by Ian Slater
His flashlight fell on a Z-shaped corner, constructed to prevent grenade shrapnel or concussion from wiping out a whole length of tunnel rather than just a portion of it. “Twenty feet in,” came Freeman’s subdued voice, “passed a Z, going toward a U bend.” Like a bomb squad member or test pilot, he was recording everything for them. Should he get killed, the next rat down would know how far to go before he could expect anything new. He heard a crack like a stick breaking. One of his tunnel rats had made a contact, the shot echoing through the tunnel complex, but whether left or right of him, he couldn’t say. He was halfway around the U bend when he came across something he had never seen or heard about in the tunnels before — a saloonlike bamboo door.
Breathing hard, sweat breaking out on his neck, he took a moment to compose himself. Then he noticed another tunnel veering off to the right, so that he had a choice, either straight ahead into the tunnel or to veer off to the right. He heard a noise, the scurrying of some animal, and felt the wet rush of a huge gray rat along his side that caused his whole body to shiver. “Am at a bamboo door,” he reported to those topside. “Have probably gone in eighty feet. Another section of tunnel goes off to the right.”
Which way to go? Bamboo door looked fishy, as if it was inviting him to come in. Perhaps it was a PLA sign that beyond lay a dead-end storage area. Was that where the rat or whatever had scurried past him had come from? He turned the flashlight on and off just long enough for him to see that below the door there was some spilled rice. “Huh,” Freeman said gruffly, desperately fighting a growing sense of claustrophobia and the stench of rotten air. “Door definitely looks wrong. Ten to one you touch it and you trip a grenade.”
His throat was bone dry, despite the cool dampness of the fetid tunnel. “Will use white smoke to make vertical shafts visible if I find any. Am resting awhile before I move. Out.” It also gave Freeman time to listen for a few minutes to hear, despite the steady thunder and staccato of battle overhead, if there was any movement coming his way.
The door drew him toward it, but he resisted the temptation — it was a sucker’s trap if ever there was one. He took the right tunnel instead.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The move of prisoners from Upshut Island to the mainland was as abrupt as it was unexpected. The South Chinese Intelligence Bureau had suddenly been apprised of the disposition of American naval forces in the South China Sea. It was impressive, with at least six Hunter/Killer Los Angeles subs within range of the island, which was merely another way of saying that if any PLA aircraft took off from the island against the U.S. Seventh Fleet, they would immediately be brought down by the Seventh Fleet’s surface-to-air missiles.
And so, in one report by the Chengdu Intelligence Bureau, the reason for keeping U.N. POWs on the island as hostages against the U.S. air attack no longer made any sense. What was the use of having allied hostages on Upshut Island to protect the runway from U.S. bombs if the PLA planes on the airstrip were rendered unusable because of the Seventh Fleet’s missiles? Much better, it was decided by Beijing, to move the POW hostages to a location where they could be of more use as hostages and/or coolies.
And so, in a stench of sweat and kerosene fumes, and as quickly as they’d been brought to Upshut Island, the American, Australian, Vietnamese, and other U.N. POWs were placed aboard PLA transports clearly marked with a red cross, blindfolded and handcuffed to the inside lugs on the plane’s fuselage, and flown north from the Paracel Islands, then east into Chengdu province. They were then taken to yet another airfield in the making, one not invulnerable to missiles such as the Tomahawk, but a field in China proper, not in the disputed islands of the South China Sea.
It was thought that though the Americans might drop bombs on their own if strategic considerations deemed it imperative to do so, the U.S. would not sacrifice the other POWs — the Australians, Vietnamese, and British. It would create an uproar within the United Nations coalition. In any event, the Americans would think twice for another reason. To bomb an internationally recognized “dispute island” was one thing, but to attack an airstrip in China proper would be an enormous leap into the political unknown. It would create the kind of political maelstrom in the offing when MacArthur wanted to cross the Yalu into China during the Korean War. The mere suggestion that, because of strategic and tactical considerations he was thinking about it, was enough to bring U.N. criticism, and led to Truman firing him. To be part, albeit the major part, of a USVUN force was one thing, but to allow U.S. airpower to cross the Vietnamese-Chinese border to hit inside China proper went way beyond the mandate Jorgensen and Freeman had.
Two F-14 Tomcats on combat patrol two hundred miles from the USS Enterprise were told by the carrier AWACS about the Red Cross plane, and the F-14s swooped down to have a look-see. “The Chinese have painted red crosses all over,” the patrol leader reported.
“Do not engage,” Enterprise advised. “I say again, do not engage.” That’d be all the USVUN would need — the downing of a Chinese Red Cross plane — though the Enterprise’s skipper was willing to bet a month’s pay the bastards were using it to ferry PLA troops back and forth from all the islands claimed by the PLA for the People’s Republic of China.
For those in the Chinese transport plane, a PLA C-46 made to carry forty fully armed troops but now jam-packed with ninety prisoners, the sleep-inducing drone competed with the anxiety of not knowing where they were going.
“Where the fuck are we?” Mike Murphy demanded above the steady roar of the engines, and trying to use his facial muscles to work down the blindfold.
“Well, we’re not in Hawaii,” Shirley Fortescue whispered.
“Well,” Danny Mellin said, “my money’d be on China. Somewhere on the southeast coast.”
There was a thud, followed by an agonized expulsion of air.
“Up shut!” commanded Upshut, and now from a slit of light Mike Murphy could see Lieutenant Mung, the interrogator aboard the destroyer. It looked as if they were moving from Upshut Island lock, stock, and barrel. Through his tiny window on the world, Murphy could get only a tantalizing glimpse — a trace of silver — that would be somewhere in the northern sector of the Gulf of Tonkin, if Mellin was correct.
Soon they began their descent. Ears began to pop, and some experienced needle-sharp pains in their sinuses, their faces contorted as they leaned forward in a vain attempt to get away from the rapid change in pressure, hands straining against roped wrists.
There was a banshee howl as the undercarriage came down and engaged, then a sharp bump, and a second or two when everything felt out of control.
A political officer was already aboard before the props stopped turning. “Welcome to Ningming. You will work hard and prosper!” the cadre announced, smiling.
Mike Murphy stood up. Lieutenant Mung wanted to knock the Australian down, but stopped when the commissar held up his hand. “Whaddya mean by prosper, mate? You mean you’ll let us go free?”
The cadre’s smile showed yellow-stained teeth. “Yes. When you work hard, you help fight American imperialists. This will help win war. Then you go home. Everybody happy!”
“Yeah, well, what if we don’t want to work — for you or any other bloody cadre?”
The eagerly nodding cadre was still smiling, his features thrown into gross relief by the flashlight he was holding. “You not work, you will be shot.”
“Yeah,” Murphy said sullenly. “Well, how we gonna work with our bloody hands tied up? Christ, you lot are straight from the bloody goon show-ya know that?”
“We do not understand this,” the cadre said.
“Back off, Mike,” Mellin warned.
“Well, shit, we aren’t prisoners of war, for Chrissake. We’re just a poor bunch of bastards picked up off the rigs.”
“You will have your hands unroped,” the cadre said. “In the morning you work — two hundred of you. You will help make Ningming large airport.”
“From which to bomb the USVUN forces,” Murphy ch
arged.
“This,” the cadre conceded, “is correct, but first you will build your accommodations.” He said something sharp to Upshut, who unclipped the stock of the AK-47, walked over, and clubbed Murphy to the ground. With the Australian in a protective fetal position, Upshut kicked at his groin and missed, his boot crunching the Australian’s cupped hands. Next, Upshut walked about Murphy and started in on his kidneys, ending with a final vicious kick at Murphy’s face, catching the Australian on the right cheek, now bleeding profusely. Upshut handed his rifle to a soldier, still looking down at Murphy.
“Always big mouth. Never up shut! Always for girl, yes? For girl.” He pointed at Shirley Fortescue. “For her — yes? Yes?” he bellowed, and took his foot back for another kick.
“Yes,” Murphy said.
“Yes,” Upshut said. “For girl.”
He knelt down next to the bleeding prisoner. “You lose face, Australian. Next time you die. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me you full of shit.”
Murphy wet his lips, but before he could speak, Upshut stopped him, telling him that he wanted everyone to hear. Mung nodded, and Upshut kicked him in the base of the spine. Murphy groaned with pain. “Tell them!”
“I’m—”
“Louder!” Mung ordered, holding his hand out for the AK-47.
“I’m full of shit.” All the prisoners averted their eyes to lessen his humiliation, but in doing so they too lost face.
Ningming, a railhead with one airstrip, was thirteen miles from the Vietnamese/Chinese border, twenty-six miles from Dong Dang and Lang Son in Vietnam, and twenty-five miles from Loc Binh, where Freeman’s Second Army was waging war on the ridges south of Loc Binh.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
In Texas, Mrs. Mellin received yet another letter from the head office of the Veterans Administration in Washington, D.C.
Dear Mrs. Mellin:
Thank you for your letter of March 6 inquiring about the possible whereabouts of your husband, Daniel E. Mellin, who has been missing since the fire at an offshore drilling rig in the South China Sea. I fully empathize with your frustration at not receiving any solid information regarding your husband’s whereabouts beyond the information given us earlier by the Royal Bruneian Government that the fire at the scene was so intense that many bodies were burned beyond recognition. We are of course continuing to investigate the matter, but given the present hostilities between China and the USVUN forces, our inquiries to date have been met with silence.
On another front — that of the MIA status of Mr. Mellin’s sister Angela — there is the possibility, albeit a faint one, that increased contacts between the Republic of Vietnam and the United States necessitated by the USVUN coalition, will yield long-awaited information on some of the more than two thousand MIAs and suspected POWs still held in Vietnam.
The director has asked me to assure all those family and friends of MIAs and POWs that the department is doing its utmost in this matter. He has also suggested that public appeals through the media, phone-in shows, and privately written letters to the government in Hanoi tend to inhibit our inquiries rather than help. Rest assured, however, that we will not cease in our efforts to ascertain the whereabouts of Mr. Daniel Mellin and Ms. Angela Mellin.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Not having heard anything for several minutes in the tunnel, Freeman, still on hands and knees, edged his way from the bamboo swing door into the first curve of what turned out to be an S and not a U bend. Somewhere above him he heard the faint stutter of what he guessed was an M-60, probably chopping down a PLA soldier who’d felt trapped on hearing tunnel rats coming for him from two directions at once. At the end of the S turn, Freeman came adjacent to an alcove about four feet deep, four feet high, and six feet long, containing two bunk beds of bamboo, and, set into a small recess, an oil wick candle. Beneath the bottom bunk were several dozen plastic hoops, known to the Americans as “Beijing hoops.” When twigs and leaves were attached to the plastic rings, a soldier wearing them could turn his head 180 degrees without the camouflage moving.
At the end of the bottom bunk was a small first aid kit. Freeman knew that whether your enemy had morphine was one way to tell how well-equipped he was. But to find out that bit of intelligence would have meant opening the box, which he didn’t do. Seeing a deep shadow off to his left about three feet away, he determined it was another alcove and made his way toward it. Its three walls contained rolls of curtainlike muslin that could be unrolled to form cloth walls insects couldn’t penetrate.
In the middle of the alcove, taking up about half its length, was a bamboo operating table with various instruments laid out, including forceps, suturing needles, scalpels, and clamps. There was a large light overhead, its socket set into the earthen ceiling. The wire leading from it went across the roof of the tunnel to a smaller alcove, no more than two feet deep, five feet long, and five high, where Freeman found an old Flying Pigeon bicycle on rollers. When pedaled, the turning wheels would produce electricity to light the small operating theater.
Seeing a cone of light ahead of him at right angles, the beam moving farther to his left, Freeman released the safety on his .45, lay flat, and held the revolver in two hands. The beam went out, its images still dancing on Freeman’s right retina, the general, from experience, having kept one eye closed. He opened it now, shutting the right eye. “Delta two!” he called.
“Lima!” came the correct response from one allied tunneler to another.
Freeman could hear his own sigh of relief. “Nothing is better than hearing a friendly voice down one of those godforsaken gopher holes,” he’d once told Bob Cline. He switched his flashlight on then off. The other tunnel rat did the same. Freeman could see he was approaching a T section, with the other soldier about to cross it. Though becoming more claustrophobic by the minute, he whispered, “I’ll take it, son. You head back. Make sure you let our boys know it’s you coming out.”
“Don’t worry,” the soldier whispered. “I will.”
Freeman patted the youngster, then crawled cautiously across the junction to cross the T and follow the tunnel to its end, and in so doing added to his legend, to the mystique of those commanders before and since Caesar whose men knew they would never be asked to do something by their commander that he would not be prepared to do himself.
When Freeman crossed the T and was alone again in the enemy’s subterranean world, an involuntary shiver passed through his body. He felt the claustrophobia worsening, the ever-present danger of suffocation so heavy upon him that he had to fight not to throw up. Combined with his own body stench, he smelled the damp mold of the tunnels themselves, and felt an overwhelming urge to go as fast as hell and get out. But speed, he knew, was as sure a killer as a hidden grenade or trip wire. “Carefully does it,” he told himself, and when he moved forward, felt the rush of gut acid up his esophagus and cursed himself for not bringing antacid pills — next to his .45 and knife, a tunneler’s best friend.
He felt ahead with the base of the flashlight in his right hand, careful of any traps. The ground was holding. Now he gave it the full weight of his right hand as he moved forward with his left. Suddenly the ground went from under his left hand, his body driving it down hard on the punji sticks. It was the first time anyone had ever said they’d heard Freeman scream. Two punji sticks, each tipped with excrement, had penetrated his left hand. Simultaneously he saw a shadow flitting ahead left to right. He challenged, got no answer, and fired two rounds that echoed eerily in the subterranean world. Freeman slumped for a moment, then regained his composure enough to back up out of the tunnel, his hand bleeding profusely.
CHAPTER FIFTY
It seemed as if the bus back to Dalat had no springs. It was certainly overloaded, and despite a sign — albeit a small one — warning of fines for expectorating on the people’s buses, Ray Baker could hear the loud guttural rumbles of spitters about to take aim through the open-air windows.
Som
e of the children in the back of the bus were yelling with glee as the vehicle bumped and rattled on its way to Dalat. It made Ray Baker nervous. All the noise and the disease of Saigon had spread to the north — ghetto blasters blasting everything within earshot, the sound amplified by the interior of the ramshackle bus. He suddenly had a case of déjà vu — a bright morning like this, bodies pressing up hard against one another, the smell of people jammed together, engine fumes and dust, kids squalling then screaming, an American collapsing in the aisle, eyes bulging, falling flat on his face, adults screaming, reaching for their children to get them away from him, the American facedown, a knife protruding from his back, no one helping him. Baker had been unable to reach him because of the stream of hysterical passengers pouring from the bus as it skidded to a stop, several passengers climbing out the open side windows. A stampede, no one but him wanting to help the American, no one wanting to get involved.
Suddenly, the flashback over, he turned around. A baby saw his face from less than a foot away and began screaming. There were only other children and harried parents trying to maintain some sense of order while balancing the various fruits, vegetables, and village wares they were taking to Dalat. It was then that he saw the boy from yesterday running by the bus, sending out a long crimson stream of betel juice and waving happily to him.
“Oh yes,” Baker said, smiling maliciously at him. “I want to see you too, you little bastard!” It was the boy who must have fingered him, or at least suckered him away to the market while they did over his room, whoever they were.
When Baker got out of the bus, the boy was nowhere to be seen. Then, on his way back to the hotel, he saw the boy nonchalantly coming toward him, not even pausing as he spat the next stream of betelnut juice onto the dusty street. Baker wanted to ask the youth a pile of questions, but all that came out was “Hi!” in response to the boy’s greeting. Only then did Baker ask, “Who are you?”