Abandoned: MIA in Vietnam (19 page)

CHAPTER 28

“Your coffin will have to be bigger than that, Con co,” Tran Hien said to Byrnes.

“Am I building mine this time, Corporal Hein?” Byrnes asked.

“Of course not,” Tran said, smiling. “We need too many to let you rest.”

Byrnes had been with the prisoner detail for over a year in 1974. He knew from listening to the guards that they were located in a forest near Thanh Hoa about 160 kilometers, or 100 miles, south of Hanoi. Not that he wanted to go to Hanoi. There were no more American prisoners in Hanoi. They had departed and been repatriated in the United States weeks before Byrnes had been marched into this camp. He had arrived along with a hundred other prisoners, mostly South Vietnamese, but also some Korean and Chinese captives.

Byrnes had been aware of a group of Caucasians in the prison camp and had tried to communicate with them when the guards’ attention was elsewhere. Given his Asian appearance, they, like Rhodes, took him for a North Vietnamese plant. Byrnes thought the men could have been American or Australian. Shortly after he tried to make contact, they disappeared from camp. About a week later, their heads returned to the encampment on long poles. The NVA planted the poles at the gated entrance to the camp for many months: a warning to the remaining prisoners that escape attempts were futile and fatal.

If there were one redeeming value to the work battalion, it was that Byrnes at last received enough nourishment. Starving men had no strength for the physical labor required of them. The prisoners received all the rice they could eat, plus bananas and wild fowl. A guard had been designated to hunt game animals to supplement the protein that the guards and prisoners received. The camp had its own vegetable garden with sweet potatoes, corn, cabbage, and pumpkins tended by prisoners. From a nearby river a prisoner detail caught fish daily. Byrnes had even developed a taste for nuoc mam. No longer on a starvation diet, he regained some weight and strength. Chopping down trees or sawing wood all day burned most of those calories, but also rebuilt muscle. Physically, he could have been in the best shape of his life. He and the remaining prisoners worked to turn an entire pine forest into coffins.

“How is your leg?” Tran asked.

“Until last month I would not have believed in acupuncture,” Byrnes said. “That and the herbal medicine seem to have healed it completely. No more swelling. No more pain. Does that mean I will go back to using an ax on the trees?”

“Don’t you like cutting boards better than felling trees?” Tran asked Byrnes.

“I miss walking through the forest,” Byrnes said.

“Do you miss the danger?”

“If you mean the tigers,” Byrnes said, “falling trees, tree limbs, and careless use of axes killed more men than the tigers. I only saw one. One of the guards injured two prisoners when he shot at it. And because he wounded it, they had to send a patrol after it to make certain it didn’t return looking for human meals.”

“True,” Tran said. “And there is danger in this work, too. The saw you are sharpening or the wood you are cutting could cut or pierce your skin.”

Byrnes nodded. He used a stick to measure one of the floor planks for the next coffin. There were no measuring tapes or power saws. Marks on a long stick gave him the dimensions of the typical coffin. Just as in Moscow under communist rule there was one automobile factory and one automobile design, in Vietnam there was one coffin factory and one standard design. If a dead soldier didn’t fit in his coffin, the undertaker made him fit. Byrnes suspected his head would sit between his legs, if he did, indeed, take his final rest in one of the work battalion’s creations.

Byrnes began to suspect Tran had something on his mind. Usually the guards wandered around camp, occasionally yelling, but mostly prodding the prisoners to work, not goof off or gossip. It was unusual for one to stay in the same spot for long. “When you finish cutting that plank, you need to report to the company clerk,” Tran said.

Byrnes stopped marking the wood. He stared at Tran. Although Tran was a guard and had an AK-47 slung over his shoulder, he did not return Byrnes’s gaze. Whenever a prisoner reported to the clerk, bad things could happen. “Do you know why?” Byrnes asked.

Tran turned his back to Byrnes. “Keep working,” he said quietly, his eyes searching the rest of the camp. “Pretend we are not talking.”

“Okay,” Byrnes said. He finished marking the plank. Then he picked up his handsaw and a small file. Peering closely at the saw blade, he took the file to one tooth. The scraping noise masked their conversation. “What’s going on?”

“The ceasefire has given us time to find and bury the dead. This camp will close soon,” Tran said. He lit a cigarette and stared in the distance, watching as many men struggled to roll a portion of a large pine tree trunk into camp on two two-wheeled carts. The first two men tried to steer the leading cart by pulling on ropes.

Byrnes smelled the potent thuoc lao tobacco from the cigarette rolled by the guard. “What will happen to the prisoners?” Byrnes asked.

“Some will be released. Their time is up. Some have been re-educated. They will become agents for us in the south,” Tran said, blowing smoke from his nose and mouth.

“Not me, though.” Byrnes said. Although he had worked as hard as every other prisoner had, he had resisted re-education. The NVA had not been able to turn him against the United States.

“You and about ten others are going to join the Van Kieu, who we call Bru, when they deliver the coffins,” Tran said. “The forest people have lost a lot of men. They need help making the delivery. I don’t know if they are as liberal as our camp commander. He is smart enough to realize that starving, sick men cannot accomplish the goals set by generals in Hanoi.”

“When will the Bru arrive?” Byrnes asked.

“Soon.”

Two days later, with the heaviest of the recently constructed coffins strapped to his back, Byrnes joined a long line of shorter, darker men climbing out of the forest into the mountains along a trail leading south and west. From the air, it would appear that a long line of wooden boxes walked south on men’s legs, not unlike ants carrying grains of rice. The NVA had no roads or trucks that would penetrate this forest. If it had, the communist government would not have wasted the petrol to run those vehicles in order to deliver coffins. There was a war yet to win.

Byrnes understood almost none of the Bru language. Although treated passably well for a prisoner, he found himself chained by one ankle to a tree each night. Exhausted, he realized the guards wasted their time; he scarcely moved once he lay his burden down. In addition to the sixty pounds of casket he toted seven to ten miles per day, he had to haul his own water, and the shackle and chain.

A mule lugged bags of rice and water for the delivery patrol as well as one coffin. Byrnes pitied the animal. Every man received the same size portion of rice and pork at breakfast and again at the end of the day. Most men slept in their burdens, the flat, soft pinewood being more comfortable than the rocks and tree roots along the trail.

One month later, Byrnes and the Bru trudged into Khe Ve, North Vietnam, one hundred eighty miles northwest of Hue, South Vietnam. American aircraft had bombed the once pretty village of Khe Ve heavily. Villagers lived in makeshift shelters in the woods, far from the center of the hamlet, now a ghost town of shattered buildings.

Children babbled and ran alongside the multitude of NVA, Laotians, Cambodians, Thais, and prisoners. Their hands out, the street urchins tried to sell candy or cigarettes to the men in trucks, on bicycles, in beat-up motor cars, and on foot. Most soldiers ignored the waifs. Others slapped or kicked at the pests. Old men and women worked at filling bomb craters with short shovels.

The babble of languages Byrnes heard in the NVA camp mixed together in a cacophony of unintelligible sound. He and the other prisoners helped each other and the Bru stack the coffins under a huge camouflage net. He estimated there were a thousand caskets hidden under the net awaiting their eternal occupants.
Why camouflage?
he wondered.
Were the Vietnamese afraid someone would bomb their coffins?

After unloading the caskets, the forest people assembled into a unit and trekked north out of camp, leaving Byrnes and the other prisoners behind. NVA guards, holding their ubiquitous AK-47s, surrounded Byrnes and six other prisoners who had survived the forced march with the coffins. It was almost a relief for Byrnes to hear spoken Vietnamese again, until the corporal in charge of the guards told them their journey had barely begun. After three days to rest, they would be taking ammunition south for the
final battle
.

CHAPTER 29

Notorious for being able to sleep anywhere, through most disturbances, Wolfe never heard the intruder enter his home through the front door after breaking the side window and unlocking the deadbolt. The prowler managed to disturb Wolfe by tripping over a stool when he entered the bedroom in which Wolfe slept. Instantly fully awake, Wolfe rolled over. “Lisa? Uh, Jennifer?” he said, mixing up the names of his first and present wife. Reaching up he tapped the base of his bedside light three times, nearly blinding himself.

Chief Ralph Fulton lay sprawled on the floor next to Wolfe’s bed, a pistol in his hand. Quickly rising to his hands and knees, he struggled to get to his feet.

Uncertain of Fulton’s intentions, Wolfe flung himself from the bed and landed on the chief, knocking the wind out of both men. Wolfe grabbed Fulton’s right wrist and hand with both of his hands. He kept the weapon pointed away from him and Fulton.

Fulton squeezed the trigger to the gun. It exploded with a loud thunderclap, making Wolfe’s ears ring. The bullet slammed into the wall under the bed. Ignoring Fulton’s left hand, which clawed at his head and neck, Wolfe bent Fulton’s wrist back until the psychiatric patient screamed in pain and dropped the pistol. “I’m too old for this,” Wolfe said and punched the retired navy chief in the stomach. “And if I’m too old, so are you.”

Fulton collapsed onto the floor in a seated position, legs sprawled wide. Wolfe sat on the bed pointing the weapon at him, catching his breath. “What’s going on, Chief? What the hell are you thinking? And why aren’t you in Gainesville in the VA Hospital?”

Fulton shook his head, rolled to his knees, and stood in front of Wolfe. “I want you to take me to Byrnes,” he said.

“Byrnes is dead,” Wolfe said. “I told you that yesterday.”

From his trouser pocket, Fulton pulled a switchblade. He pushed a button on the handle and the knife blade swung open. “You’re hiding him,” Fulton said. He pointed the knife at Wolfe. “I’ll cut you if you don’t take me to him.”

“One step in my direction and I’ll shoot you,” Wolfe said. “Put the knife down. Now!”

“Dad, what’s all the ruckus about,” a sleepy Kayla Anne said, wiping her eyes as she entered the bedroom. “There’s broken glass in –”

Fulton whirled to face Kayla Anne and raised the knife to attack this new threat. “Shit,” Wolfe said, and pulled the trigger on the pistol. The bullet hit Fulton in the right shoulder blade. Fulton and Kayla screamed at the same time, but Fulton dropped the knife and fell to his knees holding his right arm. “Stay there, KayLan,” Wolfe said. “Don’t come any closer to this crazy man. Better yet, go back to your room; get your cell phone; go outside; find some reception; and call 911. Put some shoes on if there is broken glass in the hallway.”

The ambulance arrived before the police did, but only by minutes. The paramedics refused to enter Wolfe’s room until he surrendered the weapon. He refused to do that until a sheriff’s deputy arrived and secured it. It took thirty minutes to evaluate Fulton, start an intravenous line, and put a bandage over the oozing bloody hole in his right shoulder. The .22 caliber bullet hadn’t had the power to exit, so the medics assumed it was still in Fulton’s shoulder, or possibly in his lung. His vital signs seemed stable. With the patient strapped onto the stretcher, a cardiac monitor attached to his chest, and oxygen running into the green mask on his face, the paramedics and one deputy loaded him into the ambulance. The same deputy rode in the back of the ambulance with the patient.

By the time the second deputy had finished taking a statement from both Wolfe and his daughter, Wolfe could see the glow of dawn peeking through the curtains. “Want some coffee?” Wolfe asked.

“Thank you, no,” the young officer said. “I’ll be on my way. Someone may call you later today to get more information if we need it. Are you sure you are okay?” The deputy directed his question to Kayla Anne, who seemed  composed in spite of the excitement.

“I’m used to blood and guts,” Kayla said to the deputy. “Dad took me to ERs and urgent cares on
Take Your Daughter to Work
days.” Shifting her gaze to her father, she added, “I’m not going back to bed. Can you take me back to the dorm, Dad. I do have class today, although I doubt I’ll be able to concentrate.”

“Sure, honey,” Wolfe said. “Officer, would you do me a favor?”

“If I can, sir.”

“If you find out how Chief Fulton got out of the VA hospital, will you let me know?” Wolfe asked.

“I will. Have a good day, sir, ma’am.” The deputy pushed the chair back from the dining room table and stood. He picked up his hat, and left.

“He’s cute,” Kayla said. “Suppose he’d fix parking tickets for me?”

“Seemed too intelligent to get involved with a woman who wanted to involve him in fraud,” Wolfe said, winking at his daughter. “If you thought your mother had a hard time having a doctor for a husband, then you don’t want to marry a police officer. Let me get my shoes and I’ll take you to Flagler.”

As the Prius left The Cascades at World Golf Village, Wolfe’s phone beeped four times. It let him know that he had gotten close enough to the microwave tower that his cell phone could receive messages. He handed the phone to his daughter. “Can you check those messages for me?” he asked.

After several minutes, and just seconds before Wolfe pulled off I-95 onto State Route 16, she said, “They’re all from the same guy, a Drew Jaskolski. He says he has some information for you about a Chief Fulton breaking out of the VA hospital psyche unit in Gainesville, and more information on Jimmy Byrnes. Is that the guy you knew in the navy?”

“Anything else?” asked Wolfe, grimacing at the thought of speaking with CIA Agent Jaskolski again.

“Yeah. He wants you to call as soon as you get the message. Want me to return the call?”

“No. The guy is a jerk,” Wolfe said. “He can wait until I get you back to school, eat breakfast, take a shower, repair the window, take a nap…you get the picture.”

“Okay.” Kayla dropped the cell phone into the cup holder. Wolfe stopped on Malaga Street in front of the dorm. Kayla Anne exited the car. “See you, Dad. I love you. Drive carefully.” She came to the driver’s door and gave him a kiss.

Wolfe said, “Love you, too, honey.” He pointed up the street a block. “I’ll be in Georgie’s Diner eating a short stack of pancakes for the next thirty minutes if you need me for anything. At least I’ll have phone reception there.”

“Okay, Pops,” Kayla said. She crossed the street carefully and disappeared into one of three identical dorms, former Florida East Coast Railway buildings.

Agent Drugi Jaskolski sat down in front of Wolfe at the precise time his order arrived: three pancakes, two over hard eggs, four sausage links and a large glass of orange juice. “Get my message?” he asked.

Not too surprised at the agent’s presence, Wolfe responded. “Yeah, did you get mine?”

“You sent me a message?”

“It was sent telepathically,” Wolfe said. “I hate using that language in front of my daughter.”

Jaskolski laughed, a brief guttural laugh. “Funny,” he said. “Is that a large enough orange juice for you? A lot of citric acid in there.”

“Helps keep the kidney stones at bay,” Wolfe said, taking a gigantic swig of the juice. “What do you want, Agent Jaskolski?”

“Call me Drew.”

“Drop dead, Drew. And don’t give me any more bull about MIAs being a national security secret,” Wolfe said between swallows.

“But they are. My superiors would like to reason with you. Would you mind accompanying me to my vehicle?” The agent stood, pushed his chair under the table, and waved his arm in the direction of the front door.

“Yes, I would mind,” Wolfe said. The room began to spin. Jaskolski’s smile looked devious and he was out of focus.

“Yeah. I thought you’d say that,” Jaskolski said. He motioned to the three men sitting in the booths on either side of Wolfe. Two men grabbed the physician under his arms and stood him up. They walked the wobbly, disoriented Wolfe to the front door. “He’ll be all right,” Jaskolski said to no one in particular as they left the diner, after he purposefully spilled Wolfe’s orange juice and threw thirty dollars on the table.

Thirty-five minutes later, Kayla Anne Wolfe left her dorm for her class. She noticed her father’s Prius still parked in front of Georgie’s, but she was already late for class. She didn’t stop to check on him.