hands of the Soviet spetsgruppa intent on swooping him away.
Although he was confident that the monks would be accommodating and discreet, the rest of Bao Trung’s scheme was much more tentative and considerably more risky. Supposedly, in the coastal villages not too far away, there were wily fishermen who could be hired to smuggle people and goods to South Vietnam, and vice versa. If he was successful in contacting one of those pirates, certainly the remainder of the gold would purchase Carson’s passage to freedom.
At Carson’s lagging pace, it took them over an hour to cover just five kilometers. At least the rain had slackened and the clouds were starting to slowly scud away. Consumed with malaria, the American was weak, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.
Staggering, he struggled to remain upright, constantly pleading for Bao Trung to stop so that they could rest. Bao Trung was terrified that they would not make it to the monastery in sufficient time so that he could return to the camp before the sun rose. He anxiously contemplated finding a place to hide Carson, perhaps in the undergrowth beside the track, so that he could return to him tomorrow.
Barely conscious, Carson slumped against Bao Trung’s side and then toppled to the ground. Kneeling to assist him, Bao Trung was startled when three men, obviously soldiers, suddenly approached on the narrow road. It was a very disconcerting development; he knew where all the military units were garrisoned in the area and had painstakingly planned this route to dodge them. But as the men drew closer and he listened to their slurred words and boisterous voices, he immediately knew that they were not where they were supposed to be.
“Halt,” ordered Bao Trung in a low but authoritative voice. The three men obediently stopped. He issued the day’s challenge and the men responded with the proper reply.
“Out late, also?” sneered the tallest of the three carousers. Bao Trung could not glimpse their faces in the darkness, and he hoped that they couldn’t discern his. “We’re headed back to our camp from a…patrol.”
“A patrol?” asked Bao Trung, slipping his hand to his side to unfasten the flap on his holster. He quietly tugged out his Tokarev sidearm and rested it against his thigh. “Sure. Perhaps I should accompany you to your camp and have a word with your officers.”
“Uh, you’re not an officer, are you?” asked the man hesitantly.
“I am. A lieutenant. I’m escorting this man back to his outpost. He’s a good soldier when he’s in the field, so I’m trying to avoid disciplinary action against him. We’re going South soon, so I need every man on my roster. Especially those with strong backs and sharp eyes.”
“You’re headed south? You must be Infantry, sir,” said the man. “The 250th Regiment is quartered near here, to the northwest. Your outfit, Comrade Lieutenant?”
“Very astute assessment. Undoubtedly, you must be in Intelligence.”
“Air Defense, sir. We work at a radar site.” In a shamed voice, he added, “Our equipment is being repaired. Otherwise, we would not be out tonight. Honestly, sir, I swear.”
“What’s wrong with him, sir?” asked one of the men. In the woods, an owl hooted.
“He’s drunk,” explained Bao Trung, lightly kicking Carson’s shadowy form. He looked up; a few stars twinkled and the moon was beginning to
peek through the departing clouds. With just a hint more illumination, the wayward soldiers would realize that Carson was not Vietnamese and the furtive charade would be over.
“I don’t smell alcohol, Comrade Lieutenant,” offered the third soldier, shifting the weight of the submachine gun slung over his shoulder. “Are you sure he’s drunk?”
“This fool roamed onto a dispersal airfield, siphoned de-icing fluid from a storage tank and drank it,” replied Bao Trung. “It’s alcohol, all right, but it’s methanol. It’s poisonous. He’ll be lucky if he’s not blind in the morning. If he is, I could care less if he lands in the disciplinary barracks.”
“I have a flashlight,” offered the first soldier, pulling an object from his pocket. “I can check him over, Comrade Lieutenant, if you like.”
“You have a pocket torch?” asked Bao Trung. “Good. I need to write your names in my notebook, so I can report that I encountered you tonight. Shine it here, soldier.”
“Uh, it doesn’t seem to be working, Comrade Lieutenant,” stated the soldier, fiddling with a switch. “Perhaps the batteries are dead.”
“Perhaps. Anyway, I’ll take care of this drunken dimwit. With any luck, your radar will have been repaired and you’ll be much busier tomorrow. I trust that you three will have clear heads when the sun rises?”
“We will, Comrade Lieutenant,” averred the tall man.
“Then I see no need to make a report. Be on your way.”
As the trio padded off in the darkness, Bao Trung holstered his pistol and breathed a sigh of relief; the chance encounter could have been disastrous. He coaxed Carson to his feet, and they continued their trek.
Moving on wobbly legs, the American limped less than five hundred meters before collapsing again. Sprawled on the damp ground, he wheezed and shuddered. In a weak, quavering voice, he begged, “Please, Bao Trung. Just let me rest. Let me sleep.”
“I can let you rest here for a moment, but there is no time for you to sleep. You should be quiet now. You need to conserve your strength. We still have a long journey ahead of us.”
In moments, Carson was snoring. Bao Trung nudged him, but he barely woke. He crouched down, awkwardly scooped up the drowsy American, draped him over his shoulders, and slogged on into the dark stillness, toward the sanctuary of the monastery.
Descended from the sturdy stock of mountain dwellers, Bao Trung was well accustomed to bearing burdens. Over three years ago, on his way south to fight the imperialist invaders and their South Vietnamese lackeys, he had humped a thirty-kilo case of mortar ammunition. The cumbersome box was in addition to his personal gear and weapon, so the sickly and emaciated American pilot wasn’t much of a hindrance. Even with his crippled arm, he scarcely had to exert himself. Now, without having to adjust his pace to Carson’s, he made good headway, steadily covering ground almost twice as fast as before.
But he soon discovered that although his resolve was firm, his endurance fell woefully short. Struggling, he marched on for another kilometer. Panting, he paused, painfully realizing that he was not in the same physical condition that he enjoyed when he led his platoon down the Ho Chi Minh Trail.
As he caught his breath, he oriented himself to his surroundings. He was familiar with this area; the dirt road ran parallel to an abandoned agricultural collective. The farm, once the temporary site of a surface-to-air missile battery, had been heavily damaged by American bombing in December. By his reckoning, the monastery was still slightly more than four kilometers away. Tired and frustrated, he was beginning to realize that this escapade was much more than he had bargained for.
He saw an opening in the woods on the right side of the trail, walked to it, and gently placed Carson in the tall grass. His stomach churned and his back ached as he considered his options. At the rate he was traveling, it would take him at least another hour to reach the monastery.
Once he reached it, it would take him at least two hours to get back to camp before dawn broke, and even then he would have to run most of the way. More importantly, he had to consider how long it would take to negotiate with the monks. They would likely be in a foul disposition after being awakened from a sound slumber, and probably would be in no mood to haggle, particularly with an Army officer seeking safe harbor for a woefully sick Caucasian.
He groaned quietly as he came to grips with his situation. The monastery was an unrealistic goal at this point. He decided that he would conceal Carson in the ruins of the secluded farm, and then come back for him when and if things settled at the camp. He would leave the gold coins and the bag with the American flag. At least he would have food and water for a few days. If nothing else, if he was unable to return, Carson might be able to find his own way home with the compass and gold coins.
Bao Trung pulled the rubber poncho from the bag and wrapped it around Carson to keep him warm. Kneeling over him, he explained his plan. In conclusion, he whispered, “You stay here. I’ll scout the area to find a hiding place. Be quiet and don’t move.”
“Okay,” replied Carson weakly.
Searching in the dim light of the moon, Bao Trung found a partially collapsed shed. It was big enough to accommodate Carson and shelter him from the elements. It wasn’t much, but would have to suffice for at least a few days.
When he returned, Carson was still fragile, but seemed slightly more alert and coherent. Overhead, the clouds had cleared completely and the stars were absolutely brilliant against a stark black sky. Carson was obviously engrossed with the glimmering stars; Bao Trung realized that the American had not seen the night sky in its entirety since he was captured. He had never seen any man so mesmerized by the heavens.
“I used to go there,” said Carson weakly, holding his hand up to the tranquil sky.
“I believe you,” said Bao Trung. “Honestly, I do.”
“I was happy there,” added Carson. “It’s where I belong.”
“Maybe someday you will go back.” A light wind rustled the tall grass.
“I doubt it. Hey…that’s the Pleiades,” muttered Carson, pointing toward a tiny shimmering cluster of stars. “That was Scott’s favorite.”
“I know,” whispered Bao Trung, leaning close to him. “Scott was your friend. You told me that.”
“Yeah. Scott Ourecky,” said Carson. His words were slurred and he shook violently as a chill passed over him. He sighed and added, “We used to fly together.”
“I hope that you see your friend again soon. Right now, I need to hide you, like we talked about. I will leave food and water for you. If I don’t…”
Carson interjected, “I like it here. This is peaceful. Can we stay just a little while longer?”
“No,” replied Bao Trung impatiently. “I need to hide you, and then I must return to the camp before they discover that you are gone.”
“Please let me rest for just a little while. I’m really tired, and I want to sleep.”
Bao Trung prodded the American, to no avail. He wasn’t moving. He decided to let him rest just a few minutes longer. Just a few minutes wouldn’t matter.
Carson stared up at the sky like a blind man who had momentarily found his sight. After a few minutes passed, his eyes closed and he breathed softly, like an infant falling asleep. His breath became ragged and erratic, progressively growing fainter and fainter. Then he exhaled softly and made no other sound. Bao Trung leaned toward him and listened for him to inhale, but heard nothing. He felt for a pulse, but Carson’s heart had apparently stopped beating. He tried to revive the American, but his efforts were futile.
Distraught and almost physically spent, Bao Trung agonized until he realized that there was nothing more he could do. Weeping, he swathed Carson’s body in the rubber poncho and bound the corpse like a parcel with baling twine. He slowly dragged the body to the derelict shed. Clawing with his bare hands, he hastily dug a shallow trench in the soft ground next to the shed. He scooped the loose earth onto Carson’s body and then used pieces of the shed and debris to conceal the impromptu grave.
After a brief prayer, he returned to the road and ran as fast as his legs would carry him.
Birds were chirping in the trees and the morning fog was dissipating as he arrived at the camp. His entrance coincided with the dawn muster. He strolled purposely into the courtyard as the audit was in progress, as if nothing was amiss. He took his station, received the morning report from the senior guard, marched up to Major Thanh, saluted and then dutifully recited the counts.
Nodding, Thanh verified the accounting and transcribed the numbers into his notebook. “You look like you haven’t slept,” he observed.
“I haven’t, sir,” replied Bao Trung as he adjusted his sweat-damp tunic. “My son is suffering from an ear infection. My wife and I were up all night with him. He finally went to sleep just before I left.”
“Hopefully, you can grab a quick catnap before our Russian visitors arrive. After muster, have your guards lock the prisoners back in their cells. I don’t want anyone moving about while our guests are here.”
“Comrade Major, you know that locking them up in the daytime will likely kill at least ten of them today, don’t you? As hot as it is, we might even lose double that.”
“You’re right. We’ll grant them an extra water ration for the heat,” replied Thanh. “Have you checked on the American this morning?”
“Not yet,” answered Bao Trung. “I looked in on him last night when I did my last rounds. He didn’t look very well. He’s probably still asleep right now. I’ll go wake him for his breakfast.”
“Don’t,” said Thanh, gently polishing the scuffed toe of his boot on the back of his trousers leg. “Let’s wait until the Russians tell us what they want to do. I don’t want his belly stuffed with rice if they intend to work him over right away.”
Bao Trung heard horns honking in the distance. “So much for my nap,” he grumbled, adjusting his cap and straightening his belt. “I think our exalted guests have arrived.” He waved for a pair of guards to swing up the bars at the truck checkpoint.