The Thin Wall: A POW/MIA Truth Novel

by R. Cyril West

  And there was more to Frank’s plan. Of course, there was always more. Things were never that simple with Frank. He had designs for Milan to attend medical school. It’ll do you some good, he insisted. After all, Milan had a strong background in science. Why not try medicine? Frank’s team had already forged the paperwork, which included an undergraduate degree in biology from Austria.

  He slept on the offer and the next day found Frank on the hill at Letenske Sady Park, sitting on a bench overlooking the streets of Prague. I’ll do it, he said. Going to medical school made sense. It gave him an opportunity to make amends with the past. If he could help the children of Czechoslovakia, perhaps it would shed some light on his lair of darkness. Forgiveness. He needed forgiveness. And the spying thing? He would give it his best shot.

  But the last time he chatted with Frank was in the winter of 1948, three years into medical school and a week after the communists had taken over the country in a bloodless coup. At that time, Czechoslovakia was in complete disarray. Frank had arranged for a private meeting with him at the museum. Sorry, Mickey, your parents were killed in an auto accident. The devastating news hit like a brick. Milan had no siblings or relatives in the U.S. He was suddenly alone. There was, for the first time, no incentive to go home.

  Soon thereafter the Iron Curtain was drawn and foreign agents rounded up, imprisoned, shot, or kicked out of the country. Milan had done very little intelligence gathering, reporting mostly on the bickering at his Party meetings and on a faculty member who was a Nazi sympathizer. Although he survived with his secret identity intact, the American intelligence community never contacted him again. As the years passed, soon to become decades, Milan assumed he had been forgotten and settled in, calling Pilsen home. Then sometime in the early 1960s, the exact time or moment having escaped him, Milan realized he was no longer an American citizen. He was, once again, Czechoslovakian.

  “I haven’t been called ‘Mickey’ in years,” Milan said, numb with nostalgia.

  “It’s been two decades . . .” Frank patted him on the back. “Oh, how time flies.”

  “Hard to believe.”

  “I know what you mean. How are you?”

  “The country has been besieged by Russians. Other than that, not bad.”

  “It’s good to see you.”

  They exchanged memories rapidly, summarizing the previous decades in less than half an hour, talking about old friends in the U.S., and career milestones. Milan explained how he had started off at a hospital, only to find himself in an administrative role with the ministry, these days serving as a liaison to the hospital in Ceske Budejovice.

  But Frank, he sensed, already knew about his life, his career, and the clinic in Mersk. Like a master chess player, he was in a constant state of tactical maneuvering, always one step ahead of everyone. He was the kind of guy you wanted to have a beer with; at the same time, the kind of guy you never wanted to pick up the tab. You didn’t want to owe anything to someone like Frank Stevens.

  “You’ve more than made up for what happened to those kids,” Frank said heartlessly. “Hell, I’d say ‘mission accomplished.’ Well done, brother.”

  Milan shook his head. “Haven’t changed, have you? You’d sell your mother’s soul if it made for good business.”

  “Like I’ve always said, ‘The fight for freedom must come first.’ Besides, she would understand.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  They walked to the truck. Frank grabbed a newspaper from the seat. It was the sports section from the Chicago Tribune. “Thought you’d like to catch up with the Cubs.”

  “It’s been years . . .”

  Milan took the paper with a thrill. His mind raced back to the summer of 1941, months before America was drawn into the war, when the nation was still reeling from Lou Gehrig’s Luckiest Man on The Face of the Earth speech. While Europe faced off against the menace of Hitler, he and his college buddies had their own challenges, mainly sneaking past the ticket collectors at Wrigley Field.

  Frank said, “Mickey, we kept the damn Krauts running in circles, didn’t we?”

  “The bastards. Every last one of them.”

  “You know, this Soviet-led invasion has stirred up old memories.”

  “For me, too.”

  “I’ve been thinking of you lately.”

  “Oh . . .?”

  “Do you ever think about Chicago?”

  “Now and then.”

  “Do you regret staying behind in Czechoslovakia?”

  “No,” Milan said. “It was exciting when Berlin fell. I was proud of our effort to defeat the Germans. Proud of the U.S. Army.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Then you forged my undergrad records, making it easy for me to get into medical school. Plus you gave me Czech papers.”

  “Simple enough.”

  “I wanted to stay. I wanted to help the children. You didn’t have to twist my arm.” This unexpected encounter reeked of agency work. Frank was not the type for small talk. “So, what are you doing here?”

  “Good question.” Frank grinned sheepishly. “I’m still a government agent. Been in the country for three weeks now.”

  “And . . .?”

  “There was this farmer. Guy about my age. He was traveling in the north just prior to the invasion when he had a massive heart attack.”

  “So you assumed his identity, his name, and driving his truck?”

  “Hell, even his damn hat.” Frank tugged on the brim of the hunter’s hat on his head. “Strange. We even share the same hat size. Guess it was meant to be.”

  Milan’s jaw dropped. “How could you?”

  “His family,” Frank went on, ignoring the question, “doesn’t know about the death yet.”

  “That’s cold.”

  “Like you say, it’s business. Anyway, my man in Prague has doctored everything. I’m in good hands. But with Warsaw soldiers combing the countryside, things have been tricky getting around. My time is limited. Sooner or later the farmer’s family is going to catch wind of his disappearance and report it to the police. I don’t know, maybe I have a few days. I’ve about blown my cover trying to attract your attention.”

  “What’s this have to do with me?”

  “An American’s life is at stake.” Frank grabbed a file from the truck and showed him a black and white military photo. “This man: Gunnery Sergeant Russell E. Johnston.”

  Milan took the photo. “He looks familiar. That face. Tell me.”

  “He was on his second tour. Just three months from leaving ‘Nam when it happened. Sergeant Johnston. And two other Marines. They were on patrol when they came under heavy fire and were separated from their platoon. Despite heavy search and rescue efforts, we just couldn’t find them. That Vietnamese jungle. It’s a damn labyrinth.”

  “I can only imagine how hard you tried.”

  “Oh, and we did. But Johnston, from what I heard, took care of his men. They survived three days in the Que Son Valley before finally being captured by the Viet Cong.”

  “Gunnies are good men, Frank.”

  “But that’s not all . . .” Frank plowed ahead with his agenda. “A few months after being captured, Johnston and his two Marine buddies were interrogated by Caucasians in a jungle camp.”

  “Soviets?”

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The Viet Cong released one of our boys. A levelheaded airman. Says he saw Johnston. Says he saw two other Marines. They were being questioned by who we believe were Soviet GRU agents disguised as Russian reporters.”

  “Sounds sloppy.”

  “It’s war, not science.”

  “The Soviets would’ve been more discrete.”

  “Mistakes happen.” Frank paused while a couple of cars drove away from the petrol station. “From what we know, prior to the arrival of the GRU, the Viet Cong pulled Johnston and his Marine buddies from their bamboo cages and housed them in a remote hootch.
Apparently, they wanted to prevent them from having contact with fellow prisoners during and after the visit with the interrogators.”

  “Hmm . . .”

  “The next day, the three Marines were marched away from the camp. They never returned.”

  “I don’t know,” Milan said. “A story like this has a way of taking on a life of its own, becoming more fabrication than truth by the time it’s been told several times.”

  “The GRU,” Frank pressed on, “had worked a deal. They provided guns and ammunitions to a warlord in the Quảng Nam province. In return, the Marines were handed over to them.”

  “Abducted?”

  “Yes. Moscow wanted the Marines. Wanted them for an army program we’ve only recently learned about.”

  “What program?”

  “Captured U.S. soldiers and airmen are being analyzed by Soviet psychologists. Then, when the Reds are done screwing with their heads, they become human guinea pigs in medical experiments.”

  “You serious? I have a hard time believing that, Frank.”

  “It’s true.”

  “And Sergeant Johnston? How can you be certain he was abducted? Maybe he’s still in Vietnam.”

  “Eyewitness accounts put the Marines in Laos shortly after they left the jungle camp. Johnston has an unmistakable tattoo on his back, Don’t Tread on Me. It runs shoulder to shoulder. Locals working for the CIA reported seeing a man with this tattoo in Vientiane. We can confirm Czech AN-12 cargo planes flying in and out of the Laos capitol during this specific time frame. Everything adds up.”

  “Damn.”

  “But get this, Mickey. He’s here. In Czechoslovakia.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s true. And at this very moment, he’s imprisoned at the villa. Your villa. In Mersk.”

  “Mersk?”

  “Yes.”

  Milan recognized the face and the red hair in the photograph. It looked like the body he had stumbled upon in the parlor. Dal had said the dead man was a soldier, one of his best men. But that was a lie, Milan realized, a cover-up of the man’s real identity──a United States Marine.

  “Oh, brother, you’re too late.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your gunny. He’s dead.” Milan returned the photo, his gut aching for the loss of the gunnery sergeant. “Sorry for the bad news. I saw his body. He was shot in the chest. Three times.”

  “You sure it was him?”

  “Yes. The red hair.”

  “That’s not enough evidence.”

  “Not every day you see a redhead in Bohemia.”

  Frank scratched his scalp. “I’ve been in this grind for a long time. Dead? No. Can’t be. I know better.”

  “His face was swollen. Rigor mortis had set in. What can I say?”

  He had been overjoyed to see his former commanding officer. Now he wanted to get back in his car and leave. If the police caught him speaking to Frank, an interrogation would bring up the past. They would learn everything. They would send him to prison for his clandestine activities. Or maybe they would simply execute him for committing an act of treason. Nevertheless Milan was overcome with anger for the abduction of the gunnery sergeant and could not walk away without learning more. After a bus passed, he said, “If true, this would be a serious problem for Moscow.”

  “Not just for the Soviets──for both sides.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “To be honest, there are people in Washington who want to pull the plug on this operation. Damn career bureaucrats. Pencil pushers. You know. The type who avoided the war. Some of them think it’s best to prevent POWs from reaching the nightly news. Especially abducted POWs.”

  “That can’t be true.”

  “I’m not making this up.”

  “That’s un-American.”

  “It would make your head spin if you knew the details.”

  “But why? Why would they pull the plug?”

  “Reports of American soldiers held in secret Soviet Bloc prisons would blemish political records. Think about it. It would muddy legacies and reelection campaigns. Questions would surface, ‘How did this happen? How many are there? What are you going to do to bring our boys home?’ The people don’t have the stomach for this.”

  “Unbelievable.” Milan shook his head.

  “I’m not suggesting the administration or anyone else in congress intentionally wants to leave our boys behind. It’s more of a turn your head the other way kind of thing. No one wants to dig deeper into this mess. Because they’re afraid of what they might find. So they don’t. They don’t want the headache. To them, it’s best to pretend it never happened.”

  Milan groaned. “If they don’t know about it . . . then they can’t be blamed for it. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Jesus.”

  “If I ever verify the name of anyone involved. Trust me. The son of a bitch is going to get it from me.”

  “Good, Frank.”

  “Anyway, I’m not here on official agency business concerning the missing Marines. It’s only a group of us veterans in Langley taking matters into our own hands. A side job. We just want to do the right thing and save them.”

  “God bless you, Frank. You’re a good American.”

  Frank shrugged off the compliment. “Officially, I’m here to monitor Warsaw troop movements.”

  “You better be careful.”

  “I’m not worried.” Frank rubbed the back of his neck. “I have the necessary assets in place to save my butt. In the meantime, if you could look around the villa for─”

  Milan held up his hand. “Are you asking me to spy for you?”

  “If Johnston is alive, my people can intervene before he leaves the country. We have collaborators in the Czech Army willing to help and─”

  “And . . . like I said . . . he’s dead.” Milan looked directly into Frank’s eyes. “I saw his body.”

  “I have reliable intelligence. As recently as yesterday. It suggests KGB operatives are mobilizing as we speak. They plan to slip Johnston into East Germany. Trust me. He’s alive. I have no doubt about it.”

  Milan groaned. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s been great seeing you again, but a lot has changed in twenty years. I’m Czech now.”

  “Some of our spooks have gone longer without contact.”

  “Spook?” Milan rubbed his forehead. “Oh, you’ve got this wrong. Our contract expired years ago, soon after the communists took over, when I was abandoned by you people. I haven’t heard a word from anyone in your intelligence agency. Not a single word. Not since I last saw you in ‘48 at the museum.”

  “You must have known we’d contact you someday?”

  “It crossed my mind,” Milan said. “But two decades later? No. I’ve moved on. This is my home. Had you come here fifteen, even ten years ago.”

  “Okay.” Frank sighed. “Fair enough. I’m not here to coerce you into anything. Just thought I’d give it a shot.”

  “You deceptive son of a bitch. I suppose you had the clinic burned down in Kamenny.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It was public information that the clinic would be moved to Mersk instead of rebuilding in Kamenny. Destroying the clinic conveniently put me close to your Russian dirtbags.”

  “Mickey, c’mon . . .”

  “How could you think I would just drop everything?”

  “It’s not so unusual for things to play out like this. Business is business.”

  “You shouldn’t have come here.” Milan pulled the keys from his pocket and started briskly for the car.

  “Listen. I can get you back to the States.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  Frank handed him a piece of paper with a phone number scribbled on it. “This number is your ticket out of this decade’s old nightmare. Pick up the phone. Dial the number.”

  “Who says it’s a nightmare?”

  Frank placed a hand on his shoulde
r. “Give it some thought, Mickey. My people can get you safely across the border to Austria. They can bring you home. Except there’s a hitch. You only have thirteen days until we pull back to Vienna. Then all bets are off.”

  “The Marine is dead. I’m sorry. I really am. I have to go.” Milan opened the car door.

  “Make the call, Mickey. Come home.”

  Milan climbed into the driver’s seat, pitched the sports section onto the floor and rolled down the window. “I am happy here.”

  “It was good seeing you.” Frank winked. “Don’t worry. Your agency records were shredded years ago. There’s no paper trail on you.” He stepped away from the window. “By the way, I would burn the newspaper as soon as you’ve finished reading it. The secret police─”

  “You should fall back to Vienna right away. It’s not safe in Czechoslovakia. Especially for a guy like you.”

  Frank’s eyes were heavy. “I’m not going anywhere until I confirm what happened to Johnston. The White House might not care about our boys, but I do.”

  “Don’t ever give up, Frank. America needs more people like you.”

  Frank threw him a friendly wink and stepped back from the car. “I’m staying at the Grand Hotel in Ceske Krumlov for a couple of days. Should you change your mind.”

  “Then enjoy your little holiday.” Milan cranked the ignition. “I understand the breakfast at the Grand is exceptional.”

  Milan pulled onto the road without looking back. He had no choice but to shun his friend. He had seen the body in the parlor. It had red hair. Even in decay, the face looked like Johnston.

  He passed several cars, speeding along at 70 mph.

  He did not want to get involved in the mess. His clandestine years were behind him. He was no longer a spy. No was longer an American. He was a pediatrician. A Czech. He drove in a state of anxiety before turning at an unmarked intersection, where a broken road sign buried in the grass pointed toward Prague.