American Patriot

by Robert Coram

  Finally he fell into a fitful sleep.

  On the morning of the fifth day, he guessed he was about fifteen miles from the Ben Hai, the broad river that runs down the middle of the DMZ. He had to have food. But he was crossing a strange land of stubby trees broken by bomb blasts; remnants of napalm tanks and large bomb craters; war-crust over the ancient mud of Vietnam. He climbed through a trench filled with the unmistakable, never-to-be-forgotten smell of rotting corpses. He was moving across a land peopled by the dead. And there were many more miles ahead of him before he could reach freedom.

  He approached a thick stretch of jungle and remembered what the instructors said at survival school in the Philippines: Stay off the trails. Make your own trail. Keep to the jungle.

  Whoever put that bit of wisdom into the curriculum had never tried to make his own trail through a jungle in Vietnam. The jungle was almost impenetrable — heavy going that sapped his energy after only a few yards. Day rested and after a while returned to the trail and hoped he did not meet any enemy soldiers. He prayed fervently and then was embarrassed by his prayers, feeling like a hypocrite because his heavy drinking back at Phu Cat seemed out of sync with his present religious fervor.

  As dusk came, he climbed a knoll, took stock of his landmarks, and realized that the day had been spent walking in a circle. He was back almost where he had begun that morning.

  Henceforth he would stay on the north-south trails used by enemy soldiers. He would be very quiet and would listen carefully.

  He knew his condition was deteriorating. Even his good leg was unsteady, and the cuts on his feet were swollen and pursed outward from infection. Vomit and blood streaked his torso. He was badly sunburned. His body odor repelled him. Except for the cast on his arm, he wore only what amounted to a loincloth. He was stumbling through a garden of evil and growing more delusional.

  He prayed for strength.

  9

  North Toward Hell

  THE bush had purple berries.

  Day was taught at survival school not to eat purple berries, as they are often poisonous. But he was too hungry and too weak to care. He grabbed a handful of the small shrunken berries and jammed them into his mouth. The berries were sweet and nourishing, with no touch of the nausea that would have accompanied toxic fruit. The blend of sugar and acid gave him an energy boost, took away the growling pangs in his stomach, and calmed him enough that he could assess his situation.

  It was dusk — time for the debrief.

  Debriefing after every flight had been a ritual since flight school, and the habits of sixteen years are not easily cast aside. Day slumped to the ground, replayed the past hours, and knew he had not performed well. It had been, to use his words, a “pathetic day.”

  He knew that the energy boost was temporary, that he was running out of steam. He had to have food. And he badly needed medical attention.

  Off to the south he heard the booming of artillery — American artillery — almost certainly coming from “Leatherneck Square,” the four Marine bases between Route 9 and the DMZ, the U.S. bases closest to North Vietnam. Tomorrow he would walk — as always — toward the sound of the guns.

  By dawn on the sixth day, he was in thick jungle and walking down a wide, heavily packed trail that clearly received a great deal of use by enemy soldiers. The clear sky soon changed to an overcast, and then a steady drizzle began that dampened the jungle sounds.

  Suddenly Day felt a premonition. He limped off the trail and eased into the thick jungle, dropped, and hid under a bush. Seconds later a North Vietnamese soldier loped up the trail.

  After the soldier passed, Day waited awhile, then lurched back onto the trail and continued south. A few hours later he saw a small frog in a puddle. Instructors at survival school said frogs were excellent sources of protein. Day wasn’t sure he had the strength to kill the frog. He leaned over, reached out with his left hand, and slapped at the water several times before he caught the mud-covered and slippery little frog. Then he pushed it headfirst down his throat, chewing hard. He crunched and pushed, crunched and pushed, then — after the frog stopped twitching — chewed for a long time.

  It was a long way from eating frog legs back in Sioux City. Tears sprang to his eyes as he remembered those once-a-month restaurant visits with Doris. Those frog legs had been cleaned and dipped in egg, then dredged in flour and spices and fried in butter. What a delicacy. A mud-covered live and squirming Vietnamese frog is another matter. Day found a bit more sustenance when he stumbled upon a bush bearing a single orangelike fruit that had a sweet and tasty pulp.

  Now he was picking his way across a big open area where signs of war were everywhere: broken trees, shell holes, a moonscape of utter desolation. He often heard artillery, and occasionally rounds landed within sight. The U.S. Marines were firing H & I — harassment and interdiction — rounds into North Vietnam. American fighter aircraft frequently roared overhead. Day had flown over this area almost daily and knew he was close to the plantation. He was without concealment as he crossed the bleak landscape, a limping, mud-covered wraith, and every moment he was afraid of being seen.

  After he crossed the dangerous area and sat down to rest his bloody feet, he realized his emotions were on a roller coaster. One hour he was almost euphoric at the progress he had made and at his proximity to the Marines. The next he was despondent over his bloody feet, the pain in his arm and leg, the lack of balance from using one eye and from having his arm lashed to his body, the thought of being virtually naked in a strange land, surrounded by enemy forces.

  At dusk he crawled under a bush, did a quick debrief, said his prayers, and went to sleep.

  By midafternoon the next day, he was at a bluff overlooking the Ben Hai River, which ran down the middle of the DMZ. There was the house with the red roof — the plantation.

  The dark gray waters of the Ben Hai looked to be some seventy-five yards wide, about the size of the Missouri. But this river was moving much faster than its American counterpart. And the clay banks were vertical: there was a drop of at least ten feet to the water.

  From the plantation it was only three or four miles downriver to the “Freedom Bridge,” the span used by those in the North fleeing to sanctuary in South Vietnam. Except for that one day when he had wandered in a circle, his navigation had been precise. The plantation had been his goal from the moment he escaped. After a week, guided only by a few mountain peaks, stars, and the sound of artillery fire, he was exactly where he wanted to be — at a landmark he had flown over many times. He nodded in approval. That long-ago Marine Corps training in land navigation had served him well. He took a long drink from his canteen and settled down to wait.

  At dusk he approached the house. Suddenly three North Vietnamese soldiers rounded a turn in the path and were walking toward him. They were relaxed, joking and not paying attention to their surroundings. Day faded into the underbrush as they walked past.

  Then he heard the noises of a big camp and knew dozens, perhaps hundreds, of enemy soldiers were quite near. They were preparing for the evening meal. He skirted the camp and took shelter in the woods, wondering if American forces knew of the big enemy camp in the DMZ.

  All he had to do was cross the river and walk a few more miles. But he must not attempt the crossing at night — it was too dangerous. Mosquitoes chewed on his emaciated body, but they could not pierce his elation. Tomorrow he would be free.

  Day smiled and relaxed.

  Suddenly out of the blackness came the shriek of an inbound artillery shell. Day knew it might land within lethal range and pushed his body into the earth. The shell landed about seventy-five yards away, and shrapnel ripped through the bushes — U.S. Marines at work again. Day remembered how Marines went about firing H & I rounds: first, an introductory round, then either up one click in elevation or one click on the azimuth, then another round, then repeat. Day pushed his body deeper into the earth. The second round landed to the left. Had the Marines elevated the gun a notch rather than
changing the azimuth, it would have landed on top of him.

  The Marines returned the artillery piece to the original setting. Day knew from the sound that this one had his name on it. He tried to disappear into the hard earth.

  The round landed twenty feet away.

  A dud.

  Then came eight more rounds on the same setting, all landing twenty, thirty, or forty feet away. With each inbound shriek, he hunkered down, praying for Doris and the children. He knew he was about to die.

  All eight rounds were duds.

  Day lay shivering, wondering if the rounds had delayed fuses that might go off any second. Then he remembered that small rounds explode on impact.

  His first thought was one of anger. Some goddamn defense contractor had supplied shoddy goods to the U.S. Marine Corps. Then he was grateful for the shoddy goods.

  Even so, if he ever had the chance, he was going to have words with the contractor.

  Once again Bud Day had escaped certain death. Nine consecutive duds from the Marine Corps. Such things did not happen. His belief that God was saving him for a special task had never been stronger.

  But Day knew he had to get away from the artillery shells and find a place to hide. He wanted to be in the river, drifting downstream, by first light. He slid out of concealment and limped toward the river. As he neared the water, the mosquitoes grew bigger and more voracious, but most of his head and neck was a crusty scab of hardened blood and body fluids, and there was little for mosquitoes to chew on.

  The sound of the insects, coupled with the adrenaline surge that came with knowing tomorrow was freedom day, made it difficult to sleep. But he had to — he would need strength for tomorrow’s final push. Day set his mental alarm clock for 3:30 a.m. and drifted into a fitful slumber.

  At what he knew was only a few minutes from that time, Day awakened and shook his head to clear the cobwebs. Almost immediately, he heard the banshee wail of falling bombs. Another B-52 strike. This one was going to be close.

  The target was the enemy camp about a hundred yards away. This answered his question about whether or not U.S. forces knew about the enemy stronghold in the DMZ.

  As the bombs began falling, shrapnel, dirt, and tree limbs ripped over Day’s head. Numerous secondary explosions sent flames high into the air. It seemed the bombs would never stop falling. Occasional airbursts rocked the earth and thunderous shock waves hammered the ground. Day counted around two hundred bombs before the devastation ceased.

  He was still alive.

  He thanked God for once again saving his life.

  Day knew that enemy troops from throughout the area would rush toward the camp. He had to take advantage of the confusion and make his move. He sneaked past the plantation and down to the banks of the river.

  THE front page of the August 31, 1967, issue of the Phoenix Gazette included a long article about the war in Vietnam. Deep in the story were several lines about yet another U.S. aircraft being shot down several days earlier; the 666th U.S. aircraft lost in the past three years. This one had been an Air Force jet with a two-man crew. Doris underlined the reference and wrote to the side, “Bud’s aircraft.”

  DAY found a big piece of bamboo, ideal for him to hang on to and float down the river. But he needed something to break up his silhouette and hide his shape. He tried to pull up several bushes but was too weak, so he broke off a few small branches and hoped they would do the job.

  Daylight was hurrying, and he was out in the open on the high riverbank. He slung the canteen over his shoulder, seized the piece of bamboo and the small branches to his chest, crouched, and tried to ease down the precipitous bank. Day slipped in the mud and skidded down the embankment, bamboo and limbs flying. The pain in his arm and knee was almost unbearable. He hit the water with a splash and grabbed the bamboo.

  The current was far faster than he imagined, maybe four or five knots, and quickly washed much of the mud from his cast. It was a startling white. He kicked with one leg, trying to move toward the middle of the river. The speed at which he was swept downstream frightened him. He paddled hard for the opposite shore.

  In seconds he was swept past the plantation. An enemy soldier stood on the landing, looking across the river. Day tried to drop lower behind the piece of bamboo. The soldier stared for a moment, then lifted his rifle and aimed at Day. At this range, the soldier could not miss. Then he slowly lowered his rifle but continued staring at the bamboo. Whatever the soldier’s reason for not shooting, Day, once again, was saved from almost certain death.

  Now he had other things to worry about. The Freedom Bridge was only a mile or so downriver, and enemy soldiers would be camped there to stop defectors. The light was coming on fast and he would not again be confused for driftwood. He had to cross the river and be out of the water before he reached the bridge.

  But how? The current was pulling him downstream at a fearful pace.

  He closed his eyes and muttered a quick prayer.

  Then he saw a deep crevice cut out of the south bank of the river. The current swept him into the eddy, where he seized a broken log. He was in a South Vietnamese emplacement that had taken a direct hit and was surrounded by a jumble of broken logs and rotting human body parts. The sweet coppery odor nauseated him. He pulled himself onto the bank. Ammunition belts, rifles, supplies, and a hodgepodge of military equipment were all around. He wrapped an ammunition belt around each of his bloody feet to serve as makeshift sandals. A loaded AK-47 was on the riverbank, but he was too weak to carry it.

  Now he was on the south bank and in South Vietnam. He was so near to freedom — to a hospital, food, and an airplane ride home to Doris and the children.

  He lay on the bank, exhausted. His mind was wandering.

  This part of Vietnam was a meat grinder that resembled the barren battlefields of World War I, where every tree was leveled by artillery and where rotting corpses littered the landscape. Fumes from the ceaseless artillery barrages were so intense that few bugs lived there. This was a moonscape, a no-man’s-land, barren and bleak and covered with the smell of death. Already the buildup for what would be the 1968 Tet Offensive was beginning, and the area was filled with at least three divisions of North Vietnamese regulars.

  Day found a cache of discarded food rations. Marines from Con Thien had eaten at this very spot. Judging from the condition of their waste, they had been here recently, maybe yesterday. But every bit of food was spoiled. The Marines did not want the enemy to use the food and had stuck bayonets into every can they had not eaten. In the blistering heat, the contents spoiled within hours.

  As hungry as he was, Day felt immense pride at the battle discipline of the Marines who had passed this way.

  Day pressed on, skulking from bush to bush. Far off in the edges of consciousness, he knew he should hide until dark. But he could not afford to waste this day; he was too near the end of his endurance. He had to press on.

  Suddenly an atavistic survival sense surfaced, and he knew enemy troops were close. He ducked under a bush, and a second later more than a dozen North Vietnamese soldiers appeared, loaded with heavy packs and moving south on the trail. The weight of their loads bent them forward. Had one of them looked a few feet to the side, Day would have been sighted, a skeletal mud-covered wretch, kept alive only by a burning spirit and a sense of duty.

  The soldiers passed. Day waited a moment and gathered his strength. But just as he was about to limp across the trail, another group of soldiers appeared. They too were carrying heavy packs, bent over, staring at the trail. Day slumped to the ground and watched the feet of the soldiers pass by inches from his head.

  Day eased from under the bush and limped south. Several hours later, he captured another frog and pushed it down his gullet. The immediate surge of energy told him how very weak he was.

  He had to reach Con Thien soon. He had to.

  Night came and he collapsed in the underbrush. Day tried to go through his debrief and to say his evening prayers, but he couldn’t co
ncentrate; his mind was wandering. He figured he had lost around forty pounds since his shoot-down.

  The sun was well up when Day awakened. His first thought was of food. His second thought was that everything he could see and sense was trying to kill him: the jungle, enemy soldiers, B-52s, Marine Corps artillery, starvation. For every second of the past . . . how many days? Twelve? Fourteen? Judging by the length of his beard, it may have been as much as three weeks, and every moment of that time he had been only a step away from capture. He had faint intimations that his ability to think clearly had all but disappeared. And he realized he might unknowingly make a mistake that would result in his capture. A great pressure not to do anything stupid nagged at him. He knew he was only a day, maybe a day and a half, from Con Thien.

  Sometime that morning, Day slipped into a netherworld between sanity and insanity, between life and death. He heard a voice that prayed loudly and thanked God for bringing someone so far and with such an unfailing sense of direction. The voice went on for three or four minutes, and then Day realized it was his own. He grimaced in anguish. An enemy soldier could hear him for a hundred yards. He bit his lip and resolved to keep silent. But it was not long before he again heard the voice and widened his eyes in wonder as he listened. Such an impassioned prayer. Then, again, he came back into the world and realized it was his voice.

  American fighter aircraft and spotter aircraft were close — sometimes the jets went over his head, and he frequently heard bombs falling.

  The shrapnel wound on his right leg had caused his leg to swell to twice its normal size. The skin was taut and angry. His left knee was still grotesquely swollen. He lurched from side to side as he walked, and every step was excruciating. Day was making his way down a steep hill into a bombed-out area when he heard a Bird Dog — a slow, single-engine FAC aircraft — coming toward him. The thick jungle canopy prevented him from seeing the aircraft. The Bird Dog circled overhead, and Day realized the pilot was looking for an enemy camp.