Abandoned: MIA in Vietnam (22 page)

CHAPTER 34

Lt. Roh So-dong of the South Korean army gave his fellow ex-POW, Byrnes, a short course in using the AK-47. They had picked up four of the weapons while running to the ARVN lines, along with arms full of magazines for the assault rifles. “This is about the same difficulty to use as an M-16,” Lt. Roh said. “It’s not as accurate, but it packs a more substantial punch. And it doesn’t jam, even filled with dirt or water. It’s a peasant’s weapon.”

“I’d be happier with my old M-1,” Byrnes said. Seeing the NVA approaching, he added, “Here they come.” He had read in military history at Annapolis about the swarms of Chinese soldiers that had engulfed the American troops in Korea. Now he knew how his ex-girlfriend’s father and his Marines at Chosin Reservoir had felt. He could see wave after wave of NVA spilling from the jungle into the firing lanes the ARVN had cleared.

“Aim low,” Lt. Roh said. “Keep it on single shot. Automatic wastes ammunition.” .50 caliber machineguns behind Byrnes cut loose on the enemy. Mortars shells landed among them. Then artillery shells rained down from the heavens. Still, they pressed on, almost closing with the ARVN troops before being beaten back, or dying in their tracks.

“That was close,” Byrnes said, surveying the destruction. Hundreds of dead littered the field in front of him. As a high school student, he had taken a field trip to Gettysburg and had been told about the Confederate soldiers attacking the Federal troops in wave after wave, knowing they would likely die in the charges.
How strong had their beliefs been? In their country? In their God? In an afterlife?
he wondered.
Not to fear charging up those hills. And these men. For communism?

Puff the Magic Dragon, A South Vietnamese C-119 gunship circled the field of battle when the second attack started. Byrnes heard a loud ripping sound, similar to the tearing of a stiff canvas. Dirt flew in front of him, a round from the mini-gun on the aircraft slammed into every square yard of the contested field. A wave of dying North Vietnamese fell.

“Why do they do this?” Byrnes asked Lt. Roh during a short pause. “Don’t they know they’re going to die? Is their country worth this massacre?”

“They aren’t doing it for their country,” Roh said. “They are doing it for their comrades and ancestors, and to prove they aren’t afraid. The same as us. Are you afraid?”

“Afraid they might make me a POW again,” Byrnes said. “I think I’d rather die.”

“There’s your answer,” Roh said. “Sergeant Doan, they’re massing for a third attack. Looks like we’re outnumbered about ten to one.”

Sgt. Doan laughed. “Then we have them right where we want them, Lieutenant,” he said. “Don’t waste your ammo, though. The artillery unit backing us up is running out of shells. We’re already out of mortar rounds. I expect we will need all the ammunition we have left to get back to Saigon. All right, ladies. One NVA per bullet.”

The third wave faltered fifty yards from the defensive position of the ARVN. “Cease fire,” Corporal Ha yelled, as soon as the charge had broken. “Save your ammunition.” The artillery had fallen silent before the NVA charge had stalled.

“Okay,” Sgt. Doan said. “Capt. Vinh says Can Tho has fallen to the communists. Our next line of defense will be the outskirts of Saigon. Let’s get to the Landing Zone and evacuate. Everyone saddle up. Bring the wounded. Leave the dead.”

No helicopters showed up at the LZ. They were visible in the air overhead. Byrnes saw dozens of Chinooks and Hueys flying below the gathering rain clouds. They all seemed headed east.
What could be going on east of us?
he wondered. The thirty-mile retreat to Saigon from Long An took the remnants of the ARVN battalion all night, a ten-hour march. Most of the severely wounded died during the withdrawal. The living laid them on the side of the trail, covered the bodies with their dark green ponchos, and kept moving. The NVA followed the ARVN at a discreet distance, in no hurry to close on the South Vietnamese soldiers. The NVA bided their time, having had their noses bloodied by the stiff resistance put up by what remained of the battalion.

Expecting government troops to challenge them on entering central Saigon, they found instead complete chaos. No one paid attention to them. No police or reservist troops manned the checkpoint on the bridge where Highway 10 crossed a tributary to the Saigon River. Dark smoke billowed into the sky from small fires in the suburbs. People milled about the streets, evidently in shock.

As the last officer alive in the battalion, Capt. Vinh called to Corporal Ha, who had taken over the field radio from a wounded radioman. About 10:30 a.m. he said, “What do you hear on the radio?”

Ha stood in the street, tears streaming from his eyes. Byrnes watched as the corporal handed the radio to the captain. “It’s over,” he said. “The government has capitulated. Acting President Duong Van Minh has agreed to an unconditional surrender. He has ordered all ARVN combatants to lay down their weapons. He says he has surrendered to prevent a massacre of civilians and the wholesale destruction of Saigon. NVA tanks have already entered northern Saigon. The enemy controls Tan Son Nhut airbase. One tank is sitting in the US Embassy compound. The Americans have all gone, flown to a massive fleet east of Saigon.”

“Not quite all of us,” Byrnes said quietly, realizing then where the choppers had been headed. As he watched, the word of the defeat spread quickly and quietly through the ranks of hundreds of men surrounding him in the street. Without a sound the soldiers began to disperse, leaving behind weapons, uniforms, even their boots. Within an hour, Byrnes stood alone with Lt. Roh on the deserted bridge. Civilians walking around in a daze ignored the weapons and uniforms. They apparently understood that to be caught with some of the soldiers’ possessions by the North Vietnamese would be tantamount to treason and probably earn a death sentence.

A jeep-like machine drove past Byrnes and Roh. Seated in the back of the vehicle, a woman in the uniform of an NVA soldier held a tattered flag. On the flag were two horizontal bars, the upper one pink, and the other a faded blue. A large gold star filled the middle of the flag: the NVA battle flag.

“Now what?” Byrnes asked Roh.

“I don’t know about you,” Roh said, “but I could use a beer. I’ve been too long a captive of the NVA. I need some good food and a drink. With luck it will take them days to weeks to organize the capture of Saigon. Maybe by then we will be gone.”

The idea of a good meal and a Coke appealed to Byrnes. “I can’t drink alcohol,” he said. “Do you know some good restaurants?”

“I was stationed in Saigon prior to being assigned to Ninh Hoa,” Roh said. “My apartment wasn’t far from the US Embassy. With luck, there will be some empty apartments. We can take showers. If the occupants left in a hurry, we might find some real clothing. There is a restaurant, the Viet-My,
Vietnamese-American
, not far from the apartment. May I treat you to a meal if the café is still open for business?”

“I’d like that,” Byrnes said. He unloaded and checked the chamber of his AK-47, heaved the magazine into the water below them, and dropped the assault rifle on the bridge pavement. Roh did the same with his M-16.

CHAPTER 35

Wolfe’s cell phone rang while he drove along I-4 headed north toward St. Augustine from Aikens’s dealership after spending the night in Orlando. Brain-washed to believe that even-numbered interstates ran east and west, he always marveled how he ended up north of Orlando on I-4. Checking the cars around him, he pulled off the interstate at the next exit and coasted to a stop at the side of the road. Pulling out the cell phone, he noted the low battery charge. Then he checked his messages and found that Jimmy Byrnes’s sister, Tamiko Kimura, had left a brief message asking him to call as soon as he received the voice mail.

Pushing a button to return the call automatically, Wolfe looked in his rearview mirror and watched as a black sedan pulled off the exit and onto the dirt shoulder about a hundred yards behind him.
Weird
, he thought.
What are the odds two drivers would do this at the same time?

“Tammy? It’s Addy. You called?” he said when Kimura answered. Before she could reply, he added, “Sorry I didn’t answer right away. I was driving. I pulled off the road. Don’t like to drive and talk at the same time. What’s up?”

“I apologize for interrupting your trip,” she said.

“No problem. I was visiting with one of the men you pointed me to, Peter Aikens. Nice guy. Owns a Ford dealership in Orlando. But that’s not why you called. Tell me what you need.”

Kimura exhaled audibly, and then said, “I have some bad news. My mother died early Monday morning. I thought you should know since you were so kind to her.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Tammy,” Wolfe said. “Another stroke?”

“We don’t know. The hospital had transferred her to a rehab facility about a week ago. She was doing well. Yaz spent most of the day with her Sunday. When the nurses went to check on her after breakfast, she was gone.” Wolfe heard Kimura sniff, catching a tear.

“I am truly sorry, Tammy,” Wolfe said. “You have my condolences. I’ll pack and catch the next flight to Washington. When will the services take place?”

“You don’t have to catch the next flight, Addy,” Kimura said. “She’s going to be buried with my father in Arlington. There’s a seven or eight week backlog there. When I know the exact date, I’ll let you know. Has Mr. Roh contacted you?”

“Who?”

“A Mr. Roh. He’s Korean. Works at the Korean Embassy. He called this morning after seeing my mother’s obituary in the Washington Post. It mentioned that Jim and my father had predeceased her. He called to see if J.T. III was the same man he had known in Vietnam. He was in the Korean infantry during Vietnam and also a POW. I gave him your name and telephone number.”

“Oh, okay. No, I haven’t heard from him. Is there anything I can do for you or Yasuko?” Wolfe asked.

“I don’t believe so. If I think of something, I’ll let you know,” Kimura said. “Thank you for the offer. Good-bye.”

“Bye,” Wolfe said. He turned off the cell phone. Again noting the very low battery level on the phone, he plugged it into the car to recharge it. Taking the tri-folded piece of paper and pen he always kept in his shirt pocket, he wrote a reminder to buy a sympathy card for the sisters. Looking at his rearview mirror, he saw that the black sedan had not moved.

Wolfe started his engine and finished driving off the exit to an intersecting two-lane street. The ramp back onto I-4 north beckoned directly across the road. He ignored it. The sedan had begun moving almost as soon as Wolfe’s vehicle had. He turned to his left and looked for a fast food outlet, intermittently checking his mirrors. The sedan followed him, about a hundred yards behind.

Not yet convinced he was being tailed, Wolfe turned left into a Burger King, drove around the building, and waited for the sedan to pass the structure. When the sedan pulled into the parking lot, Wolfe pulled out, turned right, and headed back toward I-4. Passing by the onramp again Wolfe continued east on the two-lane road. The sedan followed. Doing math, trying to remember what the probabilities would be that the car would stop behind him, make the same left turn, and then the same right turn, Wolfe decided the chances were less than one in eight. He pulled into an Arby’s and parked. Taking his cell phone with him, he went inside and ordered a sandwich.

Unable to park next to Wolfe’s vehicle, the sedan pulled into a slot directly in front of the building, rear bumper toward the fast food outlet. Wolfe could see the car as he slowly ate his curly fries and roast beef sandwich. He could not see through the darkened windows. The license plate didn’t appear to be a government plate. In Florida, rental cars no longer had distinctive plates, to cut down on tourist ambushes, so he couldn’t tell who tailed him. The chances of out-running the sedan in a Prius seemed slim.

Wolfe walked to the counter and asked to speak with the manager. When she appeared, he told her his name and that he would like to speak with her in private. She led him to her office. “And what can I do for you, Dr. Wolfe?” she asked, after she had closed the office door.

“May I use your telephone?” he asked. “I may be in some danger. I suspect someone is following me. A man broke into my house three days ago and tried to stab my daughter. I’d like to call the police.”

“Sure thing,” she said. “I’ll step outside so you can talk in private.”

“If that black sedan parked under your sign leaves, please let me know,” Wolfe said. He picked up the telephone and dialed 911.

A Seminole County Sheriff’s Deputy had been eating lunch at the Burger King down the road. He arrived quickly, and after hearing Wolfe’s tale, walked out to the black car. Wolfe watched as the deputy stood by the open driver’s door. The driver handed papers to the deputy. The deputy spoke to dispatch through the radio microphone attached to his right epaulet. After several minutes, the deputy handed the papers back to the driver, who never left the vehicle. The deputy backed away from the sedan and the driver closed the door. The brake lights came on. The car started, the back-up lights shone, and it backed out of the parking space. Slowly it exited the parking lot, drove back onto the two-lane road and disappeared going east.

The deputy returned to the Arby’s. He smiled at Wolfe. “Japanese tourist,” he said. “Lost. And hungry. He thought you might have known something about the Burger King, so he followed you here. Said he didn’t want to upset you, so he was waiting for you to leave before he came in to order.”

“Really?” Wolfe said.

“That’s his story. I called in his identification, passport, driver’s license, and license plate. He’s clean. The car is a rental. Came from the Orlando airport about two hours ago. I suppose we have to believe him, Mr. Wolfe. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No. Thank you, deputy,” Wolfe said, not entirely convinced. “I guess I’m still anxious after the break-in. Sorry to put you to all that trouble. May I buy you a sandwich and a drink? Oh, do you remember the man’s name?”

“Shima Ichiro. He said it means
first born island
, or something like that. My lunch is waiting for me in the cruiser. Thank you, anyway, sir. Have a good day.”

Wolfe pulled his piece of paper from his pocket and wrote down the tourist’s name. He didn’t see that particular black sedan on the remainder of the drive to St. Augustine.